Grave robbers in Kunszentmiklos

Don’t even try to pronounce it. It’s a sleepy little town on the puszta, in eastern Hungary. My fraternal grandparents and my father grew up there. I visited there last summer in the worst heat wave.

Heat wave in Budapest is intensified by the presence of the many stones and bricks, but here on the plains, it’s the earth that holds the heat, it’s the earth that exhales it on you as you walk. Your face burns, it’s a relentless heat, with no wind to lift the spirit.

First I thought I’d stay in this little town four days, breathe in the town’s past and present. I’ll do some good and then come home. My gay cousin Andy was driving me, bless his soul. We hooked up with Zoltan Nemeth, a local folk historian, who knew everything about the old families, mine included. He took me to the dusty cemetery, and showed me where my grandfather was buried in the middle of the night so the commies wouldn’t know where, but the gravediggers knew, “that’s where the Governor is buried.” The gravediggers passed this knowledge down to each other.

It made total sense. Grandfather was a famous man, a beloved governor, he did a lot for the poor, his deeds somehow ended up posthumously on the internet, and Zoltan suggested to rename a street after him in Kunszentmiklos which to that time was named after a communist long gone.

First the town voted yes.

This fact also landed on the internet, where my cousin who is a big Nerd found it and told me about it. This fact is really what got me to go back, to witness old grandfather’s street. By the time I arrived they had changed their minds; it was too expensive to change the street signs, and addresses of people who lived on it, so maybe the only good that came from it that it took me back to my ancestral home.

Now this is a town with no hotels, only one restaurant, but when I stepped out of the car, in spite of the heat, I was captivated. There was a feeling, strong and convincing, that I had been here before. Of course I was. When I was 4 years old I lived in a big old ancient home with grandfather and his nurse for six months. Half of my genes came from here. My strong body, shoulders, grew here, like the poplars.
All I recalled from this time there was a big wooden table, where he held many meetings, but also served as a dining hall. I would sit there all alone, a little girl, drinking my milk and eating my bread. Alone looking at the huge paintings of the puszta that grandfather had painted. The horned blond cattle, gemeskut(well), a dog. And the huge expanse of the land. No trees. Just grassland.

My hands cupped around my plate, (to this day I have to catch myself to stop it) protecting my food, but there was nobody else in the room.
Back then the concept of childcare was not invented yet. I was left there by my father because they had no food in the city. Postwar conditions, you know.

Grandfather was isolated from me by his nurse, whom he later did marry. She was only there for him, I was just like the cattle, gave me food and drink, open the door and let me roam the small town. Well that’s when I wandered about in Kunszentmiklos. Everybody knew who I was. If I got lost, they took me home. Or if they found me near sundown.

There was an artesian well in front of the ancient home, and I still recall its taste and smell. It was a dark brew, full of minerals, mostly iron. It stank a little, but I got used to it.

Much later, another time, when I was nine years old, my father came down south with me, and we visited the swimming pool filled with the artesian water. I already had many swimming lessons which didn’t work. On this occasion my father just tossed me in to the pool like lint off his collar, and after my first burst of feelings of total betrayal, I started swimming. Swimming is still my most joyous activity.

The swimming pool is still there. Much smaller of course then I remembered it. A nice long soak in its warm section and a long nap in spite of the lingering swine poop smell that was wafting to my room from the nearby farm. Deep rest. A kind of homecoming.

I was feeling fuzzy and loving, came downstairs to meet my host Gabor Szekely. I was staying in his home for 3ooo forints a night.
This man was a collector of 1848 stuff, when we had a huge big revolution against the Hapsburgs. Hungary averages a revolution per century. Somebody always needs to to be knocked off our back.

I didn’t know you could make a living from 1848 stuff, but he proved that there was good money in it. He had lots of artifacts, especially Petofi Memorabilia, a great poet and hero like Elvis in the USA.
Mr Szekely uncorked a bottle of locally brewed wine. It tasted like the puszta, easy to go down, burned your soul once swallowed.
I am not drinking anymore, but I do make exceptions, and we had a glass. I was looking forward to some intelligent conversation.
But instead as he got loaded slowly his talk went more and more against feminism, women in general and women in particular. A lot of rage was in this man.

Now long ago I made myself a promise, and one should never break an agreement with oneself, that in my presence I will not tolerate any anti-woman talk. No sexism will go unchallenged in my presence.
I started defending my sex against him, still thinking there is a good man inside, not a sexist pig. Oink oink. But I was wrong. It came to a huge shouting match, (my voice had been trained to public speaking) and I finally stormed out of the kitchen. He was hopeless and I was done with him. He finished his bottle, alone, cussing in the dark.
I would have packed up my stuff and left his house, but there was nowhere to go, I had no car. There are no taxis in Kunszentmiklos day or night.
Next day my cousin came to pick me up and I stayed with him in Kalocsa.

Now, about the grave robbing…
In mid -April this year this same sexist pig guy who knows everybody from way back, he “owns” the small town, somehow managed to open a grave from a local hero from 1848. His favorite collecting year. This turned out to be the hero Gedeon Virag, one of my ancestors five generations removed. I was descended directly from his sister Cecilia who was my great great grandmother. I am the only living descendent once again.

Zoltan notified me and told me how Gabor stood at the grave as it was opened. Zoltan asked me to protest in a letter to the Police and the County, because these graves are protected. I have done so. Today I got a letter from my cousin that my letters have stirred up huge waves at the police station. I wonder if they will even answer the letters.
I don’t know what else I can do from here, but in the old country there is far more then swine poop stinking. Robbing graves is a sin against the dead, and it brings bad fortune. I told them so. I demanded to know by what authority did they open the graves and why?
I could see old Mr Szekely paying off the local police chief to let him have a peek at my ancestors’ burial outfit. I bet he was after Gedeon’s sword. That would fetch a nice sum. Next time I am home and travel south, I may get a glimpse of the stuff he pulled off Uncle Gedeon’s back.
I shall continue writing about this disgrace, this is my only power, publicity.