Red Danube

RED DANUBE

A novel by David Gluck

1

The sight of produce piled high and on display carried Zoltan Gluck, Zoli to those closest to him, into a past full of color: a romanticized youth, before the pain.

By the mid-’80s, the stone fruits of his childhood were accompanied by all manner of out-of-season and wildly imported products. Light zigzagged though corridors of steel and concrete, fell onto the thin sliver of Fairway’s storefront, the morning’s calm shaking to the rattle of the cardboard-boxed bounty that slid from truck to subterranean storage over a metal conveyer. Like no other market on the Upper West Side, tucked between Gristedes and a Love’s Discount Pharmacy, it presented the smells and colors of Zoli’s childhood in Eastern Europe in their new and forever anachronistic setting.

Zoli carried plastic bags across the concrete plateau of New York City; a smile creased lines in his cheeks, exposed teeth yellowed by adolescent malnutrition and chipped through military service. His bright blue eyes were wide and present. Salt and pepper hair caught the cross-breeze of miles traveled as histories remained fastened to the soles of his feet, and in each free moment.

He moved on, mind ever-adrift to a time when families gathered to harvest the rewards of their labor. He could still see them. The fragrances were fresh in his nostrils, sharp on his tongue.

Townsfolk congregated to sell plums, peaches, and apricots; to barter and buy goods and services; farm-animal-produced milk, meat and cheeses; garlic and bunches of whole dried paprika on display; the harvest filled the air with the sweet smell of country living, available for the right price. He was there, saw the handful that hauled their bounty out of town on horseback and by the carriage-full, caravans of abundance.

He drowned in the expanse, waves of grassland that united the distant hills of his childhood, verdant terrain disturbed only by the orchards and farms that defined the region. He saw the rows of trees planted in antiquity that reached out over the horizon. Fruit that hung heavy off innumerable branches painted the hillside in a wash of color that marked the seasons. The villages that pocked the great field did much the same; born in service of the land, they were equally susceptible to the shifting conditions of the world around them.

“They annexed Austria.” He still heard the whispers that travelled across borders so long ago, details of the Nuremberg Laws and the many nights of broken glass that followed. “We’re next,” was the collective conclusion of Jews and gypsies on the ever-redefined borders of Eastern Europe. Common ground, as logic dictated. “Who will save us? The Soviets? They’re just as savage. We’re damned either way,” they’d spit in wretched agreement.

Zoli shook recollection. He knew times had changed, but the effects of his youth remained: Deadbolts locked against invasion clanked open from the outside. Zoli let himself into his spacious riverside apartment and locked the door behind him.

Elevated above the tree line of the adjacent park, sunlight danced in off the Hudson. Lost illuminants reached out across the living room and long gallery hall. Zoli hung his black overcoat on a hook, began unpacking groceries in the soft reflective light. Calloused hands, rough palms, torn up fingers squeezed stone fruit, and prompted sense-memory.

Viscid resin, concentrated juice, tacky to the touch and released by the slightest move, enveloped young hands and arms; ripe globules thick with pulp and sucrose sailed through the air, sloshed into baskets left by the foot of a mature plum tree picked clean. Fallen leaves sprinkled the landscape with deep purples and marked each of nine-year-old Zoli’s steps with a satisfying crackle. He searched through dirt, blue eyes darting between branches and mulch to find every last imperfect plum. He was happy with the ones that had long lost their peels, oozing beneath topsoil, attracting bugs and rodents.

“GET THE ONES NO ONE WANTS,” was yelled from afar and rippled through decades to live firmly in Zoli’s recollections.

Remembrances interrupted, he turned toward footsteps, peered past a library of rarely opened books, across a collection of Hungarian paintings and porcelain that made their way across the Atlantic. He cracked a smile at the sight of his only son approaching. “Danny-kem,” he whispered in an accent weathered by experience. “I told you you didn’t have to come with me.”

“I know.” Danny, short and husky, was in Bugle Boy cargo pants and a striped polo shirt, face broken out, red and irritated; a body built for the fields primped and styled to popular standards, hair gelled to perfection against the force of his natural curls in a dance of perpetual pubescent imbalance. “I just wanted to make sure you make it, Pops.”

“Danny, come on. Vhy vouldn’t I?” Zoli answered. They spoke in a hush through the morning light. His wife Julika and mother-in-law, Danny’s live-in-grandmother, remained asleep while he sliced fruit for their cereal. He had rolled the sleeves of his sharp Pierre Cardin dress shirt in order to get banana into his son’s bowl.

“You get all… you know…” The thought of his dad scared or uncomfortable snatched his ability to finish his sentence. The weight of his father’s past, the family history, bunched up in Danny’s shoulders, tightened his posture. He just sat quietly, eyes bloodshot as he considered the cumulative horror of his legacy, collecting the anxiety that had always been married to it.

Zoli got it. “Business is business.”

Danny chewed and swallowed, was slow to continue. “He knew you and your brother...” His long corrected Hungarian accent resurfaced as he went on, “Your brother, János? Right?” He made it a point to get the name right, repeated himself, over accentuated the strong ya and Slavic sh sounds that bookended his late uncle’s name: “János.”

“Yes… Jenő.” Zoli used the name most colloquial, the one he used as a child.

“Think this guy knows what happened to him?” Danny asked.

Zoli dared not answer; thinking about it contorted his face, agitated his jovial features. They sat silently, waited for answers within the ever-present aeioum of the city; the traffic, on land and above buildings, pedestrians at street level, distant sirens, the chaos and commotion all melded into a lulling constant.

“I don’t even know if he vill remembers me, even though ve have ze same Hebrew name, Itzchak,” Zoli said as ancient feelings crept up through his spine, locked in his gaze.

“I still can’t believe he’s represented by Perry Art Gallery, what are the odds?”

Zoli started clearing the table; light bounced off the river, cut shadows into the ceiling, across his face.

“OK, let’s go,” Zoli broke the static. “I vant to get there before they hang ze show.”

They stepped out and away from a large brick building that grew out of an entire city block, joining the light morning motion of Manhattan: joggers and nannies, a spattering of kids running to Saturday morning sports in the nearby park.

“I don’t tink Itzchak vill be there today,” Zoli said, almost relieved.

“We’ll have to find him…” Danny interjected. “What if he knows something?”

Zoli stammered on a thought: “Vhat if it is someting I don’t vant to hear?”

“You know I got your back.”

“I know, Danny, I know,” Zoli’s affect flowed, connecting his son to different places and times. “You are so much like my fadher. Did you know Dani…” He emphasized the short-rounded-/ɒ/-sound that growled with an appropriate earthiness, a wash of the old country wrapped up in a long ee in his father’s name.

“Yes, dad,” Danny asserted. “I know all about your life on the farm. I feel like I lived there, for crying out loud.”

“Who ever thought a little farm boy vould end up here?” Zoli thought out loud. “All ze tragedies...”

“All those things had to happen to get you here, Pops,” Danny interrupted.

“Not quite, no vone vanted to drive around vith Mr. Stern and sell his paintings, listen to him talk for days and days. I vas young. I vas a trained carpenter. I vanted to see America, and traveling is in our blood,” Zoli laughed with his kid. “My fadher travelled to get ze best price at city markets, he’d travel days, sometimes veeks.” He planted Danny in the middle of his far-reaching legacy. “Like me vith Mr. Stern, and you vill vith me. It vill be great to have you, kiddo, just this vonce time, till ze doctor says my old heart is strong again.” He stopped to read disappointment on his young son’s face; they both knew Danny’s involvement would be permanent. “I promise you vill have your school vacation back.”

Danny’s mind wandered over elevated expectations of the idle time he’d miss with his friends over spring break and of the girls he wouldn’t get to know better because he was off working with his dad. Zoli noticed.

“I vas much younger than you vhen I joined the family business, I remember like yesterday… ve all vorked, but Jenő vas the toughest. He vas something else. I vould vatch him use his strength to load ze family vagon.”

His words moved Danny, bent time, and coagulated space: Bushel upon bushel of fruits and vegetables were organized and placed by habit, Jenő’s wide back and broad shoulders on display beneath his work-worn shirt, biceps flexed, weight-bearing thighs pushed to the task at hand.

Some of the younger girls in town would come to watch him work, giggling at caught glances, obvious affections offending a group of local boys that watched from a distance, side-eyed and malcontent.

Jenő felt their glare, turned to lock onto to the scowls of kids he grew up with, only to catch them spit in his direction. Disrespect met its mark. Jenő stepped to confront them, fists first, when his father stopped midstride.

“You have work to do, Jenő. Play with your friends later,” Dani told him in their native tongue.

Jenő eased up, caught his kid brother Zoli with a playful shove. They watched their mother holding their baby-sister Magda in her arms while she dragged a couple of bushel baskets into their humble family market, wiping her hands clean on an already soiled apron. She turned to set out homemade jams and cakes, filled bins with animal feed, and rearranged hard-to-find farming essentials that Dani picked up along his travels.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” yelled Dani.

Irén moved to her husband’s side. Antique brown hair caught an heirloom breeze, streaked grey. Dani’s most mercurial impulses eased in her presence, tension evaporated from his shoulders as they held each other close, eyes half-closed, in a short-lived reprieve.

“Hurry back,” a whisper turned stern, “in one piece.”

They parted with a kiss. Dani joined long-time family friend Lukács György on the front bench of his wagon. The large gypsy had hair on his entire body thick enough to pierce the canvas clothes on his back. Both he and Dani hunched in their station, tasked to navigate the unsteady road ahead.

“Dose vere who my fadher vas friends vith, Jews and gypsies,” Zoli stated. “Outsiders. Ve had to stick together.”

“Wish I got to meet him.” These shared moments bore down on Danny, had his entire life. “All of them. The whole family. The gypsies and everyone.”

“Me too, kiddo.” Zoli looked at his son; Jenő’s eyes stared back at him, set his mind awhirl. “I can remember like it vas yesterday.” He fell into a deep stare. “I vas just a little boy… and while my fadher vas away…”

He saw Jenő nod, and could feel his presence as they stood together to watch their father set out on dirt paths that had crumbled in the wake of one fallen empire after another.

“Your Uncle Laci,” pronounced Lŭt-sī and short for Laszlo, “recruited me, had me till our fadher returned.”

Laci displayed his inherited strength in the form of broad shoulders and a stick-straight posture, his intellect pronounced by his wide forehead and retreating hairline. He balanced a half-full basket of fruit in one arm and a shotgun in the other. The numbers danced through his mind; his pupils darted in addition and subtraction.

“Let’s go, kis-Zoli,” Laci said on the move.

Kis-Zoli stood still for a moment to consider the empty path his father rode off on, the feeling of his return lodged in his broken heart as he tried to imagine what lay over those hills, beyond the countryside. He dreamt of the markets his father would visit in cities that rose three stories, lights born of electricity, and fitted with indoor plumbing. His daydream was cut short by responsibilities. His already calloused hands dripped nectar, collected grime and trapped pests; a riot of bottom-feeders made easy work of the meal, larvae deposited, pulp left bruised and macerated. His young nails and fingers were destroyed in a testament of work accomplished, an exhaustion well earned. He hoofed it past bare branches to catch up to Laci, who was prepared to negotiate terms with his littlest brother: “Pull the cart and I’ll give you a raise. Five percent... total.”

Joy swept in as kis-Zoli grabbed hold; he muscled their take into the thick of the forest that lined orchards planted before either of them were born. His young muscles strained to their limit as they blazed new trails through historical woodlands.

“You know, Felsővadász means beyond the woods, vhere ze trees vonce stood,” Zoli tested his son.

“Yes, dad,” Danny said, “I speak Hungarian, remember?”

“Of course I remember. Now can I finish?” Zoli took a dramatic pause before he continued. “My fadher built something from nothing for ze people up in the woods ven no vone else vould...”

“And that’s why we sell paintings door-to-door?” Danny asked sarcastically, “I don’t get it…”

“Yes, it’s vhat ve know, ve gather vhat ve can and hit ze road,” Zoli explained. “I’ll give you five percent like your Uncle Laci gave to me….”

“To start.”

“Ok,” Zoli smiled as he cinched his overcoat by the lapels, over his loose tie, and examined the alleyway behind the grand old Ansonia. The iconic building had hosted icons Ziegfeld, Toscanini, Stravinsky, Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey, and Isaac Bashevis Singer—a storied past that was lost on the immigrant.

Zoli took the time to inspect the hidden nooks and corners of the old Beaux-Art residential hotel. He scanned gothic shadows that fell behind the imposing structure, looked for the perfect place to hide from the endless storm that lurked behind every corner of his youth, prepared for its return.

“Ze woods of my youth vere thick, tangled branches made vay for a clearing...” Zoli colored his speech with photorealism; his accent added texture like brush strokes to his telling. “I vas just a little guy, squatting in a tree vith a shotgun. I tink I vas nine-year-old and ready to shoot while your uncle vorked on his large copper pot.” He chuckled as he continued. “He vould always break screws, yell ‘BULLSHIT!’ for each piece he lost. I vould just vatch. He’d dump basket after basket of that rotting fruit into ze large vat, stirred it all in. I remember the smell, it vas so strong, I had to take my hand off ze gun to cover my nose.” Zoli commented as muscle memory matched the actions of his youth. “It took him years to come up vith a vay to cool the vapors.” He drew plans in the air with a raised finger; Danny stared into the empty space as it filled with family history. “His design moved steam through pipes right into ze forest. They ran through dirt, several feet underground, and after all that, ve aged ze booze in barrels he made from ze same Magyar Zemplén oak that grew all around us back then. He had this funny little glass that he vould always use.” Zoli pantomimed his way back to when young Laci retrieved the out-of-place stemware from his inside pocket. Complete with manufacturer’s stamp, it was a relic found in the dusty corner of some long forgotten barn.

Laci promptly filled this glass with liquor and enjoyed its contents with a pinkie raised.

Kis-Zoli watched his oldest brother swirl his concoction, note the rate at which the viscous liquid streamed down the inside of his glass, appreciating the depths of its aroma, its hue. He took a sip, immediately comforted by the warmth it offered.

“Can I taste?” Kis-Zoli’s innocent blue eyes sparkled. Laci happily shared, laughing when the kid gagged on the pálinka’s bite.

They got back to work. Jugs overflowed, replaced empty ones, corked full containers loaded on the back of his wagon, ready for market.

“It’s not like that anymore, Dad.”

“It is just like that, Danny-kem, vhether you sell cars, coats, paintings or booze, you make ze opportunity.” They circumvented pedestrian traffic, Broadway bustling in the organized chaos of the city; the 1,2,3, or 9 train station jutted out of the Avenue. Zoli opened the heavy city-worn doors that exposed them to the urban undertow as he continued. “No vone can tell you how to do it…” Danny watched his dad’s mind charge through six decades of experience, intimate moments boiling over and lingering as unintended parables. “We got ze wagon back to Felsővadász without spilling a drop. Your Uncle Laci placed his shotgun in ze wagon before ve turned kegs to the customers. Those casks vere all ze advertising ve needed. Everyone in town knew about it, knew vhen each batch vas going to be done. People crossed borders to get a taste, all happy to vait for their turn at your Uncle Laci’s kegs.”

The young entrepreneur collected payment; the size of his billfold grew. He got top krona, pengő, or whatever other currency was available, doing business in whatever language he needed to speak. He made time to barter for screws, new piping, and other necessities from friends and neighbors, with a chorus of drunk Hungarians in the background: “Laci, you make the best stuff! You’re a genius, I love you!” It was a drunken celebration of the brew doled out by Kis-Zoli.

But, not everyone welcomed this increasingly habitual event. Above the celebration, unknowingly to the amassed, a rock hung on the wind, curved to gravity, and hit its mark with the animus intended. Kis-Zoli watched it crack his older brother’s head; blood spilled furiously, pooled at his feet. Laci watched it turn black in concentrate, his knees buckled, dead weight brought him crashing into the unpaved road, rendered motionless.

The townsfolk who had gathered to drink stood stunned, quieted by the act, turned towards the young men responsible. Longtime Felsővadász neighbors, a few childhood school friends, had shattered the festivities.

“You people buy this swill from a Jew?” They came prepared; some carried bats, others had knives. “We know these people, been their neighbors for generations. They steal our kids, take our jobs. They get rich while we stay poor…”

“My family has roots in this land...” Laci protested as soon as he gained consciousness, struggling to his feet as his head continued to bleed.

His argument was met with a fist, then more. The pack pounced, punched Laci till he dropped, kicking him while he was down, before he could utter another word.

Friends and neighbors were hushed, none stepped in to stop the beating.

“Someone do something!” Kis-Zoli yelled. No one moved. He continued to howl. “They’re killing him!”

“The little Jew thinks he can save his brother,” a hooligan snarled as he approached. The crowd turned, began to add to the clamor. “Is this little son of a whore joking?”

Kis-Zoli caught sight of the shotgun, jumped to get his hands on it, but didn’t get far. The mob surrounded him. The intensity in Zoli’s eyes gave way to fear. He was outnumbered, cornered. They snatched the gun right out of his hands, turned it back on him with a finger on the trigger.

The sound of a charging horse roaring to a gallop rendered the rabble thunderstruck. The entire gathering grew tight with anticipation.

“LACI!” It was a yell that shook birds off trees, traveling the length of long dirt roads; born in an oak thick core, urgency laced the battle-cry. “ZOLI!”

Jenő arrived in a fury, his farmer’s build held tight to his galloping steed; a full head of brown curls straightened in the force of his advance.

Attila was Jenő’s first and favorite horse. The two were well practiced in charging to the rescue. He leapt off midstride, knocked a brute out with a single blow, and swiped the shotgun back from another in one fluid move.

“Jenő grabbed me,” Zoli told his son; he tried to act it out. His hands pumped with excitement as he continued. “Svept me up onto his horse…”

Brothers sped above harm’s way, shared a look; Zoli knew Jenő would keep him safe. He always had.

Jenő beat their way towards Laci; each of his defensive blows riled the prejudiced mob. Laci stirred conscious, opened his eyes, and struggled to his feet in time for his rescue. Jenő swung him up over Attila’s back. Laci tilted back to see his drunken customers, their friends and neighbors, help themselves to what he had worked so hard for.

“Those vere tough times, but…” Zoli shined proud, straightened himself out in layers of business attire, tightening his tie as he stepped down to the subway platform. “Jenő single-handedly took them on. He took care of everything back then. He vas someting else...”

“You looked up to him,” Danny noted.

“Of course,” Zoli said. “Vhat a question.”

Generations of long-gone relatives whispered in Danny’s ear, filled his mind. “Maybe you’ll find out what happened to him.” They allowed themselves to get caught up in the thought. “Someday.”

“If only, at least, I knew vhere he vas buried, how he died,” Zoli announced with eyes tear-shot. “I could say a Kaddish for him like I could for ze rest of my family...” He gasped at the thought. “Now, that vould be someting…”

The roar of the oncoming 9 train shook the station, grew ever present, slowed to a halt in front of them.

“They vere all tough guys…” Zoli drifted in thought; they boarded. “Did I ever tell you vhen my fadher charged to stop my modder from marrying another guy?” He shook his head, stuck in memories as thick as hot asphalt. “A goy…”

Danny had, a thousand times, but listened as they stood by for the closing doors. The train disappeared into its prescribed trip through the darkness.

“Tough times,” Zoli echoed from the abyss. “Tough guys.”