When the anti-Jewish law came in, and I had to wear a yellow star 9, my best girlfriend, Irenke Papai, didn’t talk to me, and didn’t even look at me. But Celli Toth came up and kissed me. When we had to wear a yellow star, there was no more school. The year ended very early. I couldn’t go to high school because of the anti-Jewish laws.
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Kinszki Judit
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My dad’s family was an absolutely liberal and assimilated family, with no Jewish religious activity of any kind. I never saw any candle-lighting at my dad’s family, nothing. In my mom’s family, however, they did some of these things. If you went there on Friday, you could see my grandmother and the boys going to synagogue.
I remember my baptism clearly; I was very touched because I liked the priest very much; he put me on his knee and told me the Lord’s Prayer. My brother Gabor became very religious. He was a very good pupil; he suffered a lot because he was discriminated against– because of the yellow star, which couldn’t be taken off.
As a child I always fell asleep when my father was listening to Hitler. In those times Jews had to give up their radios and my brother had to give up his bike. We had a little popular wireless set and another serious, rather large one. We gave them up.
My mother and I were in the ghetto during the war. I have never been back to the house on Akacfa Street where the ghetto was. When I walk on that corner, I stop – to enter the yard where we stayed, where they separated us; the Arrow-Cross men 11 were shouting that they would give us five minutes, and we heard the gunshots upstairs, because people were probably hiding there and they were shot dead on the spot. I can’t go in there.
I struggled especially because of the captivity, the isolation, at first. Before the ghetto, Hilda Gobbi’s father, uncle Gobbi was the commander of the house where we were taken. They liked me very much and then I always told him that I hated the curfew so much.
He made me a courier, I got an armband and there was a green cross on it and then I could take the yellow star off. He always sent me with something, which meant that I could go out when Jews weren’t allowed to. Uncle Gabi told me to stand under a gate in case there was bombing. It wasn’t easy, because the gates were closed.
I struggled especially because of the captivity, the isolation, at first. Before the ghetto, Hilda Gobbi’s father, uncle Gobbi was the commander of the house where we were taken. They liked me very much and then I always told him that I hated the curfew so much.
He made me a courier, I got an armband and there was a green cross on it and then I could take the yellow star off. He always sent me with something, which meant that I could go out when Jews weren’t allowed to. Uncle Gabi told me to stand under a gate in case there was bombing. It wasn’t easy, because the gates were closed.
When my father was in forced labor, we always wanted to buy him chocolate or other kinds of goodies, but they were sold out in a moment and whenever I arrived, there was none left to buy. This was also the time I was already wearing my yellow star.
My paternal grandmother [Grandmother Paula] was also in the ghetto, but somewhere else, and she died there. When we went where she was, we were told that she had died. My father was very close to his mother and he decided that we would find her. And we went to that shop, because the courtyard of the Jewish bath had filled up, and they put the bodies of the dead in this shop.
They were piled up on top of the other like logs. It was a very cold winter and almost all their clothes were taken off, clothes were worth very much. We started to move the bodies to find Grandma: he held on to their shoulders and I to their legs.
They were frozen stiff, just like logs. I wasn’t horrified, because they were so hard and stiff, as if one would have piled up boards. We kept moving bodies for a long time, and then we gave up. We didn’t find her, she wasn’t buried either, of course.
They were piled up on top of the other like logs. It was a very cold winter and almost all their clothes were taken off, clothes were worth very much. We started to move the bodies to find Grandma: he held on to their shoulders and I to their legs.
They were frozen stiff, just like logs. I wasn’t horrified, because they were so hard and stiff, as if one would have piled up boards. We kept moving bodies for a long time, and then we gave up. We didn’t find her, she wasn’t buried either, of course.
My father was in forced labor in Deva [today Romania] and Celldomolk. Then he was here in Budapest, in some kind of mill. He was such a skinny man, but he carried heavy sacks. But even in the labor brigade, they organized a newspaper. They created a reading circle.
These people were all wearing white armbands [meaning that they were people of Jewish origin, but Christians]. In 1943 my brother was also drafted. He couldn’t be a Levente 12, and he was appointed to the fire department. If the radio announced an air raid, my brother got on his bike immediately and went to the fire department.
These people were all wearing white armbands [meaning that they were people of Jewish origin, but Christians]. In 1943 my brother was also drafted. He couldn’t be a Levente 12, and he was appointed to the fire department. If the radio announced an air raid, my brother got on his bike immediately and went to the fire department.
We left the ghetto and I told my mother to go back to Liszt Ferenc Square where we had been in the Vatikan protected house 13 and from where we went to the ghetto. Because all of our furniture, bedding, dishes had remained there. We went back and we found out that this room, where we had been in the ghetto, had been hit by a mine, and those who remained there for longer all died.
When my mother found out about this she began to regard me as an adult. She said that she would always do what I said. She asked me what party she should join. I told her to join the Social Democratic Party. Then my mother joined it. Soon after that, my mother asked me, if she shouldn’t join the Communist Party.
I told her not to, because I had heard that the two parties were going to be united 14. She didn’t join it, but she was downgraded as a member. This was very good for her, because they expected less work from her. After 1956 15 she didn’t join the Party again, but they used to get together with the former party comrades.
When my mother found out about this she began to regard me as an adult. She said that she would always do what I said. She asked me what party she should join. I told her to join the Social Democratic Party. Then my mother joined it. Soon after that, my mother asked me, if she shouldn’t join the Communist Party.
I told her not to, because I had heard that the two parties were going to be united 14. She didn’t join it, but she was downgraded as a member. This was very good for her, because they expected less work from her. After 1956 15 she didn’t join the Party again, but they used to get together with the former party comrades.
We didn’t have news of my brother for a long time. Then my mother found a young man who had worked with my brother. He told us that when they arrived in Buchenwald 18 in winter, they were driven out of the wagon, and asked what kind of qualifications they had.
My brother told them that he was a student. This young man told us that the Germans immediately tied him up, it was a December morning, and hosed him down with water just to watch him freeze to death. Those who didn’t have a trade were stripped of their clothes and hosed with cold water until they froze.
My brother told them that he was a student. This young man told us that the Germans immediately tied him up, it was a December morning, and hosed him down with water just to watch him freeze to death. Those who didn’t have a trade were stripped of their clothes and hosed with cold water until they froze.
Then a family from one of the rooms went back to their own house, and we had two rooms to live in. Then my mother got an apartment on the ground floor for the other family, so the whole apartment became ours.
In 1946 my uncle came back from the Russian POW camp, and he needed two rooms: one for himself, and one for his surgery. When Gyongyi came back she lived there as well. Then my father’s sister, Auntie Kato, returned; she lived with us, too. Everybody else was dead or had emigrated, so we existed in a kind of vacuum.
After the war my mother became a stenographer and correspondent at the Fashion Wholesale Agency, then at the National Bank and at the Tuker [company trading in fuel].
It was April 1945, when all of a sudden my mother looked at me and said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in school?’ The nearest school was the Maria Theresa Grammar School for Girls. Many of my grandmother’s sisters had attended it. This was a prestigious school in Pest, on Andrassy Avenue. We went in, they took a look at us, we looked terrible, and they said immediately that school had already started, and that there would be no more admissions.
Well, my mother opened her mouth and said, ‘All right, this is how we look, ghetto and all, but this is her father!’ And she took out my father’s school reports from the Piarists. They admitted me. They said that I could only be a private pupil, but I could attend classes, and I had to take a private examination. From that moment I went there regularly. I had perhaps two B+ grades and the rest were all top marks, in the first year. After that I had only top marks.
Well, my mother opened her mouth and said, ‘All right, this is how we look, ghetto and all, but this is her father!’ And she took out my father’s school reports from the Piarists. They admitted me. They said that I could only be a private pupil, but I could attend classes, and I had to take a private examination. From that moment I went there regularly. I had perhaps two B+ grades and the rest were all top marks, in the first year. After that I had only top marks.
I chose the humanities, but this only lasted a year, then the nationalization 20 of schools was introduced, and every class was the same. Many children fled the country, disappeared. It was a strange, fearful atmosphere and we didn’t dare to ask. In the fourth grade there were sixty of us and only sixteen of us graduated. This was the last eight grade high school class.
The Hungarian Youth League, the MINSZ, and the Student’s Association within that were formed. [Editor’s note: MINSZ was established in 1948 as a pool uniting the youth organizations. Its task was to increase the influence of the MDP within the youth and to aid production. It ceased in 1950 when the DISZ was formed.]
I immediately joined it and became a member of the governing body of the school. We founded school self-government. We used to have a uniform; gray blouse, belt, belt buckle with the Kossuth-arms; a torch, no red star, it wasn’t communist at all, and a dark blue tie.
I immediately joined it and became a member of the governing body of the school. We founded school self-government. We used to have a uniform; gray blouse, belt, belt buckle with the Kossuth-arms; a torch, no red star, it wasn’t communist at all, and a dark blue tie.
The movement lasted a long time, until I was a student. But I never joined the Communist Party.
If there had been a Social Democratic Party, maybe I would have joined that. They asked me to join the Communist Party many times, but I explained every time that strict discipline inside the Party was not for me. I felt the need to state my own opinion. And besides I refused to be in the same party as those Arrow Cross men.
If there had been a Social Democratic Party, maybe I would have joined that. They asked me to join the Communist Party many times, but I explained every time that strict discipline inside the Party was not for me. I felt the need to state my own opinion. And besides I refused to be in the same party as those Arrow Cross men.
Our principal, after the school was nationalized, was a true Bolshevik. She said to me, ‘You will go to Lenin University.’ I said I wasn’t going there, and that I wanted to become an art historian. She said, she would guarantee me the Rakosi scholarship. In those days, when my mother’s salary was 500 forints, that would mean 2,000 forints a month. Obstinately, I still said ‘No!’
Instead, I went and took an entrance examination for art history. The head of the admission committee saw that I was intelligent, he could ask anything: special literature, the latest things, I knew everything. Then he said that an art historian had to know languages.
I said, ‘Latin, German, English, French, Russian; would five languages be enough?’ He gave me texts in all these languages to translate. I suppose that the Latin was the best, because he said he would admit me to the Latin faculty. I said that I wouldn’t go there.
I received a paper saying that I had been admitted to the English faculty. Then I met a very intelligent man who said I’d better go to the English faculty, and so I came off well with that. In art history in Hungary, everybody’s territory is so divided among historians that at most I could have become a clerk in a pawnshop. Whereas, if I graduated in English, the world would be my oyster; I’d have opportunities in any field. I could later become an art historian. I listened to that advice.
The English faculty consisted of a big hall, which was a library, and another room. Classes were held in the library. The English faculty was made up of four teachers, and there were eight or nine students. The first class came, we talked, and it came to light that none of us wanted to choose English as a major.
They were students of history, of religion and everything. It was doubtful whether the English course would start, so you couldn’t be a candidate. This was the first year that nobody took their final exam in high school in English.
Instead, I went and took an entrance examination for art history. The head of the admission committee saw that I was intelligent, he could ask anything: special literature, the latest things, I knew everything. Then he said that an art historian had to know languages.
I said, ‘Latin, German, English, French, Russian; would five languages be enough?’ He gave me texts in all these languages to translate. I suppose that the Latin was the best, because he said he would admit me to the Latin faculty. I said that I wouldn’t go there.
I received a paper saying that I had been admitted to the English faculty. Then I met a very intelligent man who said I’d better go to the English faculty, and so I came off well with that. In art history in Hungary, everybody’s territory is so divided among historians that at most I could have become a clerk in a pawnshop. Whereas, if I graduated in English, the world would be my oyster; I’d have opportunities in any field. I could later become an art historian. I listened to that advice.
The English faculty consisted of a big hall, which was a library, and another room. Classes were held in the library. The English faculty was made up of four teachers, and there were eight or nine students. The first class came, we talked, and it came to light that none of us wanted to choose English as a major.
They were students of history, of religion and everything. It was doubtful whether the English course would start, so you couldn’t be a candidate. This was the first year that nobody took their final exam in high school in English.
I received social assistance then, because I was a top student. It was a scholarship. My scholarship was approximately the same as my mother’s salary; for example we only had to pay 25 percent of the price of the textbooks, and the students’ canteen was cheaper for us.
I even went there on Sunday with a pot and took some food home, where it served as lunch and dinner for my mother and me. Every summer I went to where my mother worked. I had to make some money because there was no scholarship in the summer. There were never any proper holidays.
I even went there on Sunday with a pot and took some food home, where it served as lunch and dinner for my mother and me. Every summer I went to where my mother worked. I had to make some money because there was no scholarship in the summer. There were never any proper holidays.
My mother and I were great tourists though, so we stayed in cheap hostels [where several people shared a room with strangers]. But we also went to the opera, and to concerts; to the cheapest places, but at least we went. We also bought books; my mother always put great emphasis on that.
Cs. was very perseverant, he always came around, and we walked and talked. When that camp was over, I was nuts about him. The course started, and he just came and came. He and my mother couldn’t really stand each other from the first moment. He was a dormitory boy, so he always came to our place.
My mother kept her eye on us – we would sit near the stove talking, and mother didn’t leave too often. Once my mother said to Cs., ‘If you love her so much, why don’t you ask for her hand in marriage?’ Cs. said that he would.
My mother kept her eye on us – we would sit near the stove talking, and mother didn’t leave too often. Once my mother said to Cs., ‘If you love her so much, why don’t you ask for her hand in marriage?’ Cs. said that he would.
Auntie Kato, who worked at the publishing company, said that she had just heard that they would start English courses for bookshop workers and that they were looking for English teachers; she would get me in. They explained to me that what I had to do was to go to an employment agency, and they could set me up.
I found out that the English course was still under preparation, and until then, I had to go to a library where there were foreign books. This was the university bookshop. I was the youngest and had the highest qualifications, but I was a gofer there, and they made me do all kind of crappy jobs.
I found out that the English course was still under preparation, and until then, I had to go to a library where there were foreign books. This was the university bookshop. I was the youngest and had the highest qualifications, but I was a gofer there, and they made me do all kind of crappy jobs.
Cs. came home in the meantime and he immediately went to the fighting on Szena Square. I went everywhere, too; I was at the building of the Hungarian Radio, at the parliament, and everywhere. I felt that it was my revolution, I had to be there. On 3rd October [actually on 3rd November] it looked like peace and quiet, and the troops had surrendered.
What was it that woke us up the morning after? The roar of cannons. They announced on the radio that our troops were fighting. My mother knew that it was better for a man not to go out in the streets, because he would either be caught up in the fighting or be taken by the Russians. My mother went out and queued for bread. She didn’t let us out in the street at all.
What was it that woke us up the morning after? The roar of cannons. They announced on the radio that our troops were fighting. My mother knew that it was better for a man not to go out in the streets, because he would either be caught up in the fighting or be taken by the Russians. My mother went out and queued for bread. She didn’t let us out in the street at all.
We were walking on Engels Square, where the 5th district town hall is, and Cs. said, ‘Let’s get married, that would be the best; they can’t say that a wife cannot enter there.’ I said all right. He said, ‘Let’s go and ask when it would be possible.’ They told us it was Friday. So we had ourselves registered in advance for Friday.
At the registrar, Cs.’s witness was Professor Boka; mine was an ethnographer from our house. It was just them, us, my mother, and nobody else. After that Boka – he had an official car from the Academy – took us up to the castle quarter to celebrate. In the Tarnok confectionery, he called for two fancy Dobos cakes and a brandy for us. The wedding was at 11 o’clock in the morning, and Cs. had to go to work at 12 o’clock. Boka arranged a job for him in the dormitory of a foster home at Sashegy; he was the resident assistant master.
At the registrar, Cs.’s witness was Professor Boka; mine was an ethnographer from our house. It was just them, us, my mother, and nobody else. After that Boka – he had an official car from the Academy – took us up to the castle quarter to celebrate. In the Tarnok confectionery, he called for two fancy Dobos cakes and a brandy for us. The wedding was at 11 o’clock in the morning, and Cs. had to go to work at 12 o’clock. Boka arranged a job for him in the dormitory of a foster home at Sashegy; he was the resident assistant master.
Then we got some temporary accommodation. It was a loft facing the yard. You can’t imagine the happiness we felt at getting an apartment of our own. We didn’t have a kitchen, only a bathroom and toilet. The place had one window, which the child got; a curtain separated her room. The caretaker was very skilled, he shelved in the whole entrance-hall, as we already had lots of books then; Cs. worked at a publishing house and got copies from there, and he got them from the writers as well.
There was a tile stove, but it had always gone cold by the morning, and the toilet was horribly cold. It leaked all the time; the child had a chronic ear infection because the apartment was wet and moldy. So life wasn’t easy, but it was our own apartment. We lived there until 1970.
There was a tile stove, but it had always gone cold by the morning, and the toilet was horribly cold. It leaked all the time; the child had a chronic ear infection because the apartment was wet and moldy. So life wasn’t easy, but it was our own apartment. We lived there until 1970.
Eszter, my daughter, knew everything about the family, and about the war, but I didn’t raise her as a Jew at all. In fact, she is baptized, because my mother-in-law’s family demanded it. Cs. is not religious; he hates priests. But my mother-in-law said the following, and what could I say? ‘If this regime occurs again, wouldn’t you take it to heart if something bad happened to the child because of that?
Then I thought that she should go to kindergarten so that I could try to get a job. It was not easy. I wrote a petition that I would take on anything, pioneer-leading, nursery school, anything. I wrote where I had been until then, what I had done, where I had graduated, and I lodged this with all school districts. Nothing.
Then I got a phone call, saying that a substitute was needed in the 8th district. I went there, and taught Hungarian and history for half a year. My mother took care of the child during that time. Then I went wherever I had to for a week, or two. I taught everywhere in the 8th district.
Then I got a phone call, saying that a substitute was needed in the 8th district. I went there, and taught Hungarian and history for half a year. My mother took care of the child during that time. Then I went wherever I had to for a week, or two. I taught everywhere in the 8th district.
My daughter came up with the idea that she wanted to learn Spanish, a language that nobody knew. She went to Szinyei High School and arranged to be admitted. She was amongst the excellent students at that school. She was very good at Hungarian, History, and excellent at Spanish.
After 35 years of marriage I also got divorced. Cs. was a party member, and was on good terms with Aczel [Gyorgy Aczel (1917–1991): politician, member of the Political Committee, then of the Central Committee of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party.
From the mid-1960s until 1985 he was the main leader of Hungarian cultural life.] and Pozsgay [Imre Pozsgay (b. 1933): politician, head of the Press Department of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, cultural minister from 1976 until 1982, member of the Central Committee of the party, chief secretary of the Patriot People’s Front].
They always asked his advice on literature and fine arts. But we were in the dissident movement, we knew everybody, we had all their publications. We were the ones who introduced subversive literature. Cs. always thought that our calls were being intercepted. When we were talking on the phone he would always say, ‘All right, I’m telling this to the listening apparatus.’
I have two cousins; one lives in Paris, the other one in London; we were on very good terms. When we were in England we visited them, and they used to come to visit us, but after a time they stopped coming. I asked another cousin of mine why they never came, and he said, ‘To tell you the truth, the rumor about Cs. is that he’s an undercover man.’ So Cs. said, ‘Your biboldo relatives!’ [Biboldo is a pejorative word for Jews].
At that moment I felt that I had lived with a stranger for 35 years. How could he say such a thing? I thought he was an intelligent, educated, liberal, tenderhearted gentleman! Who was this man with whom I lived? A drunken, foul-mouthed, fascist coachman? I was shocked and devastated, but I thought it would be best, if I didn’t say a word.
Two weeks passed, and I didn’t speak to him. I put his coffee and his meals in front of him, I washed the dishes, and everything, but I didn’t say a word. He didn’t notice anything. I thought that maybe he would think better of it. He said nothing. Then I moved away. At first I lived at my daughter’s place, then she found a separate apartment.
From the mid-1960s until 1985 he was the main leader of Hungarian cultural life.] and Pozsgay [Imre Pozsgay (b. 1933): politician, head of the Press Department of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, cultural minister from 1976 until 1982, member of the Central Committee of the party, chief secretary of the Patriot People’s Front].
They always asked his advice on literature and fine arts. But we were in the dissident movement, we knew everybody, we had all their publications. We were the ones who introduced subversive literature. Cs. always thought that our calls were being intercepted. When we were talking on the phone he would always say, ‘All right, I’m telling this to the listening apparatus.’
I have two cousins; one lives in Paris, the other one in London; we were on very good terms. When we were in England we visited them, and they used to come to visit us, but after a time they stopped coming. I asked another cousin of mine why they never came, and he said, ‘To tell you the truth, the rumor about Cs. is that he’s an undercover man.’ So Cs. said, ‘Your biboldo relatives!’ [Biboldo is a pejorative word for Jews].
At that moment I felt that I had lived with a stranger for 35 years. How could he say such a thing? I thought he was an intelligent, educated, liberal, tenderhearted gentleman! Who was this man with whom I lived? A drunken, foul-mouthed, fascist coachman? I was shocked and devastated, but I thought it would be best, if I didn’t say a word.
Two weeks passed, and I didn’t speak to him. I put his coffee and his meals in front of him, I washed the dishes, and everything, but I didn’t say a word. He didn’t notice anything. I thought that maybe he would think better of it. He said nothing. Then I moved away. At first I lived at my daughter’s place, then she found a separate apartment.
There are some dishes, which I think my mother made in quite a traditional way. I think our household was somewhat kosher. My mother really paid attention to some things, even after the war, namely to what could be or couldn’t be cooked together or in the same pan. There was a bean stew which I hated; there were nice big beans and cinnamon in it.
I hated it so much because it would have been so good with onion and garlic, but no, it was sweet. And when my husband once bought me a Jewish cookbook he asked, ‘Why did I marry into an international company?’ Chulent, he loved these dishes, and he bought a Jewish cookbook, I learned a lot from that.
I hated it so much because it would have been so good with onion and garlic, but no, it was sweet. And when my husband once bought me a Jewish cookbook he asked, ‘Why did I marry into an international company?’ Chulent, he loved these dishes, and he bought a Jewish cookbook, I learned a lot from that.