TRAVELING

By now most of you who read my previous posts must be sick of the family history.  (Assuming that there are some who actually read my blog – from the feedback or the number of signed up followers this number must be minuscule).

Why traveling? Perhaps it is because as I write this I am sitting on a plane between Atlanta and Houston. When I was growing up my parents taught my brother and me an important lesson. Do not spend your money on materialistic things; like expensive cars or a vacation house, or god forbid jewelry.  (I managed to get married twice and bought only two wedding rings; one per wife). It was not because of my parents’ high ethical or moral standards that called for denouncing materialistic values. No, this teaching stemmed from my parents’ and grandparents’ life experiences. Things can be taken away, memories, adventures and experiences stay with us for life. As it happens, their “things” have been taken away twice, first by the Nazis than later by the Communist. So in order for not to lose my memories, I might as well start jotting them down.

Of course I already missed out writing about some of the most memorable trips of my life. I did not write about how in Guatemala, Joanna and I climbed a live volcano, she half way on horseback and I all the way leaning on a stick to give me at least a third leg to compete with her four legged porter. At the crater it was so hot that the dogs that followed us all the way up could barely stand; they rolled over and lay on their back begging for food. And we were the only ones who could not eat our sandwiches, because we felt obliged to share or rather give them to the starving dogs. And I also did not write about how we refused military escort to the newly discovered Mayan ruins. We were assured it would be a real safe trip, but somehow I do not like to take safe trips where I must have military escort. And all this, just shortly after we survived a highly dangerous zip line tour above the jungle.  No, the danger was not in the zip line itself. The danger was presented by our fellow traveler, a kind and brave American woman, who we happened to meet in the jungle of Guatemala. She was, and I am not exaggerating, way north of 500 pounds.  She had a hard time climbing up to the starting point of our zip line because her hip circumference was just about the same as the protective cage around the stairs. And then, try to imagine hanging on the line - 100 yards above the canopy of the jungle - and watch as a human canon ball is barreling down towards you at the speed of a lightning bolt. This is what Joanna experiences. Many things went through her mind: “Is the wire strong enough, is she going to crush me when she inevitably catches up with me?” They were Joanna’s thoughts, because I being the cautious and generous person I am, let her go first right before tons of fun took the ride.  I hung back and watched. Somebody had to be there in case we needed pictures for insurance purposes.

I also missed writing about our excursion between gigantic phallic symbols in Cappadocia, Turkey. Amazing, not sure if we were on Earth or on the Moon? (I know you expected me to write Heaven instead of Moon, or maybe Paradise, given the culture of the country). But it is true, Turkey is a Paradise for travelers, who want to see touristic sceneries but also want to disappear deep inside a country without other intruders. And in Turkey, you can do that. Take Konya. We did not plan to go there, but ended up there. Perfect place. Birthplace of the swirling dervishes.

Then experience being totally lost in the main railway station of the capital Ankara, with no signs in English and nobody to help you with any information. But you arrive there on a truly modern, high-speed train. You must love it.

So now I am brushing up on my Russian. It is like trying to brush my hair. Nothing to brush, but unlike my hair, that used to be dense and plentiful, my Russian has never existed. How I wish now that I attended classes instead of playing table tennis in the basement of my high school! I did not learn to play well and I certainly did not learn Russian. Our plan is to hop over to St. Petersburg in the summer. If we ever manage to get a visa, that is. One would not know that Russia is not run by the Communist bureaucrats any more.  Or is it? Thank god for the European passport we shall be there. And I will write about it.


For more pictures click the yellow highlights: 

GUATEMALA                                       TURKEY            

If you enjoy reading about traveling check out my friend's blog here    INDIA

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

HOW MY MOTHER SURVIVED THE WAR

My Mother at 16

My mother was born in 1924 in Békéscsaba. Her childhood could not have been any more different from that of my father's. Her father was well to do, her mother was well educated. The only similarity was that they both were Jewish, born in small towns and moved to Budapest at an early age. Her family was not religious, she converted to Calvinism shortly after the introduction of the first Jewish law. She made her parents celebrate Christmas just like many of her Christian friends did. 

My mother studied languages, she spoke three fairly well by the age of 14. She went to good schools, had perfect grades. She vacationed in Switzerland.

In fact, when World War Two broke out, she was in Switzerland, but my grandfather made sure she came home promptly. There were talks that they should all leave, take their money to the Swiss banks, but these plans were never serious, not then not later, not ever.

My mother's friends were intellectuals, left leaning intellectuals. She, not like my father, did read and understood the theory behind Communism, his boyfriend was a leftist. He was captured and killed, whether it was because of his political beliefs or just being Jewish that caused his death, difficult to say. Perhaps either would have been enough, but the two together proved to be deadly.

Life quickly became difficult for the adolescent girl in the early 40s. Her mother could not cope with the stress and her father was away most of the time. Her brother, too young and immature, was not much help. Money, while was not everything, made life a bit easier. But the decision making fall on my mother's shoulders during the hardest times. They acquired Swedish papers, which gave them protection for a while. They moved to a "Swedish House" but during one of the air-raids it got hit. To make matters worse, an Arrow Cross officer paid them a visit next night. There was a portrait of my mother hanging on one of the walls painted by István Csók, (a renowned Hungarian painter), the officer entertained himself by shooting both eyes out of the painting. My mother decided to leave the building next day. By night, all the Jews were taken away never  to be heard from again.

Money, luck and good decisions saved their lives.

HOW MY FATHER SURVIVED THE WAR

 

My Father at age 4
smoking and drinking beer

 He was born in 1923 and was an only child. It was not him but his father who was told: “Mr. D. your son is STUPID”. Although looking at his transcripts (if there were any to look at) might suggest that the description would fit him perfectly. Mildly put, his academic achievements amounted to nothing. Yet it was not really the result of him being stupid, but it was due to boredom. In fact, he was so bad that he attended 5-6 different elementary schools in order to finish the first 8 grades. The teachers let him pass only if his parents agreed to send him to another school next year. He only excelled in gym class and in religious studies; the bible stories seemingly grabbing his imaginations. The bad results may have been affected by the fact that he usually sold his books shortly after the school years started to augment his allowance.

By the age of fourteen he was expelled from all schools in Budapest proper. It so happened that one of the teachers was expressing his unfavorable views about the Jews in class, and for reasons unknown to anybody, my father did not appreciate the assertion. So to make sure that the teacher became aware of his disagreement, he slapped him around a bit. Luckily the injuries healed inside of eight days but under the circumstances it is understandable that the schoolboard felt that my father had learnt everything there was to know about life in Hungary and decided that he did not need to continue his education. Effectively they banned him from all schools in Budapest.

He ended up starting to work for a chemical company at the early age of 14. At least his job was glamorous and offered quick advancement. He was the first shovel in the basement, moving tons of soot every day. The reward for this was cancer of the larynx later in his life. But he became stronger which helped him in his next experience with anti-Semitism. In Hungary at that time, young boys had to participate in semi-military education under the auspices of the “Levente” movement. Anti-Semitism was rampant. So my father and his friend received special treatment in this movement. After one of his meetings, when he was particularly upset about the way his “education” was going, he and his friend waited behind the corner for some of the boys that harassed them earlier. They looked around and when they felt that nobody saw them, gently, mostly using their fists, explained the boys that they did not really appreciate the special attention during the Levente exercise earlier. They sealed their arguments with a final blow and blood was flowing from the noses of their victims. They just started to feel good about themselves when the Levente leader, seemingly from nowhere, showed up. He took them to the police station and left them with a big, brute-looking, screaming officer. The officer promised to the Levente leader that he would take care of these stinking Jews. Things did not look good. But after the Levente leader had left, satisfied that my father and his friend would be dealt adequately by the brute police officer in a dark cell, things changed. The face of the screaming brute changed and a wide smile appeared on his lips. He no longer looked frightening. But the biggest surprise came when he started talking: “Son, I think you should have beaten them up a bit more”. Luck was on their side, at least for now.

As I write now, I feel I need to note that growing up I knew nothing about all this. My father almost never talked about these events. I knew he had back pains due to the fact that his spine broke at an early age. I was told that a tree fell on him and smashed a couple of his disks. Not so.

I took private English lessons from a young woman, the sister of a classmate of my brother. One day, during a not so much English language related conversation, she brought up the subject about how my father was beaten and his back broken by the Arrow Cross (The Hungarian Nazi Party) men. I did not believe her and told her the “real” story about the tree. She smiled at me, I was only ten, and chill ran down my spine, realizing that she knew more about my father and his past than I.

Years later, I learnt the truth about this and about many other hair-raising stories of suffering and survival. I am sharing the ones I recall.

So yes he was beaten by the Nazis and practically left crippled. Somehow he managed to get to a hospital and he was put in a full body cast, leaving only room for his stomach to grow. He was supposed to lie there for at least a year. But a couple of months later, an inspection took place at the hospital.  They were looking for Jews who were hiding, pretending to be sick. A doctor examined my father and read the diagnosis. He smiled and said: “Do not pretend to be sick.  You cannot hide here. Get up and leave”. Normally, if they found somebody who was hiding, they would have right away notified the Arrow Cross. But this doctor was really amused watching my father struggling to get on his feet and wanted to see him walking out on his own, believing that he would never make it. My father somehow made it to the tram and was heading home. With no money and ticket or identification paper, barely able to walk, he had not much hope of getting far. Everybody in uniform posed a threat. And sure enough the conductor asked for a ticket and consequently for identification. He had none. By then others noticed the problem and some young hoodlums were ready to beat him up again. The first punch landed on his chest, but the body cast performing as body armor, did his job. The attacker screamed, might have broken his fingers. My father somehow escaped. And when a week later a friendly doctor removed his cast, he remarked: “That Nazi doctor may have just saved you from being a cripple in a wheelchair for all your life. Your best chance to recovery is getting up and walking”. Get up and walk – as Jesus said.

Jewish laws were in effect early on in Hungary and the situation rapidly changed from bad to worse.  Yet, for a while young boys and women were left alone. Men, 18 years old or older, had to report for “Munkaszolgálat”, Military Forced Labor. My father tried to join, but his utter hatred towards uniforms and anything forced, prevented him to obey the law. He took the train to the camp where he was supposed to report, but never got off. He returned home and went into hiding. He was caught walking down the street with my grandmother. They took him to the infamous building of Andrássy Street 60. It was the Headquarter of the Arrow Cross and was also used as a prison. Later the Communists utilized the facility much in the same manners as the Nazis. Today it is a Museum for the House of Terror. During the night there was a call for women and children to leave. My grandmother, having fair complexion and blue eyes was already something of a non-fitting Jewess in the crowd. When she asked if she could leave with her “little son”, there was no objection.

My father had an old friend of Swabian origin who joined the Nazi party early on, when most people had no idea what they stood for. Once he realized what it really meant to be a Nazi, it was too late to quit. So he stayed in the Party, but used all his energies to save Jews. He got a job for my father working in the garage of Wessenmayer, one of the highest potentates of Hitler, stationed in Budapest. My father could even sleep in the garage. Who thought that a Jew would hide there? It was the safest place in the city.  But fear got the best of my father and he left this cushy job.

There were few who risked their lives to help Jews during the German occupation and even fewer once the Arrow Cross took over the government. My father came across a friend who was a member of the Communist Party. My father did not know too much about Communist theories and what they stood for. He knew they were the only ones helping Jews and had many Jews among them. He knew they were atheists. So was he.

In spite of growing up with religious parents, my father chose to be an atheist. So much so, that I never even knew that my grandparents actually practiced religion. He practically forbade them to tell me. When my father was 16, in 1939 he decided that there could not be a god, because if there were one, all this bad things would not happen. His belief was strengthened as things got worse in Hungary. Even though he had no formal education, he read philosophy, and made a note in Spinoza’s Ethics, marking the day when he decided there was no god.

So maybe, he had the first requirement to become a Communist. In any case the Communists gave him a fake document, in which all the major biographical data were correct, except for two. He was an Aryan and he was born in Pásztó, instead of Székesfehérvár, his actual birthplace. Easier to remember, less likely to mess up. This big and strong man told me that during the one time when he had to use this ID, he almost fainted of fear, his mind went blank and he probably messed up naming Pásztó as his birthplace, yet he was let go. The man who stopped him assured him that he could smell a Jew from 5 miles away. I guess the wind was blowing from the wrong direction, because his otherwise infallible smell let the man down.

He was not always this lucky. Not sure about the circumstances but one time he was taken to the lower quay of the Danube together with about a hundred other Jews. This was shortly before Budapest was liberated by the Red Army. (For Jews, the arrival of the Red Army literally meant a chance to survive, thus they still call it liberation, going against the current tendencies of Hungary that does not consider the arrival of the Russians liberation). The Arrow Cross routinely shot Jews into the icy water of the December Danube. My father did not wait, he “dodged the bullet”, by jumping into the freezing water. He stayed down quite a while and it is a miracle that he did not freeze to death.

But that was it, he decided, Budapest was no longer safe. Somehow he crossed the front line, by then Budapest was circled by the Red Army, and happily told the first Russian troop that he was a Jew, running from the Nazis. The Russian was not impressed even after my father confronted him with the only indisputable evidence of his Jewishness. And once again, luck was on his side. The commanding officer was a Jew himself. Of course a Russian Jew, and as such, he loved to drink, which meant my father had to join him and for the first and last time in his life he drank vodka from a regular size glass. After the feast, the glasses did not have to be washed; they were all just smashed to the wall. This officer wrote a pass for my father in case he would encounter difficulties with the new occupying army. As it happened, the pass was used already next week. But it may not have been filled correctly or for sure it did not impress the next Russian officer who just looked at my father and declared him an enemy deserter. He was heading to Siberia. The Russians collected men to make up their quota to be sent to labor camp. They may have even enjoyed throwing in a couple of surviving Jews. Once on the truck, the would-be new Siberian residents decided to jump and run at the next opportunity. And so, my father escaped for the last time.


He could not escape from the memories. For a short period of time he lived for revenge. I do not pretend to understand him, but I also cannot judge him. He walked the streets in search of Arrow Cross members.  He vowed that he would hit first and ask questions afterwards if he found one of those criminals.  And he mostly kept his word. One year after the war he recognized a man on the train, and he saw that the man recognized him, as well. He started walking slowly towards the man.  He could not reach him because he jumped off the moving train. He went to watch how all the major war criminals got hung. He offered to bear witness against those who were particularly brutal with the Jews in Labor Camp. The law said that at least two eyewitnesses were needed for  conviction. If a friend asked him to help, he even lied in court in order to secure a conviction. There were few Jews left who could talk for the dead, so he decided that it was his duty. Strange as it may sound, this was part of his healing process for the beatings, for living in fear, and at that time he believed it was revenge for his dead father.


He joined the Communist Party and he did believe that they would rebuild a better Hungary one without anti-Semitism. This angry man needed to fall in love to live a meaningful life.

MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS

Thanks to my editor and best friend Karcsi, I made some minor changes that certainly improve the quality of my blog. Do not rush to re-read anything though.

And now, just to confuse everybody, I will change narration and continue writing my story in first person

                                                                             

Great-Grandfather Jakab Weiss

I was one of the lucky ones who knew all his grandparents. Not only knew them but I lived with my mother’s parents. We had a large apartment, in one of the best parts of the Buda hills. “The Cadre Slope”, as it was known in Budapest, was preferred by the rich before the Second World War and by the Communist Leaders after they grabbed power. The villas were overtaken by the new elite in the early 1950s or were divided into many apartments and the “proletariats” moved in. The previous owners either fled the country if they were lucky, or they were forced to take in new “tenants”. Or they were just simply made to move to the countryside where they lived under dismal conditions. My grandfather on my mother’s side had good connections with the communists and was spared from the forced relocation. It seems that he always had good connections.

Great-Grandmother Roza Weiss

He was born into a poor Jewish family in the South part of Hungary, in Pécs, with a typical Jewish name Weiss, which was changed to the Hungarian equivalent “Fehér” meaning white. His older brother thought the Hungarian name would not immediately reveal their Jewish origin, so the name was changed when my grandfather was a small child. He was a tall but thin, rather weakly built man with dashing black hair and blue eyes. He avoided the draft to World War I. by being young and too lightly built. After finishing the minimal amount of schooling he moved to the town of Békéscsaba in the East of the country. Not having a formal education did not matter too much at the time. What really mattered was his quick wit, his incredible ability to count in his head accurately, multiplying and calculating percentages without mistakes. He was a risk taker and a gambler. Unlike my other grandfather, he won most of the time. He quickly landed a job in the textile industry and married my grandmother. My grandmother was the first

girl who attended and finished high school in Békéscsaba. She spoke three foreign languages and loved to read. They had two children, my mother was born in 1924 and my uncle in 1928.

                                                                      

Grandfather Béla Fehér (1898-1975)

My grandfather continued to succeed in business. He kept on gambling, his preferred choice of vise was poker. He frequented casinos and when he entered the crowed whispered: “Here comes Mr. F. and the bank”, meaning that he would bet big. He also liked women, especially young actresses. His winnings were often spent on them.

In the early thirties they moved to Budapest. By then my grandfather was a director of a major textile company. They produced the popular beretütype hat called “Swiss Cap” in Hungary. He came up with this name at least I was told he did. He also, according to the same information, named the most commonly used men’s swimming trunk “Fecske” for it reminded him of a flying swallow (the Hungarian name of the bird). Whatever the truth is, they had plenty of money, vacations abroad and

chauffeur-driven cars. He never did learn to drive, his first attempt ended up with him parking inside an expensive shopwindow. His only request to any driver all his life was to go slowly.

                                                           

Money was important, actually it saved his life. Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat saved many lives, Jewish lives during the worst times of the Holocaust. And sometime, having money was a good incentive. My grandfather was already on the train to Auschwitz when Wallenberg showed up at the station and paid off the gendarme for letting him and some others go.

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Grandmather Erzsébet Schwarz (1903-1984)

Meanwhile my grandmother was just lying in bed in a Swiss Protected Jewish house, letting my mother take care of everything. My mother grew up rather fast under these circumstances, while my uncle remained a bit childish, not really grasping what was going on around him. He even went to a soccer game with one of the employees of my grandfather, ditching the compulsory yellow star. The game was played by “Fradi”, clearly the preferred team of the Hungarian Nazis.

Jews in Budapest had a better chance to survive, there was no time to finish the “Final Solution”. All of the siblings of my maternal grandparents ended up in concentration camps, few surviving. My dear Uncle J., my grandmother’s brother, lost his twin children to Mengele’s experiments. His other child, together with his wife, also perished in Auschwitz. Yet he managed to remarry to someone he met in one of the camps. His whole life was spent helping others.                                                                                 

My Uncle & my Mother
Tamás Fehér (Tommy Faber 1928-2011)
Veronika Fehér (1924-

The Nazis took almost everything from my grandfather but he quickly re-established himself after the war. And, as it happened to so many others, the Communists also took everything from him. But he managed to land on his feet, one of his old bridge partners who sympathized with the Communists, saved him from forced relocation and helped him to get a job in the textile industry. His remaining valuables ended up in the hands of his lovers from whom he could not part even at the age of sixty. Yet, strange as it may be, my grandfather and grandmother loved each other deeply and grew even closer for their old age.

PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS

Grandfather & Gandmother
Imre Déri (1898-1965)  Katalin Léderer (1903-1972)

Legend had it that his great grandfather on his father’s side came from a family of more than twenty children. So when the mother started to fix sandwiches for the kids, by the time she got to the twelfth, the first one was already in line again. His great grandfather survived the fight for food and opened up an inn in the country side, south of Budapest. At the advice of the schoolteacher he hired a private tutor for his son. After the first lesson the private tutor asked the great grandfather if he could have a word with him. Well actually it turned out to be six words: “Mr. D. your son is STUPID!” He did not say slow, lazy, inattentive or even idiot. No, he said emphatically, he is STUPID. And from then on, down to generations, each son was told at one time or another, somebody said: Mr. D. your son is Stupid. The tutor may have been right, if stupid meant to have the heart of gold. His grandfather was generous to the fault. There was not one person who did not like him. He would give his last shirt to a needy friend, even if it meant to take it off from his own person.

But he did have a shortcoming. He loved horses, well not really horses but the excitement of betting on them. Yes he was a betting man. And he lost often and big. His wife was gone for a couple of days visiting her parents, and when she came home she found an empty apartment. The bed was gone, the table and the chairs were gone and so were all the wardrobes and their contents. Debt had to be paid even those times. Divorce lingered on the horizon but a weeping grandfather who swore never to set foot at a horse race saved the marriage. And he honored his promise, he never gambled again.

He had other strikes against him in life on top of being Jewish he briefly joined the Red Army of the Hungarian Communists. Not that he believed in communism, but at that time after World War I this seemed to him to be a good choice. In any case he survived the retributions waged against the reds and occasionally against the Jews. At least for a while.

His grandmother who stayed with the gambling man, must have had some stupid ancestors but for real. Again, legend had it that somebody, maybe a great or great-great grandfather fell in love with a Jewish girl. So deep he fell that he converted to Judaism ignoring all the disadvantages that came with it. Little did he know that this decision may cost the lives of many of his descendants. The grandmother must have inherited her blue eyes and blond hair from this one time officer of the Habsburg emperor who chose to pick a religion not suitable for his profession. But, unbeknownst to him, he may have saved his own great grandson by passing down these fair genes to his daughter. But that happened much later.

So the grandfather on his father’s side was the unlucky one who actually experienced the Nazi concentration camps. Although, he never talked about his experiences to his grandson T, he probably remembered it every day of his life. His tattoo reminded him as well. When he was taken and not heard of even after the war, everybody was sure he was dead. But he was found in the woods, near to the camp sustaining himself by eating grass and roots and whatever he could find. A man of 6 feet frame he weighed no more than 100 pounds when the Americans found him. He returned to Hungary months after the war was over. T. never heard him complaining. He died early at age 65. T. never forgot the Sunday when he passed. He was in the hospital for quite a while and T. could not visit him. Perhaps he was too young to visit, perhaps his parents were over protective. T. once went to the hospital and saw his grandfather waiving through the window. It was the last time they saw each other. And T. just now, 50 years later, realized that the grandfather may have known that this would be the last time. T. himself thought that his grandfather recovered when he was told that he died. It was a painful realization that he did not exist any more.

The grandfather's funeral must have been a real sad affair. T. was not there his father did not take him. It was not a religious funeral, T’s father despised religion. And there was no speech just eerie silence. Silence is very final, just like death, so in a way it is more appropriate for a funeral. But it is probably sadder than one should have to bear. Maybe it is good that T. was never there.
The grandmother was not as well liked as her husband. She was loud and uneducated. She loved her son, T's father more than anything in the world. But M, T's father was ashamed of her at times. Except for her cooking Best matzo ball soup ever! M,with his cousin had dinner at the cousin's house then, as a ritual, they showed up as hungry young men at T's grandmother to devour a full dinner again.

When my grandfather died, my father, I think unjustly, accused his mother with killing his father with her wonderfully spicy cooking. In his bitterness over losing his beloved father he lashed out at her mother. Fortunately, he only said that to me, my brother and mother. My grandmother did not have the best nature; she got into fights with all her neighbors and with some of her siblings. She had one sister and five brothers. The sister and three brothers were killed by the Nazis. One might say it was a lucky family; more than 50% survived the Holocaust.

I remember her calling my father and screaming in the phone, demanding impossible things from him or yelling at him. The picture is still vivid, my father holding the phone away from his ear but still hearing the tirade of complaints and accusations. I admit, I did not particularly like to visit her after my grandfather’s death. However, the food was still fantastic. She loved animals. She fed the pigeons and kept a parrot. Even so, my grandfather was the clear winner in the animal loving department as well. He discovered a fly in the apartment on one cold autumn day. He did not kill it, nor did he make it fly out into the cold night. He fed it with sugary water throughout the winter. The saying that “he can’t even hurt a fly” was custom-made for him.

My grandmother died suddenly one day after she was released from the hospital. I think my father realized that he lost both of his parents. For a day or two he tried to blame the doctors, questioning why they discharged her if she was in such a fragile shape. And now I remember, actually it was her funeral that was the silent one.

(There will be no correction for my previous post, even though I am sure that at my grandfather’s funeral there was either a rabbi or somebody from his workplace who talked about his life.)

Few people came to the funeral. No rabbi, no speech. And my father actually had the burial finished early. So Uncle J., another unbelievably nice relative of mine, arrived late. To me that was the saddest moment of the ceremony. On a cold day in late fall, Uncle J. arrived at the cemetery by the old fashioned street car. Dressed appropriately, hat on head. He was on time, yet he was late. Just as he got off the tram, the family emerged at the main gate. He missed the ceremony (which of curse never really took place.) How can you apologize for that? He stood there, not understanding what had happened. Must have thought he missed the time.

end of first day's writing.

MY FAMILY & WHY ONE WRITES A BLOG

Intro:

Why does one write a blog? I suppose there are many answers to this simple question. I was told by some – let them remain nameless lest they be embarrassed – that I should write, write about something, about my life, about my family. They – the nameless ones – of course meant my family back in Hungary and their history – never thinking that I could just as well write about them, the ones that live with me in the US.

But writing requires publishing and publishing means that it is easily measurable how successful or rather unsuccessful one is. If nobody buys your “work” that really is a sure sign of failure. But if I write a blog then the feedback could only be positive. Those who actually read it may comment leaving some positive remarks.  The majority, who never even start reading it or stop reading it after the first paragraph, remain anonymous and mercifully silent. A few will make nasty comments. They really are assholes letting me know that I suck or at least my writing sucks.  But then, who cares about assholes?

Anyway, I will not write about myself or my family, or I will, but I twist and embellish the truth.  I will write about whatever the hell I want to and nobody will know what is real and what is fiction. So I will not ever write in first person. I will pretend I am not me. It will be more fun for me. And the real truth is I am writing this blog for myself. For my own amusement. So I will call him, conspicuously, T.

After the Intro

First Attempts at writing:

So you struggled through the intro he wrote. Hopefully you don’t believe him. He always wanted to write, as far as he remembers.  He never forgets the first time he submitted a short text after 4^th grade.

It was the first day in school after the long summer vacation customary in his native country of Hungary. The teacher asked the class to write a short essay about the most memorable moment of their summer holidays. As soon as he had received the assignment he already knew what he would write about.  He already had the title ready. “A Smoke at 10 pm”. (A very clever title, he thought, but now almost 50 years later its cleverness lost in translation).

His uncle was visiting from the WEST, from the other side of the iron curtain for the first time in August. His Uncle. The mysterious young man on the picture hanging on the wall of his grandparents’ room. His namesake. The one he was named after. His only living close relative whom he had never seen. He knew he lived in England, that is why he had to start studying English at an early age, in hopes of meeting his cousins sometime in the future. He heard her grandmother talking to him on the phone occasionally late at night, but nobody else had the privilege to take the long distance call.

Long distance phone calls were not easy during the fifties and sixties. Not only they cost an arm and a leg but they had to go through the operator. It often took 3-4 hours to make a connection. And you could be sure that there was a third party listening in if you lived in Hungary. The ring tone for the long distance call was special. It had an urgency to it; it rang impatiently using short but sharp rings. “England is calling”, yelled the uneducated voice at the other end of the line, and they could not be sure if it was the operator or the AVO, the Hungarian equivalent of KGB. Then the wait would start. His grandmother reached for the cigarettes, those unfiltered strong ones that she broke in half and placed in her cigarette holder. This way nothing went to waste, she could smoke it all. Her face turned white, her hands were trembling with nervous anticipation. She took up her favorite position leaning to the radiator under the window.  Smoking, waiting. Then, the sharp, short rings came again and she could talk to her son. To the son whom she forced to leave the country at the age of 18, in order to save him from the Communists or just from growing up in Hungary. A mother who loved her son so much she was ready to make him leave even if it meant that perhaps she might not to see him again. But she knew it was for the best. Yet she suffered every day of her life, never regretting her decision.

Life improved slightly, she was able to visit him once in 1956. It was supposed to be a short visit, but again history changed her plans. The Hungarian “Counter Revolution” extended her stay in England. She returned after six months and continued waiting for the short and rare phone calls. But in 1960, her son told her he was coming to visit, because he was moving to America, and he wanted to see her and the family before he went.

So that is when it happened. He did not have to go to bed at 10 pm, or even retire to his room as his mother normally would have ordered him to do. The mother, a children’s psychologist by education, who could never actually practiced her chosen profession, did not like changing the rules. Perhaps because she only learnt everything from books and was not allowed to practice. Just before she graduated, she was called to the office of the Communist Party of the University.

“Comrade – said the official – are you ready to treat the children according Lenin’s Reflection Theory?” She had no idea what this meant, even though she read Marx, Engels and Lenin extensively, but she knew she was not ready. She liked Freud and Piaget and their methods, although Freud’s name was wiped out from all books and he was referred to as the "Viennese Psychologist",  if mentioned at all. So she became a librarian and practiced psychology only with her children. Strict rules – the baby was fed according to schedule, the baby was pushed out to the hall way if he cried at night. Supper at seven pm, never mind that all kids were still outside playing.

And here came her brother, the Uncle. He looked so different from the picture on the wall. He was tall and big, self-assured. So the family went out for dinner late at night. Everybody, children too. And there, at the most expensive and exclusive restaurant, the uncle offered an American cigarette to him. It was after 10 pm, he was not in bed, he was with all the adults, and he was included. What, if not this, was the most important moment of his summer vacation?

True, he went, just as he did every year since age 3 to a summer camp, that was special. It was in the middle of nowhere, only privileged children went.  Not rich but well educated families sent their children there. Children of musicians, playwrights, university professors, movie directors, actors flocked to the camp year after year. Top of the Hungarian society but no children of party functionaries. And the camp was run by one adult and her helps were all adolescents. There were fantastic games! It was an independent country, a principality. It waged fantasy wars against invaders, it had its own theater and opera productions every year. It had its own Olympics but not in real sports but in mental sports, such as age appropriate knowledge about history and literature. Honor system, no cheating. Everybody had their own name, nicknames acquired in the camp different from their own. Life outside of the camp, life in the Communist Hungary did not exist, did not affect events. Talent was appreciated, in fact nothing else mattered. Talented kids ran the camp, they supported the weaker ones, but nobody cared about those who were strong enough to stand on their own but not talented enough to make it to the top. All learned a lot, all enjoyed the games and the adult-free life.

As a ten-year-old he did not really comprehend the magic and the brutality of this camp where he was a little bit of an outsider, not talented enough to be recognized. Yet he loved it and returned every year for 10 years. But smoking a cigarette for two minutes after 10 pm was certainly more important than winning the Olympics at the camp. (All he got is a gold paper coin that he lost before getting home).

So he wrote his essay, but received no special praise for it. He might not even received an A because as always he turned it in without carefully reading it leaving some spelling mistakes for the teacher to find and mark with her thick, red pen. He thought it was good, but maybe not good enough.

His second attempt of writing came at the age of 13. His mother played some role in this one, as she did in many things in his life, which readers who keep on reading will find out on their own. She decided that it was time for a professional evaluation for her younger son so she took him to the Career Choice Advisory Institution. This place, kept in high esteem by those who worked or ever aspired to work in the field of children’s psychology, asked children between the age of 12 and 14 to take all kinds of tests. In return, they were supposed to tell the eager parents in which direction they should steer their offspring. The institute was kept in high esteem by only those who worked in the field, others scarcely knew about its existence. Chief among the tests that were supposed to tell the hidden talents of the applicants was creative writing, except it was probably not called as such. Nonetheless, he had to write an essay about any subject he fancied. He was into science fiction, so not surprisingly he chose to write a short story in that genre. The truth is, it was pathetic, and even he knew it. Aside from a feeble attempt to describe a futuristic city, there was no plot. He cannot remember any more if he actually ran out of time, but for sure ran out of ideas. He also had to manipulate some balls, square and triangular object with sticks that were inside a cage. That was supposed to check his aptitude for engineering, perhaps. It is best that he was never told of the results of these, or if he was, he conveniently forgot it.

Yet, deep down he always wanted to be a writer, but as he stated it many times, he “was smart enough to realize the lack of talent”. Sounds like a Facebook profile self-description.

Then life changed dramatically, he moved from Hungary to the US. Writing was out of the window, English was only a second language for him. Not only he knew he could never be as good in writing in English as he was in Hungarian, he realized he could not even enjoy poetry as much. In any case, creativity was not his stronghold.

Yet, certain events pushed him writing a couple of short essays. First, his wife told him that it is customary in her country to make speeches at weddings, but she did not have the inclination to do so. And her daughter was about to get married. His step daughter. He flat out refused even to entertain the idea of writing a speech. But then, he was driving in between the corn fields of Iowa, with no decent radio reception available, and his mind started racing. Two hours drive and he was writing this speech in his head.

“It is very difficult to find words when you make a spontaneous speech but because I wrote this months ago my task is a bit easier. Shortly after E. told us that she is getting married, J. was talking about her speech, which she must prepare. She had to do that, she told me, because it is customary in Finland especially in her ex-husband’s family. Well, I thought, this wedding is everything but a customary Finnish wedding, but I said nothing. Little did I know that I would get the urge in Burlington, Iowa, to write a speech myself. (By the way Burlington has the windiest street in the world, now this claim to fame is amended with a dubious new bragging right, which is that the longest and maybe even the windiest speech ever written for a couple with a Swedish Finn baroness bride and a Palestinian would be PhD groom who are having their after wedding party in the city of Wyoming in the state of Ohio was written there.)

My speech had to be long and boring to meet all criteria of the tradition. So I set out to find a speechwriter.  Smarter people than I (George Bush or Clinton) have done that. I googled, speechwriter. The first link that showed up was a how to.  How to write a speech for G.W.B. The advantage of this site was that I could not find any words there that had more than 2 syllables or 6 letters.  I can do that.  The first four expressions (which I could have incorporated into my speech) were: Foreign nationals, every immigrant, our friends, destroy the peace….  I wanted more, so I solicited Carl Rove.  However, after a thorough background check he declined. Here are some of his reasons: I cannot work for a bride with past association with foreigners, liberals and socialist. Notwithstanding Scandinavians who don’t even know if they belong to Finns or Swedes. They have sex education in elementary school already and they learn the word sex in math class, 4 words before they can count to ten. And on top of that the groom is not even a Christian. No problem, damn Republican I thought. Anyway I did not want my efforts to bring the same result for this wedding as his speeches did for the Republican Party during the November elections. So I solicited Bill Clinton. He had some objections as well of which I cannot elaborate now. (Maybe "don’t ask" "don’t tell" was one of them).

So I had to employ a well-assimilated Hungarian Jew, myself. I came to America in search of a mixed cultured society and tolerance. I found it, if not in America, but in my own family. Where else can you celebrate Christmas with your wife’s ex-husband, his new wife, with your ex-wife’s father in the mix of Lutherans, atheist Jews, Muslims, and Wasps and a barking Belgian inspector disguised as a miniature cow? Where else can you go to the wedding of your wife’s ex-husband marrying your wife’s friend and having in the crowd the second husband of the new bride with her two daughters each from a different father and also a granddaughter whose father is not the husband of the grandchild! Follow me?

This is a crazy family, but I would never have it any other way. It is almost like the meeting place of a bunch of random dudes. But I assure you, it is not random. You have to work hard to qualify, unless you were born extremely weird, in that case it is your birthright to join our extended family. And we feel that many of you here have already done that, we are very proud and happy to have so many good friends here from all over the world.

E. you speak many languages and you studied many cultures. A. you are working on your PhD; you are a student of history and survived many years in the US even in Ohio. There is a long road before you two, but having seen what you two have already been able to learn and tolerate I am sure that you will have a long and happy marriage. I wish you both happiness, tolerance and that neither of you ever forget where you came from and where your spouse came from.”

So this speech, although its predictions vastly overstated, served as a base for some who heard or read to encourage him to continue to write.

So he did. Unfortunately the next piece came when his uncle passed away. He could not make it to the funeral, but wanted to make sure that all who loved his uncle knew what he meant to him. He wrote a few lines to him even though he does not believe in the afterlife. But maybe those who are still here can find some comfort in these lines to his uncle.

Last picture with my Uncle 2010

“Your parting saddens me deeply but what makes it especially difficult is that I was not able to say good bye properly. One often wonders whether the final good bye is more important for the living or for the ones who just left us. I would like to think that my last phone call reached you and you recognized my voice although I was incapable to express what I felt.

You were my uncle, my only real living relative during my childhood. We always called you Big T. and whenever I think of you I still use this name in the back of my mind.  I was named after you because everybody missed you in Hungary after you left. I think your mother showed the real love, the best love a mother could show for her child, when she was able to let you go and in spite of the sadness and pain caused by not having you around, she was able to be happy for you because she knew that by “sending” you away she was making your life happier.

We had no pictures of family hanging around in our apartment in Budapest, except yours in your parents’ room. As a child I never understood why my grandmother, your mother, was so nervous every time you called from England or from the US. The operator announced that we would have an international call. Huge thing in Communist Hungary, great event in our home. Then your mother started pacing around, smoking one filterless cigarette after another. It took hours before the connection was made. Today I understand why she was so nervous, today I understand, although cannot comprehend the feeling when a mother thinks she may never see her child again, yet she is happy because she knows he is free.

Big T. was not only a name referring to you as the older T., but also the one who was physically bigger and somewhat mysterious, living in the West.  A Big Thing. Then you came to visit us.  I was ten years old. All of a sudden Big T. was real, larger than life for me.  I never let you out of my sight. And as I found out later, you noticed that, and it did not annoy you.  I think a special bond was built between nephew and uncle who only saw each other on rare occasions. Over the years, I think, our few meetings were life changing experiences for me. Unknowingly or unconsciously I decided that I will follow your footsteps and will leave Hungary.

I never forget that during your first visit I smoked a cigarette with your permission, which granted the permission of my parents as well, at a public place, at the famous Hotel Gellert. Later, in school, I chose to write about this as my most memorable adventure during the summer. I titled it: “Smoking at 10 pm.” Now I know, it was not the smoking that was carved indelibly in my memory, but the fact that you were the one who made a child’s dream possible. And dreaming I did, to follow your footsteps. They were too large for me, but I have been and still am trying.

You were instrumental in helping me learning English by paying my two summers in England. When I arrived in the US you took me in your family, and I always felt that I was welcome, that I belonged there. Your teasing sessions at times were too harsh, cutting in the bones but I always knew that there was love behind them.

I learnt the ins and outs of life in the US from you. You were always ready with advice, most of the time good once. Our personalities were hugely different but that did not stop us from loving each other. Over the years the phone calls became less frequent but never less important. I will miss you and always remember you Big Tommy. Who will I call now?

I talked to V. and M. They took your passing very hard. They are alone, most of their friends who knew you are gone. Their English is not as good any more. I speak for them too when I say we will all miss you.”

So he continued writing. About his family, as it was or as he remembered or as he wanted to remember and wanted it to have been. Or imagined.