My father would always speak to his parents in Hungarian. I would listen to my father's voice, amplified by the acoustics of our tiled kitchen and by his vain attempts to communicate to his near deaf father: "Apu ... nem, nem. Tessék, Apu." I heard this and assumed that "apu," the Hungarian word for "father" and "anyu," for mother, were my grandparents' names. So I would always call them by "anyu" and "apu." Apu died exactly one year after Anyu's memorial service.
* * *
Dan and I hopped up the cement steps of Anyu and Apu's apartment. Mom and Dad paused a moment to gaze at the Hollywood sign that proved they were really back home in California. I reached up to buzz the doorbell. Looking through the tiny window in the door, Apu paused a moment. Then, he proceeded to unlatch the series of deadbolts and chain locks that always confused me when it was time to leave their apartment. He leaned down to give me what my brother and I later dubbed a "Jewish kiss" -- a kiss on each cheek that all of our relatives on my father's side of the family administered during greetings and goodbyes. I stared up at the sparkly ceiling as Dan wiped his cheeks - he was going through that phase. We kids made ourselves at home, playing with little animal statuettes and ornaments in the jungle of fuzzy African violets that Anyu grew.
Because we came to visit only about once a year, my grandparents were sort of strangers to me. I clung to my father's pant leg when we ventured into Apu's workshop. The towering, little room was overflowing with all sorts of little metal knobs and hinges. Once or twice, the alarm that Apu had built went off when Dan and I tried to re-enter the apartment from the back. I usually kept a good distance between myself and the workshop, the creaky old fire escape, and the cement backyard with lemon trees (I've always hated lemons).
The one occasion on which I would willingly venture to the back was when Anyu would take my mom and me out to hang the laundry. I felt as if I was one of the women. Anyu, Mom, and I would dig into the plastic milk jug with the cut-off top to pick one of the hundreds of colorful clothespins. Most of the laundry I had hung would end up with pink clothespins.
When I came inside, Apu gestured for me to come and join the conversation. I sat on the big sofa in the living room and listened as he described how the radio worked. It was rather incomprehensible to a kid my age, but it was fun to hear Apu's excitement and belief that Dan and I would, at least eventually, figure out the difference between AM and FM frequencies. Then the discussion (or rather, storytelling; Apu didn't converse well because of his deafness) turned to (as it often did) opera and all of its wonders. Maybe later Apu would tell us a story about himself or some of his friends. One of my all-time favorites was the one about his Australian friends who smuggled their diamonds out of Eastern Europe in the handle of a knife.
As usual, Anyu brought out a loaf of mákos and beamed at my excitement. The sweet pastry had a swirl of poppy seeds in the middle. This treat occupied me through the long adult conversations that night time always brought. Then, it was time for the "Hungarian goodbye" -- a farewell that would last much longer than a normal one. We stepped down to the street and took a whiff of Apu's prized roses before getting into our rental car. I fell asleep on the way to Uncle Andy's house and dreamt of Disney Land and Knott's Berry Farm.
* * *
Dad had just finished explaining Anyu's condition. He explained that Apu had been taking care of her along with a Hungarian nurse who visited every day. "Please try to engage Apu in some conversation. He gets lonely since Anyu's accident." I walked up the familiar steps to the apartment, knowing that it was probably near to the last time that I would. Anyu's medical needs were getting increasingly demanding and she would need to move into a nursing home soon.
As Apu opened the door, I tried to put on a happy face and bring some life into the place. Many of the cute knickknacks that Anyu used to keep around had been packed or given away. I sank into the blanket-covered couch with the roto-photo-album that I loved to flip through. There were pictures of Anyu and Apu all over the world when they were younger. I smiled at the picture of them in front of the Sidney domes from when they had gone to visit some old friends from Hungary that had moved to Australia. I looked up to see Anyu slowly shuffling into the room, her weight on both Apu and the walker that she clasped. She barely managed a smile, gazing at me as she went through the steps involved in getting into her chair.
I looked to my Mom for reassurance and asked Anyu how she was. "Terrible," she said with a sad laugh. Apu leaned in to wipe the sides of her mouth with a Kleenex. For the rest of the visit the conversation was held predominantly in Hungarian among Apu, Anyu, and my father. Dan and I went off to amuse ourselves by riding in the wheelchair. I pressed my lips together as I peered into the now empty case that had one held Anyu's treasured wedding favors and vacation souvenirs.
The next time we visited, we drove down to the Valley where their new home was. Dad greeted the large lady who said Anyu and Apu were, "Vell ... okay. But you vouldn't know it from asking zem." Then she laughed.
On the rest of our visits, Dan and I resorted more and more quickly to the comfort of the roto-photo and the amusement of the wheelchair. When time would come to say goodbye, I often got squirmish. It was terrible, but I was sort of scared to kiss Anyu and Apu. They were becoming so delicate and ... so old.
* * *
Apu was not happy about moving to the cold East when Anyu eventually died. Yet, he was glad at the chance to see us kids more often. Mom and I had lots of fun planning how we would decorate Apu's apartment in the assisted living complex. Then Dad asked if we really thought Apu would like any of it -- we decided to just move in some of our extra furniture. I made all these plans to go visit Apu and bake something for him in the big kitchen that guests could use. I thought I could visit him on the way back from the gym on weekends. Of course, that worked out as well as the average exercise program.
In fact, I ended up seeing Apu only about once a month on short evening visits that my father would persuade our family to make. My father took Apu upon himself and came to his apartment almost every other day in order to deal with bills, prescriptions, and to make sure that Apu was remembering to take his pills. I always felt guilty when I came to visit because I hadn't been for so long and I knew I wouldn't be back soon.
Apu would occasionally start up a story or scientific explanation, but could only manage the beginnings. He often joked about himself, something that I believe has been passed down in the family. He said he only needed one book, his science textbook, because he would forget the beginning before he got to the end and be able to reread it.
It was so hard to watch Apu and now that he wouldn't be around much longer. But then, I thought of a new way of looking at it. Instead of fearing what was to come, why not concentrate on Apu instead of my fears. I started to not just listen to the stories that were hard for Apu to tell, but to tell stories of my own. I would give (loud) reports on how my plays were going and what school was like. It made me so happy to see him interested in my stories. So, I continued updating him on my life during the visits to his apartment, then his stays in nursing homes, and finally to the nursing home that he died in. I was sad when he died, but consoled by the fact that we were both given the chance to tell our stories to each other.