When I returned from the deportation to Miskolc in 1945, my uncle Gabor Zoltan was already back home. He had survived years in a forced labor camp. When he returned to his apartment, he invited us—my mother, Rozalia, sister, Shosha, and me—to stay with him until we could find another arrangement.
Gabor’s wife, Marcsuka, had died before the German occupation and his daughter, Eszter, and son, Gyuri, had not turned up yet. Going back to school was not possible for me. My former classmates were very antisemitic and hostile. I started teaching English but was still missing something to do that would give me pleasure and help me forget the past year.
In one of our conversations, I mentioned to my uncle how much I liked music and how much I missed playing the piano. He took me seriously because after a couple of days, he came home, told me to close my eyes, and put an instrument on me I would never have guessed.
He led me to a mirror, and when I opened my eyes I saw an accordion for the first time. It was a 48 Hohner. I was very happy to receive such a precious gift and even happier that he had understood my need for exactly such a musical instrument. Immediately I started looking for a teacher. The price for a lesson was either a bottle of oil or a kilogram of sugar. There was serious inflation in Hungary that year after the war.
Playing the accordion became very important to me. I practiced for hours every day and kept it up for many, many years. I was forever grateful to my uncle for understanding and sharing my love of music, and knowing my need for that special kind of music.
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