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Emery Gregus
Occupation and
Liberation 1944-1945
Aftermath: The Postwar Years
Remembrances
Chapter 8
But
let us now return to the restaurant at Magyarovar. After my shock at
reading the devastating news that Gyuri had failed in crossing the border,
I come to the realization that I am truly alone. What was I going to
do with myself? I had hoped that waiting in this small town would offer
me some security until I could go back to Budapest to wait for the taxi
diver who was to come and collect me and lead me along to follow the
same route as my brother. But now, unfortunately, I absolutely had no
cause to stay any longer. I went home the cottage, and with an explanation
I no longer remember, I told them that I was returning to Budapest.
For some reason I ceased to be concerned about the air raids! "O
Sancta Simplicitas!" These people probably felt that the worst
thing to fear was whether Budapest was being bombed or not!
Once
again, with my small suitcase, I arrived to the train station, where
identification papers are checked and re-checked. Each and every train
ride is a journey into the lion’s den. If my memory serves me correctly,
in this instance, there was also a razzia during the train ride
itself, but, as in the past, the detectives accepted my papers.
I
arrived at Budapest, and with only one direction left open to me, I
headed towards Buco’s house, where I hoped to spend just a few
nights until I could find another place to hide. As always, but now
with perhaps just a little less naiveté, they welcomed me back
into their home.
At
the start of the harassment against the Jews, Buco’s Christian
mother perceived our fears for the future to be an exaggeration. I remember
that besides her willingness to help me personally, she didn’t
take the discrimination and persecution of the Jews all too seriously.
She always had a smile and an anecdote in connection with the rescue
of the Jews. Most likely, she didn’t even realize the risk she
brought upon herself in connection with her actions, and in fact, this
was probably true for many non-Jews who were extending a helping hand.
However, around this period, she too, began to experience some fear
and perhaps some reservations. By now, even her son Buco was called
in for labour camp service, albeit into the "white ribbon"
category. Even Rozsi mama was likely feeling somewhat offended by the
regime to which, not long before, she was not a sworn opponent.
She
regarded her good friend, a right wing newspaper writer, as a very witty
fellow and she often recounted laughingly the amusing gift of his black
humour. I think, that basically, she didn’t comprehend or believe
that the Hungarian right wing newspapers were playing "phantom
executioner" with innocent people’s lives. Rozsi mama was
willing to extend a helping hand to her individual Jewish friends, because
she knew that these particular individuals were innocent, but wholesale
persecution of the Jews as a People, as an idea, was not so absurd to
her.
But,
to her credit, she again allowed me to stay with them. Buco was already
away from home and I lived in the maid’s room. Luckily for me,
there were servant’s rooms even in places where they could not
afford one.
When
I returned to Budapest from the country, I tried to discover some information
about my brother who had been taken to a camp near Budapest. I tried
to make contact with those individuals who would have later (had my
brother’s escape been successful) been involved in taking me on
the prearranged trip to meet Gyuri at Bratislava. I do not remember
the details, but I do remember that in Budapest I met up with a frantic
mother, whose 21- year- old daughter had been together with Gyuri’s
girlfriend, Agi at the Kistarcsa concentration camp. Between us, we
discussed endless possibilities to free them--there was always one scheme
or another, or one or another policeman whom we thought we could trust
and who promised to help. To this end I met many people, hoping to find
someone, just someone, who knew anyone who might be able to help. I
lived a roller coaster of hope and despair, until it became clear that
they had taken Gyuri out of the country. All my efforts had ended in
disappointment.
I think very often of this 21-year-old girl’s attractive mother
with whom we so desperately tried to free our loved ones. I don’t
know what became of the mother, but I do know she survived the war and
her daughter never returned. The daughter most likely suffered the fate
of some of young Hungarian girls deported at the time to Auschwitz and
ended up in a brothel.
Josi,
who had once offered Gyuri the possibility of escape and whom I met
some time later at a chance encounter at the Margit Bridge, told me
that this woman’s daughter was caught along with his girlfriend,
rounded up on the streets of Budapest and taken to an assembly camp.
One of the girls became Josi’s lover and the other Ursenyi’s,
and Josi recounted these terrible events as amusing anecdotes. For him
it seems, even horrible times such as these could create pleasant memories.
Urszenyi,
who had been the forger, belonged among the more agreeable group of
rascals and I met him one last time somewhere when I already knew that
Gyuri had been deported. I remember walking along the streets of Budapest
and telling him that everything was lost; I had nothing to live for,
and no reason to fight for my personal survival. "Oh, don’t
be foolish", he said, "if you make it through the war you
will find yourself a girl and you will begin your life anew. You will
see that you will overcome the tragedy of having lost your family, whom
you feel at this moment irreplaceable". I don’t recall what
this Urszenyi’s background was, but I heard that he did indeed
survive the war, and I have to give him credit for being a very wise
man, much wiser than I was at that time.
But for the time being, I now spend the days at Buco’s. The night air raids had become a regular occurrence. The night sky was filled with no less than 500-600 American bombers, and during the day the British bombers came. During the air raids, Rozsi mama and her daughter Klari would descend to the air raid shelter, but I remained in the maid’s room so as not to be noticed by the other apartment dwellers in the basement. I vividly recall one spectacular bombing which I witnessed from the maid’s room. I remember an occasion when the American bombers struck a flourmill in Ujpest (a suburb of Budapest) and the flames, fueled by the very incendiary quality of the flour, appeared to reach the sky. It was a fantastic and spectacular sight. Naturally, for me the fear of a bomb hitting the building and killing me was insignificant compared to someone discovering that I was a Jew. I just felt great satisfaction that my persecutors were now sharing in the fear. I contently watched this scene from my window and I hoped that the bombs would cause as much damage as possible.
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