Cause beyond ourselves

My grandmother, Grosz Jozsa, nee Weinberger, died in May 1945, a few weeks after her daughter, my mother, returned from death, from the Lichtenwört concentration camp. She had lived to shepherd her grandchildren, my brother and I, through the the last months of the war, with the accelerated murder of Jews. She sheltered us in the Budapest ghetto, helped us to survive the siege and bombardment of the city, saw to it that her husband, my grandfather and my handicapped aunt, Margitka came through alive and undamaged. Her task was done. She could let go. She died of typhus, she died because her mission in this world was complete.

My grandfather was bereft. Jozsa, known as Pepi, the girl from the inn in Ráckeve whom he married, was the rock of his life. She had enabled him to live a life of great esteem, enjoy respect which was a key to his success. She kept diverse parts of the extended family,the cousins, nieces and nephews and distant relatives, together in her home that exuded an air of orderly, middle class comfort with large heavy furniture, reflecting stability and a measure of prosperity. With Jozsa gone, it was up to her daughters, my mother and her sister Márta to look after him.

Grandfather Gyula, a boy from the country, from the town of Gyönk, was the son of Solomon, a wine wholesaler, remembered for his strength. He had wrestled a wild bull that went on a rampage in the market, an incident noted in one of the books of Báro Eötvös Jozsef, and was the son of Charne, who my mother was named after, daughter of an old Nográd district family renowned for their beautiful daughters. He was educated at the Reformatus Gimnazium, one of the elite schools in Budapest. As a young man he worked for the Tallow Marketing Board, and then struck out for himself using the business experience and the contacts he gained. At one time he was in advertising, producing scribble pads with advertisements printed on them, later, again making use of his contacts in the tallow and oil industry, he acquired the agencies for some of the world's leading manufacturers and producers, among them Mitsubishi, who marketed whale oil, and Uni-Lever, with a wide range of products. He was the go-between between these large international conglomerates and manufactures in Hungary, some on a modest scale, of soaps, cosmetics, and various chemical products. He would travel around Budapest, driven by his regular taxi driver, Mr. Diamand and call on his clients;. He never wanted to own his own car and drive himself. Grosz bácsi, uncle Grosz, was a well known and respected personality in the trade.

After the war he worked on re-establishing his business and clientele. He was in his seventies by then, but this was his life. These were his friends, the people he knew. With the communist takeover, with businesses nationalized, his customers disappeared. Life made him redundant. He found fulfilment in his involvement with the Páva Street Synagogue. He was elected to the Board, he was one of the gabbais, sitting in the front to the left of the Ark. His friends were his fellow Board members, Rochlitz, the retired pharmacist, Kunstaedter, men his age, Weisz Karcsi, a generation younger. They worked to keep the synagogue going. Rabbi Farkas, the founding rabbi of the synagogue, appointed in 1928, was shot into the Danube in 1944, Rabbi Rosenblum, the second minister, who later took over, moved to Israel. Cantor Tennenbaum, the portly hussar who had served in the Austro-Hungarian cavalry was killed in the Holocaust, the shammes, Lézer, the fixer, the jack of all trades, shochet, mohel, baal koreh, debt collector who knew everyone, moved to Canada. It befell to my grandfather, Grosz Gyula, and his cohort of old men to keep the congregation going. They had to negotiate for funds with the Budapest Jewish Organisation, they had to arrange aliyot and make sure that no one's feelings were trampled on, make sure that the services were conducted in an orderly fashion. They arranged functions for the Holidays, arranged events for charity, cultural events, guest speakers. My grandfather was kept busy and found purpose in his life.

We, my mother, who of his daughters was the most like his wife Jozsa, my brother and I, his only grandchildren, abandoned him. He appreciated that we left for possibly a better future, untainted by the memories of a world that had betrayed us. He would write us postcards in minuscule handwriting but complained that his eyes were failing. We would write back to him. People would stop him in the street and ask him how are the children, and he would produce our letters, proud of the good marks we got in school and proud of our loving words. My aunt Marta, the younger daughter in Budapest, cared for him. He died at the age of 87. He was honoured by his community, and remembered in the many messages of condolence and obituaries. He had made the most of his days. He lived in dignity.

The Pava Street Synagogue was redeveloped and turned into a Holocaust Memorial Centre. Its impressive exhibition tracing the story of the Hungarian Holocaust is closed for the present. The congregation meets in one of the small side rooms, it is still active.