Dream of Secondary Education Shattered

I was twelve years old, and the moment I had so waited for had now arrived - it was time for me to register to secondary school in Puspokladany. But now the Hungarian government had begun to draft Jewish males to the army as forced laborers. My parents broke my heart when they told me that I could not go to secondary school, as the army may call my father any time, and I would have to take over his business. But, my father added, I could continue studying when the war ended. I was shocked, feeling cheated out of my childhood dream.

I often fought for my desires, but my parents' pronouncement left me too wounded too respond. The bitter disappointment froze my will, leaving my soul speechless. I was a bitter child with nobody to turn for help against my parents' decision. After encouraging me for so many years, my parents shattered my dreams to pieces. I walked longingly by the big secondary school building whenever I could, staring jealously at the children lucky enough to attend. To ease my pain, I tried to make friend with children who attended the school.

I continued to go to Hebrew school, often arriving first to the classroom. One morning, during the Chanukah holiday, I walked in and took my chair. The teacher got up, walked over to me and slapped me in the face with all his anger, adding scornfully, "why didn't you knock on the door". My blood froze, and I could not understand why he was so angry - we were never expected to knock on the door when we entered school. No one else had arrived, and I just ran out of the classroom and started to cry. When I went home at noon and told my parents what happened, my father told me he was to blame. They had played Chanukah cards the night before, and my father insulted the teacher with some rough words. I happened to be the scapegoat. This teacher used to be my favorite, but not anymore. I could not forgive him. I was one of his best pupils and he often praised me.

Our old rabbi passed away around this time. Some of us kids peeked through the window to see what a dead face looks like before the funeral procession started. I don't recall exactly what I saw, but I was very frightened. That night, I dreamt that my father took his own life and died. For days I carried a heavy, terrible feeling. Never again did I wish to see a dead body.

© David Muskal, 2001