Marion Merrick’s books are the only first-hand account written by a westerner of what it was like to live and work in communist Hungary, and then in the aftermath of the 1989 change of regime.
Now You See It, Now You Don’t and House of Cards have been included as part of the Open Society Archive dedicated to this period in the CEU. You can read a serialisation of them here on Xpatloop. You can also buy the dual-volume book on Kindle as well as in Stanfords London.
Book Two, Chapter 6
Part 5 – Bureaucratic gift; visit to Virginia
One morning I had returned from taking Hannah to the nursery: these were her last weeks there before she joined John at primary school. The telephone was ringing as I opened the front door.
An officious voice announced itself as representing the customs offices. ‘Are you the owners of a green VW Golf car, registration number EGH 541?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. That at least had been its number before they had confiscated it.
‘Then why have you not been to collect your new number plate? We can’t keep it here indefinitely.’
I was dumbfounded. We had not paid the 120,000 forints they had wanted, and were still both unwilling and unable to do so. I hesitated, not wanting to remind the woman of this fact.
‘Er…’
‘It’s been here for months. Do you want it or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then can you come today? The new plates are here and must be collected within one week.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I stammered, still wondering if money would be demanded when we went to collect the number plates. The woman went on to supply the address of the relevant customs office and the hours during which we might go.
‘I’ll go today,’ said Paul. ‘Before they have time to realise their mistake and change their minds. It’s incredible really – I wonder whether they’ve just given up waiting for the money, or if they’re just so hopelessly disorganised that they don’t realise we were supposed to pay.’
We agreed that the latter scenario was by far the more probable. Thus, later that day, as I walked with John towards the nursery school where Hannah would be finishing her lunch, we were overtaken by Paul driving the car, now bearing its new registration number.
In celebration of the fact, we decided to drive out to Dabas at the weekend and see Virginia. I sent a telegram suggesting we go on Saturday.
The road to Dabas. Courtsey Fortepan/ FŐMTERV
It was almost an hour’s drive to Dabas, an ugly, bumpy journey through the less scenic areas of southern Budapest, a conglomeration of derelict factories, disused workers’ hostels, pot-holed cobbled streets and belching chimneys. While certain parts of the city had westernised themselves, softening their excesses of grey concrete with newly-planted trees or small parks, there remained the starkly ‘socialist’ districts which had so far defied the predictions that Hungary should by now be more akin to Austria. The old street names here remained: Abattoir Street and Iron Road, Industry Street and Boiler Room Road.
Street signs bearing the names of now politically incorrect figures such as Marx or Lenin had been swiftly removed along with the red stars that graced every public building, immediately after the changes in 1989. In many places the red star was replaced by the new Hungarian coat of arms bearing the crown. We observed this in the Music Academy where we went regularly, and where the place of the star near the organ pipes was soon taken by St. Stephen’s crown.
Some street names, though less obviously likely to give offence – such as People’s Republic Avenue, Liberation Square or Outstanding Worker’s Bridge – still smacked strongly of an era many were keen to disown, and their original pre-war names were also restored.
New maps were printed with a double index of new and old names – many of which had commemorated comrades no-one had seemingly heard of, and of whose heroic deeds they had been unaware. Some of the older generation had stubbornly refused to use the communist names for the better-known landmarks such as November Seventh Square, or Engels Square, persisting instead in their use of Oktogon and Erzsébet tér.
It was simple for them then to adapt to the post 1989 changes. Younger people, however, continued to look askance as the new names were used, and in their turn they continued to use the old socialist ones with which they had grown up.
As we left behind the borders of this industrialised quarter of the city, the fume-belching lorries crashing along the pitted cobbles, we entered a wooded road that led through several villages before eventually reaching the small town of Dabas. We noted that a new development had taken place though in the interval during which we had been making the journey by train: dotted at intervals along the roadside stood scantily-clad girls in lay-bys, bus stops or just close to the trees, waving to passing vehicles.
‘Oh yes,’ laughed Feri, when I mentioned it to him a few days later. ‘I stopped the first time. I thought that her car had broken down or something, or that she wanted help!’
Évi, Feri and Robi had just moved from their run-down, rented accommodation in Lövölde tér. After being made redundant from the Hungarian steelworks they had been lucky enough to find jobs with a German company which made dolls. Feri was taken on in the workshop where the dolls themselves were made, while Évi worked in her capacity as a seamstress, making their clothes. They earned well and had been able to save enough to buy their first home in Budapest.
Their new flat was in one of several barracks that originally housed the Russian officers stationed here. After the last soldiers left Hungary in June 1991, the barracks were totally transformed into modern blocks of flats. Though small, their sunny home was in the middle of peaceful, wooded parkland, away from the pollution and noise of the city. In addition to their satisfaction and happiness over buying their flat was the relief that they had been granted Hungarian citizenship.
*
This was our first visit to the new parsonage in Dabas, in the same street as the old one – though this road name had also been changed. It stood in a large area of grass that was beginning to brown with the onset of summer, freshly painted, clean, bright and modern. Spindly saplings had already been planted, and a small pond lay halfway to the front door, a solitary feature in this as yet characterless plot.
‘Welcome to our new home!’ said Virginia carrying János, as she emerged to greet us. ‘How are you all?’
We followed her inside while Flora and Charlotte led John and Hannah to examine the pond. The house was huge, and Virginia had now managed to find room for most of her books and belongings that had spent the last years in boxes in the old congregation room. The kitchen did indeed have a dishwasher and there was not a dark nor dusty corner anywhere which might conceal a spider – something of which Virginia had a real dread.
‘József will be back later,’ Virginia said. ‘He’s got a wedding on this afternoon and then there’s the confirmation class.’ Then looking out of the window to reassure herself that the children were not coming into too close proximity with the pond water she said, ‘Let’s go outside. I’ll put János in the buggy, he’s sleepy and Flora can keep an eye on him.’
The children were standing on the small bridge which József had made of silver birch over the pond, looking in vain for the fish that purported to be there, while their dog, Guszti, drooled saliva into the water beside them.
‘Anyone bought the old house yet?’ Paul inquired, glancing across the piece of wasteland separating us from it.
Virginia shook her head. ‘We haven’t completely emptied it yet,’ she answered.
‘Could we go and have a look at it again?’ Paul asked. ‘It could be the last time we can see it if you do manage to sell it.’
We walked over the nettles and the hot, prickly grass, past the deep wells Virginia had always worried that the children might fall down, and over to the old rectory. The long crack we had observed widen over time under the window ledge of the congregation room was now also clearly visible from the outside – a jagged crevice that revealed the wattle beneath the crumbling plaster. The wooden terrace was littered with dead leaves, and caterpillars crawled on the wall close to the dark ivy.
‘You can go in,’ said Virginia, noting Paul’s slight hesitation. ‘It’s not going to fall down just yet!’
Dusty sunlight was diffused through the small, grubby windows which still bore child-size palm prints, and onto the bare wooden floors.
A few torn posters had been left on the powdery limed walls; the battered old pram which Virginia had been given by one of their parishioners now contained discarded dolls, while a spider had woven an impressive web across the mouth of its hood.
Our footsteps echoed in the cool silence of the dark house as we walked to the kitchen: the gas cylinder still stood on the cracked stone floor next to the wrought-iron stove; the kitchen dressers, though denuded of their odd assortment of ill-matching crockery, gave the illusion that this room at least was still in use, that this original heart of life in the house still functioned as before.
The green net curtain that Virginia had put over the back door to keep out flies and mosquitoes during summer months when the door was left open, hung there limply still.
Yes, I mused to myself, it was easy for us to be nostalgic about this gloomy yet characterful house, but we had never had to live in it.
This post was originally published on here
