So Long, Farewell

Today is our final day in Budapest before we head back to Charles de Gaulle and then onto LAX. Wow, it’s been an amazing and wonderful journey! I even want to add another exclamation point, even though I despise them!

Today’s stroll along the Danube took us by Orban’s House of Parliament. I tried to take a selfie with the facist guards, soldiers and police at the gate but they were having none of it.

Liberty Square boasts several monuments to people who died fighting for Hungarian Freedom over the Soviets and the Nazis.

This one is a tribute to victims of German occupation.

Below it, people posted tributes to Jewish victims — from 1944 and 2023.

But the day wasn’t all somber. We walked in the sunshine. We shopped for souvenirs. We saw a movie set in a park made to look like old Paris (Angelina Jolie is reportedly filming a biopic of Maria Callas here right now). In the evening, we heard a string concert in St Stephan’s Basilica, an appropriate and uplifting finale to our week in Budapest.

And, of course, our last Pastry of the Day had to be Dobostorte, a Hungarian sponge cake layered with chocolate buttercream and topped with caramel. 

And while we’re talking about things Hungary is famous for, I have to mention Harry Houdini, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Tony Curtis, Bela Lugosi, Bela Bartok, Zoltan Kodaly, Franz Liszt, Adrien Brody, George Soros and Erno Rubik, inventor of the Rubik’s Cube. Random, but kinda interesting.

Thanks for reading!

Budapest continued

The past two days, we’ve walked many miles on the streets of both Buda and Pest, and I have to say that this city still confounds me. It’s beautiful and ugly. It’s restored and falling apart. It’s cosmopolitan and very Eastern bloc still. The food is good, but you can’t find very much in the way of fresh cheese, meats, bread and vegetables in small markets, like you can in Vienna, Dijon and many of the other places we visited. The same odd mix was present in Shabbat services at Dohany, with old men davening and singing on one side of the synagogue, women with screaming children on the other side, and badly behaving American visitors interrupting the service. That was awkward.

Typical street in the downtown area

A courtyard near our hotel that has been converted into artist’s work spaces

Fresco no one seems to notice or care about

Lobby of the old Gellert Hotel, now Gellert Thermal Bath. Great experience BTW, but didn’t take photos in the pools. You can see some pix here tho.

Buda Castle with red leaves

Again, a beautiful but neglected building entryway

Interior of the restored Budapest Opera House

Opera House ceiling

Portraits of Hungarians who were detained, tortured and killed in this building under Communist rule. Now a museum called House of Terror, this building at 60 Andressy Street was the headquarters of the Arrow Cross starting in the 1930s. It was taken over by the Soviet Secret Police in 1945 and later by the Hungarian “state protection authority.”

Magyar statues in Heroes Square. Hungary is very proud of its warrior culture.

One of the many painted buildings along Andrassy Street

For those of you more into food than architecture, here are some Hungarian specialities

John tries langos, a deep-fried pastry, topped with cheese, sour cream and onion. Very rich and very tasty.

The best chicken paprikas I ever ate — maybe the best bite of the trip!

Lebanese/Syrian feast: fatoush salad, eggplant/yogurt dip, grilled meats… my fave.

Pastry of the Day: A gratis appetizer at ADAM Bistro made from the maitre d’s mother’s recipe — tiny biscuits, one with cabbage and the other with cheese. Mini deliciousness.

Alas, tomorrow is our final day in Budapest. Not sure what we will do — maybe a stroll along the Danube. In the evening, we have tickets to a Baroque music concert inside St Stephen’s Basilica. And, of course, a final pastry… check back for final thoughts, and stay safe out there.

Judapest

We’re back in the city now, and still so much to share. Will start with “Judapest” before moving on to non-Jewish Budapest. 

Long, long history of Jews here, dating back to when they were slaves for the Romans, who settled on the Buda side of the Danube in 14 BC. In fact, Buda was then called Aquincumbent, referring to the natural thermal baths here, and was the capital of the Roman region of Pannonia. Jews lived in Buda and in Pest throughout most of the city’s history, and at one time numbered in the hundreds of thousands. They also became well known in government, industry, performing arts, literature, etc.

For example, the founder of Israel Theodore Herzl was born here.

Karesz shows us all that remains of the wall that defined the Jewish ghetto in 1944. One of the most amazing stories he told us is that most of the 565,000 Hungarian Jews that were killed in the Holocaust were either murdered by Hungarian police or shipped to death camps in eight weeks in June-July 1944.

“And you shall tell your children…”

Because the Jewish community in Budapest was here for so long and was so prominent, prior to the 20th century, they built the largest synagogue in Europe. It’s stunningly beautiful, and still has an active, albeit small, congregation. It’s also open to tourists on weekdays.

Bimah at the front, women’s balconies upstairs, and pews like a church, it is a “Neo-log” church, which is pretty close to Orthodox, but a little more modern. I will try to attend Shabbat services, and if I do (unsure because of very high security precautions), I would not be able to sit with John.

Moorish tile designs on the ceiling

During the Holocaust, corpses were piled in the synagogue courtyard, and because many could not be identified were buried here in 12 mass graves under what was originally a reflecting pool.

A second smaller synagogue on the property is more Art Nouveau style. Also still in use, particularly in cooler months because there is no heat in the larger sanctuary.

Paper kippot for visitors.

A weeping willow in remembrance of Shoah victims. Names are inscribed on the leaves.

Also in the courtyard, a memorial to Righteous Gentiles who saved Jewish lives. Raoul Wallenberg features prominently.

No Jewish tour would be complete without eating. We had lunch at Dobrumba, an Israeli/Middle Eastern restaurant in the Jewish Quarter that Hannah recommended. Lunch was delicious, topped off by this dessert, which is serving as today’s Pastry of the Day.

Basboussa, a semolina cake soaked in orange blossom water, and topped with yogurt, slivered almonds and pomegranate seeds. Will I ever find a dessert I don’t like? Not so far…

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.