loved being in our temple. It was the place where I practiced my cello and got to spend time alone with my father. I still remember the special smell in the temple, a combination of the fragrance of candles, the dark oak pews, and the old Hebrew prayer books. I always felt safe there.
It was a very spiritual experience practicing my cello on the podium where the rabbi gave his sermon every week. There were two large oil paintings in the temple covering the walls facing the pews. One of them was the painting of Moses parting the Red Sea as the Jews were escaping from forty years of captivity in Egypt. The other painting was of Moses with the burning bush. I always practiced my cello as close to these paintings as I could because they made me feel protected and safe. I felt as if a guardian angel were watching over me when I looked at them. I used to pretend there was a big audience in the temple, and it definitely helped me to be less nervous when I later actually started performing in front of larger audiences.
The food in the orphanage was prepared in the Jewish Orthodox tradition, but I never liked it much. We had to say our prayers in Hebrew before every meal. Our supervisors would walk around and watch us eat until we finished our meal. We were not allowed to leave until our plates were completely empty. Most Fridays we had liver and some kind of grits that I simply could not swallow. When the supervisors weren’t looking, Bea and I would wrap the liver in our napkins, hide it in our apron pockets, and then flush it down the toilet as soon as we left the dining room. I remember thinking that if I ever got out of there my lips would never touch liver ever again. I have kept that promise!
We bathed in a large communal bath twice a week. There were eight tubs in the basement bathroom, and two girls were assigned to share each tub. Bea and I hated this weekly ritual, and at first I was terrified and so ashamed of being naked in front of the other girls. Our supervisors were standing at the door watching us. To this day I am still shy and do not like to get undressed in front of other people. It was very difficult having no privacy, especially when I became a teenager.
Other than Bea’s friendship, what got me thru these years was my father’s visits twice a week and the time I spent during holidays at Grandma’s place. She always welcomed me with open arms even though they lived on such meager funds. I felt safe and loved when I was around her. I was grateful that I had someplace to go in the summer when most of the children in the orphanage were sent to various foster homes.
Once, I was sent on an errand to go to the headquarters of our Jewish synagogue, which was not far from where Mom lived at the time. I suddenly had a powerful urge to take a detour and go see her. I was afraid that I might get into trouble if someone found out, but I just could not stop myself. There was a voice in my head that kept urging me to go and see her. I had no idea if she would even be home. I know now that it was probably my guardian angel guiding me.
I was totally unprepared for what I found when I entered her unlocked flat. The only furniture left in the room was a single bed. Mom was lying on the bed, crying. She looked very sick and was wearing only a gray skirt and a sleeveless burgundy-colored top—and this was during the winter months. The room was freezing cold, and I could tell that something was terribly wrong. She was begging for help. Terrified, I ran to the apartment of the building manager and asked him to call an ambulance. Fortunately, there was a hospital only three blocks from where she lived. I then called my grandmother and asked her to come right away. My grandparents lived in a village called Jaszvenyszaru, not too far from Budapest, which at the time was only a short train ride away. With a very heavy heart I watched as the ambulance took my mother away.
I was quite late getting back to the orphanage, and could not imagine what story I was going to come up with to explain my tardiness. Thankfully, no one asked me anything, which was most unusual because we usually had to account for our time right down to the minute. I just knew that it had to be a little angel who was watching over me, and over my mother, too.
My grandmother came by the orphanage that weekend to let me know that Mom was doing a lot better. Then Grandma and Grandpa decided to move back from the country to live with Mom for a while and help her get back on her feet. As it turned out, Mom was pregnant and in labor when I stopped by. The child was a boy who was badly deformed, and he died just a few minutes after he was born. I learned later that this baby was a product of her second marriage, with George. At that time, Mom suffered a nervous breakdown and was sent to a sanatorium for a few months to recover. It was very difficult for me, not being able to share this with anyone. She could have died!
Love’s Orphan
Chapter
Love’s Orphan
Chapter 4
Love’s Orphan
Chapter 4
Love’s Orphan
Chapter 4
My mother and her third husband Gyula in front of the Eastern Train Station in downtown Budapest during my later visit in 1975.
Love’s Orphan
Chapter
Standing at the side gate of the orphanage, this time looking in from the outside.
During that later visit, I am standing in front of the public school that I attended for eight years.
Chapter 5
The Revolution
Life in the orphanage eventually became routine. Slowly I accepted the fact that it was to be my home, at least for a while. Then, on October 23, 1956, the revolution broke out in Hungary, and everything changed. I was nine years old. At the time I really didn’t understand the magnitude of what was happening, though I remember hearing before the revolution that people had been disappearing. Basically, anyone who did not openly sympathize with the new post-war communist regime was called in for questioning at the Communist Party headquarters. They were often tortured, thrown in jail, or simply vanished.
I remember that during the period of Soviet domination there were always shortages of everything. The markets were always running out of bread, milk, sugar, and salt. Putting butter on anything was a luxury. Our delicious Hungarian bread was replaced with dark bread we got from the Soviet Union, which was almost inedible. I still remember taking out big chunks of salt that were baked into the bread. The Soviets exported our wheat, our cattle, and most of our fine agricultural harvest, and replaced them with their own substandard products.
The grocery stores were always empty. Standing in line for milk, bread, and eggs was part of our daily lives. People were very unhappy, and there was a lot of whispering about some kind of a revolt.
The Hungarian Revolution of 1956, which received international attention, began in the universities. At a march in Budapest, when students attempted to issue demands to the Soviet-backed government via the public radio station, the state police fired on the crowd that was gathered in front of the Magyar (Hungarian) Radio building. A student was killed, and word spread rapidly throughout Budapest, which erupted in violent confrontation with the communists. Soon most of Hungary was supporting the “freedom fighters,” and the revolution quickly toppled the puppet Hungarian People’s Republic.
At first the Soviet Union announced
