The story that follows is the first segment of my memoirs.

My earliest childhood recollections are of post-war, pre-revolution Hungary, where I was born to a former ballerina whose first husband had abandoned her and their two young children and a twice widowed agronomist who loved the “smell of kids”. 

My father had lost two wives in most tragic ways and, even more tragically, two children. So when he met my mother, he fell not only for her but the two kids and the match was made.  Well, almost. . .

My mother being very religious, a convert to the Catholic faith, took the teachings of Holy Mother Church seriously. She was in love, no doubt but was she willing to relinquish her right to the sacraments to marry this man?

At that time, divorce meant excommunication and remarriage was out of the question.

So my mother spent a lot of time on her knees praying that God bless her union even though it was not to be a church wedding. 

She begged the Almighty that as a sign of that approval she might bear a daughter.

And so it came to pass in the city of Szeged in Hungary just 11 months after their civil wedding, a girl child was born to the happy couple.

The little girl was a sign that God blessed the union and although my Mother could no longer partake of the sacraments, she was sure that her “sin” has been forgiven if not by the Church, then at least by God.

It’s tough growing up as a “sign”. It was pretty clear from the word go that as a “sign” I would have certain privileges but along with those, very definite responsibilities as well.

I had to be good.

Oh, not merely good but extraordinarily obedient and angelic.

I think my mother had indoctrinated my father on my “sign”-dom. I assume this to be true because one day, when I was playing in the very back of our enormous garden, I really did not want to go in for supper so I pretended not to hear my mother calling. (The garden was only enormous in the eyes of a 5-year-old because it seemed to have shrunk considerably when I returned to it as an adult). 

Suddenly, there was my father, my favourite person in the whole wide world, looming over me with an uncharacteristically stern look, saying, “Mártika, you have really worried your poor dear mother. Now go in there and apologize to her. She has had enough trials in her life. 

You must be a good girl for her.” 

So I did and I was.

© Márta O’Reilly

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