Carl Levitian
member
There wasn't many places to get a French made Simca serviced, even in 1959.
Growing up in the 1950's, there was a great deal of neat and sometimes strange little European cars around. The VW bug had not yet driven off all the competition, and there was Renaults and Simca's from France, Voxhauls and Hillman's and Morris minors from England, Fiats and Alfa's frome Italy. Being a high school senior from a working class family, I needed a cheap car to get around. What I ended up with was a little red Simca.
It was a couple years old, in clean shape, and the guy I bought it from gave me all the service papers from a local place called "Varhidy's Simca and foriegn car service". It was there I met a strange man named Emory Varhidy.
Mr. Varhidy was the owner, and 50% of the workforce in the garage, along with his hired man, Robert. Emory Varhidy was a medium size guy, maybe in his late 40's to 50ish, strait dark hair tinged with silver, brushed back from a high forhead. He had a passing resemblance to the actor Bella Lagossi of the Count Dracula movies of the 30's. This resemblence was more marked from his Romanian accented English. He kept my little Simca serviced and running like a top, and we slowly got to know one another. Once in a while I would drop off the car in the morning on the way to school, and pick it up in the evening. Sometimes I got there when it was just being finished up, and durring the winter this would be dusk.
Varhidy's garage was not in the best part of Kensington, down an alley of mechanics shops, welding shops, pluming supplies. Crime was not an unknown thing in that local, and people were a bit carefull. It was with a feeling of alarm when I saw Mr. Varhidy take the days payments from cutomers and put it in his jacket pocket and tell Robert he was going to the bank down the street before it closed. At the time, Robert was finishing up my car and simply gave an okay. I watched Mr. Varhidy pick up a cane from a corner of the office and walk out the door. This was passing strange, as Mr. Varhidy was not impared in any way I'd ever seen. In fact he was very physically fit.
As he vanished out the door, I asked Robert about the cane, and he laughed, and replied in his rolling carribean accent ( I only learned later he was from Trinidad) "Ohhh, He be okay, he got his stick with him. I feel sorry for da mon who mess wi da boss."
I thought about that while Robert closed the engine hatch and told me it was good to go. He was making out the final bill when a siren went by. Then another.
Going to the sliding door and looking out, there seemed to be some sort of rukus down by the corner just shy of the bank. Under the street light we could see Mr. Varhidy talking to the police, so we went down to see what the problem was. There was indeed a problem. Or more like a couple of them.
On the pavement were two young punk types, who would need transport via ambulance to the local hospital. Mr. Varhidy was a little exited, and one of the cops had his cane. From what they gathered from Varhidy as well as a couple of witnesses from the hardware store right there, three punks tried to rob Mr. Varhidy on his way to the bank. The one that ran off was the lucky one. His two partners in crime had some broken bones, and were much worse for wear than the intended victim. Later investigation found they had watched Mr. Varhidy walk to the bank every night with the days reciepts, and deceided to rob him. The cops gave Mr. varhidy his cane back and we walked back to the shop. As we walked, Mr. Varhidy swung his cane along, not really using it to walk with. I asked him about how he knew to use it like he did. He just gave an enigmatic shrug. Robert, in a good mood that his boss had triumphed, said that Mr. Emory, as he called him, gave them some of that gypsy mojo.
"Gypsy?" I asked.
Mr. Varhidy gave Robert a stern look, then shrugged and told me that he was of the Romani people. We were sitting in the cluttered office now, and Mr. Varhidy spoke of his boyhood in Romania, of traveling around, being chased out of places, attacked, being always on the move and in a state of fearfull watchfullness. Gypsy men would teach thier sons how to defend oneself with a stick, as most places gypsys were forbiden to have weapons. Since one always had a walking stick or staff in hand traveling the road, it was a chosen weapon, along with small knives. Then the war came, and the Nazi's sent them all to the camps. Emory Varhidy said he never saw most of his family again. On the liberation of camps, he emigrated to America.
It was full dark now, and he opened a drawer of the desk he was seated at. Taking out a brown bottle, he looked at me and asked, "How old are you now?"
"18 sir."
He splashed a light brown liquir into three glasses, and he, Robert and myself had a drink. A nice warmpth hit my insides from some sort of brandy. And I listened with rapt attention to what was to become one of my many mentors in life. Over the next year he would coach me on many things. On his advise I went into the woods and cut myself a hickory staff, no higher than the lower most rib on my side, and let it age for a few months, and not peel the bark but to leave it rustic looking. Only a cotton jute cord wrap grip area up top and a rubber cane tip on the bottom. He showed me how a shorter stick or cane was handier in close quarters than a longer staff. How to go for the smaller bones in the hand and wrist to disable an attacker. To go for the knee to cripple so you can run away. How a small slim screwdriver could be carried in comfort, but pierce like a stilleto if shoved in the right place. And be ditched down a sewer with no great loss.
A year out of high school, I enlisted in the army, and I only saw Mr. Varhidy once in a while when home on leave. Once I had driven home in the mid 60's in my 3 cylinder Saab that was in need of a clutch job. Mr. Varhidy took it in as a rush job, and in one morning had my little Saab ready to roll back up to Ft. Devons, Massachusetts. When I went to pay the bill, he would not take my money. He said it was his gift for keeping America free.
I lost touch with Emory Varhidy when I did a long tour over in Germany. When I came back, the garage had been sold and the new owner told me Mr. Varhidy had retired and moved south with his wife. I think of him now and then, and have a drink to his memory. He was a good mentor for a young guy, and I think his teachings saved me from harm a time or two.
He was a darn good Simca mechanic as well.
Growing up in the 1950's, there was a great deal of neat and sometimes strange little European cars around. The VW bug had not yet driven off all the competition, and there was Renaults and Simca's from France, Voxhauls and Hillman's and Morris minors from England, Fiats and Alfa's frome Italy. Being a high school senior from a working class family, I needed a cheap car to get around. What I ended up with was a little red Simca.
It was a couple years old, in clean shape, and the guy I bought it from gave me all the service papers from a local place called "Varhidy's Simca and foriegn car service". It was there I met a strange man named Emory Varhidy.
Mr. Varhidy was the owner, and 50% of the workforce in the garage, along with his hired man, Robert. Emory Varhidy was a medium size guy, maybe in his late 40's to 50ish, strait dark hair tinged with silver, brushed back from a high forhead. He had a passing resemblance to the actor Bella Lagossi of the Count Dracula movies of the 30's. This resemblence was more marked from his Romanian accented English. He kept my little Simca serviced and running like a top, and we slowly got to know one another. Once in a while I would drop off the car in the morning on the way to school, and pick it up in the evening. Sometimes I got there when it was just being finished up, and durring the winter this would be dusk.
Varhidy's garage was not in the best part of Kensington, down an alley of mechanics shops, welding shops, pluming supplies. Crime was not an unknown thing in that local, and people were a bit carefull. It was with a feeling of alarm when I saw Mr. Varhidy take the days payments from cutomers and put it in his jacket pocket and tell Robert he was going to the bank down the street before it closed. At the time, Robert was finishing up my car and simply gave an okay. I watched Mr. Varhidy pick up a cane from a corner of the office and walk out the door. This was passing strange, as Mr. Varhidy was not impared in any way I'd ever seen. In fact he was very physically fit.
As he vanished out the door, I asked Robert about the cane, and he laughed, and replied in his rolling carribean accent ( I only learned later he was from Trinidad) "Ohhh, He be okay, he got his stick with him. I feel sorry for da mon who mess wi da boss."
I thought about that while Robert closed the engine hatch and told me it was good to go. He was making out the final bill when a siren went by. Then another.
Going to the sliding door and looking out, there seemed to be some sort of rukus down by the corner just shy of the bank. Under the street light we could see Mr. Varhidy talking to the police, so we went down to see what the problem was. There was indeed a problem. Or more like a couple of them.
On the pavement were two young punk types, who would need transport via ambulance to the local hospital. Mr. Varhidy was a little exited, and one of the cops had his cane. From what they gathered from Varhidy as well as a couple of witnesses from the hardware store right there, three punks tried to rob Mr. Varhidy on his way to the bank. The one that ran off was the lucky one. His two partners in crime had some broken bones, and were much worse for wear than the intended victim. Later investigation found they had watched Mr. Varhidy walk to the bank every night with the days reciepts, and deceided to rob him. The cops gave Mr. varhidy his cane back and we walked back to the shop. As we walked, Mr. Varhidy swung his cane along, not really using it to walk with. I asked him about how he knew to use it like he did. He just gave an enigmatic shrug. Robert, in a good mood that his boss had triumphed, said that Mr. Emory, as he called him, gave them some of that gypsy mojo.
"Gypsy?" I asked.
Mr. Varhidy gave Robert a stern look, then shrugged and told me that he was of the Romani people. We were sitting in the cluttered office now, and Mr. Varhidy spoke of his boyhood in Romania, of traveling around, being chased out of places, attacked, being always on the move and in a state of fearfull watchfullness. Gypsy men would teach thier sons how to defend oneself with a stick, as most places gypsys were forbiden to have weapons. Since one always had a walking stick or staff in hand traveling the road, it was a chosen weapon, along with small knives. Then the war came, and the Nazi's sent them all to the camps. Emory Varhidy said he never saw most of his family again. On the liberation of camps, he emigrated to America.
It was full dark now, and he opened a drawer of the desk he was seated at. Taking out a brown bottle, he looked at me and asked, "How old are you now?"
"18 sir."
He splashed a light brown liquir into three glasses, and he, Robert and myself had a drink. A nice warmpth hit my insides from some sort of brandy. And I listened with rapt attention to what was to become one of my many mentors in life. Over the next year he would coach me on many things. On his advise I went into the woods and cut myself a hickory staff, no higher than the lower most rib on my side, and let it age for a few months, and not peel the bark but to leave it rustic looking. Only a cotton jute cord wrap grip area up top and a rubber cane tip on the bottom. He showed me how a shorter stick or cane was handier in close quarters than a longer staff. How to go for the smaller bones in the hand and wrist to disable an attacker. To go for the knee to cripple so you can run away. How a small slim screwdriver could be carried in comfort, but pierce like a stilleto if shoved in the right place. And be ditched down a sewer with no great loss.
A year out of high school, I enlisted in the army, and I only saw Mr. Varhidy once in a while when home on leave. Once I had driven home in the mid 60's in my 3 cylinder Saab that was in need of a clutch job. Mr. Varhidy took it in as a rush job, and in one morning had my little Saab ready to roll back up to Ft. Devons, Massachusetts. When I went to pay the bill, he would not take my money. He said it was his gift for keeping America free.
I lost touch with Emory Varhidy when I did a long tour over in Germany. When I came back, the garage had been sold and the new owner told me Mr. Varhidy had retired and moved south with his wife. I think of him now and then, and have a drink to his memory. He was a good mentor for a young guy, and I think his teachings saved me from harm a time or two.
He was a darn good Simca mechanic as well.
