ALTHOUGH ILANA REALIZED THAT what her husband had been through during the war was a taboo subject between them, Yitzhak was otherwise a loving husband and father to their ever-expanding family. Their first son was born in 1955, followed by two more sons and a daughter.
Hedy, her husband, Emil, and little daughter, Chaviva, came to Israel in the early 1950s. They intended to stay and make a new life for themselves in the new Jewish homeland. Hedy hardly recognized the skinny little brother she had last seen in January of 1945. He was now a self-confident, rugged-looking soldier. It was a joyous reunion. Emil wanted to join the army while retaining his rank of major from years of service in the Czech army and was very disappointed when the Israeli military system refused this request. Emil found the transition to living in Israel to be too difficult, and they moved on to Canada after a few years.
Major Yitzhak Weisz had already been named to the rank of lieutenant colonel — the rank was to become official in 1957. But in 1956, after serving ten years in the army, Yitzhak applied for a low-interest loan from the army in order to buy a home. Despite promises that he would be eligible for such a loan, the application was turned down.
When Yitzhak left the army, determined to find some means of supporting his family, Bandi invited him to join him in building a transportation business. Yitzhak started driving a truck to study the business from the bottom up. In the late 1960s, Yitzhak and Bandi changed their family name from Weisz to Livnat.
The business thrived, and began specializing in trucks, cranes, and the logistics of moving shipments from one place to another.
Yitzhak Livnat began to travel regularly to Europe on business. Within a few years, he and Ilana enjoyed several short holidays in Europe. One of their first trips together took them to Zurich, Switzerland.
Ilana knew instinctively that her husband was hiding some horrific scars from the war. Being a perceptive wife, she also knew that by entombing those scars they would only fester and grow, like a boil or infection left untreated. She realized the boil that represented his scars had to be lanced, but still didn’t know how to quite go about it.
In Zurich, an opportunity presented itself. Ilana noticed that a nearby restaurant was promoting Hungarian cuisine and folklore for one week. The brochure was brightly coloured — red, white, and green — with pictures of buxom young women with long braids, in national dress, holding platefuls of enticing delicacies: cabbage rolls, stews rich with red paprika, mouth-watering sausages. Across the top of the brochure was written, “Come and spend an evening in Hungary without ever leaving Switzerland.”
That afternoon, when Yitzhak came back from his business meetings, Ilana was waiting with a proposal.
“I want to invite you out for dinner tonight, darling,” she said warmly.
“Fine,” Yitzhak replied. “Is it a special occasion?”
“No, nothing special,” she replied. “But if you accept my invitation, then it has to be my choice of restaurant.”
As they walked into the restaurant later that evening, Yitzhak stopped when he read the sign promoting the Hungarian event. He turned to his wife with a stern look in his deep brown eyes. Ilana touched her husband’s arm and whispered, “Remember, you promised: the place would be my choice.” He reflected a moment, then nodded for her to proceed through the doors.
Comely young women with braided hair, dressed in a stylized Hungarian folk costume, were offering free samples of Vilmos pear liqueur as an aperitif to everyone who walked in the door. Ilana glanced at her husband inquiringly. Yitzhak wasn’t interested — he walked right by them. In a distant corner of the restaurant, a gypsy ensemble played, moving from one table to the next.
Yitzhak sat stone-faced as Ilana ordered one delicacy after another. For starters, she requested an appetizer portion of goose-liver pate with sweet green peppers and rye toast. Next, cabbage rolls with sausage and sour cream. Then, for the main course, veal paprikash with delicate egg dumplings. Initially Yitzhak had an air about him as if he was determined to get through this, but certainly wasn’t going to enjoy it. By the time they’d had their third glass of wine, he was noticeably more relaxed, though still reserved.
The gypsy ensemble worked their way through the spacious restaurant, playing songs requested by the patrons. The gypsies noticed Yitzhak sitting with his wife at one of the tables. Normally the lead violinist, or primas, had an amazing ability to sense people who didn’t want the musicians around them and would steer clear of such tables. But there was something so Hungarian looking about Yitzhak. Instinctively, the primas began to play Hungarian folk songs.
Yitzhak tried to look elsewhere, avoiding the eyes of the violinist, but he couldn’t cover his ears and block out the song that went directly to the core of his heart. The third song the violinist began to play so masterfully was the song his mother had sung practically every day. The song, entitled “The Old Gypsy,” was her song; he had learned the melody and lyrics from her as a child. Memories of his happy childhood flooded back. He was Suti back in Nagyszollos, and his mother was pinning wash to the clothesline. He was playing with Icuka among the wet and drying sheets, both of them squealing with laughter. The images of his mother and little sister — brought back by the music — were too vivid to block out.
Tears started trickling down his face, unleashing a veritable flood. His shoulders were shaking. With his eyes closed, more images flooded forward: visuals of the entire family sitting in the kitchen, of his father playing the violin, mother’s rich melodious voice singing along. The gypsies kept playing, and Yitzhak continued crying, quite loudly now. Ilana sat calmly, remaining apparently unperturbed by her husband’s uncontrolled sobbing. She knew it was therapeutic. The fortress her husband had built around his own childhood memories had finally been shattered. The healing of his long-suffering heart could finally begin.
Tibor Schroeder and his wife, Eva, circa 1960.