Joseph Popper’s Memoir
Foreword to the Memoir
In the fall of 2025, we received an unexpected inquiry from Martin Erdely from Australia.
As his message revealed, Martin is a close relative of Dr. Ernő Erdély, the once highly respected former fire chief of Győr. He asked our foundation for help in contacting Dr. Ernő Erdély’s grandchildren living in Hungary.
We were happy to fulfil his request, and a large family reunion took place in Budapest, resulting in the renewal of family ties that had long since faded into obscurity. Martin’s grandfather, Jenő Erdély, was Dr. Ernő Erdély’s older brother, so Martin and his twin brother, who visited Hungary with him last September, were able to meet their second cousins in Budapest and their families.
When we asked how the Erdély family ended up in Australia, Martin sent us an interesting document. This memoir, titled “Farm on the Danube,” was written by Joseph Popper, Martin’s great-great-uncle. Joseph was the brother of Edit Popper who had “married into” the Erdély family; indeed, she was Dr. Ernő Erdély’s sister-in-law.
Joseph Popper was born in Bratislava in 1898 and died in Adelaide, Australia, in 1967. His wife, Lilly Gestetner, whom he mentions so often in his memoirs, was born in 1910, also in Bratislava, and passed away in Australia in 1989. They had no children, but their memory lives on in the Erdely family in Australia.
The emigration of the “Popper branch” of the Erdély family to England and later to Australia is linked to Joseph Popper, who owned / operated a large estate in the Hungarian-Austrian-Slovak (Czechoslovak) border region near Bratislava. Interestingly, neither Martin nor any other family member knows the exact location of the farm; all they know is that it was situated on the border of the three countries. As revealed by his 51-page typewritten memoir written in English, Joseph was not simply a “gentleman” landowner living off the land, but a farmer who actually cultivated his extensive lands and raised livestock alongside his workers.
In this article, we are publishing some excerpts from Joseph Popper’s memoir, courtesy of Martin, his second cousin. We thank him for sharing this family memory with us, which, through extensive family connections, is linked to the well-known figure of Dr. Ernő Erdély, former fire brigade commander, of Győr. The recollection does not directly concern Győr or the events that took place there in the 1910s, 1920s, and 1930s, but the geographical triangle mentioned is located barely 50 km from Győr, and the historical-geographical context it evokes is also worth exploring.
The memories first take us to the outskirts of Bratislava, then transport us briefly to England and to the gateway of a new life: Australia. Despite their hardships, Joseph and Lilly were among the lucky ones: they escaped the most terrible ordeals of 1944–45, unlike many innocent members of their family who were murdered.
Here is the story.
The Editor
Through England to Australia (1939)
Excerpts from the Farm on the Danube memoir – original in English. [Editor’s note: the subtitles were added by the Editor]
We are in a farmhouse in the East of England, the feeding of the pigs had been finished, and we had just sat down for breakfast – when the glorious surprise came.
(…)
We had waited six months for the permission to enter Australia and nothing had come. Now after so much waiting in the small farmhouse in Essex, the happy news had reached us: “Permit Granted”.
(…)
Speechless we stared at the cable, my wife and I, without a word we looked at each other, we changed colour and then, at last, we felt the joy it had brought to us.
We have a long, long voyage in front of us.
We asked each other: “how shall we begin our new life in Australia?” and “what shall we do on that long voyage?”
I know the answer to the second question now, for I am on the high sea at present, and all the events, great and small, which have happened, are coming back to me, during this long voyage to the far away continent. I have the feeling of being followed by a ghost. This invisible companion approaches me with new memories of years gone by and I imagine to hear him saying: “You have seen so much, why don’t you write it down? “
I obey (…)
A Cornish farmer, a man with much worldly wisdom, and other Englishmen who had been to Australia, they all said: “If you feel at home among us, you will feel even better among Australians (…)”.
These words were more than comforting!
(…)
Not so long ago, when I was still a farmer myself, I thought that figures were the only measure for progress and happiness; figures on the yields of wheat and sugar beets, figures on the milk-output of my cows or the increase of weight of my pigs. Today, I say that living amongst good and kind people makes life more beautiful than riches and wealth. (…)
(…)
Australia is a continent rich in beauties of nature, certainly she has natural laws as beautiful as her landscape, as friendly as her inhabitants. The same saying applies to man: “a beautiful soul in a beautiful body”.
(…)
Childhood (1898 – 1913)
I am again in the beautiful large farm, where I learned to take my first steps and to stammer my first words. Where I was a child at play (…). There it was, in the Hungarian plain with its thatched-roofed houses, its draw-wells like giant storks, its funny pigeon-houses which looked like cups, and its curious ovens which resembled the house of the seven dwarfs in the fairy-tale. In summer the roads were dusty, in winter bottomless, in rooms and stables evil smelling little oil-lamps gave a feeble light, and many other things were primitive. Still, they could make people happy who had never seen anything else, like myself when I was a child. (…)
Children (…) were dirty, naughty and often wild; but I loved to play with them in the sand, or to go with them to the river, where we caught small fish or salamanders in the stagnant waters and marshes near the Danube. I loved to walk around with these boys (…). With Joska and Vendi, with Jancsi and Sanyi I tramped through the green or reaped fields, to the copses along the Danube, a sling or another wicked and exciting toy hidden in my pocket. Frequently, I was the leader of a gang of thieves who climbed the garden fences (…).
Great pleasure was given us by many animals we found or which were brought to us. There were hedgehogs, squirrels, young hares and deer, pheasants, buzzards, crows and even young foxes. Some of them were hurt and we dressed their wounds (…).
We crept into the sawing and thrashing machines, they were our citadels with draw-bridges, dungeons, loop-holes, watch-towers and so on. I shared joy and sorrow with these boys; but we grew up. I went to the high-school and they remained on the farm. I looked enviously when they, with cracking whip, drove the team of huge Transylvanian oxen, with their long and sharp horns and the gentle eyes of a roe. I was not permitted to do that.
(…) Of course, I was not allowed to lead Fritzi and Pajkos, the fiery dapple-grey horses from the stable, nor to harness them. But in unwatched moments I crept near to bear a hand, though I was not regarded as a useless intruder, I was satisfied for I had helped to put bridle and harness on these frisky, fiery animals.
(…) Cyprian (…) let me sit on the high box of the calash as long as I did not touch the reins. Not before he had taken his seat (…) I was allowed to touch the reins with my small and trembling hands. But this sublime moment was only too short – one round in the court and we were in front of the house.
Vilo and Jozsi watched me enviously. My pride and my joy was boundless, yet here I felt for the first time the effect of social distinctions and this hurt me, just as later on I always felt hurt at being privileged before others. I cannot help reproaching my father for one thing. If, instead of sending me to the high-school, he would have taught me to yoke the oxen and to milk the cows, it would have been of much more use to me.
The times I liked best were the Sunday afternoons in summer (…). On such days, we visited neighbouring farms. My father and mother, my two sisters and I. Not to sit next to Cyprian on his high box, was the worst punishment I knew. We went to see relations. My father had no brothers but many cousins, all of them landowners or tenant-farmers in the neighbourhood.
Sometimes Cyprian drove to town to fetch visitors. (…) And then my uncle and aunt alighted from the carriage with their charming little girls, Kitty and Lilly. They wore such fine clothes, these town-people! They looked so well-groomed in their pretty light frocks. It made me happy to show them around and to roam with them through bushes and puddles, and soon they wore the national colours, red from raspberries, green from grass-spots on their white frocks.
I liked Lilly perhaps a little less, she was not quite so gay, much more serious and thoughtful than her elder sister. Yet my dislike cannot have been deeply rooted – 15 years later she became my wife.
The Great War (1914 – 1918)
The outbreak of the Great War put an end to this happy, peaceful life. I was not quite 16 when we went to attend a parish fair in the neighbouring village. There, in the midst of swings, merry-go-rounds, shooting-booths, music etc., a small but unforgotten scene took place, which made me realize the importance of what happened on this very day, the 28th of June 1914.
The patroness of that village, the former crown-princess of Austria and Hungary, Stefanie, attending the fair, was just passing us with her suite, when a messenger approached her. She left the fair as soon as this this man finished, and a few hours later everybody knew – the Crown prince Franz-Ferdinand and his wife had been assassinated in Sarajevo. (…)
A few weeks later, war was declared. Cyprian and many others were called up and so was my brother-in-law, the doctor. With flowers on their hats, surrounded by weeping women, they said good-bye at the garden-door and, singing, got into the waiting waggons to go into the war. Many did not return, many became prisoners, among the latter Cyprian who came back more than six years later. My brother-in-law took part in the winter campaign in the Carpathian Mountains, where he caught a mortal disease. He came home, and died a few months later, leaving a wife and two small children. (…)
In the second year of the war, it was the turn of my playmates to become soldiers, and the year was not quite over, when I was called up. I was a delicate boy, not yet 18 years of age, when I got into my uniform and my first jackboots. It was the first and only time that a uniform gave me pleasure. I also got a saddle-horse, a beautiful bay, more than 5 feet high, with saddle and harness.
I fared like many millions of others. With a mountain-battery I was sent to Albania, where not so much the enemy’s bullets, as malaria, dysentery and typhoid fever decimated the troops. I, too, got malaria. (…) With high temperature and shivers I had been sent to the ambulance station but the guard there refused to admit me; the hospital was under quarantine on account of a case of spotted fever. So, I stood, shivering in the hot September sun, near the wire-fence, when I heard an army-doctor talk in Hungarian to another soldier. I spoke to him in my mother tongue, and a few minutes later, the door was opened and I, with a temperature of 106, was lodged in this fine new malaria-hospital. When, on the next day, quinine and cold compresses had done their effect and I felt better, I asked the doctor to let me go back to my battery. “You silly boy”, was his answer, “you greenhorn, you ought to be back with your mother”. Shamefacedly I had to obey, and only a few months later, I was sent back to the Southern Front. The military authorities had decreed that all those who already had had malaria, have to go back (…), as they did not want any fresh troops to become infected by this disease which was greatly feared by our Commander in Chief.
By this, I did not become a hero of the Great-War (…). The war had been lost, the country was poor, a scarcity of food and clothing was making itself felt. The Treaty of Trianon threatened to cut it into pieces.
(…) Riots broke out; the discontented masses of the proletariat put the Communist Government into power, with Bela Kun at its head [Editor’s note: founding of the so-called Council Republic, in 1919].
(…)
The Council Republic (1919)
The young communist republic brought new laws.
Overnight I had ceased to be a farmer’s son and was only a “comrade”. As such, I had to stay on the estate, but without influence upon its management. The estate was socialized. it had become the property of the State and was under control of the Commissary for Production.
(…) As an employee of the estate I could be admitted to the list of “comrades” working on my father’s farm. (…) I could earn my first money, although it was worthless, because, printed without gold covering, nobody was willing to accept these Soviet banknotes.
It never enters my head that father’s property has been lost, that the estate and everything with it has been taken away from my father and from me too. (…)
Life at the estate became more and more unbearable, not for me alone, but also for the others, the 50 families that lived on it. Strangers commanded us, we had to obey them, and any disobedience might bring on an immediate trial for treason against the Country. (…)
The masses were incited, they wanted to act, for the existence of the soviet-state was threatened by enemies from without and within. Anti-revolutionary plots were discovered, troops marched against the Czechs, the Romanians and the Serbs; the excitement reached the climax, blood was shed, men were taken as hostage, others disappeared for ever.
The accusation, simply the suspicion of being a counter-revolutionary was sufficient to ruin anybody. I too had enemies.
(…) numerous executions took place. Farmers, priests, civil servants were publicly hanged. It was getting too dangerous for me, but I could not go to my parents in Pressburg [Editor’s note: Bratislava in Slovak and Pozsony in Hungarian], though this town is but 4 miles from the estate. The bridge over the Danube was the frontier and that was closed. The Czechs were entering Pressburg and they were at war with Soviet-Hungary.
One way was still open to me, the way to Vienna. I left the farm which held so many memories for me, but where now for weeks and weeks I had been wandering aimlessly, where even salt and oil for the lamps were lacking. I crossed the border and went to my cousin’s farm in Austria and there I waited for things to come.
After a four-months reign of blood and terror, Bela Kun was overthrown. But the country was cut to pieces in an unimaginable way and I, destined to manage the recovered station, was particularly hard hit, for the station too was cut into pieces.
My father was just 60 then and I had reached the twenties. He retired and I took over the impoverished, indebted estate. My youth was over, active life was to begin.
(…)
The Treaty of Trianon (1920)
Work started over again; the thrashing machines were heard again (…). We were just going to pull out the ploughs when a new government came into power. This time the Czech. Again, we had to change our language, our hymns and cockades (…). The Czech troops, regulars and volunteers, crossed the Danube near Pressburg (…). The small village became full of Czechs and many Czechs settled here. The number of its inhabitants grew rapidly.
A new frontier was decided on. The members of the Interallied Military Commission [Editor’s note: so-called „Military Inter-Allied Commission of Control”, charged with the control of the implementation of the Treaty of Trianon] arrived, English, French and Italian officers. Often, they were my guests. In their closely fitting uniforms of good cloth, they contrasted vividly with the representatives of the defeated countries. The Austrian and Hungarian officers wore poor cloth, made from nettles, with faded yellow gold-lace.
Commissions of experts followed them, who had to decide the new border, civil servants of high rank among them. They sat on the veranda of my house, objected, argued and made protocols of historical importance.
There was general Tanczos, later the representative of Hungary in the league of Nations [Editor’s note: Gábor Tánczos (1872–1953) was a Hungarian military officer, diplomat, and politician; he was the Hungarian-Czechoslovak border establishing commission’s Hungarian border commissioner – source], Baron Villanyi, who was to become the Hungarian ambassador to Rome [Editor’s note: Baron Frigyes Villani (1882-1964) ], beyond his post in Rome (1934–1941), he also served as the Hungarian representative in Bucharest (1925–1928) and Paris (1928–1933) – source], and many other Austrian and Czech personalities.
The once so quiet and peaceful station had gained political importance. In the Treaty of Trianon, it was mentioned by name as the place where the borders of Austria, Hungary and Czechoslovakia were to meet.
The estate, which consisted of three farms, was now divided into three parts. Absolutely without any regard to natural landmarks, by lines across the fields, so that of the three farmyards which belonged to the estate, one remained Hungarian, the second became Austrian, while the third was made Czechoslovakian.
After the long-time of torturing uncertainty, the definite decision seemed a blessing. Up till now, there were only lines of demarcation. These were not quite fixed and so an unending source of quarrels. It had often happened that, after the reaping when the wheat stood in rows of sheaves and the hay in stacks on the field, disputes arose as to whether this one or that one of the sheaves should be carried to Hungary, to Czechoslovakia or to the Austrian part of the farm (…).
Now they brought boundary-stones and one huge granite column engraved with the arms of three countries and the date of the peace-treaty. This column was put in the midst of the fields, as the mark of the “Three-Country-Corner”. (…)
The marks were set in along the borders and we saw various frontier-guards, afoot, on bicycle and on horseback, in different uniforms and talking German, Czech or Hungarian. (…)
On this station, where three countries met, I lived and worked for years. It was not an easy task. The station passed out on three sides into the wide, treeless plain of the Danube basin. There was no sign in the landscape on which one could see that it belonged to three different countries, with three different languages and three different laws.
A road of less than 2 miles connected the farmyards with each other and in a carriage or on horse-back, I could easily make this round within 15 minutes.
However, on this way I had to cross borderlines four times, four times to undergo the customs control, passport examination, this causing a delay of hours and hours.
The first were the Czechs, close to the door of the farmhouse. A quarter mile later was the Hungarian customhouse in an empty school-building, where the Hungarians searched everybody entering Hungary. Three quarters of a mile further on they searched everyone who left for Austria, and not very far from this place, along the same road, one arrived at the Austrian customhouse. (…)
Life on the “Three Country-Farm” (1920s)
Nobody who has not seen it for himself can imagine what life was like on the “Three Country- Farm”. Even to me it seems fabulous: for twenty years I had managed my estate through the cliffs of passport and custom regulations, an estate that was artificially deprived of its vitality. It was not easy, but it was done nevertheless. (…) There were days when I had to cross the different borderlines two or three times, which meant undergoing from 16 to 32 investigations, in harvest times even more. (…)
Many comical incidents also happened on that “Three Country Farm”. One, which occurred on a winter day, even led to a criminal procedure by the custom office. This is what happened: on dairy-farms in Central-Europe, it is usual that in winter natural ice is stored away in special cellars to be kept for the use in summer. When our arm of the Danube was frozen, blocks were cut out from the ice and transported to the cellars in large waggons. On this certain December day, the ice has been cut in a place near the Hungarian-Czech border. My men began their work on the Czech side and advanced gradually towards the middle of the water, where with hooks and pickaxes, they fished the ice blocks from the muddy water. Suddenly a Czech custom officer appeared and stated the fact that the men had overstepped the boundary by some feet. He proved beyond doubt that they had fished some ice out from the Hungarian waters, a thing prohibited, and he consequently denounced me for illegal import of ice into Czech territory. (…)
Another incident, in summer this time, did not end quite so harmlessly. It was hot, the stable doors were left open, and an ox freed itself from its chain and went out for a nightly grazing. The night was pitch-black, but the animal found the clover field and settled down to its midnight meal. Alas, it had to pay dearly for it! A frontier-guard noticed suspicious movements and in abrupt, military words ordered the intruder to stay still and to give his name; ox Bator did not understand him, nor was he acquainted with the consequences of such a command. He continued grazing. The guard called a second time and then fired. In the morning, we found the poor ox dead, a bullet pierced his chest. (…)
Yet, in time I got so used to these things that I did not even feel the impossible condition under which I worked, compared with other farmers, who were free to do as they liked on their own farms. (…)
Every human being on the estate possessed a pass-bill with his photo on it. When it was time to apply for these passports, hundreds of photos were taken and heavy bundles of passes were carried from magistrate to magistrate to have still another unimportant entry made and at last, when the number of stampers was full – as a rule after several months – new passports were delivered to their owners. I remember one time, when the reaping was held up, though the corn was full ripe, because one of the magistrates had not yet found time to sign the passports and so the workmen who stood ready with their tools, were not allowed to enter the fields beyond the border where the ripe crop was waiting for them. (…)
Life was spoilt by these things for me, my employees and the working people around us. President Wilson [Editor’s note: Thomas Woodrow Wilson (December 28, 1856 – February 3, 1924) was the 28th president of the United States, serving from 1913 to 1921 – source] has never heard, I am sure, to what absurdities his “right of self-determination of peoples” has led. He wanted to do us good, but we were not asked, we had no chance to protest. Peasants who for generations had brought their pigs and poultry, their hay and fruits to the nearby town of Pressburg, from now on Bratislava, suddenly lost their market by the cancelling of a commercial treaty. They had produced goods and now were forced to sell them at a loss or to consume them themselves. (…)
Formerly flourishing farms decayed, fields were neglected, tools rotted. Wealth was only for smugglers. It was tempting but dangerous, the smuggling of tobacco, meat, sugar, spices or even living animals. (…)
I was resolved to commit no smuggling. Nothing for myself or for the station had been transported to any destination without lawful permission. However, there was one exception to this rule. When a member of the fair sex asked me to smuggle some finery, a beautiful hand-bag or some modern garment from Vienna to Czechoslovakia, I could not resist the pleading of a dear friend, a pretty acquaintance. They were stronger than I.
Smuggling in a small way flourished, of course. Where was the carriage-driver who did not buy the cheap Hungarian bacon, or the good Austrian tobacco on his way home? Sometimes he did not spend more than a few copper coins, but often he was given away, or the customs-officer found the bottle of wine, the packet of tobacco, hidden under the waggon- seat and the wages of a whole week or more were lost. This because if he could not pay the fine right on the spot, his wages were seized. (…)
Naturally, there were always informers who, for money or to revenge, denounced others. To be accused of having spoken badly about the Czechs brought on summons, investigations, and searches of the houses. It was an easy way for revenge, or to get rid of an unpopular overseer. One such overseer was once taken away from his work and put into prison for three days, for no reason whatsoever.
Though on the whole the borderers stuck together by unwritten laws against the often undignified and cunning proceedings of the custom-officials, still there were traitors amongst them too, who, on the other hand, had to suffer under the enmity of their neighbours, Mostly, whether rich or poor, employers and employees; farmers and tradesmen, all helped each other in distress, for the laws and regulations oppressed them all alike. (…)
Many scenes, heart-rending or comical, took place here. Parents found their children, who, because of a bad record at school, had decided to go to Africa, but had not covered more than 5 miles.
Several (…) fugitives stayed on in haystacks and anyone who has seen these men, living like beasts with nothing to eat but potatoes and raw beetroots, in a state of indescribable misery, cannot imagine a worse fate than to perish on the border between two countries. Many who suffered this fate were innocent, but sometimes it may have been merited. Once an old man was found nearly frozen who died of exhaustion a few days later in a stable. This in spite of the efforts of kind-hearted, simple women, who looked after him. After his death investigations proved that he had been a wicked scoundrel, who left his wife and child in greatest misery, and who had committed many crimes. Even his own family had to admit that he deserved his fate.
Once, on the Hungarian farm, a well-dressed, intelligent-looking man sneaked up towards me. “I am a farmer, a former army-officer from the Great War” he said and fell on his knees, “dear, good gentleman help me I am in the greatest danger of life”. Then he tore open his coat and his shirt and showed me big cicatrised wounds deriving from hand to hand fighting against Cossacks in Galicia. Stammering and out of breath he continued his story, that in his hometown he held an inciting speech, and on account of the same he is persecuted by the police. He told us of friends and acquaintances he had in Vienna and Bratislava, showed us letters of recommendation and asked us in fervent words to help him to cross the border.
While he was relating his narrative, and by this putting the overseer and myself in astonishment and sympathy, a police-patrol was passing before the windows of the office where we stood. This man was lost, that was obvious! But a miracle saved him. These two policemen were in a hurry and disappeared quickly without entering our house. Meanwhile, our fugitive swallowed one soothing pill after the other.
I would have done anything for this unhappy man, I was prepared to give him everything, to save him. I quite overlooked the dangers for my person. After sunset I put this man on the seat next to me in my car and drove him under the greatest danger to my Czech farm. There, I reported him at the police, saying that he was persecuted out of political reasons, and asked for humane treatment. He was allowed to have his dinner with me, I gave him money, and ordering my manager to accompany him to the next police-station, I lent him my car. I asked my manager to encourage him and to advocate his early release at the police, on account of his crossing the border without passport. Only late after midnight, I could go to bed, when the manager came back with the report that this man has been released and saved. I could breathe again!
I did not hear about him for several weeks, but then the more so. He was a notorious crook, a confidence man, the son of horse dealer, already as a schoolboy the utmost of a scoundrel. Later on, driven away, he spent a considerable time in prison. (…)
Conditions became almost unbearable for the Austrian and Hungarian farmers. I was forced to give up my farms in these countries, and only kept the still large estate in Czechoslovakia. (…) My estate also was modernised. Wooden mangers, thatched and rush-covered roofs, oil lamps and draw-wells disappeared. In their place, there came concrete mangers, tiled and slate roofs, electric light and an aqueduct across the farmyard. Motors replaced the draught-oxen. Instead of the old and gloomy workshops new ones were built, light and airy, with lathe, boring machine and bandsaw. The unhealthy old houses were pulled down, where, when I was a boy, two families lived in one large room and five families had one kitchen in common. Every workman got a nice modern cottage with wooden floors instead of the stamped loom of former times.
(…) A fine new school-building for 30 children was erected, where teaching and learning became a pleasure. (…) Step by step the ameliorations were completed, a dairy was added to the estate which soon became known as the most beautiful and modern of the district.
(…)
Of course, we were by far not so well off as the people of Czechoslovakia, but also, for us it was possible to lift the standard of living. My employees could buy radio sets, bicycles, sewing-machines fine furniture and even motorcycles. They also dressed much better than in former times.
(…)
Every labourer family had their own garden where, not so long ago, there had been heaps of rubbish. Ample manuring and proper cultivation of the soil bore rich fruits: one rich crop succeeded the other. The wheat stood densely, the stalks bent under the weight of the grain, so low that no binder or harvester machine could cut it. The reapers worked hard year after year, but they were well rewarded. (…)
When the harvest-work was done, festivals were held in garden and yard. To the accompaniment of impressive gipsy-band music we danced and sang, ate and drank. Speeches were delivered, the Lord was praised for letting the crop grow so well and for giving us strength to reap it. We thanked one another for the pains we had taken and to which it was due that the harvest had been finished without damage or quarrelling. Then the harvest-wreath was given to me, a wreath made of all the cereals that had been reaped, adorned by often quite artistic dolls, paper-flowers and many-coloured ribbons on which in golden letters were printed the words: “God save our master.” Then followed my name and that of my wife.
These feasts were so solemn, so beautiful, that they brought tears to the eyes of those present. When the speeches were over the people began to sing Hungarian harvest-songs, the gipsy-band struck in with a csardas (the Hungarian national dance) and they all joined in in the round-dance, the farm people and the many visitors. Young and old, sun-tanned labourers and pale-faced town-people, they all danced with one another, all were cheerful and happy. (…)
In spite of the revolutionary tendencies which had taken root in every class of people since the end of the war, on my estate there remained a feeling of tolerance towards everybody, whether labourer, overseer or master, rich or poor, no matter what nationality, creed or political party anyone belonged. A feeling of solidarity, of comradeship had come to exist between me and my men; we valued and respected each other. Jozso, Vendi, Peti, Sandor, my former friends, like myself, were no more children. They were bearded men with wives and children and they were industrious and capable grooms and stablemen, guards and overseers, but still the friendly and helpful comrades they had been when we were play-fellows in the farm-yard. In every important or difficult task, they were my best helpers and I loved them, these simple but honest men.
Times seemed just to become peaceful again, a certain prosperity had returned. I obtained good prices for my pedigreed and fattened pigs and milk cows as well as for my attested seeds and garden products. I had got used to the petty vexations, the troubles with the frontier guards, when new troubles arose, to spoil life for the inhabitants of the border regions.
Political tension (1930s)
A new political tension made itself felt in Central Europe. Czechoslovakia, menaced by Nazi-Germany, issued decree after decree to secure the frontiers and maintain order within the country. The Sudeten-Germans in the North and West, the Poles in the North-East, the Hungarians in the South and East and even some of the Slovaks began to show the Government in Prague their discontent. The unfortunate internal policy of the Czechs during the last few years, their suppression of nationalities and enmity towards the neighbouring countries made a ruling by police force necessary. (…)
The newspapers and the mail brought nothing good. I hated to look at my desk or to drive to town, for everywhere the wheels of the state-machinery became visible, cutting deeply into everyday life. Things could not go on in that way! (…)
New laws were issued to regulate the life of every citizen not only as to his business, but also to interfere with his cultural, his social interests, even his most private affairs. Army-officers and non-commissioned-officers were forbidden to marry German or Hungarian girls, nationality was the sole standard by which a man was judged, grain and other cereals were subject to official regulations and the prices were, officially fixed in a way prejudicial to the minorities, employers were compelled to make use of the state labour-exchange, etc.
When Hitler occupied Austria, the government felt menaced from outside as well as from within. Excitement and anxiety grew and led to more new laws, the severest that were ever issued by a democratic country.
Times were most favourable for informers and their number grew accordingly. The loyalty of every citizen was questioned and he was judged by the language he used, the newspapers he read, the friend he had and even the workers he employed. A police officer of high rank actually reproached me for employing Hungarian labourers, giving the impression that he wanted to deprive these poor men of their daily bread. (…)
New laws reduced more and more the rights of private property and personal liberty and everybody was somehow fitted into the system of defence. Business came to a standstill and the general nervousness increased in towns and on the land unbearably. (…)
First signs of trouble (1938)
After the occupation of Austria, when the first frontier guards with swastika badges appeared at the border, not half an hour walk from my house, the excitement increased even more. Every day brought something new.
Vienna, so near to us, the lovely town on the Danube, which for us had been the symbol of charm and cheerfulness, the centre of music and arts, got new masters. For the third time since the end of the war. I had known the Imperial Vienna called “K. u. K” or “Black and yellow” from the Imperial colours, the “red” Vienna governed by the socialists, the “green” Vienna ruled by the catholic agrarians and now it belonged to the “National-Socialists”. The rulers changed, but the man in the street accepted the new party which, like all its predecessors, promised them new wealth and prosperity to the country. Hitler and his staff visited Vienna.
Just as before, when the followers of the Emperor had been driven away and later, in 1934, when after the sanguinary fights in the streets of Vienna, socialist party-leaders and trade-unionists had fled across the borderlines, there came now a flood of refugees, men connected with the clergy or, for the most part Jews and people descending from Jews. They all were kindly received by the borderers who kept them concealed in their houses, gave them food and clothes and, unknown to either of the Authorities helped them to get into Hungary or Czechoslovakia.
The Easter-holidays that followed the occupation of Austria will never be forgotten by any of the people on my farm, On Easter eve a Gestapo (German Secret Police) troop herded together all the Jews from the neighbouring Austrian village. They were fetched from the synagogue, from their houses, their beds even; aged men, young men, women, children, no exceptions were made. None of them knew what expected them. In spite of the protests of the villagers they were cruelly beaten by 3 Youths in S.S. Nazi uniform, were compelled to resign all their property and then dragged to the Danube and left there on a solitary bare sandbank. It was the day, the hour of the festival of Resurrection. At dawn on an icy-cold Easter-Sunday, the Czech frontier guards found them, a shivering mass of human beings, closely pressed together, men and women who a day before had possessed modest but comfortable homes inherited from their fathers and forefathers, men who had done no wrong, who had been liked and esteemed by their neighbours; now they had nothing at all. Three armed men had been able to drive them for ever from their homes.
For three days, these 52 people were thrown from one frontier to the other. Neither Hungary nor Czechoslovakia would receive them for they were still German subjects. Three cold nights they spent in ditches and straw stacks and we were forced to look on without power to give real help though everyone did as much as he could. Some of them were smuggled into houses, were clothed and fed. The men and women on my former possessions in Hungary were splendid in their helpfulness. They gave up their own beds, brought the best food they could get and tried to comfort and encourage the fugitives. Even the guards did not look too closely, themselves moved by pity for these unfortunates. On the fourth day, at last, I succeeded in obtaining help for them. No country wanted them; there was nowhere they could go. Only one way out remained, the Danube did not belong to any country. A barge was chartered, furnished with beds, stoves, etc. and was towed from Bratislava to the Hungarian riverbank. Hungarian gendarme-men searched the environs all around for the 52 refugees who were scattered in forests and fields. They were brought aboard the barge and there they lived, supported by the borderers, until they received permission to go to Palestine, to America, the Argentine and other countries. When I saw them on the barge, they were already in good spirit, for kind people had supplied them with sufficient food and fuel and even the guards were friendly and companionable, a marvellous change after what they had been through.
My estate became involved anew by political events. One morning heavy motor-lorries with tons of building-materials drove onto my rape field, just on the spot where I had so carefully laid out some of new seeds for experiments. The building of fortifications had started. Large areas were fenced in and, where yesterday a luxuriant crop had stood, the ground was surveyed and the work went on in the utmost secrecy. I hardly dared to look at the mysterious spots, feeling pangs of conscience when, quite unintentionally, I noticed anything. Life on the estate had changed to the worst, we were under military regime quite so as in wartime. (…)
The willows that gave an idyllic charm to the riverbanks disappeared over night, they were a danger from a strategic point of view. Devastation set in. No leave was asked, no reasons given, private property was in no way respected. Everywhere we met soldiers and the workmen under their command.
Roads were barricaded by enormous blocks of concrete, several even absolutely closed by thickly planted vertical iron rails deeply let into the foundation. Solid barriers were erected and suddenly we were shut in from all sides in a real mousetrap. The sugar-beets lay ready for transport, but the road to the railway station had been closed and an expedient had to be found, no matter at what cost of time and money.
A massive belt of fortifications was built for the defence of the town of Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia; a belt which unfortunately ran across my estate. Barbed wire entanglements in 30 rows close together were put up along the border in a semicircular line which began and ended on the banks of the Danube and left my farmyard outside. My fields were cut in two parts by it. (…) Martial law ruled though the guns had not yet spoken. After several months of feverish work, the officers said: “We have finished, no enemy can break through here.”
But the estate had altered terribly. Loopholes and barrels wherever one looked, everything was devastated, ruined. Three quarters of the estate were outside the fortified region in no men’s land, we ourselves lived like prisoners. The roads to Hungary and Germany were prohibited, those to the town Bratislava usually closed. In certain urgent cases, after much petitioning and waiting, an official appeared with a giant key to open the barriers, but they were closed again immediately.
Several fields had to be left uncultivated, cattle and pigs got entangled in the needle-sharp barbed wires; the fences were so narrow that even deer were caught in them, scarcely a hare could slip through. (…)
Precautions for the outbreak of a war were taken. In schools, in works even in households. A. R.P. [Editor’s note: Air Raid Protection] exercises took I place in the village. My wife attended a course in first aid.
We talked incessantly of what should come of all that and expected the worst living in a state of perpetual uncertainty. The ground around us was undermined and we did not know whether the farmyard would be evacuated or blown up. There were talks of subterrane corridors to the fortifications; some people said we would be ceded to Hungary, others spoke of plan of complete evacuation; any minute the order might be given and the farm-buildings blown up, they said, as otherwise they might serve as cover for the advancing enemy. (…)
To complain was dangerous and we had to consider every step we took, for to be denounced meant immediate arrest. Behind closed doors court-martials were sitting and every day citizens were sentenced to lifelong imprisonment and the loss of their property, for offences against the security of the State.
I too was accused of having had a tree felled. A tree removed or planted, a hole dug into the earth was forbidden alterations of the fortified grounds and I was given an earnest warning that I need not think myself entitled to removing a dry tree from my own grounds.
I talked things over with the most reliable of my men. The old Cyprian who had retained his military bearing though his hair was grey, shook his head sadly; he did not hope for a good end. Yet we decided to stick to the estate with women and children and to think of measures to ensure the security of its inhabitants. Work in the fields was stopped; the cellars were made into shelters and were simply furnished and fitted with air-tight doors and windows and covered by sandbags and earth. Gas bomb and fireproof shelters were provided for all the inhabitants of my estate.
The tension grew when reports arrived of fighting in the North and West of Bohemia. In our corner everything was quiet, the neighbouring countries did not intend to attack here, where the strong fortifications would have caused them heavy losses. (…)
Mobilisation (September 1938)
In the night of the 24th of September 1938, general mobilisation was decreed by President Benes. Twenty-years classes were called up; all the registered horses and vehicles were requisitioned. All night we listened to the wireless broadcasting the publication of the mobilisation, in five languages of the five nations living in Czechoslovakia.
All night long, men, women and children were crowding round the houses that possessed wireless sets. Many lamented and wept. Women hastily prepared some food for their husbands and sons, taking the best, they had.
I gave my last orders, for I had been called up myself; I was the oldest of the 13 men who went to join the army from my estate. (…)
When morning dawned, the duties of the men had been assigned to women and young boys and the last instructions were given as good as it could be done in such a hurry. (…)
Nobody was enthusiastic about the war. We knew that England and France were not going to fight, but the Czechs put their hopes in Russia. (…)
On 25 September 1938, I was sitting, or rather was pressed, into an overcrowded railway train that was to carry us to the North of Slovakia. I saw Germans, Hungarians and many thousand Slovaks on their way to join the army. All along the way I noticed tradesmen, peasants, labourers and clerks saying good-bye to their relatives, but I saw no flowers, heard no soldier-songs.
We could not believe that there will be a war; one said: “Certainly the Great Powers will prevent it.” I was right. When our surprisingly well-equipped mountain battery approached the Polish frontier — in marvellous sunshine along the romantic valley of the Arva — we learned the news: Russia too had declined to come to our aid; Munich will bring the decision: Peace or war?
Or will the Czechs have to defend their country by themselves? Perhaps they had been expected to, for, after all, it was their liberty that was at stake. (…) But they could not have done it, there were not enough of them willing to fight. When the decision of Munich became known we saw that their army must have failed them. None save the young Czech nationalists would have fought. The troops composed of men of five different nations welcomed gladly the bloodless cession of the border-territories.
We had just moved into positions in Slovakia, a few miles from the Polish border. The new life had made me forget a little the anxiety I felt about my home; luckily it was not in immediate danger. I enjoyed the sight of the pretty landscape; I met some of the inhabitants of this poverty-stricken district.
One evening, caught by a heavy rain, we went for shelter to the nearest village, a small place with only four houses. With two other soldiers I asked for quarters at the house of the mayor. Hospitably he invited us to sleep, not in a barn or stable, but in his own room. His house possessed one room and a kitchen, both on top of the stable that contained his livestock. There were no chests, just beds and a table. Strings were drawn across the room to hang the clothes on. In a corner lay the whole of last year’s yield: two sacks of rye, two sacks of oats and one sack of potatoes. That is all a farmer reaps in these years. His wife slept in the kitchen with two children, one in her bed; the other one in a cradle. In the room itself there were three beds, one for the farmer’s old father, one for the man himself and one child; the third for three more children. In this room, sleeping-places of straw were prepared for us carefully, that nothing of the straw should be lost. They gave us milk and eggs, but gladly accepted our bread, for this is a luxury for them; they eat a kind of porridge instead. (…)
Next morning they gave us eggs again. I wanted to pay for them but the mistress of the house definitely refused to accept payment, saying she had been pleased at being able to give us something. Yet they were so poor and I had some money. I put a banknote on the table before I left, but when we had gone the farmer ran after us saying that he could not accept a gift. He brought a honeycomb from his bee-hive, which the soldiers accepted eagerly. It was the only thing he had and he could miss. I have often thought of them, how noble and generous those poor people were.
Hardly back in our positions of cannons I was ordered to go to the office. Every day, soldiers had been sent home whose native places belonged to the ceded territories. Was it my turn now? Yes, indeed, the last territory ceded had just been defined. My parish was in it.
“Your dwelling-place was ceded to Germany on the 10th of October. You can go home!” I was told shortly.
So, my estate, hardly escaped the dangers of war, belonged to Germany now. What was going to happen to me? Nothing at all, people said. The Treaty of Munich has been signed by all the great Powers, security of life and property has been in it guaranteed to everyone, irrespective of nationality or faith. The Czech government has been calling on all those concerned to return to their homes, their work without fear and to resume their profession. Nobody need be afraid.
Encouraged by these assurances I started. I had pleasant company in my train compartment, young men from my parts of the country, tradesmen, labourers and sons of small farmers, friendly good-natured fellow-countrymen who knew me well; German boys. They all said that I should have nothing to fear. For their part they were happy at the turn events had taken, they hoped that everything would change for the better now. We shook hands like friends at the railway station of Bratislava, where I left them.
False assurances (After the treaty of Munich, September – October 1938)
Trusting to Munich, I went home. The other men of the farm came back, too, one after the other and in spite of our anxiety as to the future, life began to take its normal course again. Two days before marching-in of the Nazi troops. Though we had neither cars nor horses we could start work again on a small scale and it was time to finish the sowing of wheat.
At noon, on the 10th of October, the village was handed over. In the morning of that day the last of the Czech frontier guards had left sadly and as much as we had hated them formerly, now we were sorry for them. An hour later two Hungarian guards arrived. “The fate of the estate has not yet been decided” — they said. They thought it would be given to Hungary. At that, long-hidden flags in the Hungarian colours appeared in doors and windows. This part really belonged to Hungary; they had never been German.
But the Hungarians left and a little later three Austrian militiamen turned up. The borders were open now and curiosity drove them over. They were two farmers and the blacksmith of the neighbouring Austrian village, elderly men whom Hitler had called up for the maintenance of order. They and I, we had known each other since childhood.
These men warned me not to trust in the Treaty of Munich. Germany, they said, governed by young nationalists, would not take orders from anyone, not even from Chamberlain, not even because their “Führer” had given his word. I was a Jew, and they were sure to be wronged. When they left, they looked at me pityingly and one of them said: “These Nazis are not human, they are nothing but murderers and robbers. Take my advice, leave your estate in time!”
So, the worst was yet in store for me. Of course! I am a Jew! A Jew. Jews are imprisoned, driven away, their property is confiscated, without exception. I am a Jew, so I am exposed to ruin, from today on I am helpless, without rights.
We heard the buzzing of the first aeroplanes in front of the on-marching German army, heard their drums in the distance. The swastika was advancing, but we waited, my wife and I. Our conscience was clear; we were not afraid. (…)
So, I stayed in my home, among my former playmates and waited. The Germans entered; unresisted they passed the formidable fortifications, now open and empty. Curious onlookers pressed on, eager to see the mysterious buildings under the earth. The Germans occupied the village and again a new language became the official one: cockades and flags were changed once more, a new hymn, the “Horst Wessel Song” replaced the old ones in schools and at public functions and even the greeting was changed.
The 11th of October dawned, as glorious as an autumn day can be, and I listened piously to the singing of larks, glad that after the days of trouble life seemed to return (…) The wheat-sowing was to start this morning. One thing was unusual; there were no men in uniforms about. We did not belong to any state as yet. The Czechs had left; the Hungarians had no order to march in and the Germans were still invisible. They had occupied the village and stood on the bridge across the river.
People marched in endless rows to the Hungarian custom-house, to demonstrate for reunion with Hungary. They marched past my home singing, waving Hungarian flags. Some said: “We shall be Hungarians again. Hitler cannot deceive Hungary. The Germans will leave these parts that always have belonged to Hungary.” But these were fairy tales. What the Germans have got, they keep!
The first army lorries arrived, requesting straw and hay. The soldiers were polite, however. (…)
Work starts again, the cracking of whips, words of command, the sound of hammer-strokes in the workshop, the bell calling for distribution of the milk. The women talk about the beautiful torchlight procession they saw in the village last night; bands have been playing; soldiers distributed meat from field-kitchen. The Nazis know how to win the people.
At the same time, I worked in my office. Then I remembered that our stock of firewood was exhausted. For weeks there had been no time to think of it. I drove to the forest and the village to make the necessary arrangements.
When I came back a car with several people stood in my court. They had been waiting for me, five men and a woman. Unknown men? Oh, no. There is the young soldier I have been talking to on the train. Now he wears an armband with the swastika, but he tries to avoid my eye, turns his head away. His conscience does not seem to be good. What is his part in this show? How did this simple boy arrive at so high a rank? I learned it very soon. (…)
I was examined, rather unimportant questions were put and my answers taken down. The woman typed it all. When they heard that I was a Jew, an additional paragraph was written stating that all my property, movables and immovables, should be confiscated, and I was to leave the station at once.
They wanted me to sign that — but why should I? Everything was my lawful property, and there was the Treaty of Munich. The four leading politicians of Europe, Hitler amongst them, had signed it. Security of life and property was promised to everybody in it. But the Gestapo officer laughed scornfully at the mention of Munich. Their law was master here, not the clauses of any treaty. The law of the Gestapo.
I refused to sign, however, even when they threatened to use other “expedients”. I became more and more obstinate, I did not think of material losses, I had but one thought left: though everything, my home, my estate, my work be lost, I want to guard my good name.
A few minutes later my wife had brought me my hat and coat, I kissed her and was led to the car. Two SS-men and the Gestapo officer drove me in their car, which carried the sign that all other vehicles have to let it pass first.
I looked back for the last time, at the houses where my former playmates lived, the garden where I played as a child and my house, where a woman, whom everybody had known as nothing but kind and helpful, my dearly beloved wife, was left alone with the cruel Gestapo men.
In prison (October – November 1938)
I was driven to a house which, a few days ago, had been the home of a Jewish doctor; now it was a Gestapo office. The building was marked by two enormous red flags, each with two huge black arrows. The dark and empty room contained nothing but desks. I was led to an empty, half-light room, and left there standing for hours. I heard people coming and going, commands were given, cars stopped and drove off again.
Now my fate will be decided. I am a prisoner and I expect to be examined.
However, nothing happened. Late in the evening an SS-man came to fetch me. With the revolver in his hand, he told me that he would shoot at the mere attempt to flee. Well, that was perhaps a way to escape a more dreadful fate.
The car drove off at a mad speed; I was sitting in front with the driver while the guard in the back seat pointed his revolver at me. If they should stop now and shoot me on the dark and empty road? It might be the best for me, it would save me much more pain, perhaps.
We stopped at every village on the road to Vienna; they were looking for a suitable prison in the different police stations. At last, one was found in H. There I was left alone, but first everything was taken away from me that might have served for committing suicide.
It was nearly midnight. I looked at the room with its five straw mattresses and blankets. A shaky chair, one iron stove, a water jug, a basin and an iron closet, that was all. It was not dirty, but the smell was nauseating; it smelled of rotten straw, sweat and human excrements. Inscriptions covered the walls; others were engraved upon the door and the window-frames.
After the first night, I knew that there was space for exactly nine steps. These nine steps I made millions of times: to and fro, for in this room I remained for 28 days and 28 nights. In the morning the gaolkeeper [Editor’s note: prison guard] came in, a policeman with a gloomy face, but it did not take me very long to discover that he really was a kind-hearted, friendly man despite his severe looks.
He asked me whether I wanted his wife to cook for me. I agreed, for I had some money with me to pay for it. From that time on, I saw him every day for a few minutes, in the morning and in the evening. His wife or his little niece brought me my meals, which were passed into my room through the latticed window. The woman was kind and friendly and became every day more talkative.
Only rarely I had fellow-prisoners; for the most part I was alone and I was glad of that, because the others, though they were friendly, disturbed me. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. (…)
Somehow, I succeeded in getting two things I wanted particularly, viz. some poison and a knife. The poison, a sufficient quantity of a soporific, I kept hidden under the lining of my hat; the knife I hid in one sleeve of my coat. I was ready to use them if I should learn that anything had happened to my wife. Then I was going to take the drug and to cut open my arteries. I became quite used to the idea of suicide, everything was pre-arranged, I was ready for it as soon as I should receive bad news.
And I waited for news. I counted the hours of my captivity, but one day passed like the other. (…) I listened to the cackling of the hens and ducks in the courtyard; there was nothing else to listen to. The window was open, sometimes a cat jumped on it and slipped through into my prison. These animals liked to take food from my hand, they probably did not know what a dangerous criminal I was.
Nor did the journeyman tailor, who, one day, having lost his way, happened to come into the prison court and asked me for the way to the inn. We fell to talking and he asked, in his Austrian dialect, what I was doing here.
“I am in a prison,” I answered. “What have you done?”
“I’m a Jew.”
“Ah! You are a Jew, but that’s too bad.”
And he clapped his hands together and looked at me pityingly, as if I had been sentenced to death. I know, if I had told him that I had stolen a watch or committed some other crime, he would have found words of comfort: “Don’t worry, in a week or a month at the most you will get out.”, but he knew that my crime was worse: I was a Jew, and in Germany of 1938 that was the worst crime imaginable and was punished without mercy. (…)
When it grew dark and I knew that there was no hope of being examined or released that day, I went back to my dearest possessions, an old letter from my wife and her photo. These I took out and here alone, I had talks with her. (…) Sometimes I could not help crying, and then I sat down to write to her. Every day I write a long letter and as often as possible I dispatched them, two and three at a time. Of course, I did not know if any of them arrived. (…)
At last, I got a long letter from my wife. She wrote she was well, Jolan, our servant-girl, was staying with her. I shall not despair and many more encouraging words. Several of my friends had also learned that I was a prisoner in H. Public officials who were on duty in H., and at the station as well, tried to carry messages from and to my wife. However, they could not really help me, for the attempt was dangerous and threatened to bring persecution to themselves.
Still, some of them took even that risk, and I felt more sorry for them than for my own fate. Friendship to Jews was a dreadful crime, and informers were plenty. In spite of that, these friends would not give in. Amala, the daughter of my coachman Cyprian, the quarrelsome, impudent Amala, whom I had known as a baby, went fearlessly to the Gestapo and asked them to release me; they simply threw her out. (…)
Life went on monotonously, while I tried to fill my time with washing, kindling fire, writing letters, and the long imaginary conversations with my wife.
Naturally, I watched the people around me; I got interested in my gaolkeeper’s family which was quite typical for these times. He had a wife and a son of 18. This boy (…) was one of the young illegal Nazis and after the occupation, was at once taken into the SS-corps. He got the smart black uniform with the skull on the cap, the many glittering medals and the dagger. His step became heavy, his voice commanding, although it was still the voice of a child. I recognised it at once when he had come to see his parents. I heard his loud steps, the flinging open of doors, but never one word of greeting. In silence they sat down for their meals, and several times I heard him shout at his parents: “You don’t understand that, you don’t understand!” He was rude to them, and they were afraid of him. In silence they suffered his rudeness and impertinence. He was taught by the party to behave like that, to love nothing but the Nazi ideals. Long ago he ceased to be religious, and there was no understanding between the pious Catholic parents and the atheist son. He even thought their home too simple, too narrow, after he had come to power.
Once, the keeper’s wife told me weeping: “I brought him up, my boy, and now he does not belong to me anymore. He lives for nothing but his party, he does not want to work, and he insults and threatens us; we are strangers to each other, I have lost my only child.”
Usually, he passed my window without so much as a glance. In his eyes I was less than nothing, a worm to be crushed. But once we met face to face, and then he could not look into my eyes. He looked troubled and shy. I noticed that he was not yet a perfect Nazi, he did not quite fit into the well-rehearsed part of the powerful man. (…)
For 27 days nothing happened. SS-men came and went; they brought new prisoners or took others away. Why did nobody come for me? Did they want to try my patience; to see how long it would take me to beg for liberty? (…)
One thing I knew, since I have received my wife’s letter. I was not going to give in, to resign my home, my property, if that was the price for freedom. Imprisonment had made me even prouder, more strong-minded. (…)
On the 27th day of my imprisonment a message was smuggled in to me: my wife was fetched by SS-men and sent to a prison in Vienna. When I heard this, I broke down. In the following night I did not sleep, I was not able to think or to swallow my food. So, she had been in prison for 5 days already. My darling wife, who had never done anyone a wrong, who had no enemies, is in a prison in Vienna. The town she loved so much, which held for her so many memories of school days and holidays, of friends and relations.
I walked, no, I ran the nine paces to and fro like a madman. At this minute I was ready to sign anything, if that would have saved her. Minutes grew to hours. (…)
Free at last (end of 1938)
Suddenly, I hear steps approaching, voices, a loud commanding voice, then a woman’s voice. What does this mean? No doubt they are coming here, the key is turned in the lock, and my door is flung open. An S.S.-man is before me. There is no other prisoner, so he must have come for me.
“Take all your things, you are leaving this cell.”
“Your wife is here; we have orders to fetch you both.” (…)
There is my wife, pale, thinner, but stiffly brave. She beckons me off, but I take her into my arms. So, we hold each other for a second, but the SS man urges us on and my wife whispers that we have nothing to fear and shall probably get free. She helps me to collect the few things I have. We get into the car and the SS man drives us towards our old home. We sit close together and as he does not object, my wife begins to relate her story. In a low voice she tells me what had happened to her. “Every day, there were searches, investigations. All your letters, your files were looked through, and indeed they have found an incriminating letter, the copy of the one you wrote to England about the 52 Jews of K. when you asked for help for them.”
“I said that I had written this letter” she said, “if they would learn the truth, you would never get free. The spreading of atrocities tales is punished by death or lifelong concentration camp. For me, the danger is not so great.”
But things were not so simple as that. She wanted me to lie, to save myself by this lie, but what if she was condemned?
We arrived in E. and were taken to the house I had been in four weeks ago; we were examined, but I simply could not tell the lie. I said that we both had written the letter. We were questioned – each in a separate room – from 6 pm until 4 am. There were desks and chairs in the room, which I recognised. Of course, they were from my dairy-farm, my property.
I was asked to explain a few things from the letter the Gestapo had found, quite unimportant things. (…)
Young SS and Gestapo men were our guards. I noticed again the young soldier to whom I had talked in the train and who had been present at my arrest. Then he could not look into my face, now he seemed to feel better. He even stealthily came closer and whispered: “Don’t be afraid, you will get free. I have heard, you both are to be sent to Slovakia”.
He was right, but this night was dreadful. Three times I heard, behind the closed doors, a heavy fall, the groaning. My wife had fainted; her strength had finally failed. At four o’clock I was allowed to go to her. They told us we were free.
A motorcar carried us down to the bridge; on the other side of the Danube is Slovakia.
They ordered us to go on. Closely embraced, we walked along the bridge. We looked away from the guns, the wire–entanglements, we were so happy. My wife, only recently at the end of her strength, recovered quickly. Slowly we walked on, along the empty bridge, then we stopped. We looked down into the water. Each of us, had we been forced to go this way alone, would have thrown ourselves into the river. Now together, we feel courage and the wish to live like never before. With empty hands, but upright, proud and boundlessly happy we reach the other shore, the town of Bratislava, our native city. We entered it like two poor tramps, but our parents were waiting for us.
We had lost everything, clothes, linen, furniture, even letters and souvenirs, things that had no value for anyone but us. From our beautiful household, only one single
towel was saved. I had lent it to a fellow soldier near the Polish border, and now I got it back from him. (…)
We were glad to see Jolan again, our faithful servant. She told me what had happened at the station during my imprisonment, for my wife did not want to talk, and only a few words she spoke during her sleep. And from what Jolan and our friends told me; I can guess what these horrible four weeks were like. She was a prisoner, was starved in her own home. Jolan stole cabbage for her from our own garden. The house was emptied, all our possessions taken away. She told me about the billeting of German soldiers in our house, how the furniture had been carried away, which a colonel had requisitioned for himself (…). She told me monstrous things about the cruelty of German officers and Gestapo officials. In secret, my wife was visited by servants and friends who wanted to help her, to give her food and money.
I can but guess the way she had been examined from what she spoke in her dream. Several times she mentioned the whip, the red-hot poker. She repeated words which had been said to her like: „Don’t think that we shall treat you better because you are a woman” and: „If you don’t confess, we shall make short of it. Concentration camp and if that does not help, a bullet through your head!”. Further: „And I shall hold the rope — when you are dangling on the gallows.”
It was not my wife alone, who had to suffer the most horrible and malicious cruelties, but all those, who, like her, had the courage to say of what had happened: “It is wrong!”.
On the way to Australia (1939)
Many months have passed since, almost a whole year. My farm is managed by strangers, it is neglected, ruined. Several of my former employees have fled. Some of the remaining ones left afterward, because they could not stand the new regime. They are out of work now, and they write to me, the fugitive, to send me their greetings, sometimes to ask for help. Shall I ever be able to do that?
Perhaps there will be a revoir once, though only to visit the graves of those dear to us. But definitely not before all those uniforms have disappeared. I am not longing to return to my, once beautiful, farm. After my experiences I do not want to go back.
Editor and Hungarian translation with DeepL support: Nóra Krausz
