outcasts
outcasts
a love story
Susan M. Papp
Copyright © Susan M. Papp, 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Project Editor: Michael Carroll
Editor: Barry Jowett
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Papp, Susan M
Outcasts : a love story / by Susan M. Papp.
ISBN 978-1-55488-422-3
1. Schroeder, Tibor. 2. Weisz, Hedy. 3. World War, 1939-1945--Personal narratives, Hungarian. 4. Holocaust,
Jewish (1939-1945)--Hungary--Biography. 5. Soldiers--Hungary--Biography. I. Title.
DB999.N329 P36 2009 940.5482439 C2009-900284-1
1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
www.dundurn.com
This book is dedicated to the youngest member of the Weisz family who was killed simply because of who she was - a twelve-year-old girl named Icuka who was sent to the gas chambers on the day she arrived in Auschwitz-Birkenau at the end of May 1944.
contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Chapter 1 - 1928
Chapter 2 - 1933
Chapter 3 - 1936
Chapter 4 - 1937
Chapter 5 - 1938
Chapter 6 - Early March 1939
Chapter 7 - Summer 1941
Chapter 8 - Fall 1941
Chapter 9 - 1942
Chapter 10 - 1942
Chapter 11 - 1943
Chapter 12 - March 1944
Chapter 13 - Spring 1944
Chapter 14 - Spring 1944
Chapter 15 - May 1944
Chapter 16 - June 1945
Chapter 17 - Fall 1944
Chapter 18 - Fall 1944
Chapter 19 - January 1945
Chapter 20 - Spring 1945
Chapter 21 - Spring 1945
Chapter 22 - May 1945
Chapter 23 - June 1945
Chapter 24 - June 1945
Chapter 25 - Summer 1945
Chapter 26 - Fall 1945
Chapter 27 - 1947-1954
Chapter 28 - 1946
Chapter 29 - 1947-1948
Chapter 30 - 1948
Chapter 31 - 1950
Chapter 32 - 1956
Chapter 33 - June 1967
Epilogue
Suggested Further Reading
acknowledgements
THIS BOOK HAS ABSORBED my life for the past six years. I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people who provided support and encouragement, both those who are mentioned here and those whom I have inadvertently omitted. First of all, I want to thank my grandmother, Margit Hokky, who instilled the love of storytelling in me at an early age. I would also like to thank my husband, Bela, who has encouraged me to pursue this project for years and who has coped with the frustrations of living with a writer.
Dr. Sandor Szakaly was of invaluable assistance in researching the military history of Hungary. The collected academic publications of Csilla Fedinec were enormously valuable in providing a comprehensive history of Karpatalja. I relied on the research of many scholars and authors to authenticate the history of the era. These books are listed under Suggested Further Reading.
Eva Demjen, Tibor's wife of many years, was a source of inspiration, never failing to tell me that this is a great story and needs to be told. Special thanks go to the many people who read chapters and gave their feedback: Mark Lovewell, Ilona Mikoczy, Bobbi Speck, Eva Tomory, Helen Walsh, and especially to writing coach and editor, Myrna Riback.
Without the brilliant advice and assistance of Anna Porter, this project would have never come to fruition. I will always be very grateful to her for that.
Finally, many thanks go to all the people at Dundurn Press who have been so supportive and helpful: Kirk Howard, president and publisher; Michael Carroll, editorial director; and Barry Jowett, my editor, who so skillfully brought the manuscript together.
Hungary in the twentieth century. Reproduced from Historical Atlas of Central Europe by permission of Paul Robert Magocsi, revised and expanded edition (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2002). Nagyszollos (Vinogradiv today) is now in Ukraine, just across the northeastern border of Hungary between Satu-Mare and Mukachevo.
introduction
THIS STORY MIGHT NEVER have been told had it not been for an incredible accident - one that can only be called serendipity ...
This incident occurred in 1988 in Toronto at a banquet to celebrate the successful completion of a new non-profit apartment building for Hungarian-Canadian senior citizens. The federal government and the Ontario Ministry of Housing were partners in funding the building, but my husband, Bela Aykler, the developer of the project, was sponsoring the banquet. For Bela it was especially important that the evening unfold without a hitch. The staff of the minister of housing for the Province of Ontario had announced that the minister, who had gained a reputation for her tough, intelligent, no-nonsense style, would attend the banquet. Bela saw this as a real opportunity to provide a positive impression of his company of developers and property managers.
The minister, Chaviva Hosek, arrived exactly on time at six-thirty with a very masculine-looking female assistant. My husband greeted them and introduced them to me and several other guests. We escorted them into the reception area and offered them each a glass of champagne and pogacsa (cheese biscuits) and, after a few minutes, Bela left to attend to other arriving dignitaries.
Events at the Hungarian Cultural Centre are notorious for starting late, and this evening would prove to be no exception. Left standing with the minister, I was relieved when several individuals approached her and introduced themselves. She was soon surrounded by people. Once I realized that, as a public person, protocol must require her to attend hundreds of such official functions each year, I stopped worrying about entertaining her. A trusted friend offered to give the minister and her assistant a tour of the artwork in the rooms, and I was pulled away by another group.
When Bela returned to check on the minister, he found her standing in front of a map of pre-First World War Hungary, examining it with great curiosity and pointing out something to her assistant on the map. When he joined them, the minister turned to him and asked, "Could you show me where you were born?"
Bela was a bit taken aback by the request and tried to shrug it off. "Trust me, you have never heard of it. It's a very small place that isn't even part of Hungary anymore."
"Try me," replied the minister with a little smile playing on her face. "What is the place called?"
"It was called Nagyszollos when I was born there, in a region Hungarians still call Karpatalja, though it's now known as Transcarpathia and is part of Ukraine."
>
The minister paused for an instant, visibly taken aback. Bela saw clearly from the expression on her face that she was stunned by his answer. "My mother was born in Nagyszollos," she answered calmly. "Did you know the Weisz family?"
Bela looked at her in disbelief. Not knowing what to say, he finally blurted out, "I was very young when I left to go to boarding school, but my older sister spent many more years there. Let me bring her over and introduce you to her." The minister nodded without saying a word and continued to study the map.
Bela hoped to find his sister quickly in the increasingly crowded room. She wouldn't be easy to pick out. Caroline - or "Picke," as everyone called her - was diminutive and, as she grew older, she seemed to shrink in height and weight. Soon he recognized her signature ash-blond, coiffed hair. She was chatting with a group of elderly friends when he politely interrupted and asked her to come with him. Elegantly dressed in a black velvet suit with rhinestone buttons offset by a string of pearls, Picke's face didn't show the years of hard work that had enfolded her life. Like the other members of their family, Picke and Bela had come to terms with the indisputable hardship of losing everything and starting anew. Each member of the family had developed a fatalistic attitude about life. Pulling her to the side, he looked intently into her eyes.
"Listen, you know the minister of housing? Her mother is from Nagyszollos. She asked me a lot of questions that I simply don't know the answer to. I need you to chat with her. She seems to know a lot about the place."
After introducing them, Bela left again to organize the seating. The banquet hall had almost completely filled up by then and it was time to introduce the minister. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since Bela left them, but when he returned to the reception area he found Minister Hosek and Picke with their arms around each other. Bela was shocked to see that the minister's lovely, composed white face had turned beet red. Tears were rolling down her face.
What the hell has she said to the minister in such a short time to make her cry? Bela thought. They had to begin the formalities of the evening, the greetings and speeches, and now the minister was upset.
As soon as he had a chance, Bela pulled his sister aside. "What happened?"
"The minister is Hedy's daughter," she began.
Bela stared at his sister. There was only one Hedy he could think of. Their older brother, Tibor, had been passionately in love with a Hedy Weisz and had talked about her incessantly after the war.
"Isn't it unbelievable?" Picke continued. "She didn't know he was our brother but started telling me all kinds of stories about him. As soon as she said the name ‘Tibor Schroeder,' we both started crying." Bela and Picke's mother had been married twice so they had a different last name than Tibor. "Hedy lives in New York and still remembers him fondly. Chaviva said she will bring us together." She stopped for a moment, lost in thought. "It's such a shame Tibor never lived to see this day."
THIS LOVE STORY THAT happened so long ago in such a faraway place called Nagyszollos has always fascinated me. It has taken me years to discover all the pieces of the story.
Nagyszollos is part of a region known as Karpatalja, a key geographic area bordering Hungary to the southwest, Slovakia to the west, Ukraine to the northeast, Poland to the northwest, and Romania to the southeast. Since the First World War, it has been claimed by six different countries.
Until the First World War, Karpatalja was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The region was a place of acceptance, absorbing tens of thousands of immigrants from east and west. Jews came from the east escaping pogroms, and Germans, Hungarians, even Britons, came from the west to work as engineers in mines or teachers in the schools, or to buy relatively inexpensive lands. Whether they came from elsewhere or were among the ethnic groups who had already been working there for centuries, like the Rusyns, Hungarians, and Slavs, the people who lived there gained the respect of their neighbours and were welcomed to build their life there if they worked diligently.
Maybe because it is located geographically at the meeting place of the Hungarian Plains and the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, or, possibly, because it was a point of conjunction for so many ethnic groups and religions, the area became very fertile ground for writers, poets, legends, and unbelievable happenings.
My mother, too, was born in Nagyszollos; my grandfather, a senator in the Czech Parliament, represented the region during the interwar period. As a child, I heard interesting, quirky, unbelievable stories of the place and, in my mind, Nagyszollos became a magical land of undulating, bountiful hills full of apple and peach trees and fields of vineyards - a place of majesty and mystery. There was a real baron who lived in a castle in the town. The children I grew up with only read about barons and lords in their fairy-tale books, but I knew of a real baron. He was named Perenyi and he lived in Nagyszollos. My grandparents often visited him and his family. I envisioned his castle, and heard about how our relatives went there each Sunday after church for visits and went horseback riding on the expansive grounds. In my imagination, I created a magnificent film about the place.
The region was famous for its viticulture. My grandmother's family owned forty-five acres of vineyards and dozens of acres of fruit orchards. By the time I heard about the privileged life of my mother's family, however, the vineyards, lands, and the elegant family home were just a memory. My family lived in a wood-framed, two-storey house in a low income neighbourhood of Cleveland, Ohio, where my parents rented out rooms on the second floor. My grandmother, the senator's wife, struggled to help support the family by working as a seamstress in a bridal shop. In addition to my sisters and me, my mother babysat other children as well to earn extra income while my father toiled at two shift jobs in different factories. He had a Ph.D. in law, but the degree was of little use in America. As he travelled from one job to the other, he studied the dog-eared English dictionary he carried with him, picking up English phrases while riding on the bus. During those early years, we hardly ever saw him.
We grew up realizing there was no easy road to success in the New World, but stories of the Old World still haunted my dreams.
At the end of the Second World War, Karpatalja was annexed by the Soviet empire and became a closed region where the Soviet troops and tanks were stationed during the height of the Cold War. Even if one was able to obtain a visa to fly to Moscow or Kiev, one still could not travel to the region without special government permission. Then, even if you acquired the right credentials, you would still be assigned a guide from the Ministry of Information to travel with you. Possibly, the fact that this region had been hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world for so many years added to its mystique. Only after 1989, when glasnost descended on the region, did it finally became possible to cross into Ukraine from Hungary and visit - if you were willing to wait seemingly endless hours at the border.
I visited Karpatalja and Nagyszollos for the first time in 1993. Married for the second time to a man whose family also came from this part of the world, I desperately wanted to see the place that had absorbed so much of my imagination as a child. The visit, when it finally took place, was incredibly disappointing.
By the time we crossed the border into Ukraine, darkness had fallen like a thick wool blanket. Streetlights, even on the main roads, were not working. The neglected roads were full of potholes and difficult to navigate and there were no hotels or restaurants to be seen. We found our way to a nearby village where the president of a local community organization offered us a humble dinner and a place to stay. We were grateful for the respite, although the Russian cognac our host offered us smelled a bit like rusty water. It was an inauspicious beginning to the trip.
The next day the sun was shining as we drove into Nagyszollos, but the disappointment I had felt the day before simply hung over me like an enormous fog as I stared at the Perenyi Castle of my dreams. The white-washed paint was peeling, the roof had been crudely patched, and the manor house stood silent and naked against the elemen
ts.
We approached the once-elegant home my husband was born in, but the two-storey house stood like a brick skeleton, stripped even of its window frames. We discovered that, during the communist era, it had been used as a private club for communist henchmen, a brothel, and later a restaurant. The family had never sold it or signed the ownership over to anyone, so the local government hadn't known what to do with it, considering that the former owners could come back at any time to claim what was theirs. They allowed local hooligans to smash it apart, brick by brick, and carry away what they could. In front of the expansive property, goats munched on grass where flowering plants and vineyards had once grown.
The gate enclosure was locked in front of my grandmother's ancestral home, and the main entrance to the house was on the side, away from the dusty streets. I gazed through the wrought-iron fence and tried to imagine what it might have looked like once. The courtyard was still the same, but the fertile garden, about which my grandmother had talked so much, was completely destroyed. Before our trip, my grandmother had reminded me to look for the enormous evergreen, lilac, and magnolia trees in the garden behind the house. I knew I wouldn't have the heart to tell her that the property had been subdivided in the back, a row of little ramshackle houses standing where the garden had once been.
A simply dressed, elderly man came by to ask us what we were looking at. When he spoke, I noticed he hardly had any teeth. I told him my family had once lived here. He stared at me sadly and walked away.
The entire town felt gritty with dirt, but there were some hopeful signs of reconstruction. The massive, Gothic, Roman Catholic church, constructed in the fourteenth century, was being slowly cleaned, the years of grime painted over. When the Russian troops descended on the region, their commanders had nailed the front door shut and used the side entrances, first as a horse livery and then as the local garbage dump. They had cut a hole in the roof to let the stench out and allow the rain, snow, and sleet in.
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