The happiest day of my mother’s life was July 1, 1942, when her first son, Péter, was born. She still enjoyed talking about that day, full of emotion and happiness, even in her old age.

Then came Tamáska, her second son, and in 1945, there was me, Marika. By then, dark clouds were gathering in the sky. The Soviet army marched into Subcarpathia with the cunning Stalinist intention of annexing our homeland—Subcarpathia, the most ancient territory of the thousand-year-old Hungary—to the great Russian empire.

Those who could, fled in every direction, but mostly to the mother country. Trucks were ready for our family too, but my grandparents viewed the Soviets’ arrival and actions as temporary.

They hoped they would leave in three or four months and be replaced by the British. (My grandparents, like the entire Horthy family, were quite “Anglophile”).

The worst-case scenario unfolded. In October 1944, the Soviet army marched into Subcarpathia.

Hungarian men—first those in leadership positions, then everyone who was Hungarian—were imprisoned, tortured, executed, or taken away to slave labor beyond the Arctic Circle.

“The noble-hearted” communists expected the family, the women and children, to perish without the support of the men! My grandfather was among the first to be deported.

Four years later, the same was done to my father, while we followed the events from a rented apartment. (From our last normal, humane dwelling, the bishop’s palace, we and every priestly family were cast onto the street in February, during the cold winter, when the Greek Catholic religion was banned under the “most democratic” Soviet laws. There were four of us siblings).

A happier turning point in our lives occurred when my father was released from the Gulag after seven years of imprisonment. He returned physically broken but spiritually intact. A year later, my youngest brother, Csaba, the family favorite, was born. Our poverty did not change, as my father struggled even to find physical labor. He often said that seeing his children starve was more painful than slave labor in the Gulag. His helplessness tormented him greatly. But at that time, not only Siberia was a concentration camp, but the entire vast empire, which was sealed off from the outside world by barbed wire charged with electricity.

I wonder if my mother was ever happy amidst all that childhood hell? Yes, when her children were born and when my father returned home. Despite her hard physical work, she constantly studied and cultivated herself. She could do nothing else; it was her necessity. In the Soviet komunalka (shared apartments), she suffered tremendously because of the slovenliness of the co-tenants. They were dirty. My mother woke up at dawn to clean the commonly used washroom and toilet so she could use them cleanly, and to clean the kitchen. The hygiene only lasted until the co-tenants stepped into the communal areas. Wet clothes (women’s knee-length underpants) hung on ropes stretched above the soup pots in the shared kitchen. I remember her often telling them off: if they don’t believe in God, they should at least make a vow to Lenin to strive for cleanliness! It was horrible to see the struggles her everyday life was filled with.

She read a lot; perhaps a desire to escape reality drove her… She knew tourism books by heart (she traveled the world in her mind) and opera guides. She solved puzzles instantly, no matter how difficult they were. She had one intellectual passion: books and the Füles puzzle magazine. She read everything, knew everything, and raised us to have high standards. She loved hiking and traveling (a desire that was less fulfilled); she was extremely grateful for every little trip or holiday. At that time, we couldn’t take her abroad; we had no passports or money. I would have loved to give her this, but by the time I could, she could no longer enjoy it.

After my father’s death, my mother managed to repatriate to Hungary, where she longed to be. She bought an apartment in Nyíregyháza, which she bequeathed to her youngest son, Csaba, born in the post-Gulag era. My mother was happy with her new home, but whenever she had the opportunity, she revisited the then-Ukrainian Subcarpathia, which had caused so much sorrow and hardship, because her husband, her mother-in-law, and many acquaintances were buried there.

In Nyíregyháza, someone visited my mother daily; my brother Jenci especially looked after her, as he also lives in that city. The grandchildren also went to see her often. She always welcomed them with some treat. She was happy surrounded by her family. She adored all her grandchildren but loved Gabika and András the most. “They have a similar nature,” she said. She came to me in Budapest less frequently, as Nyíregyháza had become her new home. We even furnished her apartment similarly to the one in Ungvár. I remember when we said goodbye at the station, she said: “I’ll only visit you in May, little girl, when the linden tree blooms, on your birthday.” I always accepted her decision; I never had to prove how much I loved her and that I was always waiting.

“So—May,” I said! But before March 10, my phone rang: “I’d like to come sooner, for Gabika’s birthday on April 1st! I can even be there on the fifteenth if you like!” she said. “We’re happy to have you!” I replied. Then, three days later, my brother Jenő’s sad voice brought me back to reality: “Mom is in the hospital, we don’t know why yet, she has a high fever…”

My daughter and I were preparing to go to Nyíregyháza, but a phone call stopped us: terrible news, our mother has died! I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing! So suddenly! I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her! She had always prayed to the good Lord that her dying wouldn’t be drawn out, so she wouldn’t be a burden to any of her children. Her wish was granted! Even then, she didn’t want to cause trouble or unpleasantness for anyone… I only remember my daughter and I embracing and sobbing loudly. I felt not only spiritual but also physical pain, as if something had been cut out of my body. This feeling was repeated in Nyíregyháza, at the farewell and the funeral. Perhaps it tormented me so much because I didn’t see her immediately before her death, I wasn’t by her side. I couldn’t tell her that we would be good, loving siblings, a loving family. We would stick together and try to give up the passions and sinful desires she always warned us against. We would help and protect each other, just as she did…

Perhaps at the station that day, I sensed it was the last time I would see her, which is why the memories resurfaced on the train and why I couldn’t take my eyes off her tearful gaze. When I travel that way, I still glance where she stood, modestly, radiating her love toward us. The background is the same, but I no longer see her kind face… I would give anything to hug her one more time and tell her: Mother, do not mourn your sons, your children, your grandchildren. We are well, and we do not forget! May God’s light illuminate your memory forever!

Mária Ortutay