Gulag goulash

My curiosity about Turkish people began to build in Amsterdam at the appearance of those gathering at the gate for my flight to Istanbul. Other than an older couple American and myself, there was an Aussie gent and a handful or Euro types in the frequent flier group. The remaining hundred plus were of dark complexion and a surly, burley crowd, ladies included. Of the male majority, some may have been to Europe for businesses as they had the robust stature from over consumption. While the younger ones, who knows?
My amazement came in the nonresident lines upon arriving in Istanbul. It was like someplace filled with Gulag caricatures, Borat look-a-likes, a multitude of Gypsies, and several Arial Sharons. I broke the rumble of the crowd when I laughed out load at a grumpy Brezhnev looking guy in the next aisle, who was told remove his Russian fur hat in front of the immigration desk. He quickly grabbed his hat, snapped to attention, and gave a cheesy smile to the guy behind the desk. It must have been the unkempt hair but moreover, a visual of this cultural mix. I had thoughts of the Kurdish victims of Saddam and now, the Chechnya rebels, and the many republics that came from the breakup of the USSR. Was this the Ottoman Empire?

Above all, I knew there was much to be learned about the people in this foreign land.

Grandpa Ben

On a visit to my sister’s on Christmas, I picked up boxes of family photos with the idea of scanning things for posterity. A project made for a day like today with five inches of snow out there.

Within the archives was a Book written by my grandfather in his teen years from 1908 to 1910. I remember him as a crude, insensitive guy who walked with a limp because of childhood polio. He died when I was fifteen. My only memory of talking to him was when I was about twelve. He was sitting in his chair sipping a bottle of beer. I looked curious at him as he had a shaker of salt for his beer. He called me over smiling, about to light a cigarette and asked “You know how I light my fire?” He leaned forward with a kitchen match to his bronze ashtray which had a standing nude female figure and lit it on her belly. I turned red and he laughed like crazy.

The Book is a bound ledger of superior cursive writings of near perfect spelling and grammar. It could have been for schoolwork in the fifth through seventh grade. Some stories took the form of a letter to friends like Ray where he describes “My trip through South America” telling the details of dream. Another dream was written to Fay that contained all storybook characters crashing into the sea from Jack the Giant Killers air-ship. One titled “A Narration of Learning How to Swim” gives an account of being dunked by ‘larger boys’ at the “Sand Bar”. Because of his polio impairment I would expect him had born more childhood scars than he revealed in the writings. “My Autobiography” gave a chronology of an itinerant childhood where they never stayed in one town in middle Michigan for more than two years. There was no account of his birth father or his mother’s second marriage when he was nine. He only tells of staying with his grandfather and an uncle on occasion.

Among the seventy odd pages are about ten pages of collected poems clipped from the newspaper and one poem written by him at eighteen. All of which has much more sensitivity than he had ever shown.

After all this delving, I did not find anything that put me closer to understanding the nature of my grandfather.

Rosinha Trilogy

Rosinha formed a triptych in my life and these writings; faceted with a captivating romance in Rosinha de Brasil, the mysterious loss in Rosinha and Estrangeiro Permanente, and now a resolution. Someone said, “It is better to have loved than never…
My István Zolcsák blog from May 13, 2007 dealt with my reunion in Brasil after a twenty-five year absence. An omission from that entry was the search for Rosinha. A romantic spark ignited in Finadi’s son Pascoal when I told him pieces of the old story. He insisted we could find Rosinha. I was prepared with her old address and family photos taken at a Christmas dinner long ago. We found her old house vacant but occupied by vagrants. A sign near the entrance said it was scheduled for demolition in a few months. Some adjacent residents were not helpful till we found an older gent that remembered Rosinha. He sent us up the road to another gent who sent us to a lady. She knew Rosinha’s sister that lived several blocks away but did not know the house. We continued on foot and inquired at a local bar just two doors away from the sister. Home security was essential in São Paulo nowadays. Gaining her attention through an iron date, she was not accommodating until I held out the Christmas pictures. Yet she failed to give us any direct information. We gave her Pascoal’s mobile phone number, she said that she would contact Rosinha, and have Rosa call us. Pascoal and I were pleased at our limited success and stopped back at the local bar to have a celebratory cervesa – within five minutes the sister called to say Rosa was coming to her house. We clinked our glasses and gulped the beer. The twenty minute wait left me unsure that I wanted to resolve the mystery.
Rosinha was her radiant self and obviously the wrinkles were to be expected. She was coy and I held back too waiting for her to open up. We conversed in Portuguese at her sister's house for about forty-five minutes, mostly about the family in my pictures. Rosinha drove us back to the car. A little more talk and she started using English. We left without a firm commitment to meet again – only to call the next day. I was satisfied and comfortable about our first meeting despite the lack of results. Pascoal took me to a nice pub for a Beirut sandwich and a chopp (draft beer) for a better celebration. While there, Rosa called his cell and confirmed I should call her in the morning. This made for better results. Pascoal enjoyed telling our detective story on our return to the house.On Sunday, I called Rosinha. She was surrounded by what she said were three dogs and two cats. This, I would not have expected of her. She admitted to the fear of being found by former Enco people and the Zolcsák’s and therefore would not come to a planned Finardi family outing.
Monday was an official holiday, but with a bit of a cold I lacked the ambition to do much. Odete and I took a long walk and hit the Sé supermarcado. As promised, I called Rosa and she asked to see me. With apprehension I agreed to take a taxi to Avenida Brasil and Avenida Reboucas. She picked me up there. We stopped for an ice cream and she asked about how and why I was married and divorced. She claimed her story was too complicated. She drove us to her house and the story unfolded. The awaited answers came out but little did it matter. History has its relevance but did not change the circumstance we were in that day. So long ago, when I opted to delay my return for Africa, she sought consolation from our magnanimous Mr. István (Steve) Zolscák, and their affair ensued. My eventual return left me estranged. Rosinha had a daughter Lynda through an unwedded union with Steve after his divorce. The more the details unfolded, the less I cared. I was feeling apprehensive about being there and when she asked if I wanted to rest I laid back on the couch for thirty minutes. I awoke and went to the kitchen. We embraced. I tried to explain the similarity in now and the last time we held each other at the Pampas Palace Hotel twenty-five years ago. I wanted no part of it.
She dropped me at a taxi stand and I returned to the Finardi’s. Odete asked, I said, I could not return after 25 years, she was happy with that decision.

Rosinha and the Estrangeiro Permanente

Following my heartrending departure from Rosinha and Brasil in early 1975, I was determined to return as vowed. For a year and a half, countless letters and frequent phone calls kept her from doubting my sincerity. The job offer from Enco-Zolcsak had been confirmed and my permanent visa was taking shape. Termination notice was given from the dream-job that I had held traveling the globe for five years. A large trunk was filled with things that I could not leave behind. I passed out furniture to family and friends with the notion that there was a remote possibility I could return someday on a very distant tomorrow. The Enco boss had a shopping list of American luxury items that I could bring in without duty with my emigration papers. The first of July was a target date so June 15th marked my final workday. Assignments had kept me away. The boss called me in for goodbyes but asked what it would take to keep me on. I laughed out loud till he said there was a project in Africa. No one in the world could understand my desire to see Africa but if she loved me a couple months shouldn’t matter. My phone call to Rosinha was met with all her fire and passion but in defiance. Not to be dissuaded, I committed to the Ghana assignment and felt I could always charm my way back into her arms when I returned to Brasil. How vain.
My returned to Brasil in December of 1976 as an "Estrangeiro Permanente" was met with disdain from my beloved Rosinha. She never believed I would return and my delay for Africa was enough to cause the difference. She provided one token encounter at the Pampas Palace Hotel and I was left with only her shadow. Being alone in Brasil for a young American male can be a good thing. I made the most of this exotic adventure for a year and a half. A message from home telling of young brother David’s cancer, gave me the license to return to the States gracefully and void all Brasilian obligations.

Suicide

I feel a compulsion to write about what was Aaron but have no idea where it will take me. The powerful impact of suicide is being felt in my extended family. Today most of our family lives contain ex’s. These are never ex-ed out as most are bound by early bonds of marriage, children, and family-in-laws.
Last night, an eleven o’clock call brought the tearful news from my former wife that her nephew, my daughter’s close cousin, had killed himself. A shotgun blast left the twenty-seven year old behind their house to be found by his wife and three year old son. Those most torn, are loving parents and a brother wondering where they went wrong. An aunt and uncle clutch to their children concerned for a strand of that seed in their offspring, reeling from such proximity, and deepest sympathy for the trauma of their brother and his wife. His grandmother forms another callous to allow her vigilance as a surviving matriarch.
The lack of understanding drops us to our knees, even in my distant role. Busily getting through the day at work keeps it at bay till the silence of a drive home leaves nothing but Aaron on your mind. What can possibly repudiate the beauty of living?
The will to live is so paramount in all animal species with some exceptions in ours. Years ago, I remember catching a rancid tomcat with my bare hands. He had been raiding my garbage can for some time. I felt his instinctive will to survive in the grip of my hands. What can possibly take that from Homo-sapiens?It is not within me to understand.

Rosinha de Brasil

What could have been a routine assignment for my customer service duties became a tremor that rocked my world for years to come. I was assigned to a Volkswagen engine plant in Sao Bernardo de Campo constructed by our Brasilian licensee. Enco-Zolcsak was founded by a Hungarian refugee Estivan Zolcsak.
I left for Brasil in November 1974 and returned February 1975. I will never to be the same again, because of Brasil but mostly because of Rosinha.
This adventure could go on to equal a volume of "Atlas Shrugged" but the first chapter was certainly the most enchanting. Keyed into her power from those who feared her in stories that made it back to the States about this vixen possessing the financial reins of Enco-Zolcsak Ltda, I knew the challenge was great and I wanted her before I ever saw her.
I met her cold rejection with glancing blows to overcome a barrier, as I do not think anyone ever dared meet her head to head. By the time the company Christmas party came I had earned her respect. Something happened that night that changed both of us forever. Her shield dropped for a moment and a flame started between us. I saw her compassion for others and knew we had an opportunity. I volunteered to stay over Christmas, they thought to handle the Volkswagen problems but this gave Rosinha a chance to play host during the holidays for my "sacrifice". Christmas Eve at Steve's was nice but Christmas Day at Rosinha's was a real beginning to understanding the people of Brasil and getting close to Rosinha.
Her enchantment was so overwhelming. Nightlife in Sao Paulo was ours, swapping ice cubes during a kiss was very erotic after the initial shock. In her realm of restaurants and boites, she had a charm and majesty that brought her adoration from waiters. She showed a great deal of respect for servants and the impoverished, much to the contrast of her dealings with workers at Enco. In spite of her control over me there was always the bending of her ways to accommodate me.
I was quite enchanted by her belief in her "Protector" this was definitely Brasilian. An old lady's picture was displayed in her car and my questions concerning her were ignored outside of once acknowledging her to be her protector. One day I realized I was getting very close to Rosinha when on a Saturday drive we arrived at a house and were greeted by the old lady. She was definitely what I would call a mystic with candles, deities and the like. I think the base was Catholicism with major ties to Candomblé. I expect Rosinha used her as a seer and fortuneteller with palm readings and the like. Rosinha showed her the type of admiration you gave your mother. I was honored by being formally introduced. I believe Rosinha was supporting her financially.
What could have been my last day in Brasil, marked my return. Now Roger Whittiker's “Last Farewell” recalls the passion of that night when we parted. Never before or never again will my heart beat as fast as it did that night. Within the grounds of her family abode, we lost all sense of surroundings and consciousness to encompass each other.

Tibet Will Rise

Oppression has never, anywhere,
succeeded in suppressing
the eternal desire of people
to live as free men,
free to think their own thoughts,
free to act
in their best interest and welfare
and to live as human beings
rather than robots or slaves.
The Tibetans believe that
even if the Chinese leave nothing
but ashes in their sacred
land,Tibet will rise from them
as a free country
even if it takes a lot of time
to do so.
--His Holiness the XIVth Dalai Lama