A Death of Kodály
The Nazi patrol must have heard it, too – the sinuous keening of a violin snaking its way through the moonless forest; we all held our breath.
“Merde!” whispered Kostan, in his international patois of swearwords, “what the hell is that?” in his native Hungarian. I said it sounded like the theme from Kodály’s duo for violin and cello. “Tres merde!” He spat out orders to Bela and The Knife (we never did learn his name): “go, get him before the basta Boche do!” They melted away in silence. “All we need next is a fucking (in English) cello.”
We waited in silence, eleven of us and three mules loaded with plastic explosive and detonators. The crying violin ceased. Another interminable wait, then three figures, like wraiths emerging from the ground, Bela and The Knife, pushing forward an older man – perhaps 50 or so, it was hard to judge these Hungarian country folk, so ground down since the mobilization of ’42 and the abduction of Horthy in Fall of ‘44.
He was not peasant, after all, Kostan’s interrogation revealed, but a teacher. “Of music?” “No, of languages. The violin is just my companion.” “Which?” “German and English.” ”Shit” spat out Kostan, “Western, decadent shit.”
“Hungary is a bridge” bravely answered the old man, “a bridge between East and West – between the culture of the West and your new society coming from the East.” He had correctly sized up his guardians/captors as red partisans. “We need to know many languages to play our role in the new Europe.”
“The dawn comes from the East, old man” said Kostan sardonically. “Now Hungary is to be for Hungarians; we need know only Russian.” “What was that you were playing?”
“Only folk themes. No real piece.”
“It sounded like Kodály” I interjected in my painful Hungarian. “That’s because Kodály sounds Magyar”, said the oldster. “Where are you from? Not Hungary. What brings you here?”
“Right, I learned Hungarian from my parents in Pittsburgh. I’m American.”
Kostan: “Shut up, both of you. I ask the questions here.”
“Many Hungarians went to America”, said teacher in his English. “Our loss; your gain.”
“Yes, teachers like you, and mathematicians and musicians and just steel-workers like my Dad. Our gain; maybe that’s why I’ve come back to help.” What indeed brings me here? I thought. Dropped into Transdanubia with two Tommy sappers to help harass the German retreat from besieged Budapest, to blow rail lines and impede escape to Vienna and Bratislava. Now we were just eleven, eight red partisan and the three of us, survivors, never sure whether we were harassee or harasser.
I went on: “My mother loved Kodály; I grew up with him.”
Kostan: “This Kodály, the composer, right? One of the toadies of the Austro-Hungarian Empire allied with the Kaiser, right? Now a Budapest parasite, right?”
Both teacher and I reacted. “No, no, a great Hungarian”; “a cultural asset”; “his music is timeless”; “his views are very liberal”; “he translates Magyar music for the world”.
“For the Western world” Kostan disdained. “He sells our folk arts to the wealthy, an exploiter of native culture, one who works to keep us ‘native’ and in chains. He is a collaborator, an enemy of the people.”
“You can’t politicize his art.” “The Nazis weren’t even born when he wrote that theme.” “He composes for the world.” “He writes from the soul, not to serve some political plot.” “Art is art; politics is politics.” I can’t remember clearly who said what, teacher’s and my protests tumbling forth.
Kostan coldly looked at us. “Art.” He spat. “All art is politics. Art is rooted in its society. You judge art by who creates it, to what use it is put, then and now…. And now, we must move.” To Bela and The Knife: “This teacher is of no use to us and good use to Germans. Get rid of him. No shooting.”
“No! You can’t!” I protested, but the three were disappearing into the wood even as I started up. Moments later, Bela re-appeared with violin in hand. “What do I do with this?” “Bury it”, said Kostan, ”it’s just a violin.”
I stared open-mouthed.
Kostan paused; then in his Hung-lish: “Americanski, you too bourgeois for health. You good go west when Red army comes. I no can longer protect you after kill Nazis.”
His chill words crackled with truth.
The Nazi patrol must have heard it, too – the sinuous keening of a violin snaking its way through the moonless forest; we all held our breath.
“Merde!” whispered Kostan, in his international patois of swearwords, “what the hell is that?” in his native Hungarian. I said it sounded like the theme from Kodály’s duo for violin and cello. “Tres merde!” He spat out orders to Bela and The Knife (we never did learn his name): “go, get him before the basta Boche do!” They melted away in silence. “All we need next is a fucking (in English) cello.”
We waited in silence, eleven of us and three mules loaded with plastic explosive and detonators. The crying violin ceased. Another interminable wait, then three figures, like wraiths emerging from the ground, Bela and The Knife, pushing forward an older man – perhaps 50 or so, it was hard to judge these Hungarian country folk, so ground down since the mobilization of ’42 and the abduction of Horthy in Fall of ‘44.
He was not peasant, after all, Kostan’s interrogation revealed, but a teacher. “Of music?” “No, of languages. The violin is just my companion.” “Which?” “German and English.” ”Shit” spat out Kostan, “Western, decadent shit.”
“Hungary is a bridge” bravely answered the old man, “a bridge between East and West – between the culture of the West and your new society coming from the East.” He had correctly sized up his guardians/captors as red partisans. “We need to know many languages to play our role in the new Europe.”
“The dawn comes from the East, old man” said Kostan sardonically. “Now Hungary is to be for Hungarians; we need know only Russian.” “What was that you were playing?”
“Only folk themes. No real piece.”
“It sounded like Kodály” I interjected in my painful Hungarian. “That’s because Kodály sounds Magyar”, said the oldster. “Where are you from? Not Hungary. What brings you here?”
“Right, I learned Hungarian from my parents in Pittsburgh. I’m American.”
Kostan: “Shut up, both of you. I ask the questions here.”
“Many Hungarians went to America”, said teacher in his English. “Our loss; your gain.”
“Yes, teachers like you, and mathematicians and musicians and just steel-workers like my Dad. Our gain; maybe that’s why I’ve come back to help.” What indeed brings me here? I thought. Dropped into Transdanubia with two Tommy sappers to help harass the German retreat from besieged Budapest, to blow rail lines and impede escape to Vienna and Bratislava. Now we were just eleven, eight red partisan and the three of us, survivors, never sure whether we were harassee or harasser.
I went on: “My mother loved Kodály; I grew up with him.”
Kostan: “This Kodály, the composer, right? One of the toadies of the Austro-Hungarian Empire allied with the Kaiser, right? Now a Budapest parasite, right?”
Both teacher and I reacted. “No, no, a great Hungarian”; “a cultural asset”; “his music is timeless”; “his views are very liberal”; “he translates Magyar music for the world”.
“For the Western world” Kostan disdained. “He sells our folk arts to the wealthy, an exploiter of native culture, one who works to keep us ‘native’ and in chains. He is a collaborator, an enemy of the people.”
“You can’t politicize his art.” “The Nazis weren’t even born when he wrote that theme.” “He composes for the world.” “He writes from the soul, not to serve some political plot.” “Art is art; politics is politics.” I can’t remember clearly who said what, teacher’s and my protests tumbling forth.
Kostan coldly looked at us. “Art.” He spat. “All art is politics. Art is rooted in its society. You judge art by who creates it, to what use it is put, then and now…. And now, we must move.” To Bela and The Knife: “This teacher is of no use to us and good use to Germans. Get rid of him. No shooting.”
“No! You can’t!” I protested, but the three were disappearing into the wood even as I started up. Moments later, Bela re-appeared with violin in hand. “What do I do with this?” “Bury it”, said Kostan, ”it’s just a violin.”
I stared open-mouthed.
Kostan paused; then in his Hung-lish: “Americanski, you too bourgeois for health. You good go west when Red army comes. I no can longer protect you after kill Nazis.”
His chill words crackled with truth.
Zoltan Kodaly stayed in Budapest throughout the war, and became an important part of Communist Hungary's arts and teaching communities. He is regarded as a national hero by Hungarians of all political stripes.
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