(Note: George Berzsenyi is the son of Col. Miklós de Vargha, equestrian par excellence, from whom Laurie took English riding lessons as a child and teenager. After the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, when Soviet forces crushed the Hungarian uprising in Budapest, Col. De Vargha escaped to the United States with George, then an eighteen-year-old. The de Vargha compound was located on Lake Balaton, the largest lake in Central Europe, southwest of Budapest. Berzsenyi is George’s mother’s name, and he is a descendant of noted Hungarian poet Dániel Berzsenyi. Both of George’s parents came from Hungarian nobility.)
I was born in Budapest on the 17th of August 1938. The houses where the Vargha family lived were in Balatonfüred, a resort town on the north shore of Lake Balaton, and in Nikla on the south shore. The Balatonfüred house was purchased in 1811 by Ádám Vargha, and for a long period of time, it was the most elegant house in the area. In those days, five acres of vineyards belonging to the Vargha family separated the house from the lake. In 1919, it was used as the headquarters of the local communist government, and as a prison from 1945 to 1947 maintained by Russian occupational forces. Thousands of Hungarians were tortured and killed in that house. Fortunately, by then, it was no longer owned by the Vargha family. Presently, it is the home of the János Ferencsik School of Music, a much better use of the facility. The Berzsenyi home in Nikla was occupied by our family for 120 years.
We also lived for a time in Szombathely (about 135 miles west of Budapest near the Austrian border), at 28 József Wass Boulevard. Its living room was furnished with heavy, “Biedermeier” pieces (a style of unostentatious furniture popular especially with the 19th century German middle class) a wedding gift from Nagymama (grandmother) to my mother Kornélia. In those days, my father Miklós was a military officer, and a monetary sum had to be deposited to ensure an officer’s maintenance of his social status. I think that profits from the estate in Nikla covered the cost of the rent in Szombathely; the salary of a military officer was not enough for such luxuries. One of my frightening memories is connected to a square in Szombathely. Mother was pushing the stroller with my baby brother Zoltan and was almost run over by a speeding thug of the Hungarian Nazi Party on a motorcycle. My father was in uniform, nevertheless, the thug drew a gun on him when he yelled at him for riding his bike so recklessly. These were dangerous times for everyone.
I have a letter that my father wrote in November 1938, telling his first cousin how sorry he is for not writing sooner. He explains that his military assignments were demanding, but more important, he became a father (I was three months old by then), and his fatherly duties took precedence. Naturally, I rejoiced seeing that letter contained his first reference of me. In another letter, he writes about how happy he was to be able to interrupt his military life and visit Nikla for at least a short time and be present at the wedding of my mother’s oldest sister. He goes on to say that maybe at Easter he can come to Nikla during his 10 days of leave – seemingly, I was staying there with my mother at the time. He also inquired whether my mother got the oranges and waffles sent by him and emphasized that I should be given a whole orange every day, but only its juice, sweetened with powdered sugar and diluted with boiled, but lukewarm water, if needed, after the morning meal. Reading this, I was saddened by the fact that he didn’t live long enough to see my three boys following so closely in his footsteps. A third letter was written on April 18, 1941, again to my mother, and again to Nikla. It seems, and my memories are such too, that my mother went back to Nikla time and again, taking me along and staying there with her mother. One of her reasons was that she needed to help her mother with the management of the estate. But I suspect that she never felt at home in Szombathely. In this letter, my father expresses his appreciation for the letters and packages that were awaiting him when he got back to Szombathely from his assignment and wonders why nothing arrived to Nikla of the things he sent: gifts for mother, a child’s bed for me, and an Easter rabbit for me, too. He also wonders whether I still remember him and assumes that I grew more attached to my grandmother than to him.
Even during the first years of their marriage, my mother spent much time in Nikla partially because she never managed to fit into the lifestyle of the military wives in Szombathely. Being from the countryside and lacking sophistication and worldliness, I’m sure that Mother felt awkward among the avid bridge players, who were also up to date with respect to the local gossip as well as with the affairs of the world. On the other hand, my father was an excellent bridge player, and I’m sure he was much sought after as a partner. He also enjoyed dressing well, while my mother was probably self-conscious about her appearance. Thus, they lived somewhat separate lives even when my mother was in Szombathely. Nevertheless, I know that she was there on January 25, 1943, when my brother was born, since I remember well when my father took me to the hospital to see him and Mother. I had a big fall in the hall, and he rushed over to hold me. I also remember Zolti in a baby bed in Szombathely, both in the apartment and later at the convent, where the nuns gave us a room after the Russians ordered us out of the apartment.
While Hungary was officially in the war, it was not until March 19, 1944, that we were bombed, and hence, on account of a secret agreement, we didn’t fire on the enemy planes. Nevertheless, my father’s involvement was probably more intense since he served as a liaison to the German forces. In fact, towards the end of the war he was second-in-command of the artillery defense of Transdanubia (The borders of Transdanubia are the Danube River to the north and east, the Drava and Mura rivers to the south, and the foothills of the Alps roughly along the border between Hungary and Austria to the west.) My mother took me and Zolti to Nikla much of the time. Being aware of the eventual outcome of the war, my father offered to send a couple of trucks to evacuate all of us from there, but Mother refused. Our rescue from Nikla was accomplished by an uncle who sent a car to take us from Nikla to Szombathely late in the fall of 1944. As far as I remember, my father came to see us there only once, maybe around Christmas. Then he had to retreat with his unit to Germany, where he became a prisoner of war of the American occupying forces. My mother, Nagymama, Zolti, and I survived the Russian occupation of Szombathely, the eviction from our apartment, and Zolti’s frightening dysentery illness at the convent. Having not heard from my father for months, we didn’t even know if he was alive.
After the war, when my father returned from Germany, he took over the management of the 300 acres we were allowed to keep at Nikla. His first task was to round up some of the horses and cattle that used to belong to the family but got scattered during the war. He threw all of his energies into managing the relatively few acres of land left to my mother’s family after most of the land was taken away and distributed among the peasants of Nikla. At first, he was facing incredible difficulties with no money, machinery, farm animals or people to do the work. He managed the land by going everywhere on foot. Looking back, at the very least he should have gotten a bicycle for himself. Nevertheless, he succeeded by thinking on a larger scale, and concentrated on lumber and other building materials to fix the houses and barns first. Starting with a single steam-driven saw and a trusting and skillful carpenter, he soon built a large lumberyard, providing service for nearby villages, too. With the profit, he could employ more people and diversify. He became part-owner of a tractor and of a combine, just in time for the harvest of 1946. He also started a kiln for bricks, as well as a manufacturing process for fertilizers, and had a huge barn built to process tobacco leaves, where he employed 15-16 women during the winter months. Of course, he was on his feet for long days directing and supervising the work, but he was in his element in spite of the fact that he never had any experience with these processes before. To make matters even less pleasant for him, some of his employees were far from being appreciative of having a job and performed it reluctantly. Due to ongoing propaganda, they became less and less respectful in their behavior and during an argument, one of them even threatened my father by grabbing a pitchfork. Fortunately, he stared the man down. At another time they broke into the cellar and stole several sacks of potatoes. It was in the middle of the night, there were several of them, and they didn’t even keep quiet, feeling confident that nobody would dare to stop them. Fortunately, my mother managed to keep my father from going out to confront them; it would not have been safe to do so. Yet another time the barn where the tobacco leaves were processed caught fire. It was a calm evening, and hence, someone must have started the fire. Fortunately, it was put out in time for the ongoing work to be continued, for in addition to our loss, the women working there would have lost their jobs, too.
There was a shortage of tobacco, and hence he got a good price when he sold the bundles of leaves, but success like his could not be tolerated by the communist system. They levied taxes on him well beyond his profits, threatened him with lawsuits, and even evicted us from the house he painstakingly rebuilt after the war. He had to plead to have the land taken away and he offered to the state all of his hard-earned machinery, buildings, and other possessions. Even then, we were constantly harassed for overdue taxes and other fees, with the clear intention of making our lives unbearable. In other words, his success was too much for the communist bosses of the countryside. Unfortunately, after the war my mother went through some difficult times, too. Two operations kept her bedridden for weeks at a time. Fortunately, my father was there during those years and Nagymama and Bözsi (a local girl hired to take care of Zolti) were still with us, too. But not for long. When the government discontinued my father’s pension in 1947 and Nagymama died soon after, the communists evicted us from our home, and we had to move back to Aunt Mariska’s house in the spring of 1949. The following year was a hard one on the family, greatly on account of the constant harassment by the communists, who took their time to finally free us of our last 7 acres, which were scattered and totally useless. Once again, my parents were separated; this time my father left Nikla to avoid further harassment from the communist authorities. He became a shoe repairman, working with his brother, who was a PhD geologist and also without a job. All people of noble birth along with everyone else who had any position of importance prior to the communist take-over were considered enemies of the people and were excluded from nearly all jobs. A number of them were also imprisoned, interned, or deported for no reason at all. Studies beyond elementary school were also limited to the children of the proletariat. He took me along, hoping that it would ease the burden on Mother if she didn’t have to take care of me and Zolti, too. Of course, we had no idea of getting caught in the upcoming deportation. My mother somehow managed to pull herself together and overcame many difficulties during our worst years of dire poverty, 1950 through 1953.
The separation of my parents continued during my father’s deportation to the distant village of Füzesgyarmat. I remember sending him ‘care packages’ of apples and other things, writing letters, and getting letters from him. After a year in Budapest, I was allowed to join my mother in Nikla to attend the 7th and 8th grades, and I graduated from grade school there. I remember assuring my father on my 13th birthday not to worry, since I am there to take care of matters. And indeed, I did some field work. A truck would pick us up in the morning and take us back to Nikla in the evening every day. I also made trips with a borrowed bike to Marcali, a small town about 6 miles from Nikla, to sell belts that I made from scrap leather provided by Popper Laci bácsi and his friend, Rácz; time and again they would also send back some goodies with me, like a loaf of bread or some shortening. My mother continued to struggle as best as she could in Nikla, keeping chickens, ducks, getting vegetables from Aunt Babi’s garden, fruits from Aunt Mariska’s orchard, and spiritual help from Uncle Bandi, Aunt Babi’s husband, while he was still alive. During World War II, Uncle Bandi saved the lives of several Jewish families—like the Poppers and the Ráczs in Marcali—hence, their gratitude.
My father’s deportation ended right about the time I started high school in 1953. From then on, he worked as a land surveyor whenever possible but was back in Nikla between jobs. That was the case in the summer of 1956, too, when he worked at a summer job at the grain collection center in Nikla. Thus, he was there during the Hungarian revolution and knew about my involvement in it. His decision to leave the country with me might have been sudden, but I am sure my mother knew about it. It seemed like my mother always gave into being sick, weak, and helpless whenever my father was around. She was often bedridden at such times, complaining about various pains, as well as about her pitiful situation, the ugly behavior of the peasants, the ruthlessness of communism. Nevertheless, deep down she was stronger than my father, and hence our family became separated in 1956. I still remember vividly the endless arguments with her prior to our leaving Nikla, and then Hungary. I wanted the family to leave and stay together, and my father was arguing for the same. She claimed that she would die during the trip, and flatly refused even considering it. Hence, at the end I had to announce that I can’t wait any longer and made plans to leave the next morning. After all the humiliations and disappointments, and after returning from two years of deportation and struggling to have any kind of job for years, my father was ready to join me when the crushing of the 1956 Revolution necessitated that I leave the country. At age 60 he was willing to make a fresh start regardless of what it took. Many years later I finally understood that my mother’s refusal to leave Hungary in 1956 was partially stemming from her inner need to be in control. She felt that once she left her home in Nikla, it would slip out of her hands forever.
(Today, the Berzsenyi Mansion still stands in Nikla. Laurie visited in 1992 to see the home of her beloved horseback riding teacher – and where George spent his childhood.)
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