The 4Th of May: The Memories of Paul Galy Oam

By Paul Galy

On his deathbed, Gabi releases Paul from a blood oath they made as children to never tell their terrible secrets about growing up in post-WW2 communist Hungary. Pauls grief for Gabi becomes a grief for his childhood, his family tree and the struggles of his community.

Pauls memories emerge with a striking richness of detail and emotion. They are the memories of a child conceived in the aftermath of a racial war, growing up in the midst of a class war tearing apart Hungarian society, ultimately needing to flee with his family to Australia, a foreign land at the other side of the world.

It is a personal oral history, a family history and a community history submerged in trauma. But it is much more than a saga about loss and grief. Its about moving from survival to something new, sweet and substantial, through the prism of Pauls childhood innocence.

Paul Galys coming-of age journey is as intoxicating as it is shocking. It is a personable, gripping and astonishing true-life story. Paul captivates the reader, recruiting them to aspire, transcend and soar along with him to new and unanticipated emotional heights!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483648996

Paul Galy

On his deathbed, Gabi releases Paul from a blood oath they made as children to never tell their terrible secrets about growing up in post- WW2 communist Hungary. Pauls grief for Gabi becomes a grief for his childhood, his family tree and the struggles of his community. Pauls memories emerge with a striking richness of detail and emotion. They are the memories of a child conceived in the aftermath of a racial war, growing up in the midst of a class war tearing apart Hungarian society, ultimately needing to fl ee with his family to Australia, a foreign land at the other side of the world. It is a personal oral history, a family history and a community history submerged in trauma. But it is much more than a saga about loss and grief. Its about moving from survival to something new, sweet and substantial, through the prism of Pauls childhood innocence. Paul Galys coming-of age journey is as intoxicating as it is shocking. It is a personable, gripping and astonishing true-life story. Paul captivates the reader, recruiting them to aspire, transcend and soar along with him to new and unanticipated emotional heights!

Book preview

002_a_dfghjkl.jpg

Copyright © 2013 by Paul Galy.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2013910047

ISBN:               Hardcover                        978-1-4836-4898-9

                        Softcover                          978-1-4836-4897-2

                        Ebook                               978-1-4836-4899-6

First published 2012 by Beck Shnidman & Alexa Publishing Pty Ltd. (Australia)

First Edition printed and bound in Australia by Cranbrook Colour Geebung Qld

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Illustrations Copyright 2012 © Paul Galy

Text Copyright 2012 © Paul Galy

Cover design Copyright 2012 © Paul Galy

Photographed by Daniel of Charing Cross Photo

Wardrobe courtesy of Bronte Tram Antiques

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data

Paul Galy, OAM - Biography

Australia - Biography

Hungarians - Australia - Biography

Hungarians - Biography

Artist - Biography

Rev. date: 06/03/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-800-618-969

www.xlibris.com.au

[e-mail]

503904

Contents

KEY TO HUNGARIAN NAMES IN THIS BOOK

FOREWORD

PREFACE

chapter one:       MY MOTHER’S STORY

chapter two:       MY FATHER’S FAMILY TREE

chapter three:       REBIRTH IN BUDAPEST

chapter four:       THE SHOE MASTER

chapter five:       THE OUTBREAK OF WW2

chapter six:       RETURNING HOME

chapter seven:       THE VIRGIN ARMY

chapter eight:       THE CAPTAIN, THE GENERAL AND THEIR LITTLE SOLDIER

chapter nine:       START OF SCHOOL

chapter ten:       THE SECRET POLICE

chapter eleven:       THE HIDEOUT

chapter twelve:       BACK FROM THE DEAD, LUNCH AT GABI’S

chapter thirteen:       A QUESTION OF TRUST

chapter fourteen:       KUTYUS, THE LITTLE SABOTEUR

chapter fifteen:       LIFE CHANGING EIGHTH BIRTHDAY

chapter sixteen:       THE BLOOD OATH

chapter seventeen:       THE F-WORD

chapter eighteen:       THE REVOLUTION

chapter nineteen:       ESCAPE THROUGH THE MINEFIELDS

chapter twenty:       THE KANGAROO HOP

chapter twenty-one:       FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF AUSTRALIA

chapter twenty-two:       A NEW START

chapter twenty-three:       TRAVELS ABROAD

chapter twenty-four:       THE FAMILY YEARS

chapter twenty-five:       BECOMING AN AUSSIE

chapter twenty-six:       WHAT HAPPENED TO GABI AND ANDREW

chapter twenty-seven:       THE PROMISE

epilogue

appendix one:       THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

appendix two:       MOSONMAGYARÓVÁR

005_a_dfghjkl.pdf

memories of paul galy

005_a_dfghjkl.pdf005_a_dfghjkl.pdf

KEY TO HUNGARIAN

NAMES IN THIS BOOK

•   An ‘i’ in Hungarian is an ‘e’ or a ‘y’ sound in English

Names are very important in Hungary. Every name has a ‘name day’ and is celebrated like a birthday.

My parents and most people called each other by nicknames. My mother was ‘Muki’ (pronounced Mookee), a derivative of ‘mókus’, meaning a cute squirrel. My father was ‘Móki’, from mókazó, a person who kids around, tells jokes, makes a joke of everything and is never serious.

Anna is Hanna (Hebrew name) and only Lily Zietler called my mother by this name. Her friends called her anyus, meaning motherly, or anyuska or little mother. When she was little, she was called Anni. All pre-pubertal girls named Anna were usually called Aniko. They may carry that name into adulthood only if they are cute.

My name, Paul or Pali, has a lot of meanings. When someone doesn’t know a person’s name, in conversation he is referred to as ‘a Pali’. It is also used as a word for a guy or bloke. It can mean ‘don’t take me for a fool’. Before puberty, someone with the name Pali is referred to as Palkó. My parents only called me this name if they were angry with me. My friends called me Palcsi. Older people called me Palcsika. In official documents, I referred to myself as Pál. To my parents, even as an adult I was Kutyus, a puppy.

There were lots of Pauls in my family. My parents and I nicknamed three of them:

•   Big Paul was my uncle, Pál Szász, son of Adolf and Emma Sussmann.

•   Little Paul was my cousin, also Pál Szász, son of Béla and Elsa Sussmann.

•   Tiny Paul was another name for me.

Here are some other names that appear in the pages to follow:

•   Andris means Andrew.

•   Dezsö was known as Dov.

•   Éva was Évike as a child and Évácska with endearment.

•   Ferenc, whose nickname was Feri, means Frank.

•   Gábor means Gabriel and became known as Gary; he was Gabi to me.

•   Gyöngyi is Pearly.

•   Gyula means Julius. To me he was Gyula Bácsi or Uncle Julius.

•   István or Pista means Stephen or Steve.

•   Jenö or János - can be John or Johnnie

•   Latci means Leslie or Les.

•   Mitcu was the nickname for Miklos, which means Michael in English.

•   Náci is derived from Ignácz, my grandfather’s name and my father’s best friend.

•   Rozsi or Rozsa was Rose, Rosa or Rosy in English. To me she was Rozsi Néni or Aunt Rosa.

•   Sándor or Sanyi means Alex.

•   Tibor became Tibi or Tib in English.

•   Zsuzsi means Susan or Susie.

FOREWORD

When my father told us he was writing about his childhood memories, it sounded like a useful way for him to ventilate and process the traumatic memories that emerged with the waves of grief he experienced after his childhood friend, Gary Sellers (Gabi Selmeczi), died in 2006.

The outpouring of memories changed my father in quite a profound

way. His memories were now richly detailed and emotionally laden. The sleeping child within had awoken! There was much to think about, to talk about and much to feel. My father was now in touch with the emotions of his childhood, his family of origin and family tree. We became accustomed to tears welling up in his eyes when he spoke of his past. And he became an even fuller, more complex and interesting human being . . . and father!

It was as if the family tree had sprung into a fully formed, living thing, with all the fruits intact and fresh and ready for the picking. Few documents, photos or memorabilia had survived from my father’s childhood in Hungary or from his parents’ past lives. My father was born just as Communism was resurrected in his mother country, in the aftermath of the funeral march of WW2. But the acute trauma of War started way before my father had been born and didn’t subside even after his family left Europe, when he was nine years old. In fact, trauma continued, as it does, but in disguised, latent form. But now the past was out, ripe and ready to be consumed. There were unsullied and damaged, bitter and beautiful fruits, to bear.

This book is an oral history, a family history and a community history. It contains the memories of a child conceived in the aftermath of a racial war and growing up in the midst of a class war tearing apart his society. These wars were against his religion, his culture, his family. Against childhood, identity and freedom.

The enemy in this book has a name: Totalitarianism. At the heart of my father’s book is his survival of the mindless state of State Control, Secret Police and the emotional and physical and child abuse that inevitably becomes part of such a society.

For me, my family, my children - it’s about knowing Paul Galy. With deeper knowing, comes deeper connection that facilitates understanding, respect and acceptance of the sorts of influences that shaped him and who he is.

Why did my father want to write this book? In the face of Gabi’s impending death, came permission for the death of the secrecy about their childhood trauma. Thus my father’s grief for Gabi evolved into a grief for his childhood, his family, his family tree, and for the loss of opportunity to live in a healthy society to nurture him and his community.

This book is much more than a saga about loss and grief. It’s also about more than ‘survival’. It’s about moving out of survival and finding something substantial, sweet and special. Discovering the power of individual thought, perspective, will power, self-direction, and loving and supportive relationships and communities. It’s as much about Social Democracy as it is about Nazism or Communism! It’s about aspiring, transcending and soaring. It’s about experiencing a new kind of existence, being with oneself and others. It’s also about quality of life.

As a clinician, researcher and educator of human nature and the disorders that we individuals are vulnerable to developing, I recommend reading my father’s personal account. It is through better knowing the author, through his experiences and memories, that allows us to keep in mind, not just intellectually, but also emotionally, what sort of society we want to live in.

We need to experience that visceral empathy, through his developing mind and eyes, to truly fathom what life, relationships, interactions amongst family and friends, opportunities, restrictions and abuse of power was actually like in such a State. To gain this kind of understanding requires not only formal education—an understanding of political systems, market models, ideologies and technicalities. It also requires reading and thinking about the personal experiences of others - subjective, as well as the objective knowing.

How my father developed self-esteem growing up in such an abusive societal context is really noteworthy. His capacity to achieve desirable outcomes, to have mutually beneficial and fulfilling relationships with his loved ones, friends and community, and the internal sense of worth derived from the love and high regard of his parents (overcoming their own trauma to do so), reveals itself to be more powerful than the State’s war on the individual and self-esteem. My father’s ‘coming of age’ in these areas, despite the traumatic society he must contend with, makes the unbearable accounts of trauma worth surviving through, along with him! He reassured me, during my first reading, when I told him what a hard journey it was for the reader, that it had a happy ending!

This book is another in a long post-WW2 modern tradition that reminds us why we ‘must not forget’ and what we must not forget - our responsibility to ourselves, our loved ones and future generations to value, protect and encourage healthy political systems and social structures. To strive for democratic systems that have enough socialist policies to adequately protect and maintain a minimal quality of life for the disadvantaged, the ill and financially insecure, but not so much that there is any risk of the State being taken over by some Totalitarian tyrant or regime.

This book was a ‘Win-Win’ for me and I hope the reader shares that experience and sentiment with me.

Gary

February 2012

PREFACE

When I started to write this book in 2010, Australia was in the midst of its worst and most severe drought. As soon as I put pen to paper, the drought started to break. As the words began to flow, my emotions started to flood, and I could recall and re-live every moment of my past. I could remember the smallest most vivid details, and, word for word, conversations I had from when I was a young child.

In 1954, while hiding out in a remote farmhouse in rural Hungary with my mother, who had severely infected feet and was doubtful of her recovery or even survival, she told me many things about her past that were important to her.

In 1955, my father told me his family history during our summer holiday. Almost every Sunday in Hungary, my father would clean and tinker with his motorcycle, telling me stories of his life. In the summer of 1956, my Aunt Alice, who was the Director of the Hungarian National Museum at the time, told me the history of the Israelites of Hungary.

With all this knowledge bottled up inside, I was frightened to think about it, and worried that if I did, how would I handle it? When I started to write about my childhood in Hungary, the floodwaters in Queensland and Victoria were at their most torrential.

Writing this book was the hardest task I have undertaken. The writing process certainly changed me. I have become a more emotional person as a result of it. My emotions can still overwhelm me, but now I am able to live with them. There is still the occasional storm or heavy rain. But we need that.

This book is a personal account. I realise that I had clever, caring parents; I always knew they were generous. They passed their values to me and I’ve passed these to my children, which I can see they will pass to theirs.

My daughter-in-law, Dorit, volunteered to do research to ensure I got the facts all right. She’s a researcher by nature, an archivist by profession, and a Jewish History scholar. I told her, No, I want to write this book exactly as I remember it word for word. I know that a childhood memory can be distorted, which my son Gary informs me, but I don’t think so!

I thank my friend Gabi for making me promise to reveal all our secrets. Now my children, grandchildren and others can learn, understand and gain insight into how a family tree was decimated; but a few of its seeds survived, and once planted in a faraway land, they sprouted again.

Paul Galy

January 2012

016_a_dfghjkl.jpg017_a_dfghjkl.jpg

Sussmann Crest: Suss in old German means Saxon and in Hungarian it’s Szász

chapter one:

MY MOTHER’S STORY

It was utterly appropriate for my maternal grandfather, Adolf Sussmann, to take over the printing factory from his late mother’s family. The son of a grocer, he became a linguist, and learnt to speak Latin, French, Italian, Spanish, Modern and Old German, as well as English. He translated novels, textbooks and periodicals into Hungarian. His printing business became the largest private enterprise in the Mosonmagyaróvár region of northwestern Hungary.

During their summer holidays, Adolf and his wife, Emma, would take their family on travels throughout Europe. They lived an upper middle class lifestyle for the times. They had maids, cooks and child minders to help with raising Anna and Paul.

Anna—my mother—was named after Adolf’s own mother, who had died during his childbirth.

Pál—my Uncle Paul or ‘Big Paul’—was named after Adolf’s grandfather, Lipot—my great grandfather—who had been born in 1860 in Mosonmagyaróvár, following many generations before him. Lipot had inherited his grandfather’s grocery shop, which was eventually to go to his third son, Ferenc. In turn, Ferenc’s daughter, Rosa (to become my Aunt Rosa or Rozsi Néni), inherited it from her father.

The children’s education was of high importance to Adolf and Emma. In order to enable Paul to enter the university of his choice, in 1936 Adolf ‘Hungarianised’ their surname to Szász. Paul and Anna travelled by train every week to attend their university lectures, far from Mosonmagyaróvár. Paul stood for hours to avoid creasing his trousers. He graduated with a Doctorate of Law. Anna was Dux of her school and went on to graduate as an economist and statistician. She was also an excellent athlete, having been ‘discovered’ at the age of six during a winter family ski holiday. She went on to win bronze and silver medals in 1932 and 1934, representing Hungary in downhill skiing. She beat the Germans, Austrians and Norwegians, who usually dominated the winter sports.

The day that my mother received her Diploma was the day that it was frontpage news of every Hungarian newspaper, Jews not permitted to work in offices. Anna told her cousin Rosa, Let’s study dressmaking and tailoring, that’s what I really enjoy doing. They both graduated as couturists. Their lives did not dramatically change until 1942, when Paul, along with her father’s printers—all men under fifty-five years of age—were conscripted to slave labour.

When the German Army occupied Hungary, a Jewish Ghetto was established in Györ. My mother told me that on Monday 15 May 1944 two gendarmes came to her family home and told them that they had two days to pack up and leave their house. They were told that if they didn’t comply they would be forcibly removed or shot. On the morning of 17 May, the Jewish community of Óvár¹ (minus the men under fifty-five who had already been relocated to labour camps) were assembled in the City Square. From here they were forced to walk towards Moson—women, children, the disabled, and the elderly carrying suitcases and trunks, some pushing prams, others pushing wheelbarrows and pulling small carts with their prized possessions inside. It was a spring day with many open windows, and the whole of the city’s population turned out to watch the humiliating departure of the Jews, some waving or yelling taunts. Dragging their belongings, they did not know where they were going.

They were herded into disused railway yards and buildings near the railway station in Moson, a long way by foot from their homes. The buildings were filthy sheds, once used to repair locomotives and railway carriages. There was a strong smell of oil and tar and the ground was soaked in oil and grease. The Jewish community of Moson was already there from the day before, and more and more people arrived daily from the surrounding villages, hamlets and farms.

Over one thousand two hundred people huddled together with no water, cooking facilities or toilets, with only the food they had packed. My mother remembered the crying children and the sobbing and wailing of the women and elderly. They slept on their suitcases, and lived in these unbearable conditions for three weeks until they were transported by railway, to the Györ Ghetto, on 6 June 1944. In the Ghetto, five thousand Jewish inhabitants already there withdrew from the grimy smelly new arrivals. Every family was provided with a room, food and washing facilities. In the Ghetto, my mother told her parents that her fiancé had warned her about the threat to her life in Hungary and had wanted her to go with him to England. Adolf shook his head with disapproval. He was furious that my mother had lost the opportunity to escape Hungary and had made the decision without seeking his counsel.

On 11 June 1944, Hungarian Gendarmes and German soldiers forced my mother and her parents into cattle cars, along with all the Jewish residents of Mosonmagyaróvár. They were packed in like sardines, with standing room only. Most of the elderly collapsed after a few hours, the rest lying on top of them, and the children on top of the women so that they could have air to breathe. They spent three days travelling to Auschwitz like that, without food and water. When the doors of their car finally opened, there was screaming and yelling, and a sense of great urgency to disembark and leave their luggage behind. My mother remembered a short walk, with yelling and jostling. She was directed to the line on the right, without a word of goodbye to her parents, who went to the left. My mother glanced at her father and their eyes briefly met. That was the last time my mother saw her parents. The knowledge that she had disappointed her father and his accusing last glance haunted her for the rest of her life.

When Anna and Rosa entered a large enclosure with high barbed wire fences they knew the terrible danger they were in. They were ordered to undress and parade naked in front of soldiers. Their hair was shaved. My mother was tattooed. They stood in line to receive striped clothing and wooden clogs. The inmates handing out the clothing were long-term prisoners from Poland, and my mother said that they told everyone in the line, in the most crude and insensitive way, what happened to the ones who went to the left. That reception created a grudge that my mother brought with her to Australia.

Dazed and emotionless, Anna told Rosa, We must do everything possible to survive—eat whatever we can, knowing Rosa only ate kosher food. Soon they were scrambling for scraps of food, eating off the ground, snatching whatever they could from other women.

Every morning in Auschwitz, the women stood at assembly with band playing music and guards hovering like vultures, selecting those who were unsteady on their feet to be sent to the gas chambers. They worked long hours doing heavy manual labour, making ammunition, with almost no food and very little sleep, packed hundreds to a room—they were all unsteady on their feet.

At the beginning of winter, the Nazis discovered that my mother was a famous skier. She was selected to be one of Dr Josef Mengele’s human guinea pigs, together with her university friend, Dundi. They were given edible food once a day and a small apple after the evening injections, which she shared with Rosa.

In February 1945, Anna developed frostbite of her feet and Dr Mengele gave her a note, instead of her morning injection, to present to the guard who usually gave the apple. She read the note, upside down, Immediate elimination. She could do nothing but listen to her own throbbing heartbeat. The guard read the note, calmly sat down at her desk outside Dr Mengele’s surgery, and wrote on a form: Transfer. With a slight smile, the guard went to her locker and took out a thick knitted pair of socks and mittens and said to my mother, Follow me. Anna could hardly keep up with her as they went through a number of gates with barbed wire, then to a truck, which had other inmates huddled in the back. The guard gave the transfer document to the driver, handed the socks and the mittens to my mother, and said, Good luck. Anna boarded the truck and soon, within half an hour, arrived to Pausnicz, another ammunition factory, but with no barbed wire fence. The camp had small houses for the workers, mostly German speaking political prisoners. After seeing this camp my mother said to herself, I will survive. At about this time, Rosa was transferred to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, and was part of a large slave labour force cleaning rubble from allied bombings.

After a few weeks of being at Pausnicz, Anna awoke one morning and realised that the guards had left during the night. Anna and Rosa met at a displaced person’s camp, in Hanover, less than