Utopia’S Suicide: An Americans’ Tolerance or Else, Versus Emigrants Handbook - or Not? an Incomplete Autobiographical Trilogy Part One

By John Paul

Having one foot in North America and one in Europe, the author inevitably, compares these two continents, their surroundings, their people, and their modus vivendi. The interpretation of happenings on these continents as they relate to one life's adventure is the scope of this work, which is, before everything else, a collage of personal biography, illuminated by flashes of the remarkable historical moments preceding the emigration. There are, moreover, interpretations of impressions colored with romantic, enchanting mysticism, and alternatively, subjective impressions of immigrants who came to America to find a better life and expected, to some extent, to find a promised land on a platter. In either case, impressions are based on predispositions of what immigrants from the old country envisioned American to be like. However, gratia is not a prerequisite; it does not exist in the meaning of emi, nor immi gratia.

Is this memoir an unprejudiced evaluation and objective notation of experiences as they were, or a biased overflow of emotions, ridicule and sarcasm, or delight and adornment? What is the difference between autobiography, memoir, and diary, versus a fictitious, rather historical novel in the first place? A degree of deviation from factual reality? A conglomerate relatively dry when transferred onto paper, this cacophony, without regard to categorization, may enlighten the mind of one American, or one potential immigrant, by informing or reforming the picture of the mirage of a once-magical New World or the romanticism of the Old One.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491886120

John Paul

John Paul was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1954. After spending his formative years in the south east suburbs, he pursued a non-descript life with his wife, son and daughter. He is still domiciled in the south east suburbs but somewhat closer to the nearby hills where much time is spent. Having completed his tour de profession, he blissfully retired to a hermetic existence, resuming his passion for philosophy, science, music and writing. An author in his early twenties, he has published numerous peer reviewed journal papers and books.

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UTOPIA’S SUICIDE

AN AMERICANS’ TOLERANCE OR ELSE, VERSUS EMIGRANTS HANDBOOK - OR NOT?

AN INCOMPLETE AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL TRILOGY

PART ONE

John Paul

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© 2013 John Paul. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8610-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8608-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8612-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922546

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Recontribution

Disclaimer

Introduction

Ancestors, Birthpace’s History, Emi And Immigration

Kingdom Of Yugoslavia

Safari Number One

Hungarian Occupation

The Dictatorship Of The Proletariat

Epilogue Of The World War Two

Expulsion

Hungarian Schooling

Serbian Schooling

Acclimatization

Boyhood

Daily News Dnevnik

Hairdressing Salon Katanac

Young Manhood

Bright Days Of Gymnasium

Hungarian Counter Revolution

England

University Studies

The Lowest Point

The Healing

Civil Surveying Practice

Construction Company Breton

Germany

Bogged Down In Studies

The Army

Russian Invasion Threat

Railroad Project Company

Architectural Firm Karl Heins Daull

Introduction To America

America Again

Grand Dam Corporation—Neon Division

Aclimatization Again—

A La Americana

Origins And Physionomies

What Did I Drop Into?

The Father Jovan

The Apartment

Final Skirmish With John

The Lay Off

Horatius Aurelius Germanius Incorporated

John’s Friends

The Leap

The Divine State Perspective

The Ecorse Episode

The Search For A Bride

European Safari

The Wedding

Perpetuum Mobile

RECONTRIBUTION

THIS FIRST SEGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL TRILOGY, PRESENTED AS IT IS, QUASY-ERRING IN SOME ASPECTS HERE AND THERE, JUSTIFIES ITS EXISTENCE ITSELF BY THE GESTURE OF THE SOUL’S OUTPOURING, FOR A HIGHER AND NOBLER GOOD. SPECIAL THANKS TO YVONNE CLARK, ANA DjORDjEVIC AND MEGAN NOVELL ON THEIR IMMESURABLE SUPPORT DURING CREATION OF THIS DEED.

THE SEGMENT IS DEDICATED TO THE ABORIGINIES OF MY FORMER, ANCIENT TOWN NOVI SAD; VICTIMS OF BARBARISMS, SPROUTED FROM, AT THEIR TIMES RULING; PATRIARCHALISM, TRIBALISM, FEUDALISM, MONARCHISM, SOCIALISM, NAZISM, NARCISM, COMMUNISM, CHAUVINISM, CAPITALISM, AS WELL AS FROM REMAINDERS OF, HEREBY UNSPECIFIED, ISMS.

CRUMBS OF PROFIT, IF ANY, ORIGINATING FROM THIS PART OF THE TRILOGY, ARE INTENDED FOR SYMBOLICAL COMPENSATION OF THE SELECTED CHILDREN OF MY BIRTHTOWN NOVI SAD, VICTIMS OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT WHERE THEIR ROOTS ORIGINATE FROM, WHERE THEY THINK TO BE STRIVING AT, AND REGARDING INTO WHAT THEMSELVES ARE REALLY STUMBLING HEAD ON.

DISCLAIMER

The following conglomerate is a product of the writer’s voluptuous imagination, in delirium of his man-oh-pause, based on his private autobiographical, marathonically long diary. If it is any consolation, it could have been shorter, supposing the author had croaked sooner. It is written as much for own self as for offspring, so they, with this pseudo-psycho-self-analytical exploration of their originator’s past, may discover their own risky history, morbid reality, and dismal future.

This collage depicts an orthogonal universe and has no connection with this tiny, crazy planet. Any similarity with reality; names, locations, happenings, and so on, are purely anagrammatic coincidences. The astronomic coordinates of time and space have been twisted as much to protect the innocent as the dirty vermin who immeasurably inspired the creation of this fictitiously brilliant masterpiece.

Anyway, this scribbling memoirabilia, the author’s reflection of indulged, monological, nightmarish rave, was after its temporary completion stolen, then distorted, then by a third anonymous face embellished and published, without any participation from the most irresponsible originator. If, by any chance of cosmic chaos, caused by cataclysmic collision of discontinuum between time and space, a sample of this deed falls into your hands, consider yourself lucky that you may draw parallel conclusions for your own specific universe.

INTRODUCTION

(SOME READERS FIND INTRODUCTIONS, FOREWORDS AND OVERTURES BORING. FOR THOSE, I RECOMMEND SKIPPING TO THE CHAPTER, PAGE. 1)

In 1969, the author’s father, himself a veteran of two decades of American survivalism, said: "If you really want to succeed in today’s America, you must rebaptize your name into an American robe, of a WASP¹ impression." However, born Ivan Ulrike, later camouflaged into Ivan Katanac, he never considered himself a White Anglo Saxon Protestant; nevertheless, a yellow jacket with a stinger may be rather an unassuming insect. Still, any camouflaged name may eventually help throw the wolves off the track.

The main character of this autobiography was born in Novi Sad, Pearl City of the Kingdom of Croats, Serbs, and Slovenes, called Yugoslavia. The Kingdom of Yugo-Slavia² is a jambalaya, the sum of what was leftover after the historic collisions of many nations on these coordinates. America does not have a patent on nation fusion, nor is it a unique experiment. Long before, the same story played out throughout the history of other good parts of the world. In Voivodina³, for instance, somewhere on the flatlands of southeastern Europe. Voivodina never claimed to be a unique, successful, or prominent worldly version of the American melting pot⁴. After all, though, it is. Touché, America!

1940, God-given leap year, the funny February 29th: Ivan is born in the last second of that exceptional day. The triumphant winners of the ominous spermatozoid race, who arrived first by the millions, through inseption, continue to live on borrowed time through this diabolically unique life. Champions, use this time to the best of all means, before it runs on you out!

1940 March 1st, at 00 hours, 00 minutes, and 00 seconds: Ivan is officially born. He does not have to celebrate his birthday only once every fourth year. Having at the time of this writing about seventeen real birthdays, Ivan has really pushed through, thanks to an administratively smuggled second, seven challenging decades. A hint, perhaps, on how one may live on this borrowed time.

ANCESTORS, BIRTHPACE’S HISTORY, EMI AND IMMIGRATION

Ivan’s father Jovan was born in the planes of Voivodina Province and grew up in the Novi Sad, its main city. He was by inclination a sportsman, a soccer player in a local club, and by profession a barber, proprietor of barber shop in Novi Sad’s center. At the time of Ivan’s birth, Jovan was of a ripe 31 summers. Jovan’s parents were Andrija Urlike and mother Marija Urlike, born Takacs, both born Voivodinians. Ivan’s dramatically beautiful young mother, Juliana, maiden surname Gaal, a hairdresser at the time of her son Ivan’s birth, had just sprouted 17 years then. Juliana’s father, Istvan Gaal, and mother, Mariya Gaal, born Ugrenic, were both born Novisadians. However, it is necessary to add that seven years after his birth, Ivan was adopted. The adopter was Ivan’s father Jovan Urlike’s best friend, Pavle Katanac.

From then on, Ivan carried the middle name and last name Pavle Katanac, until arriving in America. Arriving or returning? While Ivan’s future parents Jovan and Juliana were on honeymoon in America in 1939, a doctor in Chicago first confirmed that Ivan existed and soon would be born.

Still, Ivan dawns on this diabolic world in the Novi Sad, province Voivodina⁵, Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Who are Novisadians? Where do you, my children, draw roots from?

Virgin opulent soil of Voivodina in prehistory sedimented as fertile mire, of once Pannonian Sea. As the Sea flew away, carving through Gerdap Canyon toward the Black Sea, remained fertile black humus. Centuries later carved out from never ending old oak forests, dawned the most fertile agricultural land in the world! Immigrating here to the Promised Land southward to the Pannonian Lowlands, all these mid-European nations, generation by generation gradually melted into one colorful partially monolithic conglomerate sum of Christians. This conglomerate of settlers by crosspollination mixed with aborigines, creating Voivodinians. Specifically, one balanced, intelligent, tolerant, giving, mild, polite, perseverant, peaceful, industrious, strong, and healthy by spirit and body, people.

The earliest vestiges of human settlements were found in Voivodina from paleolithic times. The genetic crumbs of all the people who used to inhabit these parts are in the blood of today’s Voivodinians. At about four and a half centuries BCE, in the territory of the present Petrovaradin, a part of Novi Sad on the right bank of the Danube river’s sharp turn, Celts ruled and built the first fortress. Afterwards, Ilirs settled there, then Trachians. In the first century CE, Romans significantly increased the settlement and strengthened the fortress. In the fifth century, Huns destroyed it all. At the end of the fifth century, Byzantines reconstructed the city and the fortress. After that, the city was conquered by Ostrogoths, Germanic Gepeeds, and later Avars, then Franks, then Bulgars, then again Byzants.

In about the eleventh century, the city was conquered by Hungarians who wandered there from near Tibet. Slavic tribes of Croats and Serbs moved here from about the Ural-Caucasian mountainous regions, and English and French Crusaders passed through the region. In about the thirteenth century, the Hungarization of people in the region began. In the sixteenth century, the city was, for a short period, conquered by Ottoman Turks. The Habsburg dynasty, namely the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, ruled from then on, and the monarchy’s majesty, queen Maria Teresia by covenant, named the city with Latin name Neoplanta.

From then on, what tilted the balance was that Serbs overwhelmed rather by natality than the sword. Consequently, part of the city on the Danube’s left bank was by Germans named "Ratzen Stadt,⁶ since Serbs at the time were nicknamed Ratzs." Still, the part of the city on the Danube right bank, Peter Varad⁷, had mostly German and Hungarian inhabitants.

Ratzenstadt alone, excluding Peter Varad, according to the 1720 census, had 112 Serb houses, 14 German, and 5 Hungarian. According to the census of 1843, the city on the left bank had Serbs in growing numbers, and therefore it was consequently renamed by the Germans the more discreet Neu Satz⁸. Near the end of nineteenth century, reapportioned to Hungary as part of Austro-Hungarian Crown, and with Hungarians in ever-growing numbers, the city became Hungarian and was renamed Uj Videk⁹. The formation of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia on these coordinates brought to the city a new and eloquent name: Novi Sad. The Croat-Serb or Yugish word Novi means new, and Sad denotes both planting and now, as in time, as in right now, for now. The city’s new name meant New City, even though it was already ancient.

The Austro-Hungarian nations came from the north, lured with promise of lavish fertile land, but still Croats and Serbs by numbers prevailed in these parts in the last centuries. Serb and Croat villages, in some tellings, spread all the way to Budapest and Vienna, widening the national multitudes. However, during the Habsburg Austro-Hungarian Empire, many were Hungarianized or Germanized by a combination of economic incentives and political pressures.

Reading the masterpiece Chelissed Pot¹⁰ somewhat illuminates these aspects of nationalization. Branislav Nushic, among the brilliant lines that have since become classic, explained the real reasons to his unsuspecting benevolent countrymen: it was more fashionable, more hip, to use the Hungarian, German, or French language, and to behave like, pretend to be, or become a noble Austrian. Then, in the beginning of the nineteenth century, thanks to sympathetic Bunyevacs, Voivodina became a part of the new Kingdom of Yugoslavia.

How, by speech, can one distinguish a Voivodinian from other Yugish people? First, by the way he draws out every word. Miniscule differences in pronunciation, accent, and in word order and word choice further aid recognition. In greeting, a Voivodinian will not say health (like hi!), but servoos or kisshands, while at a departure he will not say for a good-bye with God or God, but rather, jokingly, be fat. Those are Voivodinians, regarding Novisadians, at the time of my birth. My measuring standard: one who does not have at least two nationalities in his blood cannot be Voivodinian, though one who has three may, who has four is, and one who has even more is a real genuine aborigine Voivodinian like myself.

Yes, I was born in Novi Sad, a real Voivodinian. However, if my parents on their honeymoon had hesitated just a bit longer to return, I would have been born in Chicago, an American. Having one foot in North America and one in Europe, I inevitably, all my life, compare these two continents, their surroundings, their people, and their modus vivendi.

America appears rugged, though is also attractive, inhibited, and, though free, very poor; however, it is also very rich. Her people are different: their beliefs, customs, laws, relationships, and practices dictate life’s climate. On these differences have I developed this somewhat superficial, quasi-studious dissertation on the comparisons between America and Europe.

The interpretation of happenings on these continents as they relate to one life’s adventure is the scope of this work, which is, before everything else, a collage of personal biography, illuminated by flashes of the remarkable historical moments preceding the emigration. There are, moreover, interpretations of impressions colored with romantic, enchanting mysticism, and alternatively, subjective impressions of immigrants who came to America to find a better life and expected, to some extent, to find a promised land on a platter. In either case, impressions are based on predispositions of what immigrants from the old country envisioned American to be like. However, gratia is not a prerequisite; it does not exist in the meaning of emi, nor immi gratia.

Is this memoir an unprejudiced evaluation and objective notation of experiences as they were, or a biased overflow of emotions, ridicule and sarcasm, or delight and adornment? What is the difference between autobiography, memoir, and diary, versus a fictitious, rather historical novel in the first place? A degree of deviation from factual reality? A conglomerate relatively dry when transferred onto paper, this cacophony, without regard to categorization, may enlighten the mind of one American, or one potential immigrant, by informing or reforming the picture of the mirage of a once-magical New World or the romanticism of the Old One.

Potential immigrant? Is it not time to escape from this mock; however, in what there do we fare? Are not all immigrants to America unconditionally ready to leave behind forever the old countryside, loved ones, all they have and be ready for everything, just to get a visa, green card, or citizenship in this legendary country of impossible possibilities? One very old but still applicable joke reflects that old perceived notion about the over-the-ocean country of dreams:

Papa, is America far?

Shut up, son, and keep swimming.

An immigrant’s proverb says, In America, the first seven years are hard-afterwards, it isn’t easy. These already worn out jokes reflect the reality. Immigrants of Slavic origin also, as Laconians, say America-Chemerica. It was said for those who once stepped onto American soil: If you stay in America, you will regret it. If not, you will regret it, anyway. Once Adam’s apple has been bitten or Pandora’s Box opened, there is no more peace.

The meadow across always seems greener, especially in the case of the legendary America. That showed itself in the period of the defeated Hungarian counter-Communist revolution in 1958. An impressive number of Hungarian escapees who flocked to America, rather than wrestle against magical fata morgana of merciless American reality, returned to Soviet-imperialism-enslaved Hungary. The explanation may be obvious: those who were accustomed to sabotage work in communism went back, while the industrious stayed. However, some would rather pointedly ask: Were these Hungarians too soft for this country, or the hard country was not worth the trouble?

Did America then change the immigration policies and gave priority to immigrants from non-European countries, realizing that most of the civilized, softer, insufficiently hungry Europeans would not remain in this country once they realized what it was like? In the meantime, with the fall of Western European economic prosperity and the Eastern European crash of ideologies, while their prosperity was always at the edge of a rather humble existence, the situation started to change again; many people were ready to renounce their ideological values and give priority to American materialism.

With the vacillation of the Asian and European economic climates, the immigration scale has again temporarily tilted toward America. Waves of immigrants are again arriving in America and changing the taste of national soup.

How many immigrants have returned home, it’s hard to tell. The times when it was sarcastically said that India exports only cholera are gone. Many Indians are returning to the country of their birth and opening businesses there instead of in America, exporting back to America. Though with the help of their saved American dollars.

KINGDOM OF YUGOSLAVIA

(WHERE FROM—IN THE FRAME OF HAPPENINGS—IT ALL HAD BEGAN)

1939, Novi Sad. Maria Gaal, nicknamed Marica, brings her sixteen-year-old daughter Juliana, into Jovan’s hairdresser salon, for a hairdresser’s apprentice interview. Thereafter, the maiden Juliana Gaal and bachelor Jovan Urlike start to work together in Jovan’s salon. When Jovan and Juliana—while rolling up hair-curlers on the customer’s head—intermingled their fingers, the romance started.

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1939: My future Mom Juliana

1939, Chicago. After the wedding in Novi Sad and consequent honeymoon through Budapest and Paris, Jovan and Juliana arrive by a steamship, over the stormy Atlantic Ocean, to the New York. From there, they continue to Jovan’s relatives in Chicago. In Chicago, young Juliana still feels the motion sickness, especially in the mornings! On the insistence of Chicago relatives, they take Juliana to a doctor. The doctor’s conclusion pops: Mrs. Urlike, you do not have an acute prolonged sea sickness, you are pregnant.

Thus, the knowledge is born that Ivan’s inception happenned somewhere in the geographic span between Novi Sad and Chicago. Nevertheless, knowledge conceived on the American continent. The Chicagoan Urlike relatives insist that it is not the right time; Juliana has to abort that tumor in uterus and get into the hairdoing American heads! However, the sixteen year young Juliana’s responce is: I am not giving up my baby! Thus, Ivan escapes ending up in the Chicago’s sewer.

Relatives whole-heartedly beg: Do not return to Europe, there are preparations for a terrible war! The young Urlike couple is deciding under pressure between the two crucial choices, while a storm is gathering on the world’s political stage. It was and will be, as it always was, as long as land and time exist: fine tuning of the instruments for The Second World War is reminiscent of the musical instrument fine tuning in the theatre before the concert performance. As a concert overture would initiate, the famous music composer Richard Wagner with his ideology like-mindeds¹¹, launches the Freigedank¹²: The Idea of the Arian God-like roots of the Germans. That is, while generously yielding to the avanguard idea of developments of the other nations, especially Jews, from monkeys. The latter yielding, according to the convenient Darwin’s theory of evolution. Mighty German Industrial Capital requiring material for industrial development, the need being blocked by the British coalition, holding hegemony over the colonies with natural resources, helps the birth of the Lebensraum¹³ idea. A justification for the German expansion, countering the British coalition suffocation.

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1939, honeymoon trail:

Novi Sad, Budapest, Paris, then by ship over Atlantic to New York, then Chicago! Mom Juliana about this photograph said; here she already felt nautious, meaning pregnant.

Overture into the Second World Slaughtery plays out as German political machine for the leadership finds a person with an adequate political profile; Adolf Hitler. While the whole world hypnotically is focused on developments in and around the Germany, Russian invasion and annexation of the independent Baltic states of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania is neglected by the civilized world. Political cliche; the two usurpators Stalin and Hitler among themselves signed a friendly pact of non-offence as allies, but further on, compete who will top whom in aggression of the third’s. For the sake of military muscles trial, Hitler’s war machine with intervention in Spain, chokes in blood the birth of the Spanish Republic. In other words, victory over international, specifically soviet communistic movement’s stake in Spain. Score one to one, Stalin is now analyzing how to get even for that defeat.

For reprisal and to show off to the world the tremendous strength of the Russian legendary, revolutionary Red Army¹⁴, Stalin suddenly attacks traditionally pro-German Finland. Russian infantry hordes, then the tanks and artillery flood over the Finnish borders. Even though the Finns are terribly outnumberred against the Russian might, Finnish automatic weaponry seeds death on the massive Russian charges by day and legendary Finnish knives and bombs flash by night, crushing the fame about invincibility of the Red Army¹⁵. Finns, well entranched in frontal defense and excercising planned withdrawal in combination with guerila tactics, decimate the overwhelming Russian mass invasion. Stalin’s butcherred Red Army finally stops rolling, starving near death from hunger and of unheard brutal winter on the devastated Finnish land. Corpses of dead Russians remained lay seeded over the frozen landscape.

Remains the fame about the legendary heroic Finnish war tactics even in Russian classical literature, interpreting with respect about the hated Finn’s knife and demagogueing the deceitful Finns. The Russians are stopped, occupying part of Finnland, but for the price of terrible losses. Was "the price more expensive than the grease¹⁶"? Taken into consideration that until today, Russians kept the conquered Finnish territories? Even though, the Soviet defeat in manpower, material and morale is obvious to every imbecile, still only Russophillistic historians were not stupid, so in the his-story books consequently painted a different picture. Allegedly, it was only the German nazi dictator, bloody conqueror Hitler, who truthfully started the Second World War. The Russian communistic dictator, the bloody conqueror Stalin, did not. What an imperialistic charade!

Why did Ivan’s parents still return to Europe? Why did they not wait a few months more? Then Ivan would have been born in America and consequently born an American citizen! That move would have also secured the entire family the possibility to live on either continent. May be thus the whole family would have avoided the war? Except not quite the whole; instead as it happened a tad later father Jovan being drafted by Hungarians and sent towards the Eastern front to fight against the Russians, he would have been drafted into the American army and sent to Okinawa to wrestle the Japaneze. Seeing America as it was, my future parents unconditionally believed in a better future in the old country. There they posessed real estate, a professionally secured existence, and social, almost to say aristocratic prestige. All incomparably superior to what they thought would await them in the wild west of America starting from zero.

SAFARI NUMBER ONE

(HEADING TO EUROPE)

The Chicago relatives of Urlike decent, insist: young Juliana and groom Jovan must remain in America, because the Second World War almost flared out. The overtures of the same already started to play out. Instead, Jovan and Juliana conclude that they would rather go back to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia: Dear God, why would we leave a furnished, luxurious apartment in the direct center of the civilized Novi Sad, an established haidresser shop right beneath, then ownership of the few pieces of land, couple also in city the center, then prestige, social status, our numerous close relatives and a plush lifestyle? For this Chicagoan beginning from nothing and the dismal adventurous perspective in an unknown land? American relatives respond with advise to the young couple: If you remain in America, yes you will be sorry, but if you do not remain, you will be sorry again. One of the sorries you can not escape! Advice, probably learned by their own experience.

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1940, Novi Sad:

Jovan-Yani father and Ivan-Yanchi, me.

Loaded with fortelling advise, destined to bear fruit of far reaching consequences, Jovan and Juliana, with son still intrenched in her womb, return by steamship from America to Europe, then back to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, Novi Sad. This Ivan’s trip, that started from America to Europe in his mother’s womb, is it a return or the first going to Europe?

1940, Christmas, Novi Sad. The infinitesimal fraction of Ivan’s memory from earliest childhood remains until the time of these lines’ writing: starting with that, not particularly splendid, but still interesting exploration; the removal and analythical study of funny smelling mysterious creamy material out of the diapers. And then in disgust, wiping the little fingers against the white crib’s bedspread, continuing then against the white vertical crib’s picket fence! However, then all of the sudden, there is the striking shrieck, whining and lamentments of Omama¹⁷ Marica as she returns from a short trip to the next room. The first thing learned: It is not the posession, but what that posession represents!

Also in my memory remain the impressions about the shiny hardwood floor in a haringbone pattern, ornamental rugs, handwoven needleworks on the polished furniture, deep, luxurious armchairs, french double winged bevelled glass on tall white doors. My parents Juliana, nicknamed Yutsi and father Jovan, nicknamed Yani and their polished demeanours became engraved in my memory for the entire life. Yellowed old photographs preserved from those times of elegant lifestyle, refresh the same memories now, many years later.

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1940, Novi Sad:

My parents in front of our building. Beyond is our catholic church in the city center.

I unaware, pose in my first luxurious vehicle, obscured.

1941, summer. Back to the world stage: Western Europe is occupied by Germans. English occupational troops, who were with French threatening Hitler from the west, are thrown into the sea at Dunkirk. Hitler, by the old millitary axiom, secures his back on the west, then turns eastward towards Russia, to revenge for the attack on ally Finnland. Now, the next move is on Stalin. Insulted with military defeat in Spain, Stalin incites his international communists to event a huge demonstration in Belgrade and throw away just signed pact of friendship between Kingdom of Yugoslavia and Germany. Better war than pact, Better grave than slave howl the Serbian demonstrators, on the Belgrade boulevards in thousands. Yugoslav pro-German government falls, and Germany ready for bilance with Russia for the Finnish war, under new circumstances, has to withdraw already developed troops toward the Russian borders and throw them towards Yugoslavia. Global chess game, in which Stalin is still a move ahead of Hitler.

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1941, spring, Novi Sad:

Mom Juliana—Yutsi and Ivan—Yanchi and father Jovan—Yani.

This is not a precedent: The First World War started when citizens of Sarayevo, mostly of Croat decent, Austrian sympathizers, full heartedly welcomed Austrian Prinz Ferdinand, as liberator from the Turkish oppression. However, Serb nationalists, hiding among citizens of Sarayevo, assasinated the Austrian Prince. Assasination changed the political scenery initiating the First World War. Now here comes the same sequence of events: Serbs turn the table upside down and push Yugoslavia into the Second World War against Germans and on the side with Russians. Thus Serbs, by their certain ways, initiated development and direction of both World Wars and were always a factor that must be taken into account!

Suddenly war comes to us: the German invasion of Yugoslavia. Without customary formal war announcement, sneakedly. German shtucka’s howl over the capital, throwing bombs over citizenry that threw away the German friendship. Under auspices of the Hitler’s Germany, Horty’s Hungarians march into Novi Sad and rename it as in the past: Uyvideck. Usurpators Germans, with Austrians, italians, Rumanians, Bulgarians and Hungarians, like hienas on the fallen gaselle, brake into each from own border side and occupy, thus ripped apart and disseminated into pieces, the Kingdom of Yugoslavia.

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1941, fall, Novi Sad: Mom and I strolling on Futoshka Street.

In retrospect to the future developments, one should have in mind, that because of the attack on Yugoslavia, Hitler’s military machinery had to relocate their troops from the Russian front towards Yugoslavia, and then again back to the Russian front to start the Russian offensive. A cardinal mistake! Hitler’s Wehrmacht thus lost few precious summer months and later was caught in decisive battles at Stalingrad in Russian frigid winter, while in summer uniforms, with machine guns, howitzers, tanks and trucks with summer oil. That was the prime cause, what started the avalanche of defeats and consequently German loss of the Second World War and ultimately the German world domination. Again, thanks to those unbearably pesky irritants Serbs!

HUNGARIAN OCCUPATION

(LIBERATION MARKED BY BURIAL OF CIVILITY)

1941 April, Uyvideck. Outcome of Hitler’s Blitzkrieg; Wehrmacht and Horti’s¹⁸ soldiers march into the Novi Sad, supposedly freeing local Hungarians from the Serb governance. Outside the cities, many people are escaping into forests. In the twighlight of people’s virtues, in grizzly outcome of a far fringe ideology, beastiness for who knows how many times again in the history of mankind, bursts the thin masking crust of humanity. O tempora, o mores!¹⁹

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1941 December, Ujvidek:

Aunt Katica on left and mom Juliana, walking through city

1942 January. Under command of one Shandor²⁰, Horti’s knightly liberators create lists by which by nights engage in hunting down people who might be against the occupation. People are selected because of their neighbor’s envy or because they have given a donation to a Serbian or Croat cultural society or Serb or Croat Civic Center and the occupators have grabbed the donator’s lists by breaking into these cultural establishments. Ill omen’s shadow of beastly terror overwhelmes the city.

Another group of Voivodinians, flower of Novi Sad, with short procedure are lined up and shot on the sandy shores of the trendy Strand, the prettiest European beach on the blue Danube. Dead bodies just floated downstream. Some the next spring, when river ice thaw. Similar events are happening also outside of Voivodina, in the other parts of thus fractioned Yugoslavia. At the Serb city of Kragujevac, under threatening barrels of "SS²¹ machine guns, entire high school is brought on the meadows above the city. Because of one sabotage that supposedly the high scholars did. High scholars are defiantly singing the Yugoslav hymn Hey Slovenes, until machine gun salvos overwhelm the last voice. In the vicinity of the Croat city of Split, SS division engaged in burning and hunting throughout the villages, killing about five hundred souls. Horror of the tyranny and the raw, in blood to the hilt, uncivilized barbarism! To whom the law in a mace lays, his tracks stench on inhumanship"²².

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1942 spring, Uyvidek:

In front of Urlike shop. Mom Juliana—Yuci and I Ivan nicknamed Yanchi.

At this time, father Jovan’s sister, my Aunt Katica Urlike becomes pregnant by Pavle Katanac. In these times, extraordinary importance is being given to social classes. Urlike family to no avail pesters Katica that she should have thought it through; Urlike’s are a fine noble city family, why had Katica messed up with a simple peasant’s son from Hrtkovci village? Still, for Katica’s wedding, who pent up to marry Pavle no matter what, Urlike’s donate a huge monetary dowry and guarantee a loan. Based on this loan, Katica and Pavle open the biggest, most elegant hairdresser shop in what may be the entire God given Europe. Still, morality of the social cast overrules, and on persistence of the Urlike family, Katica yields and aborts. While Pavle was told that she just lost the baby. My aunt consequently never again could become pregnant.

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1942, early summer, Ujvidek, in visit to Grasius cousins:

From right, my cousin Rudolf nicknamed Rudi and I.

1942 December: Comes the holiday, before Christmas: Mikulash²³ is caught in action by Mom and me. First by his voice, then by his familiar nose and eyes above the huge white cotton beard, dressed in red clothes with his bulged stomach created by stashed pillow and red boots of traditional Mikulash, I recognize father Yani. I decided to play along to see where these theatrics would lead, because from the beginning, Mom’s insistence that both of us without apparent reason sit and wait in front of the Christmas tree, seemed suspicious. Acting as caught in act, Santa Claus ran away leaving a full bag of toys. I realized they treated me as a clueless kid. Still, it paid off to collaborate and pretend, I concluded. Since I have discovered false Santa Claus, came the Christmas and I was asking myself; what is the purpose of this new pretension about beliefs in compromised stories about Angels, when not one we ever saw? Is this also a bribe with some hidden agenda? Is this overture just a smart indoctrination into religion? I learned about Pavlov’s reflex²⁴ quite later, however now I still figured out the intent. Alternatively, is this an accidental overture into Anagnosticism²⁵? Again, I did not know the expression; however I understood that the consequence of their false pretenses, treating me as if I am a shallow minded, is pushing me toward the opposing ideology.

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1942 December, Ujvidek: I am victim of Mom’s professional deformation with licked up hair and hairpin and motherly diaper-mania, in front of the Christmas tree.

1942 spring: Father Yani is grandstanding that he can jump over me. Since I insist that he has to prove it, we walk downstairs to the garden. Yani sets me up on the narrow pathway between the planted areas, so that I stand with my head tilted downward and with my back in the direction of his jump. And to close my eyes. Why to close my eyes?—I rebell—what does that have to do with the jump? It is understandable to tilt my head and turn backward because jump may not be high enough. The danger would exist if I would be looking in the direction he is running from. But why do I have to close my eyes when I am turned the other way? Does he really think that I am so naive? After father’s perservering insistance, I know that I am yielding due to his effort to talk me over with flood of wordiness, rather then validity of his argument.

Standing straight, with my head tilted down, secretly I am glancing backwards sideways over my right shoulder. Then, I hear father’s footsteps as he starts running, then the slam of the jump, and out of the corner of my eye, I see father’s outline as he flew by, rather than over me. Our arguing continues, because I am adamantly analyzing to father that the jump was not truthfully a jump over. I am quite dissapointed and feel falsed about father’s boasting that he will jump over me, which did not come through, regardless of his insistance to the contrary. At the end, seeing his tryumphant smile turning sour due to my arguments, I had given up the discussion, not wishing to hurt father’s vanity. Because, after all, father did pretty well perform that risky jump. Unwillingly, again, I had to accept another compromise, a substance of life: father’s pretence being biger child then myself.

I am quite convinced in my own reasoning ability. I am somewhat spoiled, and almost three years old. And have a brave, reasoning ready head on the shoulders, unrestricted with inhibitions. Still, in the dark, I would quickly turn instinctively, as if a devil or a beast were behind me? Yes, nor a devil nor a beast I have ever seen, however safe is safe. Grandma Marica is proudly saying to me, that I am a real "Gaal fayta²⁶." Was I alike to her husband’s family’s side that much?

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1943 July, Strand: Mom Juliana and I (again with annoying hairdresser’s hairpin) sitting on sand. The same sand not long ago, soaked up the spilled blood of shot citizens.

Sometimes, standing in front of our apartment building, I wonder what is beyond the Yevreyska Street²⁷ that on the left in distance seems ending with a stately cathedral. On the right however, is the never-ending Futoshka Street, with house after house each side and tramway rails running out-of-site into eternity. Where and how the world at all ends and how that end looks like?

I am negotiating as in a tug of war, convincing grandma Marica, because she insists that I have to finish eating that already cold greasy paprikash²⁸ that is provoking my puke. I stop the fake crying and go into begging grandma Marica: I am thirsty! Yanchi, why do you need water, paprikash is mostly water!—Grandma Marica argues. However, after my continuing fake cry, grandma retreats. I start to drink slowly, considering how to gain time and somehow skip eating, while washing that horrendous distaste of the cold greasy paprikash out of my mouth, which is making me shiver. Suddenly, I quickly flush out the remaining cold water from the glass into the paprikash plate. Now, that became a conglomerate of mostly potatoes and meat, with greasy bubbles floating in paprika red cold water. Grandma Marica cries out now you have done it, you ruined a good paprikash!

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1943 December, Ujvidek:

My Christmas presents, a "Swan Song²⁹"

While inside I rejoice, congratulating myself on the move, hoping for the quick positive resolution that the torture with paprikash will be terminated, my triumph was cut short. Suddenly, mom Juliana steps on the scene: What’s going on? Then, she energetically says: Eh, now you have to eat the whole paprikash with water, as is, no matter what! It is easy for Mom to order, when grandma has to follow through. After Mom’s return downstairs into the hairdresser salon and my marathonic dramatic theatrical grimaces and puking bluffs, grandma finally capitulates and I am released from the table. For myself, I concluded that sometimes it is not worth going for all or nothing, especially if it is possible that Mom suddenly may pop up at the door. I am an inspired, talented kid, as if a sort of little genius squats in my being. Is it not in everyone?

Mom is proud to introduce me to the societal creme. For example madam Justus, a very fine polite lady, who in her very small candy shop sells the best chestnut puree with creme in the city, and her ice cream is out of this world! My chat with the solicitious ice cream virtous is nonchalant and makes mom ecstatic. Grandma Marica was delighted, when she carried me over a water pond on the street, and I politely said thank you. Grandma is telling everyone how much I am a noble and proper child, which was strange to me, did I not just say what was proper anyway?

Absurdly, usurpers Germans and Hungarians started recruiting into their millitary rows the Voivodinian Yugoslavs, who had a German or Hungarian name or national origin on the record. My uncle Philipp Grasius of German last name and origin, however a real meek Voivodinian of Yugoslav citizenship, born and grew up in Novi Sad, inexorably is recruited into the German Army. My other uncle, Joseph³⁰ Ragai of Hungarian name and decent, along with my father Jovan Urlike of a non-Hungarian last name and a genuine Yugish first name, nevertheless of partial Hungarian backround, both also fully pledged Yugoslav nationals, are recruited into the Hungarian Army. All are immediately transferred towards the Eastern front, towards the Russians. Willing or not, the merciless alternative is a firing squad and a discipline solver bullet in the forehead.

Mom Juliana and I remain alone. Grandma Marica moves with grandpa Istvan Gaal, a railroad officer, to his newly ordered position somewhere on the other side of the Yugoslav border into Hungary. On the main key positions in Novi Sad, now called Ujvidek, Hungarian occupators nominate their trustworthy people, while Novisadians are dusted off to the less important positions in provinces. Mom Juliana remains to lead the hairdresser shop alone. She just heard about the reknowned kinder care, perfect and right diagonally across the street from our apartment, next to the synagogue. On my very first day in the kindercare, I stare into a little goddeslike blondie, with long wavy hair, but it was not meant to be. Jewish schools and synagogues are being systematically closed. I am hurriedly withdrawn from the kindercare already the second day, as the kindercare is boarded up. Whatever happened with my cute blondie?

Second World War is in full swing. Father Jovan, I remember his fresh green uniform, comes home on a short military leave. I prop myself up onto tippitoes, with my nose clinging to the table’s edge: on the table I see that mysterious, luxurious, nickelled, shiny, metal mechanizm! A pistol! Intrigued, I extend my hand upward over the table’s edge and Juliana and Jovan scream simultaneously in unison and horror: No! So much attention and only because I wanted to touch that mysterious mechanizm! Even today when I close my eyes, I can see that same luxuriously nickelled, dangerous adult’s toy.

This pistol has a history: During the bachelor’s independent days of the two best friends Jovan Urlike and Pavle Katanac, a girl presenting that she is pregnant, threatened Pavle by court, if he does not immediately marry her. By the help of the same Jovan’s pistol, the girl was discouraged to leave Pavle alone and choose another father for her baby. DNA methods do not exist and often a girl, regardless of who the real father is, with support of a sympathetic court order, would force a man of her choice to marry her. Obviously, Jovan had an interest in helping friend Pavle to get rid of that girl. Soon afterwards, Pavle married Katica, father’s sister. Then, best friends, young bachelors Pavle and Jovan, sweetly laughed how, with a bluff, they simply untied the potentially untieable "Gordy’s knot³¹".

In the meantime, on the Balkan war entangled front, communists infiltrate the British intelligence on the terrain and British start getting reports as if Chetnics, the Serb pro Kingdom of Yugoslavia fighters against the Germans, are compromised, while partisans, the communist’s military movement of evasive hit and run, are the true heroic successful fighters against the Germans. Brits turn back on Chetnics and instead, the parachuted allied’s material and military help starts arriving to partisans. If Chamberlain sold out Poland to Hitler on the beginning of the war, Churchill topped him by gifting Yugoslavia over to Stalin at the end. Frosting on the cake. Thus the shrude partisan commandante, the international communist Tito, Stalin’s buddy and ideological compadre, thanks to Brits, secures the future of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to into the communizm.

1944 August. I am watching the American glittering silvery airplanes of miniature dimensions, far above in the clear blue heights, as they in orderly formations, apparently lazily, are crossing the light blue sky from England’s direction. I wish myself to be part of that glitter, inert and a way, above it all. Actually, they flew to bombard, then under German hold, Romanian oil fields, by Germans christened Besarabia. The propulsion power of German tanks and war machinery.

I am a proud four-year-old bicyclist, the only little Novisadian, who is riding his own real bicycle. True, on a direct transmission over the chain, wheels and pedals turn simultaneously. On announcements over the city street’s loudspeakers and radios that airplanes are flying in the direction of Novi Sad, we would grab our bicycles and ride out of the city. Farms are not considered potential bombardment targets and we would escape to a farm some seven kilometers³² out, in vicinity of Futog village. Due to bicycle escapes from bombardments, I am developing these quite impressive leg muscles. I am turning the pedals as fast as I can behind my Mom’s bicycle, in the column of one by one of other fleeting bicyclists. Occasionally, I start falling behind, maniacally turning the pedals with synchronized continuous revolutions with wheels, as my leg muscles frenze from the stress. Then, I yell out: Mom, I can not do it any more! Mom falls behind, until I pass her, then I