Rebel with a Cause. The amazing true stories of an urban partisan in WWII

Prologue

The one who doesn’t remember the dark days of his life, doesn’t deserve the sunshine.

Los Angeles, Summer 2009

I haven’t written down my story for sixty-six years - and people wonder why.

My real story is the amazing tale of a partisan in the Jewish underground in Budapest, fighting the Nazi occupation not only with guns and physical force, but mainly by means of sophisticated forgery and brainpower.

On a few occasions, I have spoken about my life during World War II. One time was when I was awarded The Golden Cross, the highest decoration of my native country, Hungary, in January 1997. Previously, this award had been given to Queen Elizabeth II of England and to the former German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt. During the ceremony held at the Academy of Science in Budapest, when I talked about my activities that saved the lives of tens of thousands of Jews in Hungary during World War II, I felt that I was not only representing myself, but also hundreds of young Jews – some of whom are still among us, while others have passed on – who were partners to one of the most daring enterprises of Jewish resistance against the German Nazis and their collaborators.

The highest reward I received, the Golden Cross of Hungary.

In the sixty-six years that have gone by since those days in the 1940s, I never regarded myself as a hero, although many people have tried to consider me just that. I have always remembered my friends, my partners in the underground, and even though I do not recall all of them, they are precious to me, as if they were the brothers I never had.

Many have asked me, and some still do, Why have you never told your personal story? I used to explain, because I did not want to remember and to be remembered.

It is not that I want to forget the Holocaust. I know that as a Jew I must remember, and not forget. I think it’s important to remember. Every year I take part in the ceremony on Holocaust Remembrance Day in Los Angeles. I was instrumental in the erection of the monument in memory of the Holocaust in the center of Los Angeles, and I’m proud of being Jewish. Only recently I had the honor to be appointed to the committee of the Holocaust Museum that will soon be completed in Los Angeles.

When people talk about the Shoah, the Holocaust in the broadest sense, I do remember, I remember well, and I take part, to the best of my ability, in perpetuating the memory of its innocent victims. Yet when I return to my own personal memories, the somewhat simplified term takes on the dimensions of a horror movie. All of the dead bodies. Lots of blood. The never-ending cries of those about to die. The lack of hope. The uncertainty. The Danube River red with blood… and then my heart breaks. Just as it did then when I was sixty-six years younger. Tears run down my face, and I am unable to stop them. My pain and the force of my anguish are just too great.

I haven’t put my story on paper for the past sixty-six years because I wasn’t ready to remember the terrible sights that will never be erased from my memory. Burned into my brain is the vision of an endless lines of Jews, miserable Jews, chained to each other, on the banks of the Danube, and facing its icy waters in Hungary’s cold December. Etched into my thoughts are the line of men in uniforms, fascists – Hungarians Fascists or German Nazis, it doesn’t matter which – shooting them in the back. Volleys of shots shattering the rows of people… and the bodies fall, dragging each other down, dead, dying or still alive, into the waters of the river, which once flowed through the most cultured city in Eastern Europe… They didn’t even shoot them all! Killing a few did the trick.

I haven’t written down my story for sixty-six years because I did not want to recall the blood-curdling screams of women and men, grown-ups and youngsters, the old and the children, their bodies covered in blood, as they hit the ice floes, helplessly sinking between them, swirling around in the vast mass grave which the river had become.

I haven’t put my story into writing for sixty-six years because I did not want to deal with the question that has been troubling my mind ever since: Why did they go to their death like sheep to the slaughter? Why didn’t they stand up and shout ‘Let me die with the Philistines!’ (Judges 16:30)? Why didn’t they attack the guards whose numbers were small, try to tear the murderers apart with their bare hands, even if it would have cost them their own lives? Why wasn’t the Shoah more of a battle?

I haven’t written down my story for sixty-six years because I did not want to remember the loud knock banging on my door at three o’clock in the morning, a noise that would have made anyone fall off their bed, no matter how fast they had been sleeping. I did not wish to relive the terrible fear I felt when I realized that I had been trapped, been caught, and that my fate could only be one: subjection to unspeakable torture at the end of which I would join the dead bodies floating in the Danube every day, to be carried along by the river’s current, only to be washed up some where else, thus spreading death far beyond the city’s boundaries.

I haven’t put my story on paper for sixty-six years because I did not want to remember the days when the threat of death was a constant companion, when the life of a Jew was forfeit, worthless, as Adolf Eichmann, may his name and memory be obliterated, tried, with speed and enthusiasm, to carry out the final solution for the Jews of one of the greatest Jewish communities that ever existed in civilized Europe.

I haven’t recorded my story in writing for sixty-six years because I had no desire to recall that hurried day when, while rejoicing in having escaped the Nazis, I was picked up by a large group of Russian soldiers who tried to force me, at gunpoint, towards an unknown destiny in Siberia’s forced labor camps, the Gulags.

I haven’t put my story on paper for sixty-six years because there is great shame in my heart on behalf of my native country, home to writers such as Ferenc Molnár, to luminaries of classical music such as Kodaly or Bartok, to famous painters, to the Hatam Sofer as well as to the greatest rabbis and interpreters of Jewish law in recent generations… the land of goulash, of langos and of paprika chicken with nokedly – a country that became drenched in the blood of its Jews. From the moment Hungary fell into the hands of the Nazis and the fascists, the lives of 564,000 Hungarian Jews were bound to be wiped out within a very short period of time, murdered by the Germans at the Auschwitz extermination camp, or in any of the other dozens of concentration camps and forced labor camps that dotted the landscape of Europe during that period.

For many years, I have felt shame for my city and my country; yet I have visited Hungary dozens of times since I left my city, after the clouds of World War II had parted. Why? I have been asked quite a few times.

Indeed, why should I remain loyal to a place that took away my rights, one by one? I have no answer for that question. It is probably the deep psychological connection a man has to his native land.

My visits to Hungary became distinctly sweeter in the wake of glasnost when Hungary became a democratic, independent state. With the fall of the iron curtain, I had the privilege of seeing doors opened by my native country. Now I was welcome to arrange business contacts in the United States and draw the Hungarian economy to the free world. Even today, I am active in bringing medical students from the United States to study in Budapest.

Today after sixty-six years, I no longer dare to buy a green banana because who knows if I will still be able to eat it by the time it is ripe and yellow. From the twilight of my years, at peace with the knowledge that I will soon leave this world, I feel called to remember for the last time. This time I’m also called upon to put everything into writing so that future generations will truly never forget.

These memories are painful, the visions tormenting: the faces of friends, family members, neighbors come back to me, not having grown older after their death all of those years ago... while I am an adolescent trying to survive in an insane world in which untimely death constituted the only certainty.

* * * *

Chapter 1: Return to Budapest

Budapest, Summer 2010

In the heat of July, I returned to Budapest. This time, I was not on a business trip. At age 87, I decided to return, for the first time, to the places I had not dared approach on my previous visits, the ones that contained my childhood and adolescence in the city. I gathered my courage and set out to pursue very old memories, before they were lost forever.

Budapest is Budapest. After Hungary recovered from the Communist dictatorship, Budapest has returned, in my eyes, to being the beautiful city in which I was born, and where I lived as a child and a carefree young man. Despite the ugly scratches that the Soviets left behind, in the form of characterless residential blocks, it remains the world’s museum, in the words of one of the city’s greatest admirers, my good friend Dr. János Szirmai. I enjoy referring to Budapest as the Paris of Eastern Europe. There are few places in the world where I feel the special, romantic atmosphere of the good times in old Europe.

When the taxi from the airport approaches the Danube, I can easily imagine, as I did in my childhood, that in another moment, a horse-drawn carriage will stop and two princes will get out to stroll along the banks of the magnificent river. The boulevards and carriages, gardens, statues and varied architecture all around remind me how rich the Budapest’s past truly is. The landscape of my childhood resembles a folktale, full of palaces, castles, bastions, basilicas, museums and theatres. Andrássy Avenue was, and remains, my Champs-Élysées.

I scheduled my arrival in Budapest for a weekend. In this metropolis of two million people, the drive from the airport to a hotel in the city’s center can take an hour on a weekday, and I wanted to save myself the aggravation of workday traffic jams.

However, my plan was unsuccessful. The route to the hotel was not merely congested, traffic was at a complete standstill. I was welcomed not by ordinary traffic, but rather by a demonstration that blocked the main thoroughfares of the city. It was like a slap in the face; this was not the reception I expected from my beloved city. The first hour that I returned to Budapest, I received a rude reminder of the forces that caused me to flee more than sixty years ago, and which I fight today.

From the radio in the taxi, I learned why the roads were blocked. The extreme right-wing party, Jobbik (popularly known as the Hungarian National Frontline), which has raised its head again in recent years, had taken to the streets. It recently won, for the first time, several seats in the Hungarian Parliament. Its primary message is that conservative, nationalist Christians must safeguard the values and interests of Hungary. Fascism and anti-Semitism are concealed behind the pretty phrases. They regularly incite against the gypsies and Jews who are taking control of Hungary. The party has a private militia, inspired by the Arrow Cross, the extremist party that controlled Hungary during the last years of the World War II, and was responsible for the murder of tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews. Although the militia was outlawed two years ago, its members act freely, and do not fear marching down the street displaying Nazi symbols, just as I saw them when I arrived, blocking my route into Budapest.

In the coming days, I asked my Hungarian friends how this could happen despite the legislation passed in 1996 stating, A person who distributes, publicly uses or exhibits in public a swastika, the SS sign, an arrow-cross, hammer and sickle, a five-pointed red star or a symbol including the above, commits a misdemeanor, which is punishable with fine.

Anti-Semitism was present during my childhood and adolescence, but I paid no attention and did not understand. Perhaps, I didn’t want to see it. One of the few incidents I do remember was during a childhood visit to the town of Balassagyarmat in centeral Hungary, where my grandparents lived. Apparently I did something that angered a non-Jewish butcher, and he tried to shove a piece of pork sausage into my mouth. Even though I was not an orthodox Jewish child, I had never tasted pork. Only a little entered my mouth, but I immediately spit it out, directly into the butcher’s face. He was furious but I succeeded in escaping. That entire summer, he pursued me and promised to crush my bones. Only when my summer vacation in the village ended did I breathe a sigh of relief. Yet, when I returned home to Budapest I erased this incident from my memory.

As the first decade of the 21st century draws to a close, anti-Semitism raises its head in Hungary, publicly and without hesitation. It cannot be ignored. Just before Rosh Hashanah 2008, the fascist militia attacked the Budapest Jewish Theater in Siraly, the city’s trendy cultural center in the area of the former Jewish ghetto. In what appeared to be a choreographed attack, the perpetrators squirted acid from a water pistol and spilled a bucket of pig feces over the audience. The attack, during the premiere of a new play, marked the first open, physical attack against Jews since the country’s transition to democracy in 1989.

Several months later, it was revealed that the Hungarian-German connection, which led to the largest tragedy experienced by Hungary in the modern age, had been renewed at a joint training camp used by German and Hungarian neo-Nazis in the village of Bony, in northern Hungary. The camp rules were posted on the bulletin board of the improvised training base. The first one was, No entrance to homosexuals, Jews and Gypsies. The training program included shooting and combat exercises.

Precisely during my visit to Hungary, the ancient Jewish cemetery in the old city of Kaposvár was desecrated. Since late 2009, neo-Nazis have desecrated the cemetery four times! The slogans sprayed on the graves left no room to doubt the identity of the desecrators. They included calls to kill Jews and swastikas. These were not the only incidents to reach my ears.

In the coming days, to my sorrow, I learned that some Jews in Hungary still prefer to turn a blind eye, just as they did in the past. They consoled themselves with, It is only a few thousand fanatics, no more. Coming from the outside, I find myself preaching to them, this string of incidents should ring alarm bells in the Hungarian Jewish community.

How sad it is to discover that the roots of anti-Semitic thought still exist in the Hungarian soul. There are those who say that since the World War II, the old Europe no longer exists, that a new chronology has begun. I do not believe this! Is it possible that Hungary has still not examined its actions?! Today, when economic development has halted, new anti-Semitic shoots are sprouting from deep roots.

Fortunately, my friend Dr. Szirmai told me with bitter irony, We are only the neo-Nazi’s number two enemy. Jobbik’s primary enemies are the hundreds of thousands of gypsies who live in Hungary. They have difficulty integrating into the society and are responsible for a significant amount of the crime in the country. Jobbik is demanding that drastic measures be taken against them.

Even if Jobbik were nothing more than a nuisance to weekend traffic in Budapest, the real danger is that the ruling party, Fidesz, might be infected with this plague. János explained that several of the party’s members have not hesitated, in the past, to take extreme positions against the Jews. It is impossible to deny that anti-Semitism still exists in Hungary.

The panoramic view from the balcony of my hotel room – the immortal treasures of my childhood landscape, the Danube, the powerful Széchenyi Chain Bridge, the amazing beauty of Buda Castle – might have tempted me to forgive and forget. But not this time.

It seems that some things have not changed in the sixty-five years since the Nazis were defeated and driven out of Budapest.

* * * *

Chapter 2: Almost Equal under the Jewish Laws

Hungary, the1920s and 30s

The first signs of what the future was about to bring were not apparent to me when I was a child.

I was born on a cold day, March 5, 1923: Steinberger Endre (according to the custom in Hungary: family name, first; given name, second), the only son of Sari and Andor. Before the war, I attended high school on Dob Street, and had already picked my life’s vocation. I wanted to be a teacher. I chose this profession because I loved to talk and I wanted to educate others.

I had been a chatterbox since early childhood. I was always a short kid whose main weapon was speech. Talking built my self-confidence. I could talk about almost anything at hand, never stopped talking, and was sort of a know-it-all. I quickly understood the power of words: conquering, changing minds, convincing, manipulating, attracting the attention of girls, and coming out the winner in verbal duels with boys who were larger and stronger than I.

Who knew that in only a few years, talking would save my life more than once?

In the afternoon hours, I learned to play the violin, as was