Christmas Eve, 1956: an Anglo-Hungarian memoir
Regent Street, 1950s. (Alamy)
It had been an interesting year in Hungary to put it mildly: Krushchev’s revelations about Stalin’s crimes; gradual relaxation of the worst aspects of Communist rule; rapprochement with Austria; Imre Nagy in power; revolution; withdrawal of Russian troops; ten days of freedom; invasion; siege of Budapest for a second time in a decade. And on a personal level the subsequent escape from Hungary, the journey across Western Europe, the very English welcome we received on arrival in that bygone age, plus interviews and jobs.
And then came Christmas. By all appearances we were to experience a typical English Christmas dinner, with paper-hats, crackers, turkey and a proper Christmas cake, peppered with conversation conducted in Hungarian. There were ten of us round the table. Miksa and George Oppenheim and their wives, Mr and Mrs Szeben, in their early sixties, and four refugees: my wife and myself taken from the refugee camp by Mr Oppenheim Senior, and Mr and Mrs Olah, taken from the same camp by Mr Szeben. The Szebens’ fame preceded them. Mrs Szeben was known for her frequent declarations that never in her life had she ventured anywhere near to a kitchen. Mr Szeben was a businessman with the reputation of never putting a foot wrong at any of his business dealings. Mr Szeben strongly believed that he was the most important person in the room, and this belief seemed to be shared by all present. We four refugees kept mainly silent, believing that as newcomers we should listen rather than offer our opinions.
Oddly enough, the Russian invasion of Hungary was only briefly discussed. The gloomy conclusion was that the Russians would never leave Hungary, and that was that, discussion closed. The main topic was oil and Suez. Petrol was rationed. That hit everybody round the table hard. Mr Szeben led the conversation. He spoke highly of Anthony Eden as Foreign Secretary, second only to Winston Churchill in his esteem. But he could not forgive him the Suez adventure. Not because he started it, but because he did not finish it. “How could he call a cease-fire before the Canal was taken?” Mr Szeben asked rhetorically. “American pressure? Poppycock! The Americans should stick to their own continent. They have their Monroe principle, that’s fine. They should leave Europe to the Europeans.” There was only one meek counter-argument from Mrs Magda Oppenheim, humbly suggesting that had the Americans not interfered in the affairs of Europe, we would, in all likelihood, have ended up with a puppet Nazi government in Britain.
That was too much for everybody. Voices were raised. Everybody talked at the same time. Fortunately, this was also the time when dessert was served, crackers cracked, and funny hats distributed. Although the funny hats were not donned (somehow not in the Hungarian tradition) , the result was a break in the general conversation, leading to some private chit-chat between those sitting next to each other. Soon drinks were served: gin and tonic for the ladies, brandy and whisky for the gentlemen. Mr Szeben took the initiative once again. He talked about the labour market. He addressed me specifically: “I understand you also left Hungary recently. I hear you have already written some applications. Go on applying. You are bound to get a job.” I did not have a chance to tell him that I had already been working for three weeks. Actually, no one had a chance to get in a word edgeways. Mr Szeben continued, this time turning to Mr Olah. He addressed him as Gyuri. He must have known him in the past in Hungary as a bright child.
“I am so glad that you came to England. When I heard that you had crossed into Austria I talked to a few friends in the chemical industry straight away. They already knew about you. Every one of them would offer you a job, every single one of them. Just take the highest offer.” Then Mr Szeben turned again to me, I presume, in order to emphasise the contrast. “You see, Gyuri is in a different category. He can pick and choose. He’ll be leading a huge organisation in no time at all.” And he kept on in the same vein for another five minutes. It might have been ten, I don’t remember. Well, if someone a few years older is praised to high heaven in front of you, you are bound to have some misgivings. It’s only human. I felt like directing a satirical remark at Mr Szeben. “Do you think the Nobel Committee may descend on Barnet any moment to offer Mr Olah the Nobel Prize on a silver platter?” But then I realised that this would also be a poisoned arrow shot at Mr Olah, who was just smiling awkwardly while Mr Szeben extolled his virtues. I desisted.
We kept on drinking well into Christmas Day, listening to Mr Oppenheim Senior and Mr Szeben who told countless stories from Hungary in the 1930s.
I kept the contact with the Oppenheims. In fact, I am still in correspondence with Richard Oppenheim, George Oppenheim’s son. But I forgot the Szebens and forgot the Olahs. And then some time in the 1990s a Hungarian friend who lived in America asked me towards the end of a telephone conversation: “Have you looked at this year’s Nobel Prize winners?” “Not yet,” I said. He raised his voice: “We have another Nobel Laureate. George Olah of the University of South California got the Prize.” I suddenly remembered. “In Chemistry?” I asked. “Yes, in Chemistry,” replied the friend. “How did you know? You never dabbled in Chemistry.” “No, I did not,” I said. “I just met him socially some time ago.”
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