Júlia Szalai

How Many Histories Do We Have?

Ágnes Losonczi: Sorsba fordult történelem (History as Turned into Personal Fate). Budapest, Holnap Kiadó, 2005, 329 pp.

 

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Through the eyes of seventy interviewees, Sorsba fordult történelem investigates whether, after 45 years spent in an anti-democratic social system, there is still sufficient readiness and sense of adaptation in people to enable them to achieve a personal "regime change" in their private lives.
When examining the traumas the middle classes experienced in post-war Hungary, sociologists inevitably find themselves in a position where they can only build up a dissociated image of the "Hungarian bourgeois" by fitting together fragments of a jigsaw. Where there is property and ownership, they are not necessarily combined with a sense of vocation; where the spirit of craftsmanship has survived, there may be a lack of civic courage; and a bold entrepreneurial spirit, where it exists at all, is often coupled with an indifference to public affairs. In place of the citizen as the bearer of the unity of tradition, one finds businessmen, bureaucrats, teachers, doctors, journalists, educated mothers and local activists - all preserving or reviving one or another piece of that tradition, adapting it to current conditions. In other words, instead of the easily-describable category of Max Weber's Bürger, we find various groups of a middle-class whose values and lifestyles bear some of the marks of that category, but without any tangible network of cultural community (however tattered) that might bind them to one another.
For her field research, Ágnes Losonczi chose a traditionally middle-class district in Budapest - a district that was relatively well protected against the forced and spontaneous population exchanges, the deportations and imposed resettlements with the similarly imposed allocations of new tenants in the period of what was then called "socialist modernization". For her method, she chose random, or almost random, encounters. Her team knocked on the doors of well-selected homes in well-selected houses, asking the residents if they were willing to tell the story of their families in the 20th century. Of course, the risks this method involves are at least as many as the advantages. True, most interviewees rewarded their interlocutors with long, colourful narratives full of vivid personal detail. On the other hand, the raw material thus accumulated was very much defined by the position of the person narrating their family history. Their age and role within the family, together with their current social standing, turned out to be crucial in how they saw the family's middle class status defined as the frame of reference for the investigation - whether they regarded it as a matter of the past, the actual present or something they aspired to. It was foreseeable that the majority of the narrators would be elderly retirees, living more enclosed lives. Ultimately, 11 interviewees out of a total of 55 were over sixty, while only were under thirty.
Thus, demographics largely determined the specific leitmotifs of 20th century history "as seen from below" that emerged with what the 1930s and 1940s generations, supplying the bulk of interviews, considered most important to tell. For them, quite regardless of the one-time social position of their forbears or the present-day position of the family, the formative period was the Second World War and the years following it - the years of their childhood. It was as if everything had been decided back then, compared to which anything their own efforts achieved was of a secondary importance. Those hard-won successes, the result of many decades of work, were accomplished under socialism. However, the prevailing general confusion in evaluating the near-past made it hard for them to speak about it in a meaningful way. Hence, the interviewees made all attempts not to waste too many words on those years and dwelt instead on what had been considered taboo then. The outcome is that these narratives still bear the marks of the attitude of a child, and are related as if from the child's point of view - which, of course, means viewing their own historical responsibility in the same evasive manner. It is as if all that they did - or failed to do - during the next sixty or so years had been a consequence of their abnormal start in life - as if growing up had not happened. In normal times and in a normal world, it is up to the new generation to preserve and - by learning, effort, ingenuity and endurance, in other words, by employing the traditional middle-class virtues - to augment what their forbears have handed on to them. However, the childhood and youth of these middle-class generations were anything but normal. If they were unlucky enough to have been born into a Jewish middle-class family before or during the Second World War, their early memories would above all be concerned with fear, concealment and struggle for survival; with mourning deported and murdered relatives, playmates and family friends; then being forced to denounce their social origins, being stripped of their property and being stigmatised as "class aliens". Nor did those born into a gentile upper middle-class milieu escape the experience of terror and the mourning of relatives who were killed in action or who vanished during their stint of malenky robot in Siberia or in Russian POW camps. As schoolchildren, they experienced harassment by the police because of their "guilty" descent. Some of them also suffered the fear of being deported, because their grandparents were identified as the "class enemy". Many saw their parents being reduced to nervous wrecks, their careers shattered. If they were children of old-time artisans or shopkeepers, they would be victimised throughout their early school years by suspicion and derision because of their "retrograde petty bourgeois" origins. If they happened to be children of "misdirected working-class" families, they would be subject to forced re-education campaigns by the Communist Youth Association. If they were descendants of poor farm workers swept into the big city by the tide of industrialisation and the hope for a better life, then, in addition to the extreme poverty in which they lived as young children, they were put into day-care centres, painfully missing the personal attentiveness of parental homes - while their mothers and fathers were ordered by the Party to work three shifts or attend crash courses at night. The number of variations on the same theme is endless. They include the early experiences of children of imprisoned Social Democrat printers, steel workers on forced labour as punishment for sabotage, farmers persecuted and robbed of everything as kulaks, politically unreliable lawyers, doctors and white-collar workers sent to do menial work in factories, and so on. All of them were children born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
For the majority, adulthood was when corrections could be made. Some tried to patch up the fabric of family relations; others were tormented all their lives by injured self-esteem, which they vainly tried to restore; still others made huge efforts to replace the valued objects they had lost or, very cautiously, to repair the social status they had been dislodged from. These were objectives taking decades to achieve, but instead of proudly upholding traditions and confidently passing them on, the interviewees resorted to code and camouflage to refer to them.

In these family chronicles people are on their guard all the time. There is a kind of continuous vigilance, a readiness to evade, or at least mitigate, incalculable threats coming from unexpected quarters. This seems to have pervaded human relations and had a greater impact on people's choice of mate, on child rearing, friendships and life styles than social position or wealth. It reproduced the atmosphere of overall distrust vis a vis "everybody else", day after day. Passing this on to the next generation has been almost unavoidable. Thus, a defensive general attitude coupled with everpresent suspicion has become the one shared characteristic of very different people on very different rungs of the social ladder and at widely different stages of their lives.
This basic attitude became so deeply internalized that its transferal from one generation to the next has strongly influenced the entire structure of Hungarian society over some sixty years. Being always on the alert, always ready for the ununexpected and the helplessness this may involve, was a stronger motivation in life than what genuine opportunities and achievable status offered. Careful consideration of every factor was required in finding the right schools or trades. As desirable as affluence or spiritual autonomy may be, they were seen by these families as too risky to be taken as a life goal. One interviewee summed this up:

Our parents... made us all - every single child - learn a trade... The point was that we should all have a trade that would enable us to make a living anywhere, in any circumstances. We went on to study at a university or some other school of higher education after that. Professionals or intellectuals are not self-sufficient. They can be fired at any time if the bosses don't like the shape of their nose, their religion or ideology. Artisans, on the other hand, are needed always, everywhere. (p. 202.) 

Yet, we learn from the interview that a defensive attitude in itself was not enough and submerging into it could easily lead to self-abandonment and further decline. Therefore, in families that had seen better days, this attitude was often combined with the moral imperative of struggle. 

The lesson I learned from my mother's life is that you must never give up. Whatever the situation you find yourself in, you must never say "I surrender". (p. 170.)

There is no universal recipe for the right measure of risk-taking or acceptable level of experimentation. In any case, these middle-aged, middle-class citizens do not draw the boundary lines where the older or the younger members of their class do. With a few rare exceptions, they see themselves as people who have lost out on the change of regime. It is from this aspect that they view and experience all that is happening to them now - or is likely to happen during the rest of their lives. They are no longer young enough and flexible enough to make a brand-new start or to take advantage of new opportunities. Nor are they old enough and retired enough to be able to ignore this new and different world posing grave threats to their jobs and hard-won positions, a world jeopardising the safety of the life they have managed to achieve.

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Driven by the emphasis of the interviewees, the book devotes most detail and space to describing the period when the foundations of the Communist regime were laid and people of widely different social backgrounds were forced together into one mass by what the author calls the "great compression of socialism". Through analysing the narratives, Losonczi provides a deep insight into the post-1990 chance of rebuilding a middle class way of life by examing what has remained of its old culture. Her discussion attempts to gauge how profoundly the Communist dictatorship succeeded in altering the lives of families even beyond its own demise, and to assess how irreversible was the damage wrought by a strategy that methodically aimed to destroy traditions. 
Even after more than fifty years, a knot still forms in the stomach on reading the unending list of indignities and injustices, of confiscations of property and rights, of victimizations and excommunications, all done in the name of creating a new order. Those who endured them - Jewish merchants dismissed after first heading their own nationalised businesses and relocated to operate machines in factories, former military officers collectively announced guilty, government officials declared to be untrustworthy, grammar school teachers declared to be enemies of the people, farmers with more substantial holdings called exploiters of the peasants, tradesmen accused of nostalgia for the old regime, and many more - were probably far greater in number than the winners. Even the winners, rural and working-class youths, paid dearly for their status, through a lasting sense of rootlessness and extreme vulnerability to political pressure.
The accounts teem with characters remembered as the villains of the era; even the act of recalling them induces anger. These were mostly local representatives of the hated central authorities: ÁVO officers (the hated political police), party secretaries, village council presidents, policemen, produce delivery commissioners and wicked factory foremen. As far as politicians are concerned, there were only two in the Fifties whose names are still well-remembered to this day: Mátyás Rákosi and Imre Nagy. Rákosi appears in the stories as the emblematic figure of "Communism", which is synonymous in these narratives with Stalinism, personality cult and terror; while Imre Nagy's name is associated mainly with the 1953 policy of liberalization, which was ultimately to fail.
It is quite astonishing, though, that Imre Nagy is never mentioned as the prime minister and a martyr of the 1956 Revolution - not even once, not even in passing. Neither is the Revolution. It is entirely missing from these family chronicles. It is as if all the interviewees, regardless of their backgrounds, had secretly plotted to structure their stories in the same way. The first period of the narratives lasts until 1955, followed by a break, then the story line is picked up again somewhere in the mid-1960s. References to 1956 are conspicuously scarce, and the retributions that followed are seen as a straight continuation of the Stalinist period.
When the interviews refer to the events of 1956 at all, they do it from a distance, in curt sentences using impersonal subjects and the passive voice. Otherwise vivid and frequently emotional narratives shift tone and suddenly turn matter-of-fact:

Because of my husband's involvement in 1956, there was a house search. He was put under police surveillance, lost his job and found no work. (p. 142)... Two of my five brothers and sisters died of cancer. I know for sure that stress had a great part in their deaths. Both had taken part in the Revolution, though not in any armed fight. They drifted from job to job and could never find proper work. (p. 150)... My father was swept away by the wind of 1956. Not by the wind of the Revolution, but by the winds of 4 November [the day the Russian tanks rolled in - Ed.'s note]. Before the final closing of the borders, he crept over to Austria on his belly. And with that, our family life was over, very early indeed. I was only 5 years old at the time. (p. 156) 

Not once are the heady days of the Revolution or the sudden sense of freedom recalled with enthusiasm. If a narrator mentions 1956 at all, it is always in the context of escape and retaliation, of families torn apart. One recurrent motif is the extreme ruthlessness of revenge for the Revolution, with which farmers were again forced into agricultural cooperatives in the aftermath of 1956. The image associated with the new wave of fear and loss is impersonal; it is one of Soviet tanks looming up. When there is a face in the background of the tanks at all, it naturally belongs to János Kádár. Yet, it flickers up only for a few seconds before his image as the restorer of oppression is swept off the shelf of memory, and is quickly replaced by a different image of the man. 

Kádár is seen - regardless of generations - in split vision: first as a puppet of the Russians, next as the architect of peace, consolidation and modest prosperity. The latter role is recalled with conspicuously greater and more sincere emotion than the former. Praise for the eponymous hero of the "Kádár Era", nostalgically recalled as the golden age in the tumultous 20th century, even creeps into interviews which otherwise reflect an unrelenting opposition to socialism.
The motives for this admiration appear to be truly personal. Context reveals that the praise is mainly for the sense of security and the chance to re-establish self-esteem that the Kádár Era brought. To the interviewees, these years brought back a sense of slow ascent and the inviolability of private life after the long, dark years of the fearful Fifties. It is as if a continuity could be created with the pre-war world of the middle classes, and at least psychologically, a sense of normalcy could be restored. These people believe even today that while social status, lifestyle and political tastes were not allowed to be re-established, in private life at least, the slow rehabilitation of old values, thought of as gone for ever, could begin. That is why even those who shed no tear at the collapse of the old system, who are fully committed to the post-1990 change, reserve some respect for this particular achievement. This is not mere nostalgia, as is often thought. It is rather the way in which people with too many bitter experiences view the past. They appreciate continuity much more than they do great, but risky leaps forward. They set a much higher value on peaceful transition than on correcting historical injustices, regardless of the clean slate held out as an inducement, clearly aware of the price that should be paid for it. These same people feel the most positive about the past fifteen years - a period full of contradictions, but free of great tragedies. Despite their complaints, they are still waiting patiently, with dogged determination. The interviews in this book show that there are many of them, with a whole range of political allegiances. What they really expect, as the narratives reveal, is not so much the creation of a radically new society, but an expansion of that world of the middle-classes that began in the later years of the Kádár Era - though back then as a strictly private matter. The new democracy carries for them, first and foremost, the opportunity for, or rather the promise of, restoring freedom and moral order. As one of them puts it:

My experience regarding politics as well as religion has been that those engaged in them do one thing and preach another... Concerning politics, I used to be in full agreement with my husband, but now he still supports the old regime, while I see positive things in the new system, too. But capitalism is something I do not like. (p. 222) 

Or a more sweeping judgment:

Under the old regime there were plenty of restrictions and possibilities were limited. Everything happened very slowly; it dragged on forever. Today it is all different. Everyone has the opportunity to break out. It is your basic right as a human being that you should be able to do freely whatever you think fit. Schooling was guaranteed for everyone in the old regime, but what a horrible school system it was. Financially, of course, it was easier to study than it is today, but it was hard to remain human. (p. 279) 

What emerges from the excerpts is a markedly rosy picture of the 1980s; in comparison, comments on the regime change reflect a cautious trust in the future, rather than a positive perception of the present. It must be emphasized, however, that this image emerging from the interviews is, in fact, a snapshot. More importantly, that snapshot was taken in 1993 - 1995, three of the most difficult years of the entire transition. At that low point, inflation stood between 25 and 35 per cent annually. It was the time of the first massive waves of unemployment. Only in the second half of the decade did the economy start to grow again. All this could not be foreseen when the interviews were recorded. It is in this context that the interviewees' recurrent references to a secure existence, to jobs never threatened, low prices, free schooling and an acceptable level of pensions must be seen as the central elements of their nostalgia for the past. As to the present, even those most committed to change express a vague hope at best. Something like this: 

In socialism, you could get ahead financially more slowly, but with greater security. Today people can get rich very quickly or go completely broke in next to no time. But even so, the situation today is better anyway than it used to be. (p. 279) 

Or, a little more enthusiastically and more explicitly:

I am biased in favour of the change of regime. I regard almost everything as good. The bad things could have been expected in advance. Public security is poor, there is a great deal of poverty, but my conscience is clear. It is better to live in truth. (p. 272) 

It is tempting to speculate on how the same people would respond if they were interviewed today. In fact, there are strong hints in the way they told their own tales, in the turns of speech and the specific emphases they used. There is also additional evidence provided by the data from four general elections and their analysis, as well as by sociological surveys conducted over the past ten or so years with groups from similar backgrounds (owners of small and medium-sized businesses, small-town elites and certain groups of civil servants and the employees of civil organizations). Given all this, we may safely guess that there would be more positive words about the advantages of the change today, but also that criticism would be sharper. Probably more of Ágnes Losonczi's subjects would report a perceptible improvement in the family's financial position and the successes of the family business rather than of its teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. They might speak proudly of a child or grandchild now studying in Austria or Belgium; they might mention being at long last able to afford a holiday in Spain, or at least the Dalmatian coast. However, they would probably complement this with strong words about the enormous riches accumulated by former party secretaries, about the privatization of public assets, about the proliferation of corruption and shady dealings, and - last but not least - about the squabbles between political parties which have brought politics into total disrepute for many. They would probably close with the oft-heard remark: "The same people are on top as before. What kind of a regime change is this? This is not what we expected. There is one good side to it, though. We are at least left alone."

 

Júlia Szalai
is Head of the Department of Social Policy, Institute of Sociology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Standing Visiting Professor at the Nationalism Studies Program, Department of History, Central European Univesity, Budapest. She has published widely on 'old' and 'new' poverty in Central Europe, the post-Communist embourgeoisement process, women's changing situation on the labour market, and on the Roma.