Two Poems by Margaret Duda

 

Coming to America

                       

On the Bremen pier bustling with noisy immigrants,

my mother finds the ticket office and stands in a line

for Hungarians, ticket in one hand, heavy satchel

in the other, warm shawl around her thin shoulders.  

 

Margit views her new reflection in the large window,

straight dark hair she cut to just below her earlobes,

trying to look American for her waiting mother.

Gone the waist length braid that took years to grow.  

 

The shipping clerk shouts “Next!” and she moves

to the counter, offering the pre-paid ticket sent

by her mother.  He asks for her sponsor, but none

was mentioned in the letter sent with the ticket.   

 

“Anyone under eighteen needs a sponsor.”

She explains she will turn eighteen in a week.

“You cannot take this ship.  Rules are rules.”

Margit’s shoulders shake with her heavy sobs.

 

The old woman behind her with long white hair

braided around her head offers to sponsor her.

They both have second class tickets and can share

a cabin.  The disgruntled clerk stamps both tickets.

           

On board the huge iron-hulled steamship,

they find their room.  Margit takes the upper

bunk, giving Mrs. Olah the bottom, marvelling

at the sink with running water in their cabin.

 

The rumbling engines groan, the horns bellow.

The ship leaves the dock and the prow slices

through the Atlantic, heading toward the setting sun.

Margit leads her sponsor outside for a final glance.

 

She hears a violin playing a Hungarian folk tune,

sees dancing in steerage. “We should be there too.”

Mrs. Olah chuckles.  Within two days, Margit can keep

nothing down as winds hurl the ship through tall swells.

 

Four days later, the winds calm and Mrs. Olah wishes

her a happy birthday, offering her a small wrapped box.

Inside, Margit finds a locket on a gold-plated chain.  

“For a photo of your mother who is waiting for you.”

 

In the dining room that evening, Margit wears her gift

as waiters singing Happy Birthday approach her

with a cake and eighteen lit candles.  Others join in.

She blows out her candles as a messenger calls her name.

 

She raises her hand and he places a telegram in it.

“Your mother must have remembered.”  Margit asks

Mrs. Olah to read the English message.  She reads it

silently, then leads Margit outside to two deck chairs.

 

She takes her hand.  “Your mother died last night, child.  

She was very ill.”  Margit screams.  First, she was left

in an orphanage and now abandoned in a strange country.

“I will be alone again.”  “Your stepfather will meet you.”

 

“I must return to Hungary.”  Mrs. Olah shakes her head

“Impossible.  The ticket costs too much.”  “But I must.

Rosa neni was the only mother I knew who loved me.

I never heard my mother’s voice or even saw her smile.”

 

“If you want to hear her speak, listen to your own voice.  

If you want to see her smile, look in a mirror.  A woman

carried you in her womb.  For nine months, you were one.

Now you must carry her in your heart and make her proud.”

 

Margit watches dense sea fog slither over the ship’s railing

and silently glide toward them.  Hearing the baritone blast

of the foghorn, she wipes away her tears and leads her sponsor

back inside, knowing she must find the courage to survive.

 

Hungarian Angels Trimmed Our Tree

 

Deep inside my dream, a bell tinkles

and I hear Mama say “Boldog Karasconyt,”

wishing me a Merry Christmas.  “Wake up,

little one.  The angels trimmed our tree

and the baby Jesus brought you presents.”

 

I smell candles burning, coffee brewing,

stuffed cabbage simmering.

 

I grab my doll Gloria and Mama carries me

to the living room where Papa waits

with nut and poppy seed beigli to eat

as carols stream from the Victrola.

The nut rolls keep trouble away,

the poppy seed bring prosperity.

 

After I welcome baby Jesus in his creche,

Papa helps me open the sliding glass doors

to the front room where Gloria and I

find Christmas morning in the forties.

 

A huge evergreen fills a corner and spreads

its fragrance as Shiny Brite glass ornaments

of balls, pinecones, trees, angels and wreaths

reflect flickering candlelight on branches

draped with silver garlands and hung with

candy canes, ribbon candy, and szaloncukor,

Hungarian candy flavoured with fondant

wrapped in coloured foil.  They vie for space

with walnuts Mama and I painted gold or silver.

Papa pierced the top of each with a toothpick,

to which Mama attached a ribbon for hanging.

 

At the crown, I find the tree topper.  A circle

of spun glass and white angel hair holds

a gorgeous cardboard angel with golden wings.

 

I sit down on the carpet and just stare at her

high in her cloud, and let Gloria enjoy

the beauty that only angels could create.

The wrapped presents baby Jesus brought fill

the space beneath the tree and I feel like

I’ve gone to heaven, but that was long ago,

before I realized Mama and Papa were angels.

Margaret Duda - The daughter of Hungarian immigrants, Margaret Duda has had short stories, articles, non-fiction books, and numerous poems published.  Her book of poems, "I Come from Immigrants" will be published in May by Kelsay Books.  She recently won a Pushcart Prize nomination from Lothlorien Poetry Journal.