My Gypsy friend

I was six years old. Shovel-eared. This means that my ears stuck out at a right angle from my head. Today, such a thing wouldn't even be noticeable if I saw it, but back then I experienced it as a catastrophe and had surgery at the age of 18.

The feeling of catastrophe at the age of six was also reinforced by the fact that I was a favorite target of the "big boys" at school, which meant 9-10-year-olds. These were tall, fair-skinned, well-dressed boys from the new town. They played soccer, they were cool, and they smelled good. But I hated them. Hate is not the right word because it has some aggressive attack in it. I was actually terrified of them. I wanted to disappear, be absorbed, and I begged my mother to take me out of school. They caught me in the hallway, but even more humiliating was when they simply followed me into the classroom and led me out in front of everyone. Then they circled around me, hooting, shoving, calling me shovel-eared, bunny, or even mouse.

A Gypsy kid was my only companion. Companion is not the right word either, because it implies some kind of solidarity, partnership, some cooperation. We didn't cooperate. I was just as terrified of this Gypsy boy as I was of the others. It was an event when he graciously appeared at school. He was much older than us, as he had already repeated the first grade who knows how many times. He was physically very strong, although not tall. A small, agile-eyed iron worker. They said he had jumped out of a police car while it was moving when they wanted to take him to an institution. I could easily imagine that.

He spoke very disrespectfully to the teachers, and if he didn't like something, he simply went home, but not before throwing half-bricks he collected from nearby ruins at the school building. Dozens of us kids stood there, fearfully recoiling further back in the yard so as not to be hit by the bricks. No one dared to say anything to him. I tried to avoid even his gaze because I felt he would take it as a challenge and beat me too.

On one occasion during a craft class, we were working with glue. We were in groups of two or three. He ended up in a group with a Hungarian boy and another Gypsy kid. The Hungarian guy was my desk mate. As a somewhat clumsy child, he couldn't open the glue tube, so the others helped him. But somehow the tube slipped from his hand, and the glue shot out with great pressure, hitting the Gypsy kid in the eye. A huge, painful scream shook the room, and immediately afterward, the two Gypsy boys started beating my friend.

The teacher dragged the Gypsy boy out by his hair, screaming. He was also screaming, both from the glue, the rage, and the procedure he deemed unjust. Again, like everyone else, I lowered my head, as any partiality or glance could have made me a victim as well. It never occurred to me to defend my friend. I was more cowardly than that.

I became companions with this Gypsy boy named Jóska because he had a much younger sister who, due to his many failures, was now his classmate. This girl was called Rozi, she had dark skin and curly hair. I played with her a bit during breaks. I don't remember what we played, it was probably more of a conversation, but with laughter. I don't remember the words, but I do remember the confusion that this girl talked to me so maturely. Today, I would say she was flirting, but it was more like a mischievous game.

At the end of one break, I noticed that while we were going back to the classroom, Rozi's brother was looking at me. My blood froze for a moment, but only for a moment, because this look was warm and grateful. He didn't say a single word, he just let me go ahead in the room.

It didn't take long, and soon it was my turn again. The big boys appeared and at first, they just taunted me, then they started surrounding me in the yard. But the Gypsy kid was there too, who saw all this, and like a wild animal, he charged at these good-smelling new town kids. I left the circle immediately and saw that those bullying me became the victim of wild power, just like the Mayas in the movie of Mel Gibson.  

After the break, the principal, whom everyone was terrified of because he could give huge slaps, stormed into the classroom door, dragging two older students who were literally soaked in sweat. He asked the still trembling boys to show him who had beaten them up. Unanimously, they pointed at the little wild man, my savior named Jóska, who looked back at them with his peculiar, impassive gaze.

I didn't speak a word to him after that. We didn't become friends, but after a few similar incidents, no one bothered me again because of my protruding ears. A few years later, he failed again, and I never saw that little Gypsy boy again, who was my only protector in that school.