Yesterday, after having lunch at Starka's (That's what we call my other grandmother. Rough translation: "old one"), my cousin Janko and I went to Hungary to take a bath. It's a short drive, really, to get to the border and then a little drive along rural roads through towns with names like Rajka (something like "paradise", in Slovak). Bathing has something of a cult following here in the former Eastern Bloc. People of all ages, but usually those with various skin conditions or degrees of arthritis, enjoy the therapeutic waters of the numerous thermal springs.
The water comes out of the ground at a steaming 73 degrees celcius, but is cooled for your bathing pleasure to a comfortable 38 or so. We sauna-ed and bathed and plunged into cooling pools for a good while. We floated in the warm salty water like halushky (tiny little Slovak dumplings) until we were warm and tender. Then we rolled ourselves in creamy sheep cheese and sprinkled ourselves with bacon bits. It was in this way that we prepared for Slovak Halloween (February 3rd). We went as Brinzove Halushky, the national dish of our homeland. Just kidding about that last part.
We stopped at the drinking fountain on the way out and filled our bellies, and a bottle, full of the warm salty spring water. It was like drinking the milk of the earth!
When I told my mom that we had gone to Hungary, she recalled her own jaunts there, some fondly and some less so. She was there in 1968, the year of the Russian invasion. My mom was 9 years old when the Russians invaded. On the way back from a Mediterranean vacation, the family spent the night in a Hungarian bed and breakfast, near the border with Slovakia. On the morning of the invasion, at a memorable breakfast of bread and apricot jam, she watched the tanks roll in to Bratislava on television. The images were surreal, she said. She felt surprised, more than anything else.
Just after breakfast, her father decided they had to leave for the border. They arrived to discover that it was impassable and all the cars were being sent back.
She writes:
"My father stopped right at the border crossing, got out of his car and walked towards the Russian soldiers at the checkpoint. Being half Russian, he spoke their language fluently and proceeded to yell them angrily. I became really scared. The soldiers pointed their machine guns at my father's chest at which point he realized it was better to shut up. I honestly thought one of them would pull the trigger at any moment. Then my mother got out of the car, crying, and begged the soldiers (in Slovak) to spare my father's life. She pulled at their sleeves to divert their focus from the guns pointed at my father's chest to her anguished, pleading face."
The soldiers lowered their weapons and everyone got back in to the car, where they sat in silence and shock.
They returned to the Hungarian village and spent the next few days watching the news. Her father left one day, much to her alarm. She had no idea that he'd gone to find a border crossing that would let them get through the border and home. He returned a few days later and took them to a rural checkpoint where they crossed successfully. She writes:
"The next day we arrived in Bratislava only to find a Russian tank aimed at our apartment building. It was completely unintentional, but scared the hell out of me every time I had to go out. I remember the day shortly after our return when the Czechoslovakian president went on TV and read a prepared statement asking people to restrain from violence. Resistance was futile, he said in a trembling voice. Then, he lifted his face and I could see the streams of tears on his face. It was extremely sad. The people went out into the streets, not to protest but to share their defeat; strangers hugged each other and cried. It seemed to me that the years that followed were just a continuation of that sad day."
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