Resist Endure Escape: Growing Up in Nazi and Communist Hungary by Susan Darvas

Author:Susan Darvas [Darvas, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Summit Crossroads Press
Published: 2019-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

Robi posing on top of Mount Gellert at the Citadel in Buda

Robi in a relaxed mood.

11.

Marriage

In 1952, life was good and I was content, as long as I did not think about the future, and most of the time I didn’t. At nineteen, even at twenty, there was no pressing reason to do so, and plenty of reasons for not doing so under the circumstances. Romance was great, but marriage was the last thing on my mind. I hardly noticed that we were gliding inevitably closer and closer to it.

After our frequent visits to Siofok, Robi thought that I should meet his mother as well. She and his grandmother issued an invitation for dinner. I wanted to make a good impression so I dressed carefully and made sure that everything I wore was neat and ironed. I hated ironing and avoided it whenever possible. I have no idea what I wore, except that it was neat and ironed.

Robi lived in a smallish, darkish apartment in the central part of the city on Kadar Street. In addition to the bedrooms, there was a living room and a formal dining room. The smell of cooking drifted from the kitchen. Robi’s mother greeted us in the entrance hall. She was still a strikingly beautiful—if careworn—woman with dark wavy hair, a round face, and large soulful eyes. I thought she was somewhere in her early fifties. I was welcomed in a pleasant but formal manner. I think she may have been as nervous as I was. Soon after our introductions we sat down to dinner. Grandmother, a tiny dried up woman with a sour face, emerged from the kitchen and served the meal. She did all the cooking. Mami was a skilled seamstress who had worked from home ever since her husband had died.

I felt uncharacteristically self-conscious. This was so different from the informal family relationships I was accustomed to. I tried to be on my best behavior. I tried to eat all the not-so-great food put on my plate, and I tried to answer all their probing questions about my background and intentions as diplomatically as I could. I was careful not to make jokes or laugh too much. It was a somewhat somber occasion. The two women were not unfriendly, but they were not exactly warm and fuzzy either. That was not in their nature. They spoke mostly about what a wonderful son Robi was. It took me a little while to catch on, because they did not call him Robi. They addressed him and consistently referred to him as “Ocsi,” or “Little Brother,” a common nickname in Hungary for children with an older brother. Robi was almost twenty-four years old, six feet tall, and an assistant professor. He had not had an older brother for more than ten years now. I had a very hard time not making a comment, but I saw the warning in Robi’s eyes in time and managed to keep my mouth shut and not inquire who Ocsi was.

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