Chapter 2

Sometimes, if we went early enough on Sunday morning to visit, we would attend Mass at Holy Cross Church on South Street. Then, as a child, the church was always full to capacity. We would sit among the congregation just under the very ornate pulpit located on the left side facing the altar. For the gospel readings and sermon, the priest would make his way from the altar and ascend up into the pulpit where he would be right in and above the congregation. The pulpit has a cover that extends out and above from where the priest would be standing. From there, his voice boomed out to me in a loud and almost frightening way. Then, the Gospel readings and sermon were always in the Magyar language as it still is today on Sunday 11:00 Mass. Nowadays, although the pulpit is still there, it is never used.

My parents, William S. Kemény and Rosalie Csóka, and my maternal grandparents, József Csóka and Klára Rákosi were married at Holy Cross. This is where they all

belonged, attended Mass and received the sacraments. It is also where my sister and I were baptized.

Holy Cross was and still is more than a church. It is a gathering place for social and Hungarian ethnic events. In my childhood, my family would attend these various affairs. I would be with them at some of these occasions. One time in particular I remember was at a dance with a Gypsy band playing up on the stage. I became enthralled with the cimbalom and how the man would hit the strings with a quick motion using a baton in each hand. It was mesmerizing to watch as he struck the strings so fast to make the music. I wanted to do the same, so when the band went on break; I snuck up on the stage up to the cimbalom and took hold of the wands or batons that were lying there. I started to strike the strings as he did, but only made noise instead of music. Of course, it didn’t take long before I was discovered and chased away.

At one of the grape festivals there were grapes hanging overhead on stings. I think it was upstairs at the old Verhovay Club or maybe Holy Cross. My father lifted me up to “steal” a bunch of grapes. It was all in fun, because if you were caught “stealing” you had to pay a fine that really was a donation to the event.

To this day, Holy Cross is still dear to me. Its part of my past and I am still a parish member even though I now live far away.