Pondelok, 15. júl 2024

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Aktuality arrow My native land
My native land Print


My native land – my native village


I was brooding much how can I express my love towards my native land – native village. I think it can be realized when I am honest, when I commit some parts of my memories to paper. I grew old, but it still feels good to walk along, sit about or remember on the bank of our old Danube. In my mind I set off. I am watching the huge, nice river, the old Danube. I am amazed. How clear was its water, when in my childhood in summer we splashed in the waves, when the Pasasér (passenger-steamer) came. At that time even raftsmen floated their rafts on the Danube and the wood exploited in the mountains, which they sold on the Plain. I am going down to the Gyurgya, I am watching the fishermen as they shoot their fishing-nets… In reality they are not there anymore. The water of the Danube has taken them away, or the passing of time? They are gone home. But where is our homeland? Paul Apostle displays about it this way: Our home is in heaven (Fil.3,20). Then I am walking on slowly. I am viewing the former Láng, Kuzmik, then further on the Szarvasy Castle. What a gentlemanlike order and beauty prevailed there. It was a world full of mysteries. Such a simple child I was at that time could not walk in just as if I belonged there. But once, when my father was called in the former Kuzmik Castle to repair something, he took me with him. I was amazed by the wonderful suite, furniture, the glittering chandeliers, the lamps. There I even felt the air extraordinary. It was in the wind that Mr. Szarvasy was a university professor. About Mr. Kuzmik the elderly said he was a famous doctor. He liked to be in Karva in summer, working in the garden, when he had free time. As soon as they heared he was in Karva, not only people from Karva, but from the surrounding villages as well sick people were brought there, whom he healed free of charge – old grandmothers said about him. My father was working as a mechanic-smith on the Szarvasy Plain. That is where we lived as well. I lived the life of people of detached farms. From there I walked in to school daily. First to elementary school, where I was taught by nice teachers, then to primary school, where Béla Vilmos taught me. Everybody honoured the teachers. Béla Vilmos was a strict teacher and took good care of discipline in the village. In the evening children who went to school could not wander in the village. He was the cantor as well. In the church choir there were men and young men only. The church many times proved to be small. In front of the pews there were pupils. We were standing in the sanctuary on both sides of the altar. Naturally there was always a ministrant, though we had to learn the long Latinate answers by heart. Vilmos teacher arranged this very well. Unfortunately the discipline broke after the war. The deportation to the Czech Republic was horrible. The village was blockaded by armed soldiers. They indicated in the parish hall, who they are going to take away. The lorry parked in the yard of the marked house. An armed soldier was watching what the miserable family packed on. Then they were taken to the railway station and put into wagons. It all happened in a frosty winter. Another event was dreadful as well. The so called “white slips” were distributed. That meant that if a family was given a white slip, they were deported to Hungary. Let Lord have mercy on those who invented and organized it. It is lucky that the church remained. It is a priceless historic monument. The walls of sanctuary whisper the message of the 14th century, the walls of the nave of church that date back to the Baroque era echo the religious devotion of centuries. If I am nowadays in Karva in my parental home, I always go to church. The view staggers me. The church that was once so kind to me is now utterly deserted. There are just some enthusiastic believers. In the ancient church of the formerly upstanding village there is just a palmful of impassioned flocks. They are surely encouraged by the principle of the Master: Don’t be afraid, you palmful of flocks, since your Father thought, he ought to give his land to you (Lk 12,32). In my mind I walk along the streets of my village. In the Long Road, the Tulip Street, then the New Street. I barely meet acquaintances. New houses, new faces. One or two old houses return my greeting modestly. They conceal themselves behind the nice, new ones. But not the houses, the man is the most important. László Rónay says about the man: We rarely meet one recently. According to an ancient Greek proverb it is a very nice thing to be a man, if we are real humans. But where are they? We barely find one. People live for other people, they are solidary, they have love. How good it would be, if in my beloved netive village, Karva, lived such people. The church would not be half empty on Sunday holy mass. Eventually I walk out to the cemetery, I am reading the familiar names. Who I knew as elderly, classmates or parents. They are already buried. I hope over there I meet them in eternity, at home of endless peace and love.
┼ Bartal Károly Tamás O.Praem. Abbot of Jaszovar



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