It was one of those perfect winter days in Florida, when the blazing, bright sun makes the impossibly gaudy colours shimmer, when the flowers look artificial and the hue of the sky is a kitschy blue. We were visiting EPCOT, two middle-aged "girls" lost in the crowd, dressed in the de rigueur pink shorts and T-shirts, when my twin-sister suddenly stopped in her tracks, looked at me and said "Dolly, would you have imagined in Subotica 40 years ago, that we will ever end up here?" I looked at her curly blond hair, the twinkling, happy eyes, a knot formed in my throat and I said a silent prayer of gratitude embracing the moment. The incongruity of it all, the incredible achievement: EPCOT forty years later.  Then and there I decided to try to organize my memories of the circuitous route we took to arrive to that day.

CHAPTER I

When I was six weeks old, and still very tiny, they told my Grandfather to walk up and down with me, so I should stop crying. Enclosed tightly in swaddling clothes, (those old fashioned pillows that fold back and are secured with ribbons) he dutifully walked up and down talking to me soothingly all the time, "you will be so smart that learned Rabbis will come to you for advice, and you will be famous and rich and wise," all of a sudden he looks down and can't see me, just the pillow: he gets into a panic, looking around screaming, "where is the baby, where is the baby?" everybody rushes in. I was so tiny that I slid down all the way into the pillow and almost smothered.

Such are little tidbits you grow up hearing, about the beginning of your life, when you nag your parents, "tell me about when I was little", what you are really trying to do is piece together your MEMORY.

Memory is like a stained glass window. Every little piece starts to fit together, but every little piece should be your own little piece. Thus the window grows, thus your personality is formed. You will view the world through that window for the rest of your life. Everything that happens to you that you REMEMBER, the way you place that memory into your window frame, will make you a person, a person different from everyone else in the world. Because it is not only important WHAT happened to you, it is even more important HOW YOU VIEWED what happened to you. And while I will try to give you a more or less chronological account of WHAT happened to me WHERE AND HOW, I will sometimes digress and give you a little bit of that coloured stained glass that formed my window on the world.

CHAPTER II

Once upon a time (all good stories start this way), just one hundred years ago, there was way up in the Northwestern part of Hungary (which at that time was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire), a little family by the name of Reinharz, living in relatively tranquil, primitive circumstances; Jewish peasants who had two beautiful daughters. Dora/Deborah was a young, vital woman, and with her daughters almost grown she found herself pregnant again. She did not want another baby, had an abortion and unfortunately died as a consequence. Her distraught widower did not know what to do with his two beautiful daughters, and decided that they were old enough to get married. Being ambitious, he felt they had a better chance to seek their fortune in the capital: Budapest. Franciska [Fani] and Ethel (Berta] packed up their meager belongings and headed to Budapest. They (probably) boarded with a good Jewish family and a shadchen soon found them two outstanding young men, ambitious hardworking, both connected with the jewelry trade. They both got married and started raising families. Fani had 5 beautiful daughters in rapid succession and then, lo and behold, the much hoped for son. Jeanette, Dora, Johanna, Rozsi and Sebike.

Ethel and Maurice Selinger had two children: Elizabeth & Miksa, and soon after the turn of the century, in l903 little Johanna was born. Unlike her brother and sister who were dark, swarthy, heavyset children; little Johanna was frail, blond, delicate and soft-spoken. She was also the apple of her parents eyes. By the time she arrived her father was a prosperous, hardworking businessman, with a thriving jewelry store in a busy square of Budapest. The two older children were high-spirited and rebellious, often took advantage of little Jancsi to get things for themselves. They pummeled her until she started crying and when her upset father came in asking what happened to his little darling, they both said "she is crying because she wants to go to the movies." This ploy worked well and often, my mother repeated this story time and again.

The two large families had a close relationship, they spent summers together with several nannies in tow. During one of the summer vacations a gypsy woman approached Fani for a handout and Fani chased her off. The gypsy turned around and pointed at one of the little girls, "I curse you all, this one will die before the summer is over." The frightened mother packed her off and sent her to the mountains to her grandfather, as a scarlet fever epidemic was raging in the city. A month later the little girl was dead of scarlet fever, while the others thrived.

My mother's recollections of the first world war were hazy, she was a very young girl, but she clearly remembered the brief, bloody and violent communist uprising in Hungary led by Bela Kuhn. Her parents were frightened and spent the nights trying to hide gold. She remembered them putting gold coins in the hollow copper curtain rods above the windows.

During the war the beautiful, headstrong, already fully developed Elizabeth was married (at age l5) to a nice young dentist, Pali Halberg, and the next year her son Gyula (now Peter) was born. There was much rejoicing in the family with the sturdy little boy, followed a few years later by his sister Dorothea/Deborah (Babi to us). By the time Elizabeth became pregnant with Babi, she was tired of her soft spoken, gentle husband and fell in love with the dashing, handsome, dark-haired Imre Tieberger. After Babi's birth there was a quiet divorce and Elizabeth, still in her very early twenties, married Uncle Imre, the love of her life.

The black sheep of the family was Miksa, with his numerous amorous escapades, many of them involving married women. Most of his problems were solved (usually with lots of money) by his very reluctant and distraught father. Miksa did not want to work, refused to study; he was a great disappointment and aggravation to his parents. As many an adventurer of the time, he immigrated to America in 1930.

By 1919 peace was once again making everyone happy and prosperous, little Jancsi was l6, a blossoming beauty. She just returned from Davos, Switzerland where she spent six months recovering from tuberculosis. She was spending the summer with Elizabeth and her two children on the Margin Island, together with their nanny, Rozika, who was hired some years hence to bring up the 3 Selinger children and was now engaged to work for Elizabeth.

Walking among the rose bushes, Jancsi saw two men watching her. She found out later that they had a bet that she would respond to their approach (a definite no-no in those times) They started talking to her, and she ignored them at first. She was intrigued, however, and Dezso won his bet. Charming, handsome, debonair, elegant, a man of the world, he quickly swept young Johanna off her feet. Her parents disapproved: a divorced man, with no visible means of support, many years her senior. In spite of all their protests, Dezso & Jancsi were married before her 17th birthday.

They moved to Berlin, where the young bride inspected her sumptuous new surroundings. She found a round, sealed elaborate urn on the mantle piece and shook it. It rattled. She asked her husband what it contained, "Oh that," he said matter of factly, "that is grandmother Ida". Jancsi decided it was her or grandmother Ida, thus Ida was quickly dispatched to a more suitable resting place.

These were the roaring twenties, the decadent twenties of Europe, with Berlin the hub of all the action. Dezso and Jancsi lived charmed lives: white convertible car with a black chauffeur, ermine cape, couturier clothes, jewelry, she adored it all; the theatres, the servants, the parties, there was no end to it, all the excitement, the travels. And the casinos. Dezso's profession apparently was gambling. Sometimes lady luck smiled at him, and sometimes things had to be pawned, "until the next time".

Jancsi played with her two little dogs and yearned for a child...

After ten years of marriage, upon return from a vacation at a health spa in Hungary, Jancsi found herself pregnant. She was overjoyed. Her husband much less so. He told her repeatedly he did not want any children, they interfered with his lifestyle. She ignored him and was happily expectant. He bought her a mink coat and told her to pack up and leave.

Grandmother Ethel came to fetch the very large, very pregnant Jancsi and take her back to Budapest. Sitting demurely on the train, wrapped in her huge new mink coat, Jancsi was flirting shamelessly with a good- looking fellow-passenger. Grandmother hissed at her in Hungarian, "why don't you stand up and show him how beautiful you are!"

Three weeks later, about one month prematurely we were born in the most expensive private clinic in Budapest. Bets were placed as to the sex of the expected child while Jancsi was in labour. She overheard one of the doctors telling the other, "go out now and place a bet, the baby is not here yet, but it is a girl." This is how she found out that her much hoped for daughter was in the breech position.

That much hoped for girl with blond hair and blue eyes arrived at 8:00 PM. January 31st. A few minutes later they realized that there was another one coming. This was way before ultrasounds and much prenatal care; surprises sometimes happened. Half an hour later there was much shouting in the corridor "ANOTHER GIRL." The doctor took one look and instructed the nurses not to bother with identification bracelets, no one would ever mix up these twins.

Aunt Fani just walked in amidst all this shouting and promptly fainted: she thought something went wrong.

Ida Marianna (Gitl in Jewish) and Dorottya Rozsa (Deborah) were tiny but feisty. A wet nurse was hired and another nurse, battle stations set up and the four women cared for the tiny babies around the clock. Neatly inscribed copy-books survive attesting to the diligence and care lavished on the two little girls, weighing the ever hungry babies before and after feedings, etc. We thrived. Nothing was too expensive, too extravagant, too good to indulge the "twins", as we were called. Our names were simplified to Mari & Dolly.

Our grandmother's untimely death (she was in her early fifties) was the only cloud on our first year; although reality must have slowly started to sink in for Jancsi: she was stuck with two very demanding and expensive babies, without a husband or an income. She was still very young and pretty, but could not have much of a social life; having spent the last 10 years outside the country. She had not much of a life outside the tight family circle.

But what a family circle it must have been: cousins galore busy with their own babies, life was smiling on the ever increasing clan: daughters produced more beautiful daughters, everyone had only one goal: to enjoy their life to the fullest, the luxuries of life that this particular place and time offered in abundance.

Daughters were brought up to be charming, beautiful, chic and well-educated in order to land a good husband (meaning MONEY). They all lived the good life, charmed summers in lavish country retreats, trips to fashionable spas in foreign countries, with an entourage of nannies. Finishing schools preferably in Switzerland. And the hardworking husbands/fathers worked even harder to provide all this and indulge their beautiful brood. 

CHAPTER III

Our glamorous mother Jancsi re-married within a year. Our "new father's" name was Friedman, and he adopted us right away. But something went wrong very fast this time: a somewhat obscure rumours of his being fired because of a jealous female boss, something about his demanding more dowry from Grandfather, no matter; they got divorced without us having formed a conscious memory of his being part of our life. Yet, he somehow persisted in the background: the governess took us frequently to visit a mysterious stranger who lavished incredibly expensive gifts on us; three of which I can still see in my mind's eye (over the distance of more than half a century!): an ox cart pulled by 6 oxen, laden with beer barrels; a wind-up, large music box that was a small stage on which ballerinas danced when the music played; and a small camera given to us during the l938 Eucharistic congress; it made stamp-sized pictures.

But I am jumping ahead too fast. My first conscious childhood memory is looking down at my new white shoes. I am standing in front of grandfather's store, I am very happy, and I know now that these are MY SHOES, this is me, not that identically dressed little other. End of memory. I must have been about two years old, because what I most clearly remember that the distance between my eyes and the shoes was very short.

The world was a simpler place when I was a child. Our pleasures were simpler. We were not entertained, we made our own fun. No one ever asked whether we are happy or whether we wanted to do anything. We were told what to do, when to do it, how to do it. Very often we were trotted out in front of a gathering of grownups, to recite poems in unison, to curtsy deeply, something like showing off trained dogs doing tricks.

Sunday mornings mother was home. She worked by now in grandfather's store, consequently sometimes for days on end we did not even meet her. To use modern terminology, in those times "parenting" was not a "hands on" occupation. She had a beautiful room that smelled wonderful. Her perfume (Channel 5) was the scent of "mother" to me forever after. (Diana Vreeland says, "Chanel 5, to me, is still the ideal scent for a woman. She can wear it anywhere, anytime, and everybody: husbands, beaus, taxi drivers, everybody loves it. No one has gone beyond Chanel No. 5.")

She was in bed, with a tray. eating her breakfast, reading the newspaper and we were allowed to sit on the edge of her bed and "talk". I caressed the satin sheets and inhaled her perfume; she was beautiful. I could never think of anything to say to her.

I am going to quote from Jolie Gabor's book, as it is relevant and revealing of the style of "parenting" in our family: "Mama never spent time with her children the way other mothers did. She didn't play with us or take us to school or listen to our problems. She remained always a big distance from us. If any of us called to her when she came back from work, she handled it by replying, "Keep still. Don't shout." I don't remember her as ever being involved with us."

We had a beautiful white spitz dog "Cs–pi" which we walked with the governess, rain or shine. There was a narrow street across our apartment where everyone else walked their dogs. It was full of dog-droppings, and very slippery when it rained. I hated it.

Listening to the radio was one of our great pleasures; there was always some nice music, also theatre plays were transmitted occasionally, complete with several voices and sound effects, which all seemed magical. I also wrote long poems in my head on our long walks. I dreamt of being a poet or a writer one day.

A few happiness-filled years followed. We had a lovely, spacious apartment, a wonderful, caring, loving governess--old Rozika who was with the family for about 30 years at this point. Grandfather bought the Villuska, a little vacation house for us when our mother tried to send us to the Lake Balaton for the summer. He wanted to have us close enough to visit at least for the week-ends. He arrived Friday nights usually with a wreath of dried figs. How we listened to the sound of the car on the gravel, how we looked forward to his embrace, his smell of tobacco and garlic, his smile, his love, his cheerful voice.

Our little villa stood next to a real working farm, in the suburbs of Budapest. We had a large plot of land with a few small houses on it: the main house where we lived, a house for the gardener/cook couple and a so-called summer kitchen. Way back where the orchard started we had a real, old-fashioned outhouse. It was covered with vine, and it was with a sense of adventure we sometimes used it instead of our comfortable in-door plumbing.

There were several gardens: the formal flower gardens, complete with the ubiquitous plaster gnomes, the orchard and the vegetable gardens. We even had a small swimming pool and a large sand pile next to it to play in. In one word: it was paradise.

With little baskets on our arms we set out each morning to inspect the vegetable garden. We checked the carrots for size, the radishes for ripeness, the string beans and the peas. We chased butterflies with our nets and examined the orchard for the ripening fruit. The gravel driveway was lined with red currant bushes and when THOSE ripened we invited friends and neighbours for the harvest as we had much too much to contend with by ourselves.

Besides the fruits and vegetables we had "livestock": the doves in the dovecote (many of which landed deliciously on our dinner table), chickens, even rabbit families one year in spacious rabbit hutches, where they multiplied frantically . Our favourite pet was patuti, a dinner plate-sized tortoise who placidly made the rounds of the entire garden and needed little care and even less affection. In search of more excitement, we regularly visited the neighbouring farm, where we got our fresh, foaming milk, our butter and on one memorable occasion at least, we fell up to our waist into pig manure in our enthusiasm for exploring.

We delighted in nature around us: the swallows which nested on the terrace, the countless butterflies, the polka-dotted ladybugs, the snails which we coaxed out of their shells on the palm of our hands, the cows grazing in the meadow next door, the ever-changing gardens with their bounty, their colourful flowers. We flew kites that we put together ourselves with the governess' help; it was a carefree happy time and yet there were odd rumblings on the horizon. One day, I must've been about four, I heard the news on the radio that there is a war going on between China and Japan. Vinyi was sitting by the radio and I asked her what "war" was. She tried to explain, it is men fighting over a piece of land. "But why, how" I pressed on, "are they hurting each other?" "Yes," she admitted, they are killing each other. "Killing, dead?" "Yes, yes," she nervously lit another cigarette, "dead." "Over a piece of land?" Like most of our conversations, this one also ended in her impatiently telling me to let it be, I'll understand it when I get older, but I was extremely disturbed by the thought of war.

Genteel, well-behaved, pretty little girls, always dressed alike, hats, white gloves, in the latest fashions (which meant usually copies of dresses Shirley Temple wore), at one point, in apparent desperation, Vinyi gave us a home permanent to make us look even more like the era's epitome of child beauty: Shirley Temple. Looks, femininity, coyness were the ideals to strive for. Brains were secondary. I was aware early on that I didn't quite fit in. The oft-repeated story told by Vinyi that, "Mari was everything I dreamed of in a daughter and Dolly was the bonus," did not help matters too much, the jealousy thus fostered early rankled a lifetime.

Life seemed idyllic. Walks in the many beautiful parks of our city, or on the Margin Island where we plucked daisies and braided them into wreaths for our hair, or picked the horse-chestnuts to later fashion them into doll-sized furniture, the Gellert Hill with the concrete slides in the Summer and the sledding in the Winter, the beautiful chapel carved out from the rock, complete with a cave where a hermit dwelled. The Korzo on Sunday mornings, where we met other little girls being paraded by equally beautiful and fashionable mothers. But we were the only ones I can remember where there were two of us: it made us feel very special.

Budapest in the spring when on street corners young girls with round wicker baskets were offering tiny bouquets of violets for sale, when the horse chestnuts and the acacia trees were in bloom, when the amusement park opened its gates again and everyone went to the Gundel. Budapest in the winter, the "season" when elegant people hurried to the cafes, the restaurants, the theatres, when the shore of the Danube was transformed into a pine forest of Christmas trees for sale, and smells of incense wafted out of churches where the beautiful nativities were set up--our governess smuggled us in frequently. Christmas cards were displayed on the street by heavily clad women and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted in the bitingly cold air.

Mother was young, beautiful, extremely charming, popular: together with her older sister--just as beautiful and even more outgoing, rich and scintillatingly intelligent, they were the toast of the town. There were the masked balls, the many theatres and cabarets. Every great artist of the day considered it a privilege to appear on stage before the very knowledgeable and discriminating Budapest audience: my mother saw Pavlova and Nijinsky; she often told us about Pavlova in the "Dying Swan", when you could have heard a pin drop in the theatre, and tears rolled down her cheeks as Pavlova finished, crumpled in a little heap on the stage, or about Nijinsky in the Specter of the Rose:"He did not leap," she said, "he floated in the air, it was miraculous." She heard Galli Curci, Caruso and Gigli; she fell in love with operas as a little girl when HER mother took her to outstanding performances at the then new and sumptuous Budapest opera house.

She followed this tradition with us and from a very early age on we considered it a thrilling treat to attend ballets, operas, special children's theatres. The Doll Fairy dazzled us with its colour, the dancing, the music recreating a fairy world on the stage. We simply refused to leave the theatre when it was over, I was stubbornly pointing out that the word "END" did not as yet appear on the "screen" (we have seen a few movies by then.). The tickets which mother purchased in advance for these performances were pinned on our door, if any of us "misbehaved" the tickets would be removed--biggest punishment was always the threat of depriving us of a much expected and hoped for theatrical performance.

Suddenly, there were rumblings closer to home. One day, walking with the governess we happened on a strange parade. Uniformed boys goose-stepping, throwing little pieces of paper on the ground. We rushed to pick it up. "Don't touch that," she screamed, "it is evil." What can be evil about little pieces of paper, little crosses with the arrows on top? "You don't understand," she muttered and pulled us away hastily from the parade.

Next summer Vinyi was in the hospital. We both got very excited because we heard that babies come from hospitals. She arrived to the villa in a taxi, holding a white bundle in her arms. Our excitement was boundless, jumping up and down by the side of the slow-moving car we shouted frantically for her to show us the "baby". She got out and handed each of us a tiny violin. The disappointment rankled for days and none of us ever mastered the instrument nor befriended it to any degree of acceptability.

And then school started. Incredible joy for me. Miracles happened there every day. Letters formed words, words formed stories. I discovered reading and raced ahead of my contemporaries. My bad eyesight was discovered very early on, my clumsiness and shyness stem probably from this time, I was terribly ashamed of my glasses.

I loved school. I excelled at every subject that was to be studied and did very poorly at anything requiring physical attributes. It became a family saying: "I am afraid I will flunk paper folding." I announced sadly just before our first report card was due. Gym was torture, and remained so for the rest of my school career. A well-meaning first grade teacher who, by the way, is the only teacher whose name I remember, sat us down together on the first day of school. After a few days of nudging and kicking each other, I stood up and respectfully requested to be seated somewhere else. "Why?" asked Stella Jolan, "because," I explained in tears "my sister blows the chalk dust my way and I will for sure get tuberculosis" She swiftly complied.

After finishing first grade, we both came down with a pretty severe case of whooping cough and kept coughing the entire summer through. The miseries of that summer were compounded by a new governess (Rozika died during the previous winter): stern, string bean tall, masculine, unsmiling Josephine. At the slightest provocation she made us kneel in the corner on dried beans or dried corn; it was the summer of bloody knees, until Vinyi realized what was going on and Josephine vanished one lovely Sunday morning.

I will give you thumb nail sketches of those that peopled our Universe. Way back in history, when the world was young, it was believed that the world is the center of the Universe, and everything revolves around it. When a human being is young, he recreates the same feeling, goes through the same evolution. We firmly believed that everything and everyone revolved around us.

There was of course aunt Fani: short, blond, fat, always smiling, jolly, she stormed in to the house with the same box of chocolate every time, planted wet kisses on our cheeks, and exclaimed "aj vie zis" which means "how sweet".

There was Uncle Pali, Zulis's first husband, the dentist, a shy, short, balding, blond man, who combed his sparse hair over from one side to the other, and while peering into our mouth, that long strand of hair often fell over his eyes. We loved his frequent, pleasant examinations, we ran wild in the apartment after his Siamese cats. On one occasion he tried to introduce our mother to a visiting friend and FORGOT HER NAME, he stammered through the names of a couple of her previous husbands, then blushed deeply.

Then there was his and Zuli's son, our cousin Gyula. The only person of our childhood who was hostile to us. He would pull the rubber band of our hats under our chin and watch it snap painfully back, he made us come up to their house and drowned a white mouse, while we stood by and watched in horror. Gyula lived with his father, Uncle Pali, after his parents' divorce; he adored his father, he chose his father, yet he could never forgive his mother for giving him up and for going on with her life. Ah, the mysteries of the human soul! Still at University where he studied medicine, he started photography as a hobby, and took amazing pictures of us that were published in the major magazines of Hungary.

Then there was Babi, Gyula's sister. The perfection towards which we strove. She was GROWN UP, she was elegant, she was allowed certain liberties, she was so educated! She wore lipstick! We admired her and tried to emulate her.

The rich uncle from England, grandfather's brother. On his frequent visits he lavished gifts on us from that faraway mysterious place: a little bathroom with a flush toilet, and a light bulb; the same beautiful winter coats that the royal princesses wore, brought out by special permission and a written guarantee that they will never be worn in England.

The painter who painted our portrait at age 5, decided after several dresses were tried on that this is the last chance that we can pose in our underwear. He went on to fame and fortune in the USA, his name was Fried Pal.

Then there were the Faragos. Dr. Laci & Annus Farago where part of our family: he was the family's doctor and she our pediatrician. The kindest, gentlest human being in our life. They had a summer camp where we once spent a couple of weeks. We passed by the swimming pool and saw a bird struggling in the water. Without a moment's hesitation she kicked off her shoes, waded in, her large skirt billowing around her and pulled out the trembling, wet little bird. We stroked his head and gently put him on a rock to dry.

Our cousin Andy. Andy was the son of our father's brother. One night while we were having our bath Vinyi ushered in a young extremely good-looking boy, (he was maybe 12) "This is your cousin Andy," she said. They just arrived from Germany, in hope of finding sanctuary in Budapest. Germany, after the Anschluss, was not a safe place for Jews. Vinyi helped getting them settled, and his mother found work. We loved Andy.

And there was Uncle Imre, Zuli's husband. Tall, dark, smelling of cigars, which he half chewed and half smoked, always loud and boisterous and in a good mood. Those card games with grandfather, enveloped in smoke, shouting, pushing money around, now one, now the other was winning; his office where he let us watch as he weighed and measured diamonds, where we looked on in awe as he tested the gold. He took us to the Varosliget where on the huge outdoor skating rink we looked on as he ran around and around at terrific speed, he fervently believed in physical fitness.

And of course there was Zuli. Big, beautiful, dark, loud, loving, touching, hugging, kissing Zuli. The excitement and excess all came from Zuli, the tenderness, the love, the laughter surrounded her like an aura. She took us to her bed, one on each side of her, brought out her huge beautiful breasts and showed us that her breasts still produced milk. The miracle of being female.

The center of our lives was our grandfather. I can still recall the smell of the store, and especially the back room, the "office" which was a windowless place with a large round table in the middle; the "warehouse" a dingy room cluttered with boxes and papers with a small sink on the wall. We were often hoisted up to this little sink after coming back from our walks, I assume the store lacked toilet facilities... We loved hanging around in the store, "serving" customers, rummaging in the trays of rings, bracelets, watching on Friday the parade of old men coming for their peng–s neatly lined up on the cash at the entrance.

What can you say about a man who—miraculously--somehow conveyed to us that EVERYTHING came from him, and who gave lavishly his time, his love, his patience to these well-behaved, quiet little girls?

It was to be a family joke for many years to come when I approached a lady at the beach who was sunning herself with her arms above her head. With childish innocence and curiosity I pointed to the abundant hair of her armpit and asked her "what is this?" to which she laughingly replied, "you will also have some, when you grow up." I nodded with all the seriousness I could muster, "of course I will, my grandfather will buy me some."

Outstanding events: the first (and probably only) Seder with Grandfather where we made a feeble attempt to say the ma nish tana while he beamed with pride, we tasted delightedly the unusual food, the sweetness of the wine. The car show where we were in the lead-car (a Steyer) dressed in Tyrolean costume, throwing bouquets of flowers at the crowd. It even made the newsreels--our early and only stab at movie-stardom. I still have the ribbon and the medal the car was awarded. The chicken pox that transported me into the heaven of spending a few days with grandfather--so that Mari should not get it --pampered by Mariska, every whim indulged, grandfather offered to buy me a lamb (it was around Easter time and chicken-pox is called lamb-pox in Hungarian). I can still see the peasant trudging up the narrow stairs, with the lamb slung across his shoulders, both of them smelling of the farm they just came from. We exchanged dubious glances with Mariska and the lamb went back to be substituted by a couple of day-old chicks, not quite suitable in a city apartment, but a little less trouble than a lamb. Those wonderful days with grandfather, I watched him in awe in the morning at the window, praying with the t'filim, swaying back and forth, I snuggled under his large tallis.

The Eucharistic Congress in 1938 transformed Budapest into a city of flowers, lights and festivities and filled the streets with funny-looking people: black priests, their sweaty, shiny black faces staring out from under huge round hats, orientals, nuns in varied, strange habits everywhere--a beautiful night-time parade on the Danube complete with fireworks, an exciting time indeed.

And those birthday parties celebrated together with our little friends, the incredible amount of toys, dresses, the huge birthday cake and the smell of cocoa.... The parties at aunt Zuli's house, where the butler brought in parfaits in the shape of our favourite fairy tale characters.

Strange as it sounds, we loved our family outings to the cemetery, visiting the grave of our grandmother (whom we of course could not remember). The ritual hand washing, the placing of the pebble on the grave, the "talking" we all did to grandmother; we were assured that she could hear us, and was looking at us with love and pleasure. Cemeteries never held any dread for me. The death of Rozika and the death of a classmate were tragic events, but somehow woven into the fabric of our everyday life: while we mourned, we also managed to go on with our lives unscathed.

With all the gifts lavished on us, I had one unfulfilled dream: I always longed for a rocking horse. One day I stood at the window of Libman býcsi's toy store and looked again--for the umpteenth time--at a beautiful rocking horse, with long mane of what seemed to be real horse hair, a leather saddle, in other words, everything I dreamed of, when suddenly I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the store window. I looked at myself and realized that I was way too old now for a rocking horse. The realization was instantaneous, I knew that I will NEVER EVER have a rocking horse. This very first realization/disappointment was followed by many over the years, however the first one is always the strongest, and at every successive disappointment the shape of that rocking horse still looms large in my mind.

At about this time our cousin Babi, whom we only vaguely remembered, was due to return from England where she attended a "finishing school". She previously spent a few years in Switzerland, and by now, at about age 17, she obtained her high school diploma and was fluent in four languages. A huge party was prepared by her doting mother and stepfather (Uncle Imre, whom we adored) with pennants decorating the staircase "WELCOME BACK BABI" and a lavish meal. Babi at this time was madly in love with an orthodox Jewish boy in England and the entire household had to be converted into a strictly kosher home...needless to say this phase did not last much longer than usual crushes of 17 year old girls do.

While Babi was gone our aunt Zuli lavished on us all her frustrated motherhood, taking us often to their country estate in Gy–mr–, where we rode ponies, climbed trees to feast on the ripening fruit and were indulged in every possible way. Uncle Imre took us to the synagogue which he and several local friends built in Gy–mr–. And one special train ride back from Gy–mr– with a bag of tawny, home-grown, violet plums. She takes them out of the bag and brings out a handful of toothpicks. On the little window table of the train before our delighted eyes she turns the plums into little pigs, with eyes and snout and little tails, we shrieked with pleasure.

And then one day Vinyi vanished. By then we had a nice governess, Kincsi, and our life was full with school and walks and visits to aunt Zuli and grandfather, violin lessons and fencing lessons, swimming lessons at the century old Rudas baths; wonderful outings to the Výrosliget with its many marvelous attractions, the zoo; yet as little as we saw of her, her complete disappearance left us puzzled and distraught. Grandfather handed us a card one day "here, your mother is in Italy, she sent you a card." I remember holding the card on our way home and it was raining and I was crying and the card became wet and completely illegible by the time I relinquished it at home.

She arrived late one night after what seemed an eternity; woke us up and unpacked the gifts: little donkey carts decorated with coloured plumes, "these are the carts they drive in Sicily," she explained; an ashtray that she fashioned out of the soft lava at the brim of the volcano Vesuvius, and beautifully embroidered white dresses.

In the Spring we heard the word Anschluss. It was on everyone's lips and people seemed terribly frightened. It was decided that the three girls--Babi and the twins-- will spend the Summer in another country: Yugoslavia. Our governess accompanied us, for what seemed a very long trip. We did not know it then, but a chapter in our life just ended.