Budapest - Written Journal from September 4, 2005

Backdrop: While on my travels I picked up a book at one of the hostels. The book had a torn faded cover, book corners that were worn down from good use, pages that smelled of age and showed the same with the brown exterior sides and white center. A booked that showed all the signs of usage and a good, quick read. This book was called the "Gypsy Holocaust".

It was a story of a family filled with determination to survive, hope to love and a respect for the gypsy ways. It was the story of a father which played the violin and his family. The art of being a musician saved this man from execution for a long time. However, his last song was played right before he was lead to the gas chamber. His son, who hid in a nearby building was overcome with sadness a for he recognized the meaning of the violin that stopped playing.

For some reason, some purpose I was meant to read this book filled with both sadness and triumph. I was drawn to Budapest by two sources, a Hungarian friend I met in Norway and this book. In this book, Budapest was the location to be reached for safety. Although the book was written years ago and I just met Klara, both gave a story of a land, city filled with beauty, prosper and acceptance.

On September 4th, as I walk near the Opera House in Budapest, I smell the scent of fresh baked breads, hear the clicking of glasses and the laughter of a crowd. I find myself drawn to the organized, tranquil yet festive location. I found myself in the middle of a Jewish Gypsy Festival. As I walk around, I smile about the coincidence this festival had with the book I had just finished reading.

As the band starts to setup, I see the man with the wool hat, tilted slightly to the side, a wool vest to keep the chill out and a wooden violin. As I sit with a glass of wine and fresh baked pastry, the music starts. In the crowd, I take note of the little girl, sitting on the edge of the stage with short brown hair and a floral dress on. Her dress shoes display that it must be a special occassion, but for me, it is just a lazy afternoon.

After many songs, the violinist is drawn to the front for a solo performance. He plays many songs and the sounds penetrating from his instrument are filled with both sadness and joyfulness. With his eyes closed, his head tilted and his chin pressed strongly against his instrument, he plays his songs and as if she understands, the little girl looks up to admire the violinist.

She looks up, smiles to the man and then proudly raises her hand to wave a flag with the Star of David on it.

The gypsy song of life and survival plays on.