Previous Post
Next Post

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.

And then,
later on,
as a grown up,
I had the chance
to stay in Budapest
not for long,
but more than just for a moment.

And though

I love
the language
and the look
of the streets,
and I loved to eat,
once again,
the food,
my mother had cooked
long years ago,
and though
I felt
the warmth
of the people
who had welcomed me,


I had to realize
this is not my home
and never has been.