Roots

Every time I apply for a visa they ask for my place of birth. It is Neresnica. My passport reflects that as does my birth certificate. It is almost like a mythical place in a mythical country what then was Yugoslavia, a country that no longer exists. All I have is a grainy black and white photograph of where I was born.

My birth place is now in modern day Serbia and long ago I determined that when I visit Serbia I will go to Neresnica.
My story begins in the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. For 12 days between 23 October and 4 November university students, one of whom was my dad, rose in defiance of the Soviet backed government. Russian tanks rolled in on 4 November and the brief sunlight of freedom was snuffed out. I was conceived at some time during the revolution and subsequent events forever altered the trajectory of my life.

After the Soviets suppressed the revolution there was a hiatus then an order to return to work. In that transition time many fled to Austria. My parents did not and actually returned to work. One day in December my parents returned home from work to be informed that the authorities had been around and had dug up the rifle used by dad in the revolution buried in the garden. With his arrest imminent they decided to flee. The easy Austrian option had closed so they decided to flee to Szeged, my father’s home with a view to crossing the border to Yugoslavia illegally risking imprisonment and execution.

The story of their escape from Hungary across the border into Yugoslavia is in itself a ripping yarn but beyond the scope of this post. Suffice it to say the end result was arrival at a refugee camp in Neresnica. My parents were moved from camp to camp during their time in Yugoslavia. Neresnica is a tiny hamlet south of Kucevo where the Yugoslavs sent Hungarian refugees and established a camp. It was a former gold mining settlement that had ceased operations on the River Pek in 1954.

Come July 1957 my mother was heavily pregnant with me. Other refugees had delivered at the local Kucevo hospital and the babies had come back with infections so she and dad decided to conceal her labour to have her delivering at the camp. In labour, aged 20 she concealed her pain to the point where she had progressed to the point where she was unable to be transported to hospital. This was achieved but not without delivering a tiny baby with respiratory distress whose survival was touch and go. I was conceived in revolution and born as a refugee.

Fast forward 66 years here I am in Neresnica and a round faced spritely 78 year old local guy arrives pedalling an ancient bike. Arriving in Neresnica the night before we have booked an apartment literally in the middle of nowhere. Google maps could not locate it. When booking this I figure that at least I will get a photo with the Neresnica sign.

My prearrival fantasy had me finding someone who in their old age would remember the refugee camp but with no Serbian language, the passage of time and the remotenes of Neresnica the most likely outcome was the picture with the sign, a few random requests around town and a whole lot of negativity.

Our accomodation host is a young woman who spoke good English. She has no knowledge of the history I relate but her uncle does. Her uncle and I shared no common language but I can see his eye light up when my story is translated. The next morning they take us into town and show us the house they think will best match with my photo. While our accommodation host shows us around the uncle disappears . He knows the man who would remember the refugee camp and amazingly he is happy to donate his time to us. When I show him the photo his 78 year old eyes light up and immediately takes us down to the buildings on the photo. The upper building was a kitchen/dining hall and the front building a medical area. I was born here!

Suppressing tears I am overwhelmed by the experience. This nice guy has brought to life my birth 66 years ago. He was a Yugoslav boy, 12 years old allowed to play football with the Hungarian refugees. He remembers a Hungarian refugee driver with 10 sons who was nice to him. He relates the story of a gypsy boy who in 4 months learnt enough Hungarian to act as translator between the Hungarians and the locals. He relays stories of Hungarian Football players who were there as refugees and a champion swimmer called Agnes.

The chances of this sort of experience are infinetissimely small and as I am standing here talking to a completely stranger who was there at the time of my unusual birth circumstances I struggle to fight back the tears. My parents’ time in Yugoslavia left them with a bad impression of the local people. Here I am with the owners of the apartment we are staying with and the random 78 year old who was 12 when I was born giving me 2 hours of their lives for no reward, to bring to life my birth experience. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed and while it is not a part of my heritage a small part of my heart belongs here now.