By Alex A. Kecskes
The setting sun smiles on a small village in Szegvar, Hungary. It is 1932 and the world is beginning to boil over for another war. But talk of global turmoil is distant here, in this serene place where dirt roads meet small cottages and horse-drawn wagons stroll lazily dodging goats. Chickens scatter as three children race out of town, laughing, skipping, and as carefree as the wind.
It’s a windy day. The children run into an open clearing. One of the children is Milos Kozar, 14. The other is his sister, Judy, 13. Trailing behind is their youngest brother, Jozsef. Judy stands on a rise and lets the wind rush through her hair. Milos joins her and opens his jacket wide to catch the wind. He shouts, “If the wind were stronger, I could fly.”
“You can’t fly, stupid,” Judy extends her hands.
Milos waves to Jozsef. “Jozsef, come up here. Whoooo. I am ready to take off.”
Judy joins Milos on the rise. “Jozsef, come on.”
Jozsef, sitting on a log, produces a pad and pencil. He begins to sketch what he sees. Milos and Judy lean into the wind, which is really strong now.
Milos turns to Jozsef. “Come on. Put that down.”
Judy pirouettes. “Girls are more flexible. We have better balance. You look like a scarecrow, Milos.” She leans forward. Her sweater flailing in the wind. Hair rushing straight back. Jozsef smiles and continues sketching.
Milos sees rolling tumbleweed. The tumbleweed roll faster as a wind gust whips them along. He jumps off the rise. Judy, graceful, leaning into the wind. Her hair and skirt dancing wildly. She’s a Max Parish image. Soaring. Laughing. Milos has tied together several large tumbleweeds and is being pulled by them. “Yeeeeaaaaaaa.” Jozsef looks up and laughs quietly. He starts a new sketch.