Seeds and Roots: Olaszliska, Mesozombor and Forro

The Tokaj area of Hungary — what is called the “unterland” or “under land” because its people are poor and lower-class compared to the “oberlanders” in the south — is made up of many small towns and villages, and many of those town and village names appear on documents that are part of my Hungarian family tree. We couldn’t visit all of them, but we did drive to see the Memorial on the site of the old Olaszliska synagogue, where the Friedmans likely went to services. 

With one new wall and one remaining wall of the original synagogue and open to the sky, it commemorates the Hasidic rabbis and families who lived, worked and worshipped in the area until they were driven out by the Nazis in 1944.

The chief rabbi of the Liska Hasidic sect — also named Friedman — is buried in the Olaszliska cemetery, but Karesz said it wasn’t safe to go in there. Apparently, the Roma population in this part of Hungary is prone to violence, theft and other crimes, and we didn’t want to take the risk with our bodies, our belongings and a rental car. 

Instead, we drove to Forro, another small town where Aron’s wife, Betti Weisz Friedman, was raised, and where the two may have been married. We wanted to find out more about her and her family.

While on the road, we got a call from the clerk in Vamosujfalu, who was able to give us more information about the Friedman family. If you click on the photo to make it bigger, you can see Karesz’ notes about some of the family killed in Auschwitz.

The Town Hall in Forro

The city clerk looking at the old record books 

More good news: We found recorded evidence of Betti Weisz, her parents and her sisters, when they lived in Forro in the late 1800s.

Privacy laws prohibited us from making copies of the civil records, but being the rebel I am, I snuck a few photos anyway. While at the Town Hall, we asked about the Jewish cemetery. The clerk made a call to the local old age home. We waited on the phone while they finished singing a song. Then someone there told us the cemetery was gone. It had been built over with homes now inhabited by the Roma. We drove over to the area anyway, and carefully walked around, but there was nothing there to see but blue sky.

Still, I felt really good about the visit to Tokaj, all we saw, learned and felt there. On the way back, we stopped in the town of Encs where Karesz’ father is buried so he could pay his respects.

Later that evening, we celebrated our time together with another fine meal at a Michelin-recognized restaurant Anyukam Mondata in Encs. Appropriately, its name translates as “My Mother Said,” so I have to add that this whole adventure is a tribute to my mother Steffi, grandmother Frieda, great-grandmother Mollie and great-great-grandmother Betti. Now I really know where I come from.

To end the trip, we ate this delicious Pastry of the Day, which was actually potato dumplings with plums, another traditional and wonderful Hungarian dessert. Look for it in my kitchen someday soon.

Seeds and Roots: Digging into the past

Vamosujfalu is translated as the new village of the customs tax collector. “Vamos” refers to the tax collector, and “ujfalu” is a typical name added to many Hungarian towns.

The bridge in the distance is the place at which people crossed the road and paid their customs tax.

As I wrote yesterday, we found ourselves in this exact spot in our attempt to get into the Jewish cemetery in Vamosujfalu.

We tried on by the road, then walked around by the plowed field.

We knew there was something in there. We just had to find a way in.

Finally, after burrs, and thorns, leaves in our hair and mud on our shoes, we made our way through the trees where we found a few moss-covered headstones.

Many had fallen or were worn away.

Most we couldn’t read, although Karesz translated as much of the Hebrew that was still readable.

The I heard John call out, “I’ve found one that says Friedman.” 

Time seemed to stand still. John was no more than 15 feet to my left. I went over and looked.

There, literally among the roots of the largest tree in the woods, was my great-great grandfather, “Friedman Aron” written in lettering I could read, who had been there since 1896 without anyone to visit him, perhaps, since his wife and children moved to America 126 years ago.

His body had become one with the tree. Perhaps you could say it fed the tree, helped it grow. And in turn, the tree hugged its roots — my roots — around his gravestone.

Karesz read the Hebrew inscription and confirmed the name and death date. Not much else was readable, having been worn away or covered with moss. I will continue to try to read it in the photos. But today, now, I felt so much joy in the discovery. Karesz put on his kippah. We said Kaddish, which Mayor Lajos and John looked on. I hoped Aron heard us. I hope somehow his spirit could feel my return, could know that even though his family moved away, he has not been forgotten. His children have thrived. They have had children. And their children have had children. His legacy, his DNA, his lineage lives on.

Seeds and Roots: Finding Friedmans

The only great-grandparent I ever met was my Grandma Mollie, the mother of my mother’s mother. I don’t have many memories of her — her white hair always knotted into a bun, her “old lady” purse, a drawerful of rubber bands and plastic bags and wax paper in her kitchen, because you never know when you might need it. My mother has many stories and memories, because her Grandma Mollie often cared for her after school or when her parents were away from their home in Rockville Center, New York, where they all lived. Grandma Mollie left me a set of demitasse cups when she died. I still have them, somewhere, along with a note from her. 

My grandma, Frieda, was a world traveler but she never had the opportunity to return to Granda Mollie’s home town, Vamosujfalu, Hungary, which for a long time was behind the Iron Curtain. Mollie left there in 1897, when she was nine years old. I am the first to return.

I didn’t know what I would find, but Karesz gave me hope. He said the best place to start was in the Town Hall, where he would ask the clerk to look up some family records. Prior to our trip, I had shared our family tree with Karesz, and I already knew that Mollie had come to the US with her mother, née Betti Weisz, and several siblings after Betti’s husband, Aron, had died in an accident. Frieda had said something fell on his head. 

I also knew Mollie had siblings, all of whom had emigrated to New York, except the eldest. I didn’t know much about him and his family, also someone from the LDS Church had told me that several of his family — children and grandchildren — had did in the Holocaust.

First, we had to find the small town. I had printed a map from the Internet. Karesz had never been there, but knew the region, as his father had lived within an hour’s drive of there, along the Slovakian border.

When we saw the town sign, I felt something — not quite excitement, more disbelief?

Once in Vamosujfalu, we stopped a lady walking along the road to ask directions to the Town Hall. She said it would be closed.

When doing genealogy research, Karesz says never to call ahead because it’s easier for the person on the phone to say no, we can’t help you. We showed up. Karesz started telling the story to her, as she was standing outside at the end of her lunch break. She looked skeptical. He said we’d come all the way from America. She invited us inside.

He asked her to look up the names of some of the Friedmans to see if she could find any civil recordings of births or deaths. My great-grandfather, Aron, had died in 1896, the year prior to the family emigrating to the US. She said she would look. Karesz asked if there was a Jewish cemetery in town. She suggested we ask the Mayor Lajos Jadloczki.

The Mayor suggested we come into his office. Karesz told the story again, this time in great detail. The Mayor said the old cemetery was inaccessible. What does that mean, I asked? Can we go there anyway? There was more discussion. The Mayor looked for a report that may have mentioned Vamosujfalu residents who died in the Holocaust. The report was from WWI.

We talked for longer, and finally, the Mayor said, OK, I will take you to the cemetery. It is behind the “normal” (read Christian) cemetery. 

He told us to leave our rental car and get into the city van.

We drove through the town. He pointed out a war memorial. Few Jewish names. We drove past the normal cemetery, and spoke to two women standing there. The graves were immaculate. There were flowers growing everywhere. 

We continued down a dirt road and found this:

There were thick, spiky brambles, overgrown weeds, trees, a ditch of water on one side, plowed fields on two more sides. We walked around trying to see in.

Then we saw some headstones.

More to come…