The Journey Towards Freedom Begins...

When the fighting ended, on November 10th, my grandfather, Istvan, was forced to return to Dunaharaszti where he and my grandmother were living. He was under Communist police surveillance and expected to return from Budapest immediately. On November 13th, my father and grandmother headed to Dunaharaszti to join him and wait on further developments.

Six days later, a young boy arrived at the small house with a message for my dad. The boy was one of Eva's neighbors and had made the trip from Budapest by bicycle. The note that he delivered was for my dad and it simply said that he must return to work. My father knew immediately what the message really meant as it was written in his brother-in-law's hand....it meant that he and Eva had decided that it was time to leave Hungary and head to the free West. Now my father would have to make the decision to go with them or stay behind with his parents.

The decision proved to be extremely difficult. My father asked his parents to join him, Pali and Eva and leave together, but they declined. My grandfather was already very ill as he had been administered poison while in the forced labor camp. The poison was slowly thickening his blood and would eventually kill him. He knew he would not be able to make the journey and that he and his wife would only slow things down for the others. He told my dad to go, as he was still young and would have no future if he stayed in Hungary. The threat of being taken back to a forced labor camp or worse was also plausible. My father had to face the fact that he would have to leave his parents behind and possibly never see them again. He also knew that he would be thrust into a foreign land not being able to hear or understand the new language which only added to his anxiety, but he knew he had to do what was best and made his decision to go. His father's words, "Be brave, and you will overcome. God bless you and help you. Go ahead in whichever direction life points you.", would stay in his heart and mind forever.

Tearfully, my grandmother started to put items on the kitchen table...toothpaste, a toothbrush, a towel, underwear, some shirts, socks and a shaving kit....all of the things my father would be able to carry in a small case. My father got dressed and together they walked to the nearest roadway. In about 10 minutes a milk truck stopped to let some people on. My father hugged and kissed his parents good-by with an aching heart, then climbed into the back of the truck and sat down watching as they waved farewell until they became nothing more than specks in the horizon.

Hearing this from my father and writing it down is more than I can bear at the moment. As a mother, I cannot imagine how painful it must be to watch your child leave not knowing if you would ever see them again or if they would actually make it alive to their destination. As a child, I cannot imagine the converse. To leave behind aging and ill parents in a country overrun by a nefarious government. It kills me that such a kind and lovely soul as he is should've ever had to endure so much heartbreak. Ever.

From Prince to Pauper

On October 30th of 1944 my grandmother celebrated her 40th birthday surrounded by close relatives. Although everyone would have preferred to stay together all evening, due to the citywide curfew, everyone had to leave before 5pm. The following day my grandfather was paid a visit by a sergeant friend who reported that the Gestapo had arrested Lt. General Janos Kiss and Major Vilmos Tartsay who were officers that my grandfather often met with. Due to the fact that he consorted with these men, it was a very plausible threat that my grandfather would also be persecuted by the Gestapo.

Immediately after the meeting with the sergeant, my father and his family once again started to pack up their belongings. While traveling by car was becoming more and more difficult for Hungarians due to the puppet government's denial to provide the populace with gasoline, my family was fortunate enough to have their chauffeur obtain 50 liters of gas from the black market. During the early morning hours of November 1, 1944 they were able to make their way out of Budapest to a remote country village called Nagybatony. The town was small, quiet, and did not have immediate access to a highway or a railroad which allowed it to stay under the radar of the Nazis and and away from military confrontation. My father and his family settled in this town and made an earnest attempt to feel safe once again.

One month later, the Soviet Red Army arrived in Budapest and on Christmas Eve the fighting began. Turmoil and destruction were to be found on every street and the Royal Palace was heavily damaged. This battle lasted until February 13th, and the knowledge that their home city was being destroyed lay heavily on my family's hearts. It was a gutwrenching holiday season for them. Luckily, they managed to stay in their small village until May 10th, 1945. At that point the family wanted to go to Pusztamonostor to survey the situation there. As they had lost their car in the interim, they had to travel by horse and buggy. When they arrived at their home in Pusztamonostor they found that it had been completely destroyed and ransacked. The retreating German Army had burned down their barns and silos and stolen all of their livestock, furniture and silverware. Beautiful portrait paintings of their ancestors were destroyed at the tip of bayonets, and antique Persian rugs had been pulled out and used underneath army vehicles by soldiers making oil changes and repairs. Anything else that the Germans had left behind was confiscated by the Soviets. They even so much as trampled and flattened out the lush botanical gardens on my family's property. Nothing was left unscathed.

As their home was no longer standing, my father and his family spent the night at their butler's house. The next morning they woke early to walk to the train station in order to return to Budapest. Once back in the city they discovered that their home there was being squatted in by a Communist apparatchik and they were unable to move back in. On their way to his aunt's house, my father remembers seeing his beautiful city broken and destroyed beyond recognition. All of the bridges across the Danube River had been blown up and the Royal Palace was just a ghost of its former glorious self.

Despite all of this, the schools in Budapest re-opened and my father completed the 5th grade and moved on to the 6th grade with high scores and grades. As the family had lost virtually everything, my grandfather started working as a truck driver and my aunt as a French and German teacher in order to make ends meet. The family went from generations of nobility to poverty in what seemed to be just the blink of an eye. The unimaginable had happened.

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.

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.