by Gabriella D'Anton

Created on: November 17, 2009   Last Updated: November 30, 2009

The snow was coming down, quietly covering up the dirty streets of the old city. What the snow could not bury was the perpetual misery of people's hopeless lives.

Celebrating Christmas was forbidden by the communists and everybody knew that disobeying their rules could have dangerous consequences.

Fear is a powerful weapon, and even the children took to heart the example of the three monkeys; the "don't see, don't hear, don't speak" became a way of life for all of us.

It was late at night when we heard a knock at the door; that was never a good sign. Before going to answer the door, my father threw an old blanket over the Christmas decoration he had made for us by cutting up colored paper and gluing them together to resemble festive wreaths.

As he slightly opened the door, a draft of cold air came into our small two-bedroom apartment.

The unexpected guest standing at the door was my grandfather Peter. He was carrying a big wooden case in his arms. The weight of the box made his small frame look even more fragile.

Every year, just before Christmas, he came from the village to sell at the city's open market some of the fruit and whatever eggs and cheese the family had left from the harvest of their small farm.

Grandfather came in and put the box on the table without saying a word. He was wearing an old soldier's coat that served him well during the First World War. The snow that melted on his long and gray coat revived the pungent smell of memories buried on it - memories of death and fears, memories of hopes and dreams.

As he opened the box, the aroma of apples and pears covered in hay took over the room. In his trembling hand Grandpa was holding an almost round and fuzzy quinces; he gave them to my brother and me as a sign of special affection. In a soft voice and with a warm smile he was wishing us "happy holidays" with the only little presents he could afford.

"Be well and take good care of each other," he said as he was ready to leave.

A few days later, my father did not return home. He was arrested by the security man for giving out fliers and manifestos against the brutal invasion of Hungary in the fall of 1956. He knew he was taking a risk and putting us all in danger, but he could not help his outrage. He and many others were counting on the promise America made of not allowing such aggression to go unpunished.

After my father's arrest our apartment was constantly ransacked by uniformed or civilian agents of the security force; they were looking

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>