GOD'S OWN COUNTRY

With eyes half-closed against the sun’s glare, Peter peered out of the slow-moving mule-coach at the lush vineyards climbing up the hill. Heavy clusters of grapes, green, red, and black, played hide-and-seek among the scalloped leaves, smiling at Peter in an invitation to future sumptuous feasts. He leaned back into his plush seat, and sighed.

Grapes ripening in December. How incredible! In Hungary they would have long ago been harvested, the vats filled with heady winter wine. Christmas under a blazing sun. Would he ever get accustomed to such a climate? At home, he would be skating on a lake or skiing in the Austrian Alps, not sweltering in this unbearable heat.

Peter drew a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Knotted in one corner was a small, yellowish diamond: his talisman. As he held the gem between the thumb and forefinger of his broad hand, a vision of his mother, Fanny, rose before him. He pictured her petite, svelte form, her blue-black hair elegantly coiled, a slight flush on her olive skin, and a look of concern in her large, brown eyes as she handed her husband a letter. She didn’t know it at the time...no one knew, not even Peter himself...but that letter would eventually lead to Peter’s departure from his homeland.

Peter was momentarily brought back to reality as the coach jolted against a rock in the road. He adjusted his seat and glanced quickly at his fellow-passengers. But his thoughts were still with his family far away. He saw Budapest with its ancient fortress, its spired churches and, above all, his parental home that, in its lush garden, stood high up in Buda with an unobstructed view of the Danube and the majestic palaces on the western side of the river.

He vividly remembered his idyllic childhood: the many picnics and swimming parties enjoyed on the Buda. His sister Sophie and he had had such a happy childhood.

His father would, however get angry whenever Peter lingered too long in the coffee-houses with his fellow students, Peter remembered with a smile. He and his friends spent hours there discussing politics, music, poetry and, especially, their female conquests.

Ah, those coffee-houses with stirring gypsy music and urgent invitation in the eyes of the pretty waitresses. It was only natural that his father would be opposed to such liberal surroundings. Rolf Gruber was a perfectionist, impressing upon his son his own sense of duty and responsibility. It was, after all, through his single-minded efforts that his engineering works developed from a modest family enterprise to one of the foremost in Budapest. Peter would never forget his father’s beaming pride the day he passed the engineer’s qualification exam and joined the family business.

He heaved a deep sigh. How he missed his father.

But he could never forget the evening Rolf received the letter. That fateful letter. He and Papa had just returned from the works. His father was tired and disgruntled...a contract he had regarded as a certainty had been awarded to a competitor. The letter could not have arrived at a more inopportune moment.

“Oh no,” his father groaned. “It’s from Miklós. I hoped we’d heard the last of that lazy, down-at-heel tramp. He writes that he’s back from South Africa, and coming to Budapest, surely bringing his unkempt hair, matted beard, and dirty fingernails. Now we’ll again have him around our necks with his frequent visits that just happen to come at meal-times.”