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 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.
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.
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 kilometer 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.
At that stage how was I to know that being arrested was all that funny?