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Emery Gregus
Occupation and
Liberation 1944-1945
Aftermath: The Postwar Years
Remembrances
Chapter 7
However,
by then the situation at Buco's had changed somewhat. It was no longer
as safe for me to stay in their home as it had been in the past. If
I remember correctly, it was around this time Buco was called into labour
camp under the "white ribbon" grouping (the circumstances
of this class I have described previously). And on occasion Buco also
spent the night illegally at his home when he was fortunate enough to
escape from the labor camp for the night. Buco's mother, Rozsi mama,
was becoming increasingly anxious that she was now sheltering two "illegals"--and
the risk was becoming too much--and naturally she didn't want to endanger
her son's safety.
Rozsi
mama took it upon herself to secure a room for me through an arrangement
made with a friend of hers, who at the time, was living in the same
house as an Undersecretary of State of fairly high rank. It seems that
during the inflationary war years, even an under secretary could find
himself in quite tight financial circumstances and consequently, even
he was ready to rent out one of the rooms in his home to a university
student. Rozsi mama’s friend, Tury Zsuzsa, was a writer, whose
book I purchased some thirty years later out of gratitude in Budapest.
Tury
Zszusa was the sister of a quite well known newspaper reporter, who
contrary to his somewhat liberal and bohemian leanings, (maybe there
was even some Jewish blood in his veins), now wrote, without any misgivings,
articles for extreme rightist newspapers. Tury once laughingly told
Rozsi mama that after so many lean years when his writings brought him
no income, it was only now that he could make a living from it. Nonetheless,
he realized that this was probably so only because in the severe austerity
and deprivation of war there was nothing other than books and newspapers
to be had and consequently this was why his books were selling so well.
But the problem still remained for him---there was nothing available
to purchase with his earnings---except other author’s books!
So
it was through the good graces of Buco's mother, that I called upon
Zsuzsa, who lived in a small and cramped apartment with her elderly
mother and another woman. Zsuzsa received me with much kindness and
a willingness to help. She knew exactly who I was and what my real reasons
were for seeking shelter. She introduced me to the Undersecretary and
his wife, who had no clue as to who I really was; for them I was Csikos
Jozsef, the university student who was studying in Budapest. But for
me, the vastly different circumstances of their existence compared to
mine were akin to landing on another planet.
These
people were not the nonchalant type, with whom I was able to find some
common topic and get along if need be. These people were true Hungarian
blue bloods, an upper middle class echelon of Hungarian society, fawningly
polite and totally foreign in manner for me. I was petrified to communicate
with them, lest my cover be blown and my identity revealed. One evening
they called me in for a friendly chat. They wanted to hear about my
university studies and this conversation I faked as best I could. We
could have spoken about Kassa, but undoubtedly my family and friends
moved in rather different social circles than they did. Surprisingly,
somehow, I survived this little chit chat. Much later when I looked
back at this ordeal, it came to my mind, that, yes, perhaps, on that
evening they suspected who I was, and that is the only reason I was
able to survive this charade.
Not
long after my brother Gyuri departed, perilous times descended onto
Budapest. The ghettos began to empty of their occupants. The dreaded
deportations, which had loomed over the Jews, appeared clearly imminent.
I realized that staying in Budapest was becoming more and more of a
risk. I was far more likely to be stopped for identification papers
in Pest than somewhere in the provinces, and consequently I made my
plans to disappear as soon as possible.
Once
again, Buco's mother came to my rescue. She had an acquaintance who
was planning to visit her parents in their cottage in Moson-Magyarovar.
The acquaintance knew the situation, and who I was, and she advised
me to tell her family that I was seeking shelter from the bombings in
Budapest, which by June 1944 was a more than plausible excuse. By then
the deportations in Moson-Magyarovar were over, and routing out Jews
in hiding was no longer a high priority. Who knows, perhaps by then,
the entire community had conveniently forgotten that Jews had lived
amongst them for almost 300-400 years. Now that their properties had
fallen into their hands, it was even easier to forget this fact.
I
was assuming I had only about 10 days to wait until the taxi driver
came to back to fetch me and take me after Gyuri, but I was so fearful
of the "Jewish roundups" in Pest and the daily ordeal of passing
through his "excellency's foyer," that I was willing to take
upon myself the very great risk of heading off into the countryside
by train. I was prepared to endure the identification checks at every
train boarding and every train station. I was willing to endure these
dangers, rather than to spend another day in Budapest. I no longer recall
with which excuse I said good-bye to my landlord "his excellency",
but I quickly bundled my few belongings and raced down through the steep
alleyway to a streetcar, which would take me to the train station.
It
was early morning and the newspaper vendors were shouting the newspaper
headlines "Rome evacuated by the Germans!" This was wonderful
news, but then something most unexpected and dangerous occurred. Just
as I was running across the steep street, my miserable suitcase came
unlocked, spilling its contents onto the pavement. During all the war
years, I always aimed to make myself as inconspicuous as possible and
to draw as little attention to myself as I could. But this little accident
could have been fatal. Just to image that someone stops by, wants to
help a young man who is running off with a few personal belongings in
his suitcase--all this during the period of the Jewish roundup--to say
the least, it would have been more than suspicious. I wonder if I would
have survived this imaginary encounter. But miraculously no one came
to assist. In absolute panic I gathered my belongings, clutched my small
suitcase under my arm, and mounted the streetcar. I passed the security
checks at the train station and soon found myself on the outskirts of
a small town. I traveled on the same train as Rozsi mama’s friend
and it was agreed that I was to follow her to her parent's home when
she disembarked.
It
was a particularly eerie feeling to arrive at this "Jew-free"
town--this was not Budapest, where even if many of the Jews had been
forced into the ghettos and did not walk freely on the streets, their
presence was felt nonetheless. In my mind's eye, this is how a small
town, say for example, my hometown of Kassa, could have appeared after
the deportations. It was as if I had a sudden glimpse into the future.
This is what life will be in a small town when the Jews are no longer
around. And life here went on as usual, without interruption, as it
most likely did in Kassa, where I wouldn't have dared to step onto the
street.
I
no longer recall if this couple took me in from kindness or for money,
but I do remember clearly that the household was preparing for the wedding
of the women's sister who had brought me to the house. The groom was
a young man, of similar age to mine, who tried to find some common ground
by which to strike up conversation between us, as the equals that he
believed we were. By chatting with him, I felt that his presence was
even a greater risk to my disguise than at "his honour the Undersecretary."
What they assumed about me I would never know---perhaps they had their
suspicions about my background, otherwise it is hard to imagine how
I could have survived in this milieu. On the other hand, people's naiveté
was sometimes surprisingly helpful!
I
took my dinner every day in a small nearby garden restaurant and waited
impatiently for the morning papers where I hoped to discover some clues
that the end of the war was not far off. Perhaps the German resistance
was collapsing at the eastern front? In my mind--while leaning over
the maps describing the military situation--I pushed forward the lines
of the Russian advance, as if my sheer force of will alone could accelerate
the arrival of our rescuers and saviours. Unfortunately for the Jews,
the advances of the Allies appeared to proceed at a snail's pace---one
or two days at a time, sometimes one or two weeks. At Monte Cassino
it appeared the Americans retreated more than they gained ground. No
amount of military headway was quick enough to satisfy our desperate
impatience--and with all due justification.
Then
one fateful morning, while I was having breakfast in the nearby restaurant
I happened to turn to the third page of the newspaper where in the middle
of the page a frightening article glared at me: "Group of Jews
Wanting to Escape to Slovakia Caught at the Hungarian Border at Balassagyarmat.
All the Jews Captured and Taken Back to Kistarcsa." Kistarcsa was
a concentration camp in Hungary, and then the newspaper proceeded to
list all those who had been caught. There among them was my brother
Gyuri, his girlfriend Agi, Urszenyi and the rest of the doomed group.
A
sharp pain pierced my heart. Gyuri had failed to get across. I felt
crushed. All our hopes for survival had vanished. First, and foremost,
my heart ached for my brother. I adored Gyuri. Although I was closer
in age to Karcsi, who played with me more and amused me more often when
I was younger, I became closer to my eldest brother when I became older.
In my eyes he was a " man of the world", in the strictest
sense of the word. He was very handsome and among the three of us he
was the tallest, the women liked him, he had a charming demeanour and
he was open-minded. He had a type of sharp, cynical, and cruel view
of the world, which today one would call "black humour". But
his cynicism was not one of bad intentions, but a kind of bitter wisdom
that went far beyond his years.
He
was always the family's much-protected child and my parents always worried
about him. At the age of ten or eleven he contracted pneumonia and he
suffered from its effects for the rest of his life. He even missed one
year of school as a consequence, and through the goodwill of an American
uncle, Gyuri was sent to the seashore to recover. For years my mother
fretted over him and worried that his condition should not reappear.
I
remember clearly, that one year he appeared in a performance at the
student's ball. There he was in top tails and hat hopping wildly around
the stage with the others in a dance number taught by Mr. Revesz, the
dance instructor. My mother watched anxiously and worried lest all that
jumping shouldn't harm his health.
His
illness eventually did re-appear, but not until later during his university
years. He returned home very ill from Bratislava where he had followed
his previous girlfriend to finish his law studies at the University
of Prague. Not long afterwards his girlfriend married and, who knows,
maybe, there was some connection between these two events. After spending
several months in the Tatra Mountains in a sanitarium he recovered,
but the treatment in those days for these kinds of illnesses was to
compress the lungs so that they would grow to the ribs thereby giving
them a chance to heal. The cure, on the other hand, reduced the capacity
of the lungs to function properly. After this treatment, Gyuri always
breathed and walked with difficulty in the cold and wind, and to a certain
extent he remained crippled by this disease for the rest of his life.
Before
and during the war, I remember how often he took me along with his older
set of friends when we were in Budapest. It was an experience I shall
never forget to be included among his companions and be party to their
stories of womanizing. He probably realized that I was an insecure soul
and he took me under his wings. He always spoke to me about all his
friends' adventures as one would speak to an equal, never as one younger
or less experienced. More than likely he shared these stories not only
to amuse me, but also to teach and enlighten. He loved me very much.
In our home such sentiments were not openly talked about. It would not
have been considered proper to do so.
Even
now, it was through his intervention and care that I was able to escape
from Kassa to Budapest, and undoubtedly his intercession had saved me
from the certainty of deportation and probable death. My heart ached
for him terribly. I was fully aware that his invalid state might hinder
him in the exhausting night march in the woods; and his poor health
would come to haunt him if he were captured. Unfortunately this is exactly
how it happened.
As
I was later to learn, my worst fears for Gyuri were realized. During
the long night march towards the border, the entire group was forced
to slow down several times because he was unable to keep up. The smuggler,
foreseeing that this trip could end badly, disappeared into the dark
woods, leaving the entire group to their own devices. My brother and
his friends had no idea where they were, and after walking without any
bearings throughout the night, found themselves not at the Slovakian
border where they were headed to, but back at the Hungarian border,
where they had started from. The guards caught them and beat each of
them for having tried to escape.
All
this I learned much later from one of the group’s members, a fellow
named called Josi who, after several weeks, successfully escaped from
Kistarcsa, a concentration camp in Hungary, where the Hungarians had
interred my brother and his group to await deportation to Auschwitz.
This Josi had proposed to my brother to join him in his escape as he
has assurances from one of the policeman that he would help him. But
Gyuri refused. He wasn’t going to leave his girlfriend Agi behind
and he was betting on assurances from another policeman who had promised
to help both him and Agi in a few days time. So sadly, each of them,
Gyuri and Agi, mutually sacrificed one other. It was because of my brother
that Agi wanted to take the risk to cross over to border to Slovakia.
Before the ill fated escape, Agi had been working with Christian papers
as a maid in Budapest and this arrangement offered her a fair amount
of security and safety from deportation. But my brother, Gyuri was very
uneasy to remain in Budapest. Now, with Josi, my brother could have
escaped with a group of men, but he decided to remain behind because
of promises from someone who could help him and Agi together. But before
these plans could be realized, the entire group in Kistarcsa was deported
to Auschwitz two days later, where a cousin of mine met him in the autumn
of 1944.
Obviously
Gyuri did not survive the German retreat when the Germans dragged all
the Jews along with them. Any Jew, who could not keep pace with the
march and fell from the line, was shot on the spot. That was most likely
Gyuri’s fate. I have no witnesses for this, but when Gyuri never
returned after liberation, this is the image I have of his tragic end.
Once in June 1945, after the liberation, my friend Leo, who was just returning from Prague and with whom I was rooming with in Kassa, came home excitedly to wake me. He had heard that my brother Gyuri was on his way home. An incredible happiness, defying all description, swept over me until it became clear that it was not my Gyuri, but another youth of the same age and name who had spent the war years in London. This fellow was now returning to Kassa to see if any members of his family were still alive. He found no survivors. It was for his sister, Lotti, that I had written an essay in April l944 on the Counter Reformation when she was staying, along with my father, in the hospital in Kassa.
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