for my mother Margit 1906-1980

After her passing, many questions remain
so I go in search of my mother’s childhood
on the fields of the Great Hungarian Plain.

In my lap, handcrafted wooden boxes contain
photos of family and friends left on the fertile terrain.
After her passing, many questions remain.

In her village, a thatched roof covers every stucco frame 
hidden behind fences concealing each sheltered domain
on the fields of the Great Hungarian Plain.

Inside, handpainted plates, embroidered cloths, simple games,
before sleep on the clay stove shelf listening for trains.
After her passing, many questions remain.

Her foster father, shoemaker and soloist, sang refrains
while his wife taught mom to love and achieve her aims
on the fields of the Great Hungarian Plain.

I show the photos around, and everyone strains
But attemps to recall the girl who left are all in vain.
After her passing, many questions still remain
on the fields of Great Hungarian Plain.
                        

I always knew I had a brother named Jozsef,
although Papa told me I could call him Joey.
He was from the first reel of Papa’s life
captured in eight millimeters of silence.

To avoid being drafted by the Romanians
who were awarded his part of Hungary,
Papa joined his older brother in America,
to be followed by Kati after Joey was born.

But Kati died in a long and difficult childbirth,
leaving Joey to be raised by her parents
in a section of Hungary, now Romania,
which tried to expunge the Magyar culture
by changing the names of people and places.

Mama and I were from the second reel,
set in America during the Depression,
World War 11, and the Iron Curtain era,
long after talkies and theaters were invented.

Joey’s mustached, uniformed image framed 
on my nightstand kept him in my thoughts.
I talked to Joey, prayed for Joey, and loved him
with all my heart, as only a seven year old can.

Unlike Papa, Joey was drafted in World War 11
by Romanians who mistreated Magyar conscripts.
Papa decided to help Joey escape to America,
but had to secretly send him money for bribes.

Used garments made it through inspections,
so like the director of a movie, Mama bought
tattered items of clothing at the Goodwill store
And sewed money into an old overcoat lining.

Papa sent the package to his sister, also caught
In the blurry existence of Magyars in Romania.
She tore open the lining, gingerly removing bills 
as Mama had instructed.  Now all we could do was pray. 

We repeated the same prayers over and over
as if memorizing an actor’s dialogue while
Papa anxiousy awaited Joey’s appearance,
as one awaits the opening scene of a movie.

A letter finally arrived from Papa’s sister,
telling us Joey was captured at the border
and incarcerated for five years in a prison
in Russia or Romania.  No one knew where.

Papa was inconsolable, crying every night.
Our life was never the same.  After his release,
Joey married, had a son, and sent letters,
but never tried to escape to America again.

Joey died at fifty, leaving a wife and teenaged son
who spoke only Romanian we did not understand.
It was as if the film of Joey’s existence had faded, 
along with his last name, leaving only faint images
of a brother I never met, but continued to love.