1945-47
Preface
I do not know what compelled me to write — to keep notes — as I was not certain whether I would make it home or not. I began jotting things down from the moment I was taken prisoner: where I was, when, how I felt, and I tried to record my thoughts at the time, though in recent periods I rarely had the strength for it. This will become clear from the dates in the diary. I carried the notebook in my pocket for two and a half years, through no small amount of danger. Even during captivity, despite countless searches and pat-downs, I managed to keep it safe. But from being carried in my pocket the letters had faded so badly that in many places I could only make them out with a magnifying glass. I ask for a little indulgence regarding any spelling mistakes in this diary, as I only completed six years of primary school. I copied this diary in January 1958 from the original notebook.
Szigliget, 29 January 1958.
Sándor Varga
27–28 March 1945
I had a bad feeling about home. The Russians had most likely occupied my little village around that time. On the 31st I wanted to go to Péterhegy with my comrade, Corporal József Budiás, by motorcycle from Magyarszombatfa, but we could only get as far as Bajánsenye, because in the next village, Dávidháza, there were Russians. We ran out of fuel along the way — my motorcycle still had half a litre, but my comrade's was completely empty. We couldn't get any in Bajánsenye either, so we had no choice but to turn back to Magyarszombatfa. He tied his motorcycle to the back of a cart; I was still able to ride mine back. We returned on the 31st at 4 in the afternoon. There I met a young man from N.Gulács who had already come back from captivity; he knew Anti well but said he hadn't been with them. That made me certain Anti had stayed home. Just as I arrived, I had a blowout and ran out of fuel too. I was in a very uncomfortable situation. Evening came and we looked for lodging; a barn took us in. There were many airmen there with vehicles, and we thought we might get a little fuel from them to move on. Sadly, they only gave some at the very last moment, when it was no use to us anymore. We woke up to Easter Sunday. We went to find something for breakfast and got coffee, later a little meat. Then we drank 3 litres of wine, for which we paid 100 pengős. Meanwhile the alarm came — we scrambled — the motorcycles were filled with fuel, which we finally got. But beforehand, after breakfast, I had fixed the wheel, so we were ready to go. We only got a little bread for the road and had nothing else either. When we were about to set off, the Russians were already at the edge of the village. So what now? They came with armoured vehicles. Well, never mind — we'll try, maybe they'll let us through at least a little way. But that didn't work out, because the moment they spotted our motorcycles, they took them immediately and said "Pashol." So the motorcyclists became foot soldiers once again. And now the suffering began. From 2 in the afternoon we marched all night and the following day along the same road we had come by. Along the way we each got a bite of bread and drank water. But there were already some 2,000 of us marching. There were carts too. The long and short of it is that the bread ran out very quickly, and yet we kept marching — and as of now I am in a small village called Ságod near Egerszeg, where I have arrived at a prisoner-of-war camp.
6 April 1945
Here we are divided into groups of 100 and waiting to set off, which from what I hear will be towards Székesfehérvár. I am very frightened of the journey. Here we have already been fed twice; today there was bean soup. The day before yesterday I cooked a cup of potatoes. Yesterday a cup of maize — and that is all I have had. My spirits are very low; I don't know how this will end. Right now I am in a room — a school — with about 100 of us. The lice are multiplying rapidly. I am very curious about what lies ahead.
6 April 1945, 14:00
A great joy came to me at 16:00 on the 6th: we received a little bread. Six men shared one loaf. There was nothing to go with it, so I had no choice but to eat it plain — that was supposed to be supper. But what is most dreadful at the moment is that I have no tobacco; there was plenty left in my backpack, but that was lost along with the cart. I am very curious about tomorrow. I am recording these days — if only I could write them up properly — partly out of boredom, and partly because these may turn out to be the hardest days of my life.
7 April 1945, 10:00
Today I slept until 9 o'clock in this overcrowded room. We were packed so tightly that I could barely turn over at night. But it was still better than having to sleep outside, as I only have one blanket and rain seems likely. I heard quite good news, though it doesn't really benefit me: those over 32 will be demobilised, while the younger ones will get four weeks' leave and then have to report back. For breakfast I had a cup of potatoes boiled in their skins, with no salt or bread, but I filled up — though my strength keeps diminishing.
7 April 1945, 14:00
The fine lunch was served, which was again bean soup — but without any salt. One can imagine how good it must have been. After lunch I somehow talked myself into shaving, though I had neither soap nor a mirror; I managed to borrow these from a comrade. I had a week and a half's worth of beard and looked like a decrepit old man. There is still no word about departure.
7 April 1945, 16:00
Things have been quiet until now. Quite surprisingly, four of us shared one loaf of bread — also without salt — and that was supper.
8 April 1945, 10:00
Today I woke to great commotion. Everyone is saying we're leaving, we're leaving. We quickly got ourselves ready, which didn't take long. Formed up in groups of 100, we set off towards Zalaegerszeg at 10:30. At the edge of the town we had to wait a long time for the carts following behind us. They arrived at around 2 in the afternoon, so off we went. We made it as far as Zalabér. At the edge of the village there was a clearing where we found a haystack, and we spent the night there. The five thousand people rushed the haystack so that within half an hour there was nothing left of it — just the spot where it had been. And yet there had been enough for about 50 cartloads. Along the way the treatment was very bad and rough. People were not allowed to fetch water from the roadside wells. They were beaten and sworn at. The night was so cold that sleep was impossible. After dark, two oxen were slaughtered and cooked through the night, then distributed for breakfast. Each portion was perhaps 3–4 decagrams. I stayed by the field kitchen all night to keep warm, and this turned out to be fortunate, because when the first cauldron was ready I managed to get a piece, which did me a great deal of good as I had eaten nothing all day. I got a second piece too, but didn't dare eat it and kept it for the next day. Slowly, dawn broke.
9 April 1945, 09:00
The meat cooked overnight was distributed, and we also received dried bread — crushed up — and raw potatoes, one piece each. We also received something else: wheat. This was given to us so we could cook it along the way. I filled one of my coat pockets with it too. I should mention that I missed the bread distribution because I wandered off briefly looking for familiar faces in the crowd, and by the time I got back it had all been handed out and there was none left for me. At around 1 in the afternoon we set off from Zalabér through Türje, and I am currently writing these lines at the edge of a field, at the outskirts of the village of Szalapa. Same day, 18:00. Lunch just happened — only a break. I ate the little piece of meat I had saved from the night before, again without salt or bread. I think we're heading towards Tapolca — if only I had wings! The kilometres are not adding up fast, as we have only come 17 so far today; Tapolca is still 30 km away. Same day, 17:00. I was badly mistaken: 1. we did not continue but spent the night here, just as the previous night. 2. We are not heading to Tapolca but towards Jánosháza.
10 April 1945, 10:00
The night passed badly as it was very cold. For breakfast we received dried bread and wheat — the wheat is still holding out. At around 9 o'clock we set off towards Jánosháza.
10 April 1945, 16:00
We arrived in Jánosháza; here too we were taken outside the village and camped there. We had come about 17 km. The sights along the way continued to grow. It was quite warm, which made the thirst even worse while marching, but still no one was allowed to leave the column. Where we stopped briefly there was no well anyway. You can imagine — when we arrived, there was a well about 100 metres from our quarters. Now all 5,000 people want to drink at once. But it was a fine well, a pump — one man pumped into the trough and everyone got their turn in short order. I waited about 2 hours for water myself — and I was desperately thirsty. Today I won't eat supper either, as there is nothing to eat: I still have a little wheat, but it would need to be cooked, and after such exhaustion one is simply not capable of it. I found a little straw and lay down.
11 April 1945, 14:00
It seems we are not setting off today. Lunch was had. We received the dried bread at noon, along with a small piece of home-baked bread. I drank water and that was it. I kept a little of the home bread, even though the whole amount was very little. They are just now calling out to pack up — I don't know how far we are going or where. It also occurred to me that today is my birthday — a fine way to spend it!
11 April 1945, 16:00
We only moved two hundred metres, into a farmstead. Here I had to part with my razor. They took from us our knives, shaving equipment, maps, compasses, and forks. So now I am left properly unshaven. Now I truly feel like a prisoner. This is where our fate will be decided, I think.
12 April 1945, 12:00
Again I only managed to sleep half the night, as the cold woke me. Someone had lit a fire nearby and I went over to warm myself. For breakfast we received a little bread and pea soup — though very watery. Around 10 o'clock. I desperately want to know what will become of us. This fate weighs heavily on me. I know nothing of anyone. What can have happened to poor Lajos, what became of him? Anti is certainly at home — unless he too has been taken away. Whenever I see a group of soldiers, I always look for them, but so far I have not managed to spot anyone. I met a lad from Szigliget, Gyuszi Kovács, on the 6th of April, but after I lost sight of him in the great crowd I couldn't find him again, so we didn't manage to stay together. Now the word going round is that everyone must have their hair cut. I regret this even more than the razor.
12 April 1945, 18:00
For supper we again received pea soup. We are still at the farmstead mentioned earlier; there are now some 25,000 of us. Another surprise: I ran into Miklós Jánka.
13 April 1945, 14:00
I might have slept well enough last night as it wasn't as cold, but the hard ground disturbed me. I couldn't find a comfortable position; the bare earth was cutting into my sides so badly. Again we received a slice of bread — naturally meant to last the whole day — which I dispatched in moments.
13 April 1945, 17:00
Apart from the small piece of bread, we received nothing today. I still have a little wheat in my pocket and I am gnawing on that. A dreadful situation — what will become of us? If this goes on much longer, I don't know how I will hold out. There isn't even water to drink. Just imagine 25,000 people crowded together with a single well — a sweep well — to supply them all. I am already so weak I can barely walk. I don't know what will happen to me if we have to go somewhere. In the afternoon there was a little rain and now there is water where we sleep. Tonight there will be no sleeping again. Dear God, if only He would turn our fate around. Even an animal would suffer to endure this. The days pass with terrible slowness. One daydreams constantly — this would be good, that would be good — but all the while things seem to only get worse. Today I also heard that the Germans have laid down their arms and are no longer fighting. I cannot change my underclothes as I have nothing else besides what I'm wearing, and I have no soap to wash them with if the opportunity arose. I don't know what will become of us!
14 April 1945, 16:00
The mood is still very low; one simply exists in that certain uncertainty. My food, as yesterday — one slice of bread so far. Word is that we will receive supper today, but that is uncertain. I am already so weak and tired that I can barely manage to write these few letters. If only there were someone I knew nearby who could at least bring me a little bread. If this carries on much longer, I will surely go mad or fall ill. I cannot endure this unless God gives me the strength, for my own is spent.
17 April 1945, 11:00
Several days have been missed from the diary, as I fell ill — possibly from eating beans constantly. I feel a little better now; yesterday was the worst of it. I collapsed in the yard but did not lose consciousness. I don't know when this nonsense will be over. Two weeks have already passed and we are no further along. The food is somewhat better now, but my strength is not recovering from it.
18 April 1945, 10:00
Delousing is under way, but my company hasn't been called yet — and when it is, perhaps not even then. I feel I am slowly recovering; it's just that my strength won't return. Bean stew twice a day, without fail. One grows to loathe it. Lately I sleep outside. It's not pleasant, as my blanket is thin. The one comfort is that with each passing day we are one day closer to freedom. Dear God, if only I could be a free man again with my brothers and sisters, as it used to be. The nights are quite cold; the days are sunny, except today — there's a bit of wind — so during the day we make up for the lost sleep of the night. Today I heard that all camps are to be cleared by the 28th. That's still dreadful — another 10 days — just so long as it doesn't get extended.
20 April 1945, 14:00
The weather is very fine today as well. I would say I feel completely healthy. Today I ate quite well. My comrade and I obtained some cooking oil and flour; we kneaded the flour and fried it in the oil — it was very good! One feels altogether different when one eats a little better. Still, a person here is like an ox — knows nothing.
21 April 1945, 19:00
I met the camp postmen and joined up with them, even moving from my own company into theirs. My hair is still intact, but tomorrow it must be cut, as out of 1,000 men I am the only one who still has his. I even managed to dodge the delousing to keep it, but it's no use — it can't be avoided any longer. The weather has turned a little gloomy; I just hope there's no rain.
22 April 1945, 11:00
We did get a little rain in the night, but the blanket held its own, so I didn't have to get up. The sun isn't shining today and it is so cold a person could nearly freeze. Going inside to warm up isn't possible as there's nowhere to go. No good news has reached me about our fate. According to the newspaper "Új Szó," Stalin has permitted the Hungarian army to participate in the fight against Hitler's Germany. The nights spent outside are destroying us. I can feel it myself — I've caught a chill. Daily rations: in the morning the bread is distributed — 1/4 kg — and one and a half decagrams of sugar; a little later, bean stew; and the same in the evening, day after day without variation.
23 April 1945, 13:00
Today at 10 o'clock we moved out of this camp into another one about 200 metres away. The sick were removed and the companies were brought back up to 100 men. We are waiting for the moment of departure — by train, I think. Our names have been registered again here, this time in Russian. So going home didn't work out. Dear God, where are they taking us and what will they do with us? What can be happening to my poor mother? I would never have dared dream of this even in a nightmare. What can be happening to my poor younger brothers? Yesterday I also ran into Kálmán Czilli. He is here too, with the departing companies.
24 April 1945, 10:00
We are still in the wagon at Jánosháza railway station and have not yet set off anywhere. They've just brought bread now — one loaf for four men — but we haven't received ours yet. It would be good just to know where we are going. We might as well get moving since we're already here. And indeed we set off at 13:00. We went as far as Boba and then southward; we are now at Tüskevár station, waiting for something. In the meantime we also received lunch — bean soup — but I had already eaten my bread as I didn't expect to get anything. And here we spent the night as well.
25 April 1945, 09:00
I slept quite well; it wasn't cold in here, though we are quite cramped. This morning two men received one loaf of bread — issued for two days. I don't know what I will eat tomorrow. Bean soup again for breakfast. We set off at around half past nine; it is now 12 o'clock and we are in Ajka, waiting again. I heard we are being directed to Budafok. Towards evening we set off. Passing through Veszprém and Székesfehérvár, so that today is the 27th, it is 10 o'clock, and we are at the Ferencváros station in Budapest. So not Budafok after all. I don't know if or when there will be any release. Yesterday I had a high fever and felt very ill — perhaps from the poor food and the rattling of the train. I am very weak even now.
28 April 1945, 10:00
We are still here at Ferencváros station. Now the word going around is that we are heading to Debrecen. I wonder if it won't turn out to be Russia after all? I think it would be lovely to go and see Aunt Annus and Uncle-in-law — though they may already be home in Szigliget by now. It is dreadful in the wagon too. A person has no strength left to walk, just lies there, sleeps, sits, eats little and badly. I can see we will fall apart entirely. Towards evening the train set off and went all night. When we departed I heard we were heading to Szeged. It is now the 29th, about 11 o'clock, and we are in Kecskemét — already moving again. The noon bells are just ringing. What terrible feelings a person has — impossible to describe. To listen to the beautiful sound of the bells locked in a wagon, to look out at the beautiful green fields through barred windows. But I can't bear to look for long anyway, as the hunger makes my eyes swim — so I do what I always do: lie back down and wait for them to bring the delicious beans, since this morning we already received some, though it was inedible. You can imagine how bad it must have been if all these people — truly starving — couldn't eat it. We have made good progress; already at the next station we are stopped and waiting again.
30 April 1945, 09:00
We are at Szeged station, waiting again. The news is very bad. Now they are saying we are going to Timișoara. So it will end up being Russia after all. Last night I had a high fever again, and the bones of my lower legs were aching terribly — which is still continuing. The mood among everyone is desperately low. Dear God, what will become of us, where will they drag us off to. I no longer feel like keeping notes. I think more days will be missed from now on. And indeed we are still here at the station; on 1 May at 7 o'clock we set off — but not towards Timișoara, rather back in the direction of Kecskemét, and from there onward towards Cegléd and Debrecen.
2 May 1945, 11:00
The train is moving, but we have not yet reached Debrecen. The mood of the group has been completely broken, because now we have heard they are taking us to Máramarossziget. In my view, any prospect of being freed is either a very long way off or perhaps never.
3 May 1945, 15:00
We reached Debrecen and went on from there too. The train travelled night and day with short stops, so that we are now about 40 km from Máramarossziget. We have already met a train that had put down prisoners from Jánosháza at Máramarossziget, so it is certain that is where they are taking us — though how long we will be there, that is what one would like to know!
4 May 1945, 10:00
Dear Lord, we have arrived at Máramarossziget. We are still in the wagons at the station. There is great anxiety about what will happen now — will they take us further, or will we unload here, and what will happen to us after that. I ask only of the dear Lord that He be with me and not abandon me in my hard days. My thoughts are at home every moment; when I fall asleep, I walk there in my dreams too. Never have I longed for home as much as I do now. But I trust in the dear Lord, for He will help me get there.
5 May 1945, 11:00
We did not remain in Máramarossziget; yesterday at around noon we set off for Aknaszlatina, where we are now in the barracks of an airfield. Last night they put 100 of us in such a tiny room that it wasn't even possible to sit down, and even if you managed to sit, you couldn't hold that for long — you had to stand up again. We couldn't sleep a single moment. In all likelihood we will sleep there again tonight as well.
7 May 1945, 18:00
I have been moved to a slightly better place, at least from a sleeping perspective — though it is far from rosy! We have now been sorted into groups of 40 and our names have been registered again: birthplace, where and when we were captured, and our father's name. The food has changed too — instead of beans we now receive semolina soup twice a day. We also get a little sugar in the mornings and our small bread ration. I am no longer counting on going home any time soon, though perhaps in the autumn I might. We are completely fenced in with barbed wire, our barracks separately enclosed. We went through another search, a thorough pat-down this time. My torch suffered for it.
10 May 1945, 10:00
Yesterday it was officially announced, even within the camp, that the war is over and the guns have fallen silent — Thank God — perhaps this will shorten the days of our suffering. Today I did a big wash, consisting of one pair of underpants and one shirt. I feel weakened again; only the hope sustains me that we will be going home soon. In this camp there are about 30,000 of us — not too overcrowded at the moment. There are also a few hundred Germans — or rather Austrians. Life is very monotonous. No letters come, which might at least pass the time. Not even the red field postcards from Jucika, arriving in pairs. But let us hope this won't continue.
13 May 1945, 14:00
At this moment it looks very much like rain. Thunder is rumbling and it keeps getting darker — yet the Russians had planned some kind of celebration for this afternoon. I wonder if the rain will interfere? Already I can hear the assembly call being shouted. According to the rumours, we are moving somewhere again. 50 men are already at the station arranging some wagons — surely for us. If only we could move closer to home. People say so much at times like this: that people guilty of far graver offences than ours end up here. The assembly came together, but I am back in the room already, because a fierce rain broke out — a heavy shower with hail even. Now I continue my usual occupation: lying down. This rain is doing a lot of good, clearing the air a little. I am already so afraid of infectious diseases. Part of our barracks has been sealed off because typhus suspects have been identified. God save us from that.
16 May 1945, 18:00
Today marks one year since I first felt the swishing scythe of death very close by. And since then, many, many times even closer. But thank God He watched over me, and the anxious, watchful sighs of my dear Mother, sent to me through the good Lord, protected me. I owe it to her and to God alone. I trust that He will continue to help me and will help me home to my Mother and my brothers and sisters, who have perhaps worried greatly about me and await my return every moment. Today all the tradesmen were rounded up and it was thought they would be departing somewhere. They had already packed up, but then came back. The order had been changed.
16 May 1945, 18:00
The rain appears daily, and with hail at that. Yesterday I was out working — cleaning mortar off bricks — even on the holiday we work. The tradesmen are still here; indeed, during the night we grew by fifteen hundred men. My health, thank God, is good. The food is wheat and peas. In the afternoon another 2,000 were added to the headcount. Today I have managed so far without being sent out to work. We are now 8,000 in the camp altogether. The news is quite good — we will be going home soon.
23 May 1945, 13:00
Today a great change occurred. The people were selected — the healthy ones — and again sorted into groups of 40. The consequence of this is that we are going to Russia, and in the near future at that. How long for — that would be good to know. So this is how it ends. Yesterday another 2,000 arrived and today roughly the same number. So we have to leave here, as there is simply no room. We await the hour, the minute of departure. It is a terrible feeling to feel this, but I find some small relief when I see all those fathers out in the yard, moving about in sorrow, perhaps half out of their minds. What are they supposed to say then?
31 May 1945, 10:00
The time I had only dreamed of has come — and it has come to pass. On the 24th at noon we set off on a Russian steam train. The route: over the Tatár Pass through Tatarev, Kolomyia, Chernivtsi, Vinnytsia, Kyiv, and the final destination Chernihiv. About 6 km outside the city there is a camp, and we are currently here — 1,000 out of 10,000. We arrived at the camp around midday on the 28th. The food has changed here too. There are German doctors here, and following their custom we receive soup three times a day and 80 decagrams of bread — very black bread, containing everything except rye and wheat flour, but very good nonetheless. We have already been disinfected, and yesterday we received injections. We will be in this camp for about 3 weeks, after which we will go to work — most likely field work. Going home is, for now, merely a concept.
5 June 1945, 10:00
We are still at the camp mentioned. Nothing particular has happened. No work is required here yet, but from what is being said, we won't be staying long. We will move to another camp where we will work.
12 June 1945, 18:00
Today for the first time we went out to work as a group. It cost us dearly, as around midday a thunderstorm soaked us to the skin and we had to return before evening. What I did today: they sheared with scissors and I picked up the grass cuttings on top and bundled them with a few others. Today 500 of the 1,000 moved to another camp in the city of Chernihiv. We are said to follow them in about 10 days. They will work in the city, clearing rubble. Our problem here is that the workplace is very far — about 5 km away — and that alone is enough to exhaust a person. The work itself is nothing: tending beets, potatoes, cabbage, tomatoes, and the like.
16 June 1945, 19:00
The work continues, but the group is very dispirited and exhausted, as the food is truly meagre. Yesterday I was so tired that I couldn't even greet my dear Mother — I didn't have the spiritual strength to pick up a pencil — so I make up for it belatedly now. God grant her long life! I pray to God that we may see each other again as soon as possible and that I may say it with a kiss of her hand. Today I did not go to work as I was on barrack duty.
24 June 1945, 14:00
A great deal has happened in the meantime. My camp has changed. I am now in the city — Chernihiv — where there are 500 Hungarians and 1,000 Germans. From here we go out to work, clearing rubble. I signed up as a carpenter's apprentice, so I haven't been out in the city yet. The food here is also very poor — nothing but water, no thickening whatsoever. We receive 60 decagrams of bread and even that is like mud. Very little news filters in, so we know nothing definite about home or Hungary. What can be happening at home? It would be so good to know. I sold my fountain pen for tobacco — got two tins for it — but already there's none left again. When will we be able to go home, dear Lord? That thought never leaves a person's mind for a single moment, and perhaps that is also why our days are passing so wretchedly.
1 July 1945, 10:00
Work continues; we are out in the city on a building. I have become not a carpenter's but a bricklayer's apprentice. The work is not too hard — bearable — only the hunger is constant. The camp is about one and a half km from the workplace. We come back to camp for lunch every day. Reveille is at 6 in the morning; we must be at the worksite by 8. At noon we set off back to camp for lunch; at 2 in the afternoon we must return to the worksite. At 6 we head back to camp; lights out at 10. My health, thank God, is very good. I haven't received any tobacco from the camp yet, but there is a way to get it out at the worksite. We worked on St. Peter and Paul's Day too. It occurred to me that at home we would already be harvesting by now. Here harvest is still a long way off — even the winter barley is still green. Today is Sunday; we are home. After breakfast there was bathing and a change of underclothes — I now have Russian underwear. The word is that we will be going home soon; God grant it.
10 July 1945, 19:00
The work goes on, slowly and monotonously. Each day is incredibly long. We can barely wait for noon, then evening. Our strength is also running out, as the bread — about 30 decagrams — that we receive alongside the morning soup very often fails to appear and is never made up for afterwards. Yesterday there was a solar eclipse, very fine to watch. Our Hungarian military uniforms have also been exchanged for Russian ones — "we look splendid." My good boots were taken too and I was given canvas shoes with wooden soles. They are very difficult to walk in and cause terrible pain. The wild rumours are starting to fly again — it seems something is afoot. They say the newspaper wrote that by the 28th all prisoner-of-war camps must be cleared. Dear God, how wonderful that would be. Supper was had — a ladle of soup, as it always tends to be. One is permanently hungry. But thank God, I have no ailments. There is much one could write about, on many subjects, but I have no inclination — I have forced even this out of myself. Oh! Last night I dreamt I was at home and my dear Mother was crying very hard, asking why I wasn't coming home, and I told her I would be home in a month.
29 July 1945, 16:00
The 28th has come and gone and still nothing. Even the rumours have stopped. I don't believe my dream will come true. I think about home a great deal — what can be happening there, and what about the children? Is my dear Mother well? What about the vineyard — can they spray it and will there be any crop? How did the harvest go? Dear God, when will this captivity end? From today, letter writing has also begun — I don't know if they will reach home. We may write one per month through the Red Cross, while we may receive more in return. Thank God I have no ailments, only I am always hungry. Today is Sunday, we are not working. There was bathing at dawn and a change of underclothes, as well as a great looting session. There is nothing good they can take from me as I have nothing to take. My only entertainment is looking through my photographs and then for a few moments I believe I am at home.
8 August 1945, 14:00
Today I am on the sick list and stayed home. The trouble I had in Kolozsvár has returned — muscle rheumatism. I can't walk properly; in a word, I am incapable of work. My appetite is good, thank God — if only there were something to eat. From today the working hours have been extended from 8 to 10 hours, but the food is just as poor as before. I don't know what will become of us — we are falling apart completely. Of going home there is no talk. I am alone in the room now, writing these lines at a small table. No one is disturbing me; I leaf through my little prayer book that I have had for a long time, look through the photographs — the afternoon won't be so tedious then.
19 August 1945, 09:00
Dear brothers and sisters Lajos, Ilus, and dear Grandmother! I greet you all with love on the occasion of your name day — somewhat belated — from an immeasurable distance away. God grant you long life! Dear brother Lajos, where can you be? Are you suffering as I am, or perhaps you are suffering no longer? May the dear Lord deliver us all from this suffering. I know you think of me often, but there is not a moment when you are not in my thoughts. I was on the sick list for 5 days in a row and was discharged today. I lay in the infirmary room. At the moment I feel well enough, though weakly. Today is Sunday again — it should be a rest day, but instead of resting, work is being done here in the quarters today: the bricklayers are cleaning it up so it won't be so cold in winter. And that's how they encourage us now — lovely.
2 September 1945, 12:00
The past week was very bad — my leg was very ill. I lay in the infirmary again for a week and a half. My highest fever was 39.6. I felt very poorly, but thank God I have recovered. By the time I need to go home, I will be healthy. Some good news: a Russian officer announced here in the camp that we will be going home in the near future. This news kindled new strength and a little cheer in everyone, myself included. Now we wait — impatiently — for the day when the steam train sets off with us towards our poor homeland. At this very moment they are beginning to distribute lunch; I will stop here. Cabbage soup — which it has been for the past few weeks without fail.
11 September 1945, 11:00
Today I am again on the sick list, still with my leg. On Sunday the 9th I was very ill — I think that was the day when our village fair takes place at home, though I can't be certain; it may be on the 16th. The dear Lord did not allow me to spend this one at home either. I don't know when the day will come that we too begin to stir, as apparently the transport has already started. I am suffering terribly with my leg. And my poor Mother and siblings — how much and where are they suffering?
18 September 1945, 17:00
On the 15th I ended up back at the camp I was brought to first — because of my illness, though there is nothing wrong with me. There are very few Hungarians here now, about 10 of us. The food here is much worse and scantier than in the city camp. I don't like being here. I am trying to get back as soon as possible to where I came from. There are no good friends here — how could there be, as I can't even speak with them. I hope I won't be in this uncomfortable situation for long.
16 December 1945, 11:00
A great deal has happened to me over this long period. At first things were a little difficult, but later the food improved too — and I might even say I put on some weight. A few more Hungarians came, so I was quite content until recently, but now I have ended up in a truly bad place, the one I had always feared: the forest. Yesterday was my first day out working — we loaded wagons with logs. A 5 km walk each way, 10 km on foot through the deep snow every day. The food is moderate. Our accommodation is wooden; we keep a fire all night so it is warm enough. It needs to be, as we have no straw mattresses and our only cover is our coats. During the day we don't get cold, only our feet, as we were given quilted clothing. My shoes are quite poor — rubber soles. There is no talk of going home, and it doesn't seem like it will come true any time soon. I don't know if or when I will feel like writing in this little book again. With that I will close — the snow is falling beautifully.
...
7 September 1946
Almost a year has passed since I last wrote anything. Since then I have been in the forest the entire time. Thank God, no misfortune has befallen me so far. I survived the winter in good health amidst great suffering — and many hands and feet did freeze. We cut and haul the great trees, load the wagons. It is very hard going for us, and now another winter must be endured here. But I am at peace, because I read my dear Mother's handwriting, which reassured me completely — that my brothers are at home and nothing particularly out of the ordinary has happened. Though I don't believe this one hundred percent. The village fair is drawing near again. I truly never thought, this time last year, that another year on I would still be here in this paradise. I thought we would celebrate this fair together, in the peaceful circle of the family — but it was not to be. A little about my current situation. I must sadly report that I am now ill — I have been suffering from malaria for a week and cannot get up. I practically crawled to this little table. I am in the infirmary for an indefinite period. I will stop now as I can no longer sit up. The sweat is dripping off me. I look forward to the letters very much.
9 October 1946
I am still in the infirmary. Thank God I have felt a little better for two days — I can already get out of bed, as for two weeks I truly could not. I expect to be here a few more days. We have already received our winter clothes — quite poor — and leather boots. The weather is very cold. I still haven't received a letter since then. Well, another winter must be spent languishing in this fine region. But never mind — one must make peace with one's fate. I am writing sitting up in bed, looking through the photographs. In my dreams I am always at home; last night too I was there with Lajos loading hay, but such a wind was blowing that we could hardly manage it — in fact we couldn't manage at all.
20 October 1946. Today is Sunday; I feel quite well. I can walk almost normally again. Today I am being discharged from the infirmary. The weather is behaving nicely enough. The first snow fell on the 13th, but only a little. The warm clothes have been issued again. We are prepared for winter. It is sad enough that this winter too must be spent here — but God grant health and endurance, that we may bear the hardships of winter.
...
12 June 1947
I find myself in the mood to write again and I am hurrying to make use of it, for in a few minutes I may no longer feel like it or have the will to put down a few lines. A great deal of time has passed since my last entry, and a great deal has happened and unfolded around me. From the old stock, as far as I can recall. On the 10th of March this year, all the Hungarians in the forest camp — since the train has been unable to run for about 2 weeks due to the heavy snow and drifting, and no vehicle of any kind could get through — set off on foot for Chernihiv, which is 60 km away. We walked for two days. Halfway, in a village, we spent the night, though with great difficulty we barely managed to find a place. The people were so kind-hearted — they practically shoved us out the door. Eventually we did find a place, but it was so cold inside that you couldn't see out through the windows for the ice. Well, how could it be warm when they can't heat properly — they only light a fire enough to cook that little potato morning and evening, and even that only with salt. Not a trace of bread. And so little potato that it's a matter of days. I don't know what will become of these people by the time spring comes. Morning came, the people gathered and set off again on the hard road. Our legs could barely carry us by then, but the longing for home drove us on, the hope — for we had set off with the belief that we were going home. We were all weak, yet had the strength — the will — to have walked all the way home. On the 12th we arrived in Chernihiv; they had been awaiting us eagerly, for they said we would only go home once those from the forest had also come in. One day passed, one week, one month — nothing happened. In any case, we go out to work. Near the camp there is a wool factory where many men go to work, and to construction sites in the city. The log hauling and wood cutting is over for us — something I always longed to escape from. The end of May came. One day half the camp was lined up and they began selecting people. The sick, the weaker ones, and those over 40 were set aside. There still weren't enough, so some of the healthy were added — but I did not manage to get among them. At that point still nobody knew why or where they wanted to send these people, and I myself wouldn't have wanted to be among them. A few days passed and I could see them being equipped with clothing and shoes. Then it dawned on us that they were going home. The 28th came and in the afternoon 500 men were taken to the station, and the train set off for home that same evening. Those who remained were very glad that some of us had already gone home, but this only made the longing for home stronger, and our lives are nothing but yearning and longing, every single moment. I gave a few addresses to the closer acquaintances, asking them to let my dear Mother know that we had been together. Now they are encouraging us with the promise that we too will be leaving shortly. We are waiting patiently — or as patiently as one can manage. A few words about myself. I am currently on the sick list — this is the second day. I have two large boils, but otherwise I would feel fine if I weren't always hungry. I receive letters very rarely. The last one came on the 10th of April; on the same day I also received one from the Takács family in Pest. Neither wrote about what would at least interest me a little — what is happening at home, what has become of the count's estate, who has married, who has got married? That is what they should have written about. By now I hope they know more about me — they will have received letters from several of those who were with me and have gone home. I gave my home address to many of them to write, and one man from Halap even promised to go down to us in person. The vegetable season has arrived in the camp: beet leaves and cabbage. We have been eating that for weeks; day by day we grow weaker. Better to stop, as I am likely to sink into despair — and by that I only make it worst for myself. I will put it down and light a cigarette instead.
6 August 1947
Thank the dear Lord that I have reached this point together with 500 of my comrades. At this very moment we are still loaded into wagons at Chernihiv station, waiting every moment for departure to carry us back to my homeland, to my dear Mother, my brothers and sisters and relatives. For over two years I have waited for this happy moment. We were loaded into the wagons yesterday afternoon already, but our train has not yet been sent off. Word is that we are going via Gomel. This waiting is very hard. Now one wishes wings would sprout on the sides of the wagon and we would fly homeward like an aeroplane. It would be very good, I think, if we could manage to get home by around the 20th. We are outfitted with new clothes, a coat, and a cap. I feel quite well right now — breakfast was just a few minutes ago: 60 decagrams of bread — though that is the full day's ration, given all at once in the morning — 7 decagrams of small salted fish, 2 cucumbers, and 2 decilitres of sweet black coffee. At noon and in the evening we will receive half a litre of soup each time, which will presumably be quite thick. That will be the full day's food. Word is that perhaps the train will depart around midday.
21 August 1947
I am home now, and I am recording what I can still remember. Our train departed on the 6th at 12:45 in the afternoon. It troubled me greatly that we did not set off towards Kyiv, as that route would have been much shorter than the way we came. We came through Korosten and Berdychiv, and at both places more were added to us — 200 at Korosten and 700 at Berdychiv — and with that number we travelled to Máramarossziget. The journey was very long as our train moved slowly, so we arrived at Máramarossziget on the 12th. From there we set off on the 14th to Debrecen and arrived on the 15th. At both places the Communists inundated us with newspapers, booklets, lectures, and even showed us a film — titled "The Three-Year Plan." As prisoners of war we are all perfectly familiar enough with the Communist system. The only thing that matters to us is getting home as quickly as possible! On the 16th we set off from Debrecen towards Budapest's Western Station. On the 17th at 9 o'clock we arrived. Hundreds of people received us with the Hungarian national anthem and Hungarian flags. We passed through the dining room on the way out, where we were also given food and even a cigarette. Here I received a free tram ticket and ended up at the Takács family's place. A great surprise awaited me there. As the door opened, who should I see but Ilus. I was very glad — at least we would go home together.
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