Steven Kas: The Financ

The "Financ" First of all I'll try to explain to you what "Financ" means in the context of my story. All of you silly English speaking readers might refer to the Big Oxford for a definition, which is; "finance: 1./ the management of public revenues; the conduct or transaction of money matters generally; in banking; investments; etc. etc." Now that is only partially correct because the barbarians, borrowing, twisting and brutalizing the Queen's English, use it in some sacrilegious manner, like my people, giving it a rather different meaning. Read on and learn. In the Old Country, even in such a small remote village where I was born, contrary to some naive beliefs, government, the almighty state was quite painfully present, in more ways than one, I might say. First of all there was the village "government". The daily affairs of the village were conducted by the Head Clerk, the Clerk and the Assistant Clerk. All these people were appointed by the Governor of the county who in turn was appointed by the Interior Minister, who of course was in most cases a lifetime member of the Upper House, an aristocrat. Now, that should give you a clear idea where the loyalty of these people lay. The elected leaders of the village; the four member jury and the Justice of the Peace... well just like men's nipples, have no real function, but without them the chest would look rather bare. Wouldn't it? The second layer of authority, the uniformed one, had one distinct advantage as far as the population was concerned; they were stationed in the seat of the district, some five kilometres away. The gendarme, the feared and respected rural police force, was well known 1

throughout Europe. They were well trained and highly disciplined, ruthless; more than ruthless; brutal police men. The rank and file were recruited mostly from the wealthy peasantry. They looked down on the poor villagers, farm workers, city folks, Gypsies and Jews as inferior classes of potential lawbreakers and treated them accordingly with suspicion and repugnance. If they caught somebody with suspicion of any crime, well, it was as good as a conviction. Hence the low crime rate. Fear did it all. At random intervals they used to appear in the village, slowly riding along the street toward the village hall on those marvellous horses, wearing their impeccable uniforms and above all; The Hats. Almost like an English bowler, slightly taller, black, decorated with a gold insignia on the left side, which was holding a cluster of black cocks' tail feathers. A carbine, a kind of a short rifle, was slung across their backs and a cavalry sabre clung on their sides completing their armament.When they rode through the village, people used to turn their heads away, as if they didn't see them and tried to guess; is this just a regular visit or have they come for somebody. The other uniformed bunch was the "Financ" I was referring to in the introduction. If I would try to translate the official name of the Law Enforcement Agency in question, it would probably sound like this: Guards of Monetary Matters. The closest thing to it is the American Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Agents. As you very well know every government is very serious about monetary matters. In those days the same as always, alcohol and tobacco were state monopolies as well as salt, sugar and believe it or not, matches too. In practical terms you paid a hefty tax whenever you

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bought any of those provisions in controlled stores... unless, you had grown a few rows of tobacco between the corn, or you brewed a little moonshine, or for heavens' sake you bought some saccharin or flints from the smugglers. That is where the "Financ" popped into the picture. Gotcha! Not so fast! While the gendarme were feared and respected, the "Financ" was despised and cheerfully outfoxed. Such as in soccer, the national sport, even if you didn't play the game, you were on the stands cheering for the home team. Understandably the "Finances" were desperate to show some results. Spying, snooping around all the time using some quite underhanded methods, trying to catch somebody in order to justify their existence. Everyone, one time or an other has smoked some virgin tobacco, drank some moonshine or let the young Pocsai in under the cover of the darkness during the night to buy some saccharin or flints for the home made lighters. Poor "Finances", what a hard time they had. To make things worse, instead of regal horses, they rode bicycles. Now, honestly how dignified can one be, riding a rusty old bike. They had, as nowadays you might say, an image problem. "The 'Financ' is coming, The 'Financ' is coming" the alarm sounded through the village and everybody made sure no contraband was exposed to the spying eye of the law. Now, that I have given you a short lecture on the power structure of the pre-war Hungarian village, let me take you back and tell you a story. I'll try to reconstruct 3

the events partly from my own recollections and partly from remembering my parents through the years, telling and retelling the anecdotes, over and over again. It was my first real summer. Before you had to go to school, summer had no special meaning. Summer was just some "time" when it's warm and you don't have to wear shoes. At the tender age of six, according some inhumane tradition you are forced indoors, day after day, robbed of your God given freedom of doing really important stuff, like... like not doing important stuff. However, one day, one wonderful sunny day, school is finally out. VACATION TIME! That my friends, is a real summer. I, remember with daily renewed determination, how I concentrated on avoiding any meaningful activity, just enjoying freedom. Although I was one of those weird kids who liked school, during summer vacation I avoided any rational or remotely schoolish thing and just went wild, just being a kid. That was exactly what we were doing, three of us, on that memorable hot summer day; Lali, his baby sister Eszti and I. Lali was my "best" friend that particular summer, son of our neighbour Mr.Nagy, the manager at the co-op store. Lali was the same age as I and we sat side by side in the school. He had one major fault though, his baby sister, an impossible leach of a girl. We just couldn't get rid of her, she stuck to us like flypaper, where-ever we went, there she was. We were playing with the water at the cold well. I say cold well, because we had a warm well too. They were about five hundred meters apart, both deep drilled wells, one very cold, the other, artesian and very warm, if I remember correctly, 38 degrees celsius. That is warm all right. The cold well

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worked with a hand pump, you had to turn a large wheel to draw the water. The warm well, on the other hand gushed by itself, you just had to push a knob. One more thing about the warm well, you could ignite it. No kidding. Just hold a match close to the outpouring water and it burned with beautiful blue and yellow flames. Natural gas, a nuisance they said. (I wonder, if somebody has tried to harvest it since or if it is still wasted like the incredible energy of the warm water.) As I said, we were playing around the well. Since I being the tallest could turn the wheel, I pumped the water into the basin and we splashed the cold blessing like a bunch of crazy ducklings forgetting about the scorching sun. Soon enough we got company; a "Financ" arrived on his bike, sweating like a pig, his coat unbuttoned, his hat crookedly perched on top of his head. He leaned his bike on the hedge, took his hat and coat off and before we had a chance to drift away, he called out to me. - Hey, Kid. Turn the wheel for me. I stepped up to the well, feeling a bit important all of the sudden and turned the wheel as fast as I could, producing an impressive cascade of water. The "Financ" washed himself with visible relief, taking an occasional big gulp of water from his palms. Lali and Eszti inched closer watching the show. After a few minutes the man arched his back, shook the water off his hair and as he sat on the edge of the basin tried to dry himself with his handkerchief. - Who's son are you? - he put on a friendly smile. - Kaskoto Karoly's, the barber.

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- Oh, is that right? The Fire Chief. - Yah. - And you? - turned to Lali. - Nagy's the store manager, and this is my sister, don't pay any attention to her she is only a silly baby. - I'm not silly, you are and stupid too. - Eszti snapped back. - Oh, shut up. She likes to yap a lot - apologised Lali. The "Financ" looked at Eszti, with his friendliest smile yet. - Of course you are not silly. You are a very smart young lady. - he said. - Tell me how is your Papa, is he selling a lot of stuff in the store? Is he? - Ya, a lot. - hesitated Eszti. - You're not supposed to tell anything to the "Financ" - Lali protested loudly. - Who told you that? - the man asked. - Everybody knows that, everybody who is not stupid. - said Lali. - I'm not stupid. - Eszti insisted, - I'll tell anything I want.

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- No. You are not. I'll tell Mom. - The argument between the siblings heated up. The "Financ' put on his coat and listened intensely. - I don't care. I'll tell what I want to tell. - Eszti yelled, - I'll even tell what we've got up in the attic... - Shut up! - Lali grabbed Eszti and we all ran away. - You don't tell anything to the "Financ". You stupid girl. We were all out of breath by the time we turned into the yard at Lali's house. As I looked back, I saw the "Financ" slowly peddling his bicycle not far behind. We ran through the yard into the poultry enclosure and disappeared behind the chicken coop. I'm telling you, we were expecting the worst, especially Lali. - You stupid, stupid, stupid. - He whispered, shaking with anger. - Why did you tell that to the "Financ"? - Why not? - Why? She asks. - he looked at me with disbelief, - Only a girl can be such an idiot. Everybody in the whole wide world knows, that you don't tell anything to a "Financ" - But why? - she insisted to know.

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- Why, why, why... because EVERYBODY knows why. - Tell me! - Because. That's why. Of course, we didn't really, I mean, really know why you should never talk to the "Financ". I didn't know, I just accepted it as a fact. I never in a million years suspected that the grownups had secrets. It was a bit later that I found out about the terrible truth, about that fallacy. In the vocabulary of a seven years old "because" equals "I don't know, Shut up." This what Lali kept telling Eszti, when the front gate slowly opened and the "Financ" snuck into the yard. Needless to say, we were petrified. We watched with terror as the "Financ" approached the ladder, leaned up to the back of the house, leading up to the attic door. In the old houses in our village, there were no inside stairs to the attics. Maybe because of the space they would take up in a very frugal layout, or rather the cost compared to a ladder, made out of acacia trees, of which we had plenty of around. In a house of the wealthy perhaps, but for the ordinary people a ladder was sufficient. The "Financ" carefully inched upward, hoping to discover that "something" Eszti was talking about. Soon after as he disappeared into the attic, Mrs. Nagy, Lali and Eszti's mother ran out to the yard yelling very motherly. 8

- Lali, Eszti. Get off the attic at once. Do you hear me? Trouble seamed to mount, minute by minute, and all three of us, with the survival instincts of a hunted rabbit, kept low and very quiet. - Lali. What are you doing up there? How many times do I have to tell you... - she was screaming on the top of her lungs. Now, Mr. Nagy rushed out of the store's side door, not to be left out of some disciplinary procedure. Parents seem to enjoy this kind of pastime. He was followed by a couple of women, customers from the store. The dog started to bark and the chickens, sensing the building tension joined in with a loud, orchestrated cacophony. All accentuating the well known fact; children are not supposed to be in the attic. But, instead of some defiant juveniles, the "Financ" appeared in the attic door with an authoritarian gesture, totally out of place considering the improperness of the situation. - Hey, be quiet. It's me, Sergeant Bozsik. - What the hell are you doing up in my attic? - Mr. Nagy exploded with anger. His face turned red like a huge tomato and with a swift thrust he pushed the ladder away, just a split second ahead of the "Financ" as he planned to lower himself to the first step. The ladder fell to the ground and the intruder was dangling up in the air, hanging to the door frame, trying to regain his balance and let out a lengthy, loud and fancy curse, mentioning Mr. Nagy's family tree generations backwards, mixing in some unmentionable references to 9

the creator. Only an official, trained in the good old military tradition was capable of such an all including litany of degradation of the civilian population. It was a big mistake though. The sleepy summer village, suddenly came to life. People appeared from who knows where. First the mail man, then all the drinkers from the co-op taverna, all three of them. My father dropped in with a half-shaven client, as our barber shop was next door. From the back, over the fence, the bellringer came with Adam Bacsi the school custodian. The "Financ" demanded the ladder. - You can't do this to the law. Get that *(##@* ladder back here or else. - he yelled. - Else what? - Or I'll give you a citation. All of you. You'll all end up in jail. - and for good measure, he kicked the door frame and with unmistaken repulsion he added; You... You *($#@$ peasants! - Whom you are calling a peasant Bozsik? - Mr. Nagy jumped as he spit out the words, - Bozsik, (no sergeant, no Mr., just Bozsik) you were born in a stable. You calling me a peasant, me the manager of the whole co-operative? - he banged on his chest. One should know that Mr. Nagy was very proud of his status in the village. The fact was, that all of the peasants were working in the fields in the middle of the summer, apart from the few women customers hanging around, only "tradesmen" were present, so the insult, being called a peasant added fuel to the fire.

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- They didn't teach you to fly in the "Financ" school? - Jump, "Financ". Jump, Jump! - the women screamed and the man in the attic started to panic. It was hot, even hotter up under the tile roof. He was sweating like an apprentice baker in the oven pit, shedding his clothing one after the other. First the coat, then the shirt and who knows what next for the general pleasure of the crowd below. - I will teach you, snooping around innocent peoples' houses. You will fry there, I wouldn't care. - We've got no peace anymore, - Adam Bacsi the school custodian joined in with his own gripe - just the other night I was ready to go to bed and as I'm undoing my wooden leg, - and at this point he hit his left leg with his cane to emphasize the seriousness of the story, somebody was peeking into my window. Now that I think of it, it must have been a "Financ". Who else. Can you imagine? Me, a decorated war veteran, the only amputee in the village spied on by a no good, sneaky, slimy "Financ". - Shame, Shame, Shame!!! (loud collective uproar) It was like a classic Greek drama. With the principal actors, Mr. Nagy, his wife, The "Financ" up in the attic and the villagers as the echoing chorus. What a memorable scene, only the possible retribution I might suffer as an instigator dampened my enjoyment.

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- For the last time I'm telling you - said the "Financ" with a conciliatory tone, - get me that stinking ladder. - No ladder. Jump if you want to get off. - Mr. Nagy settled the matter and was ready to return to his store keepers' duty when somebody rushed into the yard and yelled. - The Clerk called the gendarme. How sad. All good things must come to an end. If the gendarme was coming the whole affair had lost its flare. The chorus slowly dispersed, it's members, one by one left the stage. Mr. Nagy spit with repulse and lifted up the ladder, placing it just far enough from the attic door, so the "Financ" had to do some fancy acrobatics to reach it. Mrs. Nagy called the dog; - Cuki te. Nero. - roughly means; Shut up, Nero. Hushed the frightened chicken population, then she returned to her kitchen to do whatever women do in the kitchen in the middle of the day. The "Financ" climbed down from the attic, put on his sweat soaked shirt, constantly mumbling something under his mustache and left the yard. He threw his jacket over the handle bar and disappeared down the street, pushing his green, official bike. We were immensely relieved that nobody paid any attention to our absence, snuck out of the yard and resumed where we left off, doing something meaningful, nothing.

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That night I overheard my father and Mr. Nagy discussing the afternoon affair under our mulberry tree. - You know Karoly, - Mr. Nagy said - I wasn't worried about the moonshine, hardly any of it was left and it was well hidden behind the seed barrels, but just the other day I strung up fifteen rows of good virgin tobacco, they were hanging behind the chimney. I'm telling you, it's a miracle that the "Financ" didn't see it. Thanks to Mrs. Nagy's quick response, he didn't have a chance, just as he was robbed of the pleause to admire the newly hatched baby pigeons, Eszti so foolishly bragged about...

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