LIVING HISTORY: CONVERSATIONS WITH THE SENIOR MEMBERS OF THE CLUB

In the article, I refer to them without names, out of respect for their situation.I visited two elderly Hungarians who emigrated to Auckland back in ’56.Beyond emigration, the lady and the gentleman have one more thing in common: they both fell at home, and were taken to Auckland Hospital.They were in the same building, just one floor apart.

First, I visited the gentleman.We had never met before, yet it felt like we had known each other for a thousand years.He welcomed me with the utmost warmth.I asked what had happened; he said his legs had given out.I asked how long it would take for him to recover.“I won’t. It’s over,” he replied, smiling.

He had previously had prostate cancer that had spread to his spine, which caused the fall.“I had a beautiful life,” he said, “I just regret not being able to travel anymore.”“Where would you have liked to travel?” I asked.“Well, to Hungary. One more time.” And when he said the name of our little homeland, tears welled up in his eyes.That’s when I started crying too.

I asked how one copes when they’re told it’s the end, that it’s over.He burst out laughing:“Well, you laugh and say: well, fuck it, all right then, that was it,” he said.I asked if he was afraid.He said no.“I had a beautiful life,” he repeated.

Life writes strange scripts.How can someone so mentally sharp be here, while already not?How can someone be alive, while already not?

“I have beautiful trees—apple, plum, avocado,” he continued.He told me how he used to give fruit to his masseuse.He and his neighbor used to make sauerkraut together.“Anyway, I’ve taken care of everything,” he concluded.

A few days later, the phone rang: he had been transferred to a private clinic, where he could be in more peaceful surroundings.

One floor up, I visited the elderly lady who had also fallen at home.Despite having three broken ribs, she was very much in her element — as they say, she had the gift of gab.A tiny, fragile little woman sat in the middle of the bed, talking and talking for a long time — and it was such a pleasure to listen to her.She radiated a strong desire to live.“And what are you doing here, darling?” she asked.I told her about myself, and the conversation constantly flowed between English and Hungarian.Our common ground turned out to be tennis — she had played actively for a long time.“You’re such a handsome young man,” she told me.“I was once quite the pretty young lady myself,” she added.“You still are,” I replied, to which she just waved it off and laughed.“Live, darling, go, do everything, live,” she repeated.

The next morning she already called me, saying how much she had enjoyed the visit, and that she would love to attend more club days, but can’t.I told her that once she’s home from the hospital, I’d gladly drive her if there’s a club day.It’s the least I can do.

This was more than just a visit to the elderly.Moments like these always make me emotional.It allows you to step outside yourself, outside the world, and realize that what often seems like a big problem is actually not — because real trouble doesn’t start there.One must live, as long as possible, with full strength, because life, even with all its hardships, is still beautiful.

Áron Darvasi

Not long ago, I visited the two oldest members of the club, although unfortunately not under the most ideal circumstances.I wanted to bring a little color and something special into their grey hospital days.Even arriving at the hospital turned out to be a small adventure — I felt like I had entered a maze.It took at least ten minutes to find the right building and ward.

Upon entering the hospital room, there were several people lying there, so I thought I’d try speaking Hungarian — maybe someone would respond — and they did.We found each other easily in the end.We talked for a long time.He told me about his life, his family, how he came to New Zealand, and how the years here unfolded.It was fascinating to hear how his fate intertwined with major historical events.

Next, I went to one of the club’s oldest female members.Despite her broken ribs, she was full of energy — chatting, buzzing, it was a joy to talk to her.At first, she was a bit puzzled by my name; she said she had never heard the name Fanni before — I was the first person she knew with that name.We talked about her youth, the war years.She told me how their family home was bombed, and how they received a new apartment that had previously belonged to a Jewish family who had been deported.Later, the Jewish family luckily survived the war and returned, so they had to leave the apartment.She talked about her early marriage, her dreams of becoming an actress — dreams that unfortunately never came true.She also told me how she came to New Zealand: her husband was first offered a job in Dunedin, so she followed him there, and later they moved to Auckland.

One of my favorite stories was when she described her first encounter with the quirks of the English language.She saw a sign for a “milk bar” while walking — she didn’t know the word “milk” yet, but she knew what a “bar” was.So she couldn’t understand: if it was a bar, where was the music, the dancing, the drinks?Later, at the Hungarian club, she learned about the misunderstanding — and that many other Hungarians had had similar linguistic adventures.Back then, the club was a place where people supported each other by sharing these stories and helping one another adjust to their new lives.

It felt truly meaningful to talk to them — they are the embodiment of living history.I’ve always been curious what life used to be like, what kinds of destinies shaped the people who are with us today.I believe it’s important that while we still have the chance, we should ask, listen, and learn from them — because it is through these personal stories that heritage is truly passed on.I hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet them again — hopefully next time, not under hospital circumstances.

Fanni Csényi