Revenge and Revolution (eBook)

1. FATEFUL ENCOUNTER

March 14, 1949

The day before I met Mrs. Mezes, Mama and I talked about the future of the handful of Hungarian Jews, like us, who had miraculously survived. She had just come home from her job as a singing teacher at one of the state music schools, and plopped herself down in the armchair to relax for a minute before dinner. I sat on the couch that was close to the grand piano doing my homework.

“Mama, do you think that the persecution of the Jewish people is over?” Although I had brought up this subject many times, Mama was patient with me, maybe because she saw the worry on my face and heard it in my voice.

She lit a cigarette before she answered. “All I can tell you is what they spout at the compulsory seminars on Communism at work. Supposedly, anti-Semitism was a symptom of Capitalism. The Party line is that anti-Semitism will cease when class antagonism is eradicated.” She sounded as if she had memorized what she said, just the way I had had to memorize poems by Majakowsky and other Soviet poets.

“Do you believe that?” I asked, in a tone that suggested I didn’t think so.

“I don’t know,” she said half-heartedly. “They say religion and ethnicity are now irrelevant.” Puffs of smoke circled her head and created a gray fog around the soft black curls of her hair. “We must become Socialists, period.” There was a finality in her tone that suggested that once again, the direction of our lives was out of our hands.

I looked around our small living room, which also served as Mama’s bedroom. It was stuffed with elegant furniture from the large apartment we had abandoned when we were forced into the ghetto. After we returned to Budapest at the end of the war, the new Communist regime did not permit us to reclaim our spacious home, but they allowed us to take what remained of our belongings.

I thought about what Mama had said about Communism and anti-Semitism. Maybe Socialism wouldn’t be so bad after all, I mused. The theory of Communism that we learned in school, read in books, and saw in film was certainly lovely. It had become our ideal.

“The future does sound nice, Mama,” I said eagerly, “but what about the past? Who will take responsibility for that?” It didn’t seem right to me that people could go about their post-war lives as though nothing had happened.

She put out her cigarette and became suddenly sad and taciturn. I had learned not to press my point when I saw her face cloud up at the mention of the past, and felt the need to rescue her from her dark feelings.

“Enough with theorizing,” I said. “Let’s make something to eat.”

“Sure, Sweetie.” She ventured a half-hearted smile, got up, crossed to me and took my hand. I loved the feel of her soft, cool fingers around mine, as we walked to the kitchen.

At fourteen years of age, I lived with Mama in The Buda section of Budapest, just as we had before the war. Our apartment was on the fourth floor of a modern building on a street that lay between The Danube River and the hills of Buda. The three and four-story concrete apartment houses with simple square lines had been constructed not long before the outbreak of the war. The architecture of these recent neighborhoods differed markedly from the historic character of Old Buda and the stately, ornate stone mansions of turn-of-the-century Pest. The war had left its mark on our streets. Potholes in the pavement and holes of all shapes on the walls bore witness.

By 1949, the political and social atmosphere in Soviet-dominated Hungary pressured Jewish survivors to forget the Nazi persecution. I could not and did not want to forget. I kept hearing in my ears the words I had repeated like a mantra when I had been spat on and publicly despised: “When this is over, I’m gonna get you. You will pay for this.” I became obsessed by the thought of finding the person who had betrayed and denounced my uncle and his family to the Arrowcross, Hungary’s vicious fascist organization. Their emblem was a cross with arrows instead of the swastika, and they were as savage as the German SS. Made up of enthusiastic racists and rabid anti-Semites, they ruled the country from October 1944 until January 1945, and with the backing of Nazi Germany, deported and randomly killed thousands of people.

The modern neighborhood that Mama and I lived in after the war is where her whole family, the Meitners, had lived before they went into hiding in 1944. The Nazis found them in their hiding place, led them to the bank of the Danube in the middle of the city, and shot all four members to death. Their bodies rolled into the water. I could hardly look at the river thinking of all the bodies that it contained. I was nine-years-old then. What could I do now that I was fourteen? How could I find the one who was responsible? I had heard that they had been denounced by a woman. Should I look for this despicable human being?

My new school was within walking distance of home. It was a large red brick building with wrought iron gates, built at the beginning of the twentieth-century. My mother had also gone to this school. It had been a prestigious all-girl high school, but by the time I attended, it was no longer special. Communist doctrine held sway here as everywhere. The teachers conformed as best they could, as they didn’t want to lose their jobs.

Stalinism had its imprint on every aspect of our lives. We didn’t party like young people in Western countries and material possessions were few. My clothing was re-sewn from my mother’s old coats. I knitted my sweaters from used ones. Once they became full of holes, I unraveled them and washed the yarn. When the yarn was wet, I would put weight on the wool to pull out the kinks. We had to be resourceful and handy.

One day, I was coming from school with my friend Eva when I spotted an old acquaintance. She was grandmother Mutti’s age, and had been a friend of the Meitners. Though Aryan, she had been a close friend of the family. She was carrying a shopping basket made out of straw. Most likely, in search of a store where there might be something to buy, even though it would mean standing in line for hours to get whatever might be for sale. It could be an egg, a lemon, flour, or anything edible.

“Hello, Mrs. Mezes,” I said in greeting. “How are you?”

She looked puzzled. “Do I know you?” She had last seen me before 1944. I had since grown tall.

“I am Marika, the Meitners’ niece.”

Her expression changed. Suddenly, she looked pained and brought a trembling hand to her forehead. “Oh my! You have grown so much. You are a young lady. I am so glad you survived, Marika. Is your mother all right too”?

“Yes, she is. We were lucky.”

“I am so glad to hear that, and so sorry about the tragic end of the rest of your family. They were wonderful people. I miss them.” She hugged me and wiped tears from her eyes. As she put her face next to mine, the hair on her chin prickled my skin. I choked because the feeling of soft prickles on my sensitive skin reminded me of grandmother Mutti’s kisses.

Eva seemed embarrassed and stood quietly. In my surprise at meeting Mrs. Mezes, I had forgotten to introduce them.

“This is my best friend and school mate, Eva Lukacs,” I said. They shook hands formally.

“You know, I miss my family very much too,” I said. My obsession gripped me forcefully as I spoke. “I wish I knew who denounced them.”

The old woman’s face transformed from joy to anger. She stared at me silently for what felt like a long time as if she were making a decision. I was about to say good-bye when she said somberly, “I could help you with that. I know who did it”.

My heart began to pound. “You do?”

I saw her breath accelerate as she said, “Yes! Yes, I know who did it, and I know where she and her family live.”

“Who is she? Where are they?”

She took me by the arm, conspiratorially. “You won’t believe this. They live in the very same apartment where your family used to live.”

“Oh no! Is that possible?”

“Yes, it is. I know it for a fact. Their name is Nemet. The woman who was the informer is Irma Nemet. We live in the same building. I live on the third floor; they are on the second. I see them every day, but refuse to talk to them. I don’t even say hello. They denounced your family so that they could get hold of their home and their possessions. Of course, they were always vicious anti-Semites. They got away with murder, literally.”

“But I don’t understand,” I said. “The Meitners went into hiding. How did this woman find them?” My voice was a mixture of excitement and bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, Marika, but I don’t know all the details.” She sounded frustrated and looked away. Was she trying to remember or was she sorting out what she would tell me?

“Please tell me what you know,” I begged. “It’s important.”

When she began to speak again, her words were measured and matter-of-fact. “As it was told to me, they were living in a small, dark basement. Your cousin, Yvette, was young and headstrong. She could no longer stay locked in that tiny room. She went to her hairdresser whom she trusted. Unfortunately, Mrs. Nemet, was also in the beauty parlor. When the hairdresser later learned that The Meitners had been among the families rounded up and shot, she remembered that Mrs. Nemet had followed Yvette out of the salon that day.”

I...