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.

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.

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.