Excerpt from My Autobiography
by
Alex Domokos
We were sitting around the kitchen table praising the tasty soup made of horse meat. It was a feast in those days. Suddenly Buba came out with her bomb-shell."My dear Saci (that was my nickname in the family), you are squandering your life. You wasted so many useless hours instead of attending an evening school."
I was astounded by her suggestion. It sounded as bizarre as an invitation for a trip to the moon.
"Evening school? Me? Do you think the Party would ever give its consent? You must be kidding!"
"You can't be sure unless you try."
"Buba is right!" seconded Mimi. She became enthusiastic about the possibility. "Yes, you must try!"
"You have nothing to lose," said Sanyi. Soon the family council decided my future. Mimi found out the prerequisites of the enrollment in an evening course in a Technical Institute. My choice was the Nicolas Yble Institute of Construction-Technology. Being a bricklayer, I had a better chance of acceptance. But I still had to obtain the recommendation from my employer, from the Labor Union, and the Communist Party. How I managed those obstacles is characteristic of the times we lived in.
In the spring of 1955, my career as a building decorator ended. Our brigade was disbanded. The head of our unit, Master Mihŕly, found an excellent job as a maintenance mason in the University Hospital. That job was like winning the jackpot! He was paid monthly, not by piece-work. He was working inside, not being exposed to the weather. On top of all this, he was entitled to a free meal in the hospital's kitchen once a day. Since he had been the cohesive force of the brigade, it now dispersed. My Transylvanian connection helped me to find a job in a maintenance cooperative. Most supervisors and foremen there were Hungarian refugees from Transylvania. My wife knew quite a number of them. Many were from her native city and had fled when the city was returned to Rumanian rule.
Because there was no parcel delivery by mail between the two People's Republics, Hungary and Rumania, parcels were delivered by visitors. My good mother-in-law, knowing that lime on the roads destroyed my footwear faster than I could replace them, would send old ski-boots whenever a visitor returned to Hungary. A returning visitor, a colleague of mine, told me a parcel was waiting for my wife at his place. Mimi was eager for news about her parents. Because he lived at some distance, we could not see him until the following Sunday. His flat was a little better than Mihŕly's since it had three rooms. As we were ushered across the kitchen, we noticed a man in bed in one of the bedrooms.
"He is my brother-in-law," my fellow-worker said. "He was quite sick. He had pneumonia, but now is recuperating."
On Mimi's face I noticed a glimmer of recognition, but she said nothing. Mimi and our host exchanged a few comments, mainly about the conditions in Rumania, and after receiving the parcel, we departed.
On the street, Mimi said to me, "That fellow in bed is from my city. In 1944 he was a leading member of the Nazi Party. I don't remember his name, but I can't forget his face."
I managed to obtain the necessary recommendation from my boss and from my Labor Union. The only missing link was the recommendation of the Party. That was a hard nut to crack. The central office of the Maintenance Cooperative was located at the depot where we reported every morning for work assignments. It was a barn-like building housing the chief architect, the foremen, and the bookkeeping and accounting staff as well.
At the other corner of the yard was a neat little brick building. It was a new office, exclusively for the Secretary of the Party. The isolated position represented the superior status of the Party over the others. A column of smoke curled from the chimney telling me that the omnipotent Secretary was in. On the door was his name-plate: Comrade Joseph Kertész - Party Secretary.
As I approached, the old night watchman arrived with an armful of logs. He was fuming. "Look! He makes me carry his firewood. He claims that the cabin is not warm enough. This is his first day back at work. He was sick for two weeks with pneumonia." When I was admitted, I saw that the man behind the desk was thin, his complexion pale. The black mustache on his hollow face looked artificial.
"What do you want?"
His irritated voice meant that he had no patience for petty petitioners.
"Comrade Secretary, my name is Alex Domokos. I would like to enroll in evening school. I require your recommendation."
"What was your occupation before the war?"
"I was a military man."
"An officer, yes?"
"Yes." That was the answer he was waiting for. His indignation was theatrical. In a tirade he denounced the former officer class by parroting the Party line.
"Yes, I know, you are one of those gentlemen who were chasing women on the promenade, having nothing else in your mind but how to lay a woman. You drove your recruits into suicide missions just to receive your medal. You handed out inhuman punishments. Yes, I know your kind! You gave orders to attack ending in hundreds of casualties. That's your concept of glory."
After a deep breath he continued his attack. "Do you have any idea how many poor men died in that war?"
"Yes, I fought in it."
"Then how dare you now ask the People's Republic to spend money on your education? You, in your impertinence, you would take away the rightful place of a working-class youngster." In his self-induced excitement the shortage of breath forced him to pause. I took the initiative
"Citizen Kertész, my wife is a native of your home town in Transylvania." My sentence was followed by a long, frozen silence. He was staring at me in disbelief. I continued.
"Yes, she is the daughter of Dr. Koloman Pataky, the magistrate of the town. She remembers you well." He stood there for a second, petrified. The next minute he regained his composure. He embraced me and in a most friendly voice, said, "Why didn't you tell me that right at the start? That's different. We, the Hungarian refugees from Transylvania, we must stick together. We must help each other. Give me your paper."
In the next instant my paper of recommendation was not only stamped and signed, but an extra remark was added praising my exemplary character. Before I left, he shook my hand and whispered in my ear: "If you need anything, just come to me. I can help you in more ways than one."
Two weeks later I was accepted as an evening student in the first class of the Institute of Construction-Technology.
Reminder On the 40th anniversary
of the Hungarian Revolution,
October 23, 1995Alex Domokos
I still feel the fear of dying as the grenades roar around,
Exploding fire-geysers tearing up the paved ground
And the people shouting, cursing, bare-handedly storming the barricade
Many twisted torsos bleeding, decorated the stockade.
Blood was flowing on the pavement, on the street of Budapest.
Youngsters of a suppressed nation were forced to the supreme test.
They were forced to pay for Freedom and life was their currency!
To belittle the heroic past is the present tendency.
But the people who forget all the lessons of the past,
Their freedom and independence as a nation will not last.
For not knowing, for not feeling history, there is a price.
To regain the forfeit, freedom needs a double sacrifice!