Tuesday, December 9, 2014

A New Life

Now comes the time where my posts become less frequent as I have my dad work on questions that I have about his first impressions of life in America. I want to know everything that he felt, saw, did, and encountered in this new country that he would call home. My father is oftentimes quiet and reserved and while I know what my life was like with him, I want to be able to purvey to you, and most of all, record for posterity, the emotions that he felt and still feels as a new American.

This past Sunday I sat with him and got his very first thoughts on life in America as a new refugee. He at times would tear up, and other times glow with the remembered excitement of what it was like to be in this new, free, land.

My father boarded the train in New Jersey to head to Los Angeles with nothing more than a small pack of toiletries and a change of clothes. He remembers looking out the train window at the landscape whizzing by and taking in the new scenery, architecture, people passing by like specks in the wind. It was so interesting and he was fascinated. The train stopped at few times but he didn't get a chance to disembark until he got to Chicago. There he would be transferring to another train and would have to wait four hours for it to arrive. Even though it was February and freezing cold, he took the opportunity to explore this modern American city. He walked around Chicago and remembers as if it were yesterday, how beautiful it was. He was in awe of the beautifully lit restaurants, bars, shops, and galleries. After so many years of living in war-torn Hungary, this city was dazzling and magical.

Before boarding onto his next train, my dad took a moment to write and mail a postcard to his mom whom he dearly was missing and who he wished could see all that he was seeing.

The next leg of his trip would take him to El Paso, Texas. There he'd have another long layover and once again he took the opportunity to explore this city. He was intrigued by how close he was to the Mexican border, and saw trains departing for exotic locations. Here was a city from the Wild West of lore, and he was taking it all in and not wasting a second doing so. He had never seen a desert, cacti, or flatland like he was seeing then in Texas and it was so interesting to him. Like a different planet!

It wasn't long before he was once again, back on a train and heading to the final destination of Los Angeles, California. He arrived at Union Station on February 19th of 1957 at 6 a.m. and was greeted by his cousin, Magda. At the time, the area around Union Station was lovely, well kept and "quite fancy". He noticed right away how well dressed everyone was, ladies wore long gloves, and the men were extremely polite. He noticed how everyone would nod their heads in greeting and stopped to tell me how much things have changed since then....I could not agree more.

Magda hired a taxi and together they went to the apartment that she had rented for him only two blocks away from her own home. After eating a "good, big, American breakfast", my dad and his cousin checked out his new place and he started to settle in. One of the most pleasant surprises he said he remembered having in his new place was the fact that now he could have hot water in the bathroom 24 hours a day and 7 days a week! In Hungary, people only had the gift of hot water once a week, on Sundays. He was so excited to have this small luxury, that every day until he found a job, he would take a long soak in his tub full of scalding water.

After a few weeks, my father was able to find a job at Crocker Bank in the supply department/mail room. It was menial labor, but he was grateful and worked hard. It wasn't long before my dad met a nice German fellow and they became friends and were able to communicate as my father still barely spoke a word of English, but he could speak fluent German. He also started to attend St. Stephen's Catholic Church in downtown Los Angeles where there was a thriving Hungarian community. While the mass was in Latin (it wasn't until Pope John the 23rd that masses would be able to be given in a language other than Latin) he was still able to have Sunday lunch with the congregation after mass. Everyone spoke Hungarian and shared stories of their motherland over plates piled high with Wienerschniztel, potatoes, green peas, sausage, and poppyseed cake. Everyone was very welcoming, and my father started to feel more and more comfortable and at home.

Things were all falling into place, yet my father's life in Hungary would continue to haunt him. He often would wake up screaming and drenched in sweat from PTSD nightmares of his time spent in the KGB dungeons. To this day, he still has these nightmares from time to time. He lives with nothing but kindness and no resentment, yet his subconscious still deals with the terror.