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 6 – End of an era
‘You must feel so much better living in the new parsonage,’ I said, now verbalising my thoughts. Virginia did not answer. ‘I mean, it’s so dark in here, it feels so much more optimistic in the new house.’
When Virginia again made no response I glanced up and saw her eyes were full of tears.
‘I don’t know if I can stay,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Things have just been getting worse and worse with József,’ she said. ‘I’ve really been wondering if I can stand it much longer. It’s terrible, divorce is an awful thing, but I can’t stand it.’
‘But what’s the problem?’ I asked again.
Virginia sat down at the kitchen table and rested her arms on the flowery, plastic tablecloth. ‘Well, you’ve seen a few things, you’ve seen how critical he is of me. He just seems to do nothing but criticise, to undermine me. If I tell Flora to clear up her room, he tells her to go and play and accuses me of being cruel to the children.
You remember when she used to cry all night? He said I was a bad mother to think of leaving her, but I was just so tired. It’s probably my fault, József has so much energy, he’s up at four and works all day without ever complaining.
He says I’m a spoilt American, that we Americans have ‘artificial’ problems because we don’t have any real ones like people do here where life is hard. When I complained that we didn’t have a phone or a video recorder he said that his family didn’t even have electricity when he was a boy, and still he and his sister never felt deprived.’
‘But you’ve got those things now,’ said Paul.
‘Yes, it’s not about that any more,’ said Virginia. ‘Now it’s more about how I bring the children up, and the fact that he’s always finding fault with my parents, with me, with America, and then again with us as representatives of America.’
These were sentiments we too had heard expressed, not only by József, but by an increasing number of people who were beginning to feel that one kind of cultural domination – that of the Russians and communism – was swiftly, and what was more disturbing, unquestioningly – being replaced by another. Young people who had known nothing else accepted as perfectly natural the manifestations of a lifestyle considered ‘normal’ beyond Hungary’s western borders.
Those of our age were more ambivalent, increasingly aware of the price that must be paid both on an individual level and by society as a whole. And while some refused to admit to any undesirable side-effects of the change they had been awaiting for so many years, others were beginning to feel some uneasiness, and still others – like József – seemed now to demonise capitalism (and by definition America) with the same fervour with which they had once demonised communism.
‘But surely you’re not really considering leaving?’ Paul said. ‘Where would you go?’
‘I’ve written about it to my parents. They know how I feel – in fact we talked about it at Christmas when they were here. Of course they don’t like the idea of divorce either – you know that my father married us – but they’re also worried that József is getting worse.’ A short silence ensued.
‘I know it must be a shock, it must seem very sudden to you,’ Virginia continued, ‘but I could show you the diary I’ve been keeping ever since we got married and I came to live here. Of course it’s too long, but if you read it you’d see, you’d understand.’
We became aware of children’s voices outside, and went to see what they were doing. We found John gathering caterpillars and dropping them into dirty jam jars held by his three female helpers.
‘Where’s János?’ Virginia asked Flora.
‘Oh, he’s sleeping,’ came the nonchalant reply.
Leaving the three children at their work, we walked around the other side of the house, past the flaking paint of their former garage and past the spot where József had often cooked cauldrons of gulyás over an open fire. No-one spoke. We still felt dazed at Virginia’s revelations.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘did I tell you that Gyula-bácsi died?’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you remember? I’m sure I told you about him.’
I frowned.
‘The old aristocrat who lived in the shed out here at the back of the garden,’ Virginia explained. I nodded. ‘He died last month.’
I remembered now. On one of our very first visits to Dabas Virginia had laughingly told us that on the corner of the two roads where their house stood, several important representatives of society also lived: opposite had been the local Party Secretary who of course would not pass the time of day with a church person – following the changes the house had been taken over by the woman who organised noisy wedding parties; and out at the back of the parsonage’s land were some tumble-down buildings, probably used originally for keeping sheep or pigs, and it was here that Gyula-bácsi had come when his grand family home was seized after the war. He had subsequently turned to drink and lived in total seclusion in his unheated, unlighted hovel.
János was still asleep in the pushchair, so we wheeled him into the shade and left him there. We began to prepare some food for the children, and then heard József come through the front door.
‘Marion! Paul!’ he said enthusiastically, hugging us. I felt I could not look him in the eye, knowing what I now knew, but finding it difficult to accept at the same time.
‘So, what do you feel about the new government?’ József said. He had been asked by local people two years previously if he would stand as a candidate for the Hungarian Democratic Forum in Hungary’s second free elections. But he declined, not wanting to mix his political interests with Church affairs. The Forum had lost to the Socialists, led by a man who had been a leading figure in the pre-1989 communist government.
‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘it’s interesting that they won by such a huge majority. Maybe people aren’t so keen on capitalism now they’ve had a taste of it, or maybe they were feeling nostalgic? I think it’s too early to say if they’ll win again next time.’
‘And what’s the news from Budapest?’ József asked.
We related the saga of the garage. ‘The building is finished now, of course,’ concluded Paul. ‘And they got a huge Mercedes a few weeks ago, but of course they can’t get it in the garage, so the car stands outside on the road and their garage stands empty!’
This did not surprise József much. ‘Yes, that’s happening all over,’ he said. ‘Do such things go on in England?’
‘Not really,’ I replied.
‘But you don’t want to go back?’
We shook our heads and József smiled. He found great satisfaction in the fact that we had chosen to live in his native land, and had expressed this often to Virginia, who would have been happy to return to America and her family, even though she had adjusted so well to her new life, and spoke almost faultless Hungarian. It was undeniable, however, that the contrast between our life in Budapest and in England was far less dramatic than Virginia’s in Dabas and in California.
As we drove home later, with Hannah asleep in her seat and John clutching his jar of caterpillars, we discussed the likelihood of Virginia deciding to leave.
‘How on earth could she leave with the three children?’ asked Paul. ‘Where would she go?’
‘To her parents, I expect,’ I replied. ‘I’m quite sure they’d take her in.’
‘But surely József has rights to see the children – I mean, they were all born in Hungary. I wonder what nationality they are?’
Some days later in the middle of the morning Virginia rang me. ‘Where are you?’ I asked, surprised to hear her voice.
‘In Budapest,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just been to the American Embassy. József doesn’t know, but I’ve just applied for passports for the children.’
‘Are you really going, then?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. But I can’t even think of leaving if they don’t have passports. I’ve written to my parents, they think I should go. I still can’t decide, we’ve been married for twelve years, but I don’t think I can live like this much longer. József’s been saying I’m not balanced, that I refuse to adapt to life here, but he also refuses to come and live in America which he promised my father and me he would if I was unhappy here.’
‘Does he have any idea you’re thinking of leaving?’
‘Oh, yes – he’s told me I can go, but only if I leave the children behind. He doesn’t know what I’m doing today – it was almost impossible to organise, I’ve had to bring the children with me because we had to get passport photos done. I’ll have to hide them when I get back, or he’ll realise.’
Virginia hung up, promising to telephone or at least to send a telegram if she came to any decision. We were worried in case some dramatic turn in events occurred in the summer holiday while we were away in England, and that we would not know about it.
But in the event it was only a matter of a week before she rang again.
‘I can’t talk to you for long, I’m at a neighbour’s house. But I wanted to tell you – József found the passports. I think he must have guessed what I was planning because I’d hidden them, so he must have been searching for them. He took them away and said he’d never let the children leave. We rowed for days.
I contacted my parents and my father flew over the next day, he’s here now, and he seems to have persuaded József to let us go. He has promised him access to the children, and he’s made him see that they need me, and that it would be cruel to them if he made them stay here without me.’
‘When are you leaving?’ I asked, stunned that the probable had now become the inevitable.
‘On Saturday, the day after tomorrow. I won’t believe it until we’re in the plane.’
I couldn’t believe it at all.
‘I’m so sorry I won’t get a chance to see you before I leave.’ Virginia’s voice faltered. ‘Thank you so much for all your support over the years, and I know we’ll be back on holiday and for the children to see József. I know we’ll meet again and I’ll write to you.’
I echoed Virginia’s sentiments into the receiver and then passed it to Paul. He and Virginia had always been particularly close, and I knew he would miss her even more than I would.
‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’ asked John, coming into the sitting room as Paul replaced the receiver and we stood in stunned and vacant silence.
‘Virginia’s going back to live in America,’ I said quietly.
‘And Flora and Charlotte too?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Won’t we see them any more, then?’
‘Yes, we will. I hope so,’ I answered.
‘That’s all right, then,’ he said, giving me a smile. And he went back to play with his caterpillars.
This post was originally published on here
