Budapest

This was my first trip to Budapest.  We only stayed a few days, during which Mother caught a cold.  We met Granny’s younger sister, Ilonka whom I would meet again many years later with my family.  We met the widow and daughter of Granny’s brother Albin, who was a successful lawyer in Budapest, but died of a heart attack at the age of 40.  He had his own art collection. I believe my Mother decided to become a lawyer because of him.  She thought, “If he could do it, I can do it.”  She did it.  All of these relatives were very nice to us.

We did some sightseeing , including the Royal Palace on the Buda side of the Danube.  We were told that it was the setting for the French film, “Mayerling” which I had seen in NYC.  A tragic love story starring Charles Boyer and the beautiful French actress, Danielle Darrieux.  As a romantic 13 year-old girl, I hoped to marry someone like the doomed crown Prince (played by Charles Boyer) or some Hungarian nobleman. 

In Budapest I had my first experience in a beauty parlor.  I was singing to myself when they put me under the dryer.  I guess I sang louder because of the noise.  In fact, very loudly.  When they took away the dryer, all the ladies were smiling and complimenting me on the nice “concert.”  I never made that mistake again.  

I remember that a photo was taken of me and my second cousin, Margit Trattner, standing on a little balcony adjoining our hotel room.  She was 19 at that time, I was 13, but I was just an inch shorter than her.  She was very pretty, with short dark, bobbed hair.  She spoke to me very nicely. 

In Granny’s house long ago I had seen a picture of her as a little girl, with a big, white bow in her dark hair.  I had said to Granny, “I would like to play with her.”  She was the daughter of Granny’s brother, Jenö whom we met the next day on Marghitta Island in the Danube.  (By the way, the Danube is not a beautiful blue.  It is a murky olive-brown.)

It was a warm sunny Sunday afternoon in mid-summer. Lots of people out strolling and children playing on the Island, eating ice cream and delicious pastries at the little cafes.  On the terraces there was music and dancing.  My Mother and  Jenö’s wife,  an old-looking lady who was a Countess,  were slowly walking together, speaking German.  Onkel Jenö and I were walking faster, arm in arm, with synchronized steps.  He was an attractive 50 year old engineer, with a little mustache.  He was the same height as my Mother, probably 5’5”.  He was nicely dressed in a suit with white shirt and tie, and a hat.  (They wore hats in those days!)  He was cheerful and friendly.  He obviously liked me and I  liked him.   Afterwards Mother said, “How did you communicate?  You don’t speak German nor Hungarian, and he doesn’t speak English.  “We were singing!”  I said, “He sang to me and I sang to him.  After all, he was Granny’s brother.”  This is one of the happiest memories I have from that trip.  

Andre and I returned to Budapest with our children in 1975.  Eva was then 13, Jan 9.  We visited Tante Ilonka who was living in a small apartment with a helper.  She had lost her husband and son in the war.  She looked just like Granny.  A smaller version of Granny.  I was very proud of our children who were able to speak German with her.  She died soon afterwards.    

During World War II we didn’t hear anything about Granny’s family in Hungary.  Later we learned that Margit and her mother died in Auschwitz. Her father, my Onkel Jenö, “died mysteriously,” while having surgery, according to my Mother.  I have been told that Trattner (Granny’s maiden name and Jenö’s  last name) was known to be Jewish. (I’m sure that Granny didn’t know that her maiden name was Jewish.  Her father was an avowed atheist.)  I believe that they let Onkel Jenö die because he had a Jewish name.  

I made  one last trip to Budapest some years later, with my husband, André.  It was some sort of economics conference.  He was a university professor as well as a publishing economist who belonged to three international organizations.  I remember one night when we went to an opera with another couple.  The opera was, “Die Tote Stadt”  (The Dead City) by Eric Korngold.  Later we went to a hotel restaurant for a late supper.  It was midnight and the restaurant was empty.  But there was a small gypsy quartet to entertain us.  They asked me what they should play.  I immediately said, “Ropogos!” which I remembered from long ago, since Granny loved Hungarian gypsy music.  I bought their CD with all the old, familiar melodies.  I still have it (somewhere) and play it from time to time.