“Time is really a problem to me, and chronology a fairly lost
cause,” Martha wrote in November 1974. She would always recall
the trip to America as having lasted four months instead
of four weeks. Every year S.R. would take her and Nick
completely by surprise by reminding them of their wedding
anniversary. And when George visited the Mlinariches and asked
if Martha had any photos from the old days, he let out a
meticulous recordkeeper’s squawk of pain when she extracted huge
plastic bags of unmounted unorganized snapshots from a closet.
Like her mother and daughter, Martha was pleased out of all
proportion when the
slapdash first stab at An Honest Tale Plainly Told
belatedly saw the light:
1984 February 20.
My dear Paul, UPS stopped by this afternoon with “THE VOLUME.”
…I intended to read it as soon as some papers had been graded.
Then I came to my senses and realized I need not be ruled by the
miserable test papers I tote home. I threw them back into my
briefcase, and read “it” from cover to cover. I smiled a lot,
shed a few tears, and loved every page of it… I think you’ve
done a remarkable job, Paul. Your patience and perseverance
are, for my bulldozing type of personality, truly enviable… Let
me know if
you need fill-in info for Vol. II. I’ll dig into my memory
bank—such as it is…
When I visited California City
that July I interviewed Martha and harvested her memories,
including the only clear one of Europe: her parents buying
Szent János kenyér or St. John’s Bread, a “very thin seed
pod about the size and shape of a flattened banana, with a
nutlike flavor.” Also her only clear memory of the voyage to
America: watching cargo being loaded in the ship prior to
departure, and workers suddenly jumping into the hold to bring
up an injured man covered with blood. And there was a
recollection about the Division Street apartment where George
was born: it had a potbellied stove, around which Joseph would
hold a dunyha (eiderdown) on winter nights before running
to spread it over Martha in bed.
I gave her a live reading of her Diary’s rediscovered 1953
translation, though Martha admonished that “I don’t want to hear
anything I wrote in it!” But she applauded when the
Diary was fully transcribed and printed as An Honest Tale
Plainly Told Volume II:
1984 September 8.
…To be honest, the trigger for this letter is G’ma. She
finished Vol. 2 and gave me all sorts of rave words to send on
to you in her name. She also said she is amazed at how much she
had forgotten, which your book has now brought back. I haven’t
finished my own copy as yet, but I’m sure you know how much I
too am enjoying it. It is infuriating to have the time, finally,
and still not be able to read as I would wish. Pain and
medication do not always adjust to each other and I no longer
can, nor try, to push myself… Hope I won’t/haven’t been
hold(ing) you up on your Vol. 3 work. Maybe my system will
soon adjust to the new combo of routine of meds and I’ll
function better…
While recuperating that autumn from cyclotron treatment of her
spinal cancer, Martha valiantly deciphered Joseph’s handwritten
entry in George’s 1935 diary (a task beyond
George’s limited grasp of Hungarian):
1984 November.
Paul—the only way this seemed to work out was to keep “looking
at it” until a word jumped into my vision as letters “declared”
themselves. At times a K suddenly became an R or some other
letter, and a word popped in… A Hunky dictionary (even
English) would help…
By February 1985 she had convalesced to the point of writing
lengthy letters, though “muscle spasms can be so horrendous at
times I can barely move… Twenty minutes to get out of bed in
the A.M. at ¼ inch at a time is ridiculous. The dead tissue
needs 8-12 months to be absorbed, meanwhile I could join the
Muppets as older sister to Miss Piggy.” A series of severe
health crises followed, and by June Martha was down to skin and
bones, suffering from nightmares and medication-induced
hallucinations. Yet she rallied (emotionally if not physically)
and by August resumed letterwriting. In September she reacted
to An Honest
Tale
Volume IV:
I’ve been reading spots as I open pages at random. I told you I
lived behind gauze curtains during almost the first half of my
life: having things, people, occasions brought back to me is
like having drama so vivid as to come to life. Or perhaps
rather—someone pulled aside those gauze curtains and allowed
those people and scenes to come to life again. How could I have
forgotten so much?… Reading certain parts (and incidences [sic])
were quite painful then, and bring back the
same pain now. Putting it all together as you have done is a
monumental task…
Followed later that month by: “I’ve just finished reading Vol.
4, and laughed, cried a bit, and marveled at your acquisition of
memorabilia thought to be nonexistent… I do think your
organization of sections is wonderful. I would have stewed in
complete confusion with so much material to sort through…”
In April 1986 Martha reacted to the consolidated draft version
of To Be Honest:
MY GOD!!!
You can tell, “It” arrived… I have never been more
impressed, and certainly never as impressed, except by
the fact that the self-proclaimed “Old Maid Martha” found in her
lifetime not one, but even two husbands!! That rates self-impressedness
because the self-image long ago deemed it impossible in this
lifetime ever!
She was in high spirits during George’s and my joint visit to
California that May, when I was able to quiz sister and brother
together on points still needing clarification.
Circa 1988 Martha wrote an eleven-page manuscript, apparently
intended to be part of a wider-ranging autobiography; but by
then she was in the final stages of her battle with cancer, and
“more about this later” gave way to “enough is enough.”
Excerpts are presented
below, slightly rearranged for greater coherence:
If my entire life were to be summarized, it could be done in
five words—“Martha will be a teacher.” That was my father’s
dream and his plan, and those were the words by which I was
brainwashed, one might say, from the day I was born. Being a
teacher was, to my father, the highest and closest to a sacred
calling there could be…
Library cards—absolute treasures. For a shy girl with very few
friends, my friends were books. I never missed people for that
reason. Instead of going out to play or “hang out” with
friends, I read constantly the library books.
In addition to books, there was music. For the first several
years, my father and mother taught me piano, and my brother
violin. George gave it up after a very few years, but I studied
until I went away to college… High school—four
years—accompanist for choral groups and soloists. Pianist with
orchestra and soloist on occasions… (I marvel yet that shy as I
was with people, when I sat down at the piano, the world
vanished and I was alone with Chopin, Sibelius, Rachmaninoff,
and other masters…)
My first day of college had an unforgettable intro. I had been
sent the name of my dorm roommate, but when I arrived, I found
out that my blonde, blue-eyed Christian roomie had said no
thanks to living with a Jew. A few days later I had been paired
with another Jewish girl. It was a slightly stressful
beginning, but not nearly as bad as it might have been. Having
lived in Chicago from the age of five on, I was quite familiar
with graffiti such as “niggers, dogs and Jews keep out…”
[When I began teaching in Urbana I was] about 150 miles from my
parents’s home. My Dad would actually be able not only to
know I was a teacher, but to come and visit me, and see
for himself! And he did come when he was able to, and even
to this day my eyes still puddle up when I visualize his face
then, and our talks later in the evening in my apartment as we
discussed the philosophies of educations. All the hardships and
doing-without were forgotten forever more. “Martha was a
teacher…”
Somewhere in mid-1950s or thereabouts… I was asked if, along
with selected teachers of History, English, Librarians,
Sociology, etc. I would be interested in being a guinea-pig… We
were to fill out umpteen questions on current attitudes
concerning Aviation and flying, and then fill out the same type
of questionnaires after we had had flying lessons!! I
not only screamed YES!!, I adored the lessons, and actually
soloed at the end!… I not only flew a two-seater “Ercoupe”
plane, I did it without ever having or knowing how to ride a
bike or drive a car!!…
For many years after I first came to Mojave, I played [the
piano] at school functions, programs, graduations, etc. etc. A
most impressive (for me) evening occurred at a student-given
concert at which the program consisted of bands and orchestras
of elementary, junior high and high school, and I played a
couple of solo numbers at the end… and accompanied several vocal
and instrumental student soloists. I’ll never forget “J.B.” (I
do remember his name but hesitate to say it) a sophomore or
junior that year, who had never really cared much for biology
and even less for me. He loved music [and] at the end of the
program I played a concerto—he said, “I never realized you could
play anything. I thought you didn’t care about anything but
biology. I feel differently about you now than I ever did
before.” That meant so much to me. After that he was more of a
friend-student than ever before.
It’s been many years now since I last played. Arthritis slowly
ruined my hands, and slowly my back caused problems which for
many years was also diagnosed and treated as arthritis of my
spine. It wasn’t until 1970 that the reason answer was found—a
Chordoma. (More about this later…)
1969+/-: Wrote (alone) the Curriculum for grades 5-12 called
Family Life and Health Education.
Accepted by Superintendent, school board, and kids, but “it” hit
the fan when a group of “moral minority” parents realized it was
actually Sex Education! I’ll never forget the mother who
screamed that she would teach her kids what they needed to know,
completely ignoring the fact that her son was awaiting three
births for which he was to be daddy. The curriculum died a
quiet death. After my having spent ten-to-sixteen hours almost
every day all summer long putting it together from scratch. Ah,
well…
1975: Appointed one of top 25 “Outstanding Secondary Educators
in America.” The top 25 [were] among only those named in
California. Have no idea how many there were from all of the
state[s?], but it felt nice…
The rest were relatively minor, so enough is enough.
Notes
