Thursday, February 7, 2013
Book Revies by Murray Russel
REVIEW OF “HEROES DON’T CRY” BY JUDITH KOPACSI-GELBERGER
SUBMITTED BY MURRAY RUSSELL
In “Heroes Don’t Cry” Judith Kopacsi-Gelberger shares childhood insights to illustrate one of the most dramatic moments of Eastern European history. Moments that led her to a lifelong struggle for justice.
Her father, Sandor Kopacsi, was the police chief of Budapest when he found himself at the center of the1956 Hungarian Revolution. The former anti-Nazi resistance fighter refused Soviet demands during the uprising and became instead the Deputy Commander of the National Guard. As Soviet tanks crushed the rebellion, Sandor was imprisoned. After the political trials, Sandor was the only leader of the uprising not to be executed. His release in the General Amnesty led to a life of surveillance and oppression by the authorities.
Judith was 10 years old during the Revolution. She was brought for safety to the besieged Yugoslavian Embassy along with leaders and families of the revolutionaries. She was smuggled out for life saving medical treatment. This proud and outspoken youth began to keep a diary and struggle against the multi-leveled bureaucratic oppression and bigotry that she and her family faced.
Leaving for Canada at 19 she begins to build anew life among an ex-patriot community still harboring fears and resentments from their troubled past. She witnessed the continual erosion of her father’s health and spirit from Soviet oppression and vows to begin a campaign to win his freedom. The campaign struggles against a repressive Communist bureaucracy but grows into an international human rights effort that brings Sandor and his wife to Canada in 1975.
To tell this tale Judith draws on the memories for her storied and colorful family tree. We meet freedom fighters, parliamentarians, brothel owners and innocents who never returned from Auschwitz. We see a proud and principled young woman revealing loves and wounds in an era when she didn’t know who was saving her or who was spying on her. We see a devoted daughter who tackles a ruthless regime to save her family. We see inside one of the most tumultuous episodes of 20th century Europe with courage and compassion and conviction. We are fortunate to have this testament.
Review by Susan Glatz, in American Hungarian Educators Assoc.
Page 1 of 2 Glanz, Susan. Kopacsi-Gelberger, Judit. Heroes Don't Cry. [n.p.]: BookSurge Publishing, 2009. AHEA: E-journal of the American Hungarian Educators Association, Volume 5 (2012): http://ahea.net/e-journal/volume-5-2012
Kopacsi-Gelberger, Judit. Heroes Don't Cry. [n.p.]: BookSurge Publishing, 2009. Pp. 356, appendix, photos.
Reviewed by Susan Glanz, St. John’s University, NY
In 2009 on her blog, Judith Kopacsi-Gelberger wrote about her memoir that “after close to thirty years of constant rewritings the book is finally done and at a printer.” Although in 1992 a Hungarian version of the memoir was published, as the blog indicates the English version did not appear until in 2009. The book, (supposedly) based on the diaries she kept since the 50s, is a chronicle of Judith Kopácsi’s and her parents’ life. Her father was Sándor Kopácsi, the Budapest police chief between 1952 and 1956. The love and admiration Judith felt for her father shines through every page of the book, which points to both the strength and the weakness of this book. The strength is Judith’s strength, the battle one woman fights to protect her father and she shows that perseverance pays off; the weakness of the book is that the reader does not learn much of the daily life in Hungary during the time the author lived there.
The first two thirds of the book tell Judith’s story of growing up in Hungary. The father’s family lived and worked in the working-class city of Miskolc, her father and grandfather were skilled workers and were left-leaning social democrats. After the Communist Takeover in 1949 her father was promoted politically and after completing the Party School, a college established for the ideological training of the cadre, was appointed to Police Chief of Budapest in 1952. The appointment came with perks, which the child (and the adult) Judith (born in 1946) does not examine. Although her brief description of the events of the 1956 revolution does not exactly match the known events, the discrepancies do not deter from the readability of the book. Her father, an admirer and believer in the goals set for the country by reformist prime Minister Imre Nagy, was arrested by the returning Russian Army. A farce of a trial followed, whose verdict we the reader can anticipate: Sándor Kopácsi, was sentenced to life in prison. Judith’s mother lost her job and was reduced to supporting her daughter by selling pretzels at the zoo, and Judith was labeled “child of a class enemy.” The title of the book, Heroes don’t cry, was the reprimand her grandfather uttered to Judith in 1956, when the frustrated Judith physically attacked a Russian secretary who prevented the family from visiting her father in the Fö street military prison. The years that followed, especially the depiction of Judith’s high school years were the usual teenage angst, the overall desire of fitting in, rejection from classmates, and first love. Judith’s father’s sentence was commuted and he was released from prison in 1963 on the day that grandfather Kopácsi was buried. Her father’s “history” followed Judith to her jobs, which as a result were short-lived. Although her father suffered from what today we would called PTSD, he still knew influential people, with whose help he arranged for his daughter to go to Canada in 1965 for a visit. The Hungarian Jewish community sprang into action to find a suitable bachelor for her to allow her to stay in Canada. The subsequent sketch of the resultant forced failed marriage and a happy second marriage leads the author to the major decision that making use of Canada’s family reunification statutes she would free her parents from Hungary. To achieve her goal she had to battle not only the indifference of Canadian bureaucrats, but the “interests of the Hungarian state”, the euphemism used to reject passport applications in Hungary. Using the Canadian and European media effectively and with the help of friends, especially George Egri, a Hungarian-Canadian journalist, George Faludy, a leading Page 2 of 2 Glanz, Susan. Kopacsi-Gelberger, Judit. Heroes Don't Cry. [n.p.]: BookSurge Publishing, 2009. AHEA: E-journal of the American Hungarian Educators Association, Volume 5 (2012): http://ahea.net/e-journal/volume-5-2012
poet, and many others, the Kopácsis received their exit visa, and the family was reunited in June 1975. To deal with the nightmares of his imprisonment in Hungary, Sándor Kopácsi wrote his memoirs, which were first published in French and then in English (In the Name of the Working Class). The political changes of 1989 brought complete rehabilitation to the Kopácsi name, with the ex-police chief’s rank honorarily restored and receiving an apartment in Óbuda in 1990. He died in 2001.
This very readable book introduces us to two idealists, Judith and her father. Both spent the majority of their adult lives fighting for what they believed in, and eventually, they both achieved their goals. Judith continues to work on keeping her father’s name and memory in the limelight. In 2011 Hungarian papers reported on naming a square after him (http://hvg.hu/itthon/20111212_utcanevek_valtozasa), and the family website that Judith maintained has a section dedicated to him (http://www.kopacsi.org) as does another website she has created http://www.gelbergocia.org/gelbergo/index.php?page=kopacsi-sandor&hl=en_US). Judith gives the reader glimpses of her inner life at every age, which makes the book a pleasure to read.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Book signing at Chapters on February 20th, 2010
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.
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.
Brampton Guardian article about book
http://www.bramptonguardian.com/what%27s%20on/article/620080--brampto
* |
* 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?
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