Lost: all my plane tickets to get home
Quote: “You must drink it. It is our Hungarian national drink. I hate it. Drink it if you want to throw up.” (Esther, 11pm, on the Hungarian national drink, Unicum)
So the last time we spoke I told you about my wonderful trip from Sydney to London on an unanticipated, but very welcome, path. It turns out that there was a catch. Due my first flight being delayed, I did not board my second, and this is apparently evidence enough that I have no intention of using my tickets to India and then home in six months time. Those tickets have now been canceled. I’ll be working on un-canceling them and will keep you updated.
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| The Citadel from St Stephen's Basilica |
However, such dreary practical matters can wait. For now, we look to the very beautiful and very European city of Budapest, where I have been graciously received for the last three nights by Michael Kemeny and his grandmother Emmy, who has returned to her birthland to visit friends and relatives. The apartment where we are staying is in the heart of Pest (and only a minute or two from the Danube) and, as such, affords walking access to just about all of the tourist attractions Budapest has to offer.
Living here, in the heart of the capital, has fostered me the ability to experience Budapest in a very concentrated way and also to meet Europe in a very concentrated way. By this I mean that my strongest impression of the city and its people relates to their intense European-ness. Street-scapes in the city-centre that are seemingly composed entirely of neo-gothic buildings dating back to the ‘20s or ‘30s are commonplace. Evoking the photographs from the tumultuous Budapest of the 1940s and ‘50s, this serves to give a historical depth and presence to the modern city. Further, the many street cafes, complete with bow-tied and waist-coated wait-staff and live music, and the beautiful and well-dressed smoking patrons add an elegance and indifference to the passing of time that captions my expectations for the continent exactly. Finally, the many grand and ornate buildings, including the Parliament House, St Stephen’s Basilica, the Citadel, Budapest Castle, the Synagogue, the Opera House and the National Bank, all within sight of each other, add to the feeling of taking the essence of Europe and injecting it into the few square kilometres that surround our apartment.
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| Parliament house and the River Danube from Budapest Castle |
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| St Stephen's Basilica from Budapest Castle |
While the past few days have been densely filled, with day-trips to Budapest castle and Lake Belaton and the surrounding holiday towns, there have been several highlights.
The first of these is St Stephen’s Basilica and the organ recital that Michael and I attended there on a whim the night that we visited it. St Stephen was Hungary’s first king and died in 1038. His mummified hand is still preserved in the Basilica, though I don’t know why. The church itself is the third tallest building in Hungary and inside, the vast expanse reaching up to the dome is the most prominent feature of its design. The walls and columns reaching up to the ceiling are gilt and every surface of the ceiling holds images of Christ and different angels and saints. The depth of detail and the feeling of immense space combine to make the space literally heavenly, and the wonder that abounds in every direction is almost overwhelming. It evokes majesty and power that almost transcends ridicule, even today.
The organ concert was by the main organist of the Cathedral, with a flautist and an aged, slow-moving opera singer taking turns to perform with him. The singer, Kolos Kavats, was the picture of professionalism, standing stock-still for entire performances and then deigning only to move one hand to his heart and slowly close his eyes in recognition of his audience at their conclusions. His ability to fill the huge space with his voice (while seemingly not moving a muscle) in a number of pieces, from Bizet’s Agnus Dei to Mozart’s Ave Verum was extraordinary. However, this could not have prepared us for his rendition of Antonio Stradella’s Pieta Signore. By adding to the huge space of the Basilica the immense power of his voice, he was able to hold the echoes of each note for up to three or more seconds, with the sound coming back to meet him during the following notes. On certain runs this meant that there were three or four equal voices combining to create a full, rich sound that exactly matched the majesty of their surroundings. To look at the frail, unmoving man producing the sound, one would not have thought it possible. Feeling enlightened and moved beyond words, Michael and I immediately went out clubbing with friends until 6am the next morning.
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| Budapest Opera Hous | |
The following day contained the second and third of my three highlights for Budapest and, following on from the musical theme, I will move to that night, which found Michael, Emmy and I at the famous Budapest Opera House, waiting to see Puccinni’s La Boheme. As with the Basilica, the Opera house contains a huge space, keeping four decks of seating, and, again like the Basilica, every surface - inside the theatre proper, all the lobbies, every staircase and every ceiling - is either gilt or covered in beautiful images. If there were any unadorned surfaces, they were immediately obscured by the beautiful Hungarians, milling about in their finest clothes. While my seat was not incredible (by a chance miscalculation of the currency exchange I opted for the $AUD6 ticket, which, in retrospect, may have been overly frugal), though it was reported to me that the costumes and scenery were very fetching. The top right hand corner of the stage was, indeed, fetching. I can, however, state with certainty that the music was fantastic and the particular aria that I was most eagerly anticipating, Che Gelida Manina, did not disappoint. A small part of the audience was actually brought to their feet mid-act and the man playing Rodolfo completely stole the show. Stunning. I wonder what he looks like.
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| Budapest Opera House |
Finally, my third highlight occurred earlier that day when I had the opportunity to visit the Hungarian Holocaust Museum. The Hungarian experience was particularly brutal. While the build-up of anti-Jewish legislation began, as elsewhere, many years earlier in the 1920s, the deportation of the Jewish population, under the direction of Adolf Eichmann, began only in April 1944, following the installment of a puppet regime in Hungary. By this stage Eichmann knew the workings of his extermination machine well and in a period of less than two months between May 15 and July 8, 1944, some 400,000+ Jews were sent by train to Auschwitz. Upon arrival, 90% were immediately exterminated and the period of waiting, it has been estimated, was reduced to around 20 minutes on arrival. During the entire Holocaust, three in ten Jews killed were Hungarian and in Auschwitz, seven in ten. While an intervention on July 8 by key political figures suspended the deportation, organised extermination of Hungarian Jews did not cease until shortly after the Soviet emancipation of Budapest in January 1945.
I visited the museum with Emmy, her cousin and her cousin’s husband and a friend of Emmy’s. Emmy, being born in 1933, was an eleven-year-old Jew in Budapest in 1944 when the purges began and her cousin was 12. A number of times I was directed to different exhibits, sometimes, simply to read or see a picture and sometimes to be given explanations, including (pointing to a picture of Anne Frank) “I was hiding in a house, just like her; just like that little girl” and finally, after the last and most graphic film, “I will never forget; never forgive.” On a similar note, perhaps the most startling comment at the time was Emmy’s cousin’s observation, on seeing the footage of key Hungarian political leaders on the gallows, that “I think that is the funniest part of the whole war.” This is particularly profound. Dostoevsky wrote on the topic:
“I do not, finally, want the mother to embrace the tormentor who let his dogs tear her son to pieces! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself if she wants to, let her forgive the tormentor her immeasurable maternal sufferings; but she has no right to forgive the suffering of her child who was torn to pieces, she dare not forgive the tormentor, even if the child himself were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, then where is the harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who could and would have the right to forgive? I don’t want harmony, for love of mankind I don’t want it. I want to remain with my unrequited suffering and my unquenched indignation, even if I am wrong. Besides, they have put too high a price on harmony; we can’t afford to pay so much for admission. And therefore I hasten to return my ticket. And it is my duty, if only as an honest man, to return it as far ahead of time as possible. Which is what I am doing. It’s not that I don’t accept God, Alyosha, I just most respectfully return him the ticket.”
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| Emmy at the Opera (Michael facing away) |
Emmy survived the war and emigrated from Hungary to Australia in 1956 with a three-year-old son, in order, like thousands of other Jews, to escape the Communists. Her cousin emigrated to England.
That’s all from me here. Thanks this week go to Emmy and Michael for putting me up at their own personal cost. I have greatly appreciated their company.
Michael
