László: The Gentleman from Budapest

By Steve Kossa

Lszl: Th e Gentleman from Budapest is the stirring biography of author Steve Kossas father, who was born into a well-to-do family at the beginning of the twentieth century in Budapest, Hungary. Tracing Lszls life, this story chronicles the ways in which the monumental events of that era transformed his path. The Great Depression, currency devaluation and inflation, the world wars, the Holocaust, communism and Russian occupation, imprisonment in gulags, escape, refugee status, and the familys relocation as displaced persons all played parts in his harrowing life experiences.

His life as a new Australian started in migrant camps in the outback of New South Wales. From here Lszl eventually moved to Sydney and then to Hobart with his family. Although he was trained as a chemist, he worked in all manner of employment in order to provide for his family in their adopted country. Later, entrepreneurial business ventures followed as he attempted to make up for all that he had lost of his past life in Hungary.

Lszl: Th e Gentleman from Budapest vividly recounts the challenges that the authors father faced as his world crumbled around him in Hungary and he sought and later built a new life for his family in Australia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452512877

Steve Kossa

Steve Kossa was born in Budapest during World War II. His family escaped communist Russia–occupied Hungary in 1948; then as displaced persons fleeing war-torn Europe, they relocated to Australia as refugees. He was educated in Australia and the United States. Now a retired teacher and academic living in Tasmania, he is proud to call Australia his country.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Steve Kossa.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com.au

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1285-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1287-7 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 1/30/2014

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Preface

Introduction

László’s Death

Understanding László the man

László’s life in Hungary

László during World War 2

A Little Work

Gulag - Living Hell

Polar Bear Enclosure at Taronga Zoo

Corrective Labour Camp, Osobstroy

Corrective labour Camp, Revda

Escape

Survival

Returning Home

Disillusionment and Revenge

The Dream of a Fresh Start

The Family United

Australia Our New Home

Bitter Sweet First Years

A Bend in the road

Tasmania

László the Entrepreneur

A Voice from the past

Afterword

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my wife Sue, who has been patient, supportive and encouraging. Sue had not met my father, and so was keen for me to tell his story.

Epigraph

Life is a journey – not a destination

Ralf Waldo Emerson

Preface

R ecently my wife and I visited Melbourne for a week to immerse ourselves in some truly international culture. We experienced some theatre and saw Westside Story, an art exhibition of Great Masters, the Titanic exhibition at the Museum, and visited the Immigration M useum.

We ate out each evening and had a truly magnificent and varied dining/culinary experience. The first night we went to China Town and had a Chinese banquet. Another day we experienced a quality Italian feed in Lygon Street, and on subsequent days gourmandized on Greek and Indian food… Truly it was super.

The experiences in Melbourne highlighted the fact that Australia, my home, my country, is so very much cosmopolitan, international, vibrant, ethnically diverse and yet integrated. I have only scraped the surface of the cultural blend of the people that make up our Nation. For whatever reason people have migrated to Australia, it has provided them with freedom, opportunity, education, employment and stability.

It was the Immigration Museum that brought memories back to me; tears to my eyes and refueled my desire to put pen to paper in order to tell this story. Millions of immigrants and displaced people came to Australia both pre and post war. My mother, father, sister and I were amongst them.

We were displaced persons seeking a home and a new life in Australia, arriving from war-torn Europe with just the clothes we wore and what little we had in our suitcases.

Australia accepted us with open arms giving us this opportunity. Although my parents have died, my sister Eva and I, our children and grandchildren remain eternally thankful. We are fair dinkum Aussies who love the freedom and lifestyle of this vast sunburnt country, its ruggedness, wilderness areas, open spaces and its beaches, as well as its cosmopolitan cities.

This story is by and large about the life and exploits of my father László who would sometimes when in a reflective mood say in English with a broad Hungarian accent, "I was a gentleman in Budapest."

Introduction

When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us… Helen Keller

A s I grow older I feel a strong urge to put pen to paper and recount the story of my father; his life, mannerisms, adventures, exploits, and philosophy of life.

If I don’t do it now the story will be lost forever when I, István (Steve) his son, die, and my children and grandchildren will never really know about László their grandfather/great grandfather and how it came to be that they were born into the life they now enjoy in Australia.

Whilst I am still lucid, memories flood back to me and I feel compelled to write them down.

The story, I confess is not 100% factual as some of it has been researched, some detail has been fictionalized in order to draw strands together, but by and large The Gentleman from Budapest really existed.

Much of the story that I recount relies on my memories and tales that my father told me as I was growing up, some from my mother, some from my uncle. Other aspects I have researched in order to fill in historical detail that related to László’s early years and what it was like in Hungary before the war or before I was born.

László’s Death

During my life I have seen tears of hope, joy, love, fear, pain and sorrow… László

L ászló (Leslie), my father died in February 1983, quite suddenly from a heart attack. I remember the time and the circumstances quite clearly, as it was just before the commencement of semester one at the Institute of Technology (now the University), and I was preparing my lectures and making final preparations for the influx of new students. Hurriedly I made arrangements to fly from Launceston in Tasmania to Mackay in Queensland as soon as pos sible.

It was a highly emotive time with all sorts of thoughts flying around in my head. As a matter of fact it had been only a few weeks since I had returned from spending my summer vacation with my family in North Queensland, juggling my time between my sister, Eva, and her family and my folks who also lived in Mackay. Eva and Peggy my step mother handled the funeral arrangements from that end. I was asked by my father to act as executor of his will, and to notify a small number of people in Hungary.

In retrospect I still find it somewhat unnerving when I recall the last day of my vacation in Mackay, and the last living encounter with my dad… I firmly believe that my father had pre- empted his death. It was on this occasion that he asked if I would act as executor, and handed me a personally typewritten list of names of relatives and their addresses in Hungary, in the event that he died!

Of course I said that I would, and tried to assure him that he still had a lot of living to do and should not think of death. I really could not entertain the idea of him dying! He to me had always been a mountain of a man – a pillar of strength, and invincible. He had been through so much in his life and had so many obstacles and hardships to overcome. I suppose time catches up with us all and life experiences pay their toll on health and zest for life.

At this time I was choked with emotion. I held back tears, (or at least tried to…), and had to occasionally swallow in order to control my dry mouth and that sensation at the back of my throat.

My father had told me a great deal about his past and his many adventures and dark moments, but what he confided in me at this encounter revealed a deep secret from his past that absolutely floored me and shocked and stunned me to my core! It was a secret that I have never revealed, nor ever will

I arrived at Mackay airport. It was like stepping into an oven when I disembarked from the airplane. The temperature differential between Launceston and Mackay was quite substantial as was the humidity. My shirt stuck to my body as perspiration just poured off me.

My eyes did a quick scan around the arrival lounge in search of my sister who was to have met me… but no sign anywhere. I then heard a familiar and somewhat eerie whistle that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge! It was a trademark whistle that my father had used to call my sister, his wife, or me. It was quite unique, and the sound was made by somehow holding the tongue on the hard palate as air passed through an opening to create the whistle. Surely it could not have been my father, I thought. Then, in a flash of recollection I remembered that my sister had painstakingly understudied this unique idiosyncrasy, and I had been completely taken in! I was met by my sister the day before the funeral. My sister and I embraced and sobbed quite uncontrollably, eventually regaining our composure. We had such a lot of shared memories and experiences.

Eva was very close to Dad and although at times they had their differences, inevitably they made up and followed one another all over Australia in order to live close by.

The day of the funeral had arrived. The funeral service was held in a Catholic church (Dad being a devout Roman Catholic). The coffin, although not over the top ornate, was nevertheless tastefully adorned with some tropical flowers and dignified. We each in turn viewed his mortal remains within the coffin.

László was dressed in his good suit (his only suit) and appeared at rest. His face looked relaxed and peaceful. The funeral house did a good job in toning down his usually red face that in the latter years of his life displayed quite a few ruptured smaller blood vessels, especially around this nose. Additionally many of his frown lines that reflected not only his age but also his hard life and character were less visually notable. Finally there was no more turmoil, anguish, hardship, torture. The top of his head still bore the scars where as a prisoner in a Russian gulag he had his skull fractured and smashed in from a punishing beating… but now he was at peace.

Nobody other than family attended the funeral. My nieces, Karen and Sonia, and nephew Danny, (who was quite young at the time), were, as they loved their grandpa, visibly upset.

After the funeral we went back to Eva’s house and recounted a few stories as we sat by the swimming pool and had some refreshments. My niece Sonia seemed more affected than we were aware. She didn’t have much to say, but we knew that things were not right when she walked straight through a plate glass sliding door leading into the house! Fortunately she was not cut badly… we were all relieved.

Of the funeral, I remember thinking that it’s somewhat sad when I compare it to other funerals that I have attended, at which friends and acquaintances, as well as family, have filled the funeral parlor to capacity.

In László’s case, he had only a few friends, and they were in other locations. He had only within the last year or two moved to Mackay to be closer to his daughter and grandchildren, and so he passed away without any fanfare.

Although I did not realize at the time, my father had been a great teacher – he had experienced much during his life, and had learnt more life lessons than most, managing to transmit many of his insights, ideas, attitudes and values to my sister and myself.

The Gentleman from Budapest was buried in Mackay cemetery in North Queensland. He was laid to rest in a land many thousands of kilometers from his birthplace in a country that adopted him giving both he and his family a home and opportunities for a good life, prosperity and political stability

Understanding László the man

Remember the three R’s… Respect for self, Respect for others, Responsibility for all your actions. (unknown source)

I n appearance László was average in height… around 170cms.tall, and was stocky to overweight in build. Although his head was bald, pitted and scared on top, he had quite a healthy thick crop of greying hair above his ears and back of his head, which was cut short. He tended to carry his weight around his midsection and this was reflected in a protruding abdomen which was quite pronounced as he aged, and was there as a consequence of his love of wine and fine food, and held in place by his belt (which had extra holes drilled in it). As far as dress goes, he was modestly attired most of the time, and was not fussed with fashion, but erred on the side of comfort and practicality… special occasions being the exception, when he would dress up in his Sunday best with shoes polished and his body smelling of 4711 au de Co logne.

He was mostly a jovial man who displayed at times a sense of humour, and loved to play practical jokes on his family… such as hiding in a darkened corridor and then jumping out to scare you… or counting the number of sneezes (aloud) in order to break an imaginary record (as he often did with my stepmother who held the family record of more than 15!)

There was also a darker side to László. He did have a quite ferocious temper that on rare occasions was displayed… mostly after he had had a few too many drinks.

Both my sister and I have reflected on this aspect of his character, as we have both been beaten… me for being insolent, with a slap across the face (that sent me reeling and counting stars), and Eva with a beating for spilling Indian ink on the carpet accidentally, whilst doing her homework.

To understand my father, László, one has to appreciate what it is to be Hungarian, because his mannerisms, motivations, personality, customs, loves, eating habits and behaviour to a large extent were influenced by some interesting traits of a national Hungarian character.

Although it is said that no two Hungarians are alike, they appear to be attracted by the magnetism of their common destinies. When in business Dad had many Hungarian friends or cronies who would visit, exchange a few greetings, have a drink, and go. Hungarians greet one another as do brothers, love to share a drink, laugh, sing, dance and discuss food