Dear Angel

I cannot remember the day it was, but it was a wonderful day. I found the flat on Castle Hill. It was his dream when he was young to have a flat there, in the over 1,000 year old fortified old Buda section of town. It was a new building, -the only new building in that section of old Buda. He lived on the 7^th floor, on the phone he told me that his wife is ill, how ill I was about to find out. I was rather apprehensive-what do you say to a man who has given you life, yet never have seen him. My mother did not even have a photograph of him. Imagine that!

I stood in front of the apartment door not knowing what to do-should I leave? Or  should I stay?  My heart was pounding in my chest as well as in my head. What do you say to a stranger who is your father, whom you have never set eyes on?  How do you act? What do you say? I did not even knock when the door opened-and there stood my father. A gentle faced, grey haired elderly man with a huge smile and twinkling eyes-in  a white shirt  and flip flops. He embrace, held me tight and kissed me- like old friends coming together-or rather  as father and child. I felt the deep love in that embrace. He welcomed me into his heart as I did him after so many years.

He invited me into the living room. In the corner was a bed. In it lay a large woman-mumbling loud and  incoherently thrashing slightly, appearing to want something. There were all kinds of medical supplies lying around-medications, bedpan, catheters, creams, diapers. I suddenly realized the gravity of the situation. He went onto explain that Eva had  the early onset Alzheimer`s and she first started getting symptoms around age 40-and went downhill  from there in a few year-now she was 50 and  a complete vegetable-unable to talk, recognize anyone, nor understand or do anything for herself.  She was conscious-that was about it- though unaware. He told me that she  had been like this for the previous 5 years-steadily getting worse. She would not sleep at all at nights, just scream, often attacking him –she had to be spoon fed with liquid meals like a baby-catheter changed daily to prevent infections. A very heavy cross to bear- and remember he was concerned that he would be a burden to her because he was so old-The irony of life. His main worry this time was his concern for Peter-as most children according to him have the gene- he had done serious research on this.  And- this disease was very prominent in her family.

I asked him why he did not put her into a hospice. He replied: ”How could I for I have no idea what goes on in her mind. Maybe she knows, perhaps she understands. Perhaps she feels. I could never live with myself if I did that”.  He ushered me into the next room- with a balcony overlooking Mount Gellert with its magnificent memorial and statue and the Danube sparkling in the very near distance with view of Elizabeth Bridge.  His bed was a couch with a green plaid blanket draped over it. A coffee table on which lay numerous magazines-including The Scientific American, and different German publications. Opposite two carved Victorian ladies chairs-in red velvet were facing each other across from the table. Hundreds of treasured books were standing in silence as if on guard in four huge antique glass bookcases-and his drafting table filled with old drawings and  multitudes of different items. How odd- I seem to remember so vividly every detail of the place. Old paintings graced the walls-he told me who the artists  were, but that I have forgotten.

Then there was the old music box- a big square walnut  box about 36 inches by 36 inches and about 20 inches deep-in it a brass cylinder that revolved, with a glass lid  that could be lifted up, under which lay numerous various sized bells bells-each with its own hammer. It would knock each little bell according to the music as the cylinder rotated-it sounded like a  harpsichord. It could play numerous pieces, apparently it was  well over 200 years old.

I spent several  wonderful lazy afternoons with him; about a week- much of the time not saying much really.  He seemed to have know all-I too felt I know all. What was there  to say?  It was all felt. Just being close to him for me was enough, to experience his presence. He called me Zsu- I called him – dear angel;  “draga angyal” I could not call him father, neither could I call him by his Christian name-Lorant-and he was truly an angel in so many ways. He would hold  both my hands in his gently stroke them with his thumbs and  then kissing them gently ; first my wrist and then palms-as we listened to Mozart in silence. We listened to the music box also. I saw the love shine through from his eyes for me.  He told me about his love of Italy- and how he longed for Sicily. He also discussed his innovation regarding light in modern  architecture; and how important that was. Also some stories   how he had escaped from being taken to Russia during the war.  Also the story of the revolution. I asked him why he did not leave the country he replied: "If everyone had left in 1956. Who would have  have been left?- we would have had no Hungary now. Somebody had to stay. I chose to stay". Then every hour on the hour  he would go and turn this huge woman over in her bed and check on her and attend to her needs. He hardly slept, so he said.

One afternoon he stared  at me for a very long time-his eyes fixed on me, I was a bit  embarrassed by his gaze, as he suddenly declared triumphantly: "You have my eyes".  I see now that he was right, I do. I was told how very  intelligent  and lovely I was. We discussed  a few things-this is a mystery as to what; as I do not remember what we talked about at all. He made some wonderful food. I  do remember him in the kitchen with a huge white apron concocting something-he told me to always eat healthy, as he had a heart attack in his sixties-though he was always a careful, moderate eater. He never drank-told me I should not either. I should drink coffee as the German`s did- that was when you looked into the cup you could see the bottom; meaning very weak. Funny. 

He stated how very much he loved my mother still- and never in his wildest dream did he ever want to marry any one except her.  He was kind, gentle, loving, patient, considerate- filled with compassion and empathy. Not many would have done what he had regarding  his dying wife daily, talking to her gently-using different terms of endearments. I wonder if she heard? I wonder if she knew?

He just adored Italy- he said he  regretted that he had come back-and one day he would return, as that was his true home. He never did. I took pictures of him. Met Peter, but we did not click, neither was he told who I was, which was fine. The less drama the better. 

The last night we were together- I stayed late about 11pm-we  both cried. Then from his bookshelf he gave me a small grey stone carving of a Foo Dog- a student had given it to him. Then he led me to the balcony- he pointed to the sky: ”See that star there shining so brightly  –the evening/morning star?” I answered : “Yes”. “Well-that is your special star for always. Whenever  you see it-think of me” and he handed me a  classical music CD. Yes- I always do think of you , not only when I see my star, but often.

The taxi came-I left never to see him again.  He never said –“I love you” to me. I was a bit  sad. The next day- I called him from the airport to say a final goodbye-then just before I hung up- he said : “Ti amo Zsu- "I love you Zsu".  I was  so happy.

For the next few years we spoke on the phone a number of times. I would never forgot his birthday- he kept saying that there is so very much he wants to say and he is writing  this  long letter- he would tell me each time.  I wrote him a few -expressing how I felt. His letter never did arrived. His wife died in 2007- and he died October 4/ 2010 of  melanoma- he refused treatment. The disease took him in two months. I have not had the heart to tell my mother of his death-she thinks he may have moved to Italy and lost contact with us.

This was the CD-

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOA-2hl1Vbc