On Air Raids, the Advancement of the Soviet Red Army, and the Saving of American Soldiers....

It is with vivid detail that my father tells me how on April 3, 1944 he experienced his first air raids. It was 9:30pm and even with his lack of hearing, he could feel the tremendous blasts of the falling bombs and their explosions. The family hid for hours in a shelter and waited, unable to truly breathe, for the bombing to stop. During this time, no one was able to sleep well, schools held lessons erratically, and the streetcars ran on an intermittent schedule. By the middle of May, all of the schools had to close down due to the amount of air raids Budapest was experiencing and my father continued his studies on his own. He moved with his family from Budapest back to Pusztamonostor where it was still somewhat more quiet and safe. At this time my father was 15 years old.

He remembers watching with his sister as what seemed like hundreds of American aircraft bombers flew over their country home, and even in their idyllic, quiet village, the tremors could be felt with each falling bomb. At night they would go out and watch the skies light up as explosives landed and destroyed great portions of Budapest. The death and destruction lasted the entire summer of 1944. With hope and anticipation of some sort of liberation, my father's family would gather around the radio every evening listening to stations which had become forbidden for Hungarians to listen to....the BBC and the Voice of America. It was during those newscasts, that my family discovered with sinking hearts that the Soviet Red Army would be occupying Hungary.

At the end of August, my father, his sister and parents, along with their chauffeur packed their belongings into the car and headed for what they hoped would be a safer haven. They would be driving to Nyirbator to stay with their Uncle Joszi (Jozsef). While driving through Budapest, they had to abandon their car and seek shelter from a bomb raid which lasted for over 2 hours. When they exited the shelter they found that all of the windows of their car had blasted out from the explosions, however it still was able to start up and they went on their way. After four hours of driving and seeing military plans flying overheard, they arrived at their destination and had a somewhat peaceful night at Uncle Jozsi's house.

This feeling of peace was short lived, as the next morning the household was abruptly woken by the sounds of loud motors in very close proximity. They ran outside to find out that there was an air raid taking place in nearby Debrecen and the planes were flying right over the house. They watched as one plane was hit and exploded mid-air. Within seconds they noticed four parachutists fall towards the earth and land in Uncle Jozsi's cornfields. My father, his uncle and my grandfather ran to their car and raced towards the cornfields. Four American airmen lay stunned next to their parachutes and Uncle Joszi called out to them in English, "We are your friends and want to help you. Do not worry!". My grandfather then told them that the Germans would soon be combing the area looking for them and that they must act quickly in order to not be detected. The airmen buried their parachutes in the ground and then followed my grandfather's orders to dig a large hole in the cornfield that they would lie in and hide from the Germans.

On the way back to Uncle Joszi's country manor, they stopped on the highway, got out of their car and acted as if they were looking in the opposite direction in order to misdirect the German soldiers that they saw were already on their way searching for the American airmen. When the German soldiers came up to my father, he, his uncle and my grandfather all told them excitedly that they had seen a plane fall "over there" which was of course, opposite of where the plane actually crashed. The soldiers left and my father and family members went back to the house. Upon arrival, Uncle Jozsi went to the cellar and found four farm shirts and trousers and then they returned to the cornfield to find the Americans still hiding. They removed their uniforms and dressed in the workclothes which made them look like and pass as Hungarian peasants. Their uniforms were buried in the ground. Then, they were safely transported back to the manor where they would be able to hide in the attic until they could be safely transported out of Hungary.

I will forever be touched and so proud of the selfless acts my father and his family partook in. The lives they saved....it is humbling. They did this for no other reason than that they were kindhearted, and had a sense of civic duty that was innate. Truly noble. Heaven has a special place for people like this.

Saved from the Horrors of Nazi Germany....

In 1942, the Makays grew tired of splitting their time between Cegled and Budapest and made the decision to stay in Budapest full-time. My father enrolled in the exclusive and very strict Budapest Benedictine school to continue his studies, and in the evenings the family would gather to listen to the BBC's radio reports to keep abreast of what was happening. In early March of 1944 the Makays were feeling optimistic enough to celebrate my father's 15th birthday a month early. They rented a box at the National Theater and watched a play alongside other dignitaries. That would be my father's first official public appearance.

The family continued to live with as much of a semblance of normalcy as possible, and were grateful that at that time, Hungary was relatively quiet compared to other neighboring nations. Sadly, not long after my father's birthday celebration, everything took a turn for the worst. On Sunday, March 19,1944 Germany invaded and occupied Hungary. The Prime Minister at the time, Miklos Kallay, escaped in the early morning hours and sought asylum at the Turkish Embassy. While this was all happening, my father was attending mass at his school's chapel, and once mass was over he and his classmates were greeted with the shocking news that the Germans and Gestapo had arrived in their city.

When my father got home, he found his parents devastated, and his uncle, Kamillo, shaken at the news that his friends had been arrested by the Gestapo. The family's somber mood only grew as they discovered the very next day that Edmund Veesenmayer, who was Hitler's personal representative and Gauleiter had arrived in Budapest accompanied by General Winkelman the Gestapo Chief. All Hungarian Jews were then ordered to wear a yellow Star of David and register themselves with the new Nazi government. The populace went into a panic.

My grandfather started taking meetings with several of his Jewish friends who came to him for help. The Makays had to be very cautious about who was seen entering their home or calling them as they suspected their phones of being bugged. Although he knew he would be risking his life as well as that of his own family, my grandfather made the decision to do whatever he could to save the people who had come to him for help. He had the family's loyal butler drive six Jewish families and their belongings to a remote hunting lodge in the mountains that the Makays owned. Once the families were settled in the lodge, my grandfather warned them to make sure all windows and doors remain closed at night so that no light would escape and draw attention. He promised to return the next day with news and more provisions.

When the next day arrived, the Makays not only came back to the hunting lodge with whatever they could to make the families feel comfortable, but they also brought along one more family. As they were getting ready to leave for the lodge earlier, a young Jewish boy arrived at their residence on his bike pleading for my grandfather to save his family. So, once again, the butler drove his truck to pick up the boy's family in a town called Nagykata and took them up to the join the other six families. This made for close quarters with 35 men, women and children in a four bedroom dwelling. Extra beds were brought in, sheets were hung up to create separate rooms, two outdoor toilets were built to accommodate the extra occupants, and my father attempted to occupy the kids by playing with them.

My grandfather had the difficult task of telling all of the families that now Hungary was completely under Nazi occupation. He had to ask them not to use the fireplace or wood stove for fear that smoke would escape the chimneys and attract the attention of German planes or surveillance patrols. Instead of cooking for themselves, my grandfather told the families that he would have his chef prepare them their daily meals which would be delivered by either the butler or my father. They would be given a petrol heater to keep warm and the children would have to play indoors and quietly. He offered them what little hope he knew of himself...that the Anglo-American forces as well as the Soviet Red Army were both advancing and that soon they would be liberated from German rule. He warned them that should they hear any suspicious sounds coming from outside the lodge that they should all immediately leave the building and run into the woods in different directions and find cover. Seven families to run in seven different directions....always on alert, always fearing the worst.

My grandfather kept true to his word, and the families were fed daily by his chefs. They did not have access to kosher foods, but he provided them the cleanest foods possible and made sure the children had plenty of milk and fruit. The butler made it a point to take different modes of transportation, horse and buggy or motorbike, and varied his routes daily on his trips to deliver food to the families in order to avoid raising suspicion from the Germans who had declared martial law which stated that violators were to be promptly executed.

The seven Jewish families lived in my family's hunting lodge from March 23, 1944 until March 2, 1945 for a total of 344 days. While they lived there in hiding, the Makays bore witness in horror to so many other Jewish families being taken to Germany or to forced labor camps in and around Hungary, and feared themselves that somehow it would be discovered that they were hiding those seven families. Luckily, the families remained undetected and safe, yet sadly, this would not be the end of the nightmare that Europe was enduring.

Of Family, Altruism, and a Crumbling Europe

Not long after my father lost his hearing, the Makay family was subjected to more changes, more turmoil, more life events than they could not have imagined would happen in a lifetime, much less in such rapid succession.

In the Spring of 1939, after nearby Czechoslovakia was occupied by Hitler and split into the Czech Republic and Slovakia, Hungary was able to re-establish a Polish-Hungarian border. Since one of the Makay family relatives was Istvan (Stefan) Bathory, one of the most beloved Kings of Poland, my grandfather was elated and went to celebrate this victory with the Polish Generals. Sadly, this celebration was to be short lived. On September 1, 1939 war broke out between Germany and Poland, and while the Polish Army fought valiantly, they could not overcome the new German Wermacht. Germany's tactical Blitzkrieg broke up the Polish resistance and Poland was split between Germany and Russia. At this point, thousands of Polish refugees poured into Hungary and Romania. My grandfather and great-uncles rushed to the Polish border to help as many of the refugees as they could.

My grandfather was able to offer sanctuary to three Polish colonels and their families. He had them move into the elegantly appointed apartments that had been vacated by the Austrian diplomats who had left Hungary to find refuge of their own in Canada, as they were anti-Nazi. The Austrian Embassy was closed down and the feeling of impending doom was becoming more and more palpable. My father, his family, and all of Hungary were caught between two vicious, totalitarian forces, Germany and the Soviet Union.

During this time, my father, who was 10 years old, befriended the Polish colonels' children, as they spoke some French and my father was fluent in the language. He played with them and tried to make them feel as comfortable as a young child is capable of. His mother invited them all in to their home for dinner, and my father remembers all of the wives crying, brokenhearted at having to leave their homes, and possessions behind with no knowledge of if they would ever be able to return. On Sundays, the Makays took these families to Church with them and on outings to the Zoo, the Royal Palace, and Cegled. When Christmas came around, all of the families were invited to spend the holidays with the Makays at Keszthely, and while the children tried to make the best of it, my father remembers the atmosphere being rather somber as the parents were all too wise as to what was brewing on the political front as well as melancholy about holidays past in a home country they were not able to return to. New Year's Eve was just as dismal with the women worrying about their childrens' futures and the men trying to analyze the political situation and what it would mean for all of them.

After the holidays, the families returned to Cegled and the children went back to their studies. Besides learning their lessons, my father and his sister were also taught protocol and etiquette. On Sundays, they continued to visit the Polish colonels' families and play with the children, until my grandfather was able to secure safe passage for the Polish families to Ankara, Turkey with help of a high powered Turkish attache. Life was made to be as normal as it could be under the circumstances, even though my father remembers that more and more government VIPs were coming in to consult with his father from Budapest and both my father and his sister were instructed to keep quiet about who was visiting. The months to follow would see Europe broken and faltering further and further with the passing of each day, and the Makays would find themselves saving more families from certain death.

Keszthely....

While I continue to go through the small mountain of handwritten journals that my father has given me to peruse and write about, I wanted to take a moment to post some photos of one of my father's childhood homes, Keszthely. This was one of the largest, and most beloved homes of my father and his sister. With acres of park-like grounds, an impressive library, and what seemed like miles of banisters just waiting to be slid down, it is no wonder that my father genuinely enjoyed his times there.

Keszthely is also the only family home that is still standing. The other Makay estates were reduced to rubble by the invading Communist military, or abandoned and left to decay. While several other former Communist countries have graciously given their former royals, nobles and aristocrats their properties back, or at least significant monetary compensation for all that was confiscated from them, the Hungarian government has never done so. My aunt, Eva, spent many years and much money working with attorneys in Budapest in an attempt to regain what was taken from our family, yet nothing ever came of it. Sadly, Eva passed away in her home in Toulouse, France this past year, and our family has given up all hopes to ever regain our properties. Keszthely is currently a museum and its grounds are a public park.

These pictures show a partial exterior of the the home, the library, a sitting room, one of the staircases, another angle of the library, a partial view of the grounds, and the entrance gate. These are the only images that our family has left of this home, but it is enough to see how grandiose and beautiful it was, and still is. You can imagine what it was like for me as a little girl seeing these pictures. I remember fantasizing about what it would be like to prance and twirl in those rooms in gowns opulent enough to put Disney Princesses to shame. Every little girl dreams of being a princess, and there I was with that reality so close yet so very far away. However, what mattered most is that I was my father's little Princess....and still am.

How the World Went Silent Overnight....

As if living with the fear that life as they knew it would soon be over was not enough, on Christmas Eve of 1938 my father and his family were dealt a tremendous, personal blow.

It all started off innocently enough...the Makay family had gathered at their home in Pusztamonostor for the holidays. My father was 9 years old. It was December 24th and they were enjoying a family dinner while the children excitedly anticipated the arrival of their gifts from Little Jesus. After dinner they were led by their butler to the green salon as the custom in Hungary was that the children were not allowed to view the Christmas tree until later in the evening, and the tree was holding state in the red salon. At 7:30 that evening, a handbell was rung and the children were allowed to enter the red salon and were greeted by a beautifully, candle-lit Christmas tree. The family gathered around and sang caroles and recited poems while my father and his sister opened and played with their new toys. The atmosphere was warm, cheerful and inviting...there was not a hint of what was about to turn their bright holiday so dark. At 10pm everyone said their good-nights and the children went to bed.

Shortly before midnight, my father remembers waking up in a panic. He was having difficulty breathing, and felt an increasing amount of pain with every breath he took. He was unable to make a sound when he tried to shout out for help. As if by divine providence, his sister walked into the room to check on him and saw that my father's face was turning a dark shade of blue and that he was starting to suffocate. She ran, horrified, to her parent's chambers and told them that Laszlo couldn't breathe. The adults, including their Uncle Miklos, ran to see what was wrong and realized that my father was near death, struggling to take a breath and losing consciousness. Within a second, Uncle Miklos had taken a nearby pair of scissors and clipped off one of my grandmother's fingernails and had her shove her finger down my father's throat in order to open his airways by force. My father then was able to regain his ability to breathe. Uncle Miklos suspected that the swelling in my father's throat was being caused by the onset of diphteria.

While my father lay in his bed with his mother and sister by his side, my grandfather called for a doctor to come to their home right away. As their local doctor was away for Christmas, they had to call in a medic from a neighboring town who rushed in and gave my father a diphteria vaccine. By 2:30 in the morning my father started to feel better and was able to fall asleep and everyone retired to their rooms. At 10:00 the next morning which was Christmas Day, my father awoke to see his mother standing by his bedside. He sat up and stared at her blankly not understanding why she was moving her mouth but he couldn't hear any words. He asked her "Mama, why are you speaking so softly?" and at that point she knew something more was wrong with her son. As she started to run in terror to find her husband, he happened to walk in and also spoke with my father who, again, could not hear anything that was being said to him. My grandfather decided that they would leave at once and head back to Budapest. Their butler packed all of their belongings in a rush and the chauffeur was called to have the car ready immediately. When their family limousine pulled up, four mounted policemen also joined them in order to escort them as they rushed to the city.

At the Royal Officer's Hospital in Budapest, all of the on-duty army doctors and nurses were waiting for my father's arrival and immediately checked his ears, nose, throat and eyes. They discovered that his left ear had lost all sense of hearing and that his right ear had suffered a 75% hearing loss. They determined that this loss would be irreversible. Up until this point in my father's life, he had had normal hearing, so this news came as a terrible shock to my father and his family and they were left stunned. The following day my father was taken to see the best ear specialist in the city and it was discovered that my father had had an adverse vaccine reaction that caused him severe nerve damage and rendered him profoundly deaf. There was speculation as to whether my father was injected with a spoiled vial of vaccine serum, but whether the vaccine serum was spoiled or not, there was nothing that could be done to reverse the damage done other than to simply move on with life and learn to live it in a new way. That is exactly what my father did.

My father continued to see different hearing and ENT specialists over the course of the next year, and was able to learn how to lip-read. He says he remembers that it took about a year for him to "get used" to his new and silent life. He went back to school, and then after the school day was over he would have to come home and re-do his lessons in order to make sure that due to his deafness he wasn't missing out on any information that was given during lectures. His sister, Eva, his mother, and the nannies all helped him to keep up with his studies and learn as if not at all disabled. Thanks to his strong will, discipline, determination and the love and support of his family and staff he was able to maintain his status as an excellent student and excell at all that he put his mind to....and continues to do so to this very day. A feat that all too many people without a single disability never accomplish. My father, gentleman to the core, yet with the valiance of a warrior.

Quo Vadis, Europa?

Much of my father's early childhood, aside from those very exciting occasions that I posted about earlier(!), were spent enjoying time spent with family, playing with his sister in the countryside, attending puppet shows, traveling throughout Hungary to visit relatives, going to school, traveling to France and Austria. He recalls these years as being very peaceful, happy and normal. It was not until 1938 that things started to go awry, and I know that is an understatement.

During one of the family trips to Austria in 1938, the Makays only made it as far as Monichskirchen and not all the way to Vienna as was accustomed. As they traveled to this smaller Austrian city they noticed that the traditional red and white Austrian flag was being replaced by flags bearing the Swastika. Austria had started its dark descent into Naziism. Being that the Makays were of nobility, it was decided that they should stay as under the radar as possible in order not to gain the attention of the Gestapo (Geheimstaatpolizei). This prompted my father and his family to stop traveling abroad soon after. With Austria as Hungary's neighbor to the West, Nazi propaganda quickly passed over the borders and into Hungary and became accepted in great part by many German expatriates who were living in Hungary at the time. This greatly shocked and saddened my grandfather and great grandfather, and their worries only grew as they watched more and more newsreels showing the people of Austria cheering Adolph Hitler on and welcoming them to their country.

My father recalls that when 1939 rolled around, his father and grandfather, as well as the other adult members of the family, started deeply worrying and discussing the political situation in Europe. They could only foresee a very dark future, especially since Hungary no longer had any form of strong defense with their very weak military. With Hitler to the West and Stalin to the East, Hungary was a sitting duck. My dad still recalls his father asking aloud "Quo vadis, Europa?" in consternation, and his grandfather stating "Someday we will all be homeless". A bitter prophecy that would all too soon become a reality.

A Brief History in Pictures

This past weekend, my father came over with the two albums of family photographs that he was able to acquire after his escape from Hungary in 1956...which is a story for another day. He sat with me over tea and patiently showed me each and every photograph, reliving the moments as if they were just yesterday. I find these moments with my dad both fascinating and heartbreaking. I have heard all of his stories time and again throughout my childhood, but the older my dad gets, the harder it is for me to see him so sad at the bitter memories of having his life and family literally torn apart by the invasion of Communist Russia....again, another story for another day.

In the meantime, I want to share some of the pictures from my father's albums.

1.My grandfather, Istvan Makay

2.My Aunt Eva, my father, and my grandmother Erszebet Makay.

3.My grandfather (on the left) with one of his assistants.

4.Our family's Coat of Arms.

5.My father's Aunt and Uncle, Margit and Kamillo Karpathy.

Shaking Hands With General Douglas MacArthur and Lunching With Prince Edward

My father's first five years of life were spent in what he recalls as being a peaceful and harmonious time. He and his sister got along well, even though she did like to dress him up in her clothes from time to time, as most big sisters are prone to do. They spent time in their homes in Budapest, Pusztamonostor, Kestzhely, and Tiszaug. Along with their parents, Eva and my father lived with three full time nannies their father had hired. He made sure that each nanny spoke a different language so that my dad and his sister would be exposed to and learn as many languages as possible. One nanny hailed from Germany, another from France, and the third was native Hungarian. On Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays the kids spoke only in Hungarian. Tuesdays and Wednesdays they spoke French, and Thursday and Friday they conversed in German. Try as he might, my grandfather could not find an English nanny, but he would have loved for his children to also become fluent in English. I can only imagine how much of a blessing learning English early on would have been for my dad. He had to learn the language after coming to the United States with over 90% of his hearing lost, yet somehow managed to master the language by spending time in the public library in downtown Los Angeles reading books and without actually being able to hear it.

One of my dad's fondest memories from his childhood occurred in 1933 when he was 4 years old. At the time he and his family were staying at the Royal Palace visiting his godfather, Colonel General Kamillo Karpathy, who was the Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Hungarian Defense. One evening, during their stay, General Douglas MacArthur came to the Royal Palace for a gala dinner. As the American General was entering the foyer, my father happened to be crossing the hall and he recalls being surprised to see someone in what he thought was such a strange uniform, one which he had never seen before. General MacArthur was surrounded by my dad's father, godfather, godmother, the American ambassador, Nicholas Roosevelt, a few Hungarian generals, and the American military attache. When General MacArthur caught sight of my father, he called out to him cheerily; "Hello, young boy!", and asked my godfather whose son he was. Kamillo answered gesturing towards my grandfather that he was Istvan Makay's son and his godson. My grandfather then waved my dad over and General MacArthur shook his chubby little hand. This made such an impression on my father, who had no way of knowing who General MacArthur was at that age, that he remembers that moment to this very day. The General's presence and persona were so commanding yet friendly that the wide-eyed little boy could not help but be starstruck.

Another exciting occasion for my dad was when the heir to the British throne, Prince Edward, visited Budapest. It was 1935 and my father was 6 years old. The British Prince came over to the Royal Palace and watched the ceremonial change of guards from a balcony in the Palace's inner court. There was much pomp and circumstance as the marching royal bodyguards, crown guards, and palace guards in their colorful uniforms made their procession, and then the Prince and my father's family gathered for lunch. Just as any of us would have a friend come over for some sandwiches or a BBQ, my dad and his family had the future King of England as a lunch guest. So normal for them....yet so far fetched for the rest of us. These were just two of the childhood memories of great individuals who he and his family spent time with. I can almost imagine....my father being a typical young boy, probably wanting to go play outside while having to display impeccable manners in front of such impressive guests. A little prince through and through.

Getting Back to the Roots....Part I

Even though I want to jump right in and start telling you all of the stories that I grew up hearing about my father and grandfather, about the people they met, the experiences they had, the atrocities they endured....I know that to make it all make sense I have to keep things chronological. So, I will start off with some deeper layers of my father's history, it may get boring at times, but bear with me...the history lesson will soon enough give way to what I think merits being an award winning documentary. =) Over the course of the next few blog posts I'll go over all that I've gathered from my dad in regards to his bloodlines, otherwise this one post could easily become overwhelming to read...and write!

My father tells me that one beautiful summer's day in August of 1940 the family was gathered in Pusztamonostor (another of their homes) and after lunch on the terrace his sister, Eva, asked their father to tell them about their family. My father was 11 years old and it was at that time that he got to learn about his ancestors in detail. Until then, he and his sister were just kids who were growing up in a life of privilege, but really not privy as to why. The following is some of what they learned that day.

The Makay family are the direct descendants of St. Stephen (Istvan in Hungarian), the first Christian King Of Hungary. King Istvan's mother, Sarolta, was sister to a woman named Karolin who married Duke Doboka, the ruling Prince of Transylvania at the time, and who is the farthest back to whom we can trace our bloodlines. Duke Doboka had a son, Duke Csanad, who then became King Istvan's cousin. When King Istvan was coronated in 997, my father's ancestors (the descendants of Csanad) stayed in the royal court and became members of the Royal Council.

The Makays were one of the seven biggest landowning families in all of Hungary at the time. Sadly, the Hungarian Royal House of Arpad died out in 1301 making way for foreign dynasties to move in and take over. Foreign dynasties ruled over Hungary until 1918 with the Habsburg family as the longest ruling. Due to the fact that the Makays were well known for being independently minded, pure blooded Hungarians, they were ostracized and expelled from the Royal Court and sent to live on their private estates. Sadly, things didn't stop there. Over time, the Imperial Court in Vienna started confiscating the Makay estates one by one and ordered the family to live incognito. The land and estates that were taken from the Makays were then given to Austrian families that the Imperial Court recognized as princes, counts and barons while the larger parcels of land were kept by the Habsburgs. Although the Hungarian people were unhappy with Austrian rule and several upraisings took place (in 1514,1609,1703,and 1848) all of them failed and the Habsburgs continued their reign. The Makay family had a particularly difficult time with the Austrians as they avidly participated in the upraisings as well as helped the freedom fighters. One of my father's ancestors was executed in 1711 for his activity against the Austrian Empire and after the failed War of Independence (1848-1849) my father's great-grandfather, Imre Makay, was sentenced to 10 years in an Austrian Prison. His son, Istvan (this is very much a family name as you will see throughout this history lesson), was left to govern the remaining family estate in Tiszainoka. Istvan later had two sons, Imre and Istvan (little Istvan if you may) who was to become my father's father.

It wasn't until 1868 that the Imperial Court and Emperor Franz Josef became more lenient in their governance of Hungary and allowed for a limited Hungarian government in Budapest at which time a dual monarchy with limited independence and freedom was created....this became known as the Austro-Hungarian Empire. My great-great-grandfather was unhappy with the outcome as he wanted Hungary to regain its full autonomy, but, as a private citizen there was not much he could do other than go home and finish raising his sons. Although he did all that he could to ensure that the boys had a rich education leaning towards agronomy, both Imre and Istvan decided that they wanted to join the cavalry. This disappointed their father and he tried, unsuccessfully, to change their minds. He did not want his sons to end up serving the Habsburgs and infantrymen, but the boys had plans of their own,

After four years of vigorous military training little Istvan (not so little anymore) became a lieutenant at the age of 22. Unfortunately, WWI had broken out a year earlier, and he was ordered to go to the Eastern Front to fight against Imperial Russia. Three months later, Istvan was captured by the Russians in the Ukraine and spent 5 years in Irkuts, Siberia as a prisoner of war. Upon his release and return to Hungary he and his brother, Imre, were promoted to Captain and their new assignment was at the Royal Hungarian Defense's Personnel Dept. located in the Royal Palace. Not long after, at a debutante ball, Istvan met and fell in love with an 18 year old girl named Erszebet. On August 14, 1924 they were married and on May 28th, 1925 their daughter, Eva, was born. My father graced the family with his presence four years later on April 14th, 1929....and so the story begins....

St. Stephen

An Afternoon With My Apa

Since moving back to Los Angeles from Portland, Oregon I've made it a tradition to go to Church with my parents every Sunday. Then, after lunch with their friends, they come over and spend the rest of the day at my house. Even though my father is now 84 years old he still works full-time as a bookkeeper for a media company in Santa Monica, and seeing him during the week isn't always an option. So Sundays are our day together and may there be many, many more Sundays like this.

Today, I got my dad to sit with me and give me dates and some chronology in general so that I can better write the story of his life. I know he would have rather played chess , but he sat patiently and once in a while very emotionally retold some of the stories I grew up hearing of his childhood and escape from Hungary. Some stories make him laugh and smile as he remembers them, and many have him on the verge of tears. He gave me copious amounts of geneological information too about his own father, grandfather and great grandfather. I plan to steal some of his time every Sunday until I get all of the stories just right, and in between, on this blog, I will piece together what I already have.

As for today, I will share a picture of one of my father's childhood homes. The one I got to visit with him when I was 16 and he returned to visit Hungary for the first time after his escape in 1956. This is where he would get caught sliding down the bannisters of the great hall and received reprimands from the butlers as well as his father. To imagine, he was just a normal, rambunctious little boy growing up in a fantasy-world....with no idea that this world would be brutally ripped away from him and his family just years later.

Of Tiaras and Government Cheese...

My mind is all askew as to where to start with this account of my father's life. I have so many stories to tell, I have so many things to gush about with pride when it comes to him, and yet it's so hard to pin down on paper. I have an outline of my dad's life and history and I will be fleshing it out with him every time we see each other over the next few weeks and then sharing it all on this blog. The vintage photos in his albums will be visiting my scanner and I'll be sharing the images that I grew up with with all of you. It gives me the chills. At the same time, I feel like even though I have written some pretty personal details about my life as a traveling fashion model, and my life as a mother, this recanting of my dad's life goes beyond personal.

You see, I've not ever been really all that open about my family history. I've talked about it with people who have found out and asked me for more details...but I've never walked around announcing that my dad is a Hungarian Prince. Probably for the same reason I've never walked around announcing that I worked as a fashion model. It sounds SO pretentious, so unreal....and for some people it is. But, this has been my reality since birth. I did not grow up with the trappings of privilege, as a matter of fact due to my father's disability and the fact that it caused him to always be the first to be layed off work and the last to get hired (due to being "over-qualified") a large portion of my life was spent in government subsidized housing, eating government cheese and donated canned goods. I remember eating beans and rice for weeks on end because it was the cheapest thing my parents could afford while we lived with my grandmother and aunt in a cramped, two bedroom apartment.

My father was a hard working man. Still is. A man with bloodlines leading directly to St. Stephen, the first Christian King of Hungary and many other heroes of his native country. My father, the proud son of a man who saved seven Jewish families as they were being led to a concentration camp and risked his family's life to keep them safe, fed and alive. There is no drop of laziness in his genepool...and yet there we were....on welfare. I remember many times having friends' parents drop me off at a nice condo complex up the street from my own roach motel apartment after high school for shame of where we lived. How would anyone ever believe that my dad was a Prince? So I kept my family history on the down low and lived life as a normal kid in Los Angeles. Taking the bus home from school every day, wearing the same ratty pair of shoes all year long, watching drug deals happen in the alley under our kitchen window. A far cry from what any of today's popular royals could ever imagine. The closest thing to a tiara I had was a picture in my dad's album of our family's crown jewels.

And to be honest, all I cared about at that time was what any other kid would care about....how much Sun-In to get in my hair, will so-and-so want to go to prom with me, will I ever ace algebra? I knew my dad had an amazing story, but where to go with it? A veritable quandry. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops (as I am doing now) but at the same time I wanted to keep it a well hidden secret. I didn't want to answer all of the inevitable questions that would occasionally pop up..."Wow, do you live in a castle? Do you know Queen Elizabeth? Dude, you guys MUST be rich, right?!" No, no, and no. Although by marriage my dad really IS related to Queen Elizabeth. Funny how all of the royals are somehow related....I definitely never felt like a Princess even though my father's gentility was more King Arthur than Uncle Sam...but underneath it all I knew that I came from someone and something very, very special.

It hit home when I was 16 years old and my father took my mother and I to Hungary to revisit his roots. It was his first time back in his native land since his escape in 1956. Watching my father cry for the first time in my life as he revisited the place of his birth where so many wonderful and terrible things happened to him and his family was more than words will ever be able to express. We took a trip to Keszthely near Lake Balaton where my father grew up in one of Hungary's most beautiful palaces and when my father neared the palace docent (it had been turned into a museum) she quickly bowed, said "Oh your Highness!" and let us enter without waiting in line or putting on the mandatory felt booties that kept the rest of the tourists from damaging the original hardwood floors. To see my dad look around what was once his home...set up as a display....both hurt and amazed me. My history became reality that day. Later, as a Sophomore in college I studied abroad in Salzburg, Austria and while there Otto von Habsburg (may he rest in peace) sent me a letter asking if my father would be visiting me in Austria because he would love to meet with him. Otto and my father were the first two of their families to forge a friendship. I'll tell you more about this history later....Then when I went to visit my grandmother, who at the time was still alive and in Budapest, I remember the officers on the train who were checking passports stop and stare at me and ask "Do you realize the importance of your last name?" as did the owner of the bed and breakfast I stayed in. Duke of Csanad, Prince of Transylvania....all of a sudden it didn't seem so far reaching to me. People knew who my father and his family were...and that they were held in such high regard and with such fondness.....it meant the world to me. Laszlo Makay of Mako and of Gelej, de genere Csanad, Prince of Transylvania...otherwise known as "Apa" ("Dad" in Hungarian). It still amazes me when I think about it.....

A Little Introduction...

I've been feeling compelled to share my father's story for some time. Being that I have always loved writing, it would have seemed fitting that I would've put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) a long time ago....and yet that isn't what happened.

There is something so intimidating to me about writing the memoirs and biography of someone so close to me when I've always been more of a creative writer, a purveyor of content on all things beauty and fashion related, and the irreverent voice of a fashion modeling blog. Yet here I am now....somewhere between holding my breath and white knuckling my way through the fear of messing this up.

My father is one of the most amazing, humble, kindest and most gracious men to ever have walked this earth. His story deserves nothing but the best of voices. I hope I can do him some justice in my meager attempts to be that voice. I also hope that by recording his amazing life story, I can preserve it for all of the generations that come after him. I am lucky to have this man as my father.

Everyone that has come into contact with him has fallen in love with him for his soft spoken and kind ways, most not even knowing that the kindly older gentleman once grew up in some of Hungary's most beautiful palaces, was privy to visits his own father had from some of history's greatest dignitaries, who was addressed as "Your Highness" since his birth, a man who was born into one of Hungary's oldest families steeped in nobility and royalty. Yes, that's my father....the Prince.