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Emery Gregus
Occupation and
Liberation 1944-1945
Aftermath: The Postwar Years
Remembrances
Chapter 4
I
look at my mother who nods that yes, I should go. I run happily into
my room to collect a few belongings and in a matter minutes I am ready
to leave. Until this very moment, it is the first time that I am touched
by the awareness that perhaps there does exist some unimaginable possibility
of saving myself from the horrors and fears of the future. I don’t
hesitate for even one instant. And at no time afterwards, not even during
the joy of liberation, did I experience that feeling of ecstasy as I
did at that very moment--perhaps there is a way out of my predicament.
Perhaps there is still hope to be saved! Even if I should not succeed,
I had tried and hadn’t let myself be dragged helplessly to my intended
fate.
I
kiss my mother goodbye and in minutes I am out of the house. Later I
was to learn through my cousin (Manyi) how my mother, who was by now
in the brickyards awaiting deportation, recounted the event. "An
angel (referring to Bornemissza) appeared at our home and took Imre
with him." It was not so much a metaphor, but a plain and simple
description of the events.
With
my heart pounding, Bornemissza (the life saver) and I cross the park
adjoining our house. He is carrying my suitcase and I am galloping after
him. After a short while, we arrive to the Hotel Europa, where he is
the manager. Bornemisza shows me to an upstairs room, shuts the door
and warns me not to open to anyone except on a specific knocking pattern
(which he demonstrates). Later he returns and provides me with one of
his waiter’s identity papers. I am instructed to memorize all the
details, and informs me that he will return later in the evening to
accompany me to the sleeper headed for Budapest.
And
that is exactly how it happened. At precisely 11:00 p.m. Bornemissza
knocked with the pre-arranged signal and we left, with my small suitcase,
hurrying through the total darkness of the park towards the train station.
It
was a short distance, perhaps not more than 300-400 meters, but it seemed
endless. A young man running with a suitcase in the dark of the night
was highly suspicious for anyone trying to prevent the escape of Jews.
It was a perilous trip, but finally we arrived to the train station.
The
train was waiting. I am holding out my false identity papers and we
manage to pass the detectives checking the passengers. We board the
train and Bornemissza motions me to take the upper berth of the sleeping
car and settles into the lower one for him. It seems like an eternity
until the train starts to stir, but finally, yes finally, the train
rolls slowly out of the station towards freedom!
At
midnight there is a knock at the door of our sleeping cabin. The detectives
are checking the identity papers. I am pretending to sleep. Bornemissza
hands over his papers and the detective asks him. " Who is in the
upper berth?" Bornnemissza replies, " He belongs to me."
The policeman doesn’t question him further. The door closes and
I breathe a sigh of relief.
As
I found out much later, Bornemissza belonged to a special brand of national
security and his I.D. card must have reflected this fact. An ordinary
policeman or detective was not entitled to question an agent of this
kind. Some 40 years later, I read the memoirs of a lawyer from Kassa
in which he refers to Bornemsisza. Apparently, he was a nephew of a
cabinet minister and had come to Kassa to take over the management of
the Europa Hotel from a Jewish owner. The story goes that in his position
as manager, he often overheard the drunken and arrogant bragging of
the gendarmerie at the bar of the hotel (sometimes he would ply them
with free drinks). As a result, he often had first hand information
as to the various plans they had against the Jews in the city. Once,
when some particular Jew to whom he was obliged in some financial way,
was singled out, Bornemissza ran to warn him of the coming events. Was
he keeping his future in mind collecting points or was he truly a humane
soul? Probably it was the combination of the two. As I was to discover
many times later on, the approaching victory of the allies contributed
to a large extend in rekindling the dormant humanity and goodwill of
the local population. At this juncture of the war, when everyone, except
the most ardent Nazi, knew that defeat was unavoidable, Bornemisza had
been willing to accept compensation for his help in saving Jews, but
I don’t believe he did it for the material gain only. No amount
of money could compensate for the risk he took. After the liberation,
I met Bornemisza on the Vaci Street in Budapest. He told me that he
had tried to locate me to act as a witness to prove his anti-Nazi activities
by saving Jewish lives, but had eventually found someone else, and he
no longer needed my assistance. I told him that I would have been more
than glad to help.
At
last we arrive to Budapest and at the station there is still one more
hurdle to overcome. At the exit, everyone’s identification papers
are checked once more. Clutching my false papers, I follow Bornemisza.
The detective looks at it, and he lets us pass.
I
step into the brilliant spring sunshine of the city. For a moment my
sense of hopelessness and desperation lift. I feel I have emerged from
the world of darkness that was Kassa. In Kassa all the Jews wore the
yellow star and helplessly waited for the gendarmes to take them to
the brick factory and from there to be taken to an uncertain fate. In
Budapest, as well, the Jews were branded with the Star of David, but
now with my false papers I was exempt from this. I felt as if I had
been transported to a completely different planet, where possibilities
to save myself might exist. I had arrived to a different world and maybe
there was a chance to survive.
Bornemissza
hails a cab and we travel in an open carriage on the Rakoci Road toward
my sister Nelly’s apartment on Petofi Sandor Street. I notice in
a passing carriage, a girl I recognize from my hometown. We looked at
one another mutely and without any sign of recognition. We do not greet
one another so as not to give away one another’s identity in case
we were being watched. "So you as well, succeeded in escaping to
Budapest", we both think. This practice of paying no recognition
to another’s identity was a custom adopted in many future encounters.
Bornemissza
and I arrive to my sister Nelly’s home where my brother Gyuri and
his girlfriend Agi are waiting. The discussion quickly turns to new
concerns: how to avoid being taken to the ghettos which seems only a
question of days, and how to get our parents out of Kassa.
Buco,
my old friend from Kassa, who is now living in Budapest, has been regularly
visiting my sister Nelly and comes over as soon as he hears I have arrived.
He seems to be willing to help me and appears sympathetic. He is half
Jewish and is in danger of being taken to the labor camp. His mother
is Christian and his father, who has died recently, was Jewish. Under
this combination his family is now considered Aryan and are permitted
to stay in their old apartment in Buda. At least, for the moment, Buco’s
mother, and to some extent my friend Buco himself, I suppose, don’t
realize the danger of sheltering or hiding Jews. This naiveté
is particularly fortunate for me at this juncture of the war because
these people might not fully understand the risk they personally undertake
in assisting me.
I
stay at my sister’s for a few days but even this involves another
problem. The janitor might be aware that there is possibly a Jew hiding
in the apartment and nothing would be easier for him than to reveal
my presence to the authorities, if he so desires.
At this point, Simon, my sister’s husband receives his summons to a labour camp unit. In the past he had been a lieutenant in the Hungarian army reserve. Now he puts on his uniform and his riding boots and joins the designated labor camp brigade in the city. Shortly afterwards, he is relocated to the provinces near Sopron from where my sister still gets some news from him. Later he is moved into Austria and then deeper into Germany where he disappears forever. After the war, my sister still has hope that he will return. Panni, her daughter, who is about 7 years old repeatedly, asks her mother, "Daddy will return one day, won’t he?" But Daddy never returned and probably perished somewhere in Germany.
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