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Chapter 2: Gyurika
HUNGARY, 1944
(ZONE 1), Carpathians
In my mind's eye I am holding the hand of my little brother. He is three-years old, I am eight. Technically, he is not my brother but my nephew. He is the son of my big sister, Iby, who is sixteen years older. She is twenty-four years old and very beautiful with her long, red hair. She came home to my parents' house with the baby (sometime in 1942) after her husband had been drafted into the forced labour camp as were all young Jewish men.
I can see clearly the day my parents and my sister had disappeared from our lives. It is 1944, a spring day in early April, just after lunch. The sun is shining, the mildness of the spring air feels like a gentle caress on my face. It smells of spring and the promise of an early summer. The house is quiet, this is the time for the little boy's nap. I hear my mother's movements in the kitchen as I go out to the veranda.
The veranda runs along the back of the house, and the main door can be approached by mounting the few steps that leads to it from the side. It runs along the length of the four bedrooms and continues beyond the front door along the wall of the kitchen. There it takes a sharp turn, in the shape of an L, and there is, what we call, the summer kitchen. We usually start using this kitchen in the spring when Passover begins, to make the special Passover cleaning easier. It is also cooler there in the summer, because its floor is made of stone.
The floor is a light red colour, the colour of brick, and seems easy to clean just by sweeping it with some special powdery stuff. Its windows face, on the side, towards the vegetable gardens that stretch from the side of the building to the foot of the mountain. All the other windows are facing the street.
It had happened at one time, right front of the summer kitchen on the veranda, that someone from the poultry barn brought four little yellow chicks up to the house to please Gyurika. They just hatched, and they were lined up in single file, and they walked on their wobbly legs in front of the child. He was delighted, and with the twig he was holding he counted each one on the head as they passed him. Perhaps in his excitement he tapped a little too hard. One... two... three... four... And in turn, each fell over and died.
The floor of the veranda is of red brick and the house, as well as the supporting columns of the veranda, are white washed. In the mornings I usually wake up to our little maid, Maria, standing outside, whipping fresh cream for breakfast. Probably, because it's cooler outdoors and it's easier to whip.
I suspect that is done mostly for my benefit since I dislike the smell of milk intensely, but I love the whipped cream, and so, I get to eat extra portions.
This house does not belong to my father. Some years ago my father had lost his property in the land scuffle between Hungary and Chehzlovakia and he is, at the present, managing someone's estate. He did not own the land, he had leased it because, by that time, Jews were not allowed to buy land in Hungary. The Motherland was not for sale to Jews. But they could rent for a hundred-year lease, invest their money to improvements, livestock, buildings etc. And then, lose it all as my father did.
The Schwartz family--the grandfather I don't remember knowing--had had land of great proportion. He had in his possession the area of the town of Cigand, in the County of Zemplen, including the land the town had been built on.
The Ehrenfeld family, on my Mother's side, had much greater wealth, so the story goes, not only in land, but they also had a distillery in Beregsurany, in Bereg County. Half century later the surviving children of their children would still talk about the "castle" in Beregszasz. Perhaps, it had been only a very big house for a very large family. Both my parents had their origins in the Northern part of Hungary.
Later on, at the beginning of the WWII years, when the Chech's were anxious to get rid of the Hungarian Jews living there, so they would only have to deal with their own, they forced them over the border to Hungary.
I have a sharp image in my mind, although I couldn't have been more than four, sitting on top of a wagon pulled by horses, looking back at a white house in fascination of how small it was getting in the distance. That wagon, or perhaps more than one, carried all my father was left with. We are certainly not wealthy.
x x x
I am trying to decide what to do with my time, while Gyurika is sleeping in the afternoon. This is a daily problem, unless my Father takes me with him, which I love above everything. It is hard for me to stay quiet on a beautiful day such as this, and I wander around aimlessly in and out of the house, when the sudden appearance of two gendarmes stirs the household. They tell my mother and my sister that they have orders to take them to the police station where they, already, have my Father. They should hurry to get ready. No reasons given. It was April 4, 1944.
The two gendarmes position themselves at the entrance door and wait.
My sister is very nervous as she is trying to pull up her stockings with her right hand while the left is holding on to the hand of her son. He can only fall asleep if his mother is holding his hand. I am standing at the door in between his room and the hallway. The sun shines through the glass of the front doors brightening the otherwise dim hallway. The motifs of the crisp, white lace curtains are clearly visible on the dark parquet floor as the sun hits the glass.
I can see the gendarmes standing at the entrance door looking impatient. My sister motions towards me and she puts my nephew's hand into mine.
Later in my life, I will read special meaning into her simple gesture.
The little boy doesn't even stir, and I feel proud to be so important. I keep holding his hand long after he falls asleep. I can't see my mother and my sister from where I sit at the crib, but I can hear them leave. They are being rushed out the door and there are no good-byes. My nineteen-year old brother, Bela, who is in town on a visit, is left in charge until they would return later in the day. So they had said.
In the quiet house I keep holding the small hand.
The destruction of the Hungarian Jews began as a voluntary Hungarian
venture, and the first Hungarian measures were enacted without much
German prodding and without any German help.
Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews
I am eager for Gyurika to wake earlier than it is usual for him. I had heard that a sleeping person shouldn't be stared at, because it will wake him. So I stare. I am very excited at the sudden chance of liberty. And I stare... and stare... until finally my efforts are rewarded and he opens his eyes. He asks for his mother, but he is easily distracted when I excitedly promise him a great afternoon. I dress him for the first time.
Usually, we are not allowed to go outside our own gates without supervision. But today we visit the houses where the labourers live with their families, and we play with their children while their parents look on in unusual silence. My little nephew is following happily my wild ideas into forbidden territories.
He trusts me. He doesn't understand the number of times I had got us into trouble and I had blamed it on him. Not that I could fool anyone. Like the time we had let dozens of the white rabbits out of their cages. The big barn, where Iby's fortune of about 200 rabbits are housed, is the closest building to the house. They are kept for their beautiful, white fur that is sold to make chic, white angora pullovers. Well, we had lots of fun watching them running around as we were trying to catch one. They are soft, and have bright red eyes. Their short tails move constantly, and their long ears stand straight up giving the impression of intelligent listeners. We couldn't reach too high up, or rather I couldn't, so most rabbits didn't get their freedom-run, and didn't get sick either from stuffing themselves on the feed that had been stored for them in the middle of the barn. Everyone was angry with me, except my Father. He laughed; in his eyes I could do no wrong.
But today is different. I don't really want us to get into trouble. My brother couldn't handle it. As a rule, we are not allowed to leave our own yard and garden. However, this afternoon is my chance to explore a little. The spring weather makes me happy, and I feel reckless. We are not wearing our jackets, Bela didn't remember that we should, and although I feel cold, I enjoy breaking the rules.
The town's cemetery is up in the side of the mountain, I can see it from the end of our yard. It holds a strange fascination with all the ghost stories our maid was telling me. There are never any people up there, and I conclude that to die is to be forgotten. It seems peaceful, the tombs standing under the shades of ancient trees as old as the land. I am not allowed up there, it isn't a Jewish cemetery. I am charmed by the seemingly abandoned cemetery and I often watch it, wishing for something to happen there. From the far it seems like a quiet and peaceful place. Maria says the ghosts only come out at night, and I shouldn't watch them or they come and get me. But I think the ghosts are dead, too. Whatever dead means. Today would be the perfect time to explore it, but I am not that brave. But we do go as far as the land starts to rise. It is getting late and the light is fading. It's no longer warm and we play on the sunny side, keeping away from the cold shadows of the house. By the time my brother calls us inside it is twilight, and by then I am glad he had remembered.
The sky is strangely grey, the quiet around us is eerie. Reality descends on us in the cold, quiet house. The house feels empty with only the three of us.
Maria isn't around, and the stove in the kitchen is cold, and so is the rest of the house. We have cold sandwiches for supper, Bela doesn't know how to start a fire in the stove or in the fireplace. He seems preoccupied. Usually he can be counted on for jokes and light-hearted conversation. But now he is clearly troubled and absorbed in his thoughts.
My brother is nineteen years old and he is sick; he has tuberculosis. It has something to do with a damp place he had lived while he was staying in Budapest. The doctors advised fresh, country air, preferably in the mountains. Well, we certainly have all that.
Every now and again he goes to see a specialist. That is a whole day's trip. He gets very tired and he has to rest a lot. He is very tall, skinny, and his skin is pale. He has a good sense of fun, and there is always more laughter in the house when he is around.
I remember a time when he had come home for a visit and I was jumping happily around him, anticipating presents, when he finally figured out the reason for his popularity. He looked at me, and with the most serious expression on his face, he described the colourful candies he had bought me. Then he said; "Coming home on the train, I was getting hungry and I took a small piece of the chocolate, I didn't think you would mind. The trouble was that I was still hungry... and it was such a long trip...so I had one of the candies too, but it was a very long trip..." Everyone burst into laughter, and for compensation we were given some sweets from the mysterious cupboard that was for ever locked with a key.
There is no laughter today.
There is no fun while preparing for bed. I am holding Gyurika's hand while he falls asleep, but I don't have that pleasant feeling of importance I had enjoyed earlier in the day. In my bed I listen to the silence that fills the cold rooms, I watch the long shadows play on the walls and the ceiling. This is no longer pleasantly exciting. I am so confused about all that happened that I don't even have questions. My brother is wrapped up in his own thoughts and doesn't notice this uncharacteristic phenomenon. I listen to the unusual silence not only in the house but outside as well. Everything is still. The town holds its breath.
[O]n April 7 the Hungarian government prohibited all Jewish travel
without official permission by city police or rural Gendarmerie.
Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews
Within the next few days my brother gets permission from the local authorities to take us to our Aunt Sarah, who lives in Domsod. He has to return within 24 hours. I can't recall the train ride, or whether Bela had stayed the night or left by the next train. I was busy playing with my cousins whom I loved dearly. I don't remember saying good-bye to my brother.
x x x
We are settling in with Aunt Sarah, far away from our home. I think of it as home, although I know my parents are no longer there. Still, you have to belong somewhere and, nice as everyone is, we don't belong here. (I was born in this small town of Domsod, but we had moved away, or was I born in my Aunt's house...?)
Aunt Sarah has two boys of her own and, though our arrival had been unexpected, we feel welcome in their house. The older son, Ernoke, is two years older than I am, the younger, whose name is also Gyurika, is two years older than my little brother. Both of the boys have the "Ehrenfeld look", chestnut coloured hair and dark brown eyes. My Mother's family. The boys are happy to see us, and we are making plans for games we want to play. Our activities are confined to the house, because Jews are not allowed to leave their homes. Ernoke is the oldest, he can write real writing, so he is the one who writes down the silly poems that we make up while we are sitting around an old table outside on the veranda. I see us laughing. My little brother is laughing along not knowing why, but because laughter is so contagious. His curly hair is bobbing on his head as he moves. The sun shines on the halo of blond curls and on his smiling face. He is a beautiful, smart little boy, with bright blue eyes, curly blond hair, and a warm body.
The sound of our laughter brings my Aunt Sarah to her kitchen door, smiling. My eyes meet her wondering gaze as if she was witnessing a miracle.
My Aunt and her husband don't laugh although what I had remembered most about them was their easy smile that used to have a permanent place on their face. My Aunt Sarah had always been my favourite aunt. She was the happiest of my mother's sisters and brothers that I can remember. She is a short women with beautiful warm brown eyes, and a heavy head of shiny brown hair. Her smile lights up the room. She has a lingering smell of freshly baked cookies and her arms are always ready to hug.
The living space in my Aunt's once spacious house is now reduced to two rooms and the kitchen. The cheese factory that stood on the other side of the enclosed courtyard with its mouth-watering smells, had been closed down. The general store that used to keep my Uncle busy all day is also closed. Now he stays in the house looking lost and forcing a smile when we look at him. They seem to be waiting for something to happen.
Gyurika sleeps in my cousins' room. I put him to bed and hold his hand while he falls asleep. For me, they open a cot at the foot of their bed in the bedroom. Before we go to bed my Uncle jokingly asks me not to snore. But I can't sleep. I am used to sleeping alone in a room. I toss and turn for what seems like a long time. Suddenly I'm wide awake. It is so dark I can't even see shadows. I hold my breath and I wonder what woke me. My heart is beating so loudly that it alone should scare away any intruder. Creak... creak. Cre-e-eak. It is coming closer. Scrape...It's almost at my bed, and I can't scream for help. My heart is in my throat blocking the way and I cannot cry out. I can hear the heavy breathing of my uncle, but my heartbeat sounds louder in my ears. My Uncle turns in his sleep and I manage a wretched little whimper. They are both awakened instantly, with the suddenness of parents with small children. The light is turned on, they are on my bed in seconds, trying to comfort me. I am crying as I had never cried before, and as I will not be able to cry again for years to come. They finally understand what scared me so, and walk me around the spacious room to reassure me. Then my Aunt remembers that the bed is too short for my uncle, who is a tall man, and when he stretches, his feet would touch the bed frame at the foot of the bed, causing the wood to object. We laugh. I feel ashamed to have behaved so silly, but I'm also relieved. They tuck me in, and this time, feeling safe and cared for, I fall asleep.
I don't remember how long we had stayed with Aunt Sarah. Perhaps, it was just a few days when one night she woke me up. She was crying as was her husband. Quietly, they explained that Gyurika and I will have to leave, because it isn't safe for us to stay there any longer. Is it safe for them? Things are confusing as to what safety is.
It is the middle of the night when we say goodbye. I have no way of knowing that I will never see them again, so I don't thank them enough. There is no moon to light the way. The town is asleep. The Stranger in Dark Coat, who's taking us to the station, doesn't talk to us as we walk. I am holding Gyurika's hand tightly; I need him as much as he needs me.
We are walking for, what seems a long time. There is no moon and the town is asleep. The only sound is the crunching of the dry earth under our feet. We are both sleepy and Gyurika's hand is heavy in my grip. He seems to be walking in his sleep and I try to keep him from stumbling. In the dark I hardly realize when we get to the train station. It is in complete darkness: only a crack in the blackout shutters shows there is light inside. For safety. The enemy planes are targeting the railway lines, everyone knows that. But I am confused about who the enemy is. Who are we hiding from?...running from? I understand only that my parents are gone because we are Jewish, and being Jewish can kill you. I feel small, not at all the big sister I am suppose to be. The Stranger in the Dark Coat is avoiding the station house, and motions us to board the last car. "Good luck" he whispers. No one sees us leave. I am worried about how I will know when to get off the train. Gyurika falls asleep on my shoulder. I am holding his hand.
I watch the railway tracks stretch into deeper darkness, and I watch as the lines run into each other in the distance, those too have gone crazy...
It is still dark when the coach empties of people and I wake Gyurika. He doesn't complain, but holds my hand tightly. We follow the crowd. I could never recall, later on, how or with whom did we manage to get to my Aunt Hermina's house.
x x x
Aunt Hermina lives in Budapest, the capital of Hungary. I have no memory of her. She has two daughters much older than I am, but I feel that I am catching up quickly.
Marika is about four years older than I am, Eva eight. Marika is beautiful, and she knows it. Eva is smart.
It is a quiet household. My aunt's husband had been called into the forced labour camp long ago. We pray every night, facing East, for the safety of our loved ones. It is difficult to pray to the G-d who has decided that they should not be safe in the first place.
Where are they?
A short time after our arrival, a stranger comes one night after dark. The blackout shutters are already on the windows, and we all sit in the room where the candle is giving us some light. The strange lady has been sent by Gyurika's grandmother on his father's side. She wants him with her. The grandmother lives in Pest-Erzsebet, one of the suburban communities around Budapest. They had been, as the stranger says, moved to a district where only Jews live. A ghetto. Nothing more can happen. The Nazis will not notice one more small child, and he would be safe.
This cannot be happening.
My little brother understands only that he has to leave with the stranger without me. He cries as he hangs on to me, and he puts up the first fight of his young life. I do the same. So, we are both being packed up to leave in minutes.
Pest-Erzsebet
The Grandmother is very, very old. And I hate her. She lives with her sister and they are both wearing dark clothes, their face heavily lined, their backs bent with age. They seem to me the embodiment of witches in scary children's stories. I don't trust their smiles. They, clearly, don't want me here, but Gyurika is sticking very close to me and they want him. It is late at night, and I undress both of us. They want to touch him, but he cries and pulls away hanging onto my legs. This child never cries, and I am helpless to keep away the witches. He refuses the offered candies and, uncharacteristically, he pushes their grabbing hands away.
Since we are both exhausted we fall fast asleep. During the night I am awakened by the Grandmother-witch, and I am told that I have to go back to my Aunt. Alone.
I tell them Gyurika will miss me and he'll cry.
They tell me to get dressed fast.
I cannot say good bye; I shouldn't wake him.
There is nothing I can do.
x x x
The little girl sitting at the window gazing into the dark void. She does not notice when the train leaves the station and picks up speed.
She is holding her own hands.
She sits motionless, stares into the darkness, not seeing. The darkness slowly creeps into the white void inside her, filling it. Its heavy protective texture numbs her.
Oblivion.
x x x
Pest-Erzsebet was in ZONE 5. The excerpt below is an example of the role Hungarians played in the successful deportation of thousands of Jews.
On July 6, Veesenmayer was informed by Sztojay that THE REGENT
HAD ORDERED THE DEPORTATIONS STOPPED. Three days later... in
this connection, Jarosz mentioned that he had completed the deportations
in Zone 5 and the Budapest suburbs in VIOLATION of the Regent's directives.
Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews
ONE OF THOSE TRAINS CARRIED GYURIKA.