In Search of the Resting Place

Karesz Vandor and palacsintas

Antonia, Zsolt's mom

I am taking the day off today after a hectic day yesterday and a week full of relatives and family-related research.

My dear cousin Nori and her husband had to work today (imagine that!) and I am happily enjoying a quiet moment in their country home, sipping Nescafe and eating left-over palacsintas (crepes, but better) from last night. As an empty-nester who often works in solitude, it is good for me to have some down time.

Yesterday, Zsolt took me to Ujpest to visit my father’s synagogue where the kind rabbi remembered me from my visit two years ago. We had hoped that he night tell us what happened to the cemetery in Ujpest since it is likely that the Munks and some Weiszes were buried there.

I would like to know about the cemetery for two reasons: tombstones can be a robust source of information about a person and also Jewish tradition places a lot of emphasis on a person’s resting place being sacred. (One of my mother’s biggest regrets is that she had no place to visit her parents and grieve since they were murdered in Auschwitz and their bodies cremated.)

The rabbi suggested that we go to the Jewish Community Center of Budapest and since it closed within the hour, Zsolt and I had to rush off. I barely had time to look at the memorial wall that started this whole Hungarian research trip since it revealed that Lipot Munk might have descendents.

Parking is both a nuisance and a wonder in Budapest. Finding a spot is nearly impossible, but once you do, you can pay for it using SMS on your phone. Cool!

Zsolt and I spent several hours at the Center, talking to people who knew about what happened to the Ujpest cemetery. In the 1960s, the Communist government took ownership of the cemetery since it wanted the land for a housing project (which has since become known as “Ghost Houses”). The government placed notices in the local newspapers and sent letters to people in the area telling them to come and claim the bodies and the stones.

Obviously, no one in my family got the message. The bodies that were unclaimed were taken to the big Kozma Cemetery in Budapest and put in Section B in a mass grave. The stones were used for construction projects in the city. How terrible and disrespectful.

But Zsolt explained to me that the 1950s and 1960s in Communist Hungary were terrible times, and no one could be bothered about the Ujpest cemetery’s destruction.

Zsolt asked the Jewish Community Center staff to check the database of people buried in Kozma under “Munk” and “Weisz” but no relative appeared on the lists. When we went to the Orthodox synagogue down the block, a very helpful rabbi (I asked for his business card, and he said: “No card. No business” with a smile) told us that no relatives were buried in the Orthodox cemetery either. I doubted that my relatives were Orthodox, but it was worth asking. (The rabbi did confirm that Mor and Maria Munk were Orthodox from looking at the picture I had.)

So, by process of elimination, we determined that the Munks and Weisz who were fortunate enough to escape the Holocaust by dying before it and who had been buried in the Ujpest cemetery were now lying in a mass grave, much like their children who had died in the Shoah.

If I have time, I will go to the Kozma cemetery to pay my respects.

Zsolt took me to his parents’ home for a wonderful afternoon of conversation—Zsolt is a great story-teller and even though I don’t understand exactly what he is saying, I could tell his parents were enjoying his version of my journey. His mother Antonia is warm and upbeat and her eyes crinkled with joy every time she mentioned Zsolt, her daughter-in-law Nori, or the baby on the way. Her husband was more quiet, but that is probably because he didn’t have a chance to get a word in.

Antonia made a delicious chicken paprikash with a special noodle, just like my mother and grandmother used to make. My Hungarian relatives have gone out of their way to prepare my favorite meals, and I am so grateful. Antonia also served a strong drink—it wasn’t palinka—but it was strong. I just had a sip.

I also had a tour of their home which was built by their Zsolt, a general contractor. It is actually a duplex, and when times are better, Zsolt and Nori will move in, yes, right next door to her in-laws. Hungarians are very close to their families, talking to each other every night and visiting on the weekends. The home will be very spacious and modern with skylights and/or windows letting in light in every room. The location is perfect for them since it is much closer to Budapest, particularly to the Obuda Synagogue where they go every Friday night.

Zsolt took me to the Hungarian Holocaust Museum, one last stop before yet another visit to friends. The Museum is full of sad reminders, as are all of the museums which deal with this topic, and very effectively rendered. It is mostly underground in dim light with exhibits in several languages. The posters, interactive screens, and movies described the complex politics of Hungary that led to its unique Holocaust participation. The Holocaust did not come to Hungary until 1943 when the labor deportations began, but as the Nazis began losing the war, ghettoization and deportations sped up. Approximately 440,000 Hungarian Jews and gypsies and others were murdered, mostly at Auschwitz, in the remaining months of the war. I was struck by the fact that it was the Hungarian police who were largely responsible for these deaths since they willingly collaborated with the German occupiers.

By the time we got through Budapest traffic on the way to suburban Dunakeszi, were more than two hours late for my next date: I wanted to see Karesz and Gyongyi Vandor who were my guides through Hungary in 2009.

Though I was late, Karesz greeted me warmly, dismissing my tardiness as “Hungarian time.” Karesz and his beautiful wife are in their thirties and have a charming home decorated with books and art prints.

In addition to being a tour guide/genealogist, Karesz is also an expert on Russian military history and has written many books and articles on the subject. Gyongyi is a salesperson who specializes in a unique type of health footwear.

Of course, I had to share my family tree with them before dinner (I was still full from lunch!) because without Karesz, there would be no Munk side of the family tree at all. Once he found Lipot’s descendents, Karesz contacted Laci first, then Csiompi, then Nori, then Ishtvan. So I owe Karesz my eternal gratitude for returning my family to me.

Of course, Karesz and Gyongyi had prepared a lovely dinner—another wonderful chicken dinner and noodles—but the best part was Karesz’ homemade palacsintas. Oh boy. What can I say? The Hungarians love to cook and I am a willing volunteer. I can diet when I get home. I will never be able to get this kind of food anywhere else.

I really enjoyed talking with this lovely young couple and wanted to stay longer, but I have to rely on others for transportation, and I didn’t want to keep my host family up waiting for me. So Karesz took me to the Strand in Szentendre where Nori picked me up. We hope that Karesz can meet us at the Ujpest Synagogue for Friday night services.