Today might be one the most fulfilling, insightful and emotional days of my life. This is not hyperbole. This is the truth!
Beata came to meet me around 4 pm. We walked over to the cafe, it's across the street from the Opera house on Andrassy, called Muvesz Kavezo and waited. Beata was out of cigarrettes, so she ran to get some. Just as she does so, I see the big man with the moustache, his wife and a younger woman. It's them. They look around. They see me and it's immediate -- we're family.
We hug, we kiss, we all tear up. Like real tears, the kind you simply can't hold back and don't feel bad about letting go. They brought me flowers and flowers for Beata too. We kiss and hug some more. We can't stop looking at each other. Agoston and I have the same blue eyes.
Agoston is big, but not fat at all. He's 55. Tall and thick, but in no way fat. Just very big. His wife, Erzebet (Elizabeth) is lovely. So beautiful. They brought their daughter, Clari, she's my age and very pretty and spoke a little english. Beata returns and we all sit down. My camera rolls.
They brought with them a package of photos and letters and certificates of birth, death and marriage. Every photo made me cry. My hand shook as I picked them up. A new batch of fresh tears every single time. There's pictures of my grandma, Valeria, so young and so unbelievable pretty. Her sister, Margit, 5 years older than her, another knock-out. This is Agoston's mother. He's my mother's cousin, so he's my first cousin, once removed. He and Erzebet have 3 children, and 5 grandchildren (two of which are still in the womb!)
There's photos of my grandfather, Istvan Martonhegyi, so handsome and young. Strong. A true Hungarian freedom-fighter. There's photos of my mother, from ages 4 through 17. Pictures of my mom's brother, my uncle Peter, from 3 - 16 years old. Pictures of my grandfather when after he came to America and his new wife, Christa, my Oma (whom my mother did not get along with, and you can see it in the photos!)
There's letters my grandmother wrote her own mother, that Beata translated and read to me. In one she said "I'm so very ill and think I will die soon."
There's letters my grandfather Istvan wrote to his deceased wife's family back in Hungary. About once a year, based on the post marks. Some Christmas cards, often with photos. To see their own handwriting is to see the history of my own strange and elegant cursive. He calls his in-laws "mother and father" and asks them to send him the sport section of the Hungarian newspapers. He gives little details about my mother and uncle Pete here and there. "Vali has a car now. Peter is working."
There's a photo of my great grandparents and their 3 children (Margit, Istvan and Valeria). It's like a portal back in time. To look at my great-grandfather's face is to see Agoston. To look at my great-aunt Margit is to see there daughter. To look at my grandma is to see me.
Beata did me such an incredible service by translating. She helped me so much, I can't think there's anything I can ever do to truly repay her. But I know she loves pastries, so she's going to get the BEST I can find in Budapest.
Agoston told me, with a red, tear-streaked face, that I have made him so happy by finding him and being here and it has changed his life. Both of us crying, we couldn't help but get up and hug and kiss each other some more. I could not agree more with those sentiments. My life is forever changed, for the better.
We talked of many things. How every weekend on Saturdays, he, his sister (Zsuzsa, who is now 57 and suffers badly from MS), his mother, Margit and Father, Agoston and my great-grandparents would meet at my grandmother's grave. Every Saturday for over ten years.
I asked how Agoston and Erzebet met. They asked about me and my mom (Vali). I talked about my sisters and all our accomplishments. And that I have a Polish father. And they laughed at that with good nature.
I told him the story my mom told me on the phone today. That one of her first memories is sleeping over at her grandparent's house, in the bed with them and they snored all night and frightened her!
We laughed, we cried, we got to know each other and communicated beyond the language barrier. This is only the first day we'll have with each other, the first meeting of many to come.
They invited mom and to stay with them when we come next year. I invited them to the US. I'm sure in our lives we'll cross the ocean many times to see each other.
There's no one else left. Everyone has passed except for Agoston and his sister. Agoston's children keep the Garai family name alive, but Kiraly and Martonhegyi are fewer and fewer. (Kiraly is Valeria and Margit's maiden names, Margit married into the Garai name). My great-grandmother was the last survivor of the older generation, she died at 91, having outlived all of her children and her husband.
Finally, they brought a photo of my grandmother for me to keep. And for this, my heart is full of emotion and gratitude, so much so that I can barely type through the tears. She is so lovely and amazing. I'm so sorry she died so young and that through her death, much of her/my family spread apart. But time is not something I will dwell upon or fixate over. The present is much more important and astonishing. Agoston and Erzebet met me, a stranger, with more compassion, kindness and care than I would have ever imagined. They said they would scan/copy all the photos/documents they have and even come to my art opening at
Mucius Gallery, here in Budapest, on August 5th!
If I do nothing else this residency, my journey to find my grandmother's grave has been so incredibly fortunate and profound that I can live and sleep soundly even if my footage sucks and my life as an artist is in some limbo sphere. I came here to begin the research for my film, to find Valeria's grave and in return I have accomplished so much more. I found the family I never had, the family my mother lost and the family I will always know and love from this day forward.
