Valerie Byron--The Houseguest Who Came With Ornaments And Left With Airfare

Back in the mid-1970s, my life was overwhelmingly full. I had a baby, a four-year-old, a full-time job, and a household that apparently operated as an unofficial refuge for anyone having a difficult time.

A down-on-his-luck friend of my husband? Come on in. An ex-boyfriend of mine who came to visit and forgot to leave? Apparently, we accommodated those too. Bill was remarkably tolerant. Looking back, perhaps we both needed supervision.

We had a pool, a Jacuzzi and an address that suggested considerably more money than our bank account could confirm. People thought we were wealthy. We were simply generous, with poor boundaries and a nice postcode.

We enjoyed helping people.
Then we met Juraj.

My husband, Bill, had taken his car for repairs in Santa Monica and stopped at a restaurant for something to eat. There he struck up a conversation with a young man from Czechoslovakia who spoke perfect English and was a violinist between engagements.
Quite a long way between engagements, as it turned out.

Bill arrived home full of enthusiasm. Juraj—pronounced “Your-eye”—was fascinating, talented, charming, and had been invited over.

Some husbands bring home flowers. Mine brought home people.
Juraj had no car, so I’m still not sure how he found his way to Manhattan Beach, but near Christmas, there he was. He brought beautiful ornaments for our tree, taught us to prepare gourmet dishes from his homeland, and thoroughly captivated us.

At this stage, he was an excellent advertisement for himself.

We enjoyed many lively dinners together before he announced that he was going to stay with a friend in Laguna Beach. Later, he told us he had found a job at Tower Records.

Then came an invitation. His friend was away—would we like to visit?

Of course we would. We took Vanessa and left baby Nick with a babysitter because he would not stop crying. Looking back, perhaps Nick had instincts the rest of us lacked.

We spent a lovely weekend at the friend’s beachfront home.

Afterward, our connection with Juraj faded, and years passed without a word.

By about 1991, he had become a pleasant memory.
Then the telephone rang.
Juraj was frantic. He had lost his job, had no money, and his friend had thrown him out. He had nowhere to live.

Bill looked at me. I looked at Bill.

My sensible instinct was to offer him some money.
Then another part of my brain—the part that should never be allowed near household decisions—announced:
“Go and get him,” I said. “Bring him back here.”

There are moments in life when you wish someone would gently place a hand over your mouth. This was one of mine.

Bill went to collect him, and Juraj installed himself in our son’s bedroom. How he fitted into that little twin bed remains a mystery. He was a large man, both physically and in personality, and neither seemed designed for compact accommodation.

At first, it was fun having him around.
Then he started smoking.
I had given up smoking in 1986 and had become one of those former smokers who could detect a cigarette being lit in another ZIP code.

Juraj settled into a routine of eating, smoking, and being there.
Always there

Our son had lost his bedroom, my nerves were fraying, and our charming house was beginning to feel considerably smaller.
I decided that a job would help. After some effort, he was hired at Tower Records in Hollywood.

Wonderful!
Except he had no car.
So I drove him to work from Manhattan Beach.
And went back to collect him.

Apparently, alongside my full-time job and family responsibilities, I had opened a complimentary chauffeur service.

On one journey home, I made the mistake of suggesting that his colleagues might be friendlier if he stopped behaving as though he knew everything about music and they knew nothing.

He became incensed.

He screamed at me and called me a selection of names that did very little to improve my opinion of either his manners or his musical expertise.

Being insulted in your own car by someone you have driven miles to collect is quite an experience. You have plenty of time to reconsider your charitable outlook while keeping your eyes on the road.

By then, it was clear he had to leave our house.
A sensible person would have helped him pack.
I rented him an apartment near Fairfax and Wilshire, furnished it, and paid four months’ rent.

Yes. You read that correctly.

My solution to an expensive houseguest was to give him his own premises at my expense.

For the first few weeks, everything seemed to be going well. Our son had his bedroom back. I could breathe without encountering cigarette smoke. Peace had returned.

Then Juraj telephoned.
His teeth were killing him. He needed dental work. He had no insurance.

Naturally, I arranged for him to see my dentist and paid the bill.

By now, I had provided accommodation, furniture, transport, and dentistry. All that was missing was a small plaque acknowledging my contribution.

After three months, he was fired from Tower Records.

At last, Bill and I reached the same conclusion at the same time.
Enough.
We told Juraj that he needed to return home or go to his friends in New York. We would pay for a one-way ticket to New York.

The words “one-way” had never sounded so beautiful.
He accepted.
He left.

We never heard from him again, although we eventually learned that he had returned to Czechoslovakia, married, and had a child.
I sincerely hope they had a happy life.

It was the most expensive lesson I ever learned: an open heart is a lovely thing, but it really should not come with an open-ended account. And if a charming violinist ever offers to decorate your Christmas tree, admire the ornaments.

Keep the spare room to yourself.

After writing this story, curiosity got the better of me. Whatever became of our mysterious Czechoslovakian violinist, Juraj?

It turns out that our rather eccentric houseguest had lived a life worthy of a Hollywood film — and that was before he ever crossed our doorstep!

In August 1968, at just nineteen, Juraj watched the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia unfold on television. Within two hours, he had packed his belongings and fled, leaving behind his parents and three brothers.

His escape was nothing short of extraordinary. Hiding on and beneath railway carriages to avoid arrest, he was reportedly shot in the legs and actually pulled the bullets out himself! An elderly Czech couple had agreed to carry his precious violin to Zagreb, but when he finally staggered into the city, covered in mud and blood, they barely recognized him.

Eventually, with the help of some extraordinarily kind strangers and a railway conductor who smuggled him into a first-class compartment, he reached Vienna.

He desperately wanted to go to America, but the queue outside the American embassy stretched for three blocks. After two days of waiting, he tried the Canadian embassy instead.

And here comes the delicious irony. Canada operated a points system for immigrants. Doctors were highly desirable and could earn around thirteen points out of sixteen. Juraj, a violinist, scored the full sixteen!

His first years were miserable. He washed dishes and cars for a pittance, sometimes earning just forty cents an hour, while practicing his violin at night with hands exhausted from manual labour.

But eventually he auditioned for the Canadian National Arts Centre Orchestra, competing against fifty-one other applicants.

From there, his life became a whirlwind. He studied at the Royal Conservatory in Brussels, performed across North America, and met some of the greatest names in popular music.

And get this — one morning, while staying at the luxurious home of Canadian music entrepreneur Harvey Glatt, he walked into the living room and was introduced to none other than John Lennon!

He also recalled meeting Bob Dylan, Rod Stewart and a very young Michael Jackson.

Juraj eventually returned to Slovakia in 1995 to care for his father. He became a music broadcaster, teacher and musicologist, earning a doctorate in music. Sadly, arthritis eventually prevented him from performing concerts.

And what of his adventures in Manhattan Beach? The swimming pool, the jacuzzi, Bill, the children, and the long-suffering woman who had to accommodate yet another of her husband’s fascinating discoveries?

Still, I must admit, discovering that our unforgettable houseguest had escaped Communist troops, survived gunshot wounds, become an accomplished musician and rubbed shoulders with rock royalty has given me an entirely new perspective on that extraordinary chapter of our lives.

And to think, all those years ago, I thought he was just another stray Bill had brought home!

Postscript: The biographical details come from an interview with Juraj Scott published in the Slovak newspaper MY Nitra. His account of his escape and subsequent career is quite remarkable

Juraj Scott (13 March 1949 – 1 June 2012) died in Nitra, Slovakia, and is buried at Mestský cintorín (City Cemetery) in Nitra