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Lynn Saul's Friedman family journal, July 1997
Friday, July 18, Budapest: Grandpa always said Budapest was a beautiful city! It reminds me of Pittsburgh, with the curving river, a suspension bridge, restaurant boats anchored on the shore, barges, the hill, an incline up the hill, buildings up the sides. Of course, the buildings are different! (The other difference is the direction of the current.) We attended Shabbat evening services at the famous, newly-restored Doheny St. Synagogue. This Neolog (Reform) congregation was once the second largest in the world! The sanctuary was a long gallery with two balcony stories, dark wood pews and woodwork, geometric painted designs gilded to the max, but geometric rather than more ornate designs. The Ner Tamid was a red and gold glass multi-dimensional multi-pointed star; over the ark was a gold sunburst with the inscription “יהוה”. When she went to sit down in the center section, a man told my sister that she had to sit over on the side because “she had a disease.” She was highly offended and was ready to leave right then and there, but we went over to the left side and sat down in the women’s section. We enjoyed the traditional service and the rabbi’s animated sermon in Hungarian—which turned out to be about the power of love rather than hate! [note: this was Shabbat Balak.] There was a good crowd, many obviously tourists. Afterwards, everyone wished everyone Shabbat shalom and we shared a wonderful Shabbat dinner with our group at the hotel. Saturday, July 19, Cégled: We drove about 1 hour across mostly flat plains, fields of corn, wheat, sunflowers, squash, small towns with neat houses each with a fully planted garden with flowers, vegetables, cabbages, grapevines, and peach trees. In Cégled we walked around the town square and side streets, then finally found Enni’s house (Enni Hollos, my grandfather’s sister). Our guide knocked and got the owner to let us in—a young man apologizing for his “T-shirt” who was most hospitable, showing us the beautiful garden courtyard—again flowers, vines, fruit trees, and herb garden. Then we went to the old synagogue, now a sports building, a large typical 19th-early 20th century yellow brick synagogue building, but the side street was unpaved and muddy. We also found the Jewish section of the Cégled cemetery but were unable to determine if Pal or possibly even Bondi or Enni were buried there. There are many old stones, all in Hebrew, and many 20th c. (and even late 19th c.) stones in Hebrew and Hungarian, with easily readable dates. And I can’t help thinking about the irony: here we are, traveling on Shabbos to the house of the woman who criticized my grandmother for not lighting the Shabbos candles until after she got home after work, halachically too late to do it—thereafter my grandmother totally stopped lighting candles! Sunday, July 20, Nyireghyhaza: This is now the largest community in northeast Hungary, our base for exploring. We went to visit the absolutely beautiful, still used synagogue—white walls with beautiful painted designs, mostly in a clear medium blue with other colors highlighting the peacefulness of the blue and white. The effect was calming while focusing attention on the magnificent ark, similar in some to the simplicity of those all-white New England churches, but with the added beauty of the painting. Mr. Moskovitz, an older Holocaust survivor who joined us, spoke about the history of the Nyiregyhaza Jewish community and of the rabbi of this synagogue, who did the translation of the Bible into Hungarian still used by Hungarian Jews, and then went to Auschwitz with nothing but his Bible, the only possession he said he needed. Mr. Moskovitz explained that before 1860, Hungarian law prohibited Jews from living in the larger cities, so Jews in this area lived in the many small villages that surrounded Nyiregyhaza and could come into the city only for the market. However, after the law changed, this became a populous and prosperous Jewish community. We then went to the cemetery, where in addition to the many individual gravestones, there is a major Holocaust memorial commemorating the 17,000 members of the Nyiregyhaza Jewish community who perished in the camps. We don’t have any direct evidence that any of our relatives lived in this particular area, but we also photographed a number of Friedman gravestones and some others. We all found it difficult to leave; the cemetery is huge, many of the stones are in excellent, very readable condition, and the light coming through the trees against the stones and the ivy was exquisite. Tokaj: Tokaj is the center of wine production in Northeastern Hungary. This area produced fine Kosher wines not only for Hungarian Jews but maintained significant trade with Galician Jews as well. (Kalusz, birthplace of Emalene Seigel Friedman, is just over the Carpathian mountains from here.) William Friedman’s family was involved in producing grape stakes for vineyards; David Reichard of Satoraljaujhey (Alex’s godfather; we think he was Rezi Perlstein’s stepfather) was a wine merchant. We explored the Tokaj synagogue with Gluck Miklos, one of the two Jewish men still residing in Tokaj. He was born after the war, when his parents had returned from the camps. He told us that he asked them, when he was growing up, how, as Jews, they could come back here, but they felt it was important to try to maintain a Jewish presence. The synagogue building is just a shell; the City of Tokaj, which owns it, tried to restore it for use as a concert hall, but has at least temporarily abandoned those efforts. The ark has a dome which bears races of blue paint. The base of the pillars of the ark bears an inscription stating that it was donated by the Chevra Kaddisha society, including the amount they gave. I found myself challenging my opinion that such inscriptions are crass; in this situation, it provided a fascinating historical insight. We gathered in the dusty ruins of the sanctuary as our tour leader, Louis Schonfeld, chanted El Male Rachamin and led us in chanting a psalm. It was very profound. This was my intention in coming to Hungary: to reclaim the places that were taken from us. We walked up the reconstructed, sturdy concrete stairs to what was once the women’s gallery and then up another flight of stairs to a completely new upper story with a beautiful wood planked ceiling that was phase one of what was once part of the city’s attempt at refurbishing the synagogue into what was to have been an exhibit hall. We took photographs of beautiful views through the cement opening that was in the shape of a Star of David. We enjoyed a wine tasting at a local cellar and then ate paprika fish for dinner at a restaurant along the Tisza River. Monday, July 21, Poroskovo, Ukraine: Shortly before leaving on this trip, my mother discovered that the town where her grandfather, William Friedman, was born, Porosko, is now Poroskovo in the Ukraine. (Much of what was once Hungary is now part of the Ukraine, Romania, and other countries.) It had been very difficult for us to obtain visas, and we’d heard horror stories, but a group of us who wanted to visit villages now in the Ukraine were fortunate to be able to come here. After crossing the border and meeting our driver/translator, Dmitri, (who had just been in Tucson!) in the city of Uzhorod (formerly Ungvar), we headed up into the beautiful Carpathian mountains toward Porosko, which our driver insisted is not a town but only a “mountain village.” On the way, we passed through Nykeveisk, saw a castle on top of one mountain, drove through Pereczin, where we saw beautiful gardens and fields by the river and a small but bustling market in the center of town, and drove through Cimclip, which Dmitri told us is a wine region that hosts a well-known wine festival every year. All along the road are raspberries, and fields of corn, and beans on poles. There are red and white flowers everywhere. In the village of Rakova we observed many new houses being built. Then we passed through Ursika, which means “Honey Park.” The region, and the city of Uzhgorod, are named for the river Uzh, which means snake. (In Hungarian it was Ungvar, and the river Ung.) The next village was Potetasinfeld, and after that we came to Poroskovo! We made contact with Oksanna, the town land clerk, whose work is primarily reassigning collective farms to individuals. She took us to the small cemetery that has been identified as containing Friedman family graves. It had been arranged to have the graves cleared and cleaned in advance, and the family whose house and garden fronts the cemetery helped us with additional cleaning so that we could take good photographs. Next to the cemetery are haystacks and a cornfield. (We’ve translated and deciphered the dates on the stones we photographed; we’re still trying to make sense of the relationships.) My guess is that many of these are the brothers, sisters, and cousins of William Friedman. The family stories were that his family had cattle, and the many brothers and half-brothers fought and some killed each others’ cows. (However, we’re not only related to criminals—at least one of the gravestones identifies an ancestor who was a Rabbi.) The family also had a timber business and sold grapestakes for the many vineyards in this area. We saw horse-drawn wagons carrying both dimension lumber and thin tree trunks with branch spurs attached to be used for haystacks. This must have been what it was like 150 years ago! Link to cemetery names and other data: Dmitri translated a story one of the women from the house here told us: a farmer took one of the gravestones to use for a table, but ghosts appeared to him and he put it back! So perhaps that is what will preserve this cemetery. Many of the stones are lying on the ground, and there are many stones that are worn beyond recognition, or broken. My mother, sister and I excused ourselves from the group so that we could recite the Kaddish together. Obviously no one has been able to do this for a long time, and it may be awhile before the prayer will be recited here again. When we were finished, we wiped our eyes and as we rejoined the neighbors, Dmitri told us that they had also prayed while we had. I explained to them, through Dmitri, that our prayer does not mention the dead but praises God and asks for peace. We all shared a moment of what I hope was genuine appreciation of each other. Our hosts wanted us to stay for something to eat, and we were sorry that we could not properly appreciate their hospitality, because we had a commitment to meet the others in our group in Berehovo, and we had already spent about three hours here. Tuesday, July 22, Satoraljaujhely: At the archives in Satoraljaujhely we looked at original books of Jewish birth, marriage, and death records from 1851-1895. It was truly an incredible experience and will take a great deal of analysis to understand what the relationships are. We had come with several major questions, including, “Who was David Reichard,” whose name was on Uncle Alex’s records as the godfather, or sandek? Who was Rezi Friedman, who was the midwife for both Alex and Nick—a professional midwife, or a controlling in-law? Who are the Schlangers? We found many entries of Friedmans, Perlsteins, and Schlangers. Then we found the marriage record (July 14 1886) of Wolff (William) Friedman and Rezi Perlstein. We found birth records on Alex (Friedman Sandor) that we’d had an abstract of, and of Miksa (Grandpa Nick): Niklos Friedman (listed as Miksa) Nov 9 (1889) Midwife Friedman Rosalia, mohel Geszler Jozef Nov 16, Utt. Kaszincky. (We think Rezi and Rosalia Friedman is the same person as Friedman Abrahamne and was a professional midwife, since she delivered many babies that aren’t in the family. Her husband Abraham Friedman was a doctor also listed as delivering a number of babies in Satoraljaujhely. Then we find an entry which stunned us: NAMELESS born July 22, 1893, a boy, to Friedman Vilmos merchant and Perlstein Rezi of Satoraljaujhely. Midwife Friedman Abrahamne. Died before circumcision, July 31. Note: “his father has emigrated to America.” The three of us audibly gasp! They had a child we’d never heard anything about, who died shortly after birth, and William Friedman had already emigrated to America, leaving Rezi in Ujhely with the two boys to suffer the birth and death of her baby alone (well, probably with all her relatives.) Grandpa always told us that his mother hated America when she came and lived in Brooklyn, got sick and went back to Hungary. He told us that none of her family ever came to America. This may be why! We tried to find the house at Kacinsky U. 515 where both Alex and Nick were born, but it was too far away, so we agreed to turn around and return to Nyiregyhaza. But as we got back into Ujhely, someone in the van noticed what looked like a synagogue on the right side of the street, so we stopped. As we got out of the van, we saw that there was a cemetery next to the building and walked along the wall enclosing it so that we could at least take some photographs over the wall, since we knew we didn’t have time to go across the street to get the key to the building and get in. When we returned from taking quite a few “mystery shots” over the wall, others in our group had gotten the key and gotten into the building. In the building were Kaddish placards, and a large donation plaque showing the names and amounts donated in 1888: donations by Reichard Mor, Reichard David, another Reichard…this is probably the cemetery where many of the family are buried, including Rezi Perlstein! But we had no time to look for individual graves. We walked quickly into the cemetery, which is HUGE, extending way up the hill toward the Tent Mountain for which Satoraljaujhely is named. Wednesday July 23, Nyiregyhaza: I woke up after almost no sleep last night because of barking dogs and a cold. At about 3 am I heard a key in a door somewhere down the hall. I noticed that the dogs’ barking had ceased. Did someone go and poison the dog to make it be quiet? Holocaust thoughts! (Later my sister told me there had been noisy, drunken revelers causing the dog barking, and the dogs stopped when there was no one left bothering them!) This is what this trip is like: it is incredibly beautiful, and we have made one amazing discovery after another, and people are filled with an energy that is astonishing—but over everything hangs heavily the shadow of the Shoah. I want to come back, to do more research, to experience more of the yellow and orange buildings and the lush gardens and grapevines, but, in spite of the beauty, the discoveries and pleasantness of the people we meet, there remains an amorphous fear and apprehension which contribute to the tension and excitement of this visit. I know I must return, because for me the journey is not yet complete. Note: my use of Hungarian name convention (last name first) and American name convention (first name first) is inconsistent . Originally published, in slightly different form, as “Hungary Journal,” Magyar Zsido, 4:1 (Summer/Fall 1997) 6-9.
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