PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS

Grandfather & Gandmother
Imre Déri (1898-1965)  Katalin Léderer (1903-1972)

Legend had it that his great grandfather on his father’s side came from a family of more than twenty children. So when the mother started to fix sandwiches for the kids, by the time she got to the twelfth, the first one was already in line again. His great grandfather survived the fight for food and opened up an inn in the country side, south of Budapest. At the advice of the schoolteacher he hired a private tutor for his son. After the first lesson the private tutor asked the great grandfather if he could have a word with him. Well actually it turned out to be six words: “Mr. D. your son is STUPID!” He did not say slow, lazy, inattentive or even idiot. No, he said emphatically, he is STUPID. And from then on, down to generations, each son was told at one time or another, somebody said: Mr. D. your son is Stupid. The tutor may have been right, if stupid meant to have the heart of gold. His grandfather was generous to the fault. There was not one person who did not like him. He would give his last shirt to a needy friend, even if it meant to take it off from his own person.

But he did have a shortcoming. He loved horses, well not really horses but the excitement of betting on them. Yes he was a betting man. And he lost often and big. His wife was gone for a couple of days visiting her parents, and when she came home she found an empty apartment. The bed was gone, the table and the chairs were gone and so were all the wardrobes and their contents. Debt had to be paid even those times. Divorce lingered on the horizon but a weeping grandfather who swore never to set foot at a horse race saved the marriage. And he honored his promise, he never gambled again.

He had other strikes against him in life on top of being Jewish he briefly joined the Red Army of the Hungarian Communists. Not that he believed in communism, but at that time after World War I this seemed to him to be a good choice. In any case he survived the retributions waged against the reds and occasionally against the Jews. At least for a while.

His grandmother who stayed with the gambling man, must have had some stupid ancestors but for real. Again, legend had it that somebody, maybe a great or great-great grandfather fell in love with a Jewish girl. So deep he fell that he converted to Judaism ignoring all the disadvantages that came with it. Little did he know that this decision may cost the lives of many of his descendants. The grandmother must have inherited her blue eyes and blond hair from this one time officer of the Habsburg emperor who chose to pick a religion not suitable for his profession. But, unbeknownst to him, he may have saved his own great grandson by passing down these fair genes to his daughter. But that happened much later.

So the grandfather on his father’s side was the unlucky one who actually experienced the Nazi concentration camps. Although, he never talked about his experiences to his grandson T, he probably remembered it every day of his life. His tattoo reminded him as well. When he was taken and not heard of even after the war, everybody was sure he was dead. But he was found in the woods, near to the camp sustaining himself by eating grass and roots and whatever he could find. A man of 6 feet frame he weighed no more than 100 pounds when the Americans found him. He returned to Hungary months after the war was over. T. never heard him complaining. He died early at age 65. T. never forgot the Sunday when he passed. He was in the hospital for quite a while and T. could not visit him. Perhaps he was too young to visit, perhaps his parents were over protective. T. once went to the hospital and saw his grandfather waiving through the window. It was the last time they saw each other. And T. just now, 50 years later, realized that the grandfather may have known that this would be the last time. T. himself thought that his grandfather recovered when he was told that he died. It was a painful realization that he did not exist any more.

The grandfather's funeral must have been a real sad affair. T. was not there his father did not take him. It was not a religious funeral, T’s father despised religion. And there was no speech just eerie silence. Silence is very final, just like death, so in a way it is more appropriate for a funeral. But it is probably sadder than one should have to bear. Maybe it is good that T. was never there.
The grandmother was not as well liked as her husband. She was loud and uneducated. She loved her son, T's father more than anything in the world. But M, T's father was ashamed of her at times. Except for her cooking Best matzo ball soup ever! M,with his cousin had dinner at the cousin's house then, as a ritual, they showed up as hungry young men at T's grandmother to devour a full dinner again.

When my grandfather died, my father, I think unjustly, accused his mother with killing his father with her wonderfully spicy cooking. In his bitterness over losing his beloved father he lashed out at her mother. Fortunately, he only said that to me, my brother and mother. My grandmother did not have the best nature; she got into fights with all her neighbors and with some of her siblings. She had one sister and five brothers. The sister and three brothers were killed by the Nazis. One might say it was a lucky family; more than 50% survived the Holocaust.

I remember her calling my father and screaming in the phone, demanding impossible things from him or yelling at him. The picture is still vivid, my father holding the phone away from his ear but still hearing the tirade of complaints and accusations. I admit, I did not particularly like to visit her after my grandfather’s death. However, the food was still fantastic. She loved animals. She fed the pigeons and kept a parrot. Even so, my grandfather was the clear winner in the animal loving department as well. He discovered a fly in the apartment on one cold autumn day. He did not kill it, nor did he make it fly out into the cold night. He fed it with sugary water throughout the winter. The saying that “he can’t even hurt a fly” was custom-made for him.

My grandmother died suddenly one day after she was released from the hospital. I think my father realized that he lost both of his parents. For a day or two he tried to blame the doctors, questioning why they discharged her if she was in such a fragile shape. And now I remember, actually it was her funeral that was the silent one.

(There will be no correction for my previous post, even though I am sure that at my grandfather’s funeral there was either a rabbi or somebody from his workplace who talked about his life.)

Few people came to the funeral. No rabbi, no speech. And my father actually had the burial finished early. So Uncle J., another unbelievably nice relative of mine, arrived late. To me that was the saddest moment of the ceremony. On a cold day in late fall, Uncle J. arrived at the cemetery by the old fashioned street car. Dressed appropriately, hat on head. He was on time, yet he was late. Just as he got off the tram, the family emerged at the main gate. He missed the ceremony (which of curse never really took place.) How can you apologize for that? He stood there, not understanding what had happened. Must have thought he missed the time.

end of first day's writing.