Independence Day 2005
Lucky Day, Lucky Life
© 2005 by Margaret Evans
He knew the Czechs were coming, so Janos made a plan.
War was brewing, in fact, it had begun in many places, so Janos began calling in favors, obtaining visas, and sending his family, one at a time, to America, the place where freedom would never end. It would be a good place to hide.
 Common Sense
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Once all the silly fighting ended.
Once the Austro-Hungarian Empire could rise again.
The nobility would be re-established and recognized again. As it should be.
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Mel Gibson is
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Before Laszlo graduated, his grandmother was warned anonymously to flee the house as the Czechs were coming. She took what little she could and hid in a nearby village with cousins, and later returned to find the manor home ransacked and looted, precious possessions gone. She lived in fear but refused to leave her home and stayed, along with an elderly servant. She sold a few pieces of jewelry she had taken with her so they could eat.
Laszlo graduated from the Gymnasium and joined his grandmother at the manor home in which he had been raised, now stripped of its fineness. From day to day they lived in fear as the Czech army took over village after village in the lush shadows of the ice-capped Carpathian Mountains. A tiny military operations base was set up in the little town of Leva, homes were seized as barracks, and Laszlo was ordered to report for duty.
In the Czech army.
The young Laszlo, then 21 years old, had no choice but to report for duty. He showed up at the office, hearing all the way the prickling words that war was here and all young men had the obligation to fight for the new Communist Czechoslovakian army. A new world order was coming.
Laszlo stood nervously with other young men, outside the closed door, awaiting their turns to be called. He lit a cigarette with sweating hands. At least his father, mother, younger brother and sister were safe. For now, his grandmother was safe. She had gone to live in a distant village with an uncle. The estate and lands, once blooming under the pride of aristocratic hands, were seized, the fruitful vineyards trampled and destroyed. A family and way of life were gone in a few short weeks.
Casualties of War
 Robert Goldstein and The Spirit of '76 (The Scarecrow Filmmakers Series, No. 34) The Wilson Administration found the production of a film on the Revolution dangerous to the principles of `The New Freedom.' |
Laszlo crushed the cigarette in a marble ashtray and entered the room.
He looked up in surprise at the man behind the desk who spoke his name loudly, in a voice Laszlo knew well.
The voice bade the two guards in the room leave and shut the door behind them.
Laszlo looked into the face of an old friend of his family, a long-time friend, another elite, from an age quickly passing. A friend doing his job as he was bade, drafting all able-bodied young men for the growing army.
Laszlo knew all hope was gone if loyal friends such as these could change like this.
Then something happened, and the friend lowered his voice. He bade Laszlo come nearer to the desk of authority.
"Do you want to do this, Laszlo?" he asked in whispers.
The young man shook his head, afraid to speak lest someone hear, afraid to breathe lest the moment dissolve.
"Very well," the older man answered. "I have no choice but to declare you physically unfit to fight in this glorious army."
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His grandmother and uncle wouldn`t go, but Laszlo did, to escape retaliation against the aristocracy that might remain, actions that frequently take place after revolutions and land battles.
Janos had his family together once more. Three more children would be born on American soil. They would never be rich again nor would Janos ever command an estate such as he had, but he weighed all his losses and figured he had won the war.
Epilog:
A trunkful of my great-grandmother`s letters to her treasured grandson, Laszlo (my dad), awaits translation, but I`m sure they`re full of hope and love. My father made and lost three small fortunes after he arrived in America, likely feeling a responsibility to restore to the family what was lost. He never considered "going back," nor did he keep ties with anyone in Hungary other than his grandmother and a cousin who escaped. His wanderings ended and he settled on a steady, dependable, government job where he met my mother. The rest is history and what was destined to happen, my telling his story.
Margaret Evans writes:
Dear JDC, I`m not certain I ever responded to this, but I do want you to know how much I enjoyed the story of the Hungarians playing violins on St. Stephen`s day. My dad played a violin, too, but it got lost over the years and his many travels. Hard-headed, you say? Yessir! And the story – never go against a Hungarian on a matter of honor? I have to admit the steel backbone shows up when "right" must be stood up for, and somehow the right words show up, too. It`s gotten me in hot water more than a few times, but I`ve been told it`s inspirational to those watching and listening. You`ve heard my mother`s part in my creation; now you get to hear my father`s. My mother`s ancestors survived the attack by Indians; my father personally survived World War I and escaped to America. Here is his story. Since you`re a history buff, I know you`ll appreciate it. Take care.Margaret Evans