My father had a tough childhood. His father left Hungary when my father was three to find a better life in Paris, and never returned. Sinking into a deep depression, his mother was then mis-prescribed drugs by a Russian doctor which sank her into an even deeper, permanent depression, and she ceased to consciously speak. My father only remembered hearing her talk when his grandfather brought him to her room to hear her voice as she slept. So he was brought up by his grandfather and uncle, whom he remembered as larger than life figures, his strict grandfather a respected town leader, and his uncle so tall as to have to stoop to get through doorways. He spoke of both of them as being strong; this was important to him.
Early in the second world war, Russia annexed a small part of Hungary that included my father's hometown. Soon afterwards, at the age of about 18, Andras received a letter indicating he was to report to Kiev to pledge his allegiance to communism and join the Russian army. The next day, "with a bible in one hand, and an axe in the other," (...his words) he and a young farm-hand fled westward together. Facing land mines straddling the border, they looked back to see Russian soldiers mowing down other Hungarians, including families. Certainty took over and they ran, and one survived. He and I many years later returned to this border crossing. Now, a wired fence keeps people in with electrify and fear, rather than mines.
My father later learned that his uncle, Gerge, was subjected to torture in an attempt to discover his whereabouts, and eventually died from the resulting injuries.
My father spent his next years living in army barracks near Debrecen, Hungary, with other teen refugees. Having years earlier put high school on hold to help run the family farms, he now resumed his formal education. He traded one set of school clothes daily with two other young Hungarians, one a young woman. They alternated days attending school so they could each eventually get their high school diplomas, bringing home the day's lessons for the other two to learn. This went on for two years. The Hungarian soldiers shared their rations, a diet consisting of "coffee and rice, every day" as I heard my father recall more than once. It was important to him, and my mother, that a life be rooted in education.
He moved to Budapest and pursued a higher education studying languages. During these young adult years, Andras was quite simply a dashing individual. He spoke of always carrying brass knuckles at the ready in case communist government officials found him. If anyone dared follow him on the streets at night, he wouldn't wait to ask questions. He befriended players on the national soccer team, and in mild rebellion against the communist state, had them obtain for him otherwise unavailable clothes, shoes and a watch from other European countries. His masculinity was honest, with no pretensions or posturing. He was at one point voted one of the 10 best-dressed bachelors in Budapest. I am sure this is one of the qualities that drew my mother to him. A rugged man with reason to be so.
In 1956, Andras found himself having to flee Russian invasion again. With less physical risk this time, he disguised himself as a medical assistant, and with the help of a friend and doctor, crossed over a guarded bridge without incident, and made his way into western Europe. Continuing to prioritize education, he went to Paris where he enrolled at the Sorbonne, the pre-eminent institution for languages and higher learning of its time, where he earned a Master of Arts in French. He also located his father, Sandor, and formed and amicable, but not close, relationship.
Years later in 1962, fulfilling another goal, he traveled to the United States of America for the opportunity it promised. His first job was working in a New York laboratory assisting a professor who believed something called "cholesterol" might play an important part in heart disease. Andy ended up at the University of Wisconsin as a student and TA in the foreign language graduate department. This is where he met my mother, Sandra. Experiencing some reservations about the lifestyle and teaching atmosphere in America, and being a foreigner at heart, he considered returning to Europe. But love and a pregnancy kept him in the US, and my parents were married in July of 1964, traveling to Paris to exchange vows.
Many of my early years also were spent thinking of my father as a larger-than-life figure. I remember him as being extremely strong, his lean abdominals, walking on his hands, wrestling or arm-wrestling with me and winning, and reminding me often, "you are a Hungarian." He spoke of the specific torture methods the Russians were known to have used, and of his distain for them. He loved America and he loved being Hungarian. Vacationing in Hungary, walking through the Castle District, he would look towards the status of Hungarian warriors on horseback and say with emphasis, "these are your ancestors."
His years in the US were spent teaching French and sometimes German. I remember moving to a new state nearly nearly every year and that money was often a topic of conversation. Both my parents spent enormous hours hunched over papers to be graded. His friendships seemed often to gravitate towards those with tortured souls or strange relationships. He enjoyed dinner, drink and conversation with friends. He was quick to anger, though never abusive, and we disagreed often in my teen years. He was a stern yet very fair father, an amazing achievement given his early years and his non-conformist tendencies. I remember him saying, "when you are grown up I want us to be best friends." I have taken this to heart with my own sons, continuously and gently pushing them forward to be confident, self-reliant and independently thinking young men, that they may have a drink, dinner and good conversations with me in the future, as friends. I have appreciated everything he and my mother did for me, and am thankful.
Andy began having significant heart problems in his late 40s. He lost his social acumen and nearly all of his humor following a stroke in his mid-60s, and ironically began to struggle with language as well. His retirement years were spent immersed in state of relative inactivity, and isolation. His last months were spent extremely weakened, with a very difficult hospitalization; I am sure his inner Man struggled mightily with his debilitated state.
Andy did not believe in life after death, but did very specifically believe that we live on in the values and memories we leave to others. I hope that some of what you have just heard will live on in you. Although my father kept many secrets, many of them undoubtedly horrible, he did allow me to get to know him, and that is more than can be said of many men. And for that also, I am thankful.
My father is now dead. But it is said that a man is who he will be when his mother is gone. Thankfully, I still have many years left to get my act together!
Lorin Andras Koszegi, Son and Friend
March 12, 2012
SHARE OBITUARY
v.1.8.18