PROLOGUE
It started just like any other day, but June 3rd, 1946 turned out to be
an important one for me and my future family. If George Shillinger would not
have come to Uni that day, or if he would not have felt safe with me to tell me
his plans, or if we would not have met on campus when we did, I might never
have become a citizen of the United Kingdom, married to a New Zealander, living
in Australia.
George and I were first year students at the University of Engineering
Studies in Budapest. We were not close friends but knew of each other's
political feelings, ever since we stood side by side at one of the compulsory
lectures by a visiting communist minister. We were unimpressed and being young,
stupid and believing that our new-found democracy that has taken over from
fascism has given us the right to have an opinion, we expressed, rather
unwisely, a doubt about something or other that the lecturing politician
stated.
I cannot now remember what it was that the Comrade Minister said,
neither can he, for he was accused of being a Western spy and executed within
the year, but we did get into trouble and were told by some fellow students,
whose full-time job was membership of
the Party, that if we wish to act in such a reactionary manner and show
ourselves as being the same type of class aliens as our parents, there will be
no place for us at the University.
Thus it was no surprise to me that George Shillinger trusted me and
said good-bye. He was leaving for the border town of Szombathely that evening
and meeting some of his friends in the best hotel of the small township and
going across the border within the next 2 or three days.
I certainly was interested, because I heard from some rumour-monger or
other that all University Students will have to volunteer for a year's service
on the land or in a mine or building the railway, and having done my stint in
these fields, I was less than willing. I knew that wielding a shovel in
different political climates, under different dictatorships will still produce
nothing but blisters and there are no long term benefits in becoming unpaid
labourers.
Andrew Pór, a relation of mine has survived the Russian winter as a
Hungarian army sergeant and Mauthausen Concentration Camp as a Jew, came home
from Austria, waited around for a while in case his young brother returned from
the copper mine labour camps of Bor in Serbia, (Leslie and thousands of other
camp inmates didn't) got himself a fresh set of clothing, had a few good meals
and then set off for the West. Being an experienced survivor, his opinion of
the Hungary of early 1946, had to be respected. However, it would be
simplifying matters to say that people left Hungary those days to escape having
to do a year's service for the Nation. The atmosphere throughout the country
was such that people were restless and the great unasked question: "What
next?" was in everyone's mind.
After a War, into which Hungary got involved unwillingly, yet due to
her geographical and political position automatically, which gave Hungary new
territories without fighting, a war during which most of its Army was not in
action against the enemy, yet was destroyed, - people were confused.
There is no simple one-page history available to explain the paradox
that was Hungary during the first half of the twentieth century, - and there is
no history available which would suit all the Hungarians. The way I saw
Hungary's past is different from the views of the person who persecuted me for
reasons of his politics or due to his intolerance or upbringing. Our
differences were irreconcilable.
Even the Hungarian who did nothing against me or the likes of me, but
whose only worry was to survive the war thought in a completely different fashion
to me. His life in the post war era became one of belonging to organisations,
attending demonstrations in favour of the Government and making sure that he
keeps his mouth shut. He knew that he was not free, but he did not know what it
means to be persecuted, - I did.
In 1946 I was a Hungarian, who realised that I had no future in
Hungary. At the ripe old age of 20, I had a past, which I did not wish to
remember, which was unhappy, frightening in retrospect and unbelievable in its
injustice. Having lived through it, I could not believe what happened in Europe
during the 1940's, yet it was true. How on earth could I foretell or be hopeful
about my future, when I had no say in my past?
When the war finished there was a hope that things for us Hungarians
will be different. The German war machine was beaten and the Russians, who
liberated Hungary, allowed free elections to be held.
We were hearing about our new democratic institutions and there was no
reason why Hungary should not become part of the new Europe. Yet within months
we started to have our doubt and disappointments. When the communists did not
win the free elections, they proceeded to gain power using less democratic
means. This was not dissimilar to the way the Nazis took over Germany in 1933.
The fascists in Hungary may have ceased to advertise their old ideas,
but did they really change? Just a few months after the war Jews were actually
killed in Hungary, only because they were Jews[1] and those
involved were not prosecuted.
In fact, one evening walking in one of the main streets of Budapest, I
was attacked by a group of louts, shouting anti-semitic slogans and when I
complained to the police, who stood around watching it all, they shrugged their
shoulder and suggested that I forget it.
There were many others who saw the light and left Hungary and it was
obvious that getting across the border will become increasingly difficult.
Already we heard of the mines, the blood hounds and the AVO, the communist
political police, who have taken over the role of the thugs of the Nazi party
storm-troopers. They did not need to rehearse or study what to do, - often they
were the same people and to make matters easier for them, they even took over
the same buildings. The cellars of these buildings used to hold people because
they were Jews, now they held people because they were capitalists. Some times
they were the same people tortured by the same thugs, but for different
reasons. Thus, the news that George
was leaving Hungary for the West has struck a cord with me and I couldn't get
to my father's office soon enough.
"George Shillinger is off to Szombathely tonight. I am going with
him, what do you think?" I told him and waited for the explosion that
never came. He agreed. Just like that.
My mother was not that easy. She could not see how she can prepare
roast chickens, cakes, goose liver and have my clothing clean during the few
hours left before the train left for the border town. I agreed there should be
some time allowed to prepare myself for the trip and thus I rushed off to
George's home to tell him that I will be coming but not for another three days.
George was pleased that I decided to come, but regretted that I have to
delay my departure for the border. He was sure that by the time I get there, he
and his friends will have got across the border.
"Never mind, I'll catch up with you in Vienna" I suggested,
but he was sure that by the time I get to Vienna, he will be in New York, - at
least. After all, he did speak 'perfect' English.[2]
Back home my Mother was cooking feverishly, while the maid was washing,
bleaching and ironing. Father was digging up gold coins and dollar notes in the
coal cellar, I was opening toothpaste tubes and refilling them with gold
chains. The gold coins are to be stitched into leather belts, while the dollars
go into match boxes. Where else?
The delay in leaving allowed me to say my good byes. My friends wished
me luck and envied me, my ex girl friend, whom I have not seen for the previous
3 months, became hysterical, declared that she cannot live without me and I had
to get her boy friend of the day to help me in getting away from her with my
eyes unharmed.
I visited my aunts and uncles, who were quite surprised, at the stupid
idea of my wishing to leave Hungary illegally and even more surprised that my
parents agreed and aided me in this. My grandmother, a great little lady of 81,
who by that time was quite forgetful, was very sad to hear that I am leaving
Hungary for ever, promptly forgot it all and when I finally left she gave me a
cheerful Adieu, the Hungarian equivalent of "See you later,
Alligator".
On the evening of June 6th Mother, Father and I were off to the railway
station. I bought a ticket to Szombathely, boarded the train, waved to my
parents and I was off. No problems with either the police or the railways, and
unlike so many previous partings, there was a complete absence of tears.
There was of course no reason for any tears, after all I was not going
into the great unknown, I was going to the border, crossing it to get to
Vienna, from where I am to contact my brother in England and my various
relations in America, all of whom will be able to arrange my immediate visa for
admission.
In fact, my parents made me promise that I will go to England and wait
for them there, even though I preferred to emigrate to the US. However, I
promised to await their arrival for a big family reunion with all four of us
together after almost 8 years apart. In fact, if there was any sorrow on my
leaving my parents behind, it was due not to any anxiety, but to their being
envious of my seeing my brother before they will be able to visit him.[3]
The train journey was completely uneventful. The train was full with
peasants and Jews. The peasants were returning to their villages after bringing
their farm produce to the city for barter. They were loaded up with lengths of
textiles, linen and ironmongery and having been able to fortify themselves with
their home made plum brandy, they were in high spirits.
More quiet were the other passengers, quite obviously Jews and
travelling towards the border to leave the country. While a good proportion of
them were assimilated Hungarian Jews, dressed not much different from the rest
of the population, the majority were bearded Orthodox Jews from Poland, Romania
or Russia, wearing their traditional black caftans and rabbinical hats. They
were travelling for the past month or two and they were on their way to
Palestine.
The fact that geographically they were travelling in the wrong direction
did not seem to worry them. They tried getting out of Russia via Romania, but
failed to get through to Turkey, so they were advised to go via Hungary to
Austria and then on to their final destination and dream: Erec Israel.
Conversation with them was minimal. They spoke no Hungarian and I spoke
no Jiddish, a fact which they could neither comprehend nor forgive. In spite of
the close similarity of German and Jiddish, they could hardly understand my
speaking German to them, which they answered in their own language, but
increasingly slower and louder. In the end they felt offended by me, a Jew who
was not prepared to talk in Jiddish, the language they believed all Jews were
supposed to speak. It never occurred to them, nor was it possible to explain
that Hungarian Jews were assimilated and could speak neither Jiddish or Hebrew.
We left Budapest's Southern Station at about 7 p.m. and the journey
should have taken about 3 hours. It took longer and I arrived at around mid-night to the small railway
station of Szombathely. I had two suitcases, it was raining, I had no idea
where the hotel was or if my friend George is still there. Finally I found a
sleepy railway employee, who told me where the hotel was, advised me to sleep
in the packed waiting room, instead of chancing some marauding Russian
soldiers, who were terrorising and robbing the population.
Nevertheless, I left the railway station and set off in the darkness
for a 2 kilometre walk to the hotel. The streets were unlit, unfriendly and
deserted. Obviously everyone else listened to the railway porter's advice.
Expecting a cheery "stoj" from an official Russian patrol or an
unofficial one, I wished I had listened to his advice.
I got to the hotel, rang the bell, and after a lot of questions by the
porter, who came down from his bed in his underwear, I was admitted into the
hotel. Yes, George was still in the hotel, so were his other friends. Yes, he
had a bed for me, Mr Shillinger had arranged it. It was on the first floor,
room 11, next to Mr Shillinger's room.
I went upstairs alone, dropped my luggage in my room and knocked on
George's door. "Enter" and I did. George was in bed, smiling. His
other two friends were also in their
bed, they were also smiling. There was a man sitting at the table and he
introduced himself as the member of the political police. He was also smiling.
I cannot now remember for sure, but I think I was the only one who was devoid
of all smiles.
or
Click to return to Contents Page.
