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Krisztina Lukách (* 1956)

• born on August 24, 1956 in Budapest

• her father, the mechanical engineer Tamás Lukách, was secretary of a workers‘ council in 1956 and condemned for his role in the revolution to 8 and half year imprisonment

• graduated in 1975 at the Grey Friers‘ Secondary School in Szentendre

• got a degree at the Institute of Commerce and Catering in 1978, got another degree at Marx Károly University of Economic Sciences

• worked for different tourist companies

• also teacher of religion since 1987

• economist at the Ministry of Education between 1992 and 2010

• works for the Wekerle Sándor Foundation of the Ministry of Public Administration and Justice

• amateur photographer

Krisztina Lukách: This event was part of our lives

 

My parents got married at Christmas 1949. My father, Tamás Lukách, worked in the Ganz Truck and Machine Works at the time, as deputy manager of the construction section. My mother, Éva Szűcs, worked in the music department of Hungarian Radio. They bought a flat in a quiet part of the 12th District, in a side street off Böszörményi út, where I still live today. The area in those days was like a garden suburb, with a family feel, and that atmosphere or feeling of solidarity helped a great deal in later years.

I was born on 24 August 1956, but it was pretty doubtful whether I‘d survive, at 1500 g, as I was a seventh-month birth, perhaps because my mother was a thin, fragile lady who found pregnancy pretty hard. I managed to grow up despite the misgivings, but I was kept in the ward for premature babies in the Madarász Utca Hospital right up until October 22, 1956. So my father had no thought of getting involved in events, although he realized eventually he really ought to be there.

What‘s your earliest memory of your father?

My very first personal memory is of a visit to the prison, at my father‘s insistence. I must have been getting on for six at the time, so it was one of the last visits to him in the Transit Prison. The picture I recall is of a lot of men in striped uniforms standing behind a grille, and that we were talking to one of them as if he were my father. But I can‘t remember what we talked about. My next memory‘s of the day he was released, waking up in the morning and just sitting out in front of the house on a little stool waiting for my parents to get back. My mother had gone off to meet my father and I sat at the gate from early morning onwards and kept a lookout for them.

How did you feel when you saw your father?

I can‘t remember. I can‘t remember the meeting itself. But there are stories I‘ve been told many times in the family, and I almost feel I can remember the events themselves. For instance, there was a photograph of my father on the writing desk, but it was only a half-length picture, and when I was told my father would teach me to ride a bike and swim when he got home, I suddenly started to cry because I didn‘t see how he could play with me if he hadn‘t got any legs. I must have been three or four then, and that portrait was the only idea of my father, though everyone said I‘d see how great it was when he came home. But what could I do with a father without any legs?

Can you remember where you were told your father was?

They told me the truth from the start. They said he was in prison.

And what did they say about why?

I can‘t remember what the explanation was, but I don‘t remember it causing me any problems. My mother said something about him being in prison but for a good cause, for doing what was right, and him being unjustly convicted. So it didn‘t cause me any conflicts. My father hadn‘t done anything wrong, that wasn‘t why he was in gaol. Of course it‘s obvious that no five-year-old was going to ponder on philosophical concepts such as why it had happened if he hadn‘t done anything.

So it didn‘t come up.

No, it didn‘t come up. What‘s more, and I think this can easily happen in a situation like this, my father was talked about at home as someone that we looked up to. He was absent and we missed him.

Did you miss him too?

Of course I did. After all every child in the street but me had a father.

And did your friends ask questions? Did it come up with them why you didn‘t have a father?

It must have come up, but I can‘t remember things like that. The children I played with at the time knew that my father wasn‘t living at home. But it wasn‘t a subject for conversation.

How did life go on whilst your father was in prison?

I was eight months old when my father was taken in. I was told I‘d slept through the whole house search and the arrest, so he couldn‘t even have said goodbye to me. Then my mother was dismissed from her job and it was very hard for her to find another one. Unfortunately she became ill as well as time went by. She was ill a lot, which made it even more difficult for her to work. The other problem we had was that I wasn‘t accepted in a crèche or a nursery school.

What reason was given for refusing you?

Lack of space. That covered everything, but the obvious reason was that they didn‘t want others infected by a child like me. So there was this pretty insoluble problem-a little baby that needed looking after, but a need to work, because you have to live somehow. Then my grandmother moved in with us. In the end, she was the one who held the family together, as my mother was often sick and in hospital a lot. But Mum worked when she could, so what happened was there were three or four ladies in the block who weren‘t working and each of them had a key to our flat. So Mum would feed me nicely in the morning, then leave me there in the cot and the ladies would come over during the day and change my nappy, and feed me; they all kept an eye on me. So actually, in the first three years, I was brought up by the block-one person or another popping in or taking me round to her place. It was also natural whenever cakes were baked anywhere in the block on a Sunday for us to get some. I felt that love later as well. Everyone saw me a little like a child of their own. Though another factor was certainly that my father was the only one from that area to be given a longer sentence because of ‚56, and so we were helped by anyone who wanted to compensate for any feelings they might have in that regard. And of course, children aren‘t treated badly in any case, and I really didn‘t feel mistreated. Some people didn‘t show any solidarity, but they didn‘t treat me particularly badly either.

Where did your mother work in that period?

She finally managed to find a job in a food shop in the next street, which was good, because she could run home quite often, and in fact I could even wave to her from in front of our block.

And your grandmother?

My grandmother worked in town at the electrical trading enterprise, Villért. She‘d only get home in the afternoon. So as I say, I grew up as everyone‘s child until the age of three. Then we found an elderly childless couple through acquaintances and they took me on. If things turned out that way, I might be with them for weeks or months on end, but there were times when I got home every night. I lived with the couple, for instance, when my mother was in hospital and my grandmother was working. They had a garden plot out of town as well, where we‘d go in May and stay till September. Even later, when I was nine and my father had been released from prison, I‘d go there after school and come home in the evening. They loved me and brought me up like their own child, so I‘m grateful to them. They‘re both dead now. The man was a pharmacist in Csepel and his wife didn‘t work. They both came from Transylvania; they‘d settled in Budapest during the war. Oddly enough, we had the same surname. They were Tibor Lukács and his wife Aunt Edit.

Did you have a religious upbringing?

There were difficulties about this as I‘d been christened a Catholic like my father, but my family on my mother‘s side were all Reformed. So when my father was taken in, I was left at the age of six months as the only Catholic in a Reformed family. But my mother, and I see her integrity in this too, didn‘t want her Catholic child to be raised a Calvinist. So she didn‘t have me converted or take me to her church services, but there was no one to take me to the Catholic church either. In the end, I was taught to have faith in God and I learnt the Lord‘s Prayer, because that‘s the same for both. But I only got Catholic religious instruction after my father came home.

At home, did they talk about your father being in prison?

It was talked about every day. So much so that if I got some chocolate, for instance, the first thing was don‘t touch it, we‘ll put it away for your father, because we could send a parcel to the prison from time to time. You couldn‘t send chocolate as such, of course, but it could be baked into the bread. If we got hold of something tasty, we‘d put it aside, just in case we found a way to send it to him. Or if we saw something, then it would be well, we‘ll all have to come here together sometime. It was part of the fabric of our lives. And sometimes when I was gazing at something in a toyshop window and thinking how nice it would be, my mother would say straight out, „My dear girl, there‘s no money for that now. We need the money we have just to survive.“ And I also remember my father buying me books with the money he earned inside, and sending me fairy stories for my birthday or Christmas. I still have those books.

Thinking back, what were your living conditions like in those years?

I think they must have been hard, but I didn‘t feel deprived at the time. Perhaps I was brought up not to want more than I could have. People around us didn‘t live much better either, the differences weren‘t striking.

What other significant memories do you have of the time before your father‘s release?

I remember being visited by some fellow prisoners of his who‘d been released earlier. I still remember one or two. For instance, there was a Catholic priest who‘d been inside with him and he came to see us quite often after his release. I remember getting a teddy bear from him, and I called it Fábián, as his name was István Fábián.

Did he talk to you about your father?

He must have done, but I don‘t have specific memories of it. I just remember him visiting and the great yellow church in Soroksár where we went to see him once. Other people sent letters with news of how my father had been when they were released. I should also mention the family of a fellow prisoner, László Takács, who‘d been chairman of the Ganz workers‘ council, and they lived in the area too. He was imprisoned as well and his wife was bringing up four children. She took me in as a fifth from time to time. I still keep in touch with their children.

I know from my parents‘ letters that my father‘s old workmates from Ganz sent various sums of money to us under various pseudonyms. I never heard of any such help coming from my mother‘s old colleagues, though. I shouldn‘t say this, it‘s not very nice, but we got more help from outsiders than we did from relatives. Some of our relatives thought it far from a good thing to have a brother-in-law or uncle or whatever with a past like that.

So you were six when your father got out.

Yes, six, but still not at school, as I hadn‘t reached the 20 kg you needed to be the first class. That was lucky in this case, because they‘d have had to write in the records at school things that would have caused me problems later. It was definitely an advantage that I had a father by the time I started school. It was pretty hard for him to find a job, but at least I started school as a completely standard child on paper.

What school was that?

It school wasn‘t a very fortunate choice. It was the model elementary school attached to the teachers‘ training college. It was chosen for two reasons. One that I would only have to cross one road, so I could just be accompanied to the corner. The other was that teaching in most schools was done in two shifts, but this school only had morning teaching, because of the teaching practice. What I didn‘t like about the school, though, was the strange, elite atmosphere. It was a gathering place for the gentry, or rather for children of the newly rich. I didn‘t fit into that picture. I didn‘t fit into the school in my behaviour or the mentality I brought from home. The teacher in the first class was a nice kind woman, a first-rate teacher, the kind people remember. But she passed us on at the end of the first year to the wife of an army officer. I don‘t know whether she knew about my past or not, but it can‘t be ruled out.

Did you notice her discriminating against you?

I felt it pretty well continually over the three years I was under her. For instance, the class had to vote for two pupils to stand by the flag to represent the class at a function. I was a pretty promising child with a big mouth, so I was one of the ones elected, but the teacher decided that I wasn‘t pretty enough to stand there and represent the class. That‘s how she put it! I was often quite upset by things like that, but what really sticks in my throat is something that happened at the end of the fourth year at a Pioneer camp in the summer. Every evening, the ones who‘d been clever, hard-working and good that day got to stand by the flag as it was raised. Well I‘d taken on lots of things, done everything on the day, when it was our team‘s turn, to stand by the flag. And the teacher‘s daughter got to stand there instead!

Did you talk about these things to your parents?

I told them about it. My father used to say these weren‘t things of real value. I didn‘t need to win the approval of these people. Everything was all right if you knew yourself that you‘d done well. That reassured me, as my father had authority in my eyes, I accepted that he was right. And even at the time, I realized he‘d been in a situation like that and he‘d accepted it, and he hadn‘t tried to win everyone‘s approval. And anyway, my father took the view that school was my problem. So he didn‘t go in and interfere, whatever insults I received.

How did family life change after your father was released?

Financially, I don‘t recall any problems, or any great leap forward either. So I can‘t say our lives suddenly became wonderful after my father got out. It took him quite a long time to find a job, and I assume when he did, he wasn‘t paid very well. Later my mother got into Hungarian Television as a senior broadcaster, but that wasn‘t a particularly well-paid job either. So in fact our standard of living was modest, but stable. Those were the good years, before Mum became too ill, but after my father had come home from jail. I remember family holidays and outings-being together, in fact.

Tell us more about your mother.

Unfortunately I don‘t have many memories of my mother, because she died so young. I was still in high school. As far as I remember, she was a tough, strong-willed, persistent woman in spite of her ailments, with a warm heart, good humour and unbroken cheerfulness.

What about your relationship with your father?

My father had always wanted a girl, but he brought me up pretty well as a boy. I was amenable to that, so it wasn‘t hard for him. Later on, about the time I was in the sixth grade, it started bothering me that he wanted me to go around looking like a boy as well. I started to rebel against that and grew my hair down to my waist. My father‘s own past with the Pioneers meant we went on a lot of trips, climbing hills, and we did water sports from the time I was ten. I can‘t say I had a life like other girls of my age, playing with dolls. Instead I tried archery and rowing. I really enjoyed that, and he was pleased to have found a companion. We got on really well together.

Can you remember when your father first talked about the part he‘d played in ‚56, and what prison had been like?

No. I don‘t remember any great explanations. That was just part of our lives. I got to know more detail as I grew up and I came across this and that in the flat. My father always told me just as much as necessary. He‘d always answer my questions. I remember-I must have been an adolescent by then-when the question of the 180 days‘ solitary confinement came up. That put me out for days. I was appalled and I felt utterly sorry for him. I tried to imagine myself in that situation. I thought I‘d have found it unbearable. Later on, though, Mum gave me the letters he‘d written from prison. These were a great joyful surprise to me, as I got to know the side of my father as a husband, a man of deep feeling, concerned about his wife and loving his family. I read the letters several times over, and I had the secret messages in them explained to me as well.

He didn‘t explain of his own accord the part he‘d played in ‚56?

No, he didn‘t.

Why not, I wonder?

I don‘t know. When I asked him a few years ago why he hadn‘t told me a lot of things, he replied that wanted to be able to talk about them later. I wouldn‘t have understood anyway as a child, but in time I was able to grasp what had happened. He always said just as much as necessary. I don‘t think he wanted to talk about it much. Perhaps he didn‘t want me getting some heroic picture or he didn‘t want to cause me problems, perhaps. I don‘t know, but he‘d just answer questions. Always honestly. I once asked him if he‘d borne arms in the revolution and he told me he hadn‘t, in fact, he had been careful never to have a weapon on him, so he couldn‘t be accused of that. I was reassured, as it would have bothered me a lot if it had turned out my father had killed people. I asked him a lot about prison life. What did they do? Had they really not allowed them out to the cinema? As time went by, the questions became more serious. He always answered those too, but he never dramatized. He probably told me things that satisfied my curiosity at the time, but didn‘t upset me unduly.

Let‘s go back to your elementary school years.

The model school only did four grades, so everybody had to move on. I got into a new elementary school they were building in Kiss János altábornagy utca, and luckily only one or two of my old classmates moved there. The rest went on to some more time-honoured establishment. Well, I felt better in that school, the company was more suited to me. I became a good student and into everything I could be. The only trouble with the school was the desire to set a high standard as a new school, particularly as our class teacher was the school party secretary.

Did the class teacher know of your father‘s past?

He probably did, but he didn‘t make me aware of it particularly. I think he saw me as someone he had to shape to his own image and ideas. The first time I amazed them was in the fifth. The class was one of average ability, and then we started learning Russian. And somehow or other I managed to learn the Cyrillic script pretty quick. That really attracted the attention of the Russian teacher and the class teacher. My name appeared in the school records adorned with a big, red F, meaning I was the child of a manual worker-my father was a machine fitter at the time-so a family visit was called for, to make sure I wasn‘t the child of some déclassé element after all, for how come this child could already read Russian by October?

Didn‘t they think the child of a manual worker was capable of it?

There must have been something like that behind it. I remember the visit. My parents explained what it was all about, why they were coming, why that red F was there, who and what we are, and how the school teaching was based on a different ideology from ours.

Did it cause you any conflict having the school ideology differ from what you heard at home?

That wasn‘t a problem as I never really took that other upbringing seriously. That was them, and we lived by another system. I was going to religious instruction by then and attending church, so as with everybody else, the two existed side by side. But this helped to bring it to light that our family had noble origins, which was a surprise and a cause for some pride. I was awfully pleased as a ten year old living under the spell of history and romance. Here am I, Krisztina Radnóti Lukách, along with my ancestors.

What do you know about these noble origins?

There was a János Lukách, court supplier to Emperor Leopold, who was ennobled for it. The family originally came from the South, as shown by the cs sound being written ch in our name. Later they moved to Upper Northern Hungary, hence the middle name Radnóti [„of Radnót“-a location name was a mark of nobility]. The family lived in Besztercebánya [Banská Bystrica] for a long time and played a big part in Szepes County.

Let‘s get back to your dual upbringing.

One manifestation of it in the previous school was being asked one day to stand up if we attended religious instruction. Two of us stood up. I didn‘t really see the others at religious instruction.

Was there any discrimination over that?

Not openly. I don‘t know why I did badly there and if it was because of that, but things of that kind certainly happened. In the other school they were more subtle about it, saying things like „Anyone different is stupid“ or „You don‘t actually believe what they teach you in church, do you?“ I remember, for instance, our party-secretary class teacher making a rather strong onslaught at Christmas time. It had nothing to do with Baby Jesus, he said, it was Yule we celebrated enthusiastically in class. He preferred to get round us on an ideological basis. There were 28 in the class, and not one other child attended religious instruction, at least as far as I know. The important thing was the way I was brought up, with the secret that my father had been in prison, which we didn‘t talk about unless it was absolutely necessary. Of course, if I was asked straight out I admitted it, but I didn‘t volunteer the information, saying please sir, this is what I‘m like.

Did your parents tell you to be secretive or was it automatic?

I think my parents told me I didn‘t have to stress this. If anyone asked, all right, you can admit it, but you don‘t have to emphasize it. When it came to going to church, though, we were definitely told, „Children, we don‘t talk about this outside.“

And the same applied to your father‘s role in ‚56?

Yes, I never told my contemporaries voluntarily. For one thing, they knew nothing at all about ‚56 and weren‘t interested. With adults, there was uncertainly, which I‘d learnt at home and elsewhere, so why start on about it? Of course people in our street knew about it, even the children, but I don‘t remember them going so far as to ask questions. But it was a positive thing among those we were in contact with us, and something I had a right to be proud of, or even be considered heroic.

You must have other memories of the time after your father was released.

For instance, a couple we were friends with who also had an only child came over one New Year‘s Eve. My father was still under police surveillance at the time, which I think meant that he couldn‘t go out after eight in the evening and he couldn‘t leave Budapest. So at half past ten on New Year‘s Eve, a uniformed policeman rang the doorbell. I remember it so clearly because I was the one who opened the door. I was scared and ran inside saying there‘s a policeman here asking if Father‘s at home. The same happened other evenings as well. It was startling and I was scared by it.

But the point is, and it‘s to my parents‘ credit, that they could explain all this and resolve it for me, just as they could my father‘s role in ‚56, and then the prison years and other consequences, without it leaving me with any permanent scars to this day. Only now as an adult do I understood what faith and endurance my mother showed in seeing all this through. I was born into it, I lived in it, I didn‘t question it, and I couldn‘t imagine things being different. I later heard that things were different with a lot of people. All I saw at home was honest commitment. The idea that my father could have chosen another path didn‘t come up until I was in secondary school. I even asked him why he hadn‘t gone abroad, then all this might have been avoided. He replied that he had to be here. I was happy with that, and in time I realized how good it was for me to live here, and how good it was that we‘d stayed behind. And I also realized how pleased I was that my father was such a great guy and had stayed at home and accepted things.

So you finally completed elementary school.

Yes. I‘d had a stormy time in the eighth grade when I had to hand in my application to continue studying. We chose the Szentendre Franciscan Gymnasium for three reasons. One was defiance.

So you were pig-headed already?

No, I don‘t think so, but I was up for it at once, all right, let‘s do it. Another reason was that the church schools had a good reputation even then. And the third was that we had no idea whether I‘d be accepted for a Budapest gymnasium. I was a good B student. And my father‘s past wasn‘t reckoned a disadvantage in a church school, more a guarantee. So I applied for Szentendre. And then the bomb went off! I was the first pupil to humiliate that new elementary school. The headmaster called my father in and he and my class teacher tried to talk him out of it. „You‘re ruining the child‘s future, and she‘s an intelligent child. Don‘t do something like that. We‘ll pull strings so she gets her in wherever she wants, just don‘t bring this shame down upon us.“ But my father wouldn‘t budge. Then the next attack came. „In any case, the child won‘t be able to cope with travelling to Szentendre every day; it‘s a pity to send her there.“ In fact there were years when the child didn‘t miss a single day at Szentendre. Though I have to say there were those some who drew me to their breast and kissed me on both cheeks-finally someone who dares to do such a thing! So however much they didn‘t like it, we handed in the application halfway through my eighth grade, in 1971. I was stripped of my Pioneer scarf at a general meeting because I‘d lied and I wasn‘t worthy to be a Pioneer.

What was it like with the Franciscans?

I loved that school. The teachers were good and the buildings were friendly-a real country school with an oiled floor and an iron stove. It was a semi-boarding system, so we spent the whole day there. There were lessons in the morning, then lunch, then a study period or sports in the afternoon. It was a very progressive, enlightened school, even then. The Franciscans are noted for their love of life and nature, so there was nothing at the school of the kind church schools are accused of, particularly today, of providing a bigoted, bleak, guilt-ridden education. We lived the normal life of young people of our age. We had summer camps. The school defined a lot of the things in my life. That was the time my mother fell ill and died. It was pretty hard to carry on just with my father. Mum‘s absence was hard to bear, but the school supported me.

I had a very good history teacher, a Salesian monk, who was enthusiastic and made history very clear and exciting. It was partly his influence and partly I think my own disposition that drew me strongly towards history. I passed my school-leaving certificate in ‚75, but my teachers all said and it was obvious that it was going to be impossible for a church school student to become a historian, even with 21 marks out of 20.

Let‘s stay with the gymnasium years a bit longer. They must have known about your father‘s past.

Yes, my class teacher knew. He came to visit and it came up at once how he‘d been a prisoner of war with the Russians, so they started to share experiences. And these things had to be discussed because of the nature of the school. Neither ‚56 nor other events could be taboo. There was no problem about talking to my classmates, so it was liberating in that sense. The other liberating feeling was that we could be religious. Perhaps that‘s why I‘m happy to think back on my schooldays there, because there was nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, everyone could admit their parents‘ past, even their convictions. It dawned on me that what we see and hear isn‘t true. We didn‘t have to study a subject called „the basis of our world view“, so in vogue at the time. We had religious instruction instead. But the diligence of our teachers made sure we had the book, so we knew that these things existed as well and we talked about them.

Did you have friends outside school as well?

Of course, through church. I was 14 when I took my first communion. We applied in March and I learnt in a fortnight what the others had been doing since September, as I liked the religious instruction book so much. And from then on you couldn‘t keep me away! I really got involved in the parish community from my seventh school year onwards. It became possible then for girls to dress in ministrant‘s robes and act as a server to the priest. There was a very good parish priest too, who loved us and knew how to handle children. I loved being there. My life was defined by the school and the church.

What was your relationship with your parents like?

Very good. My classmates and my friends at church were envious because I was much freer than they were. I wasn‘t told what time I had to get home or whether I could go here or there. No one checked on me, no one phoned round after me. One reason was that my mother was ill by then and in hospital a lot, but another was that my father trusted me. He knew I wouldn‘t go to the wrong places or do the wrong things. I remember him telling me just not to do anything I couldn‘t tell him about. But apart from that, I had complete freedom. I can‘t say I never got a thick ear for failing to mention I‘d be staying out. But that was only because they were worried, because they were expecting me, at two, say, and I still wasn‘t home by a quarter to six. But I was never called to account on moral grounds, like being asked why I‘d gone there or why with those people.

After getting your school-leaving certificate, where did you apply?

I‘d had to give up the idea of history, but I liked languages, so I took a course in foreign tourism at the Catering College. That was in ‚75. I remember at the entrance exam the kisz [Communist Youth League] secretary being indignant that I wasn‘t a member and I had no mind to join.

How did you justify not wanting to join kisz?

I said I‘d never been a member, I didn‘t know what kisz entailed, and I‘d prefer to get to know it from outside and then decide whether to join.

A diplomatic answer.

That was my gymnasium training. They couldn‘t find fault with my answer. Later, when they were agitating for people to join the [communist] party my reply was that I didn‘t feel mature enough, I was a slow developer.

How sly! Tell us about your college years.

There were about 120 of us starting the year. The three of us from church schools soon found out about each other and got on very well. Then in the second half of the first year, I was elected representative for my year, and I was given a choice: the office could only be held by a member of kisz. Well another family principle learnt from my father was to be useful where I could, so I thought I could be more useful doing this well and honestly than by resigning on principle, so I signed the application for kisz.

I don‘t think anyone at the college could have known about my father‘s past. It was a long time ago by then, and we had no personal links with the teachers. The fellow students that I made friends with knew, of course, and with the others, the matter never came up.

I only felt my church school background was a disadvantage on two occasions. My college record book had the name of the gymnasium that issued the school-leaving certificate written on the first page. Examiners liked to leaf through the record book while you were answering, and once in a philosophy exam, the examiner announced, „I see you‘re not saying this with conviction“-he was quite right- „so I can only give you a C grade.“ I never knew that conviction meant two extra grades. So I wept my heart out. And once in a maths test, when I dared to complain that the number of points I had was worth an extra grade, the reply was that I should be pleased to be admitted to the college at all. There was a pretty good group and I liked going there. I liked the tourism subjects, but the catering skills weren‘t really my strong point. I‘d managed to pass two language proficiency exams too at school, in Russian and English. I also got the guide‘s exam and I graduated from the college with distinction in ‚78.

Then I applied to be a trainee with Cooptourist and I was accepted, but I left before the trial period was up, from mutual dislike, and got into Budapest Tourist instead. There I spent 13 years. Working as a network inspector gave me insight into every side of tourism and I could move about freely. We just went in for a morning meeting and then made off for the city or even the countryside. It was great. With a job like that I was able to complete a correspondence university course in economics. Then I was promoted to internal inspector, supervising financial activities and regular payments, and it was a good chance to learn the life of the company. Finally, in 1987, I became manager of the inspection department. This caused a few problems as I wasn‘t a member of the party. They tried to persuade me to join, but I said I‘d leave that until I felt worthy of it. So it was left at that; it was just a passing fancy, really.

Were there other times in your life when you were urged to join the party?

No. But that reminds me of something else. When I joined Budapest Tourist in 1979, I had to hand in a CV, of course, and the second sentence read, „I continued my studies at the Szentendre Franciscan High School.“ The personnel officer then gave me some good advice if I wanted an easy life: never write that in my CV again, just say I‘d completed my secondary-school studies. So that‘s what I wrote emphatically afterwards in every CV. It cleared up a lot of things right from the start. Everyone knew what to do and no explanations were needed. In the end, I spent years at Budapest Tourist without any drawbacks, with good work mates and interesting work. I liked working there, but I eventually left in December 1990. For one thing, the firm‘s situation was becoming uncertain-it was expected to turn into a public company and the prospects were uncertain. For another thing, schools were starting religious education and the job of organizing and shaping this was done by the Budapest Religious Instruction Inspectorate, where I‘d been working for years as a volunteer.

How did you get involved in that?

We‘ll have to go back a few years again. I became involved with ministrants in the church in 1970, and ended up staying with them. In 1976, the year after I finished school, I was asked to lead a children‘s group. This first task of mine wasn‘t too successful, I‘m afraid, as I had to take over a children‘s choir. Me, who can‘t sing! Though we did stay together for two years. I‘ve always had groups since. The present ones are in the sixth grade, and they‘ll be my last.

Why?

You have to give up everything sooner or later. But as I dealt with children more and more, it occurred to me that I‘d like to teach religious instruction. I hadn‘t previously had a chance to do that, but times have changed since and I underwent training as a religious instructor. In 1989, I began teaching religion in our parish and I still enjoy teaching it today. While I was training as a religious instructor, I came into contact with the director of the Budapest Religious Instruction Inspectorate and I helped him with several things in later years. So when the chance came for them to employ a full-timer who had an inkling of business matters and a familiarity with religious instruction, I was the choice. I went there in January 1991.

What did it involve?

Organizing religious instruction in schools for the area of Esztergom diocese that was part of the capital, which was a big section of Budapest at the time. According to the act on religious education in schools, the school (elementary or secondary) can provide time and a venue for religious instruction according to demand, but the church has to organize it, including recruitment of applicants, holding lessons, and professional supervision. The work was also interesting to me as an economist. It meant setting up a firm, and it was interesting to hear the experiences gleaned by the religious instructors then joining schools. That lasted for a year. For one thing, I couldn‘t get on with my boss, and for another, things operated on a business basis: there was wage accounting to consider.

So where did you go then?

It doesn‘t matter what platitude we use-everything hangs together, or there‘s no such thing as coincidence-but in the course of my work I came into contact with the Catholic children‘s paper Aranyág. Since then I‘ve been writing for them regularly and we have a good relationship. They told me the Ministry of Culture was looking for an economist. I applied for the job and got it. I started work in January 1992. My field as an economist is public education, which I‘m happy with, and I enjoy myself.

We haven‘t talked about your private life yet.

My private life is filled with taking part in church events and things involved with religious education, on a parish level, and to some extent on a national one, through Aranyág and as a member of the editorial board of the religious instruction review. I always get involved with more significant initiatives of that sort and I try to be active. And so as not to be just a theorist, I give religious instruction three times a week. And at one time I was an enthusiastic and active member of the Ráday City Preservation Association as a photographer. I‘ve even had photos in exhibitions.

We‘re coming to an end.

Yes, maybe I haven‘t met up to your expectations.

Why would you think that?

I haven‘t painted a picture of someone under persecution. Due to my totally natural acceptance at home and to a strongly positive attitude, I don‘t think I‘ve been left with marks of pain or damage. If I‘ve had any benefit from it, if that‘s what it can be called, then it‘s been spiritual benefit, giving me direction in my life. This provided me with persistence and strength to have a family and parents who coped with that and achieved what they did honestly, so I mustn‘t do any less. And I definitely possess the strength and hold of this and it‘s helped me with many things. As a child, I didn‘t notice our financial constraints or disadvantaged circumstances. Thinking back on them now, I accept them as natural. So I have no psychological conflicts to deal with now about why things were like that then.

 

The original interview by Zsuzsanna Kőrösi in 1994 has been edited by her.