survive. The family doctor kept giving me shots to keep me alive, but that is not what I needed.
One day my feisty grandmother happened to visit when our doctor was at our house administering one of my many shots. Of course, I was crying, and according to Grandmother it was mostly from hunger. She loved to tell me the story of the time she literally threw the doctor out of the house because he was giving me shots and collecting money from my parents when all I needed was some food. Grandma then brought in a live chicken and some fresh vegetables from her garden. She prepared a big container of chicken soup, poured it through a strainer, and put the nutritious liquid in a bottle. She fed me and for the first time I slept more than twenty-four hours. When I finally woke up, I didn’t cry. From that moment on Grandma took over my care and I began to grow at a fast pace.
Six months later my grandmother ran into our former family doctor when she was taking me for a walk in the stroller, and he did not recognize me at all, confusing me with my cousin Agi, who was only ten days older than me. Within a couple of months under my loving grandmother’s care I had filled out, my eyes changed from brown to blue, and my dark hair slowly fell out and was replaced with blond curls (I did begin to resemble Agi, as we were both blond children). Until the end of her life my grandmother swore that her chicken soup saved my life. To this day, chicken soup is still one of my favorite foods.
We moved into one of the nicer neighborhoods in Budapest in 1949. Our address was 84 Vaci Street. Our flat was on the fourth floor, and was nicely furnished as I recall. From our window I could see Gellert Mountain with the Freedom Statue, where they had fireworks for Worker’s Day every May 1. My kindergarten was just a few blocks away, as were the Danube River and the Freedom Bridge. Once we moved to Budapest, we no longer had domestic help the way we had in Miskolc, and my mother did not adjust well to her new circumstances. She was not willing to take on the responsibility of being a supportive wife to my father and mother to me. She was then twenty years old.
Dad began to teach cello, and he became the head conductor for the Hungarian Communist Party Chorus. We had a lot of company in the evenings, mostly musicians who were either playing in the Budapest Symphony or teaching music like my father. Dad worked very long hours, and money was tight. Everyone was just trying to survive under the new Communist regime. I clearly remember the constant quarrels between Mom and Dad each night after the guests left. I could tell something was very wrong, but I didn’t really understand any of it. Somehow, though, I suspected that my parents might have cheated on each other, and I was filled with fear that they might abandon me. I could tell that my father was angry with my mother for not taking care of me, while she would make excuses and blame Dad for my existence. Clearly, motherhood was not her calling.
In the winter of 1951, I got very sick with the mumps and was running a very high fever. I still remember the nice, elderly family doctor who came and gave me medication. I was happy when he came over because my parents wouldn’t quarrel in front of him. One particular night I woke up from a feverish sleep and heard the yelling between Mom and Dad. It was frightening. The next thing I remember, Dad stormed out of the apartment and left. Mom was crying, and then minutes later she grabbed her purse and took off as well.
Thank goodness they left all the lights on. I got out of bed to run after them, but the door was locked. This was exactly what I feared the most—that I would be left alone without my parents. In my confused state I imagined all sorts of frightening things. I was sure that I was going to die and nobody would care. I started crying, and I must have cried for so long and so loud that our next-door neighbor heard me and became concerned. He called the building manager who came up with his wife. They broke the lock on the door to our flat and stayed with me until the morning. I remember that when my parents finally did return it was getting light outside. This feeling of being left alone so often at such a young age (I was then four) really affected me as I began raising my own children. It became almost an obsession never to leave them alone, especially our daughter. Even when they were away at college I was always asking them if they were alone. I just could not relax until I was certain that they had a friend, a roommate, or someone with them.
When I asked my parents why they left me, Dad told me he thought Mom would stay with me. Mom said she thought she would only be gone a short time. The truth is, they were busy dealing with their own issues and forgot about me. When their fighting continued it became obvious to me that both of them spent that night with other people And my existence made their lives a lot more complicated. To this day I don’t know how I knew this, but somehow I did. Sadly, I learned later that my suspicions were correct. During their constant quarrels I recognized some of the names of the people with whom they suspected each other of being unfaithful. It broke my heart, and I just wanted to disappear. Did my mother and father ever love each other?
The following week Dad moved out of our home and into a one-bedroom studio apartment not far from our Vaci Street flat. He left everything behind for my mother. He took only his clothes and the grand piano and music books that he needed for his teaching jobs. The divorce proceedings were concluded fairly quickly. Mom cried a lot and kept asking me to ask Dad to come back home. A few times I made an attempt to convince him to try again, but he was very bitter and wouldn’t even talk to me about Mom. He tried very hard never to look back but at the same time did his very best to take care of me under these difficult circumstances. He worked long hours, six to seven days a week, and I was grateful to be with him during the early morning and late in the evening. During the week Dad took me to kindergarten in the morning, picked me up at six o’clock and I stayed with him at his school until he finished teaching usually around ten o’clock at night. He was teaching or performing with his chorus most weekends but he always took me with him. It meant a lot to me that he never left me alone, he was always on time to pick me up from kindergarten and he made me feel that I was important to him.
During my preschool and kindergarten years, I was always the last kid to be picked up after school when it was my mother’s turn (if she even came at all). Most of the time, the person who would come for me was my father. Mom rarely made it, and when she did, it was always very late and I would often be out on the street waiting for her after the school closed at six in the evening. Sometimes I just walked home because I was too embarrassed to be the last one left at school all the time. I would make up stories about how my mother had to work and that was why she could not come and get me. In truth, I never knew where she was. Sometimes the neighbors would feel sorry for me and invite me into their flats to wait for Mom to show up. I was very grateful for their kindness, especially in the freezing winter when being on the street was no fun at all.
When I was walking around on the streets looking for my mother, it never occurred to me that I might be molested or that somebody could really hurt me. Sometimes, when I had no place to go, I would take the streetcar to be with my grandmother, who always welcomed me with so much love and concern. I knew I would be safe with her and my grandfather. We would always pray together for my mother and father. Of course, I always prayed for the impossible: that my parents would one day reconcile so that we could become a normal family.
I spent a lot of time sitting on the staircase by our front door until Mom came home. Sadly, she usually had a male companion with her, so even when she did come home I felt like I was in the way most of the time. Men were attracted to my mother like bees to honey. She was very beautiful and had the most amazing laugh. Whenever I was with her I always noticed how men just looked at her in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. I sensed that my presence was not always welcome. Mom loved all the attention from the opposite sex and seeking that attention consumed her life.
Looking back now, I realize that my mother had no idea what I was feeling. She was totally absorbed in her own life and her own needs, and had no knowledge of all the tears I shed through so many nights while she was sleeping with different men. I tried hard to be a good kid, and I could never understand why I wasn’t wanted by my own mother. I was grateful that I at least I had my father, who never broke a promise to me. Although he was not overly affectionate, whenever it was his turn to take care of me, he never let me down. I was vaguely aware that my father also had some lady friends, but