Date Uncertain

The invitation was intriguing. The professor had not been to Budapest. His maternal grandparents had emigrated to the U.S. from Hungary in 1920, before his mother was born. He had never met them. The conference did not excite him, but the organizers would pay his way, and he could spend a few days discovering his Hungarian roots.

He was sorry that he could not tell his departed mother about his trip to the “homeland”. He did not know where in Hungary his grandparents were from, only that it was a small rural village. He booked the trip and bought a guidebook. He hoped to learn some basic phrases of Hungarian but assumed that most locals spoke some English.

Three months later, he arrived in Budapest, groggy from the overnight flight. He looked expectantly out of the taxi window, as it crossed the Danube into the city. Once checked into his hotel, he took a nap before venturing out for a walk. The next day was free - he would see the main sites.

Up early, he enjoyed touring Budapest. He saw people who had physical similarities to his mother and her siblings. He was intrigued by the language and tried a few phrases – to the patient amusement of the locals.

The next day he arrived at the convention center, rested and refreshed, an hour before his talk was scheduled. Once inside the entrance, things were eerily quiet. He found an office and asked a young woman if she could direct him to the conference. She looked puzzled – he concluded that she did not understand English. But in perfect English she replied that there was no conference scheduled for today. “That’s impossible,” he said, and showed her the invitation letter.

She checked her computer. “I see your conference, but not for another month,” she said.

“Another month! The letter says 08/09/2024 - August 9th, today!”

“I am sorry sir, but in Europe 08/09 means September 8th.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I am sorry sir.”

“You people invite an American and then use a European way of writing dates! “

“I am sorry sir; all EU countries write it that way.”

Steaming, he walked outside and headed back to his hotel. He was both embarrassed and angry - felt like a dope, having assumed that the entire world imitated the U.S. What was he going to do? Go home and come back in a month? Cancel the talk? Or stay in Hungary for a month?

Later, he pondered these options over dinner in the hotel restaurant. After a second glass of wine, he began to relax and reconsidered the third option, which he had dismissed as mere fantasy. It would be expensive, but possible, given that he had taken August as vacation time. He had never had an extended trip in Europe. This could be the solution to this debacle. Back at the hotel he checked with the concierge about taking side trips to other Hungarian towns.

He wanted to know the name of the home village of his grandparents. After calculating the time zone difference, he called his mother’s brother, old Uncle Fredek, who lived in Chicago. His uncle was incredulous. “Why would you want to visit such a godforsaken place when there are such beautiful Hungarian cities and towns to explore?” But he persisted and Fredek gave him the name.

Two days later, after a one-hour train ride, he arrived at the small village. Visible from the train station was a square, with a small Catholic church flanked by the old town hall. Beyond the square was a scattering of small, unpretentious houses and farm fields. A small number of people were walking through the square, mostly entering and exiting the town hall. He liked this place; it had a simple, but settled, feeling.

The professor entered the church. The light inside was dim, and he was alone. To the right of the altar was a statue of the Virgin Mary with a row of votive candles in front, half of them lit. He approached the statue, put a coin in the offertory box and lit a candle in memory of his mother. He hoped that she would be pleased that he was visiting their ancestral village. He imagined his grandparents attending mass in this old church.

Across the square from the church was a small cafe. He entered and saw four old men sitting around a table, playing a kind of board game. They did not look his way. Behind the bar was a younger man. The professor approached him and was relieved that he spoke some English. He ordered a beer and tried to explain who he was and why he was there. He asked the bartender if he recognized his mother’s family name, but he did not.

The bartender called to one of the old men and gestured for him to come to the bar. In Hungarian, the bartender related the professor’s story. The only word the professor could recognize was his mother’s name. The old man straightened up, and in Hungarian began to loudly spit out a long story, while wildly waving his hands. He only looked at the professor when he was finished, giving him a look of disgust. The old man returned to the table, spoke to the others, who then turned to glare at the professor.

The bartender did his best to relate what the old man said. Long ago, soon after WWI, a young man with that name lived here with his wife. During the pogrom of 1919, all of the village’s Jews were either killed or driven from their homes. There was a rumor that the couple, which the professor now assumed were his grandparents, were hiding two Jews. The police chief, who was one of the leaders of the pogrom, went by himself to investigate, but he never returned. When a group of men went to the house looking for him the couple and the Jews were not there, and they found the police chief dead of a stab wound. The next day the stationmaster confirmed that the couple and the Jews had boarded an early morning train for Budapest. They were never found.

“So, the man and wife were heroes for saving the Jews,” the professor said.

“Heroes, ha!” The bartender tilted his head back and laughed. “Oh no, they will always be remembered as notorious Jew-loving murderers of a great patriot. The everlasting regret was that they were not caught and hanged. In 2010 the town square was re-named by the village council for the police chief.”

Now feeling very unwelcome, the professor paid the bartender and quickly left the café. He walked across the square and sat on the stone steps of the church, to gather himself while he thought about what to do next. Is this why uncle Fredek had discouraged him from visiting this “godforsaken” place? Who else in the family knew this story? It now hung like a weight around his neck, and a scarlet letter on his chest for the residents of this village to see. He wondered whether he should seek refuge inside the church.

The four men walked out of the café. They were facing his direction. A middle-aged woman was about to walk past the men but stopped to talk to them. One of the men pointed at the professor and the woman turned and leaned forward to get a good look at him. The professor was now afraid and stood up. He felt a desire to go home – he had seen enough of Hungary - he would cancel his talk and leave as soon as possible. He wanted what his grandparents must have wanted, to escape from fear and danger.

The next train to Budapest would arrive in an hour. He quickly walked back to the station and sat on a bench outside the small ticket office, watching and waiting, looking to his left and to his right, in case the mob came.