Searching the Streets of Time

Funicular, Pest side of Danube, Budapest

Last summer, my brother’s big birthday bash launched our travels through Europe By Train. Cara Black was struck by my post from Budapest and asked me to recount it at her blog, Murder Is Everywhere. We were traveling when I wrote it and Cara's invitation gave me the chance to revisit the story, one of family, a lost home, and murder.

Keleti Railway Station, Budapest

We often think of the road not taken in a symbolic sense, but sometimes there is a very specific road, one that can lead to death—or life. We came to Budapest to ask: Merre va Margit Hid? Where is Margaret Bridge? And Merre va Deak Ferencz utca 21? Where is the old home of my nieces’ grandmother?

We arrived from Prague after a six-hour train journey. On the Pest side of the Danube, Keleti Railway Terminal is vast and old, witness to the sweep of history, armies of many nations, peoples on the move.

Across the river, Buda is even older, dominated by Castle Hill, a citadel against the 13C Mongol hordes.

Buda side over the Danube

There have been other invaders over the years, but the Nazi regime evokes particular shivers of fear and hate. Past is present in Europe and every street, every bridge are landmarks of a life.

My nieces’ grandmother, Ann, and younger sister, Vali, had lived with their widowed mother, Rose Gabor, at Deak Ferencz utca 21 in the center of Pest. Then in 1944, the first Jewish deportees were sent to Auschwitz—in freight trains that may have left from Keleti Station. The family was torn apart, forced to hide in three Christian homes on the Buda hillsides. On the day of their road not taken, a bitter reunion took place when they were arrested by Hungarian Arrow Cross fascists and marched toward Margit Bridge.

Rose, seeing a work unit walking along the river, pulled her girls into that line—in the blink of an eye changing their fates, and that of my family itself. Without her quick thinking, my two wonderful nieces would have never been born.

We stood on that bridge corner imagining those horrific days, the soldiers, the fear. Unable to return to their home, Rose turned to a Christian friend, Lily, who sheltered them through the war. Despite heavy bombing, the old stone building at Deak Ferencz utca 21 endured. Here is its courtyard.

Rose ran her couture business below their apartment, its front balcony now overlooking a busy pedestrian mall. 

The apartment is not far from Parliament with Margit Bridge in the distance.

Just south of Parliament is the memorial to Jews shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross thugs, impatient as the Russians closed in.

 

It was like a punch in the gut to see these shoes lined up along the quay. Delicate button-ups and high-heels, work-boots, all facing the river.

The cold black water below...the silence...and then the bullets, and cries as family and friends fall into the river. Shot in the back.

The cruel scene evoked in mute simplicity, the shoes old and worn, a child’s beside her mother’s.

If not for Rose’s quick wits, this would have been their fate—or the trains.

It is impossible to walk the streets of Europe without the visceral experience of history. The passage of time, regimes, lives, deaths. The statue or plaque of a famous person now unknown. An ordinary street corner where a mother made a life-changing decision. 

In 1941, 725,000 Jews lived in Hungary. 600,000 of them died during WW2.

Revisiting Europe By Train

We say we'll never forget, but we do. When I look back at my 2012-13 Letters from Asia www.dianarchambers.com/passages.php (written for Sisters in Crime www.sincnorcal.org), I'm grateful for the memories. So I wrote Europe By Train, a dozen posts in all, one per city.

Please hop aboard for the entire journey or join me for a leg or two. "What's your favorite place?" I'm always asked. Paris is my old love, but London and Amsterdam made me wish for two more lives. Then we reached the Eastern Europe capitals, Prague, Budapest, and Vienna, and it was magic, like slipping back through the cracks of time. Italy is timeless and yet so intimate. I was seduced.

First stop, London where Mystery Playground sent me to search out the mysterious "book benches." dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/reborn-again.html

More London: On "meeting" one of the book bench artists, Mandii Pope (with her Agatha Christie/Poirot piece). dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/lovehatelove.html

Paris: On how some things never change. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-3-my-paris.html

Amsterdam: On Anne Frank and Vincent Van Gogh. And bicycles. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-4-amsterdam-going-our.html

Night train to Prague (via Munich): On a long night's day. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-5-night-train-to-munich.html

Prague: On walking the streets of time. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-6-prague-walking.html

Budapest: On finding the past. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-7-budapest-finding-past.html

Vienna: On moving on. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-8-vienna-moving-on.html

Venice: On secret backwaters. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-9-venice-through-her.html

Florence: On seduction. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-10-florence-city-of.html

Tuscany coast: On family and celebration. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-11-tuscany-paradise.html

Rome: On being swept away. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-12-monumental-rome.html

Arrivederci, Rome!

Europe By Train #7: Budapest: Finding the Past

Merre va Margit Hid? Where is Margaret Bridge?

No offense, only affection for both: Prague is the cool, chic, with-it sister while Budapest is the wry intellectual in arty vintage clothing. 

During our six-hour train ride to Budapest, we chatted with an Aussie couple bound for a Danube cruise and two young Scots sampling the local bar culture. Travel creates sudden intimacy and then you never see them again. Yet somehow they stick with you.

Located on the Pest side of the Danube, the Keleti railway station is vast and old, witness to the sweep of history, armies of many nations, peoples on the move. 

The city wears her age with pride, her buildings gray and brown, in need of an update, but who cares? 

Across the river, Buda is even older, dominated by Castle Hill, a citadel against the 13C Mongol hordes. 

The most recent invaders were booted out twenty-five years ago and Russians come now only as tourists. "We don't like them," our Czech taxi driver had said. "They are arrogant." In Prague and Budapest, museums mark their Communist past, a source of mockery in both countries.

The Nazi regime is another story, still evoking shivers of fear and hate. We had come to Budapest to ask "Merre va Margit Bridge?" Where is Margaret Bridge? And "Merre va Deak Ferencz utca 21?"— a bridge and a street, landmarks of my family's life. My nieces’ grandmother, Annie, and younger sister, Vali, had lived with their widowed mother, Rose Gabor, at Deak Ferencz utca 21 in the center of Pest. Then in 1944, the first Jewish deportees were sent to Auschwitz—in freight trains that may have left from Keleti Station. The family was torn apart, forced to hide in three Christian homes on the Buda hillsides. On the day of their road not taken, a bitter reunion took place when they were arrested by Hungarian Arrow Cross fascists and marched toward Margit Bridge. 

Rose, seeing a work unit walking along the river, pulled her girls into that line—in the blink of an eye changing their fates, and that of my family itself. Without her quick thinking, my two wonderful nieces would have never been born.

We stood on that bridge corner imagining those horrific days, the soldiers, the fear. Unable to return to their home, Rose turned to a Christian friend, Lily, who sheltered them through the war. Despite heavy bombing, the old stone building at Deak Ferencz utca 21 endured. Here is its courtyard.

Ann's mother ran her couture business below their central Pest apartment, its front balcony now overlooking a busy pedestrian mall. 

The apartment is not far from the Parliament, with Margit Bridge in the distance.

Just south of the Parliament is the memorial to Jews shot into the Danube by fascist Arrow Cross militiamen. 

It is like a punch in the gut to see the bronzed shoes lined up along the quay. 

The cruel scene evoked in mute simplicity...the shoes old and worn, a child's beside his mother's...

Delicate button-ups and high-heels, workboots, all facing the river. The cold black water below...the silence...and then the bullets, and cries as family and friends fall into the river. Shot in the back.

This was late in the war when the railroads were busy, I was told later by a traveler on the Vienna-bound train. They were in a hurry. It was easy. Practical.

It is impossible to walk the streets of Europe without the visceral experience of history. The passage of time, regimes, lives, deaths. The statue or plaque of a famous person now unknown. 

The ordinary street corner where a mother made a quick, life-changing decision. 

Each building has a story to tell. Stories. Our Gerloczy Hotel was once a private residence. Who bathed in our blue claw foot tub? Whose photos are on the wall?

We sit in its graceful café, trying to shake off the ghosts that linger around us in this soulful city. City of souls.

The funicular up to Castle Hill gives us a long shot of history, new bridges built to replace those bombed by Hitler in the desperate last days. 

On top red and yellow cranes hover over old copper roofs and crumbling rock foundations.

Elsewhere on Buda, cranes chew up Soviet-era high rises, preparing for the new future.

Life goes on.

As our lives go on, yet we are changed by what we have seen here.

Next stop, another crossroads of the Austro-Hungarian empire: Vienna. http://dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-8-vienna-moving-on.html