Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (5 page)

After our move to Westonaria there was a distinct change in the atmosphere in our family. My mother and Janos hardly seemed to quarrel any more. Perhaps it had something to do with the highveld air, and we did all spend a lot of time outdoors. It was also around this time that I acquired a passion for building and flying kites.

My stepfather was a keen hunter and he would regularly go on overnight hunting expeditions, returning with all sorts of game, from which my mom prepared her range of lavish dishes. I was about eight years old when, after much pleading, Janos reluctantly agreed to take me with him on one of his hunting trips.

It was late afternoon when we set off, after loading the bakkie with supplies. Janos drove to an area of rugged terrain not too far from where we lived. He parked the van and we got out and looked around. He charged his gun belt with shotgun shells and I filled my pockets with pellets. I was hoping to shoot some rock pigeons with my air rifle. Janos took his double-barrelled shotgun and we trudged along in the direction of some forest, while he took me through the do’s and don’ts of hunting. It was almost dark by the time we approached the cluster of dense trees. Janos instructed me to wait beside a huge decaying trunk that seemed to be the refuge of all sorts of creepy-crawlies, and I didn’t much like the look of it. Sensing my apprehension, he placed his hand on the back of my neck, assuring me that he wouldn’t be too far, and that I had nothing to worry about. His paternal gesture did very little to comfort me. Struggling to hide my indignation at being left behind, I grudgingly accepted that I had no choice but to wait, as apparently my presence on the hunt would be more of a hindrance than anything else.

Janos disappeared into the forest. As soon as he was out of sight, I was paralysed with fear. Holding tightly onto my air rifle, I did a quick reconnaissance of my surroundings, while my vivid imagination replayed numerous possible scenarios, most of which ended with me being devoured by some ferocious beast. I had never felt so scared, alone or vulnerable. I wondered what had possessed me to think hunting was fun. I anxiously looked around for a place to hide and noticed a large boulder a few metres away. It stuck up amid the dense bush and was shielded by a group of wild thorn trees. I thought it would offer a view of the dark landscape as well as provide safety from any prowling predators.

Silently perched on what I now considered my stronghold, my senses adapted to the darkness, and I took in all the enchanted and mystical undertones that emanated from the forest. The sounds ranged from the cooing of the rock pigeons, the flirting of small birds and the slithering motions of snakes to the musical chirping of the male African cricket. I imagined I heard the steps of some carnivorous animal, too, as well as the distinctive doleful howl of a hyena.

Then, after what seemed like hours, the harmony of nature was shattered by the loud thunder of a shotgun discharging. Birds that had nested for the night blindly rose up and scattered in every direction. I got the fright of my life. I had estimated Janos to be some distance from where he’d left me but it sounded like he was very close by. Despite the shock of the noise, I was also comforted by his presence. Then, at spaced intervals, sometimes firing two consecutive shots, I could hear that he was moving further and further away from me. I was scared, but it heightened my vigilance. I wondered if Janos would ever return.

Eventually, to my intense relief, my stepfather did come back. On his approach he gave a hoot that was a perfect imitation of the low, wavering call of an owl, and at the same time, in his usual bellicose manner, he called out to me in Hungarian.

‘
Shani! Hol a fenebe vagy mar?
’ (Where the fuck are you?)

Silently I descended from my hiding place. ‘Here,’ I replied nonchalantly, as I strolled towards him. ‘I’m here.’

Janos held a couple of dead guinea fowl and pheasant in his hands.

‘
Fogd mar meg ezt es menjunk a francba
,’ he said, throwing them down at my feet (Grab these already and let’s get the fuck out of here).

Although I was used to being around slain animals, having been taught to wring the neck of a chicken at age five, I was squeamish at the sight of blood. Whenever Janos brought home game he had shot, I couldn’t help feeling pangs of remorse for the dead creatures.

The one positive result of my first hunting mission, however, which I wasn’t aware of at the time, was that I overcame my fear of darkness and my nightmares ended. There were several occasions after this when Janos took me hunting, and each time my confidence grew, making these trips more interesting and adventurous for me. Janos even allowed me to fire his shotgun. The first time, I almost dislocated my shoulder. There were times when we would sleep out in the bush and Janos would skin and disembowel a rabbit and cook it over a fire for dinner. I felt at one with nature. Being outdoors produced in me a certain tranquillity and sense of inner peace. I remember these outings with fondness.

After we had been living in Westonaria for about three years, Janos got fed up with working on the mines. His restlessness was compounded by constantly having to work night shift. In addition, there had recently been a series of accidents in which miners had been trapped underground, with many dying of suffocation before rescue workers could reach them.

It was time for change, so once again we moved. This time we went to the fast-developing industrial town of Vanderbijlpark, where my mother and my biological father Fritz had first lived when they came to South Africa. The main reason for moving here, besides employment opportunities, was the presence of the Hungarian community. My half-sister Marika and her husband Bela lived in Vanderbijlpark, and they now had a new baby daughter, Zsuzsika, which meant that I was an uncle. Most of the Hungarians in the area either knew each other personally or had connected at one time or another, and everyone figured in the gossip that was so prevalent within that small European community.

There was also an intricate but reliable network that helped people to track down relatives or friends who, like my own parents, had fled the Soviet crackdown in 1956, in the course of which entire families had been split up. The need to reunite lost family members was still very much alive among Hungarian exiles.

Our family took up residence in a modern apartment block called Kronendaal Heights, where we occupied a two-bedroomed flat. This meant I had to share a room with Joan, not a happy situation for me. Our flat was on the ground floor directly adjacent to the entrance, where there was a suite of doctors’ rooms. The smell of sterile liquid always seemed to hang in the passageway, which triggered in me a phobia of doctors and hospitals. In front of the building was a swimming pool encircled by a well-manicured, lush green lawn, a variety of tropical trees, ferns and bushes, and a steel fence.

The change from living in virtual isolation on the hill to the hustle and bustle of a large town was invigorating. Joan and I were enrolled in Oliver Lodge Primary School, which was right behind our building. Next door was a church. By now I was nine or ten years of age and in Standard 3.

There were many nationalities in Vanderbijlpark – Greek, Portuguese, Scots, Italian and English-speaking South Africans – and this made life so much more interesting at school. The kids were generally friendlier, and everyone seemed to know one another. Some of the kids in my class were already physically well developed; some even had facial hair.

Our teachers had a liberal attitude, as the majority of foreigners had difficulty keeping up with the rest of the class. The lax discipline gave the school a certain ambience that also encouraged a degree of unruliness.

One year, we went on a school tour to Rhodesia where we visited the Victoria Falls. A group of us were standing really close to the edge, looking down, when one of my friends slipped. I managed to grab his collar and prevent him from going over the edge. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but the memory of how lucky he was has always stuck with me.

Another time, while at the Wankie Game Reserve, I was in the toilet when I was confronted by three older kids. Although they were in my standard at school, they were all a good three years older than me. They cornered me and one of them took out his dick and tried to force himself on me. It was a terrifying experience, feeling all these hands trying to subdue me. I wrestled and wriggled, punched and kicked my way free. I never ever spoke about the incident to anyone.

In Vanderbijlpark social events were organised regularly on the weekend. There were private parties or discos, which were held at one of the many church halls, or people would meet up at the local movie house to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Then there was the renowned Mikado bioscope, also known as ‘the bughouse’, where two feature films were run and re-run the entire day. The bughouse attracted some fairly unsavoury customers – me being one of them – who would make a day of it.

The Mikado was owned by a Hungarian woman who was married to a Portuguese man. Her name was Manya and she was a good friend of my mother. She used to let me in for free. From a very young age I loved movies. When the lights dimmed and that big screen sputtered into life, I was propelled into a world of fantasy, and my own reality ceased to exist. My favourite films were Westerns, but somehow I always found myself identifying more with the Indian warriors who, though lacking the firepower of the cowboys, were far superior when it came to surviving in the bush. I loved especially the ‘spaghetti Westerns’ starring Clint Eastwood –
The Good, the Bad
and the Ugly
,
For a Few Dollars More
and
A Fistful of Dollars
. I had a comprehensive personal collection of film posters, and these became my pride and joy.

In the diversity of the communities and nationalities in our town, we came to associate certain groups with certain things. For example, the Portuguese controlled all the fresh fruit and vegetable shops, the Greeks monopolised the corner café and fish and chip outlets, the Germans and Swiss exercised exclusive rights over the specialised engineering industries, the Lebanese had second-hand car dealerships, and the Afrikaners farmed the land and occupied most of the civil service positions.

The Italians, renowned for their culinary skills, introduced their cuisine through a fast-growing chain of classy restaurants, while our esteemed Jewish counterparts, noted for being astute businessmen but wrongly perceived as extortionist moneylenders, occupied the more distinguished positions in the medical profession, and also dominated the wholesale and clothing industries.

Hungarians were commonly known as being jacks of all trades and masters of none. While some of the men were qualified tradesmen, many were involved in less honourable professions and in shady dealings. These extended from prostitution, gambling and pornography to illegal trading in uncut diamonds. In a country where it was rumoured that diamonds the size of pebbles washed up on the shore and gold nuggets could be found in the street, the desire for success by whatever means possible could be easily justified. Besides providing for one’s immediate family and establishing one’s roots in a foreign country, there was the added moral obligation of financially assisting relatives back home in Budapest.

Although Hungarians played hard, partying was restricted to one night during the week and to the weekends.

One Sunday morning, when I was ten years old, my mother told Joan and me to put on our best clothes. She had a surprise for us. At first I thought she was taking us to church for some reason, although the only time G-d was mentioned in our home was when someone was cursing. It turned out that Janos was going to take us to meet someone – and this someone turned out to be our real father, Fritz, who was living right there in Vanderbijlpark. I can’t say I remember what I was feeling – probably nothing. My biological father had abandoned me at a very young age; Janos, although he was abusive and regularly beat the crap out of me, was more of a father presence in my life than anybody else. I suppose you could say I was nervous. All I knew about my dad was that, according to my mother, whenever I was angry with someone, I would say that that person was ‘no better than my bastard pig father’. Not a great legacy so far.