2. Saturdays

It’s been nearly 27 years since the day I left Slovakia and closed the door behind me. I haven’t been back yet and with more time and more years passing, I find it increasingly more difficult to even think about going back. I know there is some unfinished business that I need to face. 

My father is mentally ill. I do not want to reveal his diagnosis just yet. I am not ready for that. Later on. Maybe. On the outside, in the pretend world, he is fine. According to his parents, my grandma and grandpa, he is fine. According to his siblings, nothing is wrong with him. According to my mom? I don’t know, it’s just not something to talk about. And so I live my childhood in a pretend happy world where everything is fine. Mental illness is a taboo  and I have no choice but to comply.

*************

I hate Saturday mornings. Rain, shine, snow, ice, wind….I have to go to my piano lesson every week, no matter what, no exceptions. 

It is 6:05 am when my father and I step into the freezing dark world. I carry my bag filled with my music books. It is actually a briefcase that is nearly as big and as heavy as me. He refuses to carry it for me. The briefcase doesn’t have a shoulder strap and I have to carry it by hand. I am trying to maintain a firm grip on the handle but I forgot my gloves at home and my fingers are turning red. I can barely feel them now. We are running late because I took too long to get ready. We have to get to the local bus stop to catch the bus that will take us to the train station. Usually, it would be about a 20 minute walk, but now we have to make it in 15 minutes to catch the bus. 

“Dad, my hand is very cold,” I sniff, “the bag is so heavy.” 

“Uhm-hm,” he responds, his hands resting safely in his warm pockets. “Can you walk faster? We are late!” He speeds up his stride and I can’t keep up. He grabs my free hand and pulls me behind him, my arm outstretched on one side and my big bag weighing me down on the other. My little feet are just not fast enough and I am always a few steps behind him. I wish my arm was stretchy and longer, he is pulling me so hard. By the time we get to the bus stop, we are practically running. He shoves me inside the bus and the folding door closes behind us a second later. Whew. 

We make it to the train station but the train is not here yet. The blackness of the night finally lifts and the world takes on a grayish shadowy color as the sun is getting ready to appear. My breath forms smoky clouds in front of my face and my teeth are chattering. “Come on, train, get here already,” I whisper.

“Caw-caw,” the crows seem to like this place since there are so many of them on the ground, on the light poles, everywhere. I stare at them and deep down, I hate them. I watch them gathering around the train tracks and I wish I was still in my cozy warm bed. To this day, I think of the trains when I see or hear a crow. 

“You ready?” Father's voice breaks out my thoughts. “Let’s get in, we need to get a good seat!” The train is finally here and yay, it is heated. I can finally sit down, unthaw my frozen fingers and watch the little Slovakian villages and countryside through the windows as we pass them by. It takes an hour to get to the professor’s town and another 15 minutes to walk/run to his apartment.

Mr. Michaels is a nice man and he has a long music resume with many impressive accomplishments. But boy, does he like to talk! My piano lessons start at 8am but he doesn’t look at me or the piano until 8:50am. My father and Mr. Michaels talk and talk and talk. I don’t know what they are constantly talking about but I am yawning and fidgeting, counting the slow minutes until I can go home. 

“Well, that’s it for today,” Mr. Michaels announces at 9am. “You did a great job, Jarka. You are pretty talented, did you know that?” 

“Uh-huh,” I mutter while my father hands Mr. Michaels his weekly fee. 

“I will make sure she practices, Mr. Michaels,” my father is beaming at the compliment I just received after my 10 minute lesson. He is smiling and I know he is true to his word.

Now we can finally go home. But the worst part of each Saturday is not the early mornings or the train ride or the scary crows. It is the bus ride home. There are no trains running after my piano lesson, so we have to take a long-distance bus. Stinky, diesel fuel sneaks up into my nostrils and my stomach immediately twists with motion sickness. Unless I sit in the very front seat watching the road, I get nauseous and more often than not, I throw up the poppy seed content of my stomach. This in turn irritates my father. “Ugh, you know there are no trains available right now, we have to take the bus!! You need to eat more and you will be fine,” he shakes his head. He is right, I am making it on a half a bite of pastry and 5 poppy seeds. I am hungry and sick at the same time. But every Saturday, if I do a good job at my lesson, I receive a piece of chocolate and candy for lunch and even though I am still hungry, I don’t say anything. What child would complain about chocolate and candy? I surely don’t.