Days of Orphans and Strangers

by Tamas Dobozy

Sándor Kálmán was a tough guy. He would move an oak desk or filing cabinet or armoire without bothering to unpack what was inside. He had a temper as well, and his voice could blow a door off its hinges whether he was yelling in English or Hungarian or even German, which was a language Sándor spoke fluently, though try as he might he had no memory of how and when he'd learned it. He'd flown back to Hungary once, in 1960, without a passport, evaded the communist guards at the border, went to his stepsister's place, beat the crap out of the brother-in-law who'd in turn been beating her, stopping only when the brother-in-law promised never to harm her again, and then returned to Canada carrying a suitcase full of cseresznye pálinka off the plane.

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