The Radio
Whew-ee-yoo-ee-yoo-ee-yoo… The whistling sound faded in and out. It sounded strange, possibly like some exotic, tropical bird. We were hunched forward, sitting in a tight half circle. In the center was an imposing, large radio, in a beautiful, glossy wooden case, that could receive short, long, and medium wave broadcasts. My left elbow resting on my knee, I was delicately holding the tuning knob between my right thumb and middle finger.
Pubi would say “Common now, center it!”. “Hang in there” I would reply. “It’s not so easy.” I continue easing the knob clockwise almost imperceptibly, looking for our station The short wave band is incredibly crowded. Hundreds of stations jammed into very little space. The tuning indicator, a needle gliding left and right as I turn the knob, does not even appear to be moving while static alternates with whistle, then static, then Morse code, then more whistle, then some speech in incomprehensible languages or faint musical noise. Most stations are just not powerful enough to come in clearly. Not that it was the radio’s fault. It was cutting edge at the time, the 1950’s. This was before the days of FM, or high fidelity, or even transistors. With some frequency, when the radio would blink off, my brother or I had to open the back and peer inside to see which vacuum tube was dark, so we could unplug it, and find a replacement. The top of the radio was a hinged lid covering a phonograph |
turntable, whose tone arm was heavy, and rode on steel needles, that had to be replaced frequently. If not handled carefully, the heavy arm could slide across a record and scratch it badly, something you did not want to be blamed for, if at all possible.
From the perspective of today’s technology, the old radio seems really primitive. The delicate touch it required would be intolerable to the me-now generation, in the accustomed world of digital tuning, lock-on capability of even cheap radios, or the ability to set favorite stations you could return to with the touch of a button. But to us it was exciting, and the source of one of the rare, secret pleasures we all craved – to catch a few minutes of decadent, corrupting Western, popular music, preferably jazz or swing. Under the communist regime Western music was considered bourgeois, not fit for listening by progressive proletarian audiences. So there was a small risk involved: someone could report that we spent our time soaking up swing rhythms, and our families might get into trouble with the authorities. So the volume was always set low so even my parents would not hear the broadcasts. I continue my quest. Maintaining delicate balance over the chair, supreme concentration on the kinetics of skilled, light-handed, touch. Holding my breath, focusing on keeping my hand steady. I think I hear something. Piano? |
But the breathing sound of my friends is interfering, it is hard to tell if what I faintly hear is music or random noise.
“Shshshshsh!” I say. They all stop breathing for a few seconds till I am sure it is jazz I hear. The U.S. Armed Forces daily program from Stuttgart! The very best! Shifting slightly in my chair I focus on the radio’s “magic eye”. This is its most advanced feature. It is a small, round light, glowing green, with a darker green cross in the middle. It is designed to help you center a station for best reception. The cross gets skinnier as the signal strength increases. If you can get the cross to be just thin lines, you have the clearest reception. Alas, the cross was just not getting too thin. Stuttgart is a long way from Budapest. But with sublime concentration I release the button and turn the volume slightly higher. We hear a |
piano rendition of Begin the Beguine, with only very slight static in the background.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief, straighten up, and look around. Four happy faces sporting enormous grins, slightly bobbing rhythmically, in synchrony. Knees bouncing. Shoulders rocking. Eyes sparkling. This is all the communication we need. We are all on the same wavelength. And as in the ocean, much of the wave action is under the surface. We all imagine that instead of being surrounded by guys, there are girls in the other chairs. And our bouncing knees want to jump up and dance with them. Alas, there are no co-ed schools in Budapest in the period. Therefore girlfriends tend to be imaginary for 15-16 year olds. So we revel in our fantasies and the jazz provides the perfect ambiance. Ersatz joy. |