We had a two-hour layover at the station before our train to Zagreb; B and I walked around the neighborhood and chanced upon this street in a rather rundown section of Budapest near the garment district. I am not sure who this Muranyi was or why a street was named after him (I assume it was a man), or even if we are related at all–but I got a kick out of seeing a street named for my family.
Today, we we rendez-voused with my cousin Tibor at the train station in Nyiregyhaza…the city where our fathers were born. Tibi promised to escort us to the family plot in the cemetery and to show us where my grandparents (and his father) are buried. It was a pilgrimage of sorts…I didn’t exactly know why I felt compelled to go or how I would react when I got there. My brother Fred did the same thing when he was here at Christmas. Nyiregyhaza is a small city in eastern Hungary about 30 minutes outside of Debrecen. My father often spoke with affection of his boyhood years there.
Tibor and his wife were already on the train when we go on…it was a wonderful day for an excursion, with bright sunshine, a light breeze, and temperatures in the low 70s. First we saw the house where our fathers spent their boyhood, the building where my grandfather had his first apartment, and the apartment from which our fathers threw corn cobs and stones down on the Romanian soldiers during the final days of World War I. My grandfather was an attorney, a former member of the Nyiregyhaza Town Council, and later, president of the Hungarian Bar Association. My brother has his portrait and every time I see it, I think about how distinguished he looks–he fit the part!
Our next stop was the cemetery where my grandparents, Tibor’s father, and a young cousin who died in his infancy, are all buried. The angel was put there by my aunt and uncle to remember their baby boy. We cleaned up the plot a little, put fresh flowers in the vases and lit some candles. Tibi and I talked about roots and being uprooted and what it means to him to be able to come periodically and care for the family plot. He would like to be buried there because it is so peaceful, but Csini worries that it is too far for the children and grandchildren to come (it’s about a 3- hour train ride from Budapest). I didn’t tell them that my own parents are interred in a small courtyard garden at St. Thomas Church in Sarasota, Florida and that I haven’t made it back there once since their ashes were placed there. On the train ride back, I asked Bernard whether he wanted to buy a burial plot for the two of us…he prefers to have our ashes placed in our garden, but I reminded him that that would only work if the house remained in the family after our death. Years ago one might be able to make such an assumption, but in this day and age, who can predict?
Going to a cemetery always makes me think about my own mortality.
This time, I thought about the past and the future. The cemetery, as well as the downtown area of Nyiregyhaza, where we strolled after lunch, have numerous monuments to the dead. During World War II, 12000 Nyiregyhazis died in the fighting…that’s a lot for a small town.
So, as I sit here thinking about which words best describe my emotions after today’s trip, my thoughts are constantly interrupted by the chirping of the birds in the trees outside our window. I finally decided to post the photo above–it is a semi-comic statue of the famous Hungarian writer, Ady–the title is self-explanatory. (You can see it for yourself in Nagyerdo Park in Debrecen.)
And, it seems to express what I wanted to say. So, I wish you a good week, thank you for tuning in, and send my best regards,
Marcsi
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