Memorial service held for Imre Kovacs

I attended Imre Kovacs’ memorial service on Saturday, Aug. 15 at River of God Christian Center with an image of my Imre as an unassuming octogenarian who seemed to be everywhere in the neighborhood—joining protests against the city’s evil plan to gentrify our waterfront, socializing in Red Hook’s interim library that he helped to establish, attending various community events, and roaming around with his best friend, Dave Lutz, with whom he spearheaded community garden projects and made various forms of trouble for stodgy local bureaucrats. 

Imre was a casual friend of mine who was the subject of one of my columns in this paper, and I always loved running into him because he was fully engaged in our conversations, which made me feel heard in this annoying age of distraction. Imre was a gentleman with an infectious smile and lots of spicy knowledge about neighborhood goings-on. I was upset when I heard that he had died, even though not long ago he had told me himself that his chemo treatments had stopped working.  

When I left the memorial service, which was filled with family members, friends, neighbors, and Imre’s fellow congregants at the River of God church, my image of the modest gentleman who always had time for a cozy chat had transformed into a vision of a neighborhood powerhouse, a fiery activist who let nothing and nobody stop him from carrying out the projects that he deemed necessary for the improvement of the neighborhood and the city he loved so much.    

I learned from the emotional eulogies of his son, Tobin, his daughter, Kathryn, and his two grandsons that he grew up next to a Pennsylvania turkey farm, that his father was a Presbyterian minister and his mother had been an accomplished Hungarian violinist. I learned that his family moved to New York City when he was 10 years old. His loved ones shared some quirky things about him, such as his decision to major in Chinese at Yale University before completing his studies at Yale Divinity School, and his dandyish style in his younger years, when he would enjoy sporting double-breasted suits, bow ties, and spit-shined shoes.

As a young father Imre was an enthusiastic playmate and loyal friend. He flew toy airplanes with his kids in Riverside Park and helped them scavenge parts for go-cart construction. He built them each a separate tree house. He taught them how to fish and make a campfire, and how to wield a hatchet to chop wood. Tobin reported that his dad was a respectable chef, that his Hungarian ganoush was unrivaled. Kathryn recalled that after a “bad breakup,” her father called her every day to make sure she had something to do to distract her from her heartache. 

Sadly, Imre divorced Betsy, the children’s mom, when the children were still teenagers, and their father became temporarily distant from them while he focused on his second marriage to Oona, which ended a few years ago with her death after a long struggle with breast cancer. 

Several friends delivered short eulogies, all of whom emphasized Imre’s passion, kindness, and take-no-prisoners determination in the face of adversity. One fellow sports enthusiast spoke about Imre’s single-handed organization of a Red Hook baseball league to give kids in “the Houses” the same access to our neighborhood ballfields as the privileged kids from across the highway. Several congregants laughed together about Imre’s obsession with getting the silent church bell repaired. (The bell works now and was peeling to announce the memorial service of its staunchest advocate.) Jessie Wayburn, his personal assistant, recalled visiting Imre in the hospital while his appetite was waning and observing his horror at having to refuse one of two strawberry milkshakes he was given. “Cancer started taking his life, but it never took his spirit.” Jessie observed. One of his friends remembered Imre’s triumphant joy when the local court dropped bogus charges against her. “He reminded me to wave the dismissal papers in the air when I left the courtroom,” she said. 

And then there was the story Imre himself told, possibly apocryphal but maybe not, about being sent with explosives as a young lad to blow up the Hungarian embassy as a revolutionary act, and fortunately being caught before the deed could be accomplished. His minister father, when informed of his son’s adventure, frowned disapprovingly and remarked, “They sent a boy to do a man’s job.”

Toiny pointed out during his eulogy that, after a life of community activism, Christian ministry, and even Wall Street financiering, his father enjoyed his most productive years in his older age. He listed his dad’s recent prominent roles in community affairs, and after each hard-won achievement he mentioned the attendees broke out in cheers. What became obvious from all the cross-talk, applause, and speeches was that Imre had an extraordinary talent for connecting with every person he met. “He was a brother, and a friend, but also a good neighbor,” said Minister Stacey, who presided over the occasion. “Having an encounter with Imre was truly a blessing.” 

The memorial service for Imre Kovacs (which was followed by a backyard cookout), concluded with a thunderous recording of “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis, and Imre’s mourners danced in the church aisles. And in that moment, my image of my engaging and unassuming neighbor transformed into a more accurate vision of a man who had more fire inside of him than ever met the eye. I was not a close friend of Imre, but I love my neighborhood and I was suddenly hit with the extent of our loss, and while that joyful song careened off the walls, I cried.