A woman in the shadow of history – “Hungarians and Germans could look on each other as brothers”

You were 11 years old when your until then peaceful childhood was shattered. In September 1944, your father was conscripted into the German army, in December the Soviets took your mother for ‘malinky robot’ (in Russian, literally ‘a little work’), and in early 1945 they confiscated your home. All this happened to your family because in the census of 1941, you declared yourself to be German-speaking. What were the precursors to this? What was the relationship like between Germans and Hungarians in the village you all lived together in?
“Tolna county has been of mixed nationality for centuries. I was born in Váralja in 1933, a small village close to Bonyhád. Until 1943, there were no major problems between the nationalities, the Hungarians and the Germans got along just fine. This is a huge achievement that I cannot emphasize enough: for one and a half centuries, the people of Váralja and surroundings, living alongside each other, had reached the point that they could look on each other as brothers. This is not merely rhetoric because this fraternity was manifested in 1945-46 when they had to help each other.”

What sort of village was Váralja, how should one picture it?
“Located at the foot of the Mecsek hills, two long rows of houses sat alongside the two banks of a stream. The majority of Germans and Hungarians cultivated the land; on the basis of their assets, I would class them as middle-peasants. The poorer among them worked in the mine since there was plenty of coal in and around Váralja. Craftsmen also lived well in the village and there was a need for all kinds of skills. My ancestors were craftsmen or farmers, Váralja was the ancient seat of my father’s family. We were Rákóczis; as far back as I can trace my family tree, my father came from old Hungarian stock but we are not related to the noble family of Rákóczi.

“Several of my father’s ancestors took local German girls to be their wives so speaking German was totally natural in the family.

“My mother’s ancestors resettled from German at the end of the 18th century. There was mixing among the nationalities of Tolna county, as the example of my own parents shows.”

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Choice of religious denomination did not separate people either? 
“German-speaking residents were Evangelical, Hungarian-speaking residents were Reformed, but they married between families if it was advantageous from the point of view of land tenure. Assets overcame all. In my parents’ marriage, too, one could say that reason came to the fore, not emotions, but that is how it was then.”

What language did you use at home?
“Both. It happened that my sister and I asked questions in Hungarian, our parents replied in German, or vice versa. We sometimes inflected Hungarian words in German, and the other way around: ‘Der hat mir geudvarolt.’ – ‘He courted (in Hungarian, udvarolt) me.’ (laughs) In our family, for generations the firstborn girl was named Katalin, while the firstborn boy was János. In fact, the wives of Reformed pastors had a great influence on choice of name within the village. When, for example, the wife of the Reformed minister was called Éva, many little Évas were born in the village.”

Forced labour service and the confiscation of the assets of Germans were preceded by the Jewish deportations between May and July 1944. Did you experience anything of this?
“There was a large Jewish community in Bonyhád, all ethnic groups coexisted with them in peace, but the Jews and Christians did not mix. There were no Jews living in Váralja, which is why I never saw anything of their deportation. However, our general practitioner, doctor Litzmann, was a Jew practicing in Bonyhád. He took out my tonsils in the surgery he had set up in his house, with his wife assisting in operations. After the operation they left me to sleep in the hall. When I woke up one of his daughters brought me ice cream, which was delicious and eased the pain. When the doctor saw that I was fine, he seated me on his motorbike and took me home. I clearly remember them.

“When they started rounding up the Jews, he poisoned himself and his family. One morning the surgery did not open, which is when they were discovered.”

Was it only possible to destroy the peace between German and Hungarian residents from above, forcibly?
“Yes. In the early 1940s, and even in 1943, when the Germans were still seeing advances on the fronts, there were sympathizers of German policies and they became the leaders and active members of the organization Volksbund der Deutschen in Ungarn (People’s Alliance of Germans in Hungary), which was financed from Germany. In May 1944, all the German residents of Váralja were called for a meeting but it was possible to mobilize them only once because the majority could not be effectively influenced politically. However, my father was hit by the enforced military conscription: they took him into the German army as a soldier when it was evident that the Eastern front had collapsed and the Soviets were at the border.”

But wasn’t your father Hungarian? 
“My father was born in Germany because two or three generations of his family had been forced to labour as guest workers in Germany due to the poverty here at home. At that time, they were building mines and factories in the Ruhr and there was demand for an incredible number of labourers. Hungarians and local Germans were pleased to go to Germany as guest workers because they could earn a good wage there. On their return home they built houses and established livelihoods, then the young adult generation also went out there to work, thus several generations of large families found prosperity one after the other. Thus my father was born in Germany and he was still a child when his family resettled in Váralja in the 1920s.”

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So he was actually German?
“The situation was more complicated than that. In 1941, there was a census, in which our family declared itself to be Hungarian with German mother tongue. This was sufficient for my father to be afflicted with all decrees pertaining to the Germans. In the middle of September 1944, the village was virtually emptied because the German men were assembled and marched off. They took them to Poland for training and then sent them to the Western front. A few months later, Szekler families arriving as refugees could officially apply for the houses thus emptied.”

But weren’t only the men taken away? 
“In the first wave, yes, but on 30 November, Váralja was occupied by Soviet troops. In December, they compiled a list that showed those women with German names, aged between 18 and 30 years, who were required to undertake public work, that is, malinky robot. This was the second wave. At that time my father had been absent for months and we didn’t know anything about him.

“In vain did my mother protest that my sister was very small, it didn’t matter, they took her away.

“She worked for three and a half years in one of the coal mines in the Donbass, until she seriously injured her leg and since it would have taken a long time to cure her, they let her go. It took her six months to make her way home.”

How did your family survive this?
“My sister, who at that time was just three years old, suffered terribly at the breakup of the family and our home being taken away from us. Very many Bukovina Szekler refugees from Bácska arrived in the country on wagons, and the county assemblies had to resolve their settlement. The eviction of the Germans represented the solution. A two-horse wagon stood outside the door, the most important items were packed onto this and everything else had to be left. The local Hungarian residents thus got, or more precisely collected the domestic animals that had been abandoned – this was only sensible because otherwise the animals would have died. And, of course, for this an applicant was required who hankered after our house, my father’s well-equipped carpentry workshop and tools. The fact is that at that time our family was relatively well off, carpentry work brought in a good wage, so it is no surprise that the new arrivals were keen to acquire our place.”

Was all this done on the grounds that the Germans in Hungary were war criminals, while the arrivals coming as refugees were Hungarian?
“They cited this as a reason, but the main reason was that the refugees and displaced persons coming from Hungarian-inhabited areas beyond the border had to be homed somewhere. This solution presented itself.

“There we were, penniless, with a wagon full of stuff, and on top of the wagon I sat with my sister. We had to find somewhere to live.

“A neighbouring family took us in to their outhouse in the courtyard and this became our home. Two beds were squeezed in, in one, grandmother slept with my sister, and in the other the grandfather slept, while there was no place for me. I remember how little I understood of what was happening. I slept for three or four nights wherever I could find a place.”

How did you survive these years?
“The Sisters of Mercy in Bonyhád accepted me in their halls of residence along with about 25 other girls who were similarly without a place to stay. They also took us in because the news was going around that Russian soldiers were raping women. I completed the higher elementary school for girls, several of the residents of Bonyhád helped us with food donations, bedding and clothing.”

What was life like in the residence of the Sisters of Mercy?
“I am very grateful for the board, lodging and education they gave me but it was difficult for them to find the right tone with teenage girls, they were unable to provide useful advice about our physical development. I now realize that they were elderly nuns, there were only two young ones among them, what else could we have expected? They did everything for us that they could, they were generous in providing help. We girls suffered somewhat from the heavy discipline that characterized our life in the residence, but the education we received there made it possible for me to continue studying.”

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What happened to your father?
“He was captured in France, then he was handed over to the Americans who released him. He set off for home, he worked in towns and villages on his route, earning enough money to continue travelling. Later on he told me that he always made sure to travel alongside the Danube in order not to lose his way. When he arrived home, his trials and tribulations were not over: it was possible that he would be branded a deserter and as punishment he would be taken away to the Soviet Union.

“That is why he hid in a press house on a vineyard in Bonyhád and he kept in contact with us in secret.

“He lived there for a year, even throughout the winter. He made a fire and cooked himself simple meals.”

Wasn’t he worried that somebody would report him?
“He wasn’t the only one living like this. Later on it turned out that the whole of Mecsek was full of people in hiding who feared for their lives. Luckily, we avoided being deported to Germany because at the time our father was a prisoner and our mother was in the Soviet Union. When finally father could come home our family found itself in a far better situation because he could work legally. In the end the outhouse in the neighbour’s garden proved too small so he went to the community hall where he received authorization for us to rent a room in a house. Thus our grandparents remained where they were and my father, my sister and I moved to a rented room. At that time my mother had still not returned home.”

Who in the family was looking after you and how did you find enough to eat? 
“My paternal grandmother raised my sister and it was a constant worry where to find food for the family. We couldn’t keep our own chickens in the neighbour’s courtyard. Grandpa hoed the land of his hosts and worked where he could in order to earn a little money. We didn’t die of starvation. Grandma lit the iron stove and cooked beans on it. While those cooked for a long time, she washed our clothes and us as well since this was the only time we had hot water. By the time mother returned, my paternal grandfather had died.

“It is a miracle that amidst all this penury not one of us ever lost faith that one day this would change for the better. And this is what happened.”

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How did your mother make it home?
“In the summer of 1948 we believed she was no longer alive, but even so, every morning, together with the other women and children, we went off to the railway station at the end of the village and waited for the train. Notes and letters were often thrown out of the train windows, we collected them and forwarded them to the addressees. This happened every morning, after which we all went our own way to get food or go shopping. Anybody who had a cow found people lining up for milk – as a child, my sister came first when the milk was shared out. Then we got the news that a transport of people had arrived at the Hungarian border from the Soviet Union, but they were not being allowed entry because somebody on the train had TB and they had to wait in quarantine. Then one morning somebody came with the news that “those from Váralja and Bonyhád were arriving”. We raced down there and waited, and suddenly it was true, they had arrived. My mother was limping because the mine car had torn off a large part of the flesh of her calf. This is why they let her return.”

It is a miracle she survived this major injury.
“The accident itself is also a miracle because if it hadn’t happened to her they would have kept her there and she might well have died. She was freed as the price of her pains. She said that the Russian doctor who treated and nursed her was a very decent person.

“So, not everyone there was a bad person, indeed, perhaps soldiers and civilians of all nations preserved some crumbs of humanity even in the most trying of circumstances.

“Health-wise, she was in a very poor state. She brought with her a piece of bread, but such dark bread the like of which we had never seen before since we were used to white bread. We found it sticky, gluey and awfully bad, that is why we were even more sorry for her because she had to eat this sort of food. How interesting that nowadays this has really become fashionable to eat. So, in the summer of 1948 we were once again together as a family and we all continued on our own calvary.”

Did your parents’ relationship survive all this, were they able to recover from these experiences? 
“They were tough people. Neither their relationship nor the way they reared their children was characterized by sentiment. Our mother virtually never spoke about her trials. Perhaps this had been forbidden of those returning from labour camps, but anyway she didn’t want to talk about it, saying we should never ask her. I remember that earlier my mother had been angry with one of her cousins, they wouldn’t talk to each other. They were both taken to Russia together and at that time had been forced to sleep under the same blanket. When they returned home there was a big argument, they really let fly at each other, then slowly they calmed down. (laughs) In fact, my father similarly only very rarely spoke about his captivity and trip back to Hungary, although compared to my mother he was in a far better situation.

“When those who had been deported from the surrounding area returned home en masse, one of the priests announced a meeting of residents of neighbouring settlements. Everyone went and sought out acquaintances who had returned from malinky robot. Church feast days were also used to visit friends and relatives. During these meetings we children heard the occasional comment about what had happened in the labour camps. For example, one of our neighbours said: “They made us strip and we had to run naked in front of the Russians.” Someone then replied: “So you don’t know why they did this? They wanted to know who was pregnant. Anyone who was pregnant was permitted to go home.” But we were never able to put together in a coherent form what we had heard...”

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How did your choice of a career come about? In your family, it was not a tradition for the girls to continue studying.
“I have much to thank to my elementary school teachers who prepared us for the private exams even when we couldn’t go to school. As soon as I took the exams in the eighth grade, I was sent to Dombóvár and the teacher training institute, that is, the Pedagogy Grammar School or as it was renamed later, Hungarian State Teacher Training College. The majority of people studying there were Swabians. From this moment, my life was on the right path.

“My parents were very pleased when I completed teacher training because they considered that I had found my place in the world, I could now go and teach in a village.

“But the devil was in me and I decided that I would go on to higher education in Pest. This astonished my parents. I had to fight very hard so that I could go to university. From that moment on, I found myself at odds with the family, although without exception my teachers in Dombóvár backed me and helped as they could. They suggested that exploiting my German knowledge I should apply to the German department of ELTE university, which at that time could only be selected in parallel with Hungarian studies. However, I was taken on not there but to the department of journalism. Still, as a result of my stubbornness they finally did take me on to the German department. As a university student and in comparison with the earlier poverty, I lived like a king. By then, the socialist management were not interested in my Swabian roots, just that I was the child of a poor miner, which is why I found myself in the most favoured position: besides my study scholarship I also received a social scholarship, I was accommodated in halls of residence and I received free catering.”

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At that time there was the centrally planned economy system with designated workplaces. Where did you find a job?
“After completing university, in 1957 I asked to go to Dombóvár because I was familiar with the town. Luckily, this is where I was sent first. However, in the meantime I had married and we lived in rented accommodation in Budapest, and for this reason I wanted to go to the capital – but I only received a teaching post in Isaszeg. My train to Isaszeg departed at 7 each morning and I got back home at 8 pm. Together with my 20 commuting colleagues, we did all the school work during the rail journey adding up to several hours. It was especially difficult being a teacher in Isaszeg because as a nationality village and due to estate relationships, they only married between themselves. By the 1960s, due to inbreeding marriages, the intellectual retardation among the population had reached such a level that a special needs class had to be initiated alongside virtually every school class. I became head of just such a class. It was extremely exhausting and I could bear it for only two years. Interestingly, this is where I met my colleague Éva, who later became a Carmelite nun with the name sister Amáta in Mayerling, Austria. Emperor Franz Joseph had the mansion where his son Rudolf and his lover, Mária Vetsera, committed suicide converted into a convent. The nuns living in extremely strict asceticism pray each day also for their spiritual salvation.

“After Isaszeg, I finally found myself in Budapest, although not teaching but as a curator at the Museum of Military History. For this job I also completed – later on – studies at the librarian department at ELTE university. I spent many years there, receiving an award, too, the National Defence Medal of Merit.”

Here it is. I can see that instead of the letter ‘i’ in Rákóczi, they wrote it with a ‘y’.

“A minor fault given that this award is very rarely presented to a civilian, not to mention a woman. (laughs)

“Later on, I worked at the Semmelweis Museum of Medical History and Library, where for many years József Antall, later prime minister, was the director. After I retired I was awarded the Zsámboky János Prize for my work in medical history, particularly research into the career of Ignác Semmelweis and the translation of his works into Hungarian.”

How did your parents’ fate resolve itself? Were there any bad feelings between the Bukovina Szeklers and descendants of Germans?
“In 1951, they had the opportunity to buy another house, by that time the migration wave had eased, everyone had found their new place in society, even those few Germans who remained in Tolna county. I found that these antagonisms also smoothed out over the course of decades. While strolling through Bonyhád I saw written over one of the gateways: ‘Salát van gabható’ (roughly, ‘Lettice for sail’). In my mind, this phrase symbolizes coexistence, fraternity. If the ‘Hitlerites’ had never come about, then we would have escaped that extremely miserable period lasting a few years.”