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.
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