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Short Stories - Page 2
BEAUTY - A FAIRY TALE FOR ADULTS
Once upon a time there was a young boy; a young boy with big, wondrous eyes. Through those eyes he saw miracles everywhere.
The young boy was the embodiment of curiosity. He would listen to older, wiser people because he was curious to learn, to know, to search, to understand. He wanted to hold all knowledge in his grasp.
"Where can I find Beauty?" the child asked the sage.
"Everybody has to find beauty for himself."
The child asked other older people, where Beauty could be found, but nobody had the answer. Frustrated, he returned to the old sage.
"I can't find Beauty anywhere!" he cried.
"Well my child, Beauty is very elusive. That's why it is so valuable"
"If I can't find Beauty, I can not find Happiness either."
"First, find Beauty and Happiness comes with it."
The sage, with his long beard and white hair, was supposedly the wisest man in the world. He was always serene, and kind, so the boy trusted him. Once again he set out to search for Beauty.
He sampled all the fruits of the world, but even if they were tasty, he felt no satiation. He examined the flowers, but soon they withered away. He tried to catch the snow flakes, but they melted in his hand. The rainbow was beautiful, but unreachable. In frustration he returned to the old man and in a voice harsh with accusation he addressed him,
"I can not find Beauty! Where is it?"
"Where were you looking for it?"
"In the fruits of the garden, in the flowers of the meadow, in the sparks of the snow flakes, in the colors of the rainbow... everywhere!"
"Go back to the river. Sit down at the bank and wait for it. But I warn you, beauty is elusive."
So the little boy went back to the river. Sitting there he listened to the hum of the bees, to the splash of the waves, to the songs of the birds, but beauty was nowhere to be found.
Than suddenly a butterfly flew by. Its' wings glittered with color; its' flight was graceful and unpredictably delicate. It was a flying jewel!
"That is Beauty! Now I've found it!" cried the boy and he began to chase the butterfly. Its' flight was evasive, almost teasing, but the boy's determination held firm. He had set his mind to catch Beauty at all cost. Finally, his obstinence paid off and he managed to close his palm around that evasive Beauty. Thrilled with joy, he run to the old man shouting triumphantly,
"I caught Beauty! Now I have it! I have it!"
"Show it to me," said the wise man.
The boy opened his hand and there in his palm was a crumpled carcass. The beautiful scales besmeared his palm and all the Beauty gone. The boy cried out in anguish, "Beauty cheated me! When I caught it, it was vibrant and alive!"
The wise man listened, and then with a faint smile he replied, "No, my child. It is you who cheated Beauty. Beauty is free. So is Happiness. Neither of them can be possessed. You should admire Beauty and enjoy Happiness as it is given to you, freely. But never try to capture them, because you will destroy them! You just learned the most important wisdom in life."
VICTORY DESPITE DEFEAT
Recent events in Grozny have brought to mind my chance encounter with the Chechen nation in 1949.
I was one of forty two Hungarian officers who were being repatriated to our homeland from the Soviet prison camps after the Second World War. The cross-country trains in the Soviet Union were running on a weekly schedule at that time and so it was that we Hungarian prisoners of war were loitering in the Grozny bazaar waiting for the train that would take us to Rostow. I had no idea at the time that Grozny was the capital of Chechnia; the country and its people were all unfamiliar to me.
Commander Major Glatkow had accompanied us to the junction where the branch line joined the main line in Grozny. There, we were supposed to wait for the transcontinental train to Rostow. Major Glatkow had told us that in Rostow we would receive our release certificates and be free to go home. He was a decent, unsophisticated Russian and he had no reason to doubt his superior's instructions. As prisoners, we had accepted his announcement about repatriation with open skepticism, however when he designated only one old watchman to accompany us on the journey, and his sole purpose was to carry our travel documents, a faint ray of hope penetrated our hearts.
The colourful bazaar of Grozny was located near the train station and its siren call had enticed me to visit. Unfortunately, wandering too far from the guard who held our travel documents was risky, for to be caught without identification papers in the USSR had dire consequences. Despite the danger, I was intoxicated with the freedom that I felt by being able to walk around without a guard. It was like inhaling fresh air and I was savouring the short hour of freedom.
In the market place I absorbed each little detail of my surroundings with my stimulus starved senses. My eyes were drawn to the graceful Moslem women, faces hidden behind their veils, carrying their burden on their head. I was fascinated by the skill of the coppersmiths as they did their intricate work. I found a spot where I could just stand and observe people, how they bargained over prices and inspected the goods in the stalls. It was obvious that the Russian influence dominated in the bazaar as Russian was spoken all around me.
It was a strange experience, one that is hard to describe to anyone who never lost their freedom. In my haversack I had a loaf of dark bread and some lard, twenty grams of lump sugar and a handful of mahorka. Just being in the possession of so much food gave me the false impression of being rich, and being able to wander without an escort gave me the false impression of being free.
As I loitered among the vendors' stalls and artisan's tents, I noticed my friend, Zoltan, a fellow prisoner who had served in the same regiment as I had, engaged in an animated conversation with a visibly excited young man who made harsh gestures as he spoke. Fearing that a brawl may occur and that Zoltan may need my help, I hurried toward the pair. Their conversation was subdued but tense. The young man was almost hissing as he spoke. At my approach he fell silent, but then realizing that I was also one of the train passengers, he continued,
"...they took all of us: Youngsters, old men, women, children, sick or healthy, it made no difference. Even the crippled were not spared. We were crammed into box cars with no food, just what we could grab as we were pulled from our homes. No water. A few of the lucky one had goatskin waterbags, but not every boxcar had drinking water. They didn't care that we would suffer. We travelled like that for days without stopping. When we did stop briefly and the doors were opened corpses fell out but nobody bothered to bury them. Men and women were forced to empty their bladder or bowels beside each other. We just didn't care anymore. After many days, I can't remember how many, we arrived at our destination - a Siberian village.
"The first chance I had I made by escape and for more than three years I've been a fugitive. Some of the others who also escaped went to the mountains but I came back here, you see, because I'm a Chechen! But here I find that the new Russian settlers have taken over the deserted houses - our homes! Our belongings! Our city! Despite all this I still have friends here, as well as in the mountains and they look out for me, they risk a lot for me. But look, I can't be a fugitive forever! Please! Please take me with you! It doesn't matter where, anywhere! I hate what they have done to my country!"
He was shaking with emotion as he spoke. His whole being was tense, his voice trembling. The young man had a brown complexion, although he did not appear to be oriental. His stature was stocky, his face broad, with prominent cheekbones. His hair was jet black. The garment he wore was shabby, but his headdress was decorated with bead in the local fashion. My friend, Zoltan, realized that I didn't understand the situation and tried to enlighten me.
"Have you heard of the Chechens?"
"No, never," I replied.
"Well, I read an article about them during the war. They joined the Germans with hopes of being liberated from Soviet rule. After the war Stalin ordered the whole race to be deported to Siberia. The Russian called them traitors; the Germans called them freedom fighters. But, even if the Germans would have won the war they would have reclassified the Chechens as an 'inferior race', like the Gypsies, Ukrainians or even we Hungarians. Any nation sandwiched between the Nazis and the Soviets was in a "no win" situation, right from start!"
I agreed. "True, even the Poles. They fought the Germans but ended up as a Soviet colony!"
"Yes, their lot was the worst."
The Chechen had been speaking to Zoltan in Russian however we had been speaking together in Hungarian. Now, unable to follow our Hungarian conversation he became panicky, possibly suspecting that we were contemplating turning him over to the authorities. He appeared ready to flee, but Zoltan, who's Russian was fluent, put his hand on the young man's shoulder to calm him.
"We would like to help you, believe me, but we're also prisoners of the Russians and we can't take you in. We're only waiting for the train to Rostow. We're constantly being counted to ensure we're all here. You would be detected even if we did take you in. The guard would undoubtedly report you to the station police immediately."
The expression on the Chechen's face darkened. His eyes reflected his dashed hope. But suddenly defiance conquered despair. He throw back his head and with uncontrolled savagery, mixed with fervent determination he hissed to our faces.
"Nichevo! Nichevo! You go, I stay! I will fight here. I will fight in the mountains, in the forests, in the streets. Everywhere! If I ever get possession of an 'aftomatka' I will shoot all my jailers! All of them! Ta..ta..ta..ta..ta..ta.." He mimed the action of a submachine gun as he backed away and melted into the crowd. We stared after him, than at each other, marvelling at his fierce determination for freedom.
That encounter had happened in 1949. As we had half expected, we were not released when we arrived in Rostow. We were kept for an other two years as guest-labourers in the Soviet Union. When in 1951 we were finally allowed to go home, our country was a Soviet colony. My encounter with that young Chechen faded in my memory and I began my own fight for survival. Than came those glorious days of October of 1956, when my Hungarian homeland revolted against the suppressers. The fighting was the most fierce on the streets of Pest. During a lull in the battle I went to the centre of town to see the situation. For the second time in my life I saw that the beautiful capital was being destroyed.
When I reached the 'Corvina', the legendary centre of resistance through the ages, I found that many of the young fighters who were opposing the formidable Russian armour were teenagers. The area was littered with burned out Russian tanks and charred bodies. To my amazement I discovered in their eyes that same spark of defiance that I had first seen in the eyes of the young Chechen. At that moment I realized, that the desire for freedom is universal. It is above ethnic, racial or national boundaries. The loss of freedom can drive individuals to a frenzy.
During the war I had fought as a soldier, but I had fought out of duty. What I saw now was different; these young people were fighting for an idea. Houses, cities, even tribes and nations can be destroyed, but the idea of freedom in indestructible. Fighting for freedom makes winning or losing irrelevant. A Polish proverb echoed in my mind: "Defeat without surrender is victory!"
Now when I hear the news of Grozny and Chechnia, it brings back the memory of that young man who is by now either an old man or a dead hero. He taught me my first real lesson on the meaning of victory. Victory despite defeat!
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