Kósa, Katalin: 'If something's taboo, it gets slowly buried'

Katalin, let's start with your grandparents.

My father's father was a master joiner and my grandmother a housewife. They lived in Balatonfüred and then Kispest. My grandfather was rather morose, in fact I never saw him really cheerful. He never spent time with the children, he never bothered with them at all. As for my grandmother, she didn't like my mother, so we didn't have a good relationship. My grandmother was only crazy about her son.

Have you any idea what lay behind the antagonism between your grandmother and your mother?

I think my grandmother had hoped her son would make a better match. My mother was just a plain worker in a weaving mill, not suitable for a joiner who was a master joiner's son.

Tell me about your father.

He was born in Balatonfüred on January 25, 1921. He grew up and went to elementary school there. He was very talented and clever, but my grandfather wouldn't allow him to continue his studies. I believe my father would have liked to attend the technical college for the timber industry. Heaven knows why his parents wouldn't help him, because he was extremely talented. I know my father eventually came up to Újpest and did further studies here, but it was only a vocational secondary school and he became a carpenter and cabinet maker.

My father took a very lively interest in politics and read a great deal. He was an agitprop secretary in Újpest in 1945-6. He was a very good speaker. He could turn the mood of a gathering in a moment. Then he gave the whole thing up because of the corruption. He told me he got fed up seeing a family of six not being allocated a two-roomed flat and it going to a party worker instead. He had a strong sense of justice and couldn't stand things like that.

Where did he work?

At first he worked in an Újpest cooperative, then after Imre Nagy became prime minister on July 4, 1953, he became self-employed, with a workshop in Labdarúgó utca and later Szabadkai utca. He earned relatively normal money. As I mentioned before, he was a carpenter and a cabinet maker, and the 1954 floods gave a boost to woodworking. He really loved his work and did it well, and he was much appreciated for it.

What do you know of your mother's family?

They lived in Újpest, in Megyer. Grandfather came from a family of gentry somewhere in Transylvania, and he made a big deal out of his noble birth. He lived as a globetrotter, sometimes coming home, sometimes going off and his family wouldn't see him for years on end. Grandmother was a cook, doing cooking jobs in houses. She died before I was born. My grandfather was called Imre Takács, and after my grandmother's death, he lived with a woman in Győr. They used to go to markets to sell balls of cloth they made. They lived very well, but my grandfather was very much a man of moods-he either loved you very much and then he'd be all over you, or he start hating you and looking straight through you. Anyway, those were my grandparents, but I never felt I had any grandparents in a real sense.

What about your mother?

Mum was born in 1926, one of five brothers and sisters. They were very poor. As a child, Mum would go out to work with Grandma to help with the washing up. My mother told me they were so poor most of the time that at the poverty was so great at that time, that Grandma would put padlocks on the dripping tub and the sugar and they could only eat delicacies such as these when Grandma came home and gave them some. They were actually brought up by the school, and by the Sunday school and on the street. My mother completed six years of elementary, then went to work in the yarn factory at the age of 14. She was 16 when she met my father.

How did your parents meet?

Interestingly enough, they never told me that.

Tell me about your childhood.

I was born in 1943 and my sister Ilonka in 1944. Children were still children in those days. When I got home from school I'd do my homework and then go out to play in the playground until seven or eight in the evening. We'd play tag or hide and seek, or play shops with stones and grass. I wasn't driven to death as a child as they are nowadays. I loved music, so I'd listen to it if I had any free time.

What was your relationship with your father like?

I got on with my father very well. I loved him madly. I'm not just saying this because he's dead and I feel nostalgia after the event. Up to the eighth year, he'd walk with me to school together every day, always the same route. Dad always took me to the food shop and bought me a glass of sour cream and two croissants. On the way home I'd go to his workshop and spend the afternoon there, then we'd go home together. I helped him with a lot of things: tacking, varnishing, choosing nails, straightening nails. I could see and feel what a great trade he had. We'd talk a lot while we were working.

You mentioned that your father was in agitprop. Did you talk politics at home even before 1956?

We had a flat with two rooms, and if family or friends came round they'd talk and play cards in front of us, but I don't really know if they talked politics or not. We weren't much interested in that as children. Though I do remember they were always listening to Radio Free Europe and paying attention to opinions from abroad. The radio had a very harsh, penetrating sound and I remember finding it terribly irritating.

My father showed me a squared exercise book where he wrote down what was actually happening in Hungary. I listened to him, but I didn't understand at the time and I wasn't interested. He wrote in this for years, as far as I remember, though I wouldn't swear to it. He recorded certain things, but unfortunately I don't know anything more specific. He kept this notebook in his toolbox and it was taken away when the house was searched. It's probably still there somewhere among the confiscated articles. I know he planned to get these writings out to the West, so the world could know what was going on in Hungary. And I know he was taken to task at his trial for having links with the imperialists. But he wasn't in contact at all. He didn't have a chance to get information out.

So Dad and others clearly talked politics at home, but we children weren't interested. We were really into being Young Pioneers. At school, the flag would be raised at the beginning of every week, and lowered every Saturday. To be honest, when Stalin died and it was announced on the school radio, we children burst into tears. It was so touching they way they said it. We still didn't know anything bad about Stalin at the time. We took him to be a nice, kind father-figure. We thought he was smiling from his pictures. We weren't disrespectful to Rákosi either. We accepted the conditions because our parents loved us and as children we weren't aware of the grave political situation of the time, despite the poverty.

If I understand you right, you took this Pioneers' business seriously, you believed in it, and yet you heard or saw things at home that suggested things weren't as great as they were making out at school.

Yes, we knew in the end, without anything being said, that there was a contradiction between them and they couldn't both be true. But to be honest, I didn't think about such things. I always listened to my father, but I wasn't interested in politics. I was captivated by classical music and I'd listen to that whenever I got the chance.

And how did you listen to it?

We had a radio and I'd listen to music on that. Marika Németh and the operetta were the big hit, and a few operas. Mária Gyurkovics was another who sang a lot on the radio, and I started to imitate them. We lived in a two-storey block and they'd always stand me out in the corridor to sing, and the wind would carry my voice away, but the children enjoyed it. It soon turned out I had a good voice and some talent, but unfortunately I was very shy... I'd sing all day at home, and although we were living among simple labouring people, no one ever told me off. When I walked into the flat I'd start to sing, I could even reach top C. And in our surroundings, that was no problem, the neighbours didn't come round knocking and asking why I was singing.

Did you study music formally?

Yes, yes, I played the piano. At first I'd go over to the neighbour's to practise. He showed me what he'd learnt and I'd practise it. Then I started learning the piano seriously after Dad had gone to prison. I still go round to that lady's to play the piano-to the same teacher I started my studies with at that time.

That's amazing.

Amazing, yes. She's 90 now, but I still go round. We play duets, then she calms down a bit and so do I. We talk about old times.

What do you remember about the autumn of 1956?

I remember Mum and others doing a lot of whispering around 1956. My father would bring posters home, which he'd torn down from somewhere. I remember there were always lots of things on the night-stand beside his bed. There was a poster pushed in there, which I think my sister and I sneaked a look at once. But I know I heard there was a strike in this place and a strike in that. So there was something in the air. But they kept everything to do with politics secret from us because my mother was afraid we'd say something at school that would cause a lot of trouble, because our head was a party-liner and he'd definitely have reported it.

There were lots of things happening in Újpest in '56. Which can you recall?

There was a driver shot in Újpest and laid out in the square by the Town Hall¹ . I remember going up to the bier with my Mum and Dad and looking at him. It was the first time I'd seen a dead body. I was really shocked. I was told the whole thing started with leaflets being scattered in the air from a plane or a parachute. People were grabbing at them. Father read them too, and Mum asked him to read them aloud. More and more people gathered round to listen. In the end, a couple of people clubbed together at my father's suggestion and formed the revolutionary committee² .

It's interesting that I spent a great deal of time at the Town Hall³ . They let me in and I hung around Dad all day. I just remember people rushing around, some with weapons, and some with armbands in the national colours. I was 13 or 14 years old, so I wasn't interested in what was happening, I just wanted to be with my Dad. I know they were off to see State Minister Zoltán Tildy, and there was a pretty big argument about what was going to Parliament and what proposal should be put there. Then they delivered some kind of 12-point thing, almost the same as the 12 points of 1848. I also know they had links with the flotilla people⁴ . All that went on whilst I was there.

Otherwise, there was total order in Újpest, it all passed off very well. Bread was handed out. There was no antagonism between people.

One thing I did find upsetting. At one point, this old Jewish guy was brought in by a National Guard patrol, and I remember everyone wanted to beat his brains out. They said he was secret police. Emotions flared, but at that point my father took him round the back and sent him home, where his sick wife was waiting for him. And that man never came forward to testify in my father's favour! As others said later, he didn't dare to.

Do you have any recollections of what your father did?

I remember my father's speeches. They were very anti-Soviet. He argued that the Russians should go whatever happened. As far as I recall, he would also have liked us to be neutral, like Switzerland or Austria. And I remember being very excited and wanting them to win.

Did you know it was a revolution?

I did know that by then. I was interested enough in events for it to be clear to me as a 13 year old that there was a revolution. That's why I was keen for it to succeed, because I knew it would be good for us if the Russians left. There'd be freedom of the press and other demands would be met.

Did you talk about these events at home?

We didn't talk much as my father never came home for more than a few minutes. And my mother was afraid, actually. She thought this was a short-lived thing and she didn't believe the revolution could succeed. My father was more naive. He threw himself into it completely. He really thought something good would come out of it. Mum stood by him, but she kept warning him to take care.

Did anything change in your lives after November 4?

When the Russians came and fighting broke out in Újpest, my father wanted to get us to safety, so he took us to my aunt's place, as their house had a bomb-proof cellar. We lived there for I don't know how many days. Once my father came to see us and I remember him arriving in a black Pobeda saloon. When he said goodbye, it was the last time I would see him as a free man. It's so awful the way that memory has stayed with me. I don't even like waving today when I say goodbye, I just turn round and walk away. I'm always afraid some trouble will come otherwise.

When we had the recorder off, you were mentioning that your father wanted to get you out of the country.

Yes, it was probably when the second Russian attack came. He promised my mother he'd defect with us, as he had an idea of what would happen to him if the Russians won and he was caught. He convinced my mother that she had to defect. He sent us on ahead to my grandfather's in Győr. We'd been there for a day or two when he sent a car for us, with a message that everything was fine and we should go home-he wasn't defecting, there was nothing to be afraid of, because he hadn't done anything he could be charged with.

Do you have recollections of your father's arrest?

My father was taken in on November 12, 1956. My mother was at home, doing the washing. All of a sudden she became terribly flustered and ran up to the Town Hall. She said she wanted to talk to my father, but they said she couldn't, as some people had just come from Austria and they were reporting on their experiences. The door opened, and my mother could hear the conversation and lots of laughter. There she was at the Town Hall just standing around when all of a sudden there came an awful pounding on the doorway. The whole Town Hall was overrun with Russians in minutes. They had a list in their hands of the people they wanted to arrest. They took Mum in too, as it turned out she was Kósa's wife. The Town Hall employees were released at once-the Russians were only interested in the revolutionary committee. The Town Hall was surrounded with tanks and people were taken away in them⁵ . My mother was allowed home the next day, and then for a long time-eight months as far as I remember-we heard nothing of my father. My mother may have said that they'd been taken to Russia⁶ .

Then after Dad had been arrested, my mother wanted to defect. The border was still open. We hid in a railway truck. It was terribly cold. There was no trouble. The soldiers went along tapping the wheels-I think this was at the border-and we kept very quiet. Someone even looked in, but he didn't see us as we'd hidden in the straw. Then came a little, red-haired man, who got a shock when they opened the door, and he started wailing, "Oh God, oh God, what'll become of us!" So we were caught and we spent New Year's Eve at the border. Then we came home. Mum was called into the police station once or twice over it.

Do you remember any house searches?

Yes, there was a house search. I'll have to think back. Forty years is an awfully long time. Yes. They took my father's box with that squared notebook in it, and they took his clothes. They couldn't take too much, as we weren't rich. I think they also took a load of stuff from his workshop.

Anyway, you completed elementary school.

I did. I was never a bad student, but I wasn't allowed to carry on. There was no way I could continue my studies when I left elementary in 1957.

How come?

My application to continue my education was sent back from the middle school. The head finally told me it was because of my father. He was terribly sorry, but he couldn't do anything about it. It wasn't enough to be turned down for gymnasium, I couldn't even go to technical school. I had no choice but to look for work in the Váci út factories. They were nice to me at first, but the moment they found out whose daughter I was and why my father was in prison, they thanked me for applying but turned me down. Finally, I managed with the help of relatives to find a job as a horticultural labourer.

Didn't you think of applying to a school further away from Újpest, in the provinces, perhaps?

I always had to hand in a résumé and that would include the fact that my father was in prison for political reasons.

Did you really have to say it was for political reasons?

Yes, my class teacher had signed it, so it wasn't a joke. Anyway, in August 1957, I went to work for the Waterworks. I was there for five years, as I recall, working in the gardening section. I enjoyed it because I was in the open air, but it was degrading as well, because had to sweep the street. Later I was taken on in the greenhouse, where things went well. Our gardener was a decent guy. He knew my story and he helped me with everything.

Where was your mother working?

In the producers' cooperative, in the stores. She had very decent workmates there and they helped us by giving my mother the dustcoats to wash and iron for ten forints. I still remember the woman who stood up for my mother. She said Mum wasn't responsible for her husband's actions. She was really decent, even though she was a strong communist.

So your mother wasn't sacked.

No.

- You mentioned that for a long time you didn't know anything about your father. When did you see him for the first time?

Mum spent a lot of time running after things. She wanted to get hold of a lawyer and she thought of József Torgyán first. But he couldn't do it because lawyers had to be on a special list to take such cases⁷ . Anyway, Mum somehow found out my father was in Mosonyi utca. As far as I remember, Dad had tried to commit suicide. Not out of cowardice, it's just that...

...he couldn't see any other way out.

Yes. And then they let me in to see him too. After that, we could only exchange letters for a long time.

What was the prison visit like?

It wasn't a long one, it lasted just a very short time. The guard stood there next to us, so we felt inhibited. We couldn't ask anything about the trial. We weren't even allowed to ask when he'd be taken to court. We told him we were all right.

You said just now you corresponded with him.

Yes, the prisoners had worked out a way of sending messages: they undid the stitching on a shirt collar, wrote messages on thin cigarette paper and sewed it back into the collar or cuff. After all, the paper didn't crinkle there and the guard didn't notice it. My father even sent messages on toilet paper.

And how did they get to you?

He put it in a hygiene parcel. These hygiene parcels were sent back and forth maybe once a fortnight. Unfortunately, my mother destroyed loads of documents later on, because she was afraid.

What did you know about your father, about the trial?

I remember mother really flying off the handle once. "Your father's gone off his head," she said, "he's taken the blame for everything on himself!" My father knew by then that they wanted to turn the Újpest case into a show trial. Újpest is a big workers' district, so something had to be shown about what those "filthy counter-revolutionaries" had done. The defence lawyer explained to Mum that Dad had made the confession he did because he didn't want the others to get longer sentences, so he took a lot of the blame for things on himself, as he knew he had no escape anyway, he was definitely going to be condemned to death.

Katalin, was this clear to you as a young person, or is that how you see things today?

No, it's not hindsight. I was clear about it all. Mum had two lawyers in the end, as I remember, and their office was in Nagymező utca. I went there with her several times and that's where I heard these things.

Did you ever see your father again?

On hearing days, they'd be brought to the Markó, and I'd go with my Mum to see Dad. My boss was really decent as he always let me off on hearing days. The windows in the corridor could be opened and they talked through the prison window. My mother learnt sign language and they told one another what was happening that way. We sometimes saw my father as he was being taken to or from the hearing. He had terrible great ugly boots on, poor thing, with a big iron ball on his leg and his hands tied behind him. The restraints were only taken off at the hearing. It was awful!

Were you at the hearing?

I was able to go into the great hall at Markó utca once, perhaps in the spring of 1959. It was a really great experience. Everyone smiled at me and everyone gathered round us and they were so pleased.

The prisoners?

Yes, yes. They were really nice to me.

You told me you had a visit from one of your father's cellmates.

Yes, a Catholic priest. You know I was brought up Reformed. My mother was Reformed and my father Catholic, and Dad had to sign a waiver saying we children could be Reformed. This priest told me it was my father's wish that we should become Catholics. I was so amazed by this, as Dad had not been a churchgoer. So I was converted at the age of sixteen and became a Catholic. I found out later that my father had practised his religion in prison under the priest's influence.

Did you submit a plea for clemency?

Yes, my sister and I wrote one in the spring of 1959. It was probably suggested to us by Mum and the rest, and they may have dictated it. We addressed it to István Dobi, president of the Presidential Council.

Were you able to bid your father goodbye?

My father was condemned to death by the court of the first instance on March 15, 1959. That was right on parcel day. We took a parcel, but they wouldn't take it in, they said he wasn't there. Someone let it out that the sentences would be announced on that day, Sunday, March 15. We were told they hadn't been taken in a Black Maria, they'd gone in a bread van, so it wouldn't be obvious what was happening. It was an extra humiliation to have the sentence announced on March 15, anniversary of the 1848 Revolution. My father hadn't wanted to submit an appeal, but the lawyers kept trying to convince him, saying they might gain time-there were rumours that foreign countries or perhaps the UN might help-and in the end he agreed. I still remember that ten people from Újpest were condemned to death in the first instance, and the death sentences of seven of them were confirmed on appeal on July 28. Whereupon my father slit his wrists⁸ . Apparently the doctor on duty wanted to let him die, but another said he definitely had to be saved so that he could be executed. My mother found this out from the lawyer at the time of the execution. She rushed up to the prosecutor's and asked for permission to take leave of her husband. Fortunately the judge-Pál Halász, I think it was-was on holiday, and his deputy gave her permission. The two of us were allowed into the Transit Prison, and said goodbye to him at the crack of dawn.

What do you remember about saying goodbye?

I remember being led down long corridors into a room with a grille. My father was dressed in dark blue prison clothes and a white shirt with a Cossack neck, and his wrists were bandaged. We'd been talking for quite a while when the officer in charge told us to finish off, although the visiting time hadn't expired. The officer was really upset by our final farewell.

What was the conversation like?

I saw my father as quite otherworldly and handsome, and really miserable. He looked at us sadly and comfortingly with his beautiful blue eyes. The conversation was one-sided, my father consoling us, while we just wept and cried. We couldn't say anything meaningful to him. The guard allowed him to hold our hands through the grille; in fact, we could even give each other a kiss. Despite the tragedy, I still think it was really good we were able to say goodbye. My father gave me with wise counsel, as people usual do at such times, asking me to keep the family together, to look after my mother and the boys. I was to study properly. But I think we mainly just looked at each other, and he kept our spirits up. We weren't to cry, because this was God's will. We should be at peace, we should calm down.

Wasn't your sister there?

My sister was at my godmother's in the country at the time and we didn't have time to get her, so she didn't get to say goodbye.

What happened after that?

We spent the whole day at the cemetery gates, walking up and down. In the afternoon we went in the nearby restaurant, known as the "spittoon", where the gravediggers and goodness knows who else used to go. My aunt was with us as well, she got me some raspberry syrup to distract me. Then all at once, someone called Mum aside. Then they showed me the executioner and his assistant. It really freaked me out. The one who called Mum aside told her that he'd been with my father in the death cell all night. He'd also taken him to the visiting session. They'd talked through the night, and he was really surprised that my father, as a master joiner, was so well informed on world affairs. They'd talked and argued politics until the last minute. He reassured my mother that my father had departed this life in total peace, not angry with anyone any more, and showing great courage. Then we were shown by a gravedigger where he'd been buried. We visited the cemetery for a while after that. We raised a mound over the grave. Mum put stones round and planted houseleeks. There was one March 15 when we went out there to find the graves had been kicked about. In fact, there were also occasions when we saw men in green coats hiding here and there in the bushes, watching to see who was visiting Plot 301.

Did you talk about your father at home?

Mum thought of it as a taboo subject. We weren't allowed to say a word about it at home. But Dad's picture was always kept on show. It's a family picture with all four of us are in it.

Did you dream of your father?

It's interesting, but even today he appears to me if something changes in my life. And he's hanging from a trapeze in a snow-white track suit. He doesn't say a word. He was an active sportsman in his youth, but I don't know why I dream this. I was 16 when he died. He haunted me for a very long time, but then the image faded. When I started courting and fell in love, and then I had children, it faded away.

Let's get back to your life.

In 1959, I was accepted as an evening student at Könyves Kálmán Gymnasium. I remember the head in his speech at the beginning of the school year saying how the filthy counter-revolutionaries had shot the school to bits⁹ . That was absurd! The Russians had shot it to bits. I was standing there in my black dress and felt everyone looking at me. It was awful! Even so, I really liked going to the school. We went four times a week. We had great teachers. Unfortunately my mother didn't like me studying.

So what persuaded you to study anyway?

The example my father set. Almost every time I saw him, he'd be chatting or reading. He read a lot. It became an inner impulse with me. I took the school leaving certificate just to be able to study further. And I even went and applied to the Opera. They told me I had a good voice that it would be worth training. But unfortunately, I was never sure I could sing an aria well, no matter how much I studied it. I was terribly inhibited.

How come you were allowed to study further after all after 1959?

My mother cried and cried when my father was executed. She was quite overcome. The judge warned her to do something about it or we could be deported. Apparently, there were cases of that at the time. The same judge advised her to get married and have the new husband adopt the children in his name. The adoption was arranged in Újpest within a few days after József Fekete became my father. Thereafter his name was on my résumé. If it had turned out who my father was, I couldn't have taken the school certificate, and later on I wouldn't have got a teaching job, or only later, I don't know. So who knows how things would have turned out?

Who was József Fekete?

József Fekete was a friend of my father's, who'd come round to see us in earlier times too. My father had asked him to look after us and take care of the family, to be with us. And he married Mum.

Was this a real marriage, or was it just on paper?

It was a real marriage.

And so you weren't at any disadvantage any more?

To tell the truth, if I didn't say who my father was and they didn't know my history, I had no problems. My name was Katalin Fekete, after all. But if they knew who my real father was, there were always obstacles.

Did anyone help you personally, or the family?

One or two of Dad's fellow prisoners came to visit when they were released and they used to help me with my studies. I was taught some German, maths and physics by them, and one of them may even have supported the family financially. Later I was helped by someone else at work, who deliberately didn't pass on my personal details. That person was on my side; he didn't want my secret to leak out. It only turned out I didn't have a character reference when I started teaching, so I had to write a résumé. I asked one of my colleagues what I should write in the résumé. She said, "Well, you'll have to put that in!" But I didn't put it in. She was decent, though, and didn't tell anyone. Then one of my old classmates came to work at the school as the secretary, and I was shaking in case she let it out, because I'd have been thrown out like an old boot.

What about your own family?

I met my husband when I was 18. He was an electrician at the time, but later he carried on with his studies. He was called up shortly after we met. I was finding maths very difficult, so he would work out exam questions for me and send them to me. After I'd passed my school certificate, I got it into my head I wanted to go on with the technical side, like him. I went on to study technical drawing, although I continued singing lessons as well and my natural bent was definitely towards the arts. I even went on to technical college. We got married in 1965. I've got three wonderful sons, all handsome, and I'm very close to them all.

My husband graduated from the Marxist University and then from the engineering faculty at the Technical University. He was trying to get ahead somehow, because he had three children to support. When my second son was ten months old, I went to teach practical studies in a nearby school. A few years later I enrolled in the Technical University as well and graduated in technical education.

When did you tell your husband what happened to your father?

While we were still courting-I told him almost at once. He stood by me from the outset. We talked about my father a lot.

And when did you tell the children?

I told my eldest son what a great swimmer his grandfather had been and how well read. I talked about him a lot, but for a long time they didn't know what he'd one in '56.

Why not?

My mother had always asked me not to say anything to the children, and so I didn't for many years, because I was afraid. Then when my 14-year-old son came home from school once talking about "what those filthy counter-revolutionaries got up to," I was shocked, so I sat down and had a talk with him. I explained everything, told him the truth, and told him what a fine man his grandfather had been as well. He was stunned.

Did you talk to anyone outside the family about '56?

One or two of the teaching staff knew about my past, and I'd talk to them occasionally, very rarely. But '56 had been buried. If I'd told the headmaster who my father was, he'd have kicked me out straight away.

If someone asked about your father, what did you say?

I told everyone my father had had a coronary and died suddenly.

Can you remember how you felt after '56 about your father's activities?

Of course there was a lot of brainwashing about '56 at that time, but it was offset by what I knew of my father. At the age of 13, I deliberately avoided politics and it was the same later. But I always knew Dad had been right and he'd died for a just cause. I've never changed my mind about him. I've always been on his side. I knew he was on the right track. He acted as he had to at the time, in those conditions. I've never had doubts about that. I knew what was written about them in the White Book were despicable lies.

And what did your mother think of it all?

My mother also knew my father had worked a just cause. But she was terribly afraid for us. She was always afraid of retribution. Even when we were adults, she warned us against talking about it.

On an official level, of course, they talked of a counter-revolution and of a rabble...

Of course I thought otherwise, but I kept quiet. I'd have cut the ground from under me if I'd said anything. Many people around me thought in the spirit of '56. They saw it as a revolution but kept quiet. It was a taboo subject. It's hard to explain. If something's taboo, it gets slowly buried.

Then as the political changes dawned, they started talking about '56 differently.

Yes, it was wonderful. I'd kept something buried for years and now it had come to the surface again. I was unsettled at being able to talk about it at last. I was unsettled by the events and by my father's exhumation.

Could you please say how your father's exhumation took place?

I was approached by Jenő Fónay about whether I'd let my father be exhumed. I said, "Yes, count me in!" My mum was really afraid: "Don't get involved in this," she said. "Don't do anything, leave it alone." I was really worn down by the thought that he'd be reburied and that they'd started investigating '56. It opened up such deep wounds that I felt I'd been turned inside out. I hadn't been able to be at his "funeral" in 1959; I didn't know what emotions would be churned up inside me.

I wanted to know for sure that he was actually there. There are certain inexplicable things, when you want to be sure of something. As the exhumation approached, I tried to prepare myself not to be shocked, not to feel sick. Every day I went through each moment of the exhumation in my mind. As if I was studying for an exam. I told the anthropologists what clothes my father had been wearing and they did in fact find scraps like that. It was definitely my father in that grave. I was finally convinced it was he who was lying there. He was reburied in the same spot. I was asked if I'd like a plot of honour. He doesn't need a plot of honour; he lay there up to now and he can stay there. They shouldn't make an exception of him.

I suppose you were there when Imre Nagy and his fellow martyrs were reburied?

Naturally. It was an uplifting feeling. I was a member of the Independence Party at the time and got to stand beside one of the coffins, so I took part in all the solemnities. It was really most gratifying not to lie low any more, not to keep quiet and be embarrassed about the past, and to speak about it openly. And family members could boldly lay flowers on their loved ones' graves. The nation bowed its head before '56 and we're not looked on as criminals any more. And my father hasn't been forgotten, '56 hasn't been lost in oblivion.

Compensation?

First of all, I took my name back. I'd tried to do it before, but I was sent away out of hand. I dealt with the compensation-my sister didn't want to be involved. We got a million forints-500,000 for my mother and 250,000 each for us children. I bought an upright piano with mine. My father had liked music and been very pleased that I played the piano and sang.

And you became involved in politics as well.

One morning, I heard Tibor Hornyák talking about the Újpest people on the Sunday News [radio programme]. So we got in touch with him and we had a talk. My husband and I were active in the Independence Party for a while. I'm just an ordinary member of POFOSZ. I'm also on the Budapest committee of the '56 League, but there isn't much outlook. Everything's all just on the level of talk for the time being.

Katalin, was there any point to '56, to what your father did, to what he gave his life for?

I think there was a point. It showed that Hungarians can stand together if they have a common goal, despite any denominational or racial differences. If there's a worthwhile end in view, people can be united.

Finally, could you please summarize what it was like to be the child of a fifty-sixer?

If my father had survived, things would have turned out differently for me. I'm sure he'd have stood by me and been ready to help, emotionally and materially. The biggest loss for me is that he couldn't be there in all the great events and moments of my life, when it would have been so good to snuggle up to him. There's no financial compensation for that, no sum of money to make up for the loss of the person I really loved and respected. If I just think how much he'd have adored his grandchildren, how much he'd have been able to teach them! That's the real loss. Of course I'd be better off financially too: my life would have been easier in that sense. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so timid. And it would have been easier to study further.

1 This refers to the morning of October 24, when demonstrators marching up to Újpest police station were fired on from the building and a young man died. The body was placed on a truck and processed round the district. When they arrived at the Soviet war memorial, they pulled down the obelisk and turned the plinth into a bier for the fallen hero. Speeches were made by leaders of the revolutionary committee: Gyula Koszterna, Pál Kósa and László Gábor. Then the demonstrators occupied the district town hall and chose a provisional national committee, of which Márton Rajki became chairman and Kósa and Koszterna were among the members. That afternoon, the Ministry of Defence deployed eight armoured cars to protect the district party committee.

2 The provisional national committee formed in Újpest on October 24 was reconstituted on the 30th under Pál Kósa's leadership.

3 Újpest Town Hall was where the district revolutionary committee sat.

4 People from Újpest demonstrated on October 23in front of the flotilla barracks, demanding weapons. After November 4, flotilla members took part in defending the district.

5 The presidium of the Újpest National Committee telephoned the district council on November 11 to arrange discussions on the situation that was developing. They were all arrested next day when they appeared at the meeting of the council executive committee.

6 After the revolution was suppressed, the Újpest revolutionary leaders were deported to Subcarpathia, with almost 800 companions. There they were interrogated by the Soviets until the end of December.

7 The decree establishing people's courts states: "In civil and military criminal trials, if especially warranted for the protection of state interests, only lawyers registered on a list compiled for the purpose by the Minister of Justice may be authorized or appointed as defence counsel."

8 Pál Kósa indeed tried to commit suicide after the final judgement came, and for that reason he was executed six days later than the others.

9 The school served as headquarters of the Újpest National Guard during the revolution and became a base for armed resistance after November 4.

Interviewer: Zsuzsanna Kőrösi. Date: 1995.
Editor: Zsuzsanna Kőrösi.
Translator: Adrian Bury.