My grandfathers stories...

In the old days, just after the world war two, Bratislava (Pozsony, Pressburg) was a city that spoke three languages: German, Hungarian and Slovak. It was a mixed population because Austrians (who speak German) and Hungarians ruled the country before the first world war, and Slovaks after the war. He was telling a lot of short stories, about his friends who spoke all those three languages perfectly. As good, that he could even interpret jokes... It became a measurement for me to decide how good one can speak foreign languages + how quick someone's mind can improvise...

One of the stories he told us, and left on me the biggest impression was from his childhood. Once an airplane was shot down above his village. He was a teenager during the WWII. He went to the site and saw the wreck. The pilot was not able to catapult out of the plane anymore. He saw a long bloody, brainy line which leaded to a haystack, with the remains of the dead body. He never forgot the site.

In another story he told about the socialistic Slovakia. He studied as a dentist in Bratislava. He met my grandmother there, and they fell in love. After he finished the university he wanted to practice as a dentist near his hometown, where he had his friends, family and the Hungarian community. There is still a huge Hungarian community in the south of Slovakia.
A way to try to assimilate Hungarians at that time was to send the educated people as far away as possible. He was assigned a working place in the middle of Slovakia, as he went to ask for a different place he was transferred even further away. So he went there to work, and traveled back every weekend to my grandmother. He traveled half a year there and back, just to be with my grandmother.
As usually in the socialism corruption was the right way. My grandmother went to the office a thousand times, when her father finally gave her money. She put the money on the table, when a stranger came in out of the door and put some files on the money (coincidence?). She then hoped, that the bribe was successful. And it was. It took another bribe for my grandfather to get at the place he wanted, but those are only details... His strong will gave him what he needed, as in so many stories.

He had also a lot of stories about spies. One of the ways socialism held its power was, that you could never know who is a spy from your friends. The secret police could come to you any time, interrogate you on a false suspect and send you to Siberia to work (only a few people came back from there, and no one knew how long their going to be there) or make you a spy (=informer) also. As an informer you had to write down, what you were talking about with some specified people. There was no need in this system to have a lot of informers, the knowledge, that they were some made the people very suspicious to others. He told a story about losing some of his friends to the system.

In my mind he will live on as a strong man, who knew what he wanted, and acted upon that. His life was defined by his work, it managed to let him live on. He understood the people, and had a lot of friends. He loved his nationality, his hometown, his family. He was a good man.

on the 13.September 2008, in the age of 78 years, my grandfather died of lung cancer. May he rest in peace, next to the God, he believed so strong in his life.