On 12 August 1946 Fanni Gyarmati,
accompanied by Gyula Ortutay, Gábor Tolnai and Dezsö Baróti,
traveled to Györ to identify the body of her husband,
exhumated for the second time.
She plucked a cotton-thistle from the mass grave of Abda:
“I ripped a scotch from the pit that laid open in front of us.
I felt it to be a much more authentic grave of Miklós
than the future one in Budapest.”
All of the materials, texts and images,
I have copied from an excellent site dedicated to Radnóti Miklós.
When I was a kid,
my parents were a secret to me.
I loved them,
and they loved me.
(As if this would be that simple.)
One of the dearest things for my mother
was a facsimile of “the Bore notebook”
by the Hungarian poet Radnóti Miklós.
This little book fascinated me too,
though I don´t know
how much of it´s meaning I actually understood.
Bleak pages and real handwriting,
lines by a man long gone.
My mother tongue,
my native language,
Razglednica 4 / Postcard 4
I fell beside him and his corpse turned over,?
tight already as a snapping string.?
Shot in the neck. “And that’s how you’ll end too,”?
I whisper to myself; “lie still; no moving.?
Now patience flowers in death.” Then I could hear?
“Der springt noch auf,” above, and very near.?
Blood mixed with mud was drying on my ear.
Der springt noch auf/this one still will get up,
horrifying mixture of languages.
Man spricht Deutsch.
As a child,
though born in Germany,
I thought of myself as a Hungarian,
but this feeling dissolved
as I grew up.
as a grown up,
I had the chance
to stay in Budapest
not for long,
but more than just for a moment.
and the look
of the streets,
and I loved to eat,
my mother had cooked
long years ago,
of the people
who had welcomed me,
I had to realize
this is not my home
and never has been.