The Quilt of My Life: Memoir

By Laszlo J. Solymosi

The author had a colorful life that included the Second World War, the Stalin era communist life in Hungary and the 1956 revolution that saw his father and brother deported to Russia for almost two months, finally escaping in mid January of 1957 after a five day stint in rebuilding in the area of the heaviest damage.
He had to learn English. That was done in England. When he got to America he could not find a job in his trade(architecture) so he had to learn a new trade. In that trade he started as a tool and die maker and with evening studies continued his education leaving the machine shop floor worked in the design department that led to eventual management position. He retired in 2003. Truly a self made man with providential guidance. He feels that if one reads the first chapter of the book will want to finish it to the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664121195

Book preview

PATCH 1

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My wife Lori and daughter Hillary picked me up at my office after a two-week business trip to Japan. I was traveling 60–70 percent of the time, since my company transferred me from Philadelphia to Rochester, Michigan, in 1994. Given these circumstances, our family times were very precious.

Upon my return, we usually liked to go out for a nice dinner at the Kruse and Muer on Main Street, so we did on this occasion (Hillary loved their fresh poppy-seed covered bread). When we got home, we usually relaxed and shared the highlights of our days spent apart. Hillary was nine years old already and quite curious, especially about my childhood in a country that was quite different than the one she knows. Invariably, she would ask me to tell her a story of my childhood in Hungary. After a few minutes of searching my memory, I found one.

Well, sweetheart, as you know, I was born in 1940. The Second World War already started. By the time I was four years old, the Germans were retreating in front of the advancing Soviet forces thru Hungary. We lived four kilometers outside the city limits of Budapest, southwest of the city and on a gentle hill that afforded us a partial view of the city especially at night. We could see part of the city burning, as a result of the nightly bombing raids the US Army Air Corps carried out in front of the advancing Russian army.

It was late fall. The Russians army crossed the Danube way south of Budapest with the intention of completely surrounding the city. We were right in the path of the advancing troops. The sounds of the fighting got closer daily. My father arranged for a horse-drawn wagon to move us with our most precious belongings to the hills. My mom’s sister lived there, and they had a vineyard with a wine cellar under their house. That is where mom’s side of the family gathered to wait out the passing of the front.

Our house was about a hundred feet from the highway, and the wagon being loaded was right next to the house. We worked as fast as possible to finish and get on the road, as the sounds of the front were growing ever louder, closer. The wagon finally started to move. We hardly got halfway to the road when a round of mortar landed right on the very spot where the wagon was parked just a few minutes before.

We moved just ahead of the fighting; as a matter of fact, we saw a number of German soldiers in the fields, firing their mortars. My father and the driver loaded the wagon so well and full, so much so that I guess it was a bit over loaded. About half way to our destination, one of the springs broke. To this day, I do not remember how we finally made it to the vineyard safely. As a four-year-old, I did not have the feel of urgency and danger associated with the situation, but I am sure my parents did. Once we arrived at our destination, we all moved into the wine cellar.

Now, the Russian army was preceded by stories of rape, pillage, and the shootings of people they deemed suspicious. They had a habit of taking men at random, tearing up their documents, and forcing them in line with the other prisoners they were marching toward Siberia. Most never came back. They had very little discipline. Most of them were uneducated, and the rationed bottles of vodka usually fueled their heroism. People learned, and we also, to have the men hidden as much as possible. Younger women were dressed to look old and homely to discourage rape. My father always tried to stay ahead of things, so he started learning Russian early and taught me some in the process.

Soon the Russians arrived at our hideout. The way people were arranged in the cellar was, the oldest women closest to the entrance followed by the younger ones, with the kids way back to the back of the cellar.

The cellar was rectangular in shape, about fifteen feet high at the highest point, which was the crest of the arch. These old cellars were built by digging out the ground to whatever depth the cellars were to be then lined with local limestone, topping it with an arch that would hold the earth that was used to cover up the cellar if there was no house over it. This one had the house over it but still had the arch. There were casks on either side against the wall, full of new wine. The aroma of the new wine filled the cellar. The men were hidden behind the casks.

There were five of us kids, my big brother Janos, my sister Anna (or Anni), our cousin Mary, me, and a newborn, Cousin Feri, in the little alcove. There was no electricity in the cellar or, for that matter, in the entire house, so with candlelight and kerosene lamps, the surroundings were very dim and actually very frightening especially for us kids as the giant shadows of people moved around on the walls at times. Our parents tried to make things as normal as possible. The cold, damp cellar forced us to be bundled up. We were sleeping on mattresses that were nothing but burlap sacks filled with straw. That was the kind of mattress I slept on until the day I escaped Hungary after the revolution of 1956. We used to get a new mattress (fresh straw) each year after harvest.

We kids made the best of cellar life by playing cards and various made-up games. We had lots of imagination.

One day, two Russian soldiers in full battle gear, as they were part of the front lines, came thru the cellar door and started down the stairs. Immediately, everyone stopped talking and the damp cellar was filled with cold fear. From my vantage point at the end of the cellar, the stairs came down from the left, as if from the ceiling. Since the lights were concentrated near the end of the cellar where the kids were, we could only see the two Russians descending the stairs as two dark shadows. They moved ever so slowly down the center aisle, staring hard at all the people to the right and left, looking for Germansky. Everyone was sitting on their straw-filled beds, some huddling as if protecting one another.

The news preceding the Russian army was that they were a barbarian bunch, uneducated, from all over the steppes of Siberia to the Caucasian mountains to Lake Baikal and beyond to Mongolia and Vladivostok.

Our two visitors looked very Mongolian. They could have passed for descendent of Genghis Khan with yellowish complexion and almond-shaped eyes. They appeared extremely barbaric, ready to kill anyone at any moment as if with pleasure. The closer they got, the better I could make out their faces. They stopped right at the end of my mattress, maybe because this little four-year-old, white-haired, angelic-looking klapec (Russian for kid, child) was staring them down with an inquisitiveness they probably never seen before. They stared back at me with just as much curiosity, and I swear they almost managed a smile before they turned ever so slowly and started toward the stairs. They were about halfway, and I was not done with them yet. With the loudest voice I could muster, I yelled after them, "Dasvidanya (Russian for see you again/good-bye)."

Remember, all this time, from the moment the two soldiers entered the cellar, everyone was holding their breath, imagining what these two soldiers could or would do if they don’t like something or someone they saw, and now this kid had to open his mouth just as everyone thought the torture was over and all of us made it without any problems. I am sure all my relatives, as much as they loved me, were wishing me somewhere else at the time. And my mother was probably the first one to think it, and you could almost hear their thoughts.

The two Russians stopped. Now, they were in a darker area of the cellar, and we could only see their outlines turning ever so slowly as if they heard a supernatural sound or something miraculous. They walked toward me. The closer they got, the more clearly I could see their faces reflecting total awe and disbelief with a hint of respect and, yes, love. You may say, how could you read that on their faces at four years old? Because of what they did. They came all the way to my bed, got down on one knee, held my hand, and kissed it reverently. Without saying a word, they got up and left.

I was proud as a peacock. I felt a hero of the moment who made two new friends. My mother and relatives had different opinions and in no uncertain words let me know that I am to keep my mouth shut when anyone enters the house, especially soldiers.

Certainly, at that time, I could not understand all the fuss since the two soldiers kissed my hand and were nice to me. I think they even left a gift, and they went away happily, having made a new friend.

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Most all these anecdotes I have told my daughter Hillary and/or my wife Lori, who even, after thirty years of marriage, sometimes will say, I have not heard that story before.

The first four years of my life were quite turbulent politically, as Hungary positioned itself with the German policies. In 1941, Hungary attacked Yugoslavia, declared war on England, the United States of America, and the Soviet Union. The German army did not actually occupy the country until March of 1944 when it was time to try to hold back the advancing Soviet Army. Hitler wanted to make Hungary the battleground. I have no idea how my parents coped with the uncertainties of those times and writing this. I, all of a sudden understand the questions Hillary asks me sometimes, Daddy, how did you do it? How did you make ends meet? How could you afford everything you needed? How did you make a new life for yourself in America?

Sweetie, each generation has its own hardships to overcome, and they just have to do it. You will do it also. Just don’t forget that the Lord will never leave you or let you hang.

Back at the vineyard in early 1945, we stayed there to wait out the fall of Budapest and the departure of the Soviet forces, as they continued to chase the Germans to the west. The Russians completed the encirclement of Budapest on December 25, 1944, and Buda was freed by mid-February. Now, we were only fifteen kilometers from downtown Budapest, so the sounds of the fighting, artillery, machine guns, and explosions were quite audible most of the time. During the night, we usually