Thanks to the article about the book in the Brampton Guardian two days before the event, I can safely say it was a roaring success. Between 11.a.m and 4 p.m. we sold and signed 30 books, which apparently is a rarity in this business.
By the time we arrived at the book store there were people waiting, and Steven, the manager told us, there were many phone calls about the book the previous evening and that morning.
Many people interested in the book were from Hungary, or had family members, or friends who were Hungarian, but there were quite a few people, who just liked what the story had to offer and bought it.
I had quite a few surprising visitors as well. One couple from Fanshawe Drive, our old neighborhood; two old friends (Csöcsike and Pitti), Mike Toth dropped by between two hockey games, and Sue Krantz kept me company. Then the Bokors came by, introduced themselves, and became fast friends. It turns out we have quite a lot in common. Including people I write about in the book.They lived with the Egris shortly after they arrived in Canada in Toronto, and knew George Jonas as well.Did I say it is a small world?
There was one woman, who bought a book and when I asked who to sign it, said, it was for a middle school, and wanted to know if I would be willing to go and talk to the kids at school. I reassured her, that it would be my pleasure to go and talk to the kids about my experiences.
Another young woman rushed in and informed me, that her mother left a note on her refrigerator, that she was supposed to come by and pick a copy of my book for her. And I received a message, that some one, asked me to sigh a copy for her, but she can only come and pick it up Sunday.
At around 2 p.m. I had to send Peter home to pick up more copies, as I ran out. One person said, she is willing to wait for it. Peter was back with 15 more copies within half an hour and I managed to sell 10 more copies. I left 5 in the store in consignment.
We finally packed up a bit after 4 p.m. very happy. The staff at the bookstore were cheering me, and said they will be sending information to all the other Chapters, recommending me to have Author's appearances there too.
Now all I have to do is send the article to all the other newspapers as well and try to get reviews.
Well, so far so good.I keep my fingers and toes crossed for further good luck.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Brampton Guardian article about book
http://www.bramptonguardian.com/what%27s%20on/article/620080--brampto
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* Feb 16, 2010 - 3:54 PM
* |
* Recommended 0
Brampton author pens true account of Hungarian Revolution
Heroes Don't Cry. Brampton author Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger will be signing copies of her book, Heroes Don't Cry, at Brampton Chapters on Feb. 20.
With the odds stacked against her, and given a one-in-a-million chance of success, Brampton resident Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger describes in her book Heroes Don’t Cry how she managed to escape and then rescue her parents from certain death in post-revolution Hungary.
Today, Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger lives the quiet life of a suburban housewife, but not far beneath it lies her younger life far away from the experience or imagination of the average Canadian. With the odds stacked against her, and given a one-in-a-million chance of success, this Brampton resident describes in her book Heroes Don’t Cry how she managed to escape and then rescue her parents from certain death in post-revolution Hungary.
On Feb. 20 at Chapters Brampton, 52 Quarry Edge Dr., the author will be on hand to sign copies of her book.
Heroes Don’t Cry is based in 1956, when 10-year-old Judy was happy and protected, surrounding by a loving family: her parents and paternal grandparents in Budapest, Hungary.
In Judith’s young eyes, they were all heroic fighters against the Nazis during World War II, known to risk their lives by saving many others: Jews, union leaders, and even an injured Russian Soldier. To Judith, the biggest hero of them all was her father, Sándor Kopácsi, the Police Chief of Budapest.
By the end of that year, Judith’s life had turned upside-down, and not just because of the Hungarian Revolution alone.
Judith’s father, as police chief, had refused to give orders for police to shoot into unarmed crowds demanding democratic changes during the Hungarian Revolution. For this, he was arrested by the Soviet army, an overwhelming force crushing the revolt and threatening to hang him from the tallest tree in Budapest.
Ostracized and relentlessly persecuted by just about everyone in her world from then on, from teachers and fellow students to Party secretaries, and often at the verge of suicide, Judith managed to flee to Canada at age 19.
Judith’s book, written from a child’s perspective, is about the two-decades long fierce battle to save her father’s life and freedom in a hostile environment and against a ruthless regime, and even with family disbelief and opposition against her, she succeeded in bringing her parents to a safe haven in Canada.
The book signing begins at 11 a.m.
* |
* Feb 16, 2010 - 3:54 PM
* |
* Recommended 0
Brampton author pens true account of Hungarian Revolution
Heroes Don't Cry. Brampton author Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger will be signing copies of her book, Heroes Don't Cry, at Brampton Chapters on Feb. 20.
With the odds stacked against her, and given a one-in-a-million chance of success, Brampton resident Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger describes in her book Heroes Don’t Cry how she managed to escape and then rescue her parents from certain death in post-revolution Hungary.
Today, Judith Kopácsi-Gelberger lives the quiet life of a suburban housewife, but not far beneath it lies her younger life far away from the experience or imagination of the average Canadian. With the odds stacked against her, and given a one-in-a-million chance of success, this Brampton resident describes in her book Heroes Don’t Cry how she managed to escape and then rescue her parents from certain death in post-revolution Hungary.
On Feb. 20 at Chapters Brampton, 52 Quarry Edge Dr., the author will be on hand to sign copies of her book.
Heroes Don’t Cry is based in 1956, when 10-year-old Judy was happy and protected, surrounding by a loving family: her parents and paternal grandparents in Budapest, Hungary.
In Judith’s young eyes, they were all heroic fighters against the Nazis during World War II, known to risk their lives by saving many others: Jews, union leaders, and even an injured Russian Soldier. To Judith, the biggest hero of them all was her father, Sándor Kopácsi, the Police Chief of Budapest.
By the end of that year, Judith’s life had turned upside-down, and not just because of the Hungarian Revolution alone.
Judith’s father, as police chief, had refused to give orders for police to shoot into unarmed crowds demanding democratic changes during the Hungarian Revolution. For this, he was arrested by the Soviet army, an overwhelming force crushing the revolt and threatening to hang him from the tallest tree in Budapest.
Ostracized and relentlessly persecuted by just about everyone in her world from then on, from teachers and fellow students to Party secretaries, and often at the verge of suicide, Judith managed to flee to Canada at age 19.
Judith’s book, written from a child’s perspective, is about the two-decades long fierce battle to save her father’s life and freedom in a hostile environment and against a ruthless regime, and even with family disbelief and opposition against her, she succeeded in bringing her parents to a safe haven in Canada.
The book signing begins at 11 a.m.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
On December 12, 2009 I attended the Small Publisher’s book fare at the Gladstone Hotel, as one of the exhibitor and I managed to sell a couple of books. I also set up a little exhibit, on one side of the table. I had the old typewriter that ended up at the Yugoslav Embassy with George Fazekas, the journalist, who borrowed it in the summer of 1955. I also had a police officers winter hat with the red star on it; my oldest book I received at the age of six; an old camera; a book that my father sent from jail, and an “artist” created the cover, with chewed bread, and pressing straw pieces in it, looking like an intarzia, (prison art) –amazing what a creative mind is capable of doing with relatively nothing, – and a medal that my father received posthumously. It created quite an interest.
My mother came down at the last hour to keep us company with Eva, and I was contemplating to put her right beside my little exhibit, as a genuine article. As a matter of fact I sold at least three copies of my father's book, titled: In the name of the Working Class, and it was appropriate that my mother would sign them as well.
Eva turned into quite a sales person too. She kept stopping people walking by my table saying:
"Are you a history buff? If you love a real story about revolution, broken loves, secret trials and long prison, a tragic story that ends well, you must buy my mother’s book.” (I thought it was really funny.)
I also made a new friend, Mike Toth, who has a journalist background, lives in Mississauga, and is more than happy giving me a hand with the publicity. He already gave my name to the local Rogers cable, and a woman is coming this coming Tuesday to interview me.
My mother came down at the last hour to keep us company with Eva, and I was contemplating to put her right beside my little exhibit, as a genuine article. As a matter of fact I sold at least three copies of my father's book, titled: In the name of the Working Class, and it was appropriate that my mother would sign them as well.
Eva turned into quite a sales person too. She kept stopping people walking by my table saying:
"Are you a history buff? If you love a real story about revolution, broken loves, secret trials and long prison, a tragic story that ends well, you must buy my mother’s book.” (I thought it was really funny.)
I also made a new friend, Mike Toth, who has a journalist background, lives in Mississauga, and is more than happy giving me a hand with the publicity. He already gave my name to the local Rogers cable, and a woman is coming this coming Tuesday to interview me.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Readers' reaction
Stayed up two nights until 11:30 reading Heroes Don't Cry. WOW!!!!! I'm speechless and exhausted from "living" with you and your story. Guess I'm not a hero! I bought a copy for Michael and am loaning mine to Christine.The photos are powerful, the footnotes very helpful and the appendix a huge plus.YOUR STORY IS PAINFUL AND BEAUTIFUL. THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR PAIN AND YOUR FAMILY'S JOYFUL REUNION. LOVE CONQUERED ALL!!!!!!!!!! wITH LOVE AND MY UTMOST RESPECT FOR ALL OF YOU, lINDA
Friday, October 16, 2009
October 15, 1944
It was an unusually warm day for the middle of October, when about a dozen people casually wandered toward the small hut on the hill of the vineyard belonging to Mr. Koncz. They arrived one by one and looked around carefully before they stepped inside, past the unlocked door. The emergency meeting began.
“The first Russian troops entered Hungary two weeks ago and the Romanians, the Finns and the Bulgarians broke ties with Hitler just within the last few weeks,” Mr. Koncz stated excitedly to the small group of people in front of him. “However,” he added, “the Arrow-Cross Party is getting much too boisterous for my liking; hold many public meetings and boast that their time is coming. I heard that they are building up a huge arsenal. Quite frankly, I’m worried about them.”
My father jumped up impatiently. “What are we waiting for then? I keep telling you that we need to get our hands on hand grenades, guns and ammunition, so we can attack the Nazis.”
“Hold your horses, Sándor.” Mihály Fekete, one of the organizers, tried to calm the hot-headed youth. “There is a bit of a difference between painting slogans on the bloody factory chimneys and attacking the whole fucking German army.”
“Fine, but doing something is better than doing nothing,” my father replied heatedly. “At least Ibolya and I have done something. Just recently we managed to cut some telephone wires to the German military headquarters at Lilafured.”
“How did you manage that?” Fekete asked.
“Well,” my father answered sheepishly, “we cut the wires by the poles, and covered them up with black tape. And every time someone passed us, the two of us started kissing. Nobody suspected a thing. I also made some caltrops during the night shifts and used them successfully a couple of nights ago. We threw a handful of them on the road during the night and, judging by the series of screeches, tire explosions and German swearing, they worked on tires like a charm. Serves them right for driving around with no headlights on during the night. Here, take a look at them. I brought a few samples with me.” He pulled out a package from his backpack. “They were used successfully during medieval times against cavalries, so I figured it would work on German trucks just as well.”
They were prickly metal devices, about ten centimetres long, approximately the size of a large man’s hand. Each had four metal points arranged so that when any three were on the ground, the fourth projected upward.
“Wonderful,” acknowledged István Oszip, wiping the perspiration off his shiny bald head. “Can you make some more?” Then he impatiently blurted out, “I heard about some sabotage attempts at the factory. Any truth in them?”
“What sabotage?” Barbai, one of the best tool and die makers asked. His advice was constantly sought, even by the engineers. He looked up and stated with an innocent face, “It must be the combination of the lack of sleep and the quantity of the food one can buy with our meagre ration tickets, but I noticed that lately it takes two or three times as much time to complete any given piece. And judging by the alarming numbers of faulty pieces, the quality of the raw material must be also be deteriorating,” he added petulantly.
My father, who was working as a draftsman, suddenly remembered, “Did I mention that a couple of weeks ago some of the blueprints and a whole bunch of order sheets disappeared overnight?” Then, after uttering a sad sigh, said, “Unfortunately, incidents like this can hold up manufacturing for at least a month.”
Sándor Nyirő butted in: “Fazekas and a couple of his co-workers were caught manufacturing armoured steel plates that were too thin. They tested them by firing at it at an obtuse angle, instead of the normally accepted ninety-degree angle, so the bullets kept bouncing off. The group was caught by a surprise inspection. But since they could not prove sabotage, instead of being shot on the spot, the perpetrators received only a five-year prison term.”
“Poor Fazekas, he wasn’t a healthy person to begin with. I sincerely hope he will survive his term,” Fekete added sadly.
“What are we going to do with Szálasi’s thugs?” Oszip reminded the group. “We can’t have the extreme right take over now that the end is so close!”
“I don’t believe they are that strong. At least we know for a fact that they don’t have strong support in Miskolc,” Apushka remarked, and all seemed to agree.
After the meeting, the twelve made their way back to town and found the streets unusually swarming with happy people; there were windows open, and radios blaring loud music. Happy people everywhere.
“What happened?” Fekete asked one man.
“Peace!”
“The Regent made an announcement on the radio…”
Strangers were hugging and laughing.
“Thank God,” an old woman cried out, “my son can finally come home. The Regent requested a cease fire.”
Fekete noticed that the streets were unusually devoid of the already familiar presence of German troops. Could it be possible to get rid of them for good? he wondered as he and his buddies made their way to the hall of the local Steel Union, where a meeting was already in progress. It was a stormy one.
”With the help of a workers’ militia, we could disarm the occupying German forces,” someone called out.
“We need at least five thousand workers,” someone else shouted.
“Take over the press and occupy city hall.”
“Don’t forget the telephone centre!”
“We need to talk to the soldiers at the local barracks.”
Some of the more cautious leaders warned, “We can’t act without the approval of the Central Committee.”
They were still in the midst of debate, when Fekete was called out from the room. Outside, his seventeen-year-old son Sándor, wearing a huge Steyer pistol on his side and a rifle on his shoulder, was waiting for him.
“Father, there’s an unusually large number of Arrow-Cross members on the streets,” he said anxiously.
“Are they stirring up trouble?”
“No, not yet, but they seem to be as busy as ants at a picnic.”
“Go back and let me know if you see anything unusual,” Fekete ordered, then went back to the room and made his report about the situation. No one took the report seriously. It was somehow inconceivable that such an extreme right wing party as the Arrow-Cross could pose any serious harm in the long run.
It was already getting dark and there were still no decisions made. Finally, Fekete and his few companions left the meeting and decided that without involving the rest of the Union, they would turn directly to the workers at the Diósgyör steel factory. They agreed to meet in the early hours of the following morning.
Just before they parted company, Fekete, feeling uneasy about the situation, stopped to mull over his concern: why would the Regent request a separate armistice with the Soviet Union while Hungary was still occupied by the German army? And why didn’t he put out a call for the all Hungarian soldiers and decent Hungarian citizens to chase the bloody Nazis from the country?
“The first Russian troops entered Hungary two weeks ago and the Romanians, the Finns and the Bulgarians broke ties with Hitler just within the last few weeks,” Mr. Koncz stated excitedly to the small group of people in front of him. “However,” he added, “the Arrow-Cross Party is getting much too boisterous for my liking; hold many public meetings and boast that their time is coming. I heard that they are building up a huge arsenal. Quite frankly, I’m worried about them.”
My father jumped up impatiently. “What are we waiting for then? I keep telling you that we need to get our hands on hand grenades, guns and ammunition, so we can attack the Nazis.”
“Hold your horses, Sándor.” Mihály Fekete, one of the organizers, tried to calm the hot-headed youth. “There is a bit of a difference between painting slogans on the bloody factory chimneys and attacking the whole fucking German army.”
“Fine, but doing something is better than doing nothing,” my father replied heatedly. “At least Ibolya and I have done something. Just recently we managed to cut some telephone wires to the German military headquarters at Lilafured.”
“How did you manage that?” Fekete asked.
“Well,” my father answered sheepishly, “we cut the wires by the poles, and covered them up with black tape. And every time someone passed us, the two of us started kissing. Nobody suspected a thing. I also made some caltrops during the night shifts and used them successfully a couple of nights ago. We threw a handful of them on the road during the night and, judging by the series of screeches, tire explosions and German swearing, they worked on tires like a charm. Serves them right for driving around with no headlights on during the night. Here, take a look at them. I brought a few samples with me.” He pulled out a package from his backpack. “They were used successfully during medieval times against cavalries, so I figured it would work on German trucks just as well.”
They were prickly metal devices, about ten centimetres long, approximately the size of a large man’s hand. Each had four metal points arranged so that when any three were on the ground, the fourth projected upward.
“Wonderful,” acknowledged István Oszip, wiping the perspiration off his shiny bald head. “Can you make some more?” Then he impatiently blurted out, “I heard about some sabotage attempts at the factory. Any truth in them?”
“What sabotage?” Barbai, one of the best tool and die makers asked. His advice was constantly sought, even by the engineers. He looked up and stated with an innocent face, “It must be the combination of the lack of sleep and the quantity of the food one can buy with our meagre ration tickets, but I noticed that lately it takes two or three times as much time to complete any given piece. And judging by the alarming numbers of faulty pieces, the quality of the raw material must be also be deteriorating,” he added petulantly.
My father, who was working as a draftsman, suddenly remembered, “Did I mention that a couple of weeks ago some of the blueprints and a whole bunch of order sheets disappeared overnight?” Then, after uttering a sad sigh, said, “Unfortunately, incidents like this can hold up manufacturing for at least a month.”
Sándor Nyirő butted in: “Fazekas and a couple of his co-workers were caught manufacturing armoured steel plates that were too thin. They tested them by firing at it at an obtuse angle, instead of the normally accepted ninety-degree angle, so the bullets kept bouncing off. The group was caught by a surprise inspection. But since they could not prove sabotage, instead of being shot on the spot, the perpetrators received only a five-year prison term.”
“Poor Fazekas, he wasn’t a healthy person to begin with. I sincerely hope he will survive his term,” Fekete added sadly.
“What are we going to do with Szálasi’s thugs?” Oszip reminded the group. “We can’t have the extreme right take over now that the end is so close!”
“I don’t believe they are that strong. At least we know for a fact that they don’t have strong support in Miskolc,” Apushka remarked, and all seemed to agree.
After the meeting, the twelve made their way back to town and found the streets unusually swarming with happy people; there were windows open, and radios blaring loud music. Happy people everywhere.
“What happened?” Fekete asked one man.
“Peace!”
“The Regent made an announcement on the radio…”
Strangers were hugging and laughing.
“Thank God,” an old woman cried out, “my son can finally come home. The Regent requested a cease fire.”
Fekete noticed that the streets were unusually devoid of the already familiar presence of German troops. Could it be possible to get rid of them for good? he wondered as he and his buddies made their way to the hall of the local Steel Union, where a meeting was already in progress. It was a stormy one.
”With the help of a workers’ militia, we could disarm the occupying German forces,” someone called out.
“We need at least five thousand workers,” someone else shouted.
“Take over the press and occupy city hall.”
“Don’t forget the telephone centre!”
“We need to talk to the soldiers at the local barracks.”
Some of the more cautious leaders warned, “We can’t act without the approval of the Central Committee.”
They were still in the midst of debate, when Fekete was called out from the room. Outside, his seventeen-year-old son Sándor, wearing a huge Steyer pistol on his side and a rifle on his shoulder, was waiting for him.
“Father, there’s an unusually large number of Arrow-Cross members on the streets,” he said anxiously.
“Are they stirring up trouble?”
“No, not yet, but they seem to be as busy as ants at a picnic.”
“Go back and let me know if you see anything unusual,” Fekete ordered, then went back to the room and made his report about the situation. No one took the report seriously. It was somehow inconceivable that such an extreme right wing party as the Arrow-Cross could pose any serious harm in the long run.
It was already getting dark and there were still no decisions made. Finally, Fekete and his few companions left the meeting and decided that without involving the rest of the Union, they would turn directly to the workers at the Diósgyör steel factory. They agreed to meet in the early hours of the following morning.
Just before they parted company, Fekete, feeling uneasy about the situation, stopped to mull over his concern: why would the Regent request a separate armistice with the Soviet Union while Hungary was still occupied by the German army? And why didn’t he put out a call for the all Hungarian soldiers and decent Hungarian citizens to chase the bloody Nazis from the country?
October 11, 1959
Oct. 11, 1959. We went to see my father at the Vácz penitentiary. The last time I saw him was on October 31, 1956. He wore a striped uniform that reminded me of the pyjamas he used to wear at home.
A “life sentence” also meant a fifteen minute visit at the prison twice a year.
The first time I had a chance to see my father was on October 11, 1959, almost three years to the day after he came home in a jeep to inform me that the Revolution was a success. I remember my excitement and the careful preparation for this visit. The fifteen minutes that I had to share with my mother were neither enough nor appropriate to recall any of the unpleasant incidents that had happened to me since we last saw each other. So to make my father smile, I recounted mostly innocent and charming incidents. After much brain wracking, I decided to include how our cat kept waiting for mother at the bus stop and followed her home every evening like a dog. I’d considered mentioning the neighbour’s little white terrier that constantly kept getting into our garden, killing most of our chickens, but I crossed that out, because I thought it would worry him that on account of that dog we didn’t have enough chickens left. I also decided against mentioning how the German shepherd, owned by the couple two houses away from us, had killed a doe that was captured by hunters and kept in a pen by some other neighbours. But I did include how tall the pine trees had grown since we had planted them.
I also wanted to bring up the zebras, because the only creatures that looked good in stripes and seemed to benefit from it were these animals in the Budapest Zoo. By this time, after a long search, my mother had finally found a job selling pretzels and wafer biscuits in the zoo and her stand was situated in front of the zebras, across the elephant pens. As there were approximately 20,000 political prisoners in Hungary, it was no surprise that visitors to the zoo were highly sympathetic towards the zebras' stripes. My mother became the best selling agent at the zoo. Most adults bought pretzels by the dozens to compensate the “mates,” while the children bought wafers for the elephants and for themselves.
On the day of the visit, we had to take an hour long train ride to the town of Vácz, where my father had been transferred from the Central Prison soon after his sentencing. I found myself face to face with the two hundred year old formidable building. My father was kept in the “House of Lords”, a prison within the prison, behind very thick stone walls constructed especially for “dangerous political offenders.” Our steps echoed on the cold stones as we passed through the long, dark, and wide corridors that led to the visitor’s area. The prisoners, dressed in striped uniforms were lined up behind the long rows of cages. A guard stood beside each prisoner, listening to every word and watching every move through the chicken wires that separated them from the visitors. The conversation started rather slowly. My parents looked at each other mutely, while I observed how pale and skinny my father looked in his uniform. Strangely, it wasn’t as frightening as I had imagined that it would be; it simply reminded me of the striped pyjamas he used to lounge in on those Sunday mornings at home not that long ago.
I came to my senses when I finally heard my father’s voice, “And how are you, little one?”
As I reached into my pocket, where I kept my list, I heard the guard behind him growling, “Keep your hands in front of you.” Scared, I slowly removed my hands from my pockets and reached out toward the screen, when the guard barked again, “No touching is allowed!”
Holding my list tightly between my fingers I was just standing there, sniffling.
“Do you have a cold? Surely you're not crying?” my father asked and automatically reached into his pocket to offer me a handkerchief. However, his gesture stopped in mid air when he realized that there were no pockets on his uniform and therefore he wouldn't be able to reach into one. And even if he had a pocket and a kerchief in it, he still wouldn't be allowed to pass it over to me.
“No, I'm not crying,” I said haughtily, tilting my head towards the guard behind him, then stating, "especially not in front of THEM.”
A “life sentence” also meant a fifteen minute visit at the prison twice a year.
The first time I had a chance to see my father was on October 11, 1959, almost three years to the day after he came home in a jeep to inform me that the Revolution was a success. I remember my excitement and the careful preparation for this visit. The fifteen minutes that I had to share with my mother were neither enough nor appropriate to recall any of the unpleasant incidents that had happened to me since we last saw each other. So to make my father smile, I recounted mostly innocent and charming incidents. After much brain wracking, I decided to include how our cat kept waiting for mother at the bus stop and followed her home every evening like a dog. I’d considered mentioning the neighbour’s little white terrier that constantly kept getting into our garden, killing most of our chickens, but I crossed that out, because I thought it would worry him that on account of that dog we didn’t have enough chickens left. I also decided against mentioning how the German shepherd, owned by the couple two houses away from us, had killed a doe that was captured by hunters and kept in a pen by some other neighbours. But I did include how tall the pine trees had grown since we had planted them.
I also wanted to bring up the zebras, because the only creatures that looked good in stripes and seemed to benefit from it were these animals in the Budapest Zoo. By this time, after a long search, my mother had finally found a job selling pretzels and wafer biscuits in the zoo and her stand was situated in front of the zebras, across the elephant pens. As there were approximately 20,000 political prisoners in Hungary, it was no surprise that visitors to the zoo were highly sympathetic towards the zebras' stripes. My mother became the best selling agent at the zoo. Most adults bought pretzels by the dozens to compensate the “mates,” while the children bought wafers for the elephants and for themselves.
On the day of the visit, we had to take an hour long train ride to the town of Vácz, where my father had been transferred from the Central Prison soon after his sentencing. I found myself face to face with the two hundred year old formidable building. My father was kept in the “House of Lords”, a prison within the prison, behind very thick stone walls constructed especially for “dangerous political offenders.” Our steps echoed on the cold stones as we passed through the long, dark, and wide corridors that led to the visitor’s area. The prisoners, dressed in striped uniforms were lined up behind the long rows of cages. A guard stood beside each prisoner, listening to every word and watching every move through the chicken wires that separated them from the visitors. The conversation started rather slowly. My parents looked at each other mutely, while I observed how pale and skinny my father looked in his uniform. Strangely, it wasn’t as frightening as I had imagined that it would be; it simply reminded me of the striped pyjamas he used to lounge in on those Sunday mornings at home not that long ago.
I came to my senses when I finally heard my father’s voice, “And how are you, little one?”
As I reached into my pocket, where I kept my list, I heard the guard behind him growling, “Keep your hands in front of you.” Scared, I slowly removed my hands from my pockets and reached out toward the screen, when the guard barked again, “No touching is allowed!”
Holding my list tightly between my fingers I was just standing there, sniffling.
“Do you have a cold? Surely you're not crying?” my father asked and automatically reached into his pocket to offer me a handkerchief. However, his gesture stopped in mid air when he realized that there were no pockets on his uniform and therefore he wouldn't be able to reach into one. And even if he had a pocket and a kerchief in it, he still wouldn't be allowed to pass it over to me.
“No, I'm not crying,” I said haughtily, tilting my head towards the guard behind him, then stating, "especially not in front of THEM.”
October 6, 1956
The funeral of László Rajk, the former Minister of Interior and three other high-ranking army officers took place on a cold, wet and windy day on October 6, 1956. The day was carefully chosen, as it is already marked in the Hungarian calendar to commemorate the thirteen leaders who were executed after the defeat of the War of Independence against the Austrian Empire in 1849.
My father, dressed in his uniform, left home early that day. He looked sad as he gave me his usual quick hug and a friendly pat on the back. When I returned from school, he was home again, sitting on his bed, listening to the radio on top of his night table. He was alone in the room. The door was open and I could see him, still in his uniform, his tie missing, his collar open and his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying a heavy load. The radio played mournful military funeral marches and the voice of the announcer was moderate and circumspect:
Thousands of people are marching quietly past the four plain coffins, holding the remains of the innocent victims of a terrible crime. The guards of honor change every five minutes.
There were speeches, solemn promises made over the coffins never to repeat the lies and deceptions carried out by the previous leaders. Listening to this, my father covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud. I was shocked to my core, as I had never seen an adult male crying, and certainly not my father. Not knowing what to do under the circumstances, I sat down beside him on the bed and, holding his hand, cried along with him.
My father, dressed in his uniform, left home early that day. He looked sad as he gave me his usual quick hug and a friendly pat on the back. When I returned from school, he was home again, sitting on his bed, listening to the radio on top of his night table. He was alone in the room. The door was open and I could see him, still in his uniform, his tie missing, his collar open and his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying a heavy load. The radio played mournful military funeral marches and the voice of the announcer was moderate and circumspect:
Thousands of people are marching quietly past the four plain coffins, holding the remains of the innocent victims of a terrible crime. The guards of honor change every five minutes.
There were speeches, solemn promises made over the coffins never to repeat the lies and deceptions carried out by the previous leaders. Listening to this, my father covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud. I was shocked to my core, as I had never seen an adult male crying, and certainly not my father. Not knowing what to do under the circumstances, I sat down beside him on the bed and, holding his hand, cried along with him.
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