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Published by: Institute of History, Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences

2017_2_Bezsenyi–Lénárt

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Volume 6 Issue 2 CONTENTS

The Legacy of World War II and Belated Justice in the Hungarian Films of the Early Kádár Era

Tamás Bezsenyi and András Lénárt

National University of Public Service and National Széchényi Library – 1956 Institute

In this article, we analyze the role of Hungarian films made in the 1960s in representing the traumatic legacy of World War II. With the solidification of the official narrative of the Holocaust in the mid-1960s, the Hungarian film industry also started to reflect on the tragedy of the Jews at the same time (which was not a terribly conspicuous part of the official narrative). The article focuses on six films as illustrations of the extent to which it was possible to reflect on the traumatic past in the early Kádár era, with particular emphasis on the legacy of the Holocaust. The films selected revolve around the question of individual responsibility, but they also depict psychological conflicts and portray the character’s attempts to prompt collective remembering. We argue that despite the communists’ claims of moral superiority, peace and reconciliation remains unattainable for the characters in the films because of the inability of the new social milieu to facilitate the process of coming to terms with past traumas.

Keywords: representations of the Holocaust, film and historical trauma, Hungarian films in the 1960s, Antal Páger, Holocaust and memory on film

In this article, we examine the role of Hungarian films made in the 1960s in representing the highly sensitive legacy of World War II. How did films try to provide answers to the question of survival, and how did they handle social amnesia? We argue that the films analyzed here concentrated mainly on individual morality in order to erode society’s general denial of responsibility. The movies intended to achieve justice in a real or figurative way, through legal or moral means. Confrontation with the past was portrayed mostly through individual self-reflection, especially in the context of police investigations and trials. The films are remarkably lenient with low-ranking perpetrators and bystanders. The viewer can, no doubt, feel empathy for the defenseless victims, but one can also identify with the powerless bystander or even with some of the perpetrators who escape condemnation due to the regime’s “pact of silence.” The films suggest that the socialist system condemns the sinners but also gives them a chance to reintegrate into a new and better society. At the same time, the films remained unable to resolve the problems of isolated victims and—in some cases—lonely perpetrators. Wrestling with the legacy of the war is represented as a personal exercise without the hope of reconciliation or redemption. We analyze five films as illustrations of the extent to which it was possible to address the traumatic past in the early Kádár era, with particular emphasis on the legacy of the persecution of the Jewish people.1 The subject of Jewishness was tabooed in socialist society. One’s origins could be Jewish, but socialization forced Jews to internalize aspects of their identities which were part of their Jewish heritage or at least to adhere to socialist norms. At the same time, the perpetrators and their representatives, whose way of thinking was left unchanged, remained marginalized, lonely individuals in socialist society.

Context: The Persecution of Jews in Public Discourses after the War

1945 was the most important caesura in the recent history of Hungary. The lost war and the devastation of the country demonstrated the improvidence and incompetence of the former regime, and the new authorities were faced with overwhelming challenges. The new political forces that emerged in Hungary in 1945 strove to disassociate themselves entirely from the Horthy period and its military defeat. This policy was expounded primarily and most forcefully by the Hungarian Communist Party (MKP). The party had been banned in the Horthy period, and its few hundred illegal members had been persecuted. But on two matters they were guided by political pragmatism rather than consistent principle. First, on Stalin’s instructions, Miklós Horthy was never brought to court, as a verdict against him could have turned him into a national martyr. Second, there could be no blanket condemnation of the Arrow Cross party (which had had over 100,000 voters), which had also been persecuted in the Horthy period.2 Since its membership was tiny in early 1945, the MKP hoped to win over former supporters of the extreme right-wing movement. Therefore, the policy was to issue dramatic condemnations of well-known Arrow Cross leaders and their views while at the same time turning a blind eye to “petty” rank-and-file members of the party who had committed no serious war crimes.

The task of prosecuting Hungarians who had committed war crimes or crimes against humanity (in Communist terminology “crimes against the people”) was a requirement outlined in Point 14 of the armistice agreement.3 The institution of People’s Tribunals was created by Act VI/1945. Local people’s courts were set up in 24 cities, while the senior court, which also dealt with matters on a national level, was set up in Budapest. The People’s Tribunals were initially intended to call to account the pre-1945 political elite and the officials who implemented their decisions, including members of the military who had played a decisive role in the war or who had committed “abuses” under wartime conditions.4 However, from the outset, the Communist Party used these institutions as political weapons.5 (The people’s courts had all completed their activities by April 1, 1950. In fact, most of the trials were concluded by 1947.) Altogether, more than 40,000 cases were heard, and over 22,000 defendants were found guilty. Of these, 414 were condemned to death, and in 180 cases the sentence was carried out. Of the 22,000 people who received custodial sentences, 20,000 were imprisoned, and 2,000 were sentenced to forced labor.6 With the dissolution of the People’s Tribunals, the Communist regime considered the confrontation with the traumatic legacy of the past over. When in the 1960s the countries of the Soviet bloc launched various campaigns against former war criminals, the Hungarian authorities remained reluctant to follow suit, and they referred to the work of the courts as a comprehensive and successful attempt at addressing the crimes of the recent past.7

According to the hypothesis of a study on the operation of the People’s Tribunals, almost half of the trials were related to atrocities against the Jews. The majority of the cases were murders committed by the former armed wing of the Arrow Cross party, mostly in Budapest.8 However, the question of the persecution of the Jews was “tabooed” from the beginning, and “ordinary” Arrow Cross members received very lenient sentences. This produced a strange psychological situation, according to István Bibó, in which persecuted Jews were utterly dissatisfied with the proceedings, whereas the rest of society saw them as a witch hunt.9 Ultimately, the new communist government, from 1948 on, did not want to erase the past completely (“Of the past let us make a clean slate”). Rather, they wanted to utilize it for their own purposes. The legacy of so-called “Horthy-fascism” was onerous, but useful at the same time. It provided the regime with all kinds of “enemies,” a tool which was indispensable for the emerging dictatorship.

One of these groups was the persecutors of Jewish people, the perpetrators of the Hungarian Holocaust. The regime’s relationship with the Holocaust and the Jews was, in fact, quite complex and ambiguous. Many memoirs and diaries were published, and Jewish institutions were established, including schools, orphanages, scout organizations, and so on. The Zionist movement also grew stronger than ever.10 The repression of civil life in the Eastern Bloc countries and the cold relationship between the newborn state of Israel and the USSR eventually led to the end of the short post-war “Jewish Renaissance.” The Party leadership no longer wished to focus too much on the traumatic aspects of the past, and so they offered a “new deal” to the Jews: they guaranteed the repression of anti-Semitism in public discourse and offered a chance to rebuild careers for individuals of Jewish origins, but in exchange discussions about the meanings of Jewishness and Jewish identity were marginalized.11 Some people did not comply with these simple rules during the period of state socialism, but they nonetheless used self-censorship in interviews, memoirs, and diaries. Due to the social and political circumstances, for a long time Jewish identity remained a sensitive topic that was difficult to discuss. Opportunities for public discussions about Jewishness were mostly provided by cases involving crimes that had been committed against political dissidents or people of Jewish origin (the Eichmann trial, the trial of Mihály Francia Kiss, trials against former members of the Arrow Cross Party, and the trials against gendarmes who had participated in atrocities in wartime Bačka).12

According to many scholars, the most striking feature of tabooing Jewishness was that the word “Jewish” was replaced by other terms, such as communist.13 Instead of acknowledging the suffering of the Jews, the stereotypical victim was portrayed in the context of an anti-fascist struggle and a struggle for universal human rights.14 In common usage, “the Jews” referred to the “Persecuted,” the “Sacrificial,” the “Martyr People.” Jewish identity as such was not spoken about in public. Rather, it was replaced by the concept of “Jewish ancestry.” There is consensus among scholars that the memory of the Holocaust was for the first time manifested in cultural products in the 1960s, in particular in film and literature.15 However, it was not until the 1980s that professionals—psychiatrists and psychologists—first confronted the traumas of the survivors’ generation.16 (The psychiatrists of the 1960–70s, for example the Júlia György school in Budapest, mainly focused on criminal or deviant behavior.) Despite the marginal nature of the memory of the Holocaust, references to issues related to the Hungarian Jewry as a community started to appear in the press in the late 1950s.17 A news report on the possibility of compensation for those persecuted for political or “other” reasons was published in the Party newspaper in January 1956.18 In the following year, the Party’s Central Committee proposed the establishment of a National Advocacy Organization for Victims of Nazism. The Hungarian press also reported on the Eichmann trial (1961/62) and the large-scale “Auschwitz trial,” which was held over the course of more than a year and a half, from December 1963 to August 1965.

The two trials significantly shaped the representation of the Holocaust in Hungarian films (for instance Utószezon, or “Late Season”), not to mention the entire American film industry. During the Eichmann trial, United Artists started promoting Stanley Kramer’s film, Judgement at Nuremberg. The film was based on actual events (the so-called Judges’ Trial of 1947, or, by its official name, the United States of America vs. Josef Altstötter, et al.), and, like Hungarian films of the 1960s, it revolved around the question of collective versus individual responsibility: who were the main culprits in the crimes against humanity committed by the Nazis: the entire German nation or certain representatives of the state? As in some of the films analyzed in this article, perpetrators in the Judgement at Nuremberg who are capable of self-reflection awaken a degree of sympathy in the audience. One of the judges, Dr. Ernst Janning, who served as Minister of Justice before the war, is portrayed as a self-critical person who sincerely realizes his sins. The theme of absolution-through-confession seems to have resonated well with the audience: the actor who played the judge was Maximillien Schell, and his performance earned him an Oscar award for the best lead actor.19

We draw a distinction in this article between remembrance and commemoration. Remembrance can be seen as a passive act, whereas commemoration implies a more proactive attitude towards the collection of memories.20 According to Pierre Nora, the official results of processing the past—history textbooks—became gradually more available to people with various social backgrounds in the second half of the twentieth century.21 Moreover, the emergence of nationwide commemorations during public holidays enlarged the group of people who could be considered (and were encouraged to consider themselves) the “beneficial owners” of the past. Therefore, acts of remembrance, which had been practiced locally and by narrow social groups, gradually became part of official activities of collecting memories. The “beneficial owners” of the past were seen by the state as being equal in status, so their memories became equally significant in memory politics. In the Hungarian context, Jewish remembrance slowly became part of formalized commemoration practices which depicted antifascist behavior, intellectual dissent, and even symbols of Jewishness, such as the tallith in the film Oldás és kötés (Cantata, 1963). The gradual inclusion of Jewish characters and Jewish themes in cinematic depictions of the past is demonstrated by the appearance of Jewish characters in the feature film Két pisztolylövés (Two Gunshots, 1977–79) and the popular television series, Kémeri (1984/85).22

Alongside the films and newspaper articles that addressed the legacy of war crimes, historical books that reflected on the traumatic past were published as well. The most well-known examples include Darutollasok – Szegedtől a királyi várig (“Soldiers with crane’s feathers – From Szeged to the royal palace”) and A berchtesgadeni sasfészektől a berlini bunkerig: fejezetek a második világháború történetéből (From the Eagle’s Nest of Berchtesgaden to the Berlin bunker: Chapters from the history of World War II), one authored and one coauthored by Elek Karsai.23 These books articulated the official interpretation of the causes of World War II, and they both portrayed Jews either as active anti-fascist oppositionists or as naïve victims whose deaths represented the shameful chapters of the recent past. In 1966, a book was published about SS Standartenführer Kurt Becher’s life and activities in Hungary, which included reflections on post-war judicial procedures.24 Beginning in 1965, several historical books were translated from German about the Eichmann case, the Auschwitz trial, and other famous cases.25 Moreover, further steps were made toward expanding historical research on the topic.26 One of the most successful books that addressed the topic from a historical perspective was published at the beginning of the 1970s. The memoir of a former Soviet spy, Sándor Radó, entitled Dóra jelenti (Dóra reports) became a huge success in Hungary, and it was turned into a film in 1977. Although the characters in the book and the film come from different social backgrounds, Jewish origin was portrayed emphatically as an identity of on its own. However, it was mostly associated with Soviet spies or Communist-Nazi double agents.

The growing frequency of representations of the traumatic legacy of the war in Hungary was closely linked to the emergence of the thaw in Khrushchev’s Soviet Union. In the more relaxed cultural atmosphere, Soviet feature films started to reflect on the memory of the Holocaust in subtle, indirect ways. However, Jewishness was not explored in detail, and it was most often portrayed in connection with the theme of anti-fascism and the stereotype of the stalwart, committed communist. Two of the most significant films dealing with the topic during the thaw (1956–68) were Soldaty (Soldiers, 1956) and Khronika pikiruiushchego bombardirovshchika (Chronicle of the Dive Bomber, 1968). In Soldaty, the main character, Farber plays an insecure (Jewish) intellectual who comes across as a weak, feminine figure, in comparison with his tall and strong Soviet comrades. Nevertheless, the fate of Farber could be interpreted as a metaphor for Soviet society and Jewish suffering during the war. In Khronika pikiruiushchego bombardirovshchika the lead character, Venia Gurevich is a violinist who becomes a bomber pilot during the war. The traumatic past is evoked through his relationship with his beloved grandfather, who represents the painful legacy of the Holocaust.27

Despite the growing number of historical assessments and cinematic portrayals, the most important field in which aspects of Jewishness and trauma were represented was literature. Literary works provided often subtle yet very powerful depictions of wartime suffering and the theme of Jewishness. Of the many literary depictions of the topic, two German dramas deserve particular mention.28 The plays were translated into Hungarian in the mid-1960s, and later they were performed on stage. Rolf Hochhut’s play (Der Stellvertreter) has provoked intense debates in West Germany. Through the figure of the helpless Pope Pius XII, it pilloried the weakness and the moral compromises of the Vatican and other bystanders, who let the Italian (converted) Jews be deported. One of the main characters, Doctor (Mengele) was an otherworldly, demonic figure,29 which in Mary Fulbrook’s view confirmed the dominant view regarding the responsibility of the Germans in the Holocaust; i.e. that “a small group of criminals’ and villains ruling in Germany could be blamed for everything.”30 According to Fulbrook, this symbolism was far from the “banality of evil” thesis advocated by Hannah Arendt, and it absolved the average German citizen of responsibility. Such statements, however, need to be qualified. In Hochhut’s detailed analysis, not only vicious, insane figures, but also ordinary people observed the horrors with total indifference. Similar characters also featured in Hungarian films later. “Ordinary citizens” and indifferent bystanders depicted in these films and literary works continued with their work and their lives after the war without remorse.

The second play, Peter Weiss’s drama The Investigation (Die Ermittlung) dealt with the Auschwitz trial. The dispassionate narrative style and the diverse cast offered an accurate representation of the “perpetrator” in West German society. The play also provoked a debate about the legacy of the Holocaust in Hungary. The first Hungarian reports on the drama appeared in connection with a campaign to promote German left-wing writers in November 1965.31 Two years later, during the trial of former Arrow Cross Party members, Péter Molnár Gál, the critic who wrote for the party newspaper (Népszabadság), raised the question in connection with the premiere of the drama in the National Theatre: “Is it necessary, over and over again, who knows how many times, to give an artistic form to the horrors?” Referring to the Arrow Cross trial against Vilmos Kröszl and 18 of his accomplices that took place in Zugló between 19 January and 19 April 1969, he gave the following answer:32

 

An era has ended, but not yet come to completion. It is not resolved, it remained open, like a modern play, and after the ‘swastika curtain’ fell it continued to live disturbingly in the peace that followed. Today, when the National Theatre presents Peter Weiss’s oratorio The Investigation, a similar trial takes place here in Budapest with broken victims and arrogant killers. This strange coincidence is a memento: this glowing evocation is not actually history, it is not the gymnastics of a literatura that has run out of adequate topics, but rather is living actuality.33

 

It is interesting that Molnár Gál stresses the topical and incomplete nature of past traumas, arguing that the “Terror” (i.e the Holocaust) should rather be forgotten. Although his motivations remain unclear, he might have been alluding to the series of contemporary Hungarian films—all based on literary works—that were released at roughly the same time, films which all revolved around a similar them: the legacy of the traumatic past and the incompleteness of reconciliation.

Trauma, Violence, and the Memories of Perpetrators

In 1964, Tibor Cseres published Hideg napok (“Cold Days”), a novel about the 1942 Novi Sad massacre. Two years later, András Kovács made a film adaptation by the same title. Both met with favorable international reactions and drew attention to the violent raid in Southern Hungary (Bačka).34 The writer’s approach was not one-sided. His focus was not on the perpetrators, but on the complex process of coming to terms with the past, which eventually made the characters realize that they had become complicit in mass murder as cogs in a machine. By focusing on individual responsibility, the book and the film tried to examine how the carefully planned anti-partisan “cleanup operation” escalated into a bloody reprisal against the civilian population. The crimes were clear: innocent people died or suffered physical and psychological injuries which cast a shadow over their entire lives. The question of the liability of the perpetrators was much more problematic. The context in which perpetrators contemplate their experiences in the film is a prison cell in 1945. The characters are all former soldiers who participated in the Novi Sad massacre. They are trying to explain to one another and themselves the details of the events and their own behavior and/or alleged powerlessness. The trial and the impending severe punishments are omnipresent in the prison, but the detainees still make an attempt to soothe their consciences, emphasizing the role of chance in the events. “They are no better than us,” one of them says, “they only have better luck.” In the solitude of the cell they try to give a relatively honest account of their motivations and their responsibility in the escalation of violence. Cseres’ choice of topic was criticized and praised at the same time, which demonstrates the controversial nature of the theme of war crimes in Hungary at the time. Instead of evoking the trauma of the victims, he narrated the events from the perspective of the perpetrators. His approach was, thus, groundbreaking at the time. The novel offered a useful prism through which Hungarian society could confront the Bačka massacre and the criminality of war.

The public discourses on wartime violence, which were partly fueled by literary works (including Cold Days), also led to the organization of actual trials against former policemen and soldiers of the Horthy regime. Critical and journalistic responses to Cold Days framed the debate on the issue of mass murders in the context of a socialist public space.35 Moreover, cooperation with the Yugoslav authorities in addressing the atrocities facilitated a prolonged, relatively open debate about the murders committed by both sides.36 Genuine attempts were made to come to terms with the past through legal means: trials against representatives of the pre-war regime were carried out between 1967 and 1973, and they resulted in lengthy sentences for almost 20 people. Two additional investigations were initiated against two Arrow Cross armored units. While the trials in 1967 met with significant media attention, five years later the events seemed to have lost a great deal of their importance. The past was considered over, so the punishments that were meted out for the crimes were less severe.37 The context for confronting the past was no longer the courtroom, but scholarship. Wartime mass murders were no longer off-limits for Hungarian historical research, and this shift led to a gradual growth in the number of analytical publications on the dark chapters of the war.38

There are some conspicuous similarities between Cold Days and Zoltán Várkonyi’s film Szemtől szembe (“Face to Face,” 1970). The basic situation is very similar. In both films, former comrades meet and share their memories with each other, although in the first case this happens under pressure, in a prison cell before a trial, while in the second, the soldiers reunite at a formal ceremony dedicated to two martyrs 25 years after the tragic events have taken place. In both cases, the choices and responsibilities of the individual come under scrutiny. In the first film, the stakes are much higher, whereas in the second, the recovery of individual self-esteem and respect for others take center stage. There is no threat or menace, the past is over. The former soldiers are merely looking for purification and empathy from their comrades. This is why the director of the local school decides to go to the event, of which he was informed in the news. However, his arrival provokes antagonism rather than empathy. First, he is blamed by everyone for the senseless death of 63 brothers-in-arms and the same number of Soviet soldiers in the war. Although the former captain, Sajbán, was ready to surrender to the advancing Soviet troops towards the end of the war, he failed to order a ceasefire. Moreover, the soldiers in the rifle unit could have liberated a concentration camp in a nearby village if they had been willing to take some risks. However, it gradually becomes apparent that not only the captain, but all of the other people had their own interests and responsibilities, which prevented them from mounting resistance against the retreating German troops. Everybody is guilty. The film does a good job showing the different careers of the “ordinary soldiers” after the war.39 The captain became a school principal, one of the officers became a physician, another one a journalist, and the corporal who sympathized with the communists arrives at the ceremony as deputy minister. But some of the soldiers remained farmers or waiters, and the only soldier who had actually shot a German officer barely survived the Soviet attack and stayed in his village as a poor cemetery keeper. He was the only who did something and tried to protect the members of the Jewish labor unit. In the end, he escaped deportation, though not because of the attempt he made to help the Jews. Although he is the one character who would deserve absolution in the film, he remains an outcast: he lives in absolute solitude in the same village, far away from friends, and he is given no social or political recognition.

Despite their responsibility in the unfolding of the tragic events in their locality, none of the soldiers was taken to court, and only one of them was actually reported to the police: “A dirty fellow dumped on me badly, but I had a good honest Jewish man who pulled me out.” This character is dull and simple-minded, but also brutally honest: he says only what he thinks.40 “In my village not a single Jew remained, even if I wanted to, I could not be angry with anyone.” Justice is not served by legal means, and the soldiers are not condemned morally by their victims either. Although two former labor service conscripts are invited to the 25th anniversary reunion (which would have been highly unlikely in real life), they feel uncomfortable, and they are upset by the attitude of the former soldiers.

The motive of the memory of the unknown soldiers who died for the “enemy”—i.e. for the wartime regime in Hungary—appears very similarly in Face to Face and in Zoltán Fábri’s Plusz-mínusz egy nap (“One Day, More or Less,” 1972). Here, the deputy minister asks if the memorial to the forgotten heroes, the Martyrs’ Tomb, is in good condition. The tormented, traumatized caretaker responds: “Yes, but are you not curious about the others? Here are all 63. I looked after them just out of friendship. Not a lot is spent on them.”

The minute by minute reconstruction of the last day of the events in the film eventually allows the soldiers to recognize one another’s feelings and motivations during a tense situation. They are unable to find a decisive point in time when things went wrong, because the pivotal moment was different for each member of the unit. The captain’s wife asks cynically after the meeting if it made any sense at all, but the question remains unanswered. The husband drives on quietly, and we can see a new town under construction, which can be interpreted as a symbol of the construction of a new country. The act of remembering in the film does not result in coming to terms with the traumas of the past, and it appears to be meaningless. Remembering is portrayed as a burden for the participants in the traumatic events, a legacy that the future is unable to reconcile with the present. Although there is a multiplicity of interpretations of the past, participants are unable to relate to or process its legacy. They either condemn or praise past events. There are no shades of nuance. The conclusion of the films also suggests that attempts at remembering and reconstructing the past do not necessarily result in the processing of traumas, even if the survivors push the need to remember.

Trauma and Responsibility in Zoltán Fábri’s Films

The films by Zoltán Fábri analyzed in this section involve a similar need and compulsion: the need to remember sin and the search for a remedy. This is why the motive of a court trial can be found in all of them. Like Várkonyi and Kovács, Fábri also addressed the issue of individual and collective responsibility in his films. In his film adaptation of György Rónay’s 1963 novel Esti gyors (Evening Express) in 1967, to which he gave the aforementioned title Utószezon, the protagonist commits suicide because of a crisis of conscience.41 In this film, “old-timers” play the main roles. A group of elderly people—a former high court judge, a pharmacist, a general, a teacher and a trader—live their stagnant and harmless lives—as if in a bubble—in a small, quiet town. They are connected to the present only through the daily news. Otherwise they exchange ironic comments about the little time they have left in the world: it is merely “Late Season.” One joke, however, goes horribly wrong: the protagonist gets confused about a phone call (allegedly from the “police”) and about press reports of the Eichmann trial, and he decides to request a court judgement in his own case. Twenty years earlier, he confided in a former classmate, who, as the local police officer in 1944, had accused the owner of the pharmacy and his wife of being Jews. The couple was deported and the main character, Kerekes, never saw them again. His remorse appears deserved. Kerekes demands to be either acquitted or condemned, and he does not seem to care which. He is committed to learning the truth and easing his guilty conscience. However, his desperate attempt to come to terms with the traumatic past fails. The judicial institutions and his friends have no idea whatsoever how to handle the situation. Only one person in the group—the Auschwitz survivor—is willing to condemn him at an exhausting staged “trial,” but even he withdraws his judgement the following day, after having sobered up. Unable to find reconciliation and absolution, Kerekes makes an unsuccessful attempt to kill himself. In the last scenes of the movie he is shown sitting in desperate solitude in the midst of a joyful crowd in the old gentlemen’s club.

The film is unique in the sense that it represents the trauma of the Holocaust in a direct manner: while being chased by old men, Kerekes takes shelter in a cinema where he sees the news about the Eichmann trial and a shocking documentary about the death camps.42 In one of Kerekes’ nightmares, he appears naked in a gas chamber—which resembles phone booths with transparent walls—and dies with the rest of the people in the chamber after the taps are opened. Partly because of the gas chamber scence, Late Season was not received well, unlike Fábri’s previous films. Some critics considered it a total failure and criticized the movie both from a literary and an aesthetic point of view. The complexities of the film will not be analyzed here due to spatial limitations. Only one aspect will be discussed: the controversial casting.

According to Péter György, the movie would have been a decent—albeit not a very successful—attempt at portraying the traumatic past, had the former “Arrow Cross” sympathizer Antal Páger and the “Jewish” Lajos Básti not played the most important characters. The casting, in his opinion, discredited the attempt to confront the past through the film. By choosing these particular actors, he claims, Fábri made the question of social conscience unimportant and venial.

 

And there was the political-aesthetic lesson, the outstanding artistry of Páger and Básti, which could have been admired by the members of the audience, although they were aware who had played which role in real life. If a Jew can play a former chief police inspector, who after serving his sentence could live quite a calm and excellent life [...], then everything is fine, you do not have to take anything too seriously, then maybe this Eichmann case is not such a serious matter either.43

However, György’s conclusion is somewhat premature. His verdict was made hastily, before he had considered other interpretations; it was perhaps influenced by his general opinion of the memory politics of the era. One might raise the following question concerning his interpretation: to what extent was the reception of the film actually influenced by the personal background of the leading actor? If the audience did indeed interpret the film in the context of Páger’s personal life (a possibility which is discussed in the next section of this article), this would suggest that the director had given the actor a chance to the penance. Does this interpretation hold if one takes into consideration the fact that the role of the former police captain was played by Lajos Básti, a man of Jewish origins? György analyzes Late Season in the context of other cinematic works of the time, while reflecting on the regime’s “devastating identity politics,” which furthered (largely by ignoring) complicity. He claims that although the regime allowed the creation of films addressing the traumatic aspects of the past, the casting could also be perceived as a cynical attempt to belittle the significance of such events. If this was the case, do we need to take into account other actors’ lives when analyzing the films of the Kádár era? If yes, which actors should be considered, and who should be left out? Despite the flaws in György’s argument, it is plausible that the choice of actors shaped perceptions and interpretations of the traumatic past. A more balanced interpretation of the film, however, would refrain from overemphasizing this connection. Zoltán Fábry’s creative autonomy stands beyond all doubt and, as far as Páger is concerned, as a renowned artist, he could have refused the part if he had wanted to do.44 If the moral dilemmas and impotence of the protagonist did, indeed, touch him deeply because of his own personal life history, then one might pose the question: could his involvement in the film be regarded as a sort of “confession”? He was morally culpable and complicit in the crimes (although on a much smaller scale than many others), and this may well have made him feel unceasing remorse. Whatever the motivations Páger had when accepting the part, the sources indicate that the choice of actors was most likely the result of conscious planning, in which the actors’ professionalism played the decisive role. Moreover, Fábri had worked with Páger before in Vízivárosi nyár (“Hard Summer,” 1964) and Húsz óra (“Twenty hours,” 1965).

The Páger Affair

Irrespective of Fábri’s motivations behind casting Páger for the role, the actor’s return to Hungary and his subsequent career epitomizes the politics of memory in the early Kádár era. The most controversial episodes in Páger’s life, like the legacy of the traumatic past, were not discussed openly at the time. As in the case of the fictional characters in the films already discussed, his past was not reconciled with his present, it was merely swept under the carpet. When after many years of background negotiations, Páger eventually returned to Hungary in the autumn of 1956, he was not required to make any public show of atonement. His former villa was even given back to him, and he was able to continue his acting career. Páger’s return to film exemplified the ambivalence of the way Hungarian society confronted with the past at the time. The Politburo did not want to deal with the actor’s past, and it did not want others to deal with it either. It allowed Páger to perform on stage and on the screen, and it perceived him as a “cultural product.” Nobody was supposed to remember or reflect upon Páger’s rise to prominence and his spectacular career before 1945.45 However, the regime’s efforts to bury the darkest chapters of his past were not always successful. In the early autumn of 1956, artists and civilians protested both publicly and in anonymous letters against his return. The outbreak of the revolution six weeks later and the consolidation of the Kádár regime in 1957 made the indignation provoked by Páger’s return completely insignificant. Nonetheless, his past continued to cast shadows on his life and career, despite his growing popularity and artistic successes.

As archival records demonstrate, the chapters of Páger’s former life were never actually forgotten, but they were not discussed publicly either.46 Although he never became a member of the Arrow Cross party, he had had good relationship with representatives of the “extreme-right actors’ group” (László Szilassy, Zita Szeleczky, and others). He had been a member of the Arrow Cross cultural propaganda institution, the “House of Culture,” and he had often played prominent roles in Arrow Cross events, together with Szeleczki. He had been on friendly terms with the former director of the Hungarian National Theatre, Ferenc Kiss, who later was sentenced for war crimes. Due to his relationship with Kiss, Páger most likely had conflicts with prohibited leftist (Communist) or Jewish actors and directors, such as Tamás Major (Director of the National Theater between 1945 and 1962), Lajos Básti (leading actor of the National Theater after the war), and Zoltán Várkonyi (director of dozens of movies and rector of the Budapest Film Academy between 1972 and 1979). By luring Páger back to Hungary, both the Ministry of Interior and the Party leadership hoped to weaken the “fascist emigration” and strengthen Hungary’s reputation by exploiting the propaganda value provided by the return of a first rate actor.47 Doubts about Páger’s conversion seem to have been well founded. In a surprisingly frank letter to his childhood friend, which was actually addressed to the Secret Service, he openly expressed his anti-Semitic views. He claimed that while he was never a communist, he had always helped the poor, the “barefoot,” and that he was forced to leave the country in spite of the fact that he had been adored by his audience.

 

What would have happened to me if I had stayed at home and had fallen into the hands of the baited Jews? Maybe they were my only enemies. And so they remained. They’ve put on me the ‘hump,’ it is because of them that I do not take a single step to the stage and to making movies, because they are the powerful ones; whatever they want to happen will happen.48

The former editor of the weekly Hétfői Hírlap recalled in his memoirs that after Páger’s repatriation daily papers at first did not dare comment on the event, and they only published the official news agency communiqué.49 The press, however, soon picked up the theme: “A great sensation was created. It turned out that in that political atmosphere a one-line piece of news could be at least as sensational as a bold political article.”50 The newspaper Népszava, for example, openly criticized press reports that followed the official line too closely. The author acknowledged the importance of granting forgiveness to Páger: “It is correct and democratic that our government unobtrusively permitted the repatriation of a famous actor who before our liberation committed serious crimes against our nation with his anti-democratic behavior.”51 Yet, while he agreed that the new state was stable enough to allow for such gestures, he also highlighted that such a move could send out ambivalent signals: “the people who have been punished in Hungary could also expect to be boosted.” In a concluding remark the article suggested toning down the festive atmosphere provoked by Páger’s return in the media. While blatant criticism of the party’s policies could seem surprising, it should be noted that such discussions took place only a few months before the revolution of 1956. Due to the activities of the Petőfi Circle52 and the resignation of the Stalinist party leader Mátyás Rákosi, the party’s grip over the press loosened. The unusually critical reactions, which were directed partly against Páger and partly against the Party leaders, had a common theme: the actor was welcome in Hungary as long as he worked hard, was modest, and his acting benefitted the domestic audience. The lessons of the “Páger-fever” were summarized by one detective two weeks after Páger’s arrival:

 

On the one hand, the Páger-case is evidence of the fact that the protagonists of the events of 1944 or its masterminds are still unfavorably received by wide circles of society, and not only by the Jews. On the other hand, it demonstrates that in wide circles of society a strong aversion has developed to people who have emigrated to the West, […] to those who lived well while we suffered at home, starved, and rebuilt the country. If they want to come back, let them come, but they should remain silent, and they should not dream of playing a leading role in this country.53

Since Páger was willing to play by the rules, his anti-Semitism was not mentioned and he was not stigmatized for his wartime political views. This strategy bore fruit, and at the end of September, he wrote to his family with a tone of relief: “This week I had a lot of Jewish visitors. Among others, yesterday, Lajos Basthi [sic!] came to see me. He generously offered me his services. From all this I see that the government has done something to stop the attacks.”54

The short biography of Páger by Molnár Gál, entitled A Páger-ügy (“The Páger Affair, 1988) and published two years after the actor’s death, addresses his political engagement in the 1940s and his apparently successful but controversial reintegration into the socialist system.55 However, Molnár Gál argues that despite Páger’s successful artistic career, he was not entirely accepted by Hungarian society. Like the fictional characters in the films of the early Kádár era, Páger never truly confronted his past in public, so he was never granted total absolution. According to Molnár Gál, a good opportunity for the admission of his mistakes came in 1967 at the Venice Biennale, when Late Season was enrolled for the film festival. However, the opportunity was missed. The film provoked public indignation in Venice, mostly because Israel criticized the director for offering the protagonist’s role to Páger. Fábri tried to defend his actor by saying that “he had cleared himself to the satisfaction of the authorities,” but to no avail. Variety magazine, for example, labelled the film the “Hungarian Jud Süss.”56 It claimed that the inclusion of the film in the festival was a scandal, and it criticized the Kádár regime, characterizing it as cynical for having allowed Páger to play a leading role. Despite its controversial reception, the film was awarded the Golden Lion for Páger’s performance. Molnár Gál argues convincingly that the award should be considered an act of “cultural diplomacy reparation” on behalf of the organizers.57 At the same time, the film’s problematic reception—scandal versus award—symbolizes Páger’s unfinished integration into postwar society and encapsulates the failures of the attempts to come to terms with the legacy of the Holocaust in contemporary Europe.

The timing of the screening adds another layer of complexity to the interpretation of the film. Late Season was screened in February 1967, just a few weeks after the beginning of a trial against a group of war criminals in Hungary. While there is no evidence for a direct link between the two events, the timing was probably not coincidental. The topic of the persecution of the Jews was addressed in public discourse and cultural products with growing frequency in the second half of the 1960s. As the films analyzed earlier demonstrate, personal responsibility, accountability, and legal cases were prominent themes in cultural representations of the traumatic past at the time, and sometimes these representations referred to or were even inspired by actual trials against former Nazi collaborators.

Absolution through Confession: Pillar of Salt

Although criticisms of Fábri’s casting decisions were not totally unfounded, Late Season was not the first film in which the “Arrow Cross” Páger appeared in a similarly controversial role. Sóbálvány (“Pillar of Salt,” 1958), a rather didactic and duly forgotten film directed by Zoltán Várkonyi, also featured the actor, who plays a character who makes questionable moral choices in wartime Hungary. The protagonist of the film is a doctor, who, during the siege of Budapest in 1945 continues to operate on wounded people in a poorly equipped hospital. He admits a persecuted stranger to the ward, but fails to intervene when the Nazis arrest the suspicious man, who is killed during a failed escape attempt. After the war, the doctor is reported for having failed to rescue the man who was supposedly a communist. The film focuses on remorse and follows the development of the protagonist’s character. The plot culminates in the doctor’s confession before the court, resulting in complete moral purification, and thus, an overture to a new life. In one of the most fascinating scenes in the film, the doctor is required to reenact the escape and impersonate the Nazi soldier who was present at the time. When confronted with the consequences of his moral choices, the doctor realizes that had he shown even a small degree of empathy, he could have saved the man pursued by the Nazis, but his own indifference sealed the man’s fate.

Despite the doctor’s acknowledgement of his own culpability in the tragic events, he initially remains reluctant to take the blame. As a young Communist functionary put it, “You see, you are just like that! Taking some, but not all of the responsibility.” However, he assumes full responsibility in the end, but not all of the characters in the film are capable of doing so. Halfway through the film, the well-meaning but conceited, alcoholic hospital director offers a fatalistic explanation of his own indifferent attitude: “Hungary has been a country of anonymous denunciations for centuries. […] They want to snuff you out, they have already taken care of me. They place their own men everywhere. Now, it’s your turn.” He continues: “Do you want your truth from ‘them’ [the Communists]? […] To get through! The question is who manages to survive?” The doctor, who comes from a middle-class background, also realizes that the aim of the new political system is to get rid of him. The desperate physician eventually understands that if he fails to muster the courage to face his own demons and tackle the legacy of the traumatic past, he will fall. However, the new regime did not intend to eliminate the adherents of the old order. Its goal was to make them admit their past mistakes and, in doing so, consolidate the social base of the new state. Or to put it in simpler terms: to convert fascists into anti-fascists. The idea that the confession of past mistakes could lead to absolution and integration into the new society is expressed in a less significant scene, in which the new communist hospital director tells the doctor who is ready to convert that “the memories differ, but our future is the same.”

The Impossibility of Reconciliation: One Day, More or Less

Plusz-mínusz egy nap (“One Day, More or Less,” 1973), which was based on a short story by Ádám Bodor by the same title, differs from the rest of the films analyzed in this article, as it portrays a more thorough and desperate—yet, tragically unsuccessful—attempt by a perpetrator to come to terms with his own shameful past. The main character has actually served a long prison sentence for his crimes, but he still decides to return to the scene of his violent deeds, where as a sergeant he killed some of the local villagers and had their houses burnt down during the war. No matter how many years (25!) he has spent in prison and in forced labor camps, he is committed to reconciling with the locals. Upon his release, the former soldier, Baradla, feels empty and disinterested, and he even escapes to the penal compound once. The guards on duty eventually become his companions, and they read out the unopened letters which had been written to him many years before. However, it is only when his former comrade in the penalty battalion, Simon Obrád, is mentioned that he starts paying attention and decides to visit his friend—who during the days of the uprising of 1956 sent him a letter. It is clear from the outset that the obsessive, nervous wreck will be unable to start a normal, civilian life. He has lost his interest in the mundane aspects of life: he even remains disinterested when the lively Obrád offers him his own girlfriend.

Everything irritates and annoys the gloomy, aloof, introverted former war criminal. There is only one thing he is interested in: meeting the villagers. He returns with his comrade to the village looking for survivors, but the little village cemetery only has graves dedicated to ‘our martyrs’: people who were killed in October 1944. He tries to find the graves of his fallen comrades who fought for Horthy: “And ours?” he asks, “I cannot find them.” “[Their graves are] unmarked; as is fitting for the heroic dead.” They eventually recognize the innkeeper, who wants to remember neither them nor the events. He feels extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed, and he is clearly afraid of the two visitors. When the increasingly drunk strangers propose a “re-trial,” everyone, including the innkeeper, rejects the idea and denies remembering anything. Despite the foul-mouthed pleas of Baradla—“Here is an encounter, we need to talk about something. We have common memories, we must understand one another”—the villagers walk out of the “meeting.” Only one man, the son of one of the victims, appears in the pub, but he attacks the visitors with a hammer and then attacks the policeman who suddenly shows up. (The young man is finally restrained by the others.) Although as the relative of a victim he could take the moral high ground, he has to face serious legal consequences because of attempted homicide of public officials: “Miska, why? – Because I’m in a good mood, little git! As if you had not stayed for an hour in front of the window!” and then he spits in the policeman’s eyes. After the travelers are warned by the police to leave the pub, they go to the house where they were quartered during the war and meet the descendants of their former hosts. The owners and their tipsy company—the postman, the priest, and the head of the farmers’ cooperative—do not want to believe what happened 25 years earlier. The priest offers to help, but in vain. When he suggests that “I’ll look for this fire in the church archives,” Obrád rejects the offer: “It is not worth mentioning, Reverend, only what remains in memory in true, am I right? [...] As if it never happened.”

Despite his desperate efforts to find reconciliation, Baradla finds no relief, and his attempts to engage with the traumatic chapters of his past fail completely. He is willing to forgive the villagers for having killed six of his soldiers, but nobody wants to talk to him, nobody wants to remember, as if they were indifferent to the violent events of the past. Written, archival records of the fire do not help him either, and he eventually disappears from the scene. The viewer is under the impression that he is going to kill himself, but he vents his frustration on Obrád instead, eventually killing him. The fates of the two friends and their fellow soldiers are completely intertwined in the film: they hold on to each other through thick and thin, despite the presence of both good and evil, loyalty and betrayal in their relationship. The impossibility of attaining reconciliation, however, gradually destroys the bond between the main characters. Normalcy is impossible to achieve without coming to terms with the traumatic past. When Baradla kills his friend and burns his body, the outskirts of the village burst into flames again, as they did 25 years earlier. As we learn at the end of the film, the traumatic past was not actually forgotten by the victims, irrespective of their claims throughout the film. A leisurely morning chat between police officers reveals that the villagers remembered the events very well, and they considered the former sergeant a sadist.

Conclusions

The films analyzed in this article all deal with psychological conflicts, attempts to search for moral truth, and the desperate endeavor to provoke collective remembering. It is by no means accidental that films representing moral reconciliation were produced in a period that was famous for sensational war crime trials. Out of twenty films dealing with topics such as the persecution of Jews and communists before 1945, forced collectivization, the expropriation of private property, the victims of Communist party purges after 1945, and so on, ten were produced in the 1960s, four in the following decade, and the remaining six in the 1980s, when it become possible to talk about subjects which earlier had been taboo.58 A common theme in all of these movies was the impossibility of reconciling the present with the crimes of the past. The victims of the past are mostly portrayed as a burden for the future. Victims are represented as pitiful human beings, whose gloomy souls spoil their social surroundings. Their moral conflicts provoke confusion and incomprehension, and their moral superiority triggers irritation and repugnance.

These films tested the aesthetic as well as the discursive boundaries of the early Kádár period. The sensitive topics they addressed were generally avoided in public discourse at the time. They portrayed the difficult and controversial aspects of “historical justice,” and they offered artistic examinations of social conscience with regards to the traumatic events of World War II. Therefore, they testify to the gradual revival of individual and collective remembering in Hungarian society at the time, and to the public articulation of new forms of memory. By offering complex and multi-layered representations of the legacies of the traumatic past, they revealed various aspects of the truth to which the audience could relate and with which people could identify. Unlike schematic, official representations, most of the films analyzed in this article transgressed binary representations of the historical legacy that portrayed the process of coming to terms with the past as a struggle between the forces of the “bad” past and the “good” future. Although crimes were usually (but not exclusively) attributed to the bygone era, the films also offered subtle criticisms of the new regime and its tendency to remain emotionally reticence and trivialize or conceal sensitive issues. The legitimacy of the system’s myths of origins was questioned in the “late justice” films, as the protagonists’ individual fates and personal tragedies were shown in the context of the traumatic turning points of recent Hungarian history (World War II and the Holocaust). Despite the new regime’s claims to moral superiority, peace and reconciliation remains unattainable for the characters in the films, as their social environments remain incapable of facilitating healing. The drama that takes place on an individual level seems absurd and grotesque in a society that is characterized by general indifference towards and disinterest in the traumatic legacy of the past.

 

Archival Sources

Historical Archives of the State Security Services (ÁBTL)

Files:

K-587. T dosszié “Pacsirta”

M-17376/1 sz. “Cyránó”

M-18658 sz. “Jenei”

M-30841 sz. “Pesti Péter”

 

Open Society Archives (OSA)

Koordinációs Bizottság 1966. március 30-i ülésének jegyzőkönyve (Minutes of the

March 30, 1966 meeting of the Coordination Committee). Accessed August 25, 2017.

http://osaarchivum.org/files/fa/999/4/1/koordinacios/1966/koord_biz_66_03_30.pdf.

 

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1 The movies in chronological order: Pillar of Salt (Sóbálvány), Dir. ZoltánVárkonyi, 1958; Cold Days (Hideg napok), Dir. András Kovács, 1966; Late Season (Utószezon) Dir. Zoltán Fábri, 1966; Face to Face (Szemtől szembe) Dir. Zoltán Várkonyi, 1970; One Day More or Less (Plusz-mínusz egy nap), Dir. Zoltán Fábri, 1972.

We wanted to see but The Dead Return (A holtak visszajárnak, Dir. KárolyWiedermann, 1968), did not find available copy at the Hungarian Film Institute. The creators of the crime story were inspired by the Hungarian Nazi law suits which dragged on into the 1960s.

2 Lénárt and Paksa, “Kisnyilasok a Belügyminisztérium aktáiban,” 321–25.

3 Signed by Hungary and the Soviet Union in Moscow on 20 January 1945, and again in Act V/1945.

4 Curiously, the people’s courts did not cite existing laws on political responsibility or earlier precedents. The idea of the international accountability of defeated countries declared responsible for the war arose after World War I, but was never applied. Yet in Hungary there had been legislation (Act I/1849, Act XXIII/1919) according to which revolutionary or war criminals could be called to account.

5 On the people’s courts see Lukács, A Magyar népbírósági jog; Bernáth, Justitia tudathasadása; Szakács and Zinner, A háború; Pritz, A Bárdossy-per; Karsai, “The People’s Courts,” 137–51.

6 The data is found in Szakács and Zinner, A háború.

7 Minutes of the 30 March 1966 meeting of the Coordination Committee 3.

8 Barna and Pető, A politikai igazságszolgáltatás, 116–27.

9 Bibó, “Zsidókérdés Magyarországon,” 481–89.

10 See Frojimovics, Szétszakadt történelem, and Laczó, “Szemtanúk, memoárírók, monográfusok,” 355–72.

11 In 1952–55 as part of the anti-Zionist political campaign in the Eastern Bloc, several Jewish leaders were sentenced to prison. Some of them did not survive the severe conditions and tortures to which they were afflicted while in the custody.

12 Mihály Francia Kiss was sentenced to death in 1948, but due to his escape, he was not executed until 1957. About his trial see Rév, “Ellenforradalom,” 42–54.

13 Erős, “A zsidó identitás,” 53–58); Erős, Kovács, and Lévai, “Hogyan jöttem rá, hogy zsidó vagyok?” 129–44; Kovács and Vajda, Mutatkozás: zsidó identitástörténetek.

14 A typical example of one such character is István Szijjártó—played by György Pálos—in the immensely popular film Tizedes meg a többiek [The Corporal and the Others, 1965]. Szijjártó represents a Jewish Communist sympathizer who escapes from the labor service.

15 Surányi, Minarik, Sonnenschein és a többiek; Zombory, Lénárt, and Szász, “Elfeledett szembenézés,” 245–56.

16 The history of the Hungarian Jewry, Jewish Hungarian identity, and Jewish Hungarian memory became the subject of social science and historical research only in the 1980s.

17 Israel’s and West Germany’s foreign policy and domestic criticism were recurrent topics in the Hungarian press. One of the subjects of interest was the restitution of the German–Hungarian relations.

18 The news was printed in the party’s daily newspaper, though hardly in a prominent place. The code name merits notice. “Official Summons: All Hungarian citizens who earlier had permanent residence status in Germany and who, for political, racial, ore religious reasons, suffered persecution can make claims for compensation. The General Banking and Trust Company provides detailed information. Budapest. V. Dorottya utca 7. (Telephone: 186-505).” Népszabadság, January 7, 1956, 4.

19 Kárpáti, “Ilyenek voltunk.”

20 Cf. Andrews, “Poppies, Tommies and Remembrance,” 104–12.

21 Nora, “L’histoire au péril de la politique.” 54.

22 Két pisztolylövés portrays a war criminal who pretends to be a Jewish survivor, and in Kémeri the protagonist is an attorney in the interwar period with a Jewish background.

23 Karsai and Pintér, Darutollasok; Karsai, A berchtesgadeni sasfészektől.

24 Lévai, A fekete SS “fehér báránya.”

25 The Kossuth Publishing House edited a book in a very similar format entitled The Trial against Arrow Cross Party Unit in Zugló in 1967. The writers, József Sólyom and László Szabó (a police officer and a journalist), emphasized the brutality of the accused without reflecting on the social context.

26 Lackó, Nyilasok, nemzetiszocialisták; Karsai and Benoschofsky, Vádirat a nácizmus ellen.

27 Gershenson, “The Holocaust on Soviet Screens,” 110–16.

28 For instance Keszi, Elysium, which was adapted to film by Erika Szántó in 1986; Várkonyi, Kenyér és kereszt, 232–43; and a documentary novel inspired by the trial against former Arrow Cross members: Várkonyi, A tanú.

29 Dr. Josef Mengele was the most frequently mentioned figure among the criminals of war by Hungarian Holocaust survivors. See Vági, “Az orvos tragédiája,” 9–10.

30 Fulbrook, German National Identity, 71–72.

31 The drama was staged at the same time in East and West Berlin (19 October 1965), followed by a number of European premiers.

32 Lénárt, “Tömeggyilkosok civilben,” 208–67.

33 Péter Molnár Gál, “A vizsgálat: Peter Weiss drámája a Nemzeti Színházban,” Népszabadság, February 5, 1967.

34 Cseres, Hideg napok. The novel and movie focused on the Novi Sad raid, which is why many people think that the massacre was limited to that town.

35 György István, “A kormányzóúr megmásítja,” Népszabadság, November 23, 1969, 4.

36 Pál E. Fehér, “Könyvekről. Cseres Tibor: Bizonytalan század,” Népszabadság, October 3, 1968, 7.

37 Lénárt, “A megtalált ellenség,” 355–95.

38 Buzási, Az újvidéki “razzia”; Sajti, Délvidék 1941–1944; idem, Impériumváltások, revízió és kisebbség; Pihurik, “Magyarok és szerbek a Délvidéken,” 83–102.

39 Rainer M., “Önéletrajzi reprezentáció,” 192–205.

40 The same actor, Ádám Szirtes, plays a very similar role in the movies Cold Days and Face to Face, see below.

41 The film version of the first Hungarian musical (Egy szerelem három éjszakája, or “Three Nights of a Love,” 1961), which was based on the tragic fate of the great Hungarian poet Miklós Radnóti (a Catholic who was defined by Hungary’s Jewish laws as Jewish, put in a forced labor unit during the war, and killed in the last months of the fighting by the Hungarian militiamen, who regarded the internees in the units as political prisoners rather than fellow countrymen), was presented to audiences the same year.

42 It is a pseudo news report, excerpts of Alain Resnais’ Night and Fog (1955) were inserted into the pictures taken in the courtroom during Eichmann’s trial. These shots were not screened in Hungary before Fábri’s film. Zombory, Lénárt, and Szász, “Elfeledett szembenézés,” 250.

43 Péter, Apám helyett, 264

44 Zombory, Lénárt, and Szász, “Elfeledett szembenézés,” 254.

45 Historical Archives of the State Security Services (ÁBTL) K-587. T “Pacsirta” [Lark] dossier 192.

46 ABTL M-17376/1. The dossier of agent codename “Cyrano.” ÁBTL M-18658. “Jenei” dossier. ABTL M-30841. “Pesti Péter” dossier,

47 ABTL K-587/T d. 24.

48 Páger’s letter to his friend, December 28, 1955–January 3, 1956. ABTL K-587-t “Pacsirta” ill. ”Pécsi” d. 1-8/105 pages.

49 Czímer, “Páger Antal hazatérése,” 18.

50 Ibid., 18.

51 Népszava, September 4, 1956.

52 The Petőfi Circle was a debate forum for young communists in 1956.

53 ABTL K-587/T dossier, 166.

54 ABTL K-587/T dossier, 199.

55 Molnár Gál, A Páger-ügy.

56 Curtis, “Israel Incensed,” 172.

57 The film won the Cineforum 67 prize “for the humane and lively language in which grotesque elements do not neutralize the high principles and for the confession about individual responsibility and the statement against violence and intolerance.” “Több kitüntetést kapott az Utószezon Velencében,” Magyar Nemzet, September 9, 1967.

58 Bezsenyi and Lénárt, “‘Itt maguknál öröm lehet’,” 126–29.

2017_2_Fodor

Volume 6 Issue 2 CONTENTS

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Erasing, Rewriting, and Propaganda in the Hungarian Sports Films of the 1950s*

Péter Fodor

University of Debrecen

In the years following World War II, the radical structural transformation of Hungarian society and the establishment of the communist dictatorship affected the functioning of sports as a social subsystem. At the time, the Hungarian public still remembered the sporting successes of the Horthy era (the Berlin Olympics, the 1938 FIFA World Cup) from the previous decade. Thus, the Sovietization of sports as a social subsystem had two intertwining goals in Hungary: in addition to creating a new institutional framework for sports, the regime also had to ensure good results, which were regarded as a matter of prestige. Like the daily press, the schematic film productions of the era were also characterized by the ideological utilization of sports. A typical example of the schematic style was Civil a pályán [Try and Win, 1951] by Márton Keleti, which used classical comedy elements to bring together the world of the factory and the world of the soccer field. Keleti’s film was intended to popularize a centralized mass sports movement of Soviet origins called “Ready to work and fight” and to communicate the party’s message to professional sportsmen who were considering emigration. The two versions of Csodacsatár [The Football Star, 1956 and 1957], also by Keleti, reveal a lot about the changes that the role of sports in state propaganda and political image construction underwent after the loss to West Germany in the 1954 FIFA World Cup Final and then after the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. My paper seeks to interpret these films within the context of the era’s political and sports history.

Keywords: films and Communism, sports and Communism, football, soccer, Ferenc Puskás, the Golden Team

Introduction

Péter Esterházy, who played an active role in forming the literary memory of the communist dictatorship in Hungary, suggests in one of his texts which was published in a symbolic moment (Christmas 1989) that the relationship between the social-political climate of an age and its sports achievements cannot be understood as the product of a simple causal connection:

The relationships between society and soccer are nevertheless enigmatic. A lot of books have been published in Hungary in the last few years which draw parallels between the anomalies in soccer and society, and rightfully so. Why would soccer be good if the setting is corrupt, if sports cannot function cleanly, because this function is always tainted with extraneous considerations, that is, political aspects. Yes. Still, the greatest Hungarian team of all time, which was a team formed of players who retained their individuality, a team which had not only spirit and elegance, but power, which brought reforms to the whole soccer scene of the age, this team was born under a total dictatorship.1

 

Today, when the memory of the Hungarian national team, the “Golden Team,” which was active in the first half of the 1950s, is retained in the names of stadiums, public statues, tombs in Saint Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, documentaries and movies, monographs and research essays, Esterházy’s lines do not seem unusual. Yet in the year of the regime change in Hungary, Esterházy’s approach was not at all self-evident, even if the late Kádár system, in a gesture of opening to the West, invited Ferenc Puskás home, and thus rehabilitated the name of the national team’s captain, who earlier had been regarded as a traitor by the regime. However, the Hungarian sports daily newspaper never reported on how Puskás went onto the field and scored goals in the old timers’ match celebrating his return in 1981 in People’s Stadium (People’s Stadium or “Népstadion,” which was opened in August 1953, was renamed Puskás Ferenc Stadium in 2002 and today is under demolition to make room for a more modern stadium). This highlights the politics of silence around his figure. The contrapuntal narrative of Esterházy’s text in 1989 foreshadowed a phenomenon still observable today, namely that the memory of the 1950s in post-transition Hungarian society is mostly negative, with one notable exception: sports. Memories of the regime and of sports have not only grown separate from each other, but they have come to constitute two opposing poles: in the negative memory of the Rákosi regime, sports (especially soccer) is the only constituent that conjures up positive associations. Today, only works related to the history of sports remind us that the “Golden Team” was at least in part an instrument of the Rákosi regime, which sought to profit from the team’s victories and prowess on the field in order to legitimize the regime’s hold on political power. The fact that it was part of the regime’s political image has faded in people’s memories of the national team. In the “imagination” of a significant part of Hungarian society, the players, and especially Ferenc Puskás, the team’s captain, remain distinctive folk heroes who managed to keep their personal autonomy while exploiting—not submitting to—the opportunities offered by the system.

Through an analysis of the film Try and Win [Civil a pályán], my essay examines how Hungarian movie culture in the first half of the 1950s retuned the meanings associated with sports. Subsequently, I will focus on the film The Football Star [A Csodacsatár]2 to demonstrate how this tradition was discontinued after the revolution of 1956.

The Film of Nationalized Sports: Try and Win

The Recent History of Sports Institutions

The structure of Hungarian society changed radically following World War II, and the establishment of the Communist dictatorship did not leave the sub-system of sports untouched. The last significant national competitions preceding the war brought major successes for Hungarian athletes. In the 1936 Berlin Olympics, Hungary came in third in the number of medals won behind the host, Germany, and the United States. In the soccer championship in France in 1938, the Hungarian national team made it to the finals. These successes of the Horthy era were remembered by the public a decade later. The Sovietization of sports required the establishment of a new institutional framework for organized physical training that would ensure that Hungarian athletes could continue to secure important achievements, which would mean prestige and hence a degree of legitimacy for the political system.

Change in the institutional framework of Hungarian competitive sports had started long before the Communists took power. The rise of state intervention in the late 1930s reshaped the image of sports, which until then had been largely a grassroots, civic movement since the turn of the century. In the last decade of the Horthy regime, politics was increasingly involved in competitive sports events. Between 1939 and 1944, the Jewish Laws were applied to sports organizations, and Jews were banned from participating in Hungarian sports. First, Jews were prohibited from leading sports organizations and associations. Later, teams with Jewish owners were abolished. In 1942, Jews were prohibited from playing sports, and after the German occupation, they could not even attend sports events as spectators. State intervention also affected workers’ sports associations. For example, “Vasas,” or the “iron” sports club, which was founded in 1911 by the Hungarian Union of Iron Workers as the “Vas- és Fémmunkások Sport Clubja,” [Sports Club of Iron and Metal Workers] was compelled to change its name and its colors in 1944. State intervention also changed the economic foundations of sports: professionalism, which was introduced into Hungarian soccer in 1926, was eliminated on 1 January 1945.3

After the end of the war, Hungarian sports revived quickly, which was due in part to the fact that the competing political parties were striving to gain influence over the management of various clubs and the new sports institutions. The Independent Smallholders Party, the Social Democrats, and the Communists were especially active in this respect. The influence of politics on sports did not disappear after the fall of the Horthy regime. Professionalism was not reintroduced, and the athletes all had “civilian” jobs. The players of the Újpest TE soccer team, which was supported by the Independent Smallholders Party and which won 3 championships between 1945 and 1947, included industrial workers, officials, and various kinds of entrepreneurs (tradesmen, caterers).4

 

Mass Sports and Competitive Sports Tailored to the Soviet Model

When director Márton Keleti started making the film Try and Win5 in 1951, the Sovietization of Hungarian competitive sports had already been completed.6 Cinematic support for this process was not an important item on the filmmakers’ political agenda. Rather, they were focused on making a movie that would help popularize the mass sports movement that had been imported from the Soviet Union. The finished work bridged the gap between the spheres of the workplace and competitive sports, and it presented an image of nationalized sports which conformed to the official sports politics of the times. It also contained concrete messages for sportsmen who could not imagine their future prospects in the newly Sovietized sports system.

In order to understand the term “civilian” in the original Hungarian title, one must know the lyrics to the title song of the movie.7 The song draws a parallel between (Stakhanovite) labor competition in the sphere of production (industry and agriculture) and competitive sports. The plot of the film unpacks these parallels in more detail. The teams of workers are aspiring to secure victory in the Stakhanovite movement and on the sports field. However, competition is not the objective; it is merely a tool with which to strengthen the community and ensure social integration. Mass sports are portrayed in the film as a vehicle which helps people to become better workers.

Hungarian society became familiar with the slogan “Ready to Work, Ready to Fight” (“Munkára, harcra kész” or MHK in Hungarian) in 1949, when companies (factories, kolkhozes, enterprises) were compelled to organize mass sports activities based on the Soviet model. The program introduced in 1931 by the Komsomol in the Soviet Union played a central role in Soviet athletic culture, which attempted to increase workers’ production output (the modernization of production required a new worker’s body) and their military skills, hygienic awareness, and ideological commitment.8 The program was not set up to train athletes in certain sports, but rather to improve the overall physical condition of the population. The guiding principle was mass involvement, and the concrete goals were broken down by age groups. The socio-political function of sports was to channel the energies of new generations growing up in an urbanized environment into the praxis of healthy pastimes.9

Centrally organized physical education and pre-military training and a system which joined physical training with the workplace existed in Hungary under the Horthy regime, too. In 1921, Statute LIII on physical education created the basis for the “levente” associations (a paramilitary youth organization), and it obliged factories and enterprises with more than 1,000 workers to create the necessary infrastructure for their employees’ physical education. Similarly, the primary aim of the program taken from the Soviet Union at the end of the 1940s was “to engage the masses of workers and peasants who had never done sports before. The movement was extended to schools, offices, and the armed forces. The MHK-movement was expected to discover sports talents as well.”10 Trade unions were given the task of leading the initiative, but this did not always go smoothly. The promotion campaign was introduced with Socialist Realist posters, and it culminated in Márton Keleti’s film (the film features one of these posters), but the movie also reflects on the various difficulties encountered by the MHK-movement in the campaign in 1950.11

The scene following the title and the title song is dramaturgically unexpected, as it stages a soccer match being played in front of crowded stands. A radio broadcast is covering the event, and the stake is to take two points in the championship.12 These circumstances indicate that the game is a first division soccer match, not some mass sports event. The credits inform the viewer that the soccer team Red Truck is playing against the “Dózsa team.” This refers to a typical phenomenon of Sovietization: institutional transformations were always accompanied by the rhetorical act of naming/renaming. (It is a peculiar connection between right and left wing sports politics that in 1944, Vasas, a club which was associated with the left wing, was compelled to use the name “Kinizsi,” whereas in 1951, this name was given to Ferencváros, which was regarded as a team with right-wing sympathies and fans. The name is a reference to Pál Kinizsi, a general who served under Hungarian king Matthias Corvinus. Kinizsi constituted a suitable heroic figure of Hungarian history for the communist regime in part because he allegedly had been the simple son of a miller.) The Újpest Athletic Association was founded in 1885. It was funded by local, mostly Jewish factory owners during the interwar period, and the athletes were quite successful. The club was brought under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in 1950, and the reference to the district disappeared from the name: the team became Budapest Dózsa. (In the countries of the Eastern Bloc, the police teams usually featured the word “Dinamo” in their names, so the similarity of the initials also motivated the naming.) Thus, in the movie the actual players of a newly renamed ministry team (“Dózsa”) act as the members of a fictional factory team (Red Truck). In the opening scene they are playing a final with a trade union team, the Óbuda Vasas. The film thus reflects the ambition to sever the traditional social roots of major sports clubs by placing them under the lead of trade unions and ministries (they were nationalized).13 This social program is in unison with the characterizations in the film. Specifically, we know nothing of the socio-cultural backgrounds of the characters. They all appear uniformly similar; the only features that make them unique are their flaws, which are not traced back to social factors and which, in the case of the protagonists, are easily overcome. Nobody in the film seems to be a “civilian”: neither the first division soccer players nor the workers stumbling on the athletic field have any kind of private, civilian lives that are unrelated to the workplace. The spaces of private life are almost completely missing. There is only one short scene that takes place in a flat, among family members, but one of the family members is just about to leave for work. The background is usually a factory or the sports pitch belonging to the factory. The characters have no free time: they go to the pitch to play sports, to play on the factory team, or to support their team. The vacation at Lake Balaton is no exception. It is also organized by the factory, so it is no surprise that the female protagonist (Marika Teleki) appears in the sports uniform of the Silk Factory of Újpest. Even though Try and Win stages the first steps in the romance between Teleki and Pista Rácz, the lovers only meet as private individuals once, and even then they are not alone. Moreover, when they talk about their feelings, they never forget that they represent a workplace community. Keeping distance from the community is represented in the film in an explicitly negative light. It is linked to conspiracy and (high) treason: when the forward of the Red Truck team, Jóska Teleki, is not with the team, he is conspiring with the enemy, and his absence from work hinders the Stakhanovite work of the group.

Even the very few leftist clubs that functioned successfully during the Horthy regime could not avoid the restructuring that came with Sovietization. In the first half of the twentieth century, organizations that promoted “cultured” and “meaningful” pastimes became more and more significant in Hungarian workers’ culture. Of these organizations, the Workers’ Physical Training Association (MTE) was the most prestigious. It was founded in 1906 and had among its members sportsmen who participated in Olympic Games and won medals in World and European Championships. Ferenc Pataki, who won a gold medal at the 1948 London Olympics, was a member of this association, and he played himself in the film. He supervised the sports festival in which the Budapest Red Meteor, the Honvéd, and the Építők teams performed gymnastic exercises. MTE was merged into Meteor in 1950, while Honvéd and Építők were new sports associations modeled on Soviet examples. Honvéd was overtaken by the army, while Építők represented the trade union of construction industry workers. In addition to Pataki, five other athletes are mentioned:14 Ferenc Várkői, Ágnes Keleti, Tamás Homonnai, Olga Gyarmati, and László Papp. Several factors, in addition to the prominence of these individuals as accomplished athletes whose names were familiar to the pubic, contributed to their selection as characters in the film. For instance, they all did outdoor sports that could easily be filmed: gymnastics, athletics and boxing. But one aspect stands out: all six of them were successful after World War II. Their achievements mentioned in the film were related to the 1948 Olympic Games, so their characters did not evoke the sports successes of the Horthy regime.15

The changed institutional framework of sports is highlighted by the sentence at the end of the title: “The sports scenes in this film were made with the direction and help of OTSB.” OTSB stood for the National Physical Education and Sports Committee, which was founded at the beginning of 1951. It became the most important organization in Hungarian sports. The success of the film helped the new committee earn legitimacy. We cannot be sure exactly why (perhaps in exchange for support) the protagonist of the film, Rácz, who becomes a successful mass sports functionary at the end of the film, performs the same job in the truck factory as Gyula Hegyi. Hegyi earned his living during the 1920s in the Renault factory as an iron turner. He became one of the most influential leaders in Hungarian sports after 1945 until his death in 1978, and he was acting president of the OTSB when the film was made. The armed forces also had a significant role in Sovietized sports. In addition to the Ministry of Home Affairs, the Ministry of Defense and the ÁVH (State Protection Authority) served as an institutional basis for competitive sports, and between 1948 and 1953 Minister of Defense Mihály Farkas had considerable influence over sports life, too. The prominent role of the military in sports explains why Feri Dunai, who went from being an iron worker to becoming a captain and who was played by János Görbe in the film (who wears a uniform throughout the film) is the most knowledgeable when it comes to how workers’ sports lives should be organized. His character closely follows the example of the “father” figure familiar from Soviet Socialist Realist (literary and cinematic) narratives:16 as the representative of the communist party he is the only character in Try and Win who has a thorough knowledge of the vision of an ideal society, thus only he can be an advisor and mentor to the symbolic “son” (Rácz).17 His first appearance in the movie follows the example of the leading technique of the age: he gives an uplifting speech in front of portraits of Lenin, Stalin, and Rákosi. He does not need to refer to his superiors, the representational context does that for him, and the viewer does not doubt for a single moment that what he says is right and needs to be accepted without question.18 The dialogues between Dunai and Rácz constitute a kind of reconciliation and merging of the two spheres of sports and the military, which were equally important for the communist party. The world champion Dunai argues for the importance of sports successes in promoting a positive image of the country, but he warns Rácz that his mistakes in the footrace do not make him a good soldier. This harmonizes with the vision of the communist party: “the leaders of the country emphasized the importance of physical education and sports from a military perspective,” and they tried to use “the propaganda power of sports successes in an international and domestic context.”19 Dunai also stands beside Rácz when the protagonist is enlightened and decides that he will revise his view on the social usefulness of sports and subsequently becomes the proponent of mass sports. Rácz’s conformist turn of heart also involves rational and emotional moments: the sports celebration at Balaton evokes certain scenes in Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympics, which recorded the aesthetics of the moving body with such paradigmatic power. Keleti went beyond this in a certain sense: Riefenstahl photographed the naked body without any erotic appeal, emphasizing its embeddedness in nature, while Try and Win stages Marika Teleki walking among her fellow sportsmen and sportwomen as the object of Rácz’s desire. While the scene with all the red flags and the MHK marching song can be interpreted primarily through the codes of military processions, it also gives way to a touch of the erotic. The silk factory worker Marika Teleki is a lot more than a woman whose attention needs to be won by the protagonist. She embodies the ideal member of the MHK-movement, who is not a world class athlete, but is skilled in many sports (running, sailing, and volleyball). The film portrays a sports system where the boundaries of competitive sports and mass sports are blurred. The sports celebration at Balaton unites the two spheres, as evidenced by the greeting spoken on the loudspeaker: “We cordially greet […] our Olympic, European, and college world champions, the MHK-sportsmen of the factories and the workers sitting in the stands”. The MHK-exercises are led by Ferenc Pataki, and Marika is marching among Olympic champions.

 

Changes in the Official Image of the Sportsman

The communist turn in Hungary also meant that the status of the competitive sportsmen needed to be “addressed.” While in Hungary the status of the professional athlete existed since 1926 at least in soccer, the Soviet Union did not allow athletes to compete as professionals. Soviet sports politics was critical of the British model of elitist amateurism on the one hand, i.e. the tradition according to which aristocratic gentlemen needed no revenues from sports. This was why the Soviet Union did not take part in the Olympic movement until the middle of the century. On the other hand, the Soviet Union also criticized the profit-oriented, businesslike environment in which soccer had come to flourish in England since 1885. In the 1930s, a semi-amateur system was introduced in the Soviet Union. The sportsmen had workplaces (they could be factory or kolkhoz workers, employees, Red Army soldiers, or even university students), and they received remuneration for playing sports. However, sports organizations and clubs were not business enterprises.20 This system did not change much after World War II, when the politicians in the Soviet Union decided to turn the country into a sports superpower which would compete at the most prestigious international events. (The Soviet Union first entered the Summer Olympics in 1952 and the Winter Olympics in 1956). A similar semi-amateur system evolved in Hungary before 1926, but the communists decided to abandon this model and replace it with the Soviet one. Try and Win promoted the system of centrally organized physical education among non-sporting social groups. At the same time, it fleshed out the new image of the competitive sportsmen: these sportsmen were civilians on the field, and they had civilian workplaces. The soccer players of the Red Truck club, which competes in the premier league, were factory workers themselves. Pista Rácz is nominated to serve as the factory’s sports representative by none other than the soccer player played by Géza Henni, the first division goalkeeper who was moved from the Ferencváros team to Dózsa.21 The replacement of the sports representative in the film was also indicative of how the communist party invaded the management of the clubs in 1948/49. The portrayal of this process in the film is essentially the exact opposite of what had actually happened: the new representatives arrive not to enforce political power, but to respond to the requests of the sports sphere. The film’s first conflict is resolved by Rácz’s enlightenment, but the second conflict owes much to the fact that in the world on the screen there was a sport in which the harmony between competitive and mass sports is not total: soccer. It would be an exaggeration to claim that the makers of the film tried to stage this as a systemic problem, but the choice of soccer could not have been accidental.

 

Soccer in the Cross-Hairs

The prominent role of soccer in the film could be explained in many ways: beginning at the turn of the century, soccer was the most popular sport, and it attracted the largest numbers of spectators. Professionalism and a business-mentality emerged most prominently in this sport: players and coaches were well-paid, they received remuneration for playing matches abroad, and players were bought and sold. Towards the end of the 1930s, the radical right wing started to consider soccer a Jewish business, so they tried to sabotage it in various ways. Still, the heritage of this system was tangible after the war, as most of the players and trainers had been socialized in it. However, official professionalism was never introduced again. The deep structural changes that occurred after the communist takeover affected this sport the most: teams were renamed and their identities were altered arbitrarily (e.g. changes in team colors). The destruction and the building of teams was met with considerable antipathy by the public, especially among Ferencváros fans, who were considered “enemies” of the system. The international connections and the professional networks that had been developed in the interwar years were also destroyed after 1945. As Szegedi has observed, “before 1945, more than five hundred Hungarian soccer players and trainers played for and worked on European teams, and they used their knowledge and experience to develop these national teams (many of them are now dominating the pitches!).”22 Many players emigrated to the West after the war: several members of the national team that won the silver medal in 1938 left the country before 1948, including Gyula Zsengellér and Dr. György Sárosi. After the Western border had been closed, the players could only leave Hungary illegally. László Kubala, for example, was successfully smuggled out of the country in 1949 (he later became a legendary player for FC Barcelona), but the same year the ÁVH thwarted the defection of 20 other players (including the goalkeeper of the national team, Gyula Grosics).

This sketch of the historical background helps us understand why the world of soccer was the ideal backdrop against which the image of the enemy working for the capitalist West with the aim of subverting the Communist system could be staged. The tragic actuality and the menacing message of the movie also need to be highlighted. Márton Keleti’s team started shooting the film on 28 June 1951, three weeks after Sándor Szűcs, the defender of Újpest, who played for the national team on 19 occasions, was executed. Together with his girlfriend, the singer Erzsi Kovács, Szűcs tried to emigrate to the West in order to escape political harassment, but the ÁVH lured them into a trap. It was believed that he had an offer from Italy. It tells a lot about the nature of the Rákosi regime that Ferenc Szusza, a former teammate of Szűcs, played the part of a player in Try and Win who was also invited to Italy. Szűcs actually sent Szusza a message from death row asking his friend to try to convince the authorities to grant him a reprieve. While Szusza tried to help, he could do nothing to change the verdict. Márton Keleti’s film, by evoking the fate Sándor Szűcs in the scene in which the organizers of defection are arrested, sent a clear message to all sportsmen highlighting the dangers of embarking down the forbidden path.

 

The Heterogeneity of Cinematic Tradition

In addition to references to real events, Try and Win was also linked to the cinematic traditions of the time. It is quite telling about the situation of cinema in Hungary that it was the 46-year old Márton Keleti, who began his career under the Horthy regime, who directed a film which was a propagandistic portrayal of the change of elites implemented by the communist takeover. Pista Rácz is the prime example of the kind of social mobility, which was triggered by workplace achievements and loyalty to the system, rather than expertise, the significance of which was diminished.23 However, the fact that after 1949 Keleti changed his techniques of representation, as well as the ideological characteristics of his movies, did not mean that he discarded traditional frames of representation.24 Try and Win employs the clichés of production and sabotage films in its representations of the two protagonists (Rácz and Jóska Teleki), but it combines these techniques with features adopted from romantic comedies and operettas. Both the director of and the actors in Try and Win who had become famous under the Horthy regime (Kálmán Latabár, Gyula Gózon) were familiar with these genres, and the scriptwriters (István Békeffi, Károly Nóti) were also representatives of the interwar tradition of Hungarian film comedies. Latabár reenacted the stock characters he had played before the war: he played the loud-mouthed but clumsy figure in Love of Sports (1936). In this amalgam of Socialist Realist and pre-war genres, the traces of the past are not erased, but they represent a world completely different from the one before. One can even spot how the unintentional effect of Rácz’s infantile naivety (portrayed by actor Imre Soós, who only recites dry and lifeless sentences) is juxtaposed with Latabár’s more natural figure (Karikás), who, although he is cartoonish, has a more subtle understanding of interpersonal relationships.25 The songs certainly contributed to the popularity of the film, yet they end up being metafictional mechanisms that emphasize the inauthenticity of the representational strategies and the fictional quality of the story. In the middle of the film, there is a scene in which Karikás and three of his colleagues want to entertain the other factory workers, but the act goes awry. The workers laugh at the four singers, who stand in front of the MHK-emblem and slogan, and as the excessive laughter does not fit the ridiculousness of the situation, the MHK, which tries to make sportsmen out of workers, itself becomes the object of laughter. These kinds of scenes unintentionally subverted the overtly propagandistic content of the film.

The use of features of romantic comedies in the film mellowed the Manichean, bipolar world of the Socialist Realist sabotage-movies: we do not see two antagonistic groups (good vs evil) described in similar detail and in a mirror-like fashion.26 The juxtaposition of MHK and competitive sports is only applied in the case of one character, the manager of the Red Truck soccer team. However, Bogdán, who hopes to profit from the center forward’s illegal Western contract, is not the enemy of MHK. He is a “retrograde” representative of the business mentality of professional soccer that the post-1948 nationalization and centralization meant to erase. The communist party also eliminated the financial foundations of this mentality by sacking the bourgeois sponsors who financially supported the previous system. The agent who cooperates with Bogdán utters the key sentence in the film: “Sports is no longer business in this country.” This utterance is all the more significant as this is the only verbal reference to the fact that there had been an earlier period of sports history before the one that we see on screen: the film otherwise makes no mention of or reference to Hungarian sports traditions before 1948. Although the film’s generic structure and the performances of some of the actors emphatically evoke the heritage of cinematic traditions of the Horthy regime, there are hardly any references to the pre-war period. The filmmakers made sure that this intention found expression in a spatial sense as well. It comes as no surprise that the most important architectural project of the Rákosi regime, People’s Stadium, was also used in the film, and the narrative emphasizes the novelty and monumentality of the building, which as noted earlier was only completed in 1953. Apart from the factory and the pitch attached to it, the film shows only the working class residential districts and the Socialist Realist architecture of the buildings of these districts or the historic city center of Budapest, which is occupied by athletes wearing red stars on their jerseys, pioneers waving their ties or holding portraits of Stalin, Lenin, and Rákosi, and policemen wearing Soviet-style uniforms. Another sign of the appropriation of space is the fact that during the holiday at Lake Balaton factory workers also compete in sailing, which was traditionally regarded as an aristocratic and bourgeois pastime.

Retouched Soccer History: The Football Star

One Title, Two Films

The recipe for Try and Win (a Socialist Realist narrative, the application of techniques of representation suiting the spirit of the age, the use of a new generation of actors together with actors who had been popular before World War II, and the recycling of cinematic traditions inherited from an earlier period) was used again in subsequent films by Keleti.27 In addition to works depicting ideologically informed representations of the world, Keleti also shot historical movies in this period. One of these films, Up with the Head, has a special significance in historical memory, as it was the first feature film in Hungary that took the history of the persecution of Jews as its theme. The theme of sports gained particular emphasis again in 1956, when Keleti started shooting The Football Star. The public response to this film was peculiarly affected by history. While his previous film on soccer represented the world of club soccer in Hungary, The Football Star addressed the fame of the Hungarian national team specifically. The film’s theme was based on a real life event, which indicates the international renown of the team and gives some sense of the media environment of the age. In 1954, the Hungarian press reported that a certain László Veréb had impersonated József Zakariás, a midfielder on the Hungarian national team, in order to secure a contract with Olympique Lille, but one match had been enough to expose him.28 In order to appreciate the historical context of the film, it is worth noting that the image of the national team changed significantly between 1954 and 1956 as a result of the loss in the World Cup final in 1954, after which the reputation of the team started to deteriorate. In fact, when Keleti was shooting the film (between June 18 and August 27, 1956), the “Golden Team” was on the verge of breaking up. Gusztáv Sebes, who put together the team and coached the players on 69 occasions between 1949 and 1956, had had his last match with them on June 9, 1956. When the new coach, Márton Bukovi, managed the team for the first time on 15 July, only four of the players who had participated in the legendary match against England in 1953 entered the pitch. In all likelihood, Keleti had intended to uphold the team’s fame,29 but the film failed to achieve this goal. The premiere was supposed to be held on November 8, 1956, but it was cancelled due to the outbreak of the revolution a few days before. The film lay in a box for some time, and a handful of scenes were re-shot with new actors in 1957. (Ferenc Puskás was replaced by Nándor Hidegkuti, for example.) While some scenes were retained, the sound was altered, clips showing the game were changed, and the photographs were retouched. The new version of the film was eventually screened in cinemas in September 1957. Hungarian television channels broadcast the original version only after 1989.30 Subsequent DVD editions first featured the original film, but since 2016, both versions have been available.

 

A Parodic Use of One’s Heritage

The Football Star31 can be regarded as an exemplary case in historical memory not only because of the differences between the two versions, but also because one can recognize references to events, figures and discourses of both interwar and postwar Hungary in both iterations. The fact that The Football Star entered into a dialogue with Try and Win is obvious from the juxtaposition of the two opening sequences. The opening scene of Try and Win features commentaries about a Hungarian championship match, whereas in the opening scene of The Soccer Star the national teams of two imagined countries (Footballia [Futbólia] and Kickania [Rugánia]) are playing against each other, when one of the Footballia fans exclaims sarcastically, “Civilians on the field!” Keleti invited real sports commentators to act in Try and Win in 1951, while the broadcaster role here is performed by an actor. This decision is symptomatic of a different approach: the openly propagandistic work used real life persons (known journalists and sportsmen) to reinforce the authenticity of the represented world and to affirm the world outside the film. The latter film, however, created a critical distance from the world to which the cinematic narrative refers.32 The Football Star focuses on how soccer becomes intertwined with politics. The commander of the naval fleet of Footballia, Admiral Alfredo Duca, is preparing a military coup, and, at the same time, he tries to increase his popularity among the masses. He uses soccer to achieve this goal: on the pretext of the supporters’ demonstrations following the defeat of the team, he takes control over soccer, and with the help of a Hungarian “soccer star” he tries to make the national team successful again using every media channel to let people know that these successes came about only because of him. Whereas in Try and Win the upper echelons of politics only appear implicitly (for example through the pictures of Rákosi), The Football Star’s story explicitly portrays a conflict between the leaders of an imagined country. The radio commentator of the match in the opening sequence of the film introduces the politicians in the presidential box in the following manner: “The great figures of our country […] are exhorting our team to play with all their might.” Even though the Latin-sounding names, the top hats, and the monocles of the politicians conjure up images from the distant past, the introduction of Duca’s character as “a friend and patron of soccer and the commander of our glorious fleet” encourages a satiric-allegorical interpretation and evokes references to the Minister of Defense of the Rákosi era, Mihály Farkas. The way in which the film stages the rise and fall of Duca can also be compared to Farkas’s career, who belonged to the inner circle of the Rákosi regime. Farkas’s decline started in 1953, when he temporarily lost all his positions. He regained some of them due to Soviet pressure, but in the summer of 1956, when the shooting began on the film, he was already a fallen politician: he had been expelled from the Communist party, he lost his rank in the military, and he was eventually arrested in October. When the retouched version of The Football Star was presented in cinemas in 1957, he was already in jail, like Duca at the end of the film. This partly explains why the early Kádár regime decided to release the film in 1957. The political system intended to consolidate its power by eliminating the legacy of Stalinism in Hungary. János Kádár also played an active role in removing Farkas from his positions in 1956. The fact that from Farkas’s perspective the summer of 1956 was nothing like 1951 is also reflected in the relationship between Márton Keleti’s two sports films. Try and Win also featured the character of Feri Dunai, a character who resembled Mihály Farkas and represented the role played by the military in sports. However, while Dunai, the representative of the party, appeared as a symbolic father-figure, Duca, whose name alliterates with Dunai, is an explicitly negative character. His character bears resemblances not only with the communist Minister of Defense, but also with the memory of Miklós Horthy in at least three aspects: 1. Admiral Duca at the top of his career is promoted to a rear admiral;33 2. as the leader of the army he tries to gain political power; 3. he has a tattoo on his forearm.34 The amalgamation of the memories of Farkas and Horthy in a single character constituted a gesture which would have been unimaginable before 1956 in Hungarian cinema.

There are further examples of symbols that were promoted in Keleti’s film in 1951 but were parodied half a decade later. While in The Football Star the poems, songs, portraits, workers’ choirs, and school compositions (which imitate the ode-like tone and dubious quality of such “works of art” created under the dictatorship) greeting the fake soccer player and the admiral have a comic effect, Try and Win presents the MHK marching song and the portraits of Lenin, Stalin, and Rákosi on the walls of the community room of the iron factory as indispensable components of the social reality of the time. In addition, The Football Star presents the career which is based not on knowledge but on loyalty to the system satirically. At Footballia’s government meeting, Admiral Duca presents his new program for soccer, but it eventually end in failure due to a lack of knowledge and experience:

 

Duca: Gentlemen! First of all: Coach Rodrigo will be thrown out. We will appoint Captain Venturo, my adjutant, as the state trainer.

Venturo: But Admiral! I am no professional.

Duca: Reliability is the key this time.

Venturo: Then I will do it.

As part of the media campaign to popularize the film, the film’s scriptwriter admitted the following in the spring of 1956:

 

[I should have written] a satire, yes, but who would have been the target? The confidence-man, who tries something but later gets exposed. This would be the easier solution. But is he the ‘real enemy,’ the most ridiculous? The people who fall for his trick are more amusing, those who are so blinded and deafened by an anti-communist zeal and soccer ardor that they themselves demand and even ‘produce’ such swindlers?

 

Beyond any doubt, Footballia, with its skyscrapers, elegant hotels, lavish saloons, roofed stands, and sports marketing, seemed a distant land to Hungarian society at the time. The fact that the supporters’ devotion to the players can suddenly turn into anger and culminate in violence was quite familiar in Hungary, especially in light of the protests in Budapest following the world cup finals in 1954. After Footballia’s defeat, the angry supporters even throw their seat cushions at the boxes of politicians, at which Duca comments: “This is a rebellion, this is chaos, this is a revolution!” It is needless to emphasize how differently these words must have sounded in 1957 than at the time of their recording in the summer of 1956. The film’s concluding scene allows us to infer why a reference to revolution could remain in the second version of the movie. After the defeat against Cornerland, Duca’s coup attempt also fails miserably. The frustrated fans invade the pitch, the two leaders of the fans on their way home want to get revenge on the “soccer star,” but the radio reporter—freshly out of jail—persuades them not to, because Duca is already in custody. After the rebellion, chaos, and revolution at the end of the film, order is restored, and the people responsible for the scandal are locked up in jail. The national team plays another match one week later, and the supporters wholeheartedly cheer for them again.

 

Rewritten Media Texts: Radio, Film, Photograph

A comparison of the two versions of The Football Star sheds light on why the film constituted a significant mnemopolitical document of 1956 and the following years. The fact that the two title sequences are the same entails many things. The year of production remains 1956 in the second version, thus the creators wanted to erase the temporal distance, the re-editing, and re-shooting. The act of retouching needs to conceal itself. The retouched work is only functional if it steps into the place of the original in a manner that hides the act altogether. The re-dating created the impression that the film was created before the revolution: only those who were well versed in sports could have known that Hidegkuti was actually touring with his team (MTK) in Western Europe in November and December 1956, so he could not have been available for the shooting. This created the impression that dissident soccer players never featured in the film when it was shot in 1956, as if they had not been part of the Hungarian national team at all. In fact, the opposite was true: József Bozsik, Ferenc Puskás, and Sándor Kocsis played the most matches with the team in 1956. Hidegkuti’s name and fame become all the more important in the scene that differs radically in the two different versions of the film. On the plane trip from Footballia to Switzerland, Admiral Duca and his adjutant, the newly appointed trainer Captain Venturo, are listening to a radio broadcast. The scene appears in both versions, and the images of the first 25 seconds are identical, but the voice-over was changed: the radio commentary is different (though we hear the voice of the same reporter), as is the dialogue between the two men. According to the voice-over, it is the last minutes of the 39th Hungarian–Swiss soccer match that is heard on the radio.35 The commentator mentions the names of two players: Puska and Kocsi. These names clearly refer to the two forward players of the Hungarian team, Puskás and Kocsis. Admiral Duca exclaims, “Hear that? Puska! This is our guy.” In the second version of the film the context of the radio broadcast is the same, but the players mentioned are Bozsik and Hidegkuti. The lips of the actor playing Admiral Duca say Puska here, too, but the voice says, “Hear that? Hidegkuti! This is our guy.”

To understand the background of the name change, we need to go back to November 1, 1956. Budapest Honvéd, the team of the Ministry of Defense, left Hungary to train in Western Europe for the matches against Athletic Bilbao. Between the two games, they played other international matches, and after the team dropped out from the European Cup, the players did not return to Hungary. Political and sports leaders asked the former captain of the team, Gusztáv Sebes, to visit the players in the Belgian capital36 and persuade them to come home. Honvéd chose a South American tour in January instead, from which they only returned to Vienna in February 1957. The team also split. Most of the players returned to Hungary, but Ferenc Puskás, Sándor Kocsis, and Zoltán Czibor decided to stay abroad. When The Football Star was screened in cinemas, Puskás had been accused of high treason, while Czibor, partly because of the role he played in the revolution of 1956, had good reason not to return home.37 The Hungarian press launched a campaign against Puskás: he was accused of acting as the head of a smuggling network and was considered ungrateful to his country.38 The second version of the film mentions the name of József Bozsik, who joined the South American tour, but returned home when it ended. Hidegkuti also had a chance to remain abroad during the MTK’s tour, but he decided to return home. They became crucial members of the new national team in 1957, and they played key roles in helping the team qualify for the world cup in 1958 in Sweden.39

The 25-second segment analyzed above is followed by images of a match to “verify” the words of the radio commentator. The original version of The Football Star uses a scene from the Hungary–East Germany game on June 20, 1954 in Basel, which was won by the Hungarian team with a final score of 8 to 3. Availability could have been the reason for this choice: the creators of the movie might have had difficulties obtaining the relevant archive footage. In any case, the German-language advertisements in the stadium suited the setting for the Switzerland–Hungary match, even though Lausanne is in a Francophone region, and not in a German-speaking one. The montage shows Grosics, who is playing goalie, kicking the ball out of the goal, Bozsik doing a crossover, Kocsis dribbling, and Puskás scoring a goal after an assist from Hidegkuti. (This was the second goal of the game, scored in the 17th minute.) The inserted footage showed Bozsik and Hidegkuti, too, but they were not mentioned, only “Puska” and “Kocsi.”

How does the 1957 version portray the same scene? It also features a montage about the most famous victory of the “Golden Team,” the victory over London with a final score of 6 to 3. At the beginning, the initial moments of the match are shown: after the kick-off, Bozsik crosses the ball to László Budai, who passes the ball to Kocsis. The following sequence shows a play involving Bozsik, Zakariás, Bozsik, and Hidegkuti, but Hidegkuti does not score the goal from a distance like he did in Wembley. Instead, there is a cut that is almost impossible to notice, and the scene jumps ahead in time and shows his goal that was disqualified because of an off-sides call. Two goals from the Hungary–England game were thus merged into one. There must have been technical reasons for the creators of the film not to have used Hidegkuti’s goal scored in the first minute of the match. (At least, I cannot come up with any other plausible explanation.) Images of the off-sides goal could not have been used extensively, because the goal was preceded by a play between Puskás and Hidegkuti. The players in the two different footages in the two versions of the film are mostly the same—in both cases, the “Golden Team” was on the pitch—but the commentary is different, as only “Buda,” Bozsik, and Hidegkuti are mentioned by name.

In the subsequent scenes two Hungarian immigrant fraudsters (Jóska and Brúnó) and the freshly appointed soccer officials of Footballia (Admiral Duca and Captain Venturo) meet in the hotel where the Hungarian national team is staying. The scene in which Jóska and Brúnó are trying to sell low-quality fountain pens to the soccer players is a reference to the connections members of the “Golden Team” had with émigré tradesmen, and it also highlights the way Hungarian authorities overlooked cases of smuggling which supplemented the “civilian” wages of the players. Although Duca and Venturo have explicit political intentions and their aim is to reinforce Footballia’s national team with the Hungarian forward, their proposal might also remind us of the extremely generous contracts Western European clubs offered players on the Golden Team. In the original version of The Football Star, Jóska and Brúnó are recommending fountain pens to Puska and Kocsi, but the two stars reply wittily:

 

Puska: The pens are garbage.

Kocsi: The deal is not that urgent.

 

The 1957 version of the film included a revised version of the scene. Brúnó offers the pens to Hidegkuti, who repeats Kocsi’s sentence. However, the scene remains slightly less effective than in the original film, due to Hidegkuti’s moderate acting and the absence of extras behind the actors, who might have lent a cheerful atmosphere to the setting. In the original version, the members of the Hungarian team are shown drinking and chatting in the background.

It is worth noting at this point how Hidegkuti remembered the role he played in the film. Hidegkuti came from a social background that was not preferred by the regime. His name was originally spelled Hidegkuthy (the letters “h” and “y” in this name suggest an aristocratic background), but Gusztáv Sebes suggested he change the spelling in order to fit into the team. The young man, who came from a middle-class social milieu in Óbuda and whose mother was a factory director while his father was a nobleman, came to be represented as the child of a distinguished workwoman. The proletarian version of the family story was presented in newsreels, and this narrative was still remembered well after the end of the Rákosi regime, partly because Hidegkuti’s own autobiography—published in 1962—reinforced this image.40 Jóska’s image as a soccer star is similarly reinforced by a wholly fictitious feature film (!) after he arrives in Footballia. While Hidegkuti’s autobiography does not mention The Football Star, he later claimed that “he was persuaded to appear in the movie when he was told that the filmmakers wanted to do the film with Puskás, but Puskás remained abroad. He was very surprised when he learned that these scenes had already been shot with Puskás.”41 One could question the plausibility of this explanation, but one thing is certain: Hidegkuti replaced Puskás in several scenes in the film, so he had an opportunity to verify the story he had heard from the makers of the film.

Who were the other team members who were shown in the scene in the hotel? The reporter of Gazette de Lausanne approaches Puska and asks him about the victory. Then, he takes a group photo for which the soccer players in the background also come forward. The camera does not show them for too long, so not all of them are recognizable, even when the film is scrutinized frame by frame (many of them stand behind others). Duca and Venturo later try to identify the legendary Puska with the help of a photograph with the names in close-up: Fenyő, Gula, Szibor, Buda, Puska, Kocsi, Bozsi, Lórád, Dalnok, Buza, Tilly, Kotál, Mátra. The slightly altered names refer to Máté Fenyvesi, Géza Gulyás, Zoltán Czibor, László Budai II, Ferenc Puskás, Sándor Kocsis, József Bozsik, Gyula Lóránt, Jenő Dalnoki, Jenő Buzánszky, Lajos Tichy, Antal Kotász, and Sándor Mátrai: the most prominent members of the national team.

In the 1956 version of the film, Puska’s interview is shot with the four characters facing the camera in a line. As the actor performing Jóska left the country in 1956, he needed to be replaced in the new version. The character had to be near the location of the interview, even though the actor could not be used again. The creators solved this problem by making the characters stand in a circle, and Jóska has his back to the camera (thus, the audience does not see that a different actor is playing the part). His lines concerning the words of the soccer star are spoken by Brúnó and addressed to him (“You hear that Jóska? Good training, half a victory”). Hidegkuti thus took on the roles of Puskás and Kocsis, but since the scene with the group photo was not altered, only shortened, he was not actually present in that sequence in the 1957 version of the movie. While the two-second-long scene is hardly noticeable, it is clear that in a physical sense the second version could not completely erase the “dissident” soccer players from the film: a frame by frame analysis shows that Jóska is accompanied by Zoltán Czibor and Ferenc Puskás, and Sándor Kocsis steps forward from behind the curtain.

The scene in which Duca and Venturo falsely identify the forward based on the photo in the daily newspaper had to be altered as well. (The conflict originates in the film when Puska and Jóska are mixed up, and Footballia’s national team hires not the soccer star, but rather the clumsy “civilian.”) The Admiral and his adjutant compare the names below the photo and the soccer players’ faces and they mention the names of “Fenyő, Gula, Szibor, Buda, Puska.” The newly shot version deleted the pictures of the three soccer players and thus condemned them to oblivion. The scene reused the original photo, but they cut Kocsi(s) from the left side of the image. Szibor’s face also disappeared under an unknown man’s visage, while Hidegkuti’s portrait replaced Puskás’s photo. The filmmakers also made sure that, of the names under the picture, only Fenyő, Gula, Bozsi, and Lórád remained legible for the audience, while the names Szibor and Puska were blurred.

After the selection of the “target,” both films jump forward in time to the Hotel Continental again. The scene shows the elegantly dressed Hungarian soccer players strolling in the hotel corridors. The players are led by Czibor and Puskás, although we need to pause the film in order to recognize them. They are followed by a recognizable Buzánszky, Lóránt, Bozsik, and Budai, while Kocsis does not appear in this section of the film. The 12 second-long sequence was included in the 1957 version without any modifications. The subsequent scene, however, was reshot entirely. In the original film Puska is sitting at a table in front of an ornamented fireplace with Brúnó on his right and Jóska on his left. They are having a conversation:

 

Jóska: Mr. Kocsi?

Brúnó: I promised him a dozen [fountain pens] for today.

Puska: A dozen?

Brúnó: He’s got a big family. They say you like to bring home presents.

Puska: Well, a soccer player’s fame does not last forever. One or two years, one or two matches, you have to live with it while it lasts.

The scene has a crucial role in the narrative because Jóska’s and Brúnó’s knowledge of the world of soccer—knowledge on which they rely after they travel to Footballia—consists of what they learn in this dialogue and the Puska interview. On the other hand, Puska’s arguments in favor of smuggling, euphemistically referred to as “buying presents,” fit the film’s aim to rehabilitate and rebuild the myth of the “Golden Team”: it presents the practice of smuggling, but gives a reasonable explanation for it.

The 1957 version presents Brúnó and Hidegkuti in a similar situation. Jóska’s “double” was not smuggled into this scene, so we hear a dialogue:

 

Brúnó: I’ve brought the fountain pens, a dozen.

Hidegkuti: A dozen?

Brúnó: Yes. They say you like to bring home presents.

Hidegkuti: Well, a soccer player’s fame does not last forever. One or two years, one or two matches, you have to live with it while it lasts.

This particular scene from the second version of The Football Star furthered the attempt to erase the figures (and reputations) of Puskás and Kocsis from the world of cinematic fiction by replacing them with Hidegkuti.

Conclusion

The rivalry among communist leaders in Hungary and the rise and fall of Mihály Farkas in particular were inscribed into the representations in the original versions of Try and Win and The Football Star of the interplay of sports, ideology, and politics. The 1951 film attempted to portray the successes of Hungarian sports as the achievement of the new system, erasing all references to the accomplishments in sports under the Horthy regime. The Football Star depicted in a satirical, critical light the propagandistic use of sports and the ways in which sports contributed to the promotion of a system and its leaders. The almost complete elimination of the dissident soccer players from the 1957 version was the inevitable result of the mnemopolitics of the Kádár regime. Since these players were among the 200,000 Hungarian citizens who fled or chose not to remain in Hungary after the fall of the revolution of 1956, their memory had to erased as well. The erasure of the popular soccer players from cinematic representations of the recent past was part of the process of making the memory of 1956 taboo. The film’s premiere in 1957 was not only about the past and its reinterpretation, it was also about the present and the future. The film was first screened in cinemas when life in Budapest had “returned to normalcy”: entertainment venues opened again, the reorganized Hungarian soccer cup was relaunched, the national team was rebuilt, and in September 1957 the team played twice in the People’s Stadium in front of more than 90 thousand people. The film proved prophetic in the sense that its conclusion shows a world in which soccer is part of mass entertainment, and it is no longer used to pursue a direct political agenda. With the Kádár regime this new “world” came into existence. While the making of the second version of The Football Star implies the political intention of radically rewriting and partially erasing the memory of the most successful Hungarian team, the rehabilitation of Ferenc Puskás in the early 1980s and the 1982 documentary about the “Golden Team” attempted to revive memories of the former achievements by emphasizing their importance in soccer history instead of the political context. At this time, the separation of the memory of the Rákosi regime and Hungarian sports of the era began to take form in the public sphere, and the separation of the two remains very much a part of the popular imagination in Hungarian society today.

Bibliography

Clark, Katerina. The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1981.

Dénes, Tamás, Iván Hegyi, and Károly Lakat T. Az otthon zöld füvén: Magyar bajnoki és kupameccsek könyve [On the green grass of home: A book of Hungarian championship and cup matches]. Budapest: MLSZ, 2013.

Dénes, Tamás, Mihály Sándor, and Éva B. Bába. A magyar labdarúgás története III.: Aranykor (1945–1966) [The history of Hungarian soccer 3: The golden age (1945–1966)]. Debrecen: Campus, 2014.

Edelman, Robert. Serious Fun: A History of Spectator Sports in the USSR. New York–Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993.

Esterházy, Péter. “A káprázat országa” [The land of illusion]. In idem. A halacska csodálatos élete [The wonderful life of the little fish], 116–23. Budapest: Pannon, 1991.

Földes, Éva, László Kun, and László Kutasi. A magyar testnevelés és sport története [The history of Hungarian physical education and sports]. Budapest: Sport, 1989.

Frenkl, Róbert, and István Kertész. “A magyar sportirányítás 1945 után” [Hungarian sports management after 1945]. História 17, no. 5–6 (1995): 65–67.

Hidegkuti, Nándor. Óbudától Firenzéig [From Óbuda to Florence]. Budapest: Sport, 1962.

Howell, Reet. “The USSR: Sport and Politics Intertwined.” Comparative Education 11, no. 2 (1975): 137–45.

Hungarian Filmography, Try and Win. MaNDA. Accessed January 19, 2017.

http://mandarchiv.hu/tart/jatekfilm?name=jatekfilm&action=film&id=125000391

Hungarian Filmography, The Football Star. MaNDA. Accessed January 19, 2017.

http://mandarchiv.hu/tart/jatekfilm?name=jatekfilm&action=film&id=70000275

Kisjó. “Magyar színes sportfilm. Civil a pályán” [Hungarian Color Sports Films. Civilian on the Field]. Magyar Nemzet, January 17, 1952.

Majtényi, György. “Czibor, Bozsik, Puskás: Futball és társadalmi legitimáció az ötvenes években” [Czibor, Bozsik, Puskás: Soccer and social legitimization in the 1950s]. Sic Itur ad Astra 24, no. 62 (2011): 219–31.

Méray, Tibor: “Egy történelmi tényről van szó” [A matter of historical fact]. Beszélő 4, no. 16 (1993): 17–19.

Rainer M., János, and Gábor Kresalek. “A magyar társadalom a filmen: Társadalomkép, érték és ideológia” [Hungarian society in film: Image of society, value, and ideology]. Szellemkép 10, no. 2 (1990): n.p..

Riordan, James. Sport, Politics, and Communism. Manchester–New York: Manchester University Press, 1991.

Sipos, Péter. “Sport és politika 1949–1954” [Sports and politics 1949–1954]. História 25, no. 8–9 (2003): 16–20.

Szilágyi, Gábor. Életjel: A magyar filmművészet megszületése 1954–1956 [Sign of life: The birth of Hungarian film arts 1954–1956]. Budapest: Magyar Filmintézet, 1994.

Szegedi, Péter. “A magyar futball európai expanziója, avagy hogyan lettek tanítók a tanítottakból” [The European expansion of Hungarian soccer, or how the students became the teachers]. Szociológiai Szemle 12, no. 2 (2003): 3–41.

Szegedi, Péter. Az első aranykor: A magyar foci 1945-ig [The first golden age: Hungarian soccer until 1945]. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 2016.

Szöllősi, György. Puskás. Budapest: Ringier, 2005.

Varga, Balázs. “Fent és lent: Az ötvenes évek magyar termelési filmjei” [Up and down: The Hungarian films of production of the 1950s]. Art Limes 3, no. 2 (2004): 56–65.

Zsolt, Róbert. Sportpáholy [Sports box]. Budapest: Magvető, 1988.

1 Esterházy, “A káprázat országa,” 121.

2 I use the English title for this film given by the Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute (i.e. The Football Star instead of “The Soccer Star”).

3 Szegedi, Az első aranykor, 437–72.

4 Dénes et al., A magyar labdarúgás története, vol. 3, 25.

5 The Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute offers the following plot summary in English: “Pista Rácz, bearer of the title ‘outstanding workman’ is opposed to all forms of sport, and is especially antagonized by Jóska Teleki, a first-class sportsman, who seems to be a drawback for Rácz’s brigade in terms of worker productivity. In order to please Marika Teleki, however, Pista takes on the role of sports official, and becomes an enthusiastic representative of those that are involved in the development of the sports movement. A reactionary coachman wants to involve Jóska in a plot to sabotage work, and he tries to persuade him to defect to the West. With a last minute decision Jóska restores the reputation of his football team. In the end, Pista and Marika become happy lovers.” Hungarian Filmography, “Try and Win.”

6 Based on the number of tickets sold, this film has become the most popular sports film in Hungary.

7 “Come on, sports-mate, run to the finish line! / Go forward, be strong! / We are competing in the factories, / on the fields, and in the grass of the pitches! / Flags are flying, song is flowing / be happy and be daring! / Up with the chin, sports-mate, be / ready to work and fight! / Summer is here, the pitches are waiting for the young! There is a struggle coming, tally-ho! / Overcome every obstacle!”

8 Howell, “The USSR,” 138–42.

9 Riordan, Sport, Politics, and Communism, 71–72.

10 Földes, Kun and Kutasi, A magyar testnevelés és sport története, 346. Among the characters of Try and Win the young factory worker Lakatos is a fine example of a talent discovered by the MHK.

11 Ibid., 347.

12 The basis of the script was the short story of György Szepesi, Gyula Gulyás, and István Csillag. The first two became well-known sport reporters beginning at the end of the 1940s. They comment on the match on the radio, and they also make appearances in the film.

13 Frenkl and Kertész, “A magyar sportirányítás 1945 után,” 65–67.

14 The scene evokes the genre of news broadcasts with its choreography, quick cuts, and the commentary of two sports reporters.

15 Even though “the official sports governance condemned everything that happened before the liberation” (Zsolt, Sportpáholy, 69), the professional work that was carried out in the period was slightly more complex than that. The knowledge gained before the war was not thrown out the window, but was used within the frameworks of the institutions imported from the Soviet Union. This practice could be seen in the trainer Gusztáv Sebes’s strategic-tactical approach. Sebes was both the captain of the Golden Team and a sports leader who fulfilled a crucial role in the adoption of the communist sport models. Many of the sports in which Hungary was successful were very much a part of Hungarian society between the two World Wars, so in order to ensure that the country could remain competitive internationally in fencing, for instance (between 1924 and 1964, all of the people who won individual Olympic medals in men’s sabre were Hungarian) the regime allowed children of military officers and people from upper middle class backgrounds to pursue a career in competitive sports. Under the Rákosi regime, the curriculum vitae of the captain of the Hungarian fencing team, Dr. Béla Bay, began with the following description of his family background: “My father was a judge, landowner, one of my grandfathers was a hussar officer, landowner, the other was a lawyer and landowner, and even I got my income from the land I owned” (quoted by Zsolt, Sportpáholy, 92–93). Tibor Berczelly, Aladár Gerevich, Pál Kovács, and László Rajcsányi were members of the victorious Hungarian fencing team both in Berlin (1936) and Helsinki (1952). The other two members of the 1936 team could not compete in the Finnish capital. Endre Kabos died during the war, while Imre Rajczy settled in Argentina in 1945.

16 Clark, The Soviet Novel, 167–76.

17 The metaphorical family is united at the end thanks to the cuts: Pista Rácz’s running performance in the pitch is commended by the proud Dunai, who is sitting in the stands, after which Rácz’s mother claims: “This is my son.” Rácz’s mother appears in several scenes of the film, yet his biological father is never represented.

18 Rainer M. and Kresalek, “A magyar társadalom a filmen.”

19 Sipos, “Sport és politika 1949–1954,” 16.

20 Edelman, Serious Fun, 4–6.

21 Ferenc “Bamba” Deák, who shared a similar fate, also appears in the movie. Dénes, Hegyi, and Lakat, Az otthon zöld füvén, 158.

22 Szegedi, “A magyar futball európai expanziója,” 3.

23 Rainer M. and Kresalek, “A magyar társadalom a filmen.”

24 Reviewers were quick to criticize the film because of this: “The plot of the film evokes the trivial and banal situations found in bourgeois comedy.” Ervin Gyertyán, “Civil a pályán: Színes magyar sportfilm,” Népszava, January 12, 1952.

25 It is telling that a reviewer from another daily criticized the performance of actors who did not use the conventions of Social Realism to portray their characters. Kisjó, “Magyar színes sportfilm,” 4.

26 Varga, “Fent és lent,” 56–65.

27 The most typical examples of this are Young at Heart, in which the Soós–Latabár duo appears again, and Penny, the protagonists of which are workers who battle the saboteurs. Both films were made in 1953.

28 “Hogyan lett a kacsából – Veréb?,” Új Szó, August 5, 1954.

29 Dénes, Hegyi, and Lakat, Az otthon zöld füvén, 150–51.

30 The 1994 monograph on the Hungarian film industry between 1954 and 1956 does not refer to the re-shoot and inaccurately claims that the film’s original version featured Hidegkuti. Szilágyi, Életjel, 522.

31 The Hungarian National Digital Archive and Film Institute offers the following plot summary in English: “Cabinet crisis threatens Footballia, due to a series of lost matches. The prime minister gives admiral Duca the task to bring the football star of the Hungarian team presently playing in Switzerland to Footballia. In Switzerland Duca mistakes one of two Hungarian fraudsters (Jóska) to be the star and he ‘buys’ him. Footballia prepares for the decisive match against Rugánia, everyone puts their fate into Jóska. Before the match Duca finds out the trick, and he prepares to get hold of power. During the match total confusion reigns, but Jóska and his mate are able to escape.” Hungarian Filmography, The Football Star.

32 In addition to The Football Star, other Hungarian films of 1956 had a satirical tone, e. g. Tale on the 12 Points (Mese a 12 találatról) and The Empire Gone with a Sneeze (Az eltüsszentett birodalom).

33 This is nonsense from a military perspective, because the rank of rear admiral is a lower rank than the one he had previously held.

34 Whereas Horthy’s tattoo was a detailed depiction of a dragon, Duca’s is only a primitive anchor.

35 The Hungarian team played three matches against Switzerland between 1952 and 1955, and the last of these took place in Lausanne, just like in the movie, but this was “only” the 27th time the two teams faced each other, and the Hungarian team won with a score of 5 to 4 (not 5 to 2).

36 The UEFA moved the second match against Athletic Bilbao to December 20 in Brussels due to the situation in Hungary.

37 Majtényi, “Czibor, Bozsik, Puskás,” 229.

38 Szöllősi, Puskás, 104–05.

39 In the World Cup in 1958, only Grosics was redrafted from the “classic” setup of the Golden Team that played in London in 1953.

40 At dawn, the parents hurry from their modest home to the brick factory. Hidegkuti, Óbudától Firenzéig, 7–11.

41 Méray, “Egy történelmi tényről van szó,” 18.

* This article was supported by the János Bolyai Research Scholarship of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.

2017_2_Menyhért

Volume 6 Issue 2 CONTENTS

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Digital Trauma Processing in Social Media Groups: Transgenerational Holocaust Trauma on Facebook

Anna Menyhért

University of Amsterdam

In recent years, more and more social media (Facebook) groups have been created dealing with memories of the Holocaust in Hungary. In this article, I analyze and compare two groups, “The Holocaust and My Family” and “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust” in the framework of my research project on the concept of digital trauma processing, entitled “Trauma Studies in the Digital Age: The Impact of Social Media on Trauma Processing in Life Narratives and Trauma Literature: the Case of Hungary.” I show how the concept of trauma and trauma processing itself are changing in the digital age as a consequence of the element of sharing (in posts and comments in digital media) gains more importance and thus counteracts the element of silence, which was considered the most important element of trauma on several levels. How does digital sharing of memories of traumas help unblock previously blocked avenues to the past, and how does it contribute to the processing of collective historical traumas and consequently to the mobilization of memories, modernization, and the transformation of identities? I examine how the given characteristics of the different types of Facebook groups, public or closed, influence the ways in which people communicate about a collective historical trauma. I touch upon the issue of research ethics in connection with the handling of sensitive data in social media research. I examine the book The Holocaust and My Family, a collection of posts from the group, and analyze as a case study a post and the related comments, in which a descendant of a perpetrator comes out in the group.

Keywords: collective historical trauma, Holocaust, digital trauma studies, social media, Facebook groups, social media research ethics

“This is tough. It took my breath away.

The first Hungarian to apologise for

the crimes of his/her grandfather.”

(Facebook group post, Commenter ‘7’)

 

“This is not a website of tales. These are the dreadful stories of the dead.”

(Facebook group post, Commenter ‘3’)

 

How does the framework of a social media group influence the ways in which people communicate about a collective historical trauma? What is the impact of digital and social media on trauma processing on the personal and on the collective and transgenerational level? Much as the ways of remembering changed because of the mediating presence of the digital environment, online communities such as blogs and social media groups have provided a radically novel context for both personal and collective trauma processing.1 In this article, I analyze two Facebook groups which were established to commemorate the Holocaust on the micro level. I consider these groups as examples of the ways in which social media are contributing to changes in the concept of trauma in the digital age.

Following the emergence of the concept of digital memories, the perception of trauma changed within cultural trauma studies. The now classic but at the time pioneering works of cultural trauma studies were published in the 1990s, after Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was classified as a disease in 1980 by the American Psychiatric Association.2 Research fell back on early twentieth-century concepts of hysteria and combat neurosis (Freud, Janet) and on recent neuro-biological studies that analyzed the state of the brain in the moments of trauma and over the long term in order to identify enduring effects (van der Kolk), although later some psychoanalytically oriented theories called into question the legitimacy of this kind of neuro-biological approach (Leys). In the first phase, cultural and historically oriented trauma studies examined testimonies collected for the growing Holocaust archives for research on collective memory. Notions and ideas such as “postmemory” (Marianne Hirsch3), “re-traumatization” (Jörn Rüsen4), and the possibility of transmitting trauma by reading (Felman, Laub)5 induced a boom of trauma studies in the 2000s, prompting gender-oriented studies and interpretations of testimonies and life-writing. The field of (digital) memory studies has more recently become a site of increasing research, and, especially in Europe, this development coincided with a growing academic interest in the recent history of Eastern Europe. The volume Save As… Digital Memories launched digital memories as a new scholarly field that takes the influence of new media into account, particularly memory mediation and mobile forms of memory. The collection Memory, Conflict and New Media: Web Wars in Post-Socialist States further expanded the field by examining post-totalitarian digital memory practices, highlighting their differences from Western European approaches. The former tend to counteract official practices of “collective cultural forgetting” of the traumatic past in post-socialist states.6

In order to map the impact of the digital environment and digital media on understandings of trauma, I will examine the role of silence, one of the central concepts of cultural trauma studies. The three phases of recovery from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as generally defined in the psychological field since the 1990s are the following: 1. reconstituting the survivor’s feeling of security; 2. reconstructing the trauma narrative; 3. reestablishing the relationships of the survivor and integrating him/her into the community.7 Until recently, the second phase was of interest for literary and cultural trauma studies. In other words, these studies tended to focus on interpretations of texts produced during trauma processing and recovery and the investigation of (adequate) reading strategies. The digital era has brought the third phase into greater prominence in the public sphere, with the instant responses and, hence, dialogues made possible through social media. The practice of sharing traumatic experiences online (in blogs, social networking groups) and reacting to them (in comments and chats) eliminates the element of silence thought to be inherent in trauma on the one hand as its basic characteristic feature (meaning the victim is unable to speak about it) and on the other as a cause of secondary traumatization, when others do not or are not able to listen to the victim, and even on a third level as an official oppressive or tabooing practice (by a totalitarian regime). As silence has been considered a crucial element in most definitions of trauma, this change in focus has the potential to redefine trauma in connection with practices of sharing in digital media.

In contrast with the earlier conception of trauma as fixed in time and space, unspeakable, and beyond representation and mediation, trauma in the digital age is considered multiply configured and represented, multidimensional, diverse, and shared in the digital space (see Figure 1).8

This article was written as part of my larger research project entitled “Trauma Studies in the Digital Age: The Impact of Social Media on Trauma Processing in Life Narratives and Trauma Literature: The Case of Hungary.” The project introduces, defines, and develops the new field of digital trauma studies, which investigates the impact of social media on trauma processing, among other themes. One of the initial hypotheses of the research project is the concept of “frozen currents” or “blocked avenues,” metaphors which refer to certain unresolved collective traumas, a series of events in the twentieth century (World War I and Trianon Peace Treaty, World War II and the Holocaust, the totalitarian dictatorship and the socialist regime and its fall) which hindered modernization in Hungary and Eastern Europe.9 I argue that there are sociological forces that can be mobilized in order to further efforts to overcome traumatic retellings of the historical memory of the twentieth century.

As a consequence of the aforementioned change in the ways in which trauma is perceived in the digital age, digitally mediated trauma processing could be a way to “thaw” “frozen currents” or at least to allow the existence of parallel or multiple versions of traumatic history: official, rigid versions, determined by oppressive ideologies of the past and present, as opposed to other versions, created by communities, civil society, and artists. The latter versions are versatile, mobile, emotionally active, and capable of prompting responses that encourage and facilitate the processing of traumas. One still current example is the now famous living monument on Budapest’s Liberty Square, a collection of letters, photographs, books, personal effects which belonged to victims of the Holocaust in Hungary, and an array of other items. The monument is a poignant response to and quiet rebuke of a monument erected hastily by the state in 2014. The official monument is a statue of an eagle swooping down on a statue of the archangel Gabriel. The eagle represents Germany, and the archangel Gabriel represents Hungary. The implication of the official monument is that Hungary was an innocent victim of German occupation in March 1944, rather than a willing accomplice of Nazi Germany, both in the war effort against the Soviet Union and in the deportation of the Hungarian Jewry. I analyze the relationship between the state’s “Monument to the Victims of the German Occupation” (this is the text at the base of a tympanum above the two statues) and the Living Memorial and the corresponding Facebook group created by protesting civilians in another paper.10 Both studies aim to show that digital trauma processing could be a means to clear officially and ideologically blocked avenues to the traumatic past and induce social and cultural change.

Over the course of the past few years, more and more Facebook groups have been created as forums for the sharing of memories of the Holocaust in Hungary (and in other countries).11 Characteristic examples include the groups named “The Holocaust and My Family,” “The Roma Holocaust and My Family,” “The Living Memorial,” and “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust.” Online support groups are powerful examples of the linking capacity of social media. The experiences I gained as a member of two such groups, “The Holocaust and My Family” and “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust,” are very important for me. I joined the groups initially out of personal interest, but soon realized their importance in connection with my research, and I came to have a sense of the potential new insights that could be gained from observing these groups, so since then, I have been participating in the role of a “digital participant observer,” i.e. as an anthropologist doing digital fieldwork.12 By participating, I was able to read previously unshared family stories and see pictures of lost family members of people in the group and pictures of family documents, including false identity cards. I have seen how group members were able to connect with one another by discovering connections to a shared past which had hitherto been unknown to them. They established links to the family members or acquaintances of the same victims. Connections were often built upon spaces and locations which had been shared by victims, such as ghettos, labor camps, the yellow star houses of Budapest (designated buildings in Budapest into which, in the summer of 1944, Jews of the city where compelled to move), the deportation journeys, and spaces within the concentration camps.

It was emotionally burdensome to watch people use ordinary measures to establish connections when in fact what had prompted them to do so was the deaths of many loved ones. It was equally moving to see that the establishment of contacts provided some comfort for them. Members felt supported in their shared search for links based on evocations of memories of those who “have not returned” (a phrase frequently used to refer to those who were deported to and perished in concentration camps). Communities have been established, communities which have become places to share, and which had not been able to emerge over the course of decades because of the silence surrounding the collective trauma on all three (aforementioned) levels and its manifold impact on several generations.

The two Facebook groups in question seem very similar at a first glance, especially because their memberships overlap. However, in spite of the fact that members discuss more or less the same themes and the intersections or parallels occur even on the individual narrative level, there are significant differences between the groups. I will describe the differences and similarities, and I will try to account for them in connection with the differing rules of their media platform: the different types of social media groups.

Facebook, the most visited social media site in the world with its 1.86 billion monthly active users (in the fourth quarter of 2016),13 has provided the digital era with many concepts, practices, and functions that have not remained within the boundaries of a digital medium, but have had an influence on our non-digital lives. Liking, friending, and unfriending have gathered weight in the identity formation processes of digital/post-digital generations, as has the constant urge to share information about ourselves and gain approval as measured by the number of likes we have received.14 The Facebook lifestyle expects members to post and share in order to have more catching material on their timelines, with life stories organized in a linear way. This expectation often clashes with the needs for privacy protection, not least because sharing is also a marketing tool for Facebook. Companies and individuals with Facebook pages are willing to pay to get more likes and shares. Commercially or politically aimed sharing differs from sharing private information and sensitive data within a supportive Facebook group, yet both types of sharing are fundamentally digital in nature and constitute the two far ends of the sharing scale, with many variants within the world of social media.

Consequently, for any research on the role of sharing within social media groups in trauma processing it is interesting to consider the extent to which the Facebook framework can determine the nature of interaction within the groups. The main difference between the types of Facebook groups, due to their different privacy settings, is that in the case of public groups anyone can see what members post, whereas in the case of closed groups only members can see the posts and any other mention of the stories posted in the group.15 The second difference is that anyone can join a public group or be added or invited by a member, whereas anyone can ask to join a closed group or to be added or invited by a member. In the case of both public and closed groups, anyone can see the group’s name, its description, its tags, and the list of the members, and anyone can find it via search. (The third type of Facebook group is secret groups, which cannot be seen, noticed, or visited without an invitation from the admins. Membership, furthermore, requires an invitation from a member and the approval of an admin, and only current and former members can see the group’s name, description, and tags or find it in search. Finally, only current members can see other members and read posts and stories about the group.)16

Thus public Facebook group members are aware of the fact that their posts might reach anyone. Closed Facebook group members allow only other group members to see what they post. With reference to the very new area of social media research ethics in a humanities context, posts posted in closed Facebook groups constitute sensitive data which need privacy protection, whereas posts in open Facebook groups belong more to the domain of copyright issues, thus different types of Facebook groups need different research approaches with regards to copyright and protection of personal data.17 Consequently, in the course of my research, I will cite posts that were posted in closed groups only anonymously and with the explicit and informed consent of the members.

The Facebook group called “The Holocaust and my Family” (https://www.facebook.com/groups/holokauszt.csaladom/) is a public group that has approximately 7,200 members (as of September 27, 2016). This group was founded by Mátyás Eörsi in 2014, the year which the Hungarian government made an official Holocaust memorial year. Disagreements, disputes, debates, and protests surrounded the government’s controversial commemoration plans, especially the aforementioned Memorial to the Victims of the German Occupation, which was erected after prolonged protests secretly, as if in a night raid, on July 20, 2014.18 Civilian protesters organized their responses through a Facebook group called “Living Memorial” [Eleven emlékmű], and this led to the founding of other groups, such as “The Holocaust and My Family.” As is stated in the description of the latter group on Facebook, “‘thanks to’ the memory politics of the government, more and more stories have come to light recently, stories that had been kept in silence or secret within families, stories which should not be forgotten.” Another predecessor of this group was the Facebook page of the Open Society Archives project entitled “Yellow Star Houses,” which attracted 4,000 people in the first three days of its existence in 2014. 2,000 apartment buildings were marked with a yellow star in June 1944 in Budapest, and Jewish people were gathered and forced to make their residences in these buildings. Within the framework of the “Yellow Star Houses” project, around 1,600 of these buildings were marked with a yellow star sticker in 2014, and a map with background material was made available online.19 People started to comment on the project’s Facebook page, and then the Holocaust Facebook groups were set up.

The choice of the group type within Facebook’s framework, i.e. that this group is a public one, had several implications. In the description of the group, the founding admin clearly states the reasons for their decision, which are connected to their long-term aims with respect to the legacy of the Holocaust in Hungary:

 

This is going to be a public group. We have made this decision after long debates. Although we understand fears, we opted for the public group because one of our aims is to break with the culture of silence. Our parents and grandparents tried to hide their Jewishness, did not talk about their sufferings, and we could and still can see what this attitude had led to. We cannot accept that the descendants of victims keep their silence whereas the descendants of perpetrators are loud. That is why we will not change our minds about the public nature of this group. We understand those who are unwilling to participate because of this, and we are sorry. If they wish, they can have me post their stories anonymously.

 

The openness of the public group determines ways of communication within the group: the general atmosphere among members, their rules, and also the group’s outputs that do not remain within the digital sphere. This group has clearly set rules of referencing and quoting which basically are the same as academic citation methods, in accordance with copyright law.

On April 22, 2015, admin Zsuzsa Hetényi posted the group’s rules concerning the practice of citing posts, and she informed group members that she had previously consulted Artisjus, the Hungarian copyright agency/collecting society and asked for a legal recommendation concerning the practice of citing the group’s posts. She indicated that Artisjus advised the group that the texts posted in a public Facebook group have a status similar to the legal and copyright status of a book. Copyright and authors’ rights of posts and comments belong to their authors and to the admins (as editors). Consequently, one needs the consent of the authors in order to publish these materials partially or fully. However, short excerpts of the posts can be freely cited for research purposes with the appropriate reference method: with the name of the author of the post, the date it was posted, and the Facebook group, in this case Hetényi and Eörsi, eds., “The Holocaust and My Family.”

The group reached out to the general non-digital public in several ways: they organized a Marathon reading in Central Theatre in Budapest on May 13, 2014, during which guests were able to enter anytime to listen to stories, light a candle, and remember, as well as a Remembrance Day on May 4, 2014 in Budapest’s Rumbach Sebestyén street Synagogue, with readings based on the posts.

Saving the posts outside Facebook and archiving stories that had not been made public before or had been kept secret within families the members of which had not talked about their past and their Jewish roots became one of the most important goals of the group very early after its creation. On February 10, 2014, Kriszta Bíró posted the question, “SOMEONE is archiving what is going on here, aren’t they?” It turned out that arrangements had already been made, and several members, led by academic György C. Kálmán, had already started saving data from the posts into archives.20

A collection of selected posts and comments were published, together with essays analyzing the group and its impact on Holocaust memory in Hungary, in a book entitled The Holocaust and My Family.21 The editors grouped selected posts in thematic blocks in nine chapters representing the most common topics. The chapters are “Survivors,” “Second Generation,” “Grandchildren,” “Jews in Rural Hungary,” “Jews in Budapest,” “Women,” “Mixed Families,” “Gentiles,” and “Rescuers.” An introductory chapter, serving as a kind of motto, entitled “The 70th Anniversary – If Only Zuckerberg Knew,” consists of a post followed by a long thread of comments. (In a somewhat paradoxical way, the last chapter actually endorses the narrative embodied by the Memorial to the Victims of the German Occupation on Liberty Square, as it suggests that the Holocaust in Hungary only started after the occupation of the country by the Wehrmacht in March 1944. It thus ignores the massacre of Kamianets-Podilskyi in August 1941 during which approximately 23,600 Jews were killed. While for the members of the Facebook group 2014 certainly marked the 70th anniversary of the Holocaust, it needs to be highlighted that anti-Semitic atrocities in Hungary had started before the German occupation of the country.)22

This thread is a characteristic example of the way in which digital media/social media allows for new ways of communication, and it calls attention to the impact Facebook can have on collective ways of processing trauma by establishing contacts and networks and furthering recognition. It is also significant that the thread begins with an anecdote which serves as a focal point for a whole web of interconnected ideas, associations, and memories. Vera Surányi posted an anecdote about a Jewish doctor, who, after having returned to his home town from Theresienstadt, is called to see a patient in his home. To the patient’s anxious relatives he says, “Don’t worry, he will recover, but the bed he is lying in is mine.” Another member of the group, István Békés, recognized the doctor in the anecdote as his father. Békés’ family members noticed the post and also commented on it. Then the discussion continued about “lost and found” pieces of furniture. Then, people who had lived in the same neighborhood as children exchanged posts about how these furniture-cases were connected to the silence about the Holocaust and the taboos on Jewish identities. András J. Surányi added that while he did not know about his family being Jewish, he knew his friend’s family was a Jewish family. They then mention a famous actor who also lived in the same neighborhood as a child. He was the son of a housekeeper family and has by now become a prominent theater director and a radical right-wing personality. This is how the topic, which had prompted comments which were not devoid of innuendo (housekeepers of big blocks of flats were in many instances connected to the Arrow Cross party in 1944 and/or were notorious for taking possession of belongings left behind by Jewish people when they were taken to the ghettos or the concentration camps), arrives at the issue of the 70th anniversary of the Holocaust and, in connection with that, the topic of the current political situation in Hungary. The thread ends with a post by Eszter Babarczy, who says “this is the most wonderful comment thread I have ever read, if only Zuckerberg knew.” The whole thread is not published in the book, i.e. on Facebook it continues after Babarczy’s comment. It can be looked up in the group (it was posted on March 20, 2014, and it has 136 comments). The associations and interconnections continue and develop new sub-threads, such as the topic of the varying extents to which members of different social classes were attached to furniture, and how it was easier for families who belonged to certain social classes, such as the intelligentsia, to leave their belongings behind and escape, “carrying” their main capital, i.e. their knowledge and experience, with them. A commenter named Balázs Láng has suggested that such comment threads form a new genre, the “comment-novel,” similar to the epistolary novel; then literary works are mentioned which are in some way connected to the topic of returning from the camps; then writers who died in the Holocaust are remembered; then the topic of whether Jews can be recognized by their “Jewish” appearance, or whether a Jewish person can know if someone else is also Jewish because of some kind of subtle connection to a shared past. This post is a characteristic example of the associative-wandering-multi-focused manners of communication through comments in a social media group, with sharing as a key element in digital trauma processing (see Figure 1).

The group has been significantly less active since the publication of the book and the events connected to it (such as the Marathon reading): it seems that the group has reached its aim. In a certain sense, the activities and the achievements of this group are pointing outside the group, and towards the close of an era: the era of silence surrounding the Holocaust in Hungary, as it was expressed in the initial description of the group cited above. The “Holocaust and My Family” Facebook group works essentially from digital toward/back to(?) the non-digital, linking achievements gained in the virtual space to reality. Katalin Fenyves, the editor of the book The Holocaust and My Family, characterized the book as an “imprint of collective memory,” and a narrative of “the common history of a community.”23 This group talks about the past and links memories to the present in order to create a community in which it becomes possible to tell a story, and telling the story makes it possible to acknowledge and process the traumatic past within the Jewish community and raise awareness among the larger non-Jewish public.

One of the questions that can be asked is how people as members of an online community remember and evoke the memory of historical trauma, and how they remember the stories behind the trauma that might or might not have been passed on to them. According to Aleida Assmann, “remembering trauma evolves between the extremes of keeping the wound open on the one hand and looking for closure on the other.”24 She differentiates between four ways of “dealing with the traumatic past,” among which “remembering in order to forget” describes best the Facebook group “The Holocaust and My Family”: remembering in such cases is a “therapeutic tool to cleanse, to purge, to heal, to reconcile.” Assmann links this practice to transitions from dictatorship to democracy in a South African context on a state level, stressing that the confrontation with traumatic history has the specific goal of “creat[ing] a shared moral consensus.”25 A similar goal of working through the legacy of silence is present in the Facebook group “The Holocaust and My Family.” In this digital community, remembering is a tool with which to mobilize memories in order to build a host forum which makes it possible to share memories. The group aims to further the sharing of memories within the community and form a shared communal identity. The name of the group, which includes the word “family,” is expressive of the intention to deal with the past on a family/community memory level. This is a gesture of inclusion via family history, accepting macro history via micro-history, in order to gain access to the micro-histories of others so as to interlink members and develop a network which can collectively approach a past which had been closed off from them by silence and tabooing. The result is a multi-perspective, multi-centered, shared story with common elements as nodal points which is easier to access and accept for the members of the community. This story offers the reassurance of understanding, which may help victims of trauma find some closure to the painful past and further efforts to work through trauma. The decrease in the level of activity after the publication of the book of the stories collected from the posts confirms the hypothesis that the group was heading for a certain closure, and the outcome of this quest found form in a book which represents the community, overcomes transgenerational taboos, and addresses the public.

In the group, “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust” the main tendencies and the general atmosphere are different. It is a closed group with around 3,760 members (as of September 27, 2016). In this group, disagreements, debates, emotionally loaded posts, comments, and even outbursts are more common, and frequently the disagreements concern the group itself: its way of working and its rules, the position and role of members within the group, and the ways in which they interact. As opposed to the other group, this group does not have the clear-cut aim of framing, telling, and interlinking stories of families. It is more concerned with individual and transgenerational identity issues: the identity of the members as descendants of Holocaust victims and survivors, the problems raised by their legacies, and identity on the group level. While “The Holocaust and My Family” collects stories and shares them publicly, and thus deals with the past so as to free the present from its long-term negative impact by incorporating the stories as finalized by the multi-perspective narration, the “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust” focuses on the present as defined by the past and on the ways in which traumas have shaped present identities. According to the description of the group, it deals with: “everything about our mothers/fathers/grandparents in this topic, and the related individual or social second-generation and third-generation traumas, the ways in which they find form, and consequences.”

This group does not provide rules for referencing and citing posts. As it is a closed group, keeping in mind the necessity of informed consent and the protection of privacy and sensitive data, I talked to one of the admins on the phone about my research aims, and we agreed that I would seek the consent of the group members to analyze and quote their posts and comments anonymously. I posted a request for consent, described my research, provided contact information, and promised to contact individually the members whose posts I intended to cite, but who would not have given their consent in a comment to my post. Many people indicated in their comments that they welcomed my research, and some of them asked to be informed as to which of their comments I would use.

When analyzing specific comments, I will refer to group members by numbers, and I will not give the dates of the posts in order to ensure the protection of sensitive data. I will refer to each commenter as “(s)he,” “her/him,” and “their” so as not to reveal their gender. The original posts were in Hungarian. All translations and paraphrases are mine. Some of the posts have since been deleted from the group. Raw data collected from the posts is archived according to the Data Management Plan of my research project. It can be shared upon request, after careful consideration of individual requests and only for research purposes.

With regards to reconnecting to the offline mode of relations, as opposed to the public readings organized by the other group, members of this group meet informally and focus on personal connections. On the level of the social media framework, the closed Facebook group is a good fit for this purpose, as well as for the main theme of the group, which seems to be sharing in connection with inclusion and exclusion and group identity. The theme is observable as a general ambivalence and in the oscillation between the need for secrecy and the need for publicity. It is also pertinent to the one specific—and not typical—story thread, the confession of the grandchild of a perpetrator, which I will analyze in detail.

The question of “who has a place in the group” was raised several times by Member 3. (S)he wished to have recommendations for new commenters, adding that everyone was welcome, but (s)he was somewhat mistrustful. Secondly, as the level of distrust grew, (s)he expressed discomfort over many members “disappearing,” and (s)he asked new members to indicate in their posts why they had joined the group. As (s)he explained, “I wouldn’t like some people being interested in our stories in order to read crime stories.” It is interesting to note the use of the word “disappear” in this context: pointing, on the one hand, to unfamiliarity with the workings of an online group, where members come and go, are active or remain passive as they wish, and may well be “fakes,” i.e. people who have been dishonest (possibly entirely so) in their profiles. On the other hand, the increasing anxiety in the posts derives from the traumatic memories of past persecutions which are being triggered by the insecurity felt at not being able to control who has access to members’ painful and sensitive stories. Such anxieties were mentioned in the introductory description of the other group “The Holocaust and My Family,” which opted to be public, regardless of these kinds of fears. It seems that even the framework of the closed group is problematic with respect to fears deriving from the long-term impact of past traumas. Consequently, when Commenter 3 posted for the third time about the wish to identify members, the issue of the potential clash of the religious identity of posting members and silent onlookers came up, and, even though the remark is tinted with self-reflexive, self-doubting tones, the strong sense of feeling threatened connected to victim/survivor vs group identity based on religious differences is unmistakable: “Maybe I am a maniac, but I am asking yet again our Christian friends who joined us to explain why they are with us. We have revealed many things about ourselves, but don’t know anything about those who are not survivors or descendants. I am interested!” As a reaction to this post, many members introduced themselves, but only a fraction of the whole membership. Some people were offended. They did not wish to be checked up on, as they felt that this kind of inquiry constituted an unwelcome inspection which a Jewish community against segregation and racism in particular should not practice. Thus, debates followed, with some people leaving the group and later returning, including the original poster.

The “us” and “them” dichotomy, which is part of universal identity formation processes, is also linked to the legacies of the traumatic past in Hungary. Group identities are often shaped by “chosen traumas” (Vamik Volkan) and the legacies of traumatic experiences in society.26 The “us” and “them” dichotomy is internalized by Hungarian children as early as elementary school, and it is prevalent in everyday identity discourses, in which members of the out-group (“them”) are often presented as unaccountable or unknown aliens or hostile and even vindictive strangers. The pervasiveness of this dichotomy is reflected in the tendency to rely on personal contacts through societal interactions, in order to remain within the boundaries of the in-group (“us”). The Facebook group discussed above represents these kinds of identification processes: the acceptance of new members—i. e. allowing them to become one of “us’”—is now being done via personal recommendations, according to a decision made by the group admins almost two years after the issue was first raised.

The theme of inclusion and exclusion was central to the instance when a grandchild of a perpetrator confessed in the group (Commenter 1). In fact, (s)he had done so in the other group, “The Holocaust and My Family,” some months earlier, in a comment on somebody else’s post about why people kept silent during the Holocaust and why they were silent later. (S)he said that (s)he felt guilty and responsible. The group accepted the confession calmly and offered encouragement. Commenter 1 mentioned that (s)he would understand if (s)he were to be excluded from the group, but others said that exclusion was not a solution, and they thanked him/her for his/her confession. In the group “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust” the same confession generated different, emotionally loaded reactions. The confession was the following:

 

I am not the descendant of victims or survivors. I am the grandchild of a perpetrator: my grandfather took part in the deportation of Jews from Pécs. As an officer, he was supposed to bring food to the around 5,000 Jews huddled together in the Lakits barrack. He did not do so, he sold the food instead. Because of what he did, some of the people waiting in the barrack did not survive the transport: they starved to death. Among the victims there were four children. After the war he was not called to account, he lost his captaincy only due to his activities in 1956. He died of a stroke in 1967.

His death was not peaceful: somebody shuffled a Bible to him and hid a plastic skeleton dummy in the pages. I remember only this, I was 8 years old at the time. My mother died when I was 37. That’s when I got his letters. That’s when I learned who my grandfather really was.

Obviously I won’t be able to ask for forgiveness for unforgiveable sins. I only would like the souls of murderers and victims to rest in peace until the Last Judgement. And if you now have me excluded from this group I will understand.

 

In an interesting remark added later as a comment to the original post, the poster mentions the group “The Holocaust and My Family” in the context of inclusion-exclusion. The person posting suggests that the person who posted the confession must have been “removed” from “The Holocaust and My Family.” Later, however, in another comment, the poster confirms that the person who made the confession is still a member of “The Holocaust and My Family.”

The confession of the original poster was followed by a long discussion consisting of hundreds of comments which touched on many dimensions of the long-term impact of the transgenerational Holocaust trauma. I will cite a few examples as part of this case study focusing on the themes of sharing the burden of the past, inclusion-exclusion, and group identity. (Phrases referring to the themes are underlined.)

 

Well, there is no forgiveness and no peace between murderers and victims in any way. I will not sign such a peace treaty at the expense of the victims, and I don’t agree with it at all. I reject even the intention of mentioning innocent victims together with hangmen. Thus, if you want to get into this group with this intention then you are not in the right place. My victims will never reunite with the souls of hangmen, not even via the mediation of the holy spirit. (Commenter 2)

 

Hi! Gosh! I never would have thought that I would read such a text and that someone would dare [post it] and, moreover, to this group! For a minute I was dumb… I am also a grandchild, although my gran survived, but her little boy did not! He starved. It is difficult to speak, to write anything as a reply to your post, there isn’t a single day when I don’t think of that little boy, and those awful people who did that to my family. But, as we know, it is never too late, I wouldn’t say that you have a place in our group, but the fact that someone has told this story is something. Everyone will be punished in their own way sooner or later, just like your grandfather before his death. (Commenter 5)

 

[The poster] is obviously not responsible for the sins of his/her grandfather. I appreciate that (s)he doesn’t want to excuse and falsify the past! (Our present government is not responsible for the sins of the Horthy regime. So they should not falsify the past either…) [The poster] has this heavy bequest from his/her ancestors: the guilt that (s)he should not be feeling. We have a different inheritance: the inheritance of suffering and painful absence. And here we meet at this point, in this place, in virtual space. And the descendants can see the human being in the other from both sides. (What [The poster’s] grandfather did not see, did not sense.) It is an unsettling, strange situation… (Commenter 6)

 

This is tough. It took my breath away. The first Hungarian to apologize for the crimes of his/her grandfather. (Commenter 7)

 

I am greeting the first Hungarian convert shakenly but with pleasure and with the respect that courage deserves. I am requesting her/him to stay, to endure patiently and without anger if (s)he is attacked here. There isn’t anybody else whom those in deep pain could stone. We, who are able to do so, can be friends. (Commenter 8)

 

I understand this, but I state clearly that we are here only because of our own dead, not for others, and we do not wish to allow perpetrators to get close to them even in their death. (Commenter 2)

If you exclude him/her, I will understand, but I will leave the group as well. Nobody is born to be a sinner. I shouldn’t be explaining this to Jewish people. (Commenter 8)

 

Perpetrators are victims as well, if someone doesn’t understand this, they shouldn’t engage in this subject. (Commenter 9)

 

The original poster offered the following response in a second post:

 

I asked to join this group to learn about the wrongs suffered by the descendants of victims. Many say that I am not responsible for the deeds of my grandfather. I don’t agree. (…) I carried this burden from 1996 till last year, that is, for 18 years. And I did not talk about it. (…) I am responsible, and my children are responsible, and my grandchildren will be, too. (….)(Commenter 1)

 

This thread of posts shows how online support groups predominantly work on resolving trauma on the secondary/tertiary level, i.e. trauma which originally was the consequence of the failure to recognize or acknowledge the sufferings of victims and survivors, including non-emphatic reactions of individuals at the time, as well as the silence and tabooing of the decades of the communist era. Historical trauma did not conclude in collective processing. Rather, it was pushed back to the individual level, with everyone carrying their own burden and passing it on as a legacy of post-traumatic symptoms, guilt, mourning, and loneliness to their offspring. But this unintentional bequeathal included not only the descendants of victims, but also the descendants of perpetrators, witnesses, and bystanders. As time passes, boundaries of identities become less clear-cut, resulting in the “trans-generational intersections of identities,” which is a new term I have coined in my research referring to the processes of identity changes and identity intersections related to the roles traditionally listed in the so-called trauma grid.27 Several studies—and also the thread of posts above—show that the descendants of perpetrators are also affected by traumatization.28 In one of the comments in the above cited thread of posts a commenter draws attention to the digital sphere as a meeting place. In this case, the group takes one step further: they meet and integrate a descendant of a perpetrator into the “carrier group”29 of the collective trauma.

Sharing traumatic experiences online in a support group means that there are others “listening,” i.e. the second and third stages of recovery (reconstruction of the trauma narrative, reintegration in a community)30 can be reached at the same time. A study by Michaelle Indian Rachel and Grieve published in 2014 shows that “socially anxious individuals” prefer online support groups to face-to-face meetings.31 One of the reasons for this, in addition to the opportunity to remain anonymous and the ability to withdraw anytime from contact without consequences, is that there is usually a large number of people “around,” and thus in all (mathematical) likelihood posts will be met with at least some emphatic responses. Those unable to comment on or recognize the traumas of the other will remain silent, but this will not be noticeable online, thus their silence will not become un-recognition, and it will not constitute a wall of indifference or lead to secondary traumatization (although the lack of secondary traumatization might be considered illusory, as keeping silent might be a way of shirking the ethical call to respond and thus allowing the silent party to avoid either confronting or denying the trauma of the other). In an article about the transformation of Jewish identity in Hungary in relation to the “strategy of silence” over the Holocaust and Jewish roots and identity practiced by survivors and the remaining Jewish community in communist Hungary, the authors (Erős et al.) cite a respondent who remembers his father, a survivor, as “not existing inside.” The respondent felt the burden of inherited trauma in the “inhibitions within internal family life.” “In a certain sense,” the respondent commented, “this made my family dead.”32 It is a common practice in online support groups, especially closed and secret Facebook groups, to call the group a “family” or a “hive” (“mamahives” are very common), and members often come to regard the group as an extended family. As we have seen in the examples of the Facebook groups discussed here, in a certain sense online group communication can function as a substitute for lost “internal” family life. The group “The Holocaust and My Family” enables its members to accept their family as/even though they are lost. By sharing their loss, they become members of a new, digital family of people who have suffered a loss, and this fact becomes part of their identity. The concept of family is reinterpreted in this process, so that in its new sense it can become the receptive environment for recognition of transgenerational intersections of identities, enabling dialogue among the descendants of the different groups affected by the trauma of the past.

One of the members in the group “The Descendants of the Victims and Survivors of the Holocaust” sent me a private message welcoming my research, in particular because she feels that she cannot process the trauma related to her Holocaust survivor grandparents, whom she did not even know. When she attempts to confront this trauma, she only becomes upset and cries over and over again, even though she is a member of several groups. Further research is needed to investigate whether the digital environment can offer solutions to such problems, and whether trauma processing in online support groups on the collective level can be directed back to the individual level.

 

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1 Garde-Hansen, Hoskins, and Reading, Save As… Digital Memories; Neiger, Meyers, and Zandberg, On Media Memory.

2 American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

3 Hirsch, “Surviving Images.”

4 Rüsen, “Trauma and Mourning.”

5 Felman and Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature.

6 Rutten, “Why Digital Memory Wars.”

7 Herman, Trauma and Recovery.

8 Arthur, “Trauma Online;” Idem, “Memory and Commemoration.”

9 Menyhért, “The Image of ‘Maimed Hungary’.”

10 Menyhért, “Stone vs Debris.”

11 See for example: Facebook groups of 2G Second Generation Holocaust Survivors and Grandchildren of Holocaust Survivors.

12 Markham, Fieldwork in Social Media.

13 Statista.com website.

14 van Dijck, The Culture of Connectivity.

15 See Facebook’s settings page.

16 According to privacy settings of Facebook as of December 10, 2016.

17 Ryan, Emerson, and Robertson, The Johns Hopkins Guide to Digital Media.

18 Braham, “Hungary: The Assault on the Historical Memory of the Holocaust.”

19 Ivacs, “Digital Trauma Archives.”

20 Kálmán, “A Holokauszt-csoport mint Facebook-esemény.”

21 Fenyves and Szalay, A Holokauszt és a családom.

22 I would like to thank Thomas Cooper for this observation.

23 Ónody-Molnár, “A holokauszt és a családom.”

24 Assmann, “From Collective Violence to a Common Future,” 39–40.

25 Ibid., 37, 39, 40.

26 Bibó, “Eltorzult magyar alkat, zsákutcás magyar történelem;” Volkan, “Transgenerational Transmissions and Chosen Traumas.”

27 Johnson and Lubin, Principles and Techniques.

28 Rosenthal, The Holocaust in Three Generations; Bar-On, “Holocaust Perpetrators and Their Children.”

29 Giesen, Triumph and Trauma.

30 Herman, Trauma and Recovery.

31 Indian and Grieve, “When Facebook is Easier than Face-to-face.”

32 Erős, Vajda, and Kovács, “Intergenerational Responses,” 319.

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Figure 1. Definitions of Trauma 1990s–2010s

2017_2_Réti

Volume 6 Issue 2 CONTENTS

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Past Traumas and Future Generations: Cultural Memory Transmission in Hungarian Sites of Memory

Zsófia Réti

University of Debrecen

Now that we have reached the mid-2010s, a new generation of Hungarian citizens has grown up; the first Hungarian adults to have absolutely no memory of the state socialist period. It is not only a matter of “reconciliation,” “coming to terms with the past,” or “confessing the past” that are at stake here, but also making the past relevant to people who were born too late to experience it. Due to their lack of information, this generation is extremely susceptible to the various, often contradictory interpretations of the past, and because of their age, they bear the specific characteristics of the so-called Gen Z, the digital natives. How is the communist legacy represented to them? What are the primary media of historical knowledge transmission about the Kádár era? What are its main claims, what kinds of narratives are being presented, and how do young people react to these narratives? How does narrating the communist past affect the national identity of the youth? These are the primary questions I seek to answer in this essay. In addition to all the hardships and horrors of the twentieth century (World War I and II, 1956), there is one more trauma that post-socialist Hungarian society needs to deal with: the cultural rupture of 1989/90, which burned all the bridges between past and future, rendering all at once the language of parents unintelligible to their children and changing the ways in which the traumas of the past were contextualized in Hungarian cultural memory. Based on this fundamental assumption, in this essay I compare the practices adopted by the two most prominent Hungarian communism-related memory projects: the House of Terror and Memento Park. I combine two methods—discourse analysis of the written materials found in the two museums and semi-structured interviews with teenagers—in order to provide a balanced, interdisciplinary approach to the topic.

The two museum spaces in question present very different segments of Hungarian cultural memory. More precisely, they reflect on different pasts. The interplay and interference of memories related to the early and the late periods of the Kádár era, which are on display in the two museums, along with the reaction of young people to these memories provide fertile grounds for an examination of collective memory practices related to both the “system change” and the preceding period. I conclude by considering the possible ways, good practices, and existing solutions to the transmission of the traumatic experiences of the recent and not so recent past to the next generation and by offering a framework in which traumatic and nostalgic approaches to the past do not contradict, but rather complement each other.

Keywords: politics of memory, memory of Communism in Hungary, transmission of cultural memory, monuments, museums, Szoborpark, House of Terror

Erased/Confessed/Conveyed

“The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.” This is the first sentence of L.P. Hartley’s 1953 novel The Go-Between. And indeed, especially in post-socialist countries, there seems to be a major gap between the experiences of those who were born even a narrow generation earlier and people who are in their teens right now. The first children of the post-Cold War world, i.e. children who were born after the democratic transition in Hungary in 1989/90, are now in their mid or late 20s. As of 2016, they have had a chance to vote in the national elections at least twice. These young adults form a new generation of Hungarian citizens, having absolutely no firsthand memory of Hungary’s state socialist period. And behind them, the next generation is already coming of age. These two, non-localized generations, Generation Y and Generation Z, that is, the Millennials and the Digital Natives, need to be educated about their country’s recent past.

Péter György describes the abyss of understanding that has become unbridgeable after 1989:

 

Talking about communism, socialism, which is hoped to be self-evident, that is, the linguistic attempt to evoke the past is both impossible and deceptive, because the cultural space in which that rhetoric was legitimate and exclusively homely is no longer available. […] For those who were born too late, the continent upon which these sentences were articulated is terra incognita.1

The transition of 1989/90 is perceived here as a rupture in the continuity of Hungarian culture, which burned all the bridges between past and future and which, all at once, rendered the language of parents unintelligible to their children and changed the ways in which the traumas of the past were contextualized in Hungarian cultural memory.

Therefore, what one can perceive here, parallel to the shift from the communicative memory of communism to institutionalized cultural memory, is an alteration in the ways in which the past is approached by professionals seeking to communicate it. Starting from the hope of the communist utopia to “erase the past once and for all”2 (which was in line with the communist pedagogical program and the vision of the new Soviet man), in 2002, a decade after the transition, the second Memorial Day for the Victims of Communism in Hungary (which coincided with the opening ceremony of the House of Terror museum) chose a completely different motto. Quoting Attila József’s poem “A Dunánál” (By the Danube), the commemoration was organized under the phrase “A múltat be kell vallani” (“The past must be confessed”). Since then, fifteen years have passed, and now the annual ceremony runs under a very different motto: “Emlékezzünk, hogy emlékeztessünk” (“Remember in order to remind!”). In other words, there is a shift from the imperative that “the past must be confessed” to a new duty: “the past must be conveyed,” and the reason for this is possibly our confrontation with a new generation the members of which cannot in fact remember anything of the earlier regime because they were born after its fall.

Hence, it is not only the matter of “reconciliation,” “coming to terms with the past,” or “confessing the past” that are at stake here, but also making the past relevant and meaningful to people who were born too late to experience it. Due to their lack of information, this generation is extremely susceptible to the various, often contradictory interpretations of the past, and because of their age, they have very different attitudes towards digital media than members of previous generations. How is the near past represented to them? What are the primary media of historical knowledge transmission about Hungary’s state socialist period? What are its main claims, what kinds of narratives are being presented, and how do young people react to these narratives? These are the primary questions I seek to answer in this essay.

In order to explore how historical knowledge is conveyed in Hungary, in the following I compare the practices used by the two most prominent Hungarian communism-related memory projects: the House of Terror and Memento Park. These two institutions are exemplary cases because of their strategic position in terms of post-Kádárian memory practices. Alongside then, a number of other projects could have been included, such as the Iron Curtain Museum of Vashegy or the Pantheon of the Workers’ Movement in the Kerepesi Cemetery. However, the House of Terror and Memento Park stand out because they have by far the largest audiences. Both sites are open to the public and adolescents are encouraged to visit them during school trips, so they can be regarded as the most central means of official practices of remembrance about Hungarian state socialism.

The purpose of the present paper is to look simultaneously at what the two memory projects have to offer, and how young visitors react to them. For this reason, along with analyses of the two sites of memory and the written and/or multimedia material distributed on the spot or available through their websites, I also conducted several semi-structured interviews with young visitors in order to explore the effects the two exhibitions had had on them (in short, to see whether or not the two museums are successful as memory and/or knowledge transmission projects). Altogether, I conducted 17 interviews between 2012 and 2016, 9 with teenage visitors to Statue Park (the first incarnation of what was to become Memento Park) and 8 with visitors to the House of Terror. The interviews were 10–15 minutes long, and they were generally performed one or two days after the trip to the museum. All of the interviewees were 13–14 years old at the time of the interview. Although such a sample is by no means representative of Hungarian youth as such, the answers given by these teenagers were often unexpected in many ways and may offer novel insights regarding the efficiency of the two institutions as memory projects.

After a brief review of the available literature, I explore the differences between various interpretations of the term “postmodern” in relation to the two museums, focusing on the mediality of the memory that they use and the coherent narrative that they seek to present. I then offer a discussion of Piotr Sztompka’s take on cultural trauma in support of my contention that the actual “cultural trauma” that influences both museums is not the terror of the 1950s, but the sudden paradigm shift of 1989. I conclude by identifying a very visible discrepancy between the heritage and the legacy of communism in Hungary. Although the two terms are sometimes used synonymously, referring to the (material, philosophical, or other) remnants of the past, they may represent two very different aspects of the same “remnants.” Heritage is understood here as a deliberately selected narrative of the past, while legacy is passed on involuntarily, usually as a set of semi-conscious actions and behavioral patterns. I conclude with the observation that while the transmission of a clearly defined heritage to subsequent generations should be the duty of any functional memory project, the legacy of the state socialist era makes it extremely difficult if not impossible for the past to be conveyed.

Memento Park and the House of Terror: A Review of the Secondary Literature

After 1989, there was growing public demand to make the “peaceful transition” of the system change visible, or rather invisible. The statues from the public spaces of Budapest were removed, and the unavoidable question about the further fate of these objects was also raised. The idea of simply destroying them was quickly dismissed, since this gesture would have contradicted the expectations that had been placed on the “new Hungarian democracy,” so alternative solutions were needed. The decision was made to remove the statues from the city center and deposit them at a site offered by the 22nd District, where they were fit into the artistic vision of designer architect Ákos Eleőd, who sought to present them in a way that enabled cool observation of the past and many other memory strategies. This is the conception story of Statue Park. Eleőd writes about this issue in his 1991 tender:

 

eventually, we would decide on the fate of artistic pieces based on political ideologies. At this point, the subtle dignity of art should present itself: to find and accept the responsibility, which, in this case, leads to a thin ethical path. [...] It is a joy to participate in the absence of book burning.3

Statue Park was opened in 1993, and later on, in 2006, the state owned but privately run project finally got the funding for major expansion. From that moment on, Statue Park was renamed One Sentence on Tyranny Park, being part of a larger project entitled Memento Park, hence the multiplicity of names.

The House of Terror, which was opened almost a decade after Statue Park, was based on very different considerations. The building at 60 Andrássy Road, in which the museum is housed, itself has a story to tell. First, it served as the Headquarters of the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party from 1940 to 1945. Then, from 1945 to 1956, it functioned as the center of the communist secret police services, the State Protection Department and the State Protection Authority. After it was purchased in 2000 by the Public Foundation for the Research of Central and East European History and Society, it was opened as the House of Terror Museum in February 2002, a few months before the elections, with the alleged purpose of erecting “a monument to the memory of those held captive, tortured, and killed in this building.”4

Consequently, although these two very unconventional museums are comparable because they are both related to the memory of communism in Hungary, they actually commemorate two very different segments of the past. While the House of Terror seeks to evoke the suffocating milieu of the 1940s and 1950s, Memento Park, while it certainly reflects on earlier decades, is a self-proclaimed memorial to the successful (i.e. non-violent) democratic transition of 1989/90.

Both museums have been subject to extensive academic engagement in the fields of history, sociology, cultural studies, and museology, not to mention the intellectual debates that sprang up concerning the opening ceremony of the House of Terror in the columns of the weekly Élet és Irodalom (debates which are revived from time to time). However, it is interesting to see that there are differences from the perspective of who writes about the two museum spaces. In the case of Memento Park, most reviewers are not Hungarian, and they often contrast the site with other, similar monuments, such as the Grutas Park in Lithuania,5 the Berlin Wall, and the Casa Poporului of Bucharest.6 Meanwhile, in the case of the House of Terror, the overwhelming majority of texts are written by Hungarians.

Regarding the latter case, critics of the House of Terror seem to have reached a broad consensus regarding the scientifically objectionable nature of the museum. One of the most frequent arguments made in order to support this claim (that the museum is objectionable on scholarly grounds) is that the House of Terror primarily targets emotions without presenting rational arguments along with the affective impact.7 András Rényi, for instance,8 argues that the House of Terror is less a historical and more a rhetorical achievement, proudly admitting that it does not calmly observe history from a distance, but rather directly, dedicatedly, and passionately creates history.

Another recurrent issue in the reception of the House of Terror is the inauthentic or at least unclear nature of the exhibited objects.9 Maybe the most exemplary one such object is the can of pickled cucumbers, which was later replaced with a bottle of vodka,10 as noted by Péter Apor. “The original can of cucumbers,” Apor argues, “represents an unusual epistemological position. Neither the original can nor the subsequent bottle makes any claim to any sort of historical authenticity: there is no visible intention to demonstrate that either of them might derive from the period of the past in question.”11 Aesthete Sándor Radnóti even concludes that the most important object presented in the House of Terror is the building at Andrássy Road 60 itself, as the collection is almost ridiculously modest.12

Partly based on these objections, some critiques argue (in my assessment persuasively) that the House of Terror is not even a legitimate museum. Rényi for instance offers a very sharp dividing line between the general definition of museums and the self-classification of the House of Terror: “It is common knowledge that so far the House of Terror has established no archival background, and it is more than questionable even for laypeople whether the museum’s attempt at a coherent historical conception would stand up to even the most basic professional scrutiny.”13 James Mark also argues that there is a tendency in Central and Eastern Europe to use museums of communism as places of symbolic justice instead of as places of knowledge transmission, a process which usually takes place at very significant historical sites. “The ‘cultural trial of Communism’ took place at sites of terror where the political condemnation of Communism could be made historically credible: these locations allowed their founders to present themselves as uncovering powerful direct evidence of the former regime’s violence and criminality, which could be linked to the ways in which the country as a whole had been victimized.”14

In the case of Memento Park, the early pieces of relevant literature seem to share the perception of the park as an artistic work, emphasizing a civilized, “dignified” kind of remembering, in line with the creators’ intentions. In her 1999 discussion of the site, Beverly James remarks that a number of post-communist features are relevant to an analysis of the park, including “a strong sense of national identity […] and a deep respect for the past.”15 A few pages later, she adds that the “commodification of heritage […] is not yet relevant to museums in Hungary, where […] the past is still treated with respect.”16

A few years later, Maya Nadkarni first mapped out the immense discrepancy between the idea of a past “still treated with respect” and the marketing strategies used by the park, or, more specifically Ákos Réthly, the young entrepreneur who runs it. Nadkarni argues that Réthly’s marketing plan to frame Statue Park as a site of communist kitsch was strongly based on Western expectations of socialism, its ideology, and its iconography, and the marketing did more to confirm than to contest these expectations. “Indeed,” she contends, “Western reports of the park opening often played into these fantasies of monumental ignominy: describing the park’s architecture as a humorous ‘theme park’ or ‘Leninland,’ or romantically locating the park on a ‘bleak’ or ‘windy’ hilltop.”17

The literature on the two memory projects also evokes a number of issues that come up in relation to both museums. Here, I cover only a single feature: the idea of postmodernity at the two sites of memory. Postmodernity seems to have different implications and emphases when applied to different museums. Beverly James for instance argues that Statue Park Museum is postmodern in the sense that “its holdings […] had yet another layer of meaning slapped on them when they were uprooted from their familiar locations and repositioned in the fabricated terrain of an open-air park.” Furthermore, it can be considered postmodern because “it juxtaposes pieces that embody seemingly incongruous versions of communism.”18 Parallel to that, Radnóti identifies the House of Terror as a “postmodern museum of torture,” where the architect and the curator are free to create, and where the wealth of multimedia content is mixed with traditional museum forms, relativizing them.”19 In a similar fashion, Rényi condemns the “aestheticizing intemperance of the postmodern, which, in order to have a more powerful impact, transcends each and every sacred boundary and ignores the most fundamental differences between document and fiction, object and representation, fact and opinion.20

It is interesting to see how critics use the term “postmodern” differently for the two museums. In relation to Statue Park, it can be understood as a kind of inventive, novel, and inclusive attitude towards a difficult past, while for the House of Terror, postmodernity is but a formal solution to present a modernist national grand narrative of the equally problematic recent past. This distinction in meaning is vital if one seeks to understand how the two museums function as more or less successful memory projects. The differences between the two understandings of postmodernity can be mapped out by focusing on two central axes of the exhibitions. First, their mediality, and second, the narrative they create about the past. Although these two aspects are certainly linked, it is still expedient to separate them for analytical purposes.

The Materiality of Memory

The materiality of remembering in the two museums is closely related to how the two museums deviate from the idea of written, textual knowledge. In her 2009 essay “Texts, Traces, Trash: The Changing Media of Cultural Memory,” Aleida Assmann outlines the trajectory of the written word in the realm of cultural memory, from the Renaissance up to the present day, identifying an important break in the monopoly of written knowledge, which she dates back to as early as the seventeenth century. She argues that while the privileged path to historical understanding was found in the texts of canonical male authors, “different routes of access to the past were opened by bypassing texts and tradition and concentrating on non-textual traces, such as ruins and relics, fragments and sherds, and songs and tales of a neglected oral tradition.”21 In short, what Assmann detects is the origin of mistrust in written language as the only reliable medium through which one can “speak with the dead” in the Greenblattian sense, that is, as the only plausible way to get meaningful information about the past.22 Assmann later moves on to locate one more radical change with the appearance of new media: “We might say that some contemporary writers, searching for authentic traces of the past in a mass media culture, are discovering these in trash. With the development of new technologies and channels of communication, writing is ceding its position as the foremost medium of communication and cultural transmission.”23 This second remark may have twofold consequences, not only for writers, but for more general practices of cultural memory as well. First, we need to admit that knowledge about the past is often incidental and is of an almost random nature, and the most valuable insights may be gained from things discarded, like statues that no one wishes to see in their original places anymore. Second, one also needs to see that the written word as the single most reliable medium of historical knowledge may (sadly) become obsolete; its hegemony is threatened by media, both old and new.

Instead of written media, cultural memory is transmitted through novel and not so novel ways involving tangible remembrance and multimedia devices and contents. In terms of memory projects and museum spaces, objects (remnants, replicas, and things of questionable origin) naturally acquire a key position. The importance of material artefacts as mnemonic devices enhancing individual remembering has been acknowledged since Antiquity. However, their role in establishing cultural memory has only recently been made an object of serious interrogation, and they have gained attention largely due to the contributions of museum studies.

In understanding how museum artefacts can contribute to establishing and maintaining cultural memory, Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht’s take on “presence effects” and “meaning effects” might help. In his book The Production of Presence: What Meaning Cannot Convey, Gumbrecht distinguishes between “presence effects” and “meaning effects,” the latter referring to interpretational practices as transcendental meaning attributions, usually associated with the traditionally hermeneutical practices of the humanities and social sciences. In contrast, “presence effects” are defined by the materiality of the object of study, that is, they refer to the ways in which the objects of aesthetic experience occupy a certain space within reality; they “exclusively appeal to the senses.”24 According to Gumbrecht, the metaphysical practice of interpretation should be altered considering that “we conceive of aesthetic experience as an oscillation (and sometimes as an interference) between ‘presence effects’ and ‘meaning effects’.”25 This oscillation is especially relevant in terms of museum experiences, where the materiality of the objects displayed and the interpretations attached to them rarely coincide.

To illustrate this point, let us look at two examples from Statue Park and the House of Terror: texts with very visible and significant materiality, the presence effects and meaning effects of which happen to confront each other, offering subversive interpretations.

 

From Tyranny to ETERNAL GLO

In Statue Park a general characteristic feature of the site is a very visible absence of written texts. Next to the works, one finds only the name of the sculptor, the title of the composition, the date of the erection of the work, and the statue’s original place. This virtual absence of text emphasizes the ideal of the neutral preservation of works of art without contextual references. True, a visitor’s guide can be purchased at the entrance, and the website offers a lot of information, but in general the visitors are left alone with the works and their very symbolic environment. The longest written text visitors encounter during their trip is Gyula Illyés’s poem, One Sentence on Tyranny, which was borrowed as the name name for the park in 2006. As visitors attempt to enter the actual territory of the park, they find their way blocked by a large and rusty iron door, the main entrance to the park, with the poem inscribed on it, exclusively in Hungarian. This manner of presentation can be regarded as a mise-en-abyme of the interplay between presence effects and meaning effects, while parallel to that, it also highlights the fundamental ambiguity between traumatic and alternative approaches to the past, such as nostalgic or ironic.

The materiality and position of the text, along with the interpretational framework it provides for an understanding of Statue Park as a whole, also assigns new dimensions of meaning to the original poem: the mutuality produced by the common context obviously influences the strategies of reading as well. The self as it is presented in the poem not only associates tyranny with a set of activities and behavioral patterns, it also describes it as a universal omnipresent feeling that is always already there in the everyday routines of the people. “Dohányod zamatába,/ ruháid anyagába/ Beivódik, évődik /Velődig” (It penetrates into the flavor of your tobacco, the fabric of your clothes, to your marrow).26 The poem’s image of omnipresent tyranny and the collection of the prominent Socialist Realist works seem to be in dialogue, which underlines the concept that the statues can be regarded as means of oppression. From this perspective, certain lines of the poem might be exceptionally illuminating in nature, since the relationship between art and social milieu (which is one of the focal points of the poem) is obviously not something to be dismissed in the case of Statue Park. Throughout the poem, as “tyranny” is personified and condensed into an indefinite third-person singular, it also penetrates deeper and deeper, from individual relationships to the general perception of the world: “Mert szépnek csak azt véled/ mi egyszer már övé lett” (For you take as beautiful only the things that have already become his). The experience of the senses becomes legible exclusively through the filter of tyranny, and thus the possibilities of artistic reflection are also to be imagined within the framework of oppression.

However, the fact that the poem is displayed just in front of Statue Park provides an ironic position in reading the monuments. The lines “Mert ott áll/eleve sírodnál /ő mondja meg, ki voltál/ porod is neki szolgál” (For he stands there by your grave, he defines who you were, your ashes still serve him) illuminate, for instance, the fate of Socialist Realist statues: being closed into their own materiality, deprived of what they originally signified (i.e. the heroes and ideals of a past era), they become their own parodies. Illyés’ text suggests that the oppressive power owns the soul and body of its subjects, and thus it is able to provide retrospective definitions of the people and objects serving them.

If one considers the mutual influence of site and poem, two crucial observations must be made. First, the verses are scribbled onto an enormous iron door, supposedly the main entrance to the park. Yet these doors remain closed by design, and one can only enter the museum through a tiny sideway. As Réthly explained during a guided tour, “you know that proverb that there is a side-door next to all large gates, which means that if you cannot do something in the official way, we should try to find some other solution.” Thus, the museum offers “alternative,” more inclusive approaches to remembrance of the past, while still preserving a more institutionalized, primary reading, according to which the past is presented as tyrannical: the main door that is always closed. Second, due to the corroding effects of the weather, certain parts of the text have become illegible, which could be understood as a dual game of inscribing and effacing meanings. On the one hand, there is a gesture of guiding the visitors’ frame of understanding by the position of the text, while on the other, the owners of the museum let the rust eat away the letters, making it impossible to assign one single meaning to the park. The visitors have become unable to read the text, and they are once more on their own with the statues.

Similar material damage to written words can also be found in the House of Terror. As opposed to Memento Park, where most of the on-site information texts were absent, in the case of the House of Terror there is an abundance of written texts, which nonetheless results in a similar absence of information. Almost every room in the exhibition features a take-home information sheet, both in English and in Hungarian, and in absence of a guide, most visitors spend a great portion of their time huddled up in one of the dim corners of the exhibition rooms, reading the information materials (especially in the first few rooms). Furthermore, the walls often feature quotes (typically in Hungarian only), and sometimes, as in the Resettlement and Deportation Room and the Justice Room, entire walls are covered with replicas of old reports or indictments, rendering them illegible by their position, the dim lighting, or simply their sheer volume. Words extinguish one another, and they appear as visual noise or decorative fragments that bear no particular meaning.

The Room of Soviet Advisors offers a very fitting example of the dynamics of Gumbrechtian presence and meaning effects. At the time of my last visit to the House of Terror, there was an enormous marble memorial plaque leaning against a large wooden desk, broken in half, with the parts slightly slid behind each other. 27 The visible part of the text is as follows:

“ÖRÖK DICSŐS…RÖS HADSER…

AKIK A SZOVJETUN…AGYARORSZ…

ÉS FÜGGETLENS… VÍVOTT HARC”

I offer the following English translation of this: “ETERNAL GLO …ED ARM… THE SOVIET UN… NGARY… WAR FO… NDEPENDEN…” First, this plaque clearly demonstrates how the ideologies of communism and fascism alike created a pseudo-language that was perceived as intimidating and uncanny precisely because it was rooted in everyday uses of language, but was rendered incomprehensible by the ideological jargon. As Péter György puts it, “communists spoke and wrote in a language unknown to Hungarians, in Hungarian. […] Words partly lost their meanings, partly gained new ones.”28 On the other hand, though, this marble plaque can also be regarded as an allegory for the approach to language and the written word as a source of historical knowledge adopted by the House of Terror. Words are everywhere in the House of Terror, yet they fall apart into sub-intelligible elements, giving the impression that something beyond linguistically understandable knowledge is being conveyed here. It is as if words lost their weight as soon as one enters the realms of terror.

In this sense, there is a fundamental similarity and an even deeper difference between Memento Park and the House of Terror. While both sites of memory exhibit an underlying mistrust of written knowledge (although the websites are both rich in detail text), their reaction to this scenario is entirely different. Memento Park, with the nearly complete lack of verbal interpretational crutches (apart from the rusty poem on the front gate), almost exclusively relies on the oral narration of the site, either by the guide or by older relatives, who tend to accompany young people to the site. One could argue that Statue Park offers a nostalgic pre-literacy medial condition, seeking to evoke the immediacy and intimacy of firsthand experience and even domestic oral history. In contrast, the House of Terror presents an entirely different scenario, which might be described as a post-literal media landscape. Here, the traditional role of written texts is taken over by both affective non-verbal elements, such as smell and lighting, and also by multimedia solutions, such as endless testimonies displayed on LCD-screens and the use of the most cutting-edge technology to support a specific vision of history.

 

Digital Natives in a Pre-literacy or Post-literacy Situation

The use of new media to emphasize certain interpretations of history is especially important when talking about knowledge transmission to members of younger generations. As members of Generation Z, the digital natives, teenage visitors have been socialized from an early age to use all kinds of multimedia and smart devices, and they are very open to technological innovation, for leisure activities and entertainment and also for learning and knowledge acquisition. Their reactions concerning the two museum spaces also underline how the abovementioned pre-verbal and post-verbal arrangements work. In the case of Memento Park, most of my respondents visited the park as part of a class excursion, with a guide. The young visitors all agreed that the presence of the guide brought the objects on exhibit closer to the audience. As one of the 14-year-olds I interviewed remarked, “Without the guide, no one would have cared about the statues.” All of them mentioned that they had positive feelings about the tour; three out of seven said that it helped them better understand “what those symbols actually meant” or confessed that the way they analyzed a particular statue together with the guide made them change their preliminary neutral or negative opinions about the work in question. Furthermore, the guided tour also succeeded in adding a set of memorable anecdotes and humorous personal stories to the display of statues, such as the one about the Smurf marzipan figurines that were dried on the right arm of a bronze Lenin in the early 1990s. According to their accounts, the young visitors were especially keen on these otherwise digressive remarks of the guide. As one of them put it, “there are museums that are dead boring, and all you get is a schematic text that you would learn in history lessons anyway. But this guy told us about really special things. He made us involved.” In this sense, according to the teenage visitors, the Memento Park guided tour managed to convey a kind of “insider,” firsthand knowledge about the years of the democratic transition, offering a chance for a very private and personal kind of knowledge transmission. The very same magic of orality was also mentioned by my other two interviewees from Statue Park, a brother and a sister aged 13 and almost 15 at the time of their visit, which was a Sunday trip on which they had been taken by their parents. Although they said that their parents could recall the locations of only a few of the statues or reliefs, as the family was not from Budapest, they nonetheless told them interesting stories about their youth (the parents were in their early 40s).

As for the House of Terror, the generational position of my interviewees had a very visible impact on the ways in which they perceived the exhibition. Although none of them took part in a guided tour, they were invariably accompanied by older relatives who helped them understand what they were seeing. One of them, a boy of 13, offered the following reply to my warm-up question as to whether or not he had liked the exhibition: “It was interesting all right, but as a child, I didn’t understand everything, unlike mum, so she had to explain things to me.” When asked about the information sheets, all but one of the teens admitted that they had not collected, read, or even looked at them extensively. Five out of eight respondents praised the video displays of the exhibition, claiming that although they had no time to watch all of the videos, those that they did see were all interesting. Most of the teens highlighted the oral history account in the elevator as the most impressive one, while others mentioned “the one at the cashier desk about forgiveness”29 or the newsreels.

As most of the respondents were in the last two years of elementary school (7th or 8th grade), they had not had any history classes about the state socialist era.30 When asked about their knowledge of state socialism in Hungary, many of them mentioned that although they do not generally watch films about “the era,” they do have an impression of it from video games.31 This medial embeddedness was even visible in their reaction to the exhibitions. At the time of my last 3 interviews in 2016, there was a temporary exhibition for the 60th anniversary of the 1956 revolution entitled Egy akaraton (One Nation, One Will), which featured six short, 5-6 minute-long films designed for virtual reality glasses. All three of the teenagers who had seen this show were fascinated by the 360° VR films, which were, according to my respondents, so intense that they somewhat dimmed the experience of the permanent exhibition. By the time of their visit, each of them had at least tried virtual reality glasses (one of the respondents even had one at home), and they even offered technical remarks on how the glasses in the House of Terror were different from the ones they had used previously. “That was a very good point. I really liked them all. They were interesting, and it was better to see them in 360 than from an ordinary video,” one of them remarked. “And also, it was a lot better because it influenced your emotions more than looking at a whole bunch of writing. That was a great idea” another added. One could claim that teenagers are very, and perhaps dangerously, responsive to new digital media in memorial spaces, especially media that are relatively new even to them. The House of Terror presents itself as a conveyor of zeitgeist, so the primary content it seeks to transmit is an impression about the recent past, an artistic expression of the premise that “terror overshadowed daily life.”32 For this purpose, the use of digital media (especially virtual reality technologies) is perhaps the most fitting choice. The caveat concerning such techniques, especially for adolescents, is that a certain version of the past is presented as the only valid past, leaving no room either for criticism or for questions. What is seen on the screen not only becomes believable, but it turns into reality itself. Probably this is one reason why my interviewees seemed to be so a-critical with regards to the exhibition in the House of Terror, while they were considerably more reflective about their Statue Park experiences.33

In contrast, my respondents could not recall much objective knowledge that they had gained from their visit to the House of Terror. Six out of eight teenagers did not realize that the exhibition was about two kinds of dictatorships, although they had a good understanding of Hungary having been under two different forms of occupation during those times. Indeed, the House of Terror has frequently been criticized for the extremely unbalanced nature of the museum’s displays. As one reads on the English version of the House of Terror website, “[h]aving survived two terror regimes, it was felt that the time had come for Hungary to erect a fitting memorial to the victims, and at the same time to present a picture of what life was like for Hungarians in those times.”34 In other words, the House of Terror allegedly describes the two kinds of terror Hungary suffered between 1944 and 1989: the Nazi occupation and the establishment of the communist regime. The House of Terror does not include the Anti-Jewish Laws of the interwar years in its representation of terror, when Germany had not yet invaded Hungary, or the massacre of an estimated 23,000 Jews in near Kamianets-Podilskyi in August 1941, including 16,000 people who had been deported to the newly annexed territory from Hungary, hence denying any complicity Hungary might have had in these parts of the Holocaust. Furthermore, strictly speaking, only 2 or 3 of the 19 exhibition rooms focus on the Nazi occupation and the Hungarian Arrow Cross party and none focus on the crimes and massacres committed under the Horthy regime. However, as Krisztián Ungváry underlines,35 the imbalance is not merely a matter of space. Three rooms perhaps would have been enough to evoke the terror in which many Hungarians lived under Horthy and the Arrow Cross, but as Mark argues, the memory of Fascism is only evoked “where it had the capacity to demonize Communism.”36 In this, the museum succeeds, yet no body of references is actually given in support of this emotional affect.

Instead of facts, the House of Terror offers associations, but when one lacks the relevant historical knowledge, as a 13-year-old visitor sometimes does, the exhibition will not fill in the gaps. Perhaps the most telling example is the Internment room in the basement, which features a miners’ car and some rocks in the middle, next to an LCD-screen on which a formerly interned person is giving testimony. This room is right after the prison reconstruction, which is perceived by many as the most emotionally burdening part of the exhibition. One of my interviewees, whom I followed through the museum, demonstrated significant behavioral change at this point. Prior to this room, the teenage boy was very open, asked many questions, and inspected everything closely, especially the prison part, but here he just looked at the plate with the name of the room, briefly glanced at the miners’ car, and walked away. As he later informed me, he did not fully understand the word internment in this context, and due to the absence of descriptive material, he could not establish a logical link between the car that fills the whole room and the idea of internment. Although the room does have a take-home information sheet, it is only from the website that one can find out that the bogie with the rocks is in fact an original artefact from the Recsk Internment Camp.

This brief episode illustrates why the House of Terror often fails as a site of knowledge transmission about communism. The illusion of a zeitgeist conjured in its entirety by simulacra objects and multimedia devices is not suitable for knowledge transmission on its own, and the supplementary means were, in this case, insufficient to sustain an adolescent’s attention.

From Trauma to Laughter

Closely related to the materiality and mediality of remembering is the question of the various kinds of pasts that are presented to the visitors, especially younger visitors. Critics of the House of Terror condemn the exhibition for offering a one-sided interpretation of the past, which portrays Hungary as a hapless victim of evil foreign powers.37 Péter György, for instance, contrasts the presence of victim-identifications with the absence of perpetrator memories, especially concerning the way in which the past is communicated to members of the younger generations: “We do not need the younger generations to feel personal guilt for the acts committed by their predecessors. But we do need them to know what their predecessors did.”38

This idea is supported by the narrative on the information sheets: it consistently portrays “terror” and its manifestations, such as internment, deportation, secret agency, etc., as something in which Hungarians took no part and which was imposed from the outside. This process of externalization also appears on the level of grammatical structures and word choices. A prevalent use of the passive voice is a characteristic feature of the information sheets, even in Hungarian, which is unusual. While there the sentences make no mention of the names of perpetrators, the victim is almost without exception Hungary or the Hungarian people, who are depicted as silent and inert bystanders in their own history. “Hungary was plunged into a hopeless economic situation,” and then “the country became the theatre of war in the clash between the two Super Powers,” and later on, in the Changing Clothes room, the brochure explains that “the video clip depicts how an entire society was forced to ‘turn coat’, i.e. switch allies.”

The passive voice is but one example in the House of Terror of what Aleida Assmann calls “victim memory.” Assmann coined the term39 to differentiate it from “losers” inasmuch as the victim is a passive target of violence, and the term obviously implies a sense of power asymmetry, while the term “loser” still implies a sense of heroism or a sacrifice made for a cause.40 According to Assmann, the most characteristic feature of this kind of memorial practice is to offer an unambiguous image of the past, in which no dissenting opinions are appreciated or even accepted, since the whole community is imagined as the victim of a power external to it. It is also important to refer to Assmann’s comment in which she emphasizes that while in Western Europe such interpretations are being questioned and subverted, Eastern Europe is still bearing witness to the resurrection of national grand narratives emphasizing collective victimhood. With respect to the House of Terror, Zsolt K. Horváth claims that the institution is, in fact, an allegory of Hungary victimized by Communism.41

The House of Terror does not merely evoke a sense of collective victimhood, it also seeks to commemorate the collective traumatic experience that it links to foreign occupation. It focuses primarily on the “dark decades” of the 1940s and 1950s, but it also broadens the temporal spectrum of occupation significantly: from 1944 to 1989. As one reads on the website, “the Museum, while presenting the horrors in a tangible way, also intends to make people understand that the sacrifice for freedom was not in vain.”42 Such a quest could potentially allow for collective healing: the examination, understanding, and eventually the dissolution of the wounds Hungarian society has suffered (and inflicted on itself), but unfortunately the House of Terror goes down on a different path. As Miklós Takács argues, individual traumatic experiences can be identified by involuntary repetition and by their appearance next to the body and non-verbality, while the prerequisite of cultural traumas is their mediated nature. He concludes that if a traumatic experience is removed from the body and transferred into another medium, it ceases to be a psychic trauma and is considered healed.43 The House of Terror here presents just the opposite method. By using new digital media and reconstructions, such as the infamous basement prison, it de-medializes the horrors that took place in the House, and re-inscribes them into the medium of the body. The moment the visitor enters the elevator, taking a painfully slow ride down to the basement, the information sheets go missing. Visitors are left alone in the corridor with the tiny, wet cells, and they are given no information or no interpretational guidelines. Many of my respondents claimed that they felt “claustrophobic” during their visit to the basement, and although one of them, a girl of 14, ironically remarked that “it was Disneyland,” she also confessed a vague sense of sickness when listening to the testimony about executions in the elevator. This traumatic and potentially traumatizing approach does not allow for elaborate reflections on the space or the historical knowledge it might convey: where there are no words, there is no knowledge to speak of.

In Statue Park, the arrangement of “excluded” public statues enables a whole range of remembering practices, including a traumatic approach to the past. When asked about how the visitors interact with the statues on exhibit in the Park, Réthly spoke about a kind of respect for the past: “All the local visitors have a bit of an agent past, a bit of relocation, a sense of being unheeded... Everyone has a bit of pain. I wouldn’t say that these feelings are brought to the surface here, but it gives a kind of basic restraint to their attitudes.” Therefore, Hungarians would not find it funny to pose with the statues due to their “personal involvement,” or rather the communicative memory that still conveys the underlying idea of the statues being means of an oppressive, dictatorial regime.

Strangely enough, there is a certain ambiguity in the answers provided by the student visitors on this matter. When asked about the idea of posing, all of them said that their teacher had had a number of ideas about different poses even before they arrived to the park, but they also noted that by themselves they would not have thought of these statues as objects next to which to pose. One of them even mentioned that “probably it might be more exciting for the Americans, because we learn about it, we know about it, but they... they did not live through it. For them it’s fun to see... a big dictatorial man (sic!) and ha ha, let’s pose with him. But for us, we can feel what it was like for the people back then, and it’s less amusing to make fun of it.” However, based on my personal experience following them along the park, they actually enjoyed climbing onto the statues, and they started posing the minute the guide turned his back on them.

And indeed, in part due to Eleőd’s initial democratic intentions, the idea of laughter appears in many ways in the reception of the Park, ranging from mockery to irony. Furthermore, the intention of the park’s creators seems to have been very much in line with the way in which Linda Hutcheon defines irony: “Irony rarely involves a simple decoding of a single inverted message; […] it is more often a semantically complex process of relating, differentiating, and combining said and unsaid meanings—and doing so with some evaluative edge.”44 The designer envisioned a multiplicity of interpretations based precisely on this permanent ambiguity of meanings: “I would like this park to be right in the middle: neither a park to honor Communism, nor a sarcastic park that provokes tempers, but a place where everyone can feel whatever they want… People can feel nostalgic, or have a good laugh, or mourn a personal tragedy connected with the period.”45

Maya Nadkarni also identifies a kind of distanced, ironic nostalgia46 in relation to the Park. She argues that “while countless Lenins proved the infuriating fact of Soviet occupation, it was perhaps even more pressing to remove [Ilya Afanasevich] Ostapenko, who called attention to the ways in which forty years of socialism had become cozy and familiar.”47 In this fashion, along with Vergangenheitsbewältigung, or coming to terms with the past, other kinds of remembering practices, such as irony or nostalgia, are also enabled by the park’s layout.

“We don’t really ask them, so they don’t talk about it”:
Mapping Terra Incognita

Let us return to Péter György’s comment on terra incognita and the unbridgeable abyss between past and present that seems to be an underlying universal trope of the post-socialist condition. The idea of terra incognita is closely related to what Piotr Sztompka calls “cultural trauma.” Sztompka argues that sudden, unexpected, deep social change may lead to a very peculiar condition, cultural trauma, which occurs “when there is a break, displacement or disorganization in the orderly, taken-for-granted universe.”48 One of the fundamental consequences of cultural trauma, according to Sztompka, is a sense of “cultural disorientation,” when “the socialized, internalized culture that they carry ‘in their heads’ or in their semi-automatic ‘habits of the heart’ clashes with the cultural environment in which they find themselves.”49 In line with Sztompka’s definition, I argue that the actual cultural trauma that is reflected in both memory projects is not the hard dictatorship and the terrors of the 1940–50s, or even the retaliation after 1956, as recent memory politics seems to imply, but rather an event that happened much later, in 1989/90.

In the case of Statue Park, admittedly a monument for the transition itself, the narrative focus on the early 1990s is not that surprising. However, the primary cultural trauma on which the House of Terror reflects is also the “change of systems.” The sudden paradigm shift of 1989 created the imperative to remember everything that had been suppressed for decades, yet the transition provided neither a natural shift from communicative to cultural memory to support suppressed memories nor the appropriate language to present these memories to a new generation.

The consequences of cultural traumatization to contemporary museum practices display a sharp dividing line between the heritage and the legacy of communism in Hungary. Heritage may be understood as a selection of items, opinions, or perspectives that can be used by the present in order to create a coherent narrative of the past. This definition bears close resemblance to what Jan Assmann calls “hot memory.”50 This is the realm in which historical museums can feel most at home. Although the two sites discussed here theoretically reflect on two very different pasts, this is not self-explanatory at first sight. Yet they both present a narrative about the past, which, strangely enough, ends with the foundation of the museum: Statue Park or the House of Terror, respectively. However, in both cases, the language they use is not suitable for the transmission of historical knowledge to post-socialist generations, because it is rooted in the legacy of the late Kádár era (and not the hard dictatorship of the earlier decades): the involuntary remnants, the doxa of how people interacted with one another before 1989.

“If a disturbance occurs,” writes Sztompka, “the symbols start to mean something other than they normally do; values become valueless or demand unrealizable goals; […] gestures and words signify something different from what they meant before; beliefs are refuted, faith undermined, trust breached; charisma collapses, idols fall.”51 And this is precisely what happened after the democratic transition. The web of comfortably allegoric, familiar language, the depth of omissions, hints at things or events already known, associative networks of words unspoken, all this was suddenly lost, as it was no longer necessary to learn or reproduce them. In the case of cultural trauma, the language beyond the language is the first to go after such a rupture in the tissue of culture, and this trap might have been overlooked by both memory projects discussed here. The deeply allegorical visual language and the very specific arrangements and combinations of objects they use (such as the infinite circles leading to a wall in Memento Park, allegedly symbolizing the communist project, or the various kitchen interiors in the Resistance room of the House of Terror, alluding to the practice of critics of the system gathering in one another’s kitchens) remain unintelligible to the youth.

One of my interviewees, when I asked him whether he had heard anything about the past from his older relatives, gave the following answer: “Yes, sometimes I hear things. Mum’s mother and father were, well, they were taken away [elvitték őket]. But we don’t really ask, so they don’t talk about it.” This fragment gives a sobering illustration of the unbridgeable hermeneutical gap that lies between Hungarian teenagers and their parents generation and grandparents generation today, and this is by no means a regular “generation gap.” I am convinced that my respondent had no idea what being “taken away,” one of the most euphemistic expressions referring to non-localizable terrors of the recent past, might mean, which is why he never asked questions about it.

Although the legacy of the late Kádár era can be regarded as a burden for Hungarian museums that promote the transmission of historical knowledge, it is also a challenge to be met. The task of such memorial sites is not simply to initiate young people as full-fledged members of a memory community or convey some kind of objective knowledge about the past, but also to awaken their curiosity and make the past seem relevant to them. If they are successful in this, perhaps next time a child will ask his or her grandmother the obvious questions: Why? Where? When? By whom?

 

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1 György, “Elveszett nyelv.” If not marked otherwise, all of the quotes from Hungarian texts are my translation.

2 Echoing the Hungarian translation of the Internationale, “a múltat végképp eltörölni,” which is a close translation of the French original: “du passé faisons table rase.”

3 Memento Park website.

4 House of Terror website. Although the English introduction to the website only mentions the need to “erect a fitting memorial to the victims and at the same time to present a picture of what life was like for Hungarians in those times,” the Hungarian variant is more specific about “those times”: “Forty-six years had to pass for 60 Andrássy Street, this neo-renaissance building, to resurrect truly. The authorities, who were defending the communist state at the cost of the sufferings and violent deaths of many, only left the palace in 1956.”

5 Williams, “The Afterlife of Communist Statuary.”

6 Light, “Gazing on Communism.”

7 Ungváry, “A káosz háza.”

8 Rényi, “A retorika terrorja.”

9 See for instance Frazon and K. Horváth, “A megsértett Magyarország” for an in-depth description of the issue.

10 At the time of my last visit in October 2016, the “original” cucumber jar was back in place.

11 Apor, “Rethinking History,” 329.

12 Radnóti, “Mi a terror háza?.”

13 Rényi, “A retorika terrorja.”

14 Mark, “Criminalizing Communism?,” 62.

15 James, “Fencing in the Past,” 302.

16 Ibid., 304.

17 Nadkarni, “Making the Past,” 203.

18 James, “Fencing in the Past,” 294.

19 Radnóti, “Mi a Terror Háza?”

20 Rényi, “A retorika terrorja.”

21 Assmann, “Texts, Traces, Trash,” 129.

22 Stephen Greenblatt begins his book Shakespearean Negotiations with the following sentence: “I began with the desire to speak with the dead,” identifying the voice of the past in the textual residues it leaves behind, and the act of reading them: “It was true that I could hear only my own voice but my own voice was the voice of the dead, for the dead had contrived to leave textual traces of themselves, and those traces make themselves heard in the voices of the living.” Greenblatt, Shakespearean Negotiations, 1.

23 Ibid., 132.

24 Gumbrecht, The Production of Presence, xv.

25 Ibid., 2.

26 Although there at least two English translations of the poem, I felt it necessary to provide a more faithful, yet less artistic interpretation, since the exact meaning of the original poem is not transmitted in either of the English translations with which I am familiar, even if my rendering destroys the inherent presence effects, such as the rhythm and rhyme of the original poem.

27 The House of Terror website features a photo on which the entire plate is behind another one, with the Soviet crest on it.

28 György, Az ismeretlen nyelv, 10–11.

29 An approximately 30 second-long piece, played in an infinite loop while visitors wait in line.

30 The history curriculum of the 7th grade ends with World War I.

31 One of my respondents mentioned Call of Duty and Battlefield, while another one named Metro 2033 and Red Faction, neither of which is strictly about communist dictatorships. Other, similar video games, such as Command & Conquer: Red Alert or Red Orchestra, could also be mentioned.

32 This is the very last sentence of the information sheet for the Everyday Life room, which might as well be regarded as an underlying concept for the entire museum.

33 In addition, their reluctance to say negative things might also be attributed to the fact that due to my position as a researcher, they regarded me as a representative authority (much like a teacher of some sort), and they sought to comply with what they thought I expected to hear. In future research, this observer’s paradox could perhaps be overcome if I were to spend extensive time with the adolescents.

34 Terror Háza website.

35 Ungváry, “A káosz háza.”

36 Mark, “Criminalizing Communism?” 77.

37 See for example Apor, “Rethinking History,” Ungváry, “A káosz háza” or K. Horváth, “The Redistribution of the Memory of Socialism,” Mark, “Criminalizing Communism,” among others.

38 György, “A terror háza/A terror topográfiája.” In the same work, he also dismisses Statue Park as a “Disneyland-ghetto of state socialist sculptures.”

39 Assmann, Der lange Schatten der Vergangenheit, 218.

40 Pabis, “A múlt hosszú árnyéka.”

41 K. Horváth, “The Redistribution of the Memory of Socialism,” 270.

42 Terror Háza website.

43 Takács, “A kulturális trauma elmélete a bírálatok tükrében,” 49–50.

44 Hutcheon, Irony’s Edge, 85.

45 Quoted by Nadkarni, “Making the Past,” 194.

46 To resolve the apparent contradiction in terms, cf. Hutcheon, “Irony, Nostalgia and the Postmodern”: “Our contemporary culture is indeed nostalgic; some parts of it—postmodern parts—are aware of the risks and lures of nostalgia, and seek to expose those through irony,” 206.

47 Nadkarni, “Making the Past,” 201. Ilya Afanasevich Ostapenko was a Soviet soldier who was killed during the Siege of Budapest. A statue of him by Jenő Kerényi was erected in 1951 at a major road intersection on the outskirts of Budapest. The statue was taken down in 1992.

48 Sztompka, “Cultural Trauma,” 457.

49 Ibid., 454.

50 Assmann, Cultural Memory, 50.

51 Sztompka, “Cultural Trauma,” 458.

2017_2_Bódi

Volume 6 Issue 2 CONTENTS

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The Documents of a Fresh Start in Life:
Marriage Advertisements Published in the Israelite Newspaper Új Élet (New Life) Between 1945–1952

Lóránt Bódi

Institute of History, Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences

Almost two-thirds of the Hungarian Jewry was killed in the Holocaust. The genocide seriously distorted the sex ratio and the generational composition of the surviving Jewish community. Most married individuals lost their spouses, and the extensive networks of relatives were also eliminated. The growing nu mber of weddings after the war was the first sign of the Jewish community’s recovery from wartime traumas. This study examines how the Hungarian Jewry rose above the traumas and devastations of the war. It addresses this problem from the perspective of the matrimonial ads published in the Israelite newspaper Új Élet between 1946 and 1952. Marriage ads could be considered collective social practices that shed light on the “publicalization” of private life. Despite their rigid narrative structure, these documents also reveal the voices of the surviving community after the war. The article will address the most common themes in marriage ads, including exile, the foundation of Israel, wartime trauma, and the loss of a spouse.

Keywords: marriage ads, the Hungarian Jewry after 1945, Jewish marriage patterns, Új Élet, postwar community rebuilding

 

Dear Nora, Dear Erzsébet, Dear Lili, Dear Zsuzsa, Dear Sára, Dear Seréna, Dear Ágnes, Dear Giza, Dear Baba, Dear Katalin, Dear Judit, Dear Gabriella...

 

You are probably used to strangers chatting you up when you speak Hungarian, for better reason than they are Hungarian too. We men can be so bad-mannered. For example, I addressed you by your first name on the pretext that we grew up in the same town. I don’t know whether you already know me from Debrecen. Until my homeland ordered me to ‘volunteer’ for forced labour, I worked for the Independent newspaper, and my father owned a bookshop in Gambrinus Court. Judging by your name and age, I have a feeling that I might know you. Did you by any chance ever live in Gambrinus Court?

Excuse me for writing in pencil, but I’m confined to bed for a few days on doctor’s orders, and we’re not allowed to use ink in bed.1

This brief quote is from the novel of the writer and film director Péter Gárdos: Fever at Dawn (Hajnali láz, translated into English by Elizabeth Szász). The novel is based on correspondence between Gárdos’ mother and father, which Gárdos only learned of after his father had passed away. Both of his parents were Holocaust survivors liberated from Bergen-Belsen concentration camp and taken by the Red Cross to Sweden for care. After a couple of weeks, Miklós Gárdos (the author’s father) decided to start corresponding with women who were recovering from the traumas of the war in Sweden and originally might have come from his hometown, Debrecen. He hoped both to learn of the fates of his family members and to find someone with whom he might fall in love. He sent the same letter to 117 addresses across Sweden. Ágnes, Péter Gárdos’ mother, lived at one of them, and she wrote back. From then on (September 1945), they corresponded intensely until February 1946. They fell in love and were married in March 1946, while they were still in Sweden. The letters were buried and were not read again until after Miklós Gárdos died. His widow Ágnes, after having kept the letter hidden from her son for 52 years, decided to hand over the two packs of correspondence to Péter, who after the first reading immediately decided to use them in some way in his art. Finally, the novel, which included original passages from the correspondence, was published in 2007 in Hungarian then in 2010 in English translation (a movie was also made based on the story in 2015). The novel essentially follows the true story of the couple. Only parts of the narrative and the names of the characters were modified slightly. Fever at Dawn aptly represents a possible path for survivors of historical trauma. It illustrates that after the war and genocide, the search for new love and marriage could serve as a tool with which to work through the traumatic events of the recent past and begin a new life.

In Hungary, in addition to the demographic catastrophe caused by the Holocaust, the sex ratio and generational composition of the Jewish community also became seriously distorted. The vast majority of married couples was affected by the loss of a wife or husband. The structure of Jewish families also changed drastically with the elimination of the extensive networks of relatives. One of the first signs of recuperation was the growing number of weddings held immediately after the end of the war. In 1946–1948, the proportion of marriages among the Jewish population compared to the marriage in the non-Jewish Hungarian community was much higher than the proportion of Jews was to the non-Jewish population. This was not a unique phenomenon in Europe. In Bavaria, for example, in the relocation camps (the Displaced Person or DP Camps) from the middle of 1946 the proportion of marriages per 1,000 persons became exceptionally high among Jews (27.4 percent) compared to the proportion of marriages among members of the region’s non-Jewish population (2.8 percent).2

Examining the reconstruction of Jewish communities after the war, in his book After the Holocaust: Rebuilding Jewish Lives in Postwar Germany Michael Brenner highlights the roles played by rabbis in the process:

 

The rabbis’ first task after the Liberation was to bury the dead and provide emotional consolation for the sick and the weak. Another difficult rabbinical activity was issuing heterim (permission to marry) for those whose spouse was missing and who wanted to remarry. Weddings were one of the joyous experiences in camp life and were hardly rare events. Most of the survivors were young men and women between the ages of twenty and forty who could only dream of having their own families while they were in the concentration camps. Soon after the war ended, many couples formed to build a future together.3

 

This article examines how the Hungarian Jewry rose above the traumas of the war. It addresses this problem from the perspective of the matrimonial ads published in the Israelite newspaper Új Élet between 1946 and 1952.4 Due to their dual private and public nature, the advertisements serve as a basis for a discussion or analysis of personal intentions and self-representation strategies in such narratives. How was the genre used to convey information about historical trauma in a public space? How was trauma expressed within such a rigid textual framework, in which length and structure was predefined? What were the recurring phrases that were used to conjure or refer to the traumatic experiences of the war?

Marriage ads could be considered collective social practices that shed light on the “publicalization” of private life. They had a fixed narrative structure that provided the framework for conventional and even ritualized forms of self-representation, even if the identity of the advertiser was often concealed. Nonetheless, the monotony of the ads notwithstanding, the voices of the surviving community can be heard. These voices reflected on the experiences of exile and the foundation of Israel, or they touched on the traumatic experiences and the loss of family members, including husbands and wives. In contrast to the different Jewish and non-Jewish matrimonial ads that were published in daily newspapers or to the ads in Jewish newspapers printed before and during the war, the ads in all the newspapers examined in this article contain references to the wartime persecution of the Jewry.

Methodology

This article concentrates on a group of sources which has not yet been made the subject of scholarly interest. Since it would be speculative to draw far-reaching conclusions on the basis of a single type of source, I will also discuss the historical background for the marriage ads, and I will also offer insights gleaned from other sources. At the same time, I aim to examine marriage ads in the context of marriage statistics, demographic data, and ecclesiastic legal documents in order to highlight the differentia specifica of such documents.

I should note, I have made only partial comparisons to the matrimonial advertisements published in other daily papers (Szabad Nép, Magyar Nemzet, Szabad Szó, Magyar Zsidók Lapja). In 1945–52,5 4,103 advertisements were published, and this high number is only partly altered by the fact that certain ads may have been published in consecutive issues of Új Élet. As it would have been impossible to analyze all the related marriage ads, I discuss only a sample of 50 marriage ads which were selected randomly. Although I extended the research to a significantly larger corpus, I only used this sample for the purposes of statistical analysis. The way information was structured and presented in the ads depended on the personality of the advertiser, the set layout, and the fee charged per character for the ads (a special fee was charged for the use of bold or larger fonts). Marriage ads were examined according to the following criteria: age, sex, social status (occupation, job), financial situation (e.g. small business, plant etc.), housing situation (was the person a property owner or renter), religion (primarily whether or not someone belonged to the Orthodox community), and attributes used for self-description (pretty, intelligent, good-natured). With regard to personal attributes, in the newspaper the advertiser usually highlighted the features he or she hoped to find in a potential partner. As could be expected, most of the ads did not incorporate all the criteria listed above. The data obtained in the course of the research was used to address the following questions: what was the average age of the advertisers? What was the sex ratio of the advertisers? What was the social background of the advertisers? What type of partner was in highest “demand”?

Új Élet

We are proclaiming ‘New Life’ on the sepulchral mound of much of the Hungarian Jewry–above its destroyed and mortified ruins. This is a clear sign of the desire to live, the encouraging miracle of healing wounds, the ceaseless heartbeat in the thousand-year-old history of the Jews, which will triumphantly work its way through the wreckage of mass destruction.6

Új Élet (New Life) was published by the National Office of Hungarian Israelites (MIOI), and its title clearly indicated the desire of the Hungarian Jewry to rebuild the community after the traumatic experience of the Holocaust. It was the first and central newspaper of the organization, and it first went to press on November 13, 1945.7 Its circulation started a bit later than that of the other weekly prints, and it remained the only nationwide weekly newspaper of the MIOI. It was published from the outset as the journal of the National Office of the Hungarian Israelites and the official and declared “forum” for the Hungarian Jewry. After the political transition, Új Élet remained the official weekly of the Jewish community, but it lost its once privileged status.

In the beginning, the chief publishing editor of the newspaper was the journalist Rezső Roóz (1879–1963), and a five-member editorial board oversaw the editing process.8 The newspaper played a crucial role in the post-1945 life of the remaining Hungarian Jewish community. In an extremely precarious and dim period, when information on victims and survivors was scarce, Új Élet became a primary source of news.9 The newspaper published the lists, compiled by the World Jewish Congress, JOINT, DEGOB,10 and the Red Cross, of the names of those who survived the deportation and the labor services. It also published news, regulations, and laws that affected the Hungarian Jewry. The issues of financial reparations and responsibility for the Holocaust or the policies of the government were constantly on its agenda. With its articles, editorials, and commentaries, Új Élet also shaped the discourse on the Hungarian Jewry and the Holocaust. Beyond practical information published in order to provide assistance for survivors, the newspaper also helped catalyze the process of confronting and working through the tragic events of the Holocaust: the newspaper regularly published short stories, poems, and personal memories. Ernő Munkácsi started a column entitled “How did it happen?” in which official documents produced at the time of the deportations were published, along with reflections on the importance of these documents. With its weekly circulation, personal and commercial ads, reports on the situation of the Jewry in rural settlements or cities other than Budapest, and coverage of Palestine (and from 1948 onwards on Israel), the newspaper offered a sense of continuity and a normal rhythm of life for the Jewish community after the traumatic experiences of the Holocaust. The shattered and tormented Hungarian Jewry could feel that through the newspaper they remained connected to the larger, even “supranational” community of Jews.

Géza Szilágyi (1878–1956), a writer and publicist who was active between the two World Wars, regularly published articles and occasionally whole series on the situation of Jewish women after the war, wartime traumas, and everyday hardships (e.g. dating) in response to the letters he received from female readers.11 In these articles, the intention to marry was exclusively represented as a “female desire,” as is amply illustrated by the series of articles published under the title “Chorus of Female Desire,” in which Szilágyi shared with his readers the difficulties of bereaved women looking for a new partner in life: 

 

Women, open-hearted and honest women write these letters, who survived the most devastating plague internally in Hungary, or those returning from stark and remote extermination camps [...] women who were left alone in desert like solitude: young girls who not only lost their families, but also their protective and supporting homes; young women, whose fiancés were taken to their graves by an infernal worldwide hurricane; women in bloom, who were robbed of their husbands, and in many cases their children too, by demonic powers; matronly mothers still up for an active life.

Each one of these women writing letters wished to marry or remarry, and they were searching for a suitable man, with whom they could share their lives:

 

Quite understandably, they assume they will find and hope to find their special men primarily among those who are companions in their distress in every aspect, who were also squeezed together in suffocating ghettoes, abducted in wagons to be killed in gas chambers, or doomed to be wasted on forced labor dictated by executioners, and who in the end survived and returned through some unfathomable miracle of mercy, but are just as bereaved, as they never saw their female partners again, partners from whom these men were taken by flogs to be led to their fateful suffering.12

 

In addition to texts written in various other genres (editorial, fiction column etc.), notices in which people were looking for family members or relatives were frequently published in Új Élet. From January 1946, an increasing number of marriage ads was published among the commercial advertisements and other notices. By the first half of 1946 (March), the structure of the periodical and the order of the texts began to follow a set (hierarchical) pattern, pushing the matrimonial ads to the last page (or occasionally the penultimate page, if there was not enough space).

Remarriage and Religious Law after 1945

After the “closing” of the Talmud, all of the ritual, practical, and theoretical issues that emerged within the Jewish community and were not regulated by the Talmud were settled by the rabbis.13 The answers and recommendations of the rabbis were considered guidelines based on the religious laws (halacha).14 Due to the so-called reception law, which had been ratified in 1895, civic mixed marriages were legal in Hungary. The institution of civic registration significantly reduced the administrative role of the rabbis.15 In the same year, the National Rabbi Association (Országos Rabbi Egyesület, ORE) was formed, primarily because of the changes in the issuing of birth-certificates. In addition, the association had many other responsibilities, including the provision of advocacy for the rabbis. It also became the highest forum for discussion of religious laws, and it tried to improve relations between the rabbis and the congregation. According to an ORE-decree issued in 1936, the right to decide in the first instance on the matter of religious laws belonged to the local rabbi, but the congregation could appeal to the National Rabbinic Association.16

ORE resumed its operation on February 26, 1945, two weeks after the liberation of Budapest.17 Its first chairman was Zsigmond Groszmann. Its main goal was to reorganize the religious life of the Hungarian Jewish community. The most pressing issues after the war were the high rate of people abandoning the Jewish religion and the clarification of the legal stance of war widows (agunahs).

Based on official statistics, there were 21,833 cases of apostasy between 1920 and 1942.18 According to a binding statement issued by ORE in 1946, individuals who had not fulfilled the formal requirements of the apostasy and who declared their Jewishness in their official documents after 1945 remained members of the congregation. Those who had abandoned the Jewish faith or obtained fake documents had to meet the criteria of religious re-engagement (Tvila and Kabala). Marriages which had been contracted before the 1941 Anti-Jewish law (without the civil registry) were considered authentic by the interim, but the congregation also required a posterior civil registry certification as well. Dealing with the problem of agunahs was a serious religious issue for the rabbinate. Certificates confirming women’s status as widows and the deaths of husbands were issued by the military, but the interpretation of these documents also depended on sulchan aruch.19 In many cases, death during the war could not be proven by witnesses or by any official institutions.20 As the leader of the ORE, dr. Ernő Roth explained,

 

World War II and the killing of Jews during the war resulted in a completely different situation: there are many women who don’t know anything about the whereabouts of their husbands, and most of these women are young; they must endure alone the hardships of life without the support of children or relatives.21

The list of Holocaust victims is not complete even today. From May 1945 onwards, committees visited the former camps to collect data concerning the survivors. The guidelines and prohibitions established in the Talmud for uncertain deaths could not be applied in these cases. The wives of those who could not be found were considered widows by the committees. Roth reached the following conclusion:

 

due to the results of this horrible war, husbands who have not yet shown up are probably dead. […] Is it appropriate to discourage a lot of religious and virtuous women from remarrying with if one considers this improbability? I believe that we can give only a negative answer to this question.22

 

ORE feared that a rigid insistence on observance of religious laws from these widows would push them towards civic marriages instead of religious ones, so they tried to lighten the religious regulations. With regard to the institution of chalicha (i.e. levirate), the rabbis were of the same view. According to the laws of the Torah, the brother-in-law was obliged to marry the widow after the death of her husband. ORE tried to disregard such regulations, thereby allowing widows who wanted to follow religious ordinances and have families and children to remarry.

The Demographic Situation of the Hungarian Jewry after the Holocaust

The period between 1945 and 1948 is called the coalition period or the years of transition in Hungarian historiography.23 After the defeat in the war, the political, social, and economic structures of Hungary were in ruins. According to the World Jewish Congress’ calculations, approximately 569,700 Hungarian Jews (69 percent of the Hungarian Jewry in the state of 1944) died in concentration camps or as a result of various atrocities in the forced labor service or during deportation. Thus, the rebuilding of the country began in the midst of post-war traumas, upheavals, and uncertainties. The numbers of “remaining Jews”24 in the territory of post-war Hungary were the following: there were approximately 190,000 Jewish people in the country, of which 119,000 resided in Budapest. The human casualties according to territorial breakdown were the following: Of the Jewish denizens of Budapest, 47 percent were killed in the war. Of those living in the rest of the country, 78 percent perished.25 War and genocide also changed the sex ratio and the generational composition of the Jewish community significantly. In Budapest, women outnumbered men, while in the rest of the country more Jewish men survived the Holocaust than Jewish women. In Budapest, there were 1,577 women for every 1,000 men, while in the rest of the country there were 915 women for every 1,000 men.26 As for the age distribution, the proportion of the population in reproductive age (people between 20 and 40 years of age) distorted the statistics further both in Budapest (1,784 to 1,000) and in the rest of the country (860 to 1,000).27 Moreover, according to the estimations of Eugene Duschinsky, 70 percent of the women who had been married and 65 percent of the men who had been married had become widows and widowers.28 In addition to these demographic effects, the Holocaust also had a major impact on the structure of Jewish families: the strong networks of relatives simply vanished. These networks had had a considerable influence on the practice of endogamy, which had been characteristic of the marriage habits of the Jewish community before the war. Statistics show that 41 percent of the total number of marriages between cousins were contracted by Jews.29

Demographic changes heavily influenced the mating and marriage patterns of the community members. The rising number of mixed-marriages in the age group between 20 and 60 was an inevitable consequence of these demographic traumas. The disproportionalities and the distortions of the post-war Jewish community (with regard to the population pyramid, different mortality rates in Budapest and the rest of the country, etc.) were connected to the differences by territory in the wartime deportations, forced labor services, and other atrocities. The Jewry of Budapest, for example, was less exposed to deportations than the communities in the countryside, in part because regent Miklós Horthy stopped the deportations on July 7, 1944.

Jewish Marriages after 1945

According to the data from Budapest collected by sociologist Viktor Karády,30 the proportion of Jewish marriages compared to non-Jewish marriages was much higher than the proportion of Jews in Hungarian society at the time.31 Karády came up with the following estimates with regard to the number of Jewish weddings:32

 

Year

Jewish marriages

Other religions

1941–43

1,459

11,325

1945

1,742

10,333

1946

2,734

10,141

1947

2,221

 

1948

1,894

 

1949

1,544

 

1950

804 (estimated)

 

 

Table 1. Marriages in Budapest.

There are no data for 1944, but probably the number of Jewish marriages was the lowest if compared with other years. Such marriages could be interpreted as group-specific phenomenon, since there is no indication of a similar tendency among non-Jewish men after the end of World War II. The high number of non-Jewish men fleeing the Soviet army and the growing number of prisoners of war may explain this discrepancy.

Karády attributes the rising number of Jewish marriages to the fact that after the war the Hungarian Jewry “compensated” for the marriages that had been postponed because of the war and the deportations. Apart from this compensatory attitude, the growing tendency to remarry among the widows of the Holocaust was an important factor which contributed to the rise in marriage rates. This article is based on a textual analysis of marriage ads, and it complements Karády’s argument, according to which, due to the strengthening of a minority identity among the Hungarian Jews, the community was able to generate solidarity and strengthen a sense of bonding among its members. László Csorba also reflected on the link between group identity and the issue of marriage and childbearing among Hungarian Jews:

 

The successful ambition to rejuvenate the family was a sign that the Hungarian Jewry was gradually regaining its physical and mental health, and it was a clear sign of the communal desire to live and to establish personal security. As early as 1946, the proportion of Jewish remarriages was twice the proportional number of Jewish residents in Budapest, and the rate of childbearing, which was facilitated by in kind and financial assistance and cost-free benefits (and encouraged by the official propaganda), almost tripled compared to the rate the previous year […] their efforts, which were also supported by the “dating services,” were especially effective among the Jews in the parts of the country outside of Budapest.33

Marriage Advertisements

Marriage

I am searching for my relative living abroad,

having an unchallengeable background,

an exceptional, religious youngish dame

recognized for her beauty and coming from the higher circles.

With highest discretion.

Please send your detailed letter to motto “Nagypartie.”

(December 27, 1945)34

Matrimonial ads could be interpreted as a manifestation of the “marriage market,” in which the exchange of goods is replaced by people trying to “sell” themselves. This ambition strongly shaped the narratives in the ads, and it influenced the keywords that individual advertisers chose when referring to their own social and financial status (properties). The person posting the advertisement was supposed to clarify who he/she was and what kind of partner he/she was looking for in a concise manner.35 These advertisements offer a sketch of the kind of person who would have been considered an eligible partner (“jó partie”) at the time, in other words, who would have had a “premium value” in the marriage market. The anonymity of the ads, the conventional self-descriptions, and the use of mottoes helped the advertiser conceal his/her identity. The matrimonial ads examined in this article contain three basic types of information. The first type is the age of the advertiser and the age of the desired partner. The second type indicates the financial and social status (divorced, widowed, unmarried) of the advertiser, his/her tangible assets (apartment, villa, car, rented property), and whether he/she had a job or not. The last type was included in the motto, and it could be a simple word or a brief statement (“America,” or “I wish to start a new life,” for example). In the sample examined in this article, there was only one motto that resurfaced several times: “Sufficient means of subsistence.” Mottoes could also contain additional references to the advertiser (“Brunette Woman,” “Music Fan,” “I own a small business and an apartment”), or they could include indications of preferences regarding the other party (“Up to 65,” “Marriage into the family”). In most cases, however, mottoes simply implied the desire to build a happy and stable life with a new partner (“Happy Life,” “Optimism,” “Sufficient means of subsistence”). Personal information with regard to religion, family (number of children), and events from the recent past was not normally included in the ads.

A discussion of marriage advertisements in Új Élet, needs to be complemented with a brief reflection on similar advertisements found in non-denominational newspapers (Szabad Nép, Szabad Szó, Magyar Nemzet) at the time, and in the predecessor of Új Élet, Magyar Zsidók Lapja (Hungarian Jews’ Journal), before and during the war. In the case of Magyar Zsidók Lapja, I examined the issues published between 1939 and 1944. As for the most popular advertising forms and typical phrases, the ads posted before and after the war did not reflect any significant differences. For example, the colloquial salutation used to address a young woman, or dame (úrileány, úrinő), continued to be used until as late as 1951. Another example for the survival of pre-war linguistic traditions and manners of speech is the regular mention of a woman’s “dowry,” which in most cases simply referred to a certain sum of money. It seems that certain patterns of self-representation were not radically altered by the war or the traumatic experience of the Holocaust. However, one does notice some changes. After the war, and especially in Új Élet, the ads became more detailed and assumed the characteristics of a (simple) narrative. In addition, more personal information with regard to the identity of the advertisers was included in post-war ads.

 

Young lady wishes to find a fair husband

with good financial situation

from 45 to 53 years of age

please reply to the publisher under the motto 8 thousand in cash.

Agents excluded.36

In addition to Új Élet, other dailies, such as Szabad Nép (until 1950), Magyar Nemzet (until 1951), and Szabad Szó (until 1949) also published matrimonial advertisements. In the first two papers, Jewish advertisers (“Isr.,” “Israelite”) also frequently posted advertisements. Szabad Szó was the only one in which Jewish advertisers did not place their ads, as it was used in particular by Christian (Roman Catholic) farmers, agricultural workers, and craftsmen. Like Új Élet, Szabad Nép and Magyar Nemzet also published ads containing implicit references to the Holocaust (“widow of a person taken for labor service,” “deported”). However, one can also identify differences, especially regarding the issue of emigration to Israel, which was not mentioned at all. In addition, in the dailies read nationwide non-Jewish advertisers did not make any references to wartime traumas or personal losses.

The advertisements published in Szabad Nép after 1948 reflected the increasing politicization of private and public life in the wake of the Communist takeover. However, it is not clear whether the salutation conventions—i.e. the use of the term ‘comrade’—were a requirement of the newspaper or simply a linguistic indication of one’s commitment to the party. It is worth noting, however, that this type of salutation was used exclusively in the columns of Szabad Nép.

Due to my other engagements

I seek my partner in life, an intellectual

Isr. comrade, by this method

a 29-year old, pretty “Female Teacher.”37

Marriage Advertisements in Új Élet

In the overall corpus of documents, marriage ads that contained information about wartime deportation, experiences in concentration camps, or the loss of family members or a spouse were rare. This was not necessarily because the subject was taboo; there may well have been other reasons. Among the members of the surviving Jewish community, the various atrocities and stories of deportation were well known. Thus, the fact that the advertisers did not describe the traumas they had endured in detail does not necessarily mean that they wanted to avoid mentioning their past, although this may also have been a deliberate strategy. Since the Holocaust affected the entire community, no explicit references were needed to evoke the horrors of the past. The desire to remarry already implied experience with wartime trauma and the desire to move on and start a new life. However, the linguistic conventions used in marriage advertisements to a certain extent enabled a discrete and anonymous method of self-representation, and they were also suitable for conveying confidential or sensitive information with regards to the recent past. Although the act of publicly expressing the wish to remarry could be interpreted as a form of dealing with the traumatic past, the decision to start searching for a new spouse must have been incredibly difficult from a psychological point of view. To create a new, intimate relationship with someone after having suffered through the traumatic experiences of the Holocaust and after the having lost a partner or an entire family must have been a very hard choice to make. Therefore, marriage after the Holocaust and the desire to share the difficulties of the present (and the past) with a new person could be regarded as one of the most significant post-war rituals of coming to terms with the past. Marriage in this specific social and historical context was a ritual way of dealing with wartime trauma, a ritual which did not necessarily involve much (public) discussion of the actual traumatic events.

The majority of advertisers resided in Hungary, although occasionally family members in Hungary sought the help of relatives abroad (primarily in Israel and the USA) in their search for a spouse. There were also cases in which advertisements were posted directly from Israel without an intermediary. In addition, advertisements were not always placed by individuals who wished to get married, but by mediators or “guarantors” representing the person in question. It was mostly women who sought the assistance of these people. In these cases, the advertisement was posted by a family member (father, brother, or a female friend) or a close relative on behalf of the woman looking for a husband. According to traditional social practices with regards to marriage, the father or brother was responsible for searching for a husband for a Jewish woman. The male members of the family were also supposed to guarantee the reputation of the woman in question. As the quote below shows, male relatives were occasionally involved in the search for husbands for middle-aged widows, as well.

 

I wish to marry off

my pretty young female relative,

who earns her living as a lingerie seamstress,

who owns an apartment, to a recognized

craftsman or merchant up to the age of 48-55.

Please reply to the publisher under the motto “Domesticated 100” 38

Marriage advertisements were also posted by marriage brokers (shadchan), who advertised their services in various newspapers (Magyar Nemzet, Új Élet). Traditionally, shadchans played an important role arranging marriages among religious Jews (Orthodox, Hasidic, but even for assimilated families) and in helping find a suitable husband or wife.39 Considering the demographic situation in Hungary after the war, the services of shadchans were more readily accepted by the general public.

 

Marriages are brokered 

discreetly and efficiently by:

MRS. GOLD Alsóerdősor Street,

former Ground Floor No. 2

Visiting hours: 10:00am–12:00pm

and 2:00pm–6:00pm. Telephone: 223-48040

Who posted marriage advertisements after the war, when, and why, and what were the main themes addressed by the advertisers? After the Holocaust, the first people to return to Hungary were the men who had been conscripted into the forced labor service.41 The sample of ads selected for statistical analysis contained altogether 50 advertisers, including 30 women and 20 men (thus a female majority of 20 percent), with the average age of 42, although only 30 of the advertisers disclosed their ages. The great majority of the advertisers were from Budapest. Only 12 of them indicated that they were from the “countryside” (i.e. the rest of the country). Interestingly enough, a significant number of advertisers was seeking to marry for the first time. Although obviously they had not lost a spouse during the Holocaust, they most likely had lost relatives or nuclear family members. Another category of the advertisers was the widows/widowers. There are 12 people in the sample—2 men and 10 women—who noted that they were widowers or widows. The dates when these advertisements were posted indicate the time when the person in question felt ready to close the traumatic chapters of the past and move on.

An important phenomenon in the postwar Jewish community was emigration to Israel (alija). Even before the wave of immigration after the war, many people had already left for Israel, either during the war or between 1930 and 1941. Approximately 5,870 people left the country between 1930 and 1941.42 With the proclamation of the state of Israel in May 1948, alija—conducted illegally in previous years—became legal. However, the Communist leadership never supported alija openly. Passports were issued by the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and the applicants could only obtain travel documents if they were able to verify that they had performed military or labor service. The leaders of the Jewish community were also ambivalent about this issue, despite the fact that they were generally expected to support the process. In December 1948, the national assembly adopted legislation on citizenship that imposed strict sanctions for illegal border crossing, and this included illegal alija. If someone was caught while attempting to cross the border illegally, he/she could be sentenced to confiscation of property and could even be deprived of his/her citizenship.

Based on official Israeli statistics, the country admitted 13,631 people from Hungary between May 1948 and the end of 1951.43 This left its imprint on the marriage ads published in Új Élet. A growing percentage of the advertisements began to focus on immigration. In addition, numerous ads were published in which people living abroad—in America or Australia—looked for wives (husbands) from among people in the Jewish community in Hungary. This shows that the growing Jewish diaspora remained committed to the practice of endogamy, and marriages were arranged with people who had similar cultural, linguistic, and historic backgrounds. There were also advertisers who searched for a partner before emigrating in order to be able to leave the country and start a new life elsewhere with someone from the same socio-cultural background. In 1948, Új Élet switched to an anti-Zionist tone, complying with the official policy of the Communist regime. However, the newspaper could still publish ads posted by Israeli advertisers inviting people to emigrate, as the example below demonstrates:

 

27-year old young man returning from captivity,

having lost his beloved ones 

wishes to find his partner,

possibly a serious girl, 18-22 years old young lady

with modern thinking,

also returning from deportation. Please enclose photograph,

if possible. Please reply to the publisher

under the motto “We start a new life in Erec”44

 

As indicated above, it was not general practice to make references to the Holocaust in the advertisements.45 The most frequently used phrases that indicated a traumatic experience were: “musz” (person taken for labor service) (6) and “deported,” or “deported person is preferred” (2). Both expressions functioned as umbrella terms referring to a wide range of traumatic experiences that were familiar among people in the Jewish community but were rarely discussed in public. Interestingly, although most of the advertisers were from Budapest, the ghetto was not referenced in any of the ads. In addition to the expressions above, there were other phrases that implied some experience with the Holocaust. These expressions included “recently returned,” or “completely bereaved without any living relative.” The words and phrases used by Holocaust survivors in marriage ads were strikingly different from the terminology used at the time. It should be noted that the terms concentration camp, lager, death camp, and ghetto were not mentioned at all in the ads, although they were often referred to in post-war colloquial language. The second advertisement listed below is an exception to the rule:

 

I wish to follow the example of my two siblings

who found their happiness in the countryside,46

I am 48 years old, the widow of a person taken for labor service,

as well as a domesticated wife and a business woman,

I wish to get married, and I would not mind living in the countryside.

Please send your reply up to 55 years of age.

Please reply to the publisher under the motto “Modest.” 47

 

Pretty, middle-aged woman recently returned from Auschwitz,

a primary lessor of an apartment, wishes to get married to an independent craftsman or merchant aged between 55–69,

and would not mind living in the countryside.

Please reply to the Propaganda publisher under the motto “I was left completely alone,”

Teréz Avenue 50.48

 

Another typical feature of the advertisements posted during the time period under examination here was that the advertisers were looking not only for a future spouse, but also for a future associate/business partner. These ads were posted by “small entrepreneurs,” most often owners of small or mid-size industrial plants.49 It should be highlighted that the key expressions associated with this type of marriage ad (“would marry into” or “invited to marry into” a family) continued to figure in similar ads even after the post-1948 era, until 1951.

 

Middle-aged shoemaker with industrial authorization

is INVITED TO MARRY INTO

the family of a widow having a

prospering business and a spectacular apartment.

Mrs. Márton Weisz (widow)

VI. Szondi Street 38”50

 

There were also ads in which the advertisers were specifically looking for a religious or Orthodox spouse. In some cases, Orthodoxy was only referred to with a Hebrew expression.

 

A diligent, religious young woman wishes to get married.

I would be a faithful and understanding wife for an around 40-year old serious, religious man, under the motto

“Bász Talmudchachem”51

Conclusion

As I have noted, in 1946–48 the proportion of Jewish marriages compared to non-Jewish ones was much higher than the proportion of Jews in the Hungarian population. This indicates that in the shattered post-war Jewish community marriage functioned as one of the tools with which to attempt to work through and move beyond the traumatic past and start a new life. Instead of public discussions about the details of the genocide, the traditional social institution of marriage was supposed to bring about (ritual) closure and signal the beginning of a new life. Although in several cases, marriage ads contained explicit references to the Holocaust, the shared trauma was only the specificity of Jewish ads in comparison with non-Jewish texts. Yet, coming to terms with the traumatic past did not happen in complete “silence.”52 Subtle references to wartime experiences implied whether one had been affected by wartime traumas or not. No further details were needed in a community that had been devastated by genocidal violence. However, matrimonial ads do reveal some information about the consignors—the majority of the consignors were secular Jews—and about the forms the narratives took. While there was no significant change in the cultural tradition of posting marriage ads in the time period covered in this article (the institution of shadchan continued to exist, for example), the narratives evoked the shared traumatic experiences of the recent past, as well as the post-war existential dilemmas of the remaining Jewish community (the Alijah, for example). Matrimonial advertisements also show that survival and the need to start a new life was a powerful motivation that led to some public—albeit very subtle—discussion or disclosure of the unspeakable sufferings which had determined the fate of the entire community.

 

Bibliography

Botos, János. “Mit tudott a magyar közvélemény az Endlösungról?” [What did the Hungarian public know about the final solution?]. In Nyitott/zárt Magyarország [Open/Closed Hungary], edited by István Feitl, 304–06. Budapest: Nagyvilág, 2013.

Braham, Randolp R. A népirtás politikája: A holokauszt Magyarországon [The politics of genocide: The Holocaust in Hungary]. Vol 2. Budapest: Park Kiadó, 2015.

Brenner, Michael. After the Holocaust: Rebuilding Jewish Lives in Postwar Germany. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1999.

Čapková, Kateřina. Czech, Germans, Jews, National Identity and the Jews of Bohemia. New York: Berghahn Books, 2012.

Cesarani, David, and Eric J. Sundquist. After the Holocaust: Challenging the Myth of Silence. London: Routledge, 2012.

Csorba, László. Izrealita felekezeti élet Magyarorszáon a vészkorszaktól a nyolcvanas évekig (1945–1983) [Israelite denominational life in Hungary from the Holocaust to the 1980s (1945–1983)]. Vol 2. of Hét évtized a hazai zsidóság életében [Seven decades in the life of the domestic Jewry], edited by László L. Lendvai, Anikó Sohár, and Pál Horváth, 64–66. Budapest: MTA Filozófiai Intézet, 1990.

Duschinsky, Eugene. “Hungary.” In The Jews in the Soviet Satellites, edited by Peter Meyer, Bernard Dov Weinry, and Eugene Duschinsky. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1953.

Havasréti, József. “Vitustánc: A ‘társadalmi fiziognómia’ és a szexualitás megítélésének kérdései Szilágyi Géza írásaiban.” [Sydenham’s chorea: ‘Social physiognomy’ and the questions of judgments of sexuality in the writings of Géza Szilágyi”]. Thalassa 4, no. 19 (2008): 43–61.

Gárdos, Péter. Fever at Dawn. Translated by Elizabeth Szász. London: Transworld Publishers, 2016.

Horváth, Rita. A magyarországi zsidó Deportáltakat Gondozó Országos Bizottság története [History of the National Committee for the Provision of Care for Deported Persons]. Budapest: Magyar Zsidó Levéltár, 1997.

Karády, Viktor. Túlélők és újrakezdők: fejezetek a magyar zsidóság szociológiájából 1945 után [Survivors and people starting over: Chapters in the sociology of the Hungarian Jewry after 1945]. Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2002.

Katona, József. “A zsidó megújhodásért: A fővárosi zsidóság lelki képe” [For a Jewish renewal. The psychological image of the Jews of the capital]. Az Országos Rabbiegyesület Értesítője [Bulletin of the National Rabbi’s Association], April 1947: 18–24.

Komoróczy, Géza. 1849-től a napjainkig [From 1849 to the Present Day]. Vol. 2 of A zsidók története Magyarországon [The History of the Jews in Hungary]. Bratislava: Kalligram, 2012.

Koerner, András. Family, Religious, and Social Life, Learning, Military Life, Vacationing, Sports, Charity. Vol. 2 of How They Lived: The Everyday Lives of Hungarian Jews, 1867–1940. Budapest: CEU Press, 2016.

Lőcsei, Pál, and Mária Neményi. Emberpár és család az államszocializmusban, 1945–1985: Válogatott családszociológiai írások [Couples and family under state socialism, 1945–1985: Selected writings on family sociology]. Budapest: Gondolat, 2008.

Mankowitz, Zeev W. Life between Memory and Hope: The Survivors of the Holocaust in Occupied Germany. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

Róth, Ernő. “Az Aguna kérdéséhez” [On the question of agunah]. Az Országos Rabbi Egyesület Értesítője [Bulletin of the National Rabbi’s Association], August 1946, 14–19.

Standeisky, Éva. “Tétova újraértelmezések” [Hesitant reinterpretations]. In Tudomány és ideológia között: Tanulmányok az 1945 utáni magyar történetírásról [Between science and ideology: Essays on Hungarian history writing after 1945], edited by Ádám Takács and Vilmos Erős. Budapest: ELTE Eötvös Kiadó, 2012.

Stark, Tamás. “Vándormozgalom a vészkorszak után” [Migration after the Holocaust]. In idem. Zsidóság a vészkorszakban és a felszabadulás után 1939–1955 [The Jewry during the Holocaust and after the liberation, 1939–1955], 90–108. Budapest: Institute of History, Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1995.

Stein, Arthúr. A zsidók anyakönyvei és konskripciói [Registry and conscription papers of Jews]. Vol. 2 of A felekezeti anyakönyvek Magyarországon [Denominational registries in Hungary]. Budapest: Neuwald, 1941.

Szél, Tivadar. Budapesti házasságok [Marriages in Budapest]. Statisztikai Közlemények 86, no. 4 (1936).

Szilágyi, Géza. “Vágyak női kórusa” [The female choir of desires]. Új Élet, April 10, 1947.

Toronyi, Zsuzsanna. “Halachikus problémák a neológiában 1945-1950 között” [Halakha problems in neology in 1945–1950]. In Küzdelem az igazságért: Tanulmányok Randolph L. Braham 80. születésnapjára [Struggle for the truth: Essays in honor of the 80th birthday of Randolph L. Braham], edited by László Karsai and Randolph L. Braham, 723–30. Budapest: Magyarországi Zsidó Hitközségek Szövetsége, 2002.

1 Gárdos, Fever at Dawn, 14.

2 Mankowitz, Life between Memory and Hope, 133.

3 Brenner, After the Holocaust, 26, see also Čapková, Czech, Germans, Jews.

4 On the history of personal ads, see: Cocks, Classified: The Secret History. Új Élet was the central newspaper of the newly formed National Office of Hungarian Israelites (Magyar Izraeliták Országos Irodája), so it can be reasonably assumed that the people who were placing their advertisements in the paper were specifically searching for a “Jewish” (in the broad cultural, religious and historical meaning of the term) spouse. Based on the ads, it is not clear who considered themselves part of the Hungarian Jewry. Only a small number of the ads made mention of the practice of religion by using the following expressions: Sabbatarian, religious, Orthodox. The distribution of the number of advertisements by years was the following: 1946: 977, 1947: 1,340, 1948: 836, 1949: 379, 1950:336, 1951: 235, 1952: 13.

5 An average of 15-20 advertisements was published in each publication, but this number increased to approx. 35-40 in the volume of 1948. This latter fact meant that the last page of the 10-page Új Élet was completely devoted to marriage ads, while the second to last page was partly covered by such ads (i.e. 15-20 percent of the entire newspaper).

6 Új Élet, November 13, 1945, 1.

7 Most of the Hungarian newspapers and journals gained the permission for publication from the Allied Commission during the spring and the summer of 1945. See Botos, “Mit tudott a magyar közvélemény.”

8 The members of the the editorial boards were: Béla Dénes, Ferenc Hevesi, Ernő Munkácsi, Szigfried Róth, and Samu Szemere. The composition of the board was the same as the earlier board of the denomination. Ernő Munkácsi was the secretary of the Central Jewish Council, which operated during World War II.

9 Csorba, “Izraelita felekezeti élet Magyarországon.”

10 National Committee for the Provision of Care for Deported Persons (Deportáltakat Gondozó Országos Bizottság). Horváth, “A magyarországi zsidó Deportáltakat”.

11 Havasréti, “Vitustánc.”

12 Szilágyi, “Vágyak női kórusa,”  15.

13 The effects of technological development on the everyday lives of the communities were among the typical problems that were resolved by the rabbis.

14 Toronyi, “Halachikus problémák a neológiában.”

15 Stein, A zsidók anyakönyvei és konskripciói.

16 Rabbisági szabályzat, 1936. Magyar Zsidó Múzeum és Levéltár (MZSML), II-A-5, ORE iratai, 1936.

17 The Soviet army captured Buda on January 18, 1945 and Pest on February 13.

18 Katona, “A zsidó megújhodásért.”

19 The Sulchan Aruch is the universal corpus juris of the Jews which was compiled by Josef ben Efraim Karo (1488–1575).

20 Róth, “Az Aguna kérdéséhez.”

21 Ibid., 16.

22 Ibid., 18.

23 Standeisky, “Tétova újraértelmezések.”

24 Komoróczy, 1849-től a napjainkig, 881–85.

25 Braham, A népirtás politikája.

26 Ibid.

27 Karády, Túlélők és újrakezdők.

28 Duschinsky, “Hungary.”

29 Szél, Budapesti házasságok, 199.

30 Due to internal migration and the declining Jewish community, Budapest gained a demographic predominance compared with the rest of the country.

31 Karády, Túlélők és újrakezdők, 72.

32 Ibid., 83.

33 Csorba, “Izraelita felekezeti élet.”

34 I have striven in my translations to maintain the cited marriage ads in their original form and style by preserving their respective layouts, segmentation, and emphasis.

35 “A wife and mother for the children, a companion, ‘a travelling partner’ an associate/business partner?”

36 Magyar Zsidók Lapja, January 11, 1940.

37 Szabad Nép, May 19, 1948, 16.

38 Új Élet, January 22, 1948.

39 Koerner, Family, Religious, and Social Life.

40 Új Élet, June 27, 1946.

41 Braham, A népirtás politikája.

42 Stark, “Vándormozgalom a vészkorszak után.”

43 Komoróczy, 1849-től a napjainkig, 975.

44 Új Élet, November 18, 1948.

45 It is worth noting that after the reopening of the ad’s section in Új Élet (1957), the “traces” of the shared trauma entirely disappeared. This suggests that only between 1946 and 1952 could the traumatic experiences be integrated into the narrative canons of the matrimonial ads.

46 I.e. somewhere in Hungary other than Budapest.

47 Új Élet, January 1, 1948.

48 Új Élet, February 19, 1948.

49 Before I discuss the summarized statistics based on the occupations and activities mentioned in the ads, I wish briefly to clarify some of the difficulties I encountered when making these statistics. I defined altogether three occupational categories based on the selected sample. By definition, this meant that certain occupations and social circles were left out, e.g. skilled workers or “craftsmen.” In addition, in many cases only vague references were made to someone’s financial status, without specific definitions (terms like “well-off,” “in a good financial situation” (4) or “in employment” were used). In one instance, the advertiser used the term “worker,” which (knowing the contemporary political language) was a reference to one’s adaptation to the new political regime or the emerging political identity. In a total of five cases, the advertisers indicated their actual financial situation (“HUF 7,000”). Based on the selected sample, most advertisers were involved in trade (“merchant”) (8), followed by business owners (3), an industrial plant owner (1), a landowner (1), and a farmer (1). The last two people may very well have been involved in essentially the same kind of work.

50 Új Élet, January 17, 1946.

51 Új Élet, January 24, 1946.

52 Cesarani and Sundquist, After the Holocaust.

2017_3_Introduction

Volume 6 Issue 3 CONTENTS

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Introduction to the Special Issue:
Migration and East Central Europe – a Perennial but Unhappy Relationship

Ulf Brunnbauer

IOS – Regensburg

 

In March 1929, the ambassador of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes sent a query to the Kingdom’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His message concerned the repatriation of immigrants who were citizens of the country but were of Magyar or German ethnic background:

Since these people had left our Kingdom dissatisfied with the new conditions, and because they represent an alien ethnic element which is of no use to our national state – on the contrary, according to the embassy’s opinion it should be in our interest that there are as few of these people as possible, especially in the border areas –, the embassy kindly requests instructions from the Ministry as to whether the return of these people is opportune.1

Five months later, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs replied:

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has the honor of informing the Royal Embassy that requests for repatriation to the Kingdom by our citizens of Magyar and German nationality should be dismissed under whichever pretext. The return of these a-national elements to our country must be obstructed to the furthest extent possible.

Obviously, the government of the Kingdom wanted to impede the return of citizens who were not considered part of the South Slavic nation, while “Yugoslav” emigrants were encouraged to return. The same reasoning based on a notion of ethnic selection also applied to applications for permission to leave the country. In 1924, the Ministry for Social Policy, which was responsible for emigration affairs, informed its departments that the emigration of so-called “a-national” families should be encouraged, while “national” families should be denied permission to emigrate. In 1925, the same ministry sent a circular to the Department for State Security with the following declaration:

Regarding the emigration of national minorities the Ministry shares the view that their emigration must be favored. The relevant authorities have agreed and maintain their interest in this issue; from that it follows that this is the official line for implementing emigration policies.

In 1926, the director of the Kingdom’s Emigration Commissariat in Zagreb, Fedor Aranicki, joyfully reported to the Minister for Social Policy that almost half of the emigrants who had left the country over the course of the few years that had passed had been “a-national” elements, and he recommended setting higher goals for the future: “One of the tasks of our emigration policy is to exert influence over the emigration of the a-national minorities in the future as well, in order to return the affected regions to their original national character.”

Fast forward some ninety years and the region appears still to be obsessed with the connection between migration and ethnicity. Control of migration continues to be seen as a tool of nation-building, and officially spread fears of immigrants underpin the legitimacy of increasingly authoritarian governments. Today, though, attention is paid primarily to immigration. The Visegrád governments in particular excel in promoting xenophobic stances in their concerted efforts to prevent the immigration of people seen as innately alien and unassimilable. Hungary’s Prime Minister Viktor Orbán uses his hardline policies against refugees from the Middle East to portray himself as the defender of Europe against imagined Islamization. Polish strongman Jaroslav Kaczynski claims that refugees and immigrants would spread unknown diseases, and in doing so he ironically employs stereotypes similar to those prevalent (and used) in Germany in the first years of the twentieth century, when the public began to grow increasingly concerned about the millions of Eastern Europeans (among them many Poles) traveling through Germany on their way to North America.

Similar to interwar Yugoslavia, East Central and Southeast European governments pursue a highly selective policy of entry: while they present non-European immigrants as mortal dangers, they invite co-ethnic citizens of neighboring countries to immigrate and generously extend citizenship to them. Hundreds of thousands of citizens of Moldova and Macedonia have enjoyed the privilege of receiving, respectively, Romanian and Bulgarian passports, only to use them to settle in one of the prosperous countries in Europe. Two things seem obvious: conceptualizations of international migration are highly ethnicized or even racialized. People’s alleged cultural or biological properties determine whether they are welcome or not, not for instance economic of humanitarian considerations. Second, public and political attitudes towards migration are closely tied to deep-seated anxieties, including fears of loss, alienation, domination, and marginalization, and these fears can be easily exploited by populist politicians.

One of the factors contributing to these fears is the demographic crisis in which all of the countries of the region find themselves, though to different degrees. What the Hungarian demographer Attila Melegh has pointedly termed “demographic emptying” underpins much of the hysteria about defending the nation and ensuring its survival (right-wing populists would rather see their nation die out than to let migrants in). Similar fears about emigration as a loss to the nation sparked attempts to restrict it a century ago. As Tara Zahra has persuasively shown in her recent book, political debates about international migration in East Central Europe and the Balkans have been closely tied to perceptions of marginalization and peripherality and visions of state development since the late nineteenth century.2

East Central and Southeastern Europe past and present offer textbook examples of what Sebastian Conrad examines in his seminal global history of the (pre-1914) German Empire:3 the globalization of the flow of labor, goods, and ideas breeds its own contradiction in the form of nativist responses, which define belonging not in terms of shared citizenship, but in terms of narrow kinship solidarity, i.e. “blood” vs. cosmopolitan ideas. This contradiction is hardly new. Transnationalism and nationalism flourish not only in tandem but even in a synergetic or parasitic relationship. These ironies, however, are usually lost on nationalists. In the most extreme case, this connection is not ironic but fatal: extreme nationalisms regularly produce waves of refugees, which generate new transnational entanglements, both on the level of everyday social interactions and on the level of high diplomacy.

Here again, the Balkans and East Central Europe offer a great deal of material for comparative research, for example on refugee accommodation strategies after World War One and today, resettlement practices in empires and nation states, and international relief efforts in the interwar period and after 1945. Large-scale refugee movements, such as the flight of almost 1.5 million Greeks from Turkey to Greece in 1923, were met with new patterns of state intervention. The Balkans and Central Europe in the interwar period and again after 1945 were essential laboratories for the development of international refugee protection mechanisms which still exist today and which we now see crumbling in Europe as, one by one, the countries of the region ignore their obligations according to the Geneva Convention. The politics of asylum is, unfortunately, terribly ignorant of its history.

The close link between nationalism, nation-building, and migration is not the only continuity in the rich migration history of the region. East Central European and Balkan societies have also faced an almost constant pressure to emigrate for economic reasons. With the exception of the period of communist rule, when voluntary emigration was banned or highly restricted in all of the states of Eastern Bloc (with the exception of Yugoslavia), significantly more people left the region than immigrated to it. Under communism, these streams were partially redirected to domestic destinations (for example, from rural settlements to larger cities or to areas from which German speakers had been expelled). This points to the structural position of the region in the international division of labor. It is a reservoir of relatively cheap labor from where, most of the time, workers go to places where capital can employ them, and not the opposite way round (though the inflow of foreign direct investment after 1989 has somewhat reversed this relationship). In many ways, the region can therefore be considered a laboratory for the study of the long-term (and also short-term) effects of migration and the ways in which the dynamics of economic migration interrelate with state-building and political change.

As a social process with manifold, complex and often contingent cultural, economic, and political consequences, migration has shaped the societies of East Central and Southeastern Europe in many, often unforeseen ways. It helped connect the region with global currents, but it also regularly was met with nationalistic backslashes which aim to reinforce borders and state control over movement. Yet despite the widely recognized significance of migration for the past and present of the region, the scholarship about it is still very unbalanced, with important lacunae, especially with regard to its history. This was motivation enough for the Hungarian Historical Review to solicit contributions for a special issue on the history of migration and refugee movement in East Central Europe and the Balkans. The editors hope that this initiative will be another step in firmly putting the region on the map of international historiography about migration. The late Holm Sundhaussen’s call to consider the history of Southeastern Europe as a history of migration (and to strengthen research efforts towards that goal) should not have been in vain.4

The articles in this issue explore a wide range of topics, and their geographic and chronological spread is also broad. Taken together, they not only highlight the importance of migration for the history of all the countries of the region, they also make clear that the current hysteria about migration is misplaced: first, because migration has been a fact of life for centuries and second, because societies prove remarkably successful in the integration of newcomers in the long term. Migration is one of the driving forces of cultural innovation, and more often than not, its economic benefits outweigh its costs. The articles also point to one of the many paradoxes of migration: while it is often a result of constraints, despair, or even violence, it also offers a chance for individual agency. Migration is linked not only to fears but also to hopes. Its consequences can never be predicted because each act of migration creates new social interactions, which in turn generate new dynamics which ultimately can change underlying social structures. But this is precisely the business of historians: to reveal the structural determinants of human life on the one hand and highlight the contingent practices enabled (and constrained) by these structures on the other. Hindsight teaches us at least one lesson: history never ends.

1 This and the following quotes are from Ulf Brunnbauer, Globalizing Southeastern Europe. Emigrants, America and the State since the 19th Century, (Landham, Md.: Lexington, 2016), 236–38. See also: Ulf Brunnbauer: “Emigration Policies and Nation-building in Interwar Yugoslavia,” European History Quarterly 42, no. 4 (2012): 602–27; Aleksandar R. Miletić, Journey under surveillance: The overseas emigration policy of the kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes in global context, 1918–1928 (Berlin–London: Lit, 2012).

2 Sebastian Conrad, Globalisierung und Nation im Deutschen Kaiserreich (Munich: Beck, 2010).

3 Tara Zahra, The Great Departure: Mass Migration from Eastern Europe and the Making of the Free World (New York–London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2017).

4 Holm Sundhaussen, “Geschichte Südosteuropas als Migrationsgeschichte: Eine Skizze,” Südost-Forschungen 65/66 (2006/2007): 422–77.

2017_3_Oancea

Volume 6 Issue 3 CONTENTS

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Integration Through Confession? Lutheran Migration from Upper Hungary to Sibiu After 1671 – Isaak Zabanius

Sever Cristian Oancea

University of Frankfurt am Main

In Memoriam Prof. Krista Zach
(1939–2016)

This study addresses the Hungarian migration in the Early Modern Era from Upper Hungary to Transylvania, focusing primarily on the biography of the Slovak Lutheran theologian Isaak Zabanius. Beginning with current historiography debates and covering the spectrum of anthropologic social historical views, it follows the exile story of this migrant, beginning with his departure for Toruń and Danzig (today Gdańsk, Poland) until his final settlement in Sibiu (Hermannstadt). I address two main questions in this article: did Zabanius migrate to Transylvania for confessional reasons, or was he motivated by economic considerations? How did he integrate into Transylvanian Saxon society? The contemporary sources indicate that he came to Transylvania because of his social network and only after having been given a position at the gymnasium of Sibiu. His integration was a success: he and his offspring became part of the local elite by ascending into the highest church and occupying political positions. Social integration in this case also represented assimilation and Germanization.

Keywords: Early Modern Transylvania, confessional persecution, Upper-Hungarian exile, confessional migration, Isaak Zabanius

The period after the conspiration of Count Ferenc Wesselényi represents one of the darkest times of Hungarian Protestantism. The Habsburgs endeavored to follow the Bohemian model and forcefully implement the Westphalian (1648) credo, cuius regio eius religio. Hundreds of Lutherans were convoked and some of them were put on trial in Bratislava (Pressburg by its German name and Pozsony in Hungarian). They were arrested and coerced to admit having been part of a conspiracy against the Habsburgs. Protestant churches and schools were confiscated or closed, and Protestant services were forbidden.1 Even radical measures against the Protestants were not unheard of in the high Catholic clerical circles.2 Under these circumstances, protestants from Upper Hungary (the territory which today is the state of Slovakia), i.e. Lutherans and Calvinists, had only two alternatives: either convert to Catholicism or emigrate.3

Confessional (e)migration was a common and mass phenomenon in Europe in the seventeenth century.4 The exiled man [Lat. exul] was a familiar baroque personage, like the nobleman, the burgher, the priest, or the convert.5 This was an enduring phenomenon and was widespread in the Habsburg Monarchy in the Early Modern Era,6 as scholars have clearly demonstrated over the course of the past decade.7 Thomas Winkelbauer refers to hundreds of thousands of confessional émigrés between 1598 and 1660.8 Hungarian migration after 1670, to the extent that it has caught the attention of scholars over the course of the past ten years, was focused mostly on the German Lands. It was perceived as an important part of the confessionalization process9 meant to discipline disobedient subjects.10 Considered more from the social and cultural historical perspectives, it was defined by Eva Kowalská as a mostly elite and confessionally “motivated” movement.11 The lives of migrants in exile, the success or failure of their integration, and their self-perception became focal subjects of study for the reputed Slovak scholar.12 However, the subject of emigration from Upper Hungary and notably the Spiš region (Zips in German, Szepes in Hungarian, and Spiş in Romanian) to the so-called “blessed Land” (Paul Philippi) of Transylvania and especially the city of Sibiu (Hermannstadt in German, Nagyszeben in Hungarian] has been not integrated into the current historiographic debates. This sub-field of the scholarship on migration still suffers an acute “backwardness” compared to the scholarship on other areas of Central Europe.

Studies on Early Modern Spiš Lutheran migration to Sibiu in the seventeenth century are not a historiographic novelty. A list of the exiled pastors and theologues was drawn by Johannes Bureus13 and the phenomenon also captured the interest of Lorenz Sievert, teacher of mathematics and physics at interwar Sibiu. By focusing primarily on the life of the silversmith Sebastian Hann, Sievert reopened a path into this research area. He provides us with the names of some thirty emigrants from the Spiš region, and also their places of origin and professions. Moreover, he assessed their emigration as a phenomenon conditioned by confessional considerations.14 Later studies on this topic focused mostly on notorious craftsmen and artists already mentioned by Sievert, or on what current debates refer to as technology or cultural transfer.15 Reasons for confessional migration were reassessed, together with the policies adopted by the city to attract qualified people.16 The stress was put on the German ethnicity of these subjects, a thesis to which some nuance should be added. The question became a research topic in the frame of the Transylvanian Saxon publication “Siebenbürgische Familienforschung.”17 Still, during my last discussion with the recently deceased German scholar Krista Zach during a friendly meeting in Cluj (Kolozsvár in Hungarian, Klausenburg in German) in 2015, we agreed that there is still much to be done on this research area. The issue of religious mobility and the “real” reasons for emigration demand deeper analysis, as does the mere question of the number of emigrants. The journeys of the common emigrants to Sibiu and their lives there are a blank page in the history books, and the question of the welcomes these migrants were given by the local guilds and churches is still insufficiently researched. The theology and political stances of the emigrants have also been quite neglected.

This study addresses the migration of Lutherans from Upper Hungary to Sibiu from the point of view of a social historian. My approach is not exhaustive, as I intend only to address some of the questions raised above, primarily by relying on the biography of the Lutheran theologue Isaak Zabanius (1632–1707).18 Drawing on a model of analysis used in the field of social-cultural history and anthropology (i.e. motivations for migration and exile evolution, reception, integration, and “cultural transfer”), I assess the peculiar meanings of these terms in the concrete case of the Transylvanian Saxon Lutheran city of Sibiu. The published and unpublished sources (most of which are Church sources) and theology books on which I draw have allowed me to reevaluate the biography of Isaak Zabanius and, to some extent, to correct, revise, and add to our knowledge of this famous Lutheran theologue. My comparison of his life with the lives of other exiled theologues and craftsmen refugees in Sibiu integrates his exile story into the history of migration from Upper Hungary and the history of Slavic migration to Transylvania during the second half of the seventeenth century. As the sources are descriptive and leave generous interpretative space, I will construct my arguments on the issue of identities. In order to do this, first it is important to assess the significance of the fact that Zabanius was both an exile and a theologue. “Exile fellow” is a term of Lutheran origin initially meaning exiled man. The term “Exul Christi” is found in the theological literature and was connected to the abandonment of office or the expulsion of Lutheran clergy around the Augsburg Interim (1548). Later, it also was used to refer to other groups which explained their migration as a decision influenced at least in part by confession.19 According to Eva Kowalská, Hungarian contemporaries used this term to designate “people who were deprived of their offices as a result of governmental regulations and the direct actions of the authorities, and those who were banished from their parishes and from the country as religious outcasts and suffered poverty as a result.”20 The analysis must take into account the importance of the status of “exile,” but it also must not fail to consider the importance of Zabanius’ clerical identity, i.e. a special consciousness or what Luise Schorn-Schütte defined as “Sondernbewustsein.”21 Thus, we must keep in mind that “historical analysis must therefore hold on to both paths of knowledge, which act as mutual constraints, and try to determine, and thus to explain, the typical form of mental disposition, of social activity, and of institutional structures.”22 Applying this to Zabanius, I will answer the following questions: was Isaak Zabanius an exiled Lutheran theologue in Sibiu? Until now, literature has generally assessed his career success, but how easily did he move in an Orthodox Lutheran Transylvanian Saxon society? What was his political and confessional behavior after he had settled in Sibiu? Can we speak of his family’s integration as well?

A Town Sui Generis:
Transylvanian Saxons and Hungarian Lutherans in Sibiu

Sibiu is a city in southern Transylvania. It constituted the capital of the so-called Saxon Land or King’s Land, and it enjoyed a large degree of political and church autonomy since the Middle Ages.23 According to the town constitutions from 1598, only free Germans could be granted citizenship, as they had exclusive rights on the Saxon territory.24 The nobles were not allowed to settle, though the constitutions of 1598 made some exceptions for people from foreign countries and nations. Physicians, surgeons, and “procurators,” for instance, could be granted citizenship under specific conditions.25 Once having become a citizen of the town, one could buy a house, be admitted into the guild and the community of the one-hundred men [Hundertmannschaft], and even serve on the town council. The constitutions did not impose Lutheranism as a sine qua non, but the apology of Albert Huet clearly designates Lutheranism as a main “nation” feature. The Saxons adopted the Wittenberg reforms in the sixteenth century, and the “confessio augustana invariata” became a mandatory norm for all burghers of the Saxon Land, and any apostasy from this faith after 1621 could represent an act of treason against the Saxon nation.26 Whether this signifies a “Volkskirche,” as it is deemed by positivist historians (for instance Georg Daniel Teutsch), remains an open question, as it was years ago, when Krista Zach addressed this issue.27 Certainly, Sibiu represented a homogenous German Lutheran town with a well determined social structure as established by the cloth orders (Kleiderordnungen). The Orthodox Romanians and Greeks lived around Sibiu, but they did not enjoy any right to citizenship, very much like the Hungarian nobility in the seventeenth century. Although the Andreanum (1224) prescribed the theoretical equality of all burghers of this territory, the social stratification of the town became vertical in the Middle Ages and remained vertical well into the Modern Era.28 Beginning in the seventeenth century, the term “elite” designated primarily a member of the town council,29 whereas the Apafi Era brought about the emergence and rise of a new social class, the intelligentsia: town inspectors, outstanding guild masters, clergy and teachers.30 Still, most of the burghers were craftsmen and artisans, as the list of burghers from 1657 clearly shows.31 Did this confessional and social reality appeal to the persecuted and exiled Lutherans from eastern Upper Hungary?

Seventeenth-century migration to Transylvania32 and Sibiu was constant.33 Compared to other Early Modern European migration waves, we can assess only individual or family settlements in Sibiu. Lorenz Sievert refers to some thirty-three Spiš migrants in the time frame 1647–76. About eighteen of them migrated before 1672. Surprisingly, the period after the trials of Bratislava was not characterized by massive migrations. People did not migrate en masse. On average, there were only one or two migrants per year (including the family when it was the case). The accuracy of the data presented by Sievert still needs to be researched, but in the absence of the Lutheran register with the deaths in Sibiu during the second half of the seventeenth century, it would be very difficult to assess what the real number of the Spiš migrants was, or how many of them settled down permanently in Sibiu. In as little as we are informed about their towns of origin, we have on the list the relatively compact region of Spiš and its surroundings: Dobra (Kisdobra in Hungarian), Prešov (Preschau in German, Eperjes in Hungarian), Kremnica (Kremnitz in German, Körmöcbánya in Hungarian), Kežmarok (Käsmark in German, Késmárk in Hungarian), Levoča (Leutschau in German, Lőcse in Hungarian), and Rožňava (Rosenau in German, Rozsnyó in Hungarian). It is not always easy to determine someone’s “ethnic” background, but names like Elias Ladiver, Elias Nicolai, Andreas Rutkai, Jeremias Stranovius, and certainly Isaak Zabanius clearly suggest that, the interpretations found in the historiography up until now notwithstanding, the alleged German ethnicity of the migrants from Upper Hungary should be reassessed. The Slovak component should be taken into consideration, as should their assimilation and quick Germanization in the span of only one generation. Their journeys to Sibiu have only rarely been studied. Instead, the documents used by Sievert (church records, testaments, guilds registers) reveal the professions of most of the migrants. About thirteen of the migrants presented by him were craftsmen and guilds “servants” (Ger. Knechte, Geselle). Others were the two town riders, one carpenter, one book binder, one organ builder, a writer (scriba), a goldsmith, two musicians, a chemist, a pharmacist, and five literati, namely Johann Fabricius, Elias Ladiver, Georg Hirsch, Isaak Zabanius, and his eldest son, Johann Zabanius.34 These literati migrated to Sibiu after the trials of Bratislava. The extent of their acceptance on account of their confession into the Saxon community is little known. The contemporary church annals, chronicles, and diaries show scarcely any interest in these migrants, and in most cases mention only individuals. Thus, in his ecclesiastic annals, David Hermann refers to a letter from the Transylvanian Prince Mihály Apafi, who demanded the intervention of the Lutheran Superintendent with the kings of Denmark, Sweden, and the Saxon Elector in favor of the protestants of Upper Hungary, who were persecuted by the Catholic Clergy.35 There is little evidence of any confessional solidarity with the persecuted brothers from Upper Hungary. Thus, one must ask whether these migrants were really perceived as exiled protestants in Sibiu. Were there other reasons which would demand further investigation? As in the case of the conversion phenomenon in Early Modern Europe, the high number of people involved makes it impossible to identify every single “reason.” A more contextual analysis would be more supportive and might well yield some answers.

The Exile Story of Isaak Zabanius

The life of Isaak Zabanius offers an interesting case for the study of how a migrant to a new community perceived himself, how he was perceived by his contemporaries, and how he behaved in confessional and ecclesiastical contexts. Zabanius was born to a Lutheran family from Brodzany (Brogyán in Hungarian). His father was the Lutheran nobleman and pastor Johann Zabanius and his mother was Sophia Niecholcz. He attended the university of Wittenberg, where he received the academic title “Magister” under the dean Georg Caspar Kirchmayer (1657–59). After having returned to Upper Hungary, he received the office of gymnasium con-rector (1661) thanks to the intervention of Johann Bayer and the chair for polemical theology and theological worldly wisdom (1669) in Prešov. He lost his office due to the changes of 1670s, and, according to the sources, he ended up in penury. Three years later, his school in Prešov was closed. From this moment on, the choices he made suggest that he perceived himself as a persecuted and exiled Lutheran.36 He first fled to Toruń (Thorn in German), a Pomeranian town with many Lutherans from Upper Hungary. Some of them later left for Transylvania as well.37 From here, Zabanius went to Gdańsk (Danzig in German) in January 1674, a place where he strove to obtain an office, but as had been the case in Toruń, he failed.38 His experience in Gdańsk was typical of the exile, who faces an insecure future, as expressed in the exile exegetes for cases of other refugees.39 From this point on, his experience of exile was to change radically. His mobility was no longer a response to confessional constraints. Rather, he chose a destination where he would be confessionally secure. Unlike most of his fellow exiled fellow, he traveled to Transylvania and never returned home.

The contemporary Johann Burius situates Zabanius and other theologues from his circle as exiled fellows in Transylvania,40 an assessment that requires more profound explanations. Social networks and friendships functioned during the Early Modern Era just as they do today. Sources mention that Zabanius came to Transylvania thanks to the interventions of Georg Femger, a former colleague from Prešov and a pastor in Sebeş (Mühlbach in German, Szászsebes in Hungarian). Femger intervened on Zabanius’ behalf with the Saxon bailiff from Sibiu, Andreas Fleischer, who eventually approved Zabanius’ appointment as an instructor at the Sibiu gymnasium, and public funds were used to finance his voyage to Transylvania.41 Moreover, the sources suggest that his migration to Transylvania was mainly due to promptings by Elias Ladiver and Johann Fabricius, two of his former colleagues in Upper Hungary.42

Indeed, Zabanius presented himself as a persecuted Lutheran “exul,” but only until 1677, the year when he assumed his office at the Sibiu gymnasium: “cum in exilio vixis sum ad annum usque 1677” and “vis exillium passus.”43 Moreover, contemporary sources and the eighteenth-century Transylvanian Saxon historiography acknowledged his status as an exiled Lutheran, who had had to flee due to the persecution and hatred propagated by the Catholic or Pontifical clergy in Hungary.44 These assessments describe his flight to Toruń and Gdańsk, but his decision to come to Transylvania was a consequence of his “penury” in these Pomeranian towns. Had he not been offered the office of teacher, he might well not have come to Sibiu. This question might be worth raising, if not in the case of theologues who fled to Transylvania from the very beginning,45 at least in the cases of craftsmen who were usually described in the literature as persecuted protestants from Upper Hungary. Did they settle in Sibiu as part of a flight from persecution, or did they come to the relatively prosperous city in pursuit of stable livelihoods?

Eighteenth-century sources mention that Zabanius was welcomed in Sibiu and appreciated for his work at the gymnasium.46 There is little mention of his being regarded as a foreigner, a Slav, or a Slovak.47 Apparently, this was not an issue, much as it was not an issue in other cases when Slovaks were granted citizenship, perhaps only because of their profession and confession. Moreover, when he ran for the parish office in Hannersdorf in 1685, he lost to another village priest, as Zabanius was not considered a Slovak, but a German, he was not given the parish under the pretext that the community would not properly understand the sermons.48 He advanced in his career as a pastor only two years later, when he was ordinated pastor in Gârbova (Urwegen in German, Szászorbó in Hungarian) by his old Prešov schoolmate, superintendent Michael Pancratius.49 One can only guess whether his attainment of the parish office was connected to the fact that Pancratius had been elected superintendent only one year earlier and had supported Zabanius, but there is no direct evidence of any such link. Afterwards, Zabanius enjoyed a quick ascension in his career. He received the parish office of Sebeş in 1690, and one year later, he was given the parish office in Sibiu, a city which became the capital of the Habsburg Principality of Transylvania. Moreover, he was elected dean of the Sibiu Lutheran Chapter. He died in 1707.

Undoubtedly his life represents both a success story in exile and a paradox. Unlike Ladiver and many other Hungarian Lutheran theologues from the German Lands who returned to Upper Hungary, Zabanius remained in Transylvania even after the Habsburg occupation in 1687. Under these circumstances, we may assume that he stopped playing the role of an exiled Hungarian and assumed the position (or identity) of a Transylvanian Saxon clergyman with origins in Upper Hungary. Having come from a region where the main rival of the Lutheran Church was Catholicism and not Calvinism (as was the case in Transylvania), Zabanius imported the traditional polemics with the Jesuits from Košice (Kaschau in German, Kassa in Hungarian), and thus we can speak of a transfer of theological culture. He was hardly inclined to make peace with the Catholic fathers, as he had been described negatively in the book by Lucas Kolich.50 Moreover, unlike his colleagues from the other Saxon towns, he was more “experienced” in polemics. He continued his fights against the Catholic Church, including for instance the debates concerning the irenics (theology focusing on the question of reconciliation with the Church of Rome and the creation of Christian unity) and the Holy Spirit. The conflict with the Jesuits became personal. He openly criticized the Sibiu Saxon Count Valentin Frank von Frankenstein for having supported the Jesuits in the town,51 and through his clerical mission to defend what he perceived as religious truth, he ended up in a conflict with his own son, the Saxon mayor of Sibiu, Johann Zabanius.52 Nonetheless, his confessional encounter with the Hungarian Calvinists and Unitarians determined his alignment to the local confessional reality: he published a book on the debates between the Calvinists and Unitarians.53 Furthermore, Zabanius became the most energetic advocate of the Lutheran community of Cluj in debates with the Unitarians and Calvinists (1695). In addition to his apologia for the reestablishment of the Lutheran cult in Cluj, there is a very important mention of how he perceived the interconnection between Lutheranism and Saxons: “compositam esse rem inter Ecclesiam et Saxones Reformatos, dictum est heri; sed ubi est unitas, ibi comparatione opus non est,”54 i.e. the Saxons must be united. This sentence can be interpreted to suggest that he had come to consider himself a “Saxon.”

Unlike Hungarian Lutherans who emigrated to the German Lands, Zabanius did not write an apologia of the exiled clergyman in Transylvania. There is no sign indicating that he aligned himself with the ideology of Georg Lani or other exile theoreticians. There is little sign that the protestants from Upper Hungary remained a segregated theological group or unified minority in Transylvania, as Zabanius ended up in a personal conflict even with his old friend Elias Ladiver. They exchanged blows during a synod on the issue of the existence of atoms. Instead of assessing his membership in the group of persecuted Lutherans, I would rather assess his status as a representative of the Transylvanian Saxon clerical estate and a defender of its privileges. He continued old local disputes with the local potentati politici on behalf of the chapter, and he faced the new issues created by the advent of the House of Austria in Transylvania through the eyes of a Transylvanian Saxon pastor. Very expressive in this sense is his rejection of the demands of the Romanian United (Greek Catholic) clergy on the Saxon tenths, his manifold demands on behalf of the Sibiu Lutheran chapter (well documented in the sources of the Sibiu Chapter), and his constant quarrels with the Saxon count and Lutheran Superintendent concerning the issue of Sibiu ecclesiastic jurisdiction. He integrated into the Transylvanian Saxon Lutheran Church.

From a social point of view, his family also succeeded in fully integrating, not only into the Saxon society, but even into the local town elites. Integration was successful in many other cases of migrants from Upper Hungary, as genealogists have pointed out (for instance, the notorious exiled Lutheran Johann Vest managed to integrate, as did Johannes Löw and the aforementioned Elias Nicolai).55 Zabanius’ eldest son Johann, after studying in Tübingen and becoming Magister in theology (1688), married Elisabeth, the daughter of the Saxon bailiff Johann Haupt, in 1690. Instead of following the family tradition and becoming a theologian, he entered into the service of the town, and he ascended the professional ladder very quickly, much as his father had. He was appointed provincial notary in 1690, he represented the interests of the Saxon nation in Vienna in 1691, and he was ennobled by Leopold I and given the title Sachs von Harteneck. He was also elected mayor of Sibiu and later Saxon bailiff. Eventually, he became a martyr of the Transylvanian Saxons, after being executed in 1703 due to a conspiracy.56 His second son Jakob (later Sachs von Harteneck, 1677–1747) married Anna Maria Bakosch, the daughter of Sibiu town councilor Johann Bakosch, and became chair judge. His third son, Daniel Zabanius (later Sachs von Harteneck, 1680–1720), married Katharina Fabritius in 1701 and later Katharina Schirmer, the daughter of a pharmacist. He became a merchant. Zabanius’ daughter Rosina first married the pastor Johann Fleischer and later the pharmacist Michael Ahlfeld. As Harald Roth displayed in the genealogy, this family became part of the Transylvanian Saxon patriciate. They were integrated into the Sibiu political and social elites.57 The title Sachs von Harteneck is very revealing. It very clearly suggests that the family wanted to be “Saxon.” Moreover, eighteenth-century documents reveal that they abandoned the name Zabanius and remained known in collective memory as Sachs von Harteneck. In other words, they became a Saxon family.

The Catholic “seduction” of the eighteenth century also tempted members of Zabanius’ family: although most of the Harteneck family remained faithful to Lutheranism, a few members converted to Catholicism. This phenomenon was not uncommon. Indeed, it affected most of the patrician families of Sibiu, including the offspring of the notorious exiled Lutheran Johann Vest. Sebastian Vest converted to Catholicism in 1705 and thus became part of the Catholic patriciate.58

Final Considerations

Confessional migration to Sibiu during the second half of the seventeenth century differs in its meanings and motivations from the migration waves to the German lands. I am thinking of individual migrants and not large groups of migrants. Since Sibiu was Lutheran, “qualified” Lutheran subjects from Upper Hungary were well received. Their reasons for settling in Sibiu are open to interpretation, but I would suggest that economic considerations were more important than confessional ones. To the extent that it concerns his identity as a theologian, Isaak Zabanius’ status of “exile” applied more to the period before his arrival in Transylvania, i.e. the period when he lived in Toruń and Gdańsk. The insecure life in exile as presented by historians dealing with other European regions essentially matches his personal experience. Nonetheless, when he relocated to Sibiu, he ceased living a life in exile in the widespread understanding of the term, as he clearly pointed out after his arrival in Transylvania. His decision was influenced more by his social network and the help he was given by friends and colleagues from Prešov, as he came to Transylvania only after funds had been provided to cover the cost of his trip and he had been offered an office at the local gymnasium. He had the typical career of a successful Transylvanian Saxon Lutheran pastor, who fought for (what he perceived as) the theological truth. As an experienced polemist, he brought with him his earlier theological disputes with the Jesuits and accommodated to the local political and confessional reality, becoming an assiduous advocate of the Saxon Lutheran Church. His family represents a model of integration success à longue durée: it rose to the top of the Saxon social hierarchy, although the price was assimilation into the Saxon natio and a break with their Hungarian past. Certainly, the confession played an integrative role, as German and Slovak Lutherans were easier to assimilate than Catholic Germans in the eighteenth century. His profession also played a fundamental role. In revealing contrast, the masses of protestant peasants from Austria who were deported in the eighteenth century could not be integrated into the society of the town. His life story raises important questions concerning migration and integration patterns: had the migration of Lutherans from Upper Hungary to Sibiu in the seventeenth century taken place en masse, would it have been similarly successful? Had Catholic subjects migrated to Sibiu in the seventeenth entury, would the city have been so welcoming? These questions lead me to my conclusion: confession played an integrative role in Early Modern society. In this case, it also constituted a form and means of assimilation.

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1 See the general presentation at Fata, “Glaubensflüchtlinge,” 520–22.

2 Bahlcke, Gegenkräfte, 102–17.

3 Eva Kowalská refers to a crisis of conscience engendered in this context. See Kowalská, “Seelenheil,“ 354.

4 For a typology of confessional migration in Early Modern Europe see the concise analysis by Schilling, “Frühneuzeitliche Konfessionsmigration,” 67–89. A generous description of the phenomenon as an alternative to the Reformation is found in Teprstra, Religious refugees.

5 Bobková, “Exulant,” 297–326.

6 See in this regard the book by Stephan Steiner, Rückkehr unerwünscht.

7 See the articles by Jörg Deventer, Eva Kowalská, Regina Pörtner, Harald Roth, Arno Strohmeyer, and Thomas Winkelbauer in the book edited by Bahlcke, Glaubensflüchlinge.

8 Winkelbauer, Ständefreiheit, 192.

9 This paradigm most recently revised with further literature in Holzem, Christentum, 7–32.

10 Fata, “Glaubensflüchtlinge,” 519; Kowalská, “Confessional exile,” 230.

11 Kowalská, “Konfesia;” Idem, “ Exil als Zufluchtsort.“

12 Kowalská, “Georg Lani.” For a typology of the Hungarian exile perception see also Kowalská, “Günther, Klesch, Lani,” 49–64.

13 Burius, Micae historico-cronologica, 170, 171.

14 Sievert, “Sebastian Hann,” 6-8.

15 Krasser, “Sigismund Moss,” 117–40; Guy Marica, Sebastian Hann.

16 Roth, Hermannstadt, 123.

17 Wagner, “Zuwanderungen I”; “Zuwanderungen III”; Roth, “Einzelzuwanderungen.”

18 Selected published biographies of Isaak Zabanius: Szinnyei, Magyar irók, Schriftssteller Lexikon, 513–32; Mikles, Izák Caban; Repčák, Izák Caban.

19 Schunka, “Konfessionsmigration,” 3.

20 Kowalská, “Confessional Exile,” 234.

21 Schorn-Schütte, “Prediger,” 284.

22 Schorn-Schütte, “Priest,” 6.

23 Roth, Hermannstadt, 3–56.

24 Seivert, Die Stadt Hermannstadt, 395: “...keine auswärtige Nation, es sei Ratzen, Walachen, Ungarn, Horvaten, Wallon, Spanier, Franzosen, Polacken oder dgl. zu keinem Hauskauf oder auch Bestand [zugelassen werden]… unsre Nation in deutschen Städten, Märkten und Stühlen wie auch in dieser Stadt nichts anders wünschen, begehren und suchen als Gottes Ehre, des Landesfürsten Nutz, züchtiges stilles Leben und wachsen beianander.”

25 Schuler von Libloy, Municipal-Constitutionen, 111.

26 Szegedi, “Confesionalizarea,” 257.

27 Zach, “Religiöse Toleranz,” 110–14.

28 See Gündisch, “Oberschicht,” 3–21.

29 Gündisch, “Soziale Konflikte,” 60.

30 Várkonyi, “Az önálló fejedelemség,” 837.

31 Albrich, “Bewohner,” 256–90.

32 See Roth, “Hutteren,” 335–44,

33 In the Sibiu chapter marriage records, I could identify only a few migrants for whom the place of origin is mentioned. Most of them were German servants (Knechte): ANSJS, 53.

34 Sievert, “Sebastian Hann,” 6–8. When Johann Zabanius emigrated to Transylvania, he was only fourteen years old. He could not have been a “literatus.”

35 Lucas Graffius, Annales, 14.

36 ANSJS, Consistoriul, 665.

37 Ďurovič, Slovenčine, 370–78.

38 Ďurovič, „Izáka Cabana”, 121–37.

39 See for instance Van der Linden, Experiencing exile, or Schunka, “Emigration.”

40 Burius, Micae historico-chronologicae, 106.

41 Trausch, Schriftssteller Lexicon, 524.

42 I.S.C.T., Glaubensverbesserung, 107, 108.

43 ANSJS, Consistoriul, 665, ANSJS, Episcopia, IV, 123.

44 David Hermanii, Annales, “Hoc anno inter alios exules ex Hungaria, atroce a Clero Pontificio Persecutionem patiente celebrimi quoque viri M. Isacus Zabanius cum universa sua familia conjuge scil. tribus filiis magne filia, et Elias Ladiver in Transilvania se receperunt....,” Matricola Parochiae, 31: “Zabanius itaque hoc modo patria extoris Gedanum profectus est, incertus consilii, quo possimum se ac rem suam familiarem sustentsaret.”

45 For instance, the Calvinists from Eastern Upper Hungary, Juhász, “Ellenreformáció,” 186–92.

46 I.S.C.T., Glaubensverbesserung, 107, 108.

47 ANSJS, “Natione Sclavicis ex Hungaria,” 366.

48 ANSJS, Brukenthal, H 1–5, no. 199, 46.

49 ANSJS, Consistoriul, 665, ANSJS, Episcopia, IV, 123.

50 Kolich, “Praefatio ad lectorem.”

51 Szirtes, “Fides Saxonum,” 85.

52 ANSJS, Episcopia evanghelică, IV, 211.

53 Zabanius, Amica considersatio.

54 I.S.C.T., Glaubensverbesserung, 116.

55 Zentralarchiv, Löw, 503/331: Johannes Löw married in Sibiu in 1681. His daughter Maria married a craftsman from the town in 1700 and they had a daughter, Maria, who also married a craftsman.

56 Trausch, Schriftssteller Lexicon, 523–31.

57 Harald Roth, “Geschichte und Genealogie.“

58 For eighteenth-century conversions to Catholicism see Oancea, “Catholic seduction” and Oancea, “Stehe Wanderer.”

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