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 Previous page THE ATTACK As they were sitting in their dormitory room, Csaba said excitedly, “Hush . . . hush, all of you! Can you hear what I am hearing?” Jacob nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I hear an airplane!” Everyone in the room jumped to his feet and headed out the door and down the stairs, flinging the large entrance door wide open with such force that it might have fallen off its hinges except for its enormous size. They raced to the clearest part of the compound, but not one of them was able to spot the airplane, no matter how he turned or stretched to get a view over the tree line. Then suddenly without warning came an unfamiliar sound. They looked at each other quickly. By now others had gathered, trying to see the airplane and to figure out that noise. Alternately, the sound of the airplane became louder, then faded away for a moment, only to return with more of that strange sound. Some of the older boys who, because of their age, supposedly were smarter than the rest, were telling each other, “They’re shooting their weapons!” The younger ones wondered at whom the planes were shooting, and why. The troop movements of the early morning had escaped their minds, so engrossed had they been with the opening of Jacob’s package and sampling its contents. “How far are they from here?” “Why are they shooting around here?” the boys asked each other. Then to their surprise, not one but two airplanes could be heard! With a deafening sound, one plane passed right over their heads. It was a jet—of this they were sure. A recent air show had featured such planes—planes that had no propellers, just like this one. The plane flew so low that they could almost make out the face of the pilot. Again and again the planes flew above them. Then came the screaming voice of one of the masters, barely audible above the roar. Running toward the boys gathered in the yard, he frantically waved his hands, trying to get their attention. As the boys began running toward him, suddenly the ground at the lower portion of the compound started scattering up into the air. By now, all were fully aware of the master’s fearful and urgent calling. That, and the terrifying sounds of the weapons firing, set fear rampant on the yard. Everyone was heading for the main dormitory nearby. The master yelled, “Get on the ground—quickly!” Automatically everyone sprawled on the ground. It seemed as if the world were about to end, and everyone in it were destined to perish. Later, as it turned out, it did end for a fifteen-year-old boy. He had been on the compound that fateful morning as the planes flew over, firing their guns indiscriminately. For a brief moment the gunfire ceased. All jumped to their feet, including the master, who was attempting to corral everyone and to lead them toward the dormitory. “Run as hard as you can!” he yelled over and over. Hearts were pounding, voices screaming with fear. The safety of the building would be a refuge, should the plane come back and commence firing again. To the rear raced Jozsi, next to Csaba, both running as fast as their feet would permit them, when Csaba turned to look back. His eyes widened, almost popping out of their sockets. “They’re back, Jozsi! They’re coming again!” he screamed. Jozsi looked back to confirm what Csaba was saying. Most of the others had already reached the dormitory and were going through the large doors. Jozsi and Csaba were just a few yards away when Jozsi heard the now-familiar sound of the plane, its weapons firing. Alarmed, he saw the ground popping and churning progressively toward him. The sensation of heat rushed past his ears with the sound of “whoosh” followed by a very loud thump in front of him. Only sometime after Jozsi and Csaba had reached the safety of the building did they realize their near fate—the bullet had whizzed by Jozsi’s head, just millimeters away, and lodged into the edge of the entrance door. The plane passed over again, but the residents were sprawled out over the floor of their dormitory. This time they were safe, but quick and heavy breathing could be heard, along with coughing from the strenuous running. While the boys were recovering from their flight to safety the master, who had been trying to help everyone inside, shut the door to the entrance, blocking out the light of day. “Wow!” thought Jozsi. “What a day so far! Why was the plane shooting at us? We are just kids, and anyway, we have done no harm to anyone.” At that moment, the gravity of events took hold. Practically everyone started to cry, their bodies shaking with fear. Jozsi could hear in the background more crying and sobbing as other adults arrived, trying to calm the younger ones, urging the others to pull themselves together and achieve some sort of order. Finally recuperating from the events, people began to stand up and help others to their feet. Following this, they obeyed instructions from the masters to assemble in the dining hall. Children of this Institution had formed various attitudes and opinions toward the masters, who were both liked and disliked. Today, however, all masters fell in the category of guardian angels. No matter what the usual description of these men happened to be, on this day the boys of the Institution would have disobeyed no one. In the dining hall, the masters waited patiently but anxiously. They huddled together and whispered, then they would walk away from each other and look out over the trembling children. Not everyone in the Institution had been involved with the same horrific experience as Jozsi and others of his group, so there were many versions being recounted and many wide-eyed listeners. Some of the story tellers displayed fear-filled faces, while others chose to act as if enduring today’s crisis was second nature to them. Such stoic mannerisms belonged to the “puffy ones”—the “nothing-scares-me” kind. Jozsi thought how nice it would be . . . if there were a device that could truly show how such pretenders had reacted while running, running to save their miserable little lives. There was yet another kind of reaction among the youngsters in the dining hall—those who preferred to remain silent, looking as if they preferred to be alone while trying to cope with their fear. Most of the very young children could have recovered more easily in their mother’s arms. As Jozsi thought about those children, he, too, thought, how soothing it would be, to be in his mother’s arms, being comforted and told not to be afraid, not to be afraid because she would take care of him. But that was not to be, Jozsi knew—for if it were possible, then why was he here? A feeling came over him, a feeling that had become all too common of late. With his inner voice, as if to punish himself, he said, “Stop! Don’t you do that! YOU KNOW BOYS DON’T CRY, only sissies do.” It took all the courage he could muster to choke back the tears. He wiped his eyes and felt the coolness of a single teardrop. Then, he regained his composure and saw that the masters were about to announce something. The head master started to speak, his voice trembling. With great difficulty he composed himself and stated that because of the tragic turn of events in the yard earlier this day, a life was lost—the life of one of the residents, a boy by the name of Mathias Szabo. He was a fifteen-year-old who had grown up at the Institute, living there since the age of seven. “He died instantly from wounds received in the airplane attack,” the master concluded. Mathias had no immediate family other than a paternal grandfather. It was going to be very difficult to locate him, especially due to the events taking place down in the city. Everyone was extremely saddened to hear of Mathias’s death, for he was one of the best soccer players at the Institution. Being one of the oldest residents, he had been preparing to attend trade school soon after the start of the New Year. So, reflected Jozsi, the Institution would no longer be Mathias’s home. Most boys had called him “King Mathias,” after one of the great former kings of Hungary. For a fleeting moment, Jozsi questioned whether the historical King Mathias would have let such events take place as the one that had occurred today. Lunch was late and meager in content, yet there was not much whimpering about this. Food was not normally served in great quantities except at the evening meal. No one appeared very hungry anyway. Lest there be a repeat of this morning’s attack, the yard was off limits for play. Although no one had heard any explanations for the attack, most of the boys seemed not to care. Had fear gone as quickly as it had come? Inventing indoor games became the pastime of the moment. The favorite games were those with which the boys could irritate the masters. After all, that was the name of the game. Irritate. Buy this Book now | THE JOURNEY to AMERICA | RED CYCLO COOK BOOK | | PUBLISH MY BOOK | BOOK STORE | | Return Home | What's New | Events Schedules | Our Services | Great Links | FAQ Page | Contact Us | Download Page | BLOG | |
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