MY PARENTS

Dating

My father first saw my mother on a street car. He was traveling with one of his friends:"Do you see that woman?" - he asked. "She will be my wife!" He followed my mother home, bribed the concierge into telling him her name and found a friend who actually knew my mother. Somehow he managed to get himself introduced.

According to my mother her first reaction was:"Who is this old man and what does he want from me". She was going out with a nice engineer, well-mannered and well educated. But my father grew on her, and he was insistent. They went to concerts, dances and hiking together. My grandmother did not care for my father too much, especially when compared to the engineer.

They were dating for a while, when my mother suddenly fell ill. She had meningitis. My father prepared himself and found out about the illness, then he proceeded to tell my mother and my grandmother that there was a small chance to survive, but even then most likely there would be some brain damage. Just what they wanted to hear. He was telling them all this while he was sitting on a chair next to my mother's bed, on top of my grandmother's hat, flattening it to an unrecognizable pulp. But my mother was one of the first people to receive penicillin in Hungary, and recovered unharmed.
They got married in 1947. My mother never fails to tell us - whenever she has the chance - that the night before the wedding she kept turning and tossing around in bed, thinking:"We have a long life ahead of us, what are we going to talk about?" Either they lived in silence for a long time or she must have solved this problem by now. They getting close to their 65th wedding anniversary in July.

My Father and I, 1958? &
My Bother with my Father, 1975?

The wedding was small, they grabbed two unsuspected passer-bys from the street and asked them to be their witnesses and went on to their honey moon at the Gellért Hotel's most exclusive suite for three days. With the little money they still had after that my father started a small business.
My mother could not go to university before the war because the "Numerus Clausus Law" in Hungary prohibited attendance of most Jews from university. After the war she finished her studies and at the same time she had her first child, my brother in 1948.

Meanwhile my father without a former education was doing extremely well, as long as private enterprises were allowed to operate. He and his business partner were making gadgets and widgets and everything that you could think of as long as they were made out of plastic. One of their many imaginative products was a plastic band for wrist watch. Well, those did not sell very well, until one of the largest batch of them burnt almost to an unrecognizable mess. They looked so bad with their uneven surface and charcoal color that my father was ready to dump the whole lot.  But then, in came the savior, somebody from the street with loads of money and no taste or feel for the current fashion trends. Or was he ahead of the curve?  In any case, he bought all of the burnt merchandise, paid with cash and ordered three more batches of the same. Needless to say, my father could never reproduce his best selling goods. But at Christmas time he was roaming Váci Street, the most expensive shopping area of Budapest, in order to get rid of all the cash that he felt was burning a hole in his pocket. He was successful spending all his money. Little did he know that by that time his business partner has left the country, taking everything with him; money form their bank account and even the equipment from the plant.   My father was never one for saving for a rainy day. Perhaps the war toughed him to live in the moment and enjoy life while you could.

So if it had to happen at any time, it was the best time to happen. He was robbed by his partner, others were robbed by the government. After 1948 almost everything became government owned, people lost their businesses.  Of course it all happened for the greater good of the people. The democratic dictatorship (and this was not considered a joke or oxymoron).of the workers in strong alliance with the peasants knew what was best for all.

My father continued his carrier in the chemical industry, mainly working with plastics. He was a member of the Communist Party, as well. He got a middle level degree in chemistry by attending night school, passing his classes mainly due to his charm. This did not mean that he did not know his profession. He was a very capable manager with many great innovations. The workers who worked for him loved him, his conflicts were always with upper management.

During the fifties it was mandatory to participate in the festivities on May 1st. Everybody was on the streets, cheering the Great Leader, the Father of all Hungarians, Mátyás Rákosi. People were carrying Hungarian flags together with the red flag of Communism. They "proudly" wore medals on their chests, given by the state for being exemplary workers of the Hungarian Socialist People's Republic. These medals were variation of red stars. My father received plenty over the years, but he never wore them. By then he understood the theory of the Communist dogma, and he fully knew what it meant in practice. On one occasion, a party secretary approached my father during the May 1st celebration. "Comrade D., I don't see your medals. Aren't you proud of them? I would attach them on my bare skin!" - he exclaimed. My father calmly replied: "Be my guest, Comrade Secretary, pin them on your skin". I suppose the answer was so unexpected, that there were no consequences.

At the same time, my mother finished university, but she never graduated as a psychologist, which was what she really wanted to be. Instead she had two other degrees in Marxist Political Science and in Library Studies. She went to work for the Library of the University of Humanities. At is happened, the place where she worked was loaded with people declared undesirable by the Communist regime. Accomplished philosophers, literally critics and people with advanced degrees in all fields found refuge at the library. None were particularly supporters of the current government.  Years later, some of her coworkers played important roles in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, but for the time being, they were just fellow travelers working with my mother. My mother loved to work there, it was a sane and calm island in the midst of a crazy outside world.

Me with my Father's hat 1958

My Brother & I, 1960?

In the early 1950s a new law called "Ratko's Act" made abortion illegal in Hungary and also "encouraged" to "produce" a child as a patriotic act showing commitment to the system. I suppose my birth was not entirely related to this act. My parents felt that things have consolidated and they always wanted to have a second child. When my brother was born, parents still had to declare a religion for their child. My brother was christened. I grew up without religion.  Not that my brother had any, either. But he was not even told of his Jewish origin, until he came home from school, a  small, 8 year old second grader, and started to call everybody a "Dirty Jew" he did not like. My father, who normally was not really involved in child rearing, felt it was time for his son's education. This mistake was not repeated with me. I always knew I was Jewish, although I had no clue what that really meant. All I knew, that it was a word I did not like to hear or to say. Was I ashamed of being Jewish?  Perhaps, but I really never dwelt on it till the 1967 war.

My Brother & I, 1968

Then my father brought back a book published in Israel that chronicled the Yom Kippur war, through the eyes of the Israelis. Of course the official Hungarian version was totally different. (Hungary did not even have diplomatic relationship with the Zionist state of Israel). Regardless of any facts about the events, I saw in my father's eye that he was proud of being a Jew, and he felt that in the first time in history the Jews defended themselves and were not victims again. I became aware of my heritage.  I read a lot and formed my own opinion.

I started to grow up. And my world opened up when I started traveling. Every year since age thirteen I took a trip to a different country in Europe. It does not sound much today, but in those days, living in a Communist country, I was really privileged to do this. My uncle was instrumental in this, by helping me financially and meeting me on some of my trips. The first time in my life I wanted to learn English.

I applied for a passport to England. My uncle was going to pay for a 5 week English course for me. The rule was that Hungarians could travel to the West once every three years. They could only exchange a small amount of Hungarian money to dollars. (70). However, if somebody had a relative who invited them and sent proof of the financial support, then travel was possible every other year. My uncle sent the invitation letter together with the money. Yet my passport was refused. I was told that I could not study English abroad, only the Hungarian government could send its citizens to the west to study. (How crazy, instead of being happy that someone would learn something and the country does not have to pay for it, they denied this opportunity). I appealed and wrote: "If my studying English is against the wishes of the government, I of course promise not to do so!" Crazy enough, I got my passport. (I still am not sure if they believed me, or the friend my father had in the government helped. I think the latter!).

Then came the biggest surprise, two weeks before my trip the British Government refused to give me an entry visa. I had to go to the British Consulate. I was seventeen. There was an official interpreter who was supposed to help me to answer the questions. But he consistently changed my answers and I began to feel that his only goal was for me not to get a visa. So I interjected and let the Consul know that what I said and what was translated are two different things.  It was a risky thing, since obviously the translated was part of the secret police.  I did not know that at seventeen. But the Consul must have liked the fact that I spoke English and he gave me the visa on the spot.

I went to England. 

But I think that and some other stories do not belong to my family history. To me that is not history yet.

Nine years later I left Hungary for good. For nine years I could not go back. In 1990 I returned with a nationless passport. I visit every year since. Today, I hold both a Hungarian and a US passport. My parents are still well, although my mother, just like many other women, hates to have her pictures taken. So on my last visit my daughter, who comes with me every year since she turned two, took this picture.

Me, my Father and Brother, 2012