This section needs a rewrite. Make it more personal, expand the important (to my life) experiences.

Just in case you would like to know more about me:

I was born on 14 July 1938 in the Alice Weiss Maternity Hospital of the Jewish Women’s Association. My birth certificate states my name as Anna Mária Veronika Balázs. My religion is not indicated.

My parents (Margit and Tibor Balázs) brought me to our family home: a three-room apartment on the third floor of 17 Kossuth Lajos Street, in central Budapest, where they lived with my aunt Lily and my grandmother Regina. Except for the period of the German occupation, the five of us lived at this address until we left Hungary in December 1948.

An old, well-worn photo album tracks my first years: playing on the shore of the Danube in the summer, playing in the snow in the winter, in the zoo, and on walks with my mother. There are photos with my grandmothers, relatives, and friends of the family. I see an almost idyllic young life that came to a screeching halt on 19 March 1944. I was three months, three weeks, and four days shy of being six years old.

My family’s experiences during the German Nazi occupation of Hungary are (for the time being) the story I am sharing on this site.

After “the war,” in 1945, I was enrolled in a Roman Catholic school run by nuns of the Congregation of Jesus (Angolkisasszonyok intézete). It was located at 47 Váci Street, within walking distance of my home. I only lasted a short while.

In the fall, I was enrolled in the first grade of a Catholic public school, and I was registered as Roman Catholic. In the first academic year, 1945/46, German language was introduced as a subject.

In December 1948, we left Budapest and Hungary for Geneva, where we encountered unforeseen difficulties: The funds we had sent out with a colleague of my father’s had disappeared. Both the colleague and the funds have apparently migrated to South America.

My mother and my aunt’s sewing skills provided our only source of income. My father, unemployed, spent his time with me and started to teach me self-sufficiency and independence. On one of our walks, he insisted that I go into an elegant hotel and ask the person at the front desk for directions to where we lived (a much less elegant hotel). He wanted to make sure that I would never feel lost in an unknown place, that I knew that there were safe places and that I had the confidence to go to a safe place by myself.

In early 1949, we left Geneva for Paris, where we lived at the Hotel Royal Bèrgère. This small hotel, at 8 rue Geoffroy Marie, was down the street from the famous Folies Bergère. Each room had a sink and a bidet, and the shared bathroom and toilet were down the hall. We rented two rooms: one for my parents and the other for my aunt, my grandmother, and me. The three of us slept in one bed.

My mother and my aunt were again our only source of income. My parents’ room was the sewing workshop; our room was the fitting room. My grandmother took care of daily grocery shopping, cooking our meals in our room, and helping with the sewing.

Upon our arrival, in early 1949, I was enrolled in the first grade of the local elementary school. My gangly 10-year-old self was taken under the wings of the six-year-olds. During most of the summer holidays, I was bedridden. To keep me occupied and help me learn French, my father gifted me with a copy of Les Trois Mousquetaires by Alexandre Dumas. This is when I fell in love with historical novels. When I was on my feet again, my father (still unemployed) and I explored Paris and he taught me the intricacies of the Paris Metro system.

Over the next few years, my French improved, and I kept being promoted to higher classes until I was ready for the Lycée. A letter dated 27 June 1951 informed us that I had passed the entrance examination and was admitted to the Lycée Jules Ferry. Unfortunately, I was never able to attend, because my aunt’s husband’s family sponsored our immigration to Canada.

The family made plans for Montreal: my father was to arrive a few months before us, find employment and an apartment for my mother, grandmother, me, and himself. He left in late June. We (my mother, Aunt Lily, grandmother, and I) followed in a late October stormy crossing on the old ship Canberra. My father awaited us in Quebec City when we docked and cleared immigration. The night train took us to Montreal, where two taxis drove us through the snowy, sparkling night to a lovely rooming house on the North side of Sherbrooke Street, between Peel and McTavish Streets. My mother, grandmother and I were booked in the front room, which had its own bathroom and a kitchenette. My father left us there, promising to return in the morning.

The next morning the family’s plans fell apart: my father announced that he was leaving my mother. No apartment, no financial security, no time to “settle.” My mother was on her own, in a new city, in a new country, without any connections, without any of her own extended family or friends.

I don’t know how quickly my mother made new plans, but with borrowed funds (from Aunt Lily’s brother-in-law), she rented a space on Peel Street that could accommodate both a business and our housing. It was located across the street from a “famous” dressmaking salon, just up the street from the elegant Mount-Royal Hotel. She thought this would be an excellent location to attract clients to her new custom dressmaking salon named Marguerite and Lily. The space also provided us with a home.

I was rapidly enrolled in grade 9 at the Montreal High School for Girls, an English-language institution (at the time I didn’t speak any English) on University Street, across the street from McGill University. Girls and boys were taught in separate wings of the building. Later, in grades 10 and 11, those few of us who were enrolled in Science I, had to go to the boys’ side for physics and chemistry.

I graduated in 1954 and finally was able to cross the street as a 1st-year student in the 6-year Architecture program in the Faculty of Engineering of McGill University. I didn’t expect to be one of the first women to graduate from Architecture in 1960.

The following years were interesting. My partner and I took a one-year life-changing road trip to  Central and South America.

Near the end of the trip, we were on a Brazilian governmental flight from Lima, Peru, to Sao Paulo, Brazil, the plane landed to refuel in northern Chile. We were to spend the night. As we stepped into the immigration verification area, I had the following flash-back to the period under the German Nazi occupation:

I froze. Panic-stricken and almost hysterical, I grabbed my partner’s arm and whispered “Get me out of here!.”

He looked at me (I was probably white as a sheet), didn’t ask questions, and hustled me out. He then returned to the verification area and cleared us for entry. Only later, after we were settled in our hotel room and I had calmed down, did he ask what happened.

“They are wearing German uniforms,” I answered.

I could not have then, nor could I today, describe the 1944-45 German uniforms I saw in  Budapest.

We landed the next day in Sao Paulo, but because of my father’s illness, we returned to Montreal sooner than expected.

I worked for several architecture firms and had two babies. With a new interest in the potential effect of the physical environment on children, I enrolled in a new Master’s degree program at the Université de Montréal, and became involved in the budding field of Environmental Psychology. Following graduation, I was retained on the faculty and did further research that resulted in the publication of my book The Urban Nest.

In 1975, while still a member of the faculty of the Faculté de l'aménagement - Université de Montréal, I was granted an academic leave for doctoral studies. With financial assistance from the Quebec Association of Architects and the federal Central Housing and Mortgage Corporation, I enrolled in Union Graduate School. This program was designed for mature students whose area of study did not fit into a traditional academic discipline. In addition, it only had a three-week residency that suited my family commitments.

This is when I started my work in General Systems Theory and Cybernetics. I was used to the concept of systems in architecture, and my work in environmental psychology explored the relationship between the child (system A) and their physical environment (system B). I was ready for larger concepts. In my dissertation, in addition to laying out some fundamental concepts, I analyzed the System-Cybernetic model of societal control with application to Women in Urban America [USA] between 1900 and 1930.

None of my work in Academia addressed my early experiences in Budapest, nor any aspect of the Holocaust. I avoided all related issues for over 50 years — I could not look at documentaries of concentration camps, could not read memoires, could not even hear German spoken. In my family we didn’t speak of “the war,” we didn’t speak of the missing family. We passed as Roman Catholic and acknowledged being Jews only among “safe” others with similar experiences.

In 1995, I was finally ready to face the past. After visiting the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., I had questions: why did it happen? what was the condition of Hungarian Jews within the political, social, and economic context of Hungary? More fundamentally, what is the source of the intense hatred that led to mass murder?

My quest into the past began with documents and photographs: in an old photo album that would have belonged to my grandmother, I looked at images of people whose names and relationships I didn’t know. My father’s stack of documents, letters, and photos documented his parents, his emigration and his new life in Canada. All this needed to be organized. Armed with genealogy software, a scanner, and the assistance of my grand-son Aaron, most of the documents and photos were scanned, and “relevant” data was entered. [5]

In the fall of 1997, I visited Budapest for the first time since we left in 1948, and reconnected with Lily Bolgár (cousin Lily) the daughter of my grandmother’s sister and my mother’s first cousin. She was the last survivor of that generation of Günsberger descendants. We talked about the family, the Holocaust, those who survived, and the many who didn’t.

Two additional summer visits followed. She is the source for most of what I know about my Günsberger family, facts and family gossip intermingling. The pain of the Holocaust memories was evident in her halting speech. I am enormously grateful for her help.

What started as a simple genealogy project expanded into a need to understand the context, the larger environment in which my Günsberger family lived and died.

I am still working on the period of the occupation in Budapest. It is by far the most challenging one to research and write … because I was there, because it is about my immediate family, the people closest to me. It is a challenge to try and understand how they grew up, to see the different facets of their personalities, and to understand the impact all their experiences had, not only on their choices, but on who I am today.

It is an even greater challenge to explore a way to help others use ………