Against Headwinds on the Lee Side: Memoirs of a Passionate Orientalist 9783110683059, 9783110678574

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György Hazai Against Headwinds On the Lee Side

György Hazai

Against Headwinds On the Lee Side Memoirs of a Passionate Orientalist

DE GRUYTER

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at

Sponsored by György Hazai Foundation for Oriental Studies

All rights reserved. All parts of this book are protected by copyright, in particular the texts, photographs, and graphics. All rights are reserved, including duplication, publication, editing, and translation. ISBN 978-3-11-067857-4 ebook 978-3-11-068305-9 epub 978-3-11-068313-4 © 2019 for the English edition Walter de Gruyter GmbH Berlin/Boston Original edition released by Vámbéry Polgári Társulás, Dunajská Streda, © 2018 by Twin Media, Budapest and György Hazai’s heirs Edited by Cecilia Hazai Translated by András M. Deák Proof-read by John Nadler, Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, János Hóvári, Petra Varga Produced by J2P Jeep Print Productions, Berlin Printed & bound by Tama Solutions Kft, Budapest Printed on chlorine-free paper in Hungary www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents By Way of an Introduction......................................................................7 I

The Years Gliding By (from Childhood to 1963)....................12 Before High School........................................................................12 My Encounter with Trianon..........................................................13 The “Trefort” High school (1942–1950).........................................19 ELTE (1950–1954)..........................................................................23 The Aspirant (1954–1957)..............................................................38 My Years in Bulgaria.....................................................................50 My Return from Sofia: Budapest 1958–1962..................................62

II

The Years Gliding By: Berlin (1963–1982)...............................75 Snapshots from East Germany......................................................93 Contact with Budapest during the Berlin Years............................95 Journeys to the Soviet Union.......................................................104 Travelling Yesterday and Today..................................................106

III

The Years Gliding By: Budapest (1982–1991)........................112 Return to Budapest......................................................................112 The Hungarian–Turkish Friendship Society...............................138 Berlin: the Wende.........................................................................141 A Look Behind the Wings............................................................143

IV

The Years Gliding By: Cyprus and Me (1992–2000).............145 By Way of an Introduction..........................................................145 How Cyprus Became my Home..................................................146 Snapshots from Cyprus................................................................154 What Happened during my Years in Cyprus..............................158 The 35th ICANAS in Budapest (1997)..........................................165

V

The Years Gliding By: Back to Budapest (2000–2014).........180 My Return from Cyprus (2000)....................................................180 TÜBA...........................................................................................194 The Founding of Andrássy University.........................................196 The Collège de France and Strasbourg........................................200 A Requiem for a Job in Oriental Studies......................................202

Turkology in the Institute of Linguistics.....................................204 Conferences on the Balkans........................................................208 The CIPSH Assemblies in the New Century................................210 Other Scholarly Events after 2000...............................................213 My Ties with the Heritage of Ármin Vámbéry...........................214 The Year 2014...............................................................................218 VI

Encounters.................................................................................227 Friends and Colleagues................................................................227 My Masters in Hungary...............................................................228 My Friends in Hungary................................................................244 My Turkish Friends in Budapest.................................................251 My other Masters.........................................................................252 My Friends from Around the World............................................259

VII A Summary of my Activities as a Researcher and a Teacher............................................................................275 A Summary of my Career as a Teacher.......................................305 About the Tree of Benefits in Budapest.......................................315 A few Words about the Work Morals in Hungary......................318 The Political Backdrop at my Places of Work.............................320 The Places I Have Visited in the World.......................................322 My Cities......................................................................................332 At Home and Away: Offers of Professorship..............................333 Publications that did not materialize...........................................336 A few Closing Remarks...............................................................339 Afterword — Cecilia Hazai...................................................................341 List of Hungarian Abbreviations.........................................................343 Index.....................................................................................................344

By Way of an Introduction

I

was encouraged to write these memoirs by several people, mainly colleagues and friends. Perhaps the first one was Vera Mutafchieva (1929–2009), the prominent Turkologist-historian from Bulgaria, who from one day to another started writing historical novels and in a short time won an eminent place among the contemporary writers of her country. “It’s easy for you”—I thought, and later I even told her—“Your pen is recognized even when it is not academia that we talk about.” My daughters encouraged me the most, sometimes in a nagging way, while we were recalling together certain chapters of our life. “Dad, you should write about this too”—they said. After pondering over this more than once, I felt that the memories, the decisive events of my life, as well as several other experiences, lived in my mind in a certain critical order. The essential ones intact, perhaps none of them missing. As in the case of all endeavors, you just have to begin the work. The turning point came at the end of the summer of 2009. For many years, my close family members and I had traditionally spent these days on the seaside in Southern France. Underneath the magnificent villa where we stayed, about twenty meters of rocky shoreline is besieged by the waves of the sea, sometimes in a friendly, sometimes in a violent way. It was there that I found a wonderful corner under a Mediterranean pine tree reclining on the sea where I started putting down my memories. After Cicero, we named the place Tusculanum, although—unlike the great Roman statesman—I withdrew here only for a few hours to do my writing. Later, when I happened to be in restful circumstances, mostly when I was abroad, I embarked on writing one or two shorter pieces as well. It was not only my memory that offered itself as a source. Being a good bureaucrat, I had kept numerous pieces of writing —letters, notes, etc. And my life always had a stable point, an apartment in Budapest where all this material had been accu7

By Way of an Introduction

mulating. It was only the letters posted to my addresses abroad —Berlin and Nicosia—and the working papers that had been subjected to “thinning”. This was demanded by my decision to move back home to Budapest. I had never thought of keeping a diary on a regular basis, and had always admired people who managed to squeeze that into their lives. When I was reading the memoirs of my close friend, Géza Fehérvári (1926–2012), I really felt envious of him. His wife had—on a regular basis— been keeping a diary of his exciting journeys, his study trips and excavations which naturally became the core of a significant part of his book. While working as an amateur writer on the retrospective view of the course of my life, I realized the numerous problems of this particular genre: to create a harmony between topics often belonging to the realm of the history of research and the chronological framework, and to flash only a few events from the intimate sphere of the author. In a summary in which the main role is played by scholarly work, private life can provide only the backdrop. A few more thoughts which have already been made public also belong to this introduction. Each year the last issue of the journal, Napút (The Course of the Sun), pays tribute to some of the outstanding people of the year who are in their seventies. In 2002, I was honored to be included among them, and was asked to briefly outline the course of my life. I did so. It was the first time I mentioned that I was thinking about writing my memoirs. I believe that it is appropriate that these lines, offering a certain key to understanding my endeavor, should be reprinted here. *** The road to the university led from “Trefort” high school. I can remember the teachers of my first alma mater with heartfelt gratitude and love. They were unique founts of all wisdom, and provided me with excellent ammunition for the road ahead. 8

By Way of an Introduction

I enrolled in the Faculty of Humanities of ELTE in 1950. There, in a matter of a few weeks, it was decided that I was to become a Turkologist. In such a way, it was not romantic affections that proved to be the antecedents: the choice was suggested by my brilliant professors in history. At the Department of Turkology, constituting a one-person class, for many years I was the student of the great masters of international Turkology—Gyula Németh and Lajos Fekete. The various aspects of my major also led me to Lajos Ligeti. From them it was possible to learn everything—even beyond the subject of Turkology—that was necessary for embarking on a career in scholarly research. At the same time, Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti—unparalleled scholars—were very difficult persons in organizing the circle of their disciples. Organizing Oriental Studies was no exception either. Views different from theirs inevitably caused a conflict with them. This is what happened to me too. Their greatness as scholars was, however, demonstrated by the fact that they were able to put all this aside when they had to evaluate my dissertation to become a professor. Lajos Ligeti—Gyula Németh was no longer alive at the time—also recommended me for membership in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (MTA) ahead of his other students. The experiences of the years as a young researcher produced one great resolution: in research, do everything as the masters do, but in the human sphere, do everything in a different way. It was an accident that the course of my life took me abroad very early. In 1956–57 when I was an aspirant, I read Turkology to a large group of students at the invitation of the University of Sofia. A few years later, this was followed by my work at Humboldt University and the German Academy of Sciences (1963– 1982). However, there were some other reasons for accepting the latter foreign invitation that proved to be decisive in my career. Upon completing my studies as an aspirant, I more and more sensed that my generation of colleagues did not want to see me 9

By Way of an Introduction

Theoule sur Mer 2010—György Hazai writing his memoirs

playing cards at the same table of Oriental Studies, even as a kibitzer. In this way, although the opportunities were very limited at the time, I had to look for foreign tables. And there, I was immediately dealt a better hand. The condition, however, was that I —especially as a foreigner—had to play this hand very well. In turn, throughout my life I faced the challenge, the incentive to try and attain more and better. After spending twenty years on German soil, I returned home in 1982. I became a member of the Academy of Sciences at the recommendation of Béla Köpeczi, Lajos Ligeti and Ferenc Tőkei, and a little later, at the initiative of the Secretary General of the Academy of Sciences, the Director General of the Publishing House of the Academy of Sciences (1984–1990). The 1990s called me abroad again: in 1992, I became the Director of the newly established Institute of Turkology of the University of Cyprus. I had to lay the foundations of Turkology on the Greek side of the island that suffered from the Greek-Turkish conflict. The work was not easy, but the years spent on the island of Aphrodite were unforgettable all the same. 10

By Way of an Introduction

What is the record of all these years? As far as scholarly publications are concerned—although I will say a few words about them a little later—the relevant handbooks will provide the necessary information. In the work of Turkology and events in that field, I have had a no small number of prestigious jobs. As a result of that, I was able to see the world as a visiting professor. I have to be honest: in fact, I owe my generation of colleagues great thanks for being reluctant to see me at home. The chronological frame of our lifework is not within our choice. The century in which I was destined to live was not one to be loved. Our generation paid a high price for what had happened around us. At the same time, the century itself presented a challenge to all thinking people. For me, this was crowned by very adventurous positions: I had to remain a man and a European citizen under difficult circumstances.

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I

The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

Before High School

F

rom the years of childhood before high school, it is a man’s relationship with his parents as well as the historical events of his life that offer themselves to be recalled. Because of their nature and weight, my memory preserved them well even after decades. In order to establish the social status of our family, allow me please to apply the term “employee”, “public servant” which satisfies the requirements of the files kept on cadres in the 1950s. My father was serving in a high position in the management of the Hungarian State Railways (MÁV) in Miskolc, NorthEast Hungary. By the time I was born, he had already retired. This meant that he had plenty of time to spend with me. At the beginning of her adult years, my mother was working as a public servant. Then after marrying my father—to apply the official language once again—her status was that of a “housewife”. She was the second wife of my father. His first wife had died. Ten children were born in that marriage, six girls and four boys. Two of them died, and the others had already been married by the time I was born. Most of them lived lives that were not connected to Budapest. When we met, it was their love for the “young sibling” that prevailed in our relationship. My father was an active person, with an extremely wide vision. He cultivated with great care his command of Latin that he had acquired in high school. For this reason, he composed for me a Latin grammar with ease when I also came into contact with this language in high school. It must have been in 1942–43 that MÁV announced a competition to prepare the plans for a central railway station to be built in Budapest. My father, without any training as an engineer, won the second prize. His hobby was playing a card game called Ottocento (Ta12

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

rocco Bolognese). He worshipped the game by writing an introduction on how to play it. My mother, with the wide age gap between herself and her husband, was a rather introverted soul, for whom the meaning of life—besides the loving care for her family—was given by immersion in literature. I owe her gratitude for being able as a child to familiarize myself with the names and works of quite a few writers. My father and I made countless journeys. For me, all of them proved to be memorable experiences. Because of his official rank, my father was entitled to a free of charge first class ticket on express trains. Naturally, I was entitled to such a preferential ticket as well. (I was able to take advantage of this favor of MÁV during my years as a student as well.) So my father and I toured all across the country. It was him who taught me as a child the technique of how to travel.

My Encounter with Trianon In one way or another, that era posed a political challenge for everyone. As far as I am concerned, I first encountered politics in connection with the Anschluss (Germany’s annexation of Austria in March 1938). By accident, I watched several times the newsreel in the movies that showed the parade of Hitler’s march into Vienna. The revision of the Peace Treaty of Trianon and the danger of approaching war occupied everyone, even children. It was not possible to avoid and ignore these issues at that time. It is enough to recall my memories from school. We greeted the teachers entering the classroom by standing up, and then we prayed “I believe in one God …” together. I know the words accurately up to the present day. “I believe in one God, I believe in one motherland. I believe in divine eternal truth. I believe in the resurrection of Hungary.” At the end of the last class, we repeated this. On the back cover of our exercise books, there were three pictures of Hungary, one below the other. At the top, the map of Greater Hungary with the text: “this is what 13

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

György Hazai as a child with his mother

14

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

she was like”. Under it, the map of rump Hungary with the text: “this is what she is like now”. At the bottom, again the map of Greater Hungary, with the text: “this is what she will be like”. Trianon concerned the life of our family as well. My father spent his childhood in Rozsnyó (Rožňava, Slovakia). His father had been the mayor of this charming town in the County of Gömör. My father’s heart always pulled him back there. He wanted to see again his classmates from high school, and visit the grave of his parents. When one could already sense that something was going to happen, he applied for a passport in the hope that he would receive an entry visa. I still have the beautiful passport bound in green cloth, which survived the bombing of our apartment in January 1945. However, the hope attached to it failed to materialize: the application for a visa was turned down. As a result, my father was able to see Rozsnyó again only after the First Vienna Award (November 2, 1938, when Hungary regained some of its pre-Trianon territories in present-day Slovakia). He took me with him on this trip. I was six when this journey of “historic significance” took place. I can remember its details even today. During the first weeks after the regaining of the territories, the express train between Budapest and Rozsnyó—operating later on the Pásztó– Somoskőújfalu–Fülek line—was not running yet. So we departed from Miskolc, and if I am not wrong, reached the East-West railway line of the Felvidék (Upper Country) via Ózd and Bánréve on a stretch laid down not long before, and where Tornalja and Pelsőc were the next stations. Looking at the hills to the North from the window of the train, I saw a row of Slovak machine gun positions, built in concrete bunkers, which were supposed to prevent a Hungarian invasion expected from the South. I can remember that at the valley of Pelsőc, where we quite often indulged in his hobby of crab fishing, my father reminded me: when the weather is nice and clear, you can see the High Tatra Mountains from there. We spent about a week in Rozsnyó where my father paid his 15

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

first visit to the grave of his loved ones. Several of his former classmates were no longer alive but he still managed to see some friends again. In the evenings, the Ottocento parties were held. He kept returning to his beloved town for every five or six weeks. He usually took me with him. I can remember that once, when for some reason, he had to return to Budapest, I was left alone for quite a few days in Rozsnyó. Obviously, my father showed me the town and its surroundings: the huge mountains, the Old Pozsáló, the Nyerges and the Rákos. We also visited Krasznahorka (Hrad Krásna Hôrka) and the limestone cave of Aggtelek. After the return of Erdély (Northern Transylvania) to Hungary (1940 following the second Vienna Award), my father did not forget to take me there as well. We paid a short visit to Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) and another to Gyergyószentmiklós (Gheorgheni). Our outing to the Gyilkostó (Lacul Roșu) and to the Békásszoros (Cheile Bicazului) is well preserved in my memory. During these years I also made my way to Szabadka (Subotica, North Serbia). The husband of my Aunt Sári, one of my half-sisters, who was a teacher of drawing, was appointed to the high school there. So my father and I often turned up in this nice town where the bullet holes on some houses in the downtown revealed the fact that it was not a really peaceful place that we were in. I, as a child raised by the official version of Trianon, was treated to another thought-provoking experience in Szabadka. I had a lot of buddies in the garden area of the town. We often played together or went to some event, such as once—as far as I can remember—to a match with a soccer team from Budapest. It was during these occasions that I noticed that these children did not speak Hungarian with each other any more, they spoke Serbian. That was the time that a question mark first appeared in my head beside the declarations that “this is what she was/is/ will be like”. In the spring of 1944, our return from Szabadka made us un16

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

derstand that we could no longer look at war as events in a distant theater. It could reach us within a few minutes. What is more, it did reach us. The express train left Szabadka early in the morning. We were supposed to arrive in Budapest around noon. My father and I, as almost always, were the only first class passengers. I was sitting beside the window in the seat facing the engine. My father sat opposite me, occupied with his favorite pastime: loading a mixture of tobacco prepared by himself into empty cigarette cases. We were not far from Kunszentmiklós-Tass, 70 kms from Budapest, when something unexpected happened. My father dived under the small table and pulled me with him. The train had in the meantime stopped. The situation became clear a few minutes later. The passengers got off the train and saw how water gushed in jets through the bullet holes where the engine had been shelled. However, it was the sky that presented a more frightening spectacle. There, bombers of the American air force flew in rows, covering the sky almost completely. In the glittering sunshine the aluminum bodies of the giant Liberator planes lent to this formidable armada some kind of unearthly character. A fighter accompanying the heavy bombers may have descended in order to shell our engine. It did the job precisely so the engine drivers were fortunately left unharmed. My father, sitting in the seat opposite me, had noticed the rounds of the shelling of the fighter in time and that was when he dived under the small table and pulled me after him. The armada flew on toward Budapest. We were stranded on the open railway line for a long time. Finally, an auxiliary engine, which arrived in the meantime, towed our train to the station at Kunszentmiklós-Tass where we were treated to the spectacle of a dozen other steam engines, also stranded there. They all had been evacuated from Budapest to nearby stations. It was already midday when our train finally departed. In the distance, large clouds of smoke drifted towards the sky. In the Southern part of the city, the bombers had man17

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

aged to engulf several factories and their oil tanks in flames. The train took us as far as Soroksár where we took a streetcar home. In 1944, we learned during our return from Rozsnyó that for the Germans the situation on the frontline was taking a turn for the worse. At Fülek, railway cars from Berlin joined the express train to Budapest. If they were late, or in some cases failed to come at all, it indicated—according to the railway men—that during the hours of the night the stretch of the line in Germany had been bombed. Our country, which on the Soviet front had already paid a high price for entering the fighting, abruptly became a theater of war. There were two developments: one was the German occupation of Hungary that followed the unsuccessful attempt of the country to get out of the war; the other one was the change that had occurred in the logistics of the Allies. Their advance in the Italian theater of war had extended the range of their air force. The Liberators were already able to reach not only Budapest but bomb Ploiești (South Romania) as well, which was an important source of oil for the Germans. During the time that followed, the presence of the American planes and the bombings became common features of life. The structure of the warning system on the radio—air danger alert and air raid warning— also changed. The concept of the “small-scale air raid alert” appeared. The people, especially when the Soviet-German frontline had reached the heart of our homeland, had to learn to live with all of this. Our trips to Rozsnyó lasted until September 1944. At this time, the situation on the front suggested that our usual trips in the fall would not be repeated much longer. But my father’s sudden illness also gave us the same sense of foreboding. On October 15 in Budapest, we witnessed the tragic political turning point, Hungary’s failed attempt to break away from the German alliance. I can remember well that after the speech of the Governor—on a nice sunny Sunday afternoon—we were walking from Zugló toward the downtown, and on the corner 18

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of Thököly and Aréna (today György Dózsa) Avenues we saw German mechanized forces—lorries and armored vehicles— heading towards Buda in haste on their way out of the city. However, by the evening—as we well know—the situation turned and dark forces prevailed. I managed to visit Rozsnyó again only after several decades. The opportunity was offered by two events in Kassa (Košice), organized by the Publishing House of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. We made the trip there and back by car. The journey from Kassa presented unparalleled surprises. As we were descending the mountain slopes, the castle of Krasznahorka, the magnificent jewel of the Rákóczi estate, suddenly burst before our eyes. On both occasions, we had a brief stopover in Rozsnyó. In this way, after 45 years, I was able to see one of the favorite places of my childhood again. I visited the cemetery too, but had no hope of finding the grave of my father’s parents. On November 4, 1944, my father passed away. As we paid our last respects to him in the cemetery at Rákoskeresztúr, cannon fire flashed in the distance as Soviet forces approached Budapest. Units of Soviet troops in Pest had encircled the capital by Christmas, and were moving ahead rapidly. The railway line, running parallelly with Hungária Boulevard, was the center of the fighting for quite a few days. Due to that, in the first days of January, 1945, our third-floor apartment on Gizella Street was gutted by bombs. We returned home from the air raid shelter only to find that we had lost almost everything. Our everyday struggle with life began. And I soon became conscious of the fact that my carefree and happy childhood was over.

The “Trefort” High School (1942–1950) When I was ten, the moment of being upgraded to a higher class arrived, and I left grade school for high school. By chance, we chose the “model high school” on Trefort Street, the official 19

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

name being the State Teacher Training High School. If I am not wrong, the reason I attended this school was because a friend of mine from the neighborhood, who was a year my senior, had been enrolled there. Our parents were friends, and my father and my mother learned about this opportunity from them. They opted for this high school although the Szent István High School in our district would have been much closer. But the choice worked out in a different way, and I owe a debt of thanks for this good fortune up to the present day. I was a student in Trefort between 1942 and 1950, and I can recall the years spent there with gratitude. Only later was I able to fully realize and appreciate how this high school shaped its students into highly educated, civilized humans. The high school enjoyed a privileged place in public education in Hungary. In order to truly evaluate the professionalism of the staff, you have to know that this high school was closely linked to the Faculty of Humanities at Loránd Eötvös University—then Péter Pázmány University—in Budapest. This was the place where university students who majored in pedagogy met their obligations to prepare for teaching, and held their “model classes” under the tutelage of our teachers. Subsequently, the university in Budapest—as one of the masters of the “model high school”—was interested in placing its best teachers there. Many of these teachers should have been professors at the Faculty of Humanities, and the university assigned them to the “model high school” solely because of the well-known scarcity of university positions. They were educated people with great knowledge, who were often teaching with a view to the university perspectives of their students. They never talked about politics, but were able to make us understand that they despised everything that was inhumane. They were true liberal humanists. In later years, it was always a pleasure for me to run into them, and my heart was always heavy when I received news of their passing. I respected and loved them all. Still, I felt closest to the humanities 20

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

teachers. It was them who made me love foreign languages, history, literature and the history of art. Today, I am absolutely certain that it was what I learned from them that launched me on my journey toward liberal arts, and indirectly to my profession. I would like to recall two episodes that occurred later. My teacher of physics, Imre Tarján (1912–2000), went on to become a member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, and was Chairman of the Department of Mathematics and Physics for many years. When I was elected corresponding member in 1982, he was among the first to congratulate me and recalled our years in Trefort. In 1984, my favorite headmaster, Uncle Mihály Szabó, learned that I had become the Director General of the Publishing House of the Academy from a television program. He called my secretary and left a message. He said: “When he has some time, have him kindly return my call.” I called him immediately. He was very happy and I was even happier. Coincidentally, in those days Professor Vicenzo Capeletti (1930–), the father of Enciclopedia Italiana and President of Società di Cultura Europea in Venice, happened to be in Budapest. Mrs. Camponella, the managing Director of the Society, was with him. At that time, the sky of international relations was rather cloudy. This was also reflected by the way the guests were received. Vicenzo Capeletti would have liked to give a talk, but this wish was met with a lukewarm, rather sabotaging reception from “our superiors”. I did not care for all that, and assumed the duty of organizing the speech which took place in the headquarters of the Academy. This was the first international event of the publishing house under my leadership. Now Uncle Mihály Szabó was a teacher who had majored in Italian, Latin and Hungarian. It was a great pleasure for me to invite him to the talk and a dinner with the guests. At first, he excused himself, saying that it was difficult for him to move out of Újpest, and that he had not been downtown for a long time. I reassured him that a car 21

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

would pick him up and would also take him home. Eventually, he gave in. At the publishing house, he was almost euphoric, and enjoyed every minute of the Italian event. And I was happy that I was able to offer this delight to my beloved headmaster who was already in his eighties. Once or twice we also spoke on the phone, then he moved to the countryside, and I lost contact with him. Unfortunately, we never saw each other again. In my final years of high school, sports—basketball—was also part of my life. Three or four of my classmates had connections with the sports club of the Budapest Electricity Company (BSZKRT Előre) where we soon became members of the “junior team”. I managed to reach the reserve team of the club’s premier squad, which won the league championships. My university studies were approaching. With an aching heart, I had to part with basketball. Sports also imparted to me an extraordinary political experience, the real meaning of which I discovered only later and not on a sports field. In 1948, the basketball club—with the recommendation of our high school—sent me, a classmate, and a teacher to a sports camp. In retrospect, the experiences gained there proved to be very instructive. We learned on the spot that a group of 20 to 30 young people from Austria were going to share the joys of camping with us. They were young Austrian communists, who had originally been planning to go to Yugoslavia, but their plans underwent a change, and they ended up in Mohács. At the time, I did not really care about the issue. Only later did I understand the reasons and the logic behind this. It was grand politics, namely the slowly unfolding SovietYugoslav conflict that had changed the program of the young Austrians. The probably Orthodox Austrian leaders may have decided not to send the young people to the Yugoslav Communists “who were walking down an errant road”. That was the reason why their outing took them to Mohács instead. The camp instilled in me another political experience as well. I met Fritz Behrendt (1925–2008) who—as a distinguished 22

I The Years Gliding By from Childhood to 1963

cartoonist—went on to achieve a big name in the international press. His masterful cartoons always found their way into the pages of Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Neue Zürcher Zeitung and similar daily papers. As a young politician, he had joined the Dutch Communists who supported the independence movement in Indonesia. That was how he found himself in Mohács, instead of Yugoslavia. A few years later—perhaps around 1950—he wrote a long letter to me about his disappointment with the Communist movement, and the change of direction that followed. By that 1 time, Hungary had already had the trial of László Rajk, so I too had some idea in which direction things were going. It was good fortune that this letter was not seized by political censors. For this not very close relationship, I would have paid a high price. Many years later, during my long stay in Berlin, I visited Fritz. We recalled the sports camp at Mohács where he arrived due to politics and I due to sports.

ELTE (Eo- tvo- s Lo/ ra/ nd University) (1950–1954) I graduated from high school in the early summer of 1950. I applied to the Faculty of Humanities of ELTE to major in Hungarian and history. However, there were no vacancies left in this combination, and the administration of the university offered me majors in either history and philosophy, or history and political economics. The latter program meant attending a few classes at the University of Economics, which had become independent not long before and had also reshaped both its function and spirit. I was pleased to learn this. First of all because I was able to meet more often a girlfriend who had enrolled there. 1

Rajk Lászlo (1909–1949) Communist politician; Minister of Interior after 1945; key figure in establishing the communist dictatorship of Mátyás Rákosi; Minister of Foreign Affaires in 1948; victim of the communist party’s rivalry; executed in 1949.

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The three obligatory subjects were political economics read by Tamás Nagy, history of economics by Pál Zsigmond Pach and economic geography by György Markos. I have to confess now that I did not really regret this choice. All three subjects enriched my knowledge immensely. I was utterly sorry when a year later the above combination of majors was discontinued. As a result, in 1951 I officially became a student of humanities and majored only in history. In the meantime, a few other things also happened to me. But I would like to return to them a little later. Before going on with this unfolding chronology and outlining the important events of my years at university, I must describe the atmosphere at this university at the time, and how the conditions of public life determined our day-to-day existence. The Faculty of Humanities lay very close to Trefort Street. You just had to cross the garden of Gólyavár, and you were on Múzeum Boulevard where the two faculties, which shared these buildings at the time, were located. Looking back at my freshman year, it was there that I truly felt the enormous distance that separated my time at Trefort Street from Múzeum Boulevard. In high school, it was still the old spirit. Here at the university, the dictatorship already prevailed. As a young man, caught up in the daily rhythm of existence, particularly the strong current of university life, I digested all that in a different way. I lived my everyday life as best I could. Trefort already belonged to the past. Let me recall the milieu, as well as the atmosphere that the people wearing uniform loden coats had to encounter day after day. At that time, a cheap buffet was located on the ground floor of the Hotel Astoria, close to the university. At this “trough”, two or three kinds of simple hot meals were served. If I am not mistaken, one of the meals on the menu—bean soup— was poured onto your plate for one forint. It was nice, the portion plentiful, and it was affordable for everyone, even a student. The ceiling of the scholarship was 320 forints at that time. 24

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Those who were compelled to stay at the dormitory, which was inexpensive, and even subscribed for the several-course meals at the canteen, had to be smart about spending their money. The canteen was set up in Museum Café, which was wellknown to the people in Budapest, and today meets the demands of gourmets. At midday, the queue of students waiting for a hot meal wound down the street. But the other side of the boulevard was characteristic too— it truly symbolized the age. What I have in mind are the second-hand bookshops, whose inventory had become incredibly plentiful. The explanation for that was very simple. The shops were selling the nationalized collections of books of people who had been deported or “had been left out in the cold”. So customers who could afford it were able to come by titles, easily and inexpensively, that they had long yearned for. Copies of Hóman-Szekfű, the five-volume complete history of Hungary, were available by the dozen. This used to be the standard book decoration of middle-class apartments in the country. The fixed price was 100 forints. By that time, Gyula Szekfű (1883–1955) had already completed his posting as Legate to Moscow, and the other author, Bálint Hóman (1885–1951), who had been convicted as a war criminal, was serving time in prison. Their joint work must have avoided the list of banned books—because of Szekfű—and was just “exiled”. At an exhibi2 tion of Hungarian books in Moscow, Mátyás Rákosi, became enraged when he noticed this work among the ones on display. This infraction cost the Head of Library Affairs, who happened to be an Orientalist, his post. However, it was much more important that the far reaching trend, represented by Hóman, Szekfű and their contemporaries in the field of history in Hungary was eliminated from the activities of the university. This work was allowed to be present only in a “tolerated status” in the second-hand bookshops of Múzeum Boulevard, all of them 2

Mátyás Rákosi (1892–1971) leader of the Communist Party between 1945– 1956; ruler of Communist Hungary.

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located in houses with an odd number. On the side of the even numbers—where the university was located—things were moving in a different direction. For history majors, among the compulsory lectures, the History of Antiquity, read by Árpád Szabó (1913–2001), was by far the best. In the first semester, he presented the Greek past, and in the second, the history of Rome. He was a distinguished lecturer who captivated everyone. His hoarse, baritone voice lent these soaring discourses a singular shade. I can remember even today when he read to us Marcus Aurelius, the poem by Dezső Kosztolányi (1885–1936): “Yellow, reclining here, Rome, medieval,”—the well-known lines ring in my ears. I forged a close relationship with him very early. I went to his seminars, and would also visit him at his home. Later, when he learned that after some hardships I ended up in Turkology, he revealed to me that he would have liked me to find safe harbour with him. But he added: “You are in a good place. Gyula Németh (1890– 1976) is capable of launching his people.” One has to know about Árpád Szabó that he belonged to the circle of the—not few, but not many either—intellectuals, who in the beginning enthusiastically embraced the ideology of Marxism and historical materialism, and applied this approach in their writings. (I could also cite the name of Oswald Szemerényi (1913–1996)—and some others—who experienced an “early awakening” and left the country “in time”.) The spell of the new di rection did not last for long, however. “Hungarian Stalinism”, imported from Moscow, took the stage early and made the difference between theory and practice clear in a drastic way. Since Árpád Szabó and I later developed a very close, personal friendship, we talked about this problem repeatedly. Although we had 30 to 35 hours of classes a week, and the preparation for the seminars required quite a lot of time, I enrolled in a few more lectures, which interested me. This decision was made together with my friend, József Gerics (1931– 2007). We used to share the same desk in Trefort. And in our 26

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freshman year, we designed our schedule together. We enrolled in the lectures of Bernát L. Kumorovitz (1900–1992) who had been removed from the new Academy of Sciences for his catholic religion and was barely tolerated at the university; Loránd Szilágyi (1908–1974), and Mátyás Gyóni (1913–1955) who was pursued for his catholic religion and his opposition to communism and was later driven to commit suicide. At the end of the semester, we were duly reproached by Emma Léderer (1897– 1977), the Head of the Faculty. While sitting an exam with her, she discovered the above names in our course registration books. She immediately made us understand that these people belonged to the category of persona non grata, and it was simply not appropriate to enroll in their lectures. We did so all the same. Besides learning a lot from them, and respecting them, another factor was that after meeting us, they specifically asked us to enroll. They told us the reason openly. As private teachers at the university, they received a fee for their lectures. And they badly needed this money to make a living. That is what the lives of these people of great learning, who had been excluded from academic life in Hungary, were like in 1950. I was immensely pleased to be able to see Bernát Kumorovitz again at the General Assembly of the Academy in 1990. He lived to be rehabilitated, and regained his membership in the Academy. It is the eccentricity of life that I received the most important impulse to my career in research from Loránd Szilágyi, the professor of a subject that I registered for incidentally, out of pure “pleasure”. He drew my attention to the not yet published Ottoman-Turkish sources, and advised me to start studying Turkish in the university’s Institute of Turkology. I do not know how it happened, but I immediately made my way to Lajos Fekete (1891–1969). In this way, in the third or fourth week of the first semester, my syllabus expanded with the Turkish language. It turned out only later that by this move, I found myself in an intellectual safe haven where during this long historical storm, I was able to build my career on the lee side. 27

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The country had already witnessed the trial of László Rajk, the real purpose of which was understood only by those who had read the classic critics of Stalinist state policy: André Gide (1869–1951), Arthur Koestler (1905–1983), George Orwell (1903 –1950) and others. And there were very few people like these even among the intellectuals who had been left out in the cold and humiliated. These names and their works became a worthy part of the consciousness of Hungarian intellectuals in the fiery atmosphere of the road leading to the Hungarian uprising of 1956. Even if there had been such minds, they would have known that the only way to survive was to remain silent. The slogans that symbolized the various stages followed one another in rapid succession. The slogan “Country of iron and steel” was soon replaced by “We will not kill the goose that lays the golden egg”. The way things were going did not stop with slogans, however. What happened in their wake concerned the everyday life of the people, and students too. The war reparations affected everyone. The students had to make do with lower scholarships so that they could contribute to “defending the peace”. The university suffered from an atmosphere beyond description. From behind the slogans, the practice of trying to find and remove “the enemy” unfolded in a brutal way. We never had a meeting without expelling someone from the university. In most cases, the reason was a past story that he or she had failed to declare. The justifications as far as historians were concerned were enough to make your hair stand on end. If the culprit was dealing with our modern age, he did so that he could falsify the history of the working class movement. If he was dealing with the medieval period, he made this choice because he wanted to escape from the problems of the working class. There was even a case in which the person involved was guilty of having received a telephone call from his mother, living in London. In this case it was obvious that the State Security Authority (ÁVH), closely cooperating with the Party leadership, was de28

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ployed to the university. The Head of the leadership was Comrade Békei, the Secretary of the local Party Committee. The academic registrars were considered to be her extended hands. At the Faculty of Humanities, this role was played by Comrade Kékes who as a shoemaker had been promoted to become a university official. The young working class and peasant people, mobilized by the Party to the university, who by the nature of things were able to excel only in social work, were firstly expected to faithfully support these cleansing operations. I remember well that one of the most dreadful figures in shaping the atmosphere and organizing the operations was Comrade Berzsák who suffered from a physical disability. Let us keep in mind—being part of the vanguard, having the Übermensch feeling was compensation for the failings of the body. During the meetings, he always hid in the backmost corner of the room. He always took the floor at the very end of the meetings. He underlined what he wanted to say with a well selected intonation. By the end of his remarks, the volume of his voice had already reached the level of a roar. Comrade Berzsák evaluated what the others had said, and those he found wanting were in for trouble. At this time, you were being forced to try and find the “enemy”. You could gain credit if you were able to incriminate someone. You became suspicious if you did not want to assist in this process. Some of my fellow students and I, probably because we were far ahead of the students delegated by the Party, soon became targets. Let me mention a few names: József Gerics, who later became a professor at the Faculty of Humanities of ELTE; István Hollai (in 1956, he went to Switzerland where he made a name for himself in economics); and György Solti, who also chose the University of Economics when our major had been altered. A few years ago, I came across him in a bus stop in Zugló. He recognized and greated me, and I was pleased to learn that his life at the other university had resumed a normal 29

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track. I can no longer recall what we were guilty of because the “sins” were absurd even at that time. The Conductor of the Party was, however, an illustrious personality—József Nádasdi, who later became the Secretary General of the League of Young Communists (KISZ), then the Party Secretary in the 6th district in Budapest. By this time already, he was considered to be a “booby” even by the Party apparatus. (This term is not mine.) But at that time, he was still a dangerous, what is more, a lifethreatening individual. The type of person, who, like the Stalinist party guards in the 1930s, would have liked to bear arms so that he could immediately use his gun when it was needed. Fortunately, in the 1950s things at the university did not go that far. Later in life fate gave me another chance to meet one more like-minded comrade. Fortunately, at that time we were already very far away from those years. It was a different age which required different methods. I will speak about all this in due time. My experiences in my freshman year proved to be decisive in shaping my professional commitment. In the stormy headwind, I was able to find cover in a safe haven on the lee side. This opportunity was offered to me by Turkology—in the Institute of Turkology of ELTE. My final commitment to Turkology officially took place in the third semester of my studies. This gave me a lot more free time that I was able to put to good use in my Turkology major. In the previous two semesters, for all intents and purposes Lajos Fekete was my only professor. He naturally introduced me to Gyula Németh whose classes I later started attending. Since the headwinds for the history majors hardly eased, and you could count on the storm becoming even heavier, the offer from Gyula Németh was very convenient. He suggested that I officially become a Turkologist: that is, I should visit not only the language classes, but give up history and take Turkology as my new major. It was a daring idea which could mean not only lowering my professional anchor in a protected port, but elegantly slipping out of the stormy seas of the history majors. The 30

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key to implementing this was Gyula Németh himself. Playing the role of the cooperative middle-class scholar, and holding important positions in the state apparatus and academia at this point in the party-state, he enjoyed unprecedented authority. He paid a visit to Comrade Kékes personally. The registrar did not dare reject this request that created for me an absolutely unique and privileged status. In the fall of 1951, I became a student who majored only in Turkology. Since the Departments of Oriental Studies formed a joint block with the Departments of Museology, I found myself in this unit from the organizational point of view as well. What a relief the new environment was after the militant milieu of the history major! It was possible to exist in a normal way together with my fellow students, majoring in archeology, ethnography and the history of arts. Most of them had come from middle-class families in Budapest—we were simply birds of a feather. My trouble-free friendship with them has lasted to the present day. Gyula Németh also announced to Comrade Kékes that he wanted to appoint me as an assistant at the institute. This request was also accepted. This in turn created an incredible change in my life. Instead of the scholarship of 320 forints, I was able to enjoy a salary of 600 forints. This immediately changed the financial situation of our family, which was at a permanent nadir since the death of my father in November 1944. What my mother was receiving from MÁV was not a widow’s pension, but a grace payment of 200 forints. The status of being a single-major student, and the fact that I belonged to the Institute of Turkology provided me with an exclusive facility within our faculty, both in a spiritual and geographical sense. The institute was located on the first floor of building “C” of the university campus. All my colleagues had their own keys, while visitors had to ring the bell in order to be admitted. The institute consisted of a small hall, two rooms for the teachers, and a larger room for the seminars. That was 31

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where I received a desk of my own. In this way, the institute, where great calm always prevailed, became an excellent base for my work. All this came to an end only when the Faculty of Humanities moved its premises in the summer of 1953. In the final year of my studies, the institute was located on the second floor of the university building in Pesti Barnabás Street. The windows of our three rooms opened to Váci Street. Since the reconstruction of Erzsébet Bridge was still many years away, the terminus of the streetcar was built at the old bridgehead. On Váci Street, a bus line still operated and the stop stood in front of the university, or to be more precise, in front of the Soviet bookshop. Soon after “rowing over” to Turkology, the administration at the university discovered a formal, although substantial problem concerning my status as a single-major student. To put it simply—I could not be granted a university degree in this program. The university was allowed to issue degrees only to teachers, archivists, librarians and museologists, but not to Turkologists. So I was advised to take one of these majors, and enroll in a few classes there in order to receive a degree in that major. I chose museology, where I was already studying in practice. In such a way, one could read in my degree the following: museology (Oriental Studies, Turkology). In the new framework, my studies in Turkology became wider. I enrolled in all of Gyula Németh’s classes, but I went on studying the Turkish language with Lajos Fekete. Parallel with that, I studied Arabic with Károly Czeglédy (1914–1996) and Persian with Zsigmond Telegdi (1909–1994). Gyula Németh insisted that I introduce myself to Lajos Ligeti (1902–1987) too. First, I took part in his excellent seminar that oriented students toward scholarly publications. In my studies, however, I did not wish to move toward other Asian languages. I remained faithful to the framework offered by the Turkish world. And here, it was the Ottoman world that took center stage. During my years in the Institute of Turkology, I was my 32

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professors’ only student for a long time, and enjoyed all the privileges of an intimate working relationship. Zsuzsa Kakuk (1925–), who had graduated as a major in Hungarian from the University of Debrecen, appeared in the institute as an aspirant in order to work on her dissertation in Turkology. During these years, we were the permanent fixtures in the institute. What did I learn in the Institute of Turkology? What kind of intellectual nourishment did I receive there for my future life? From the perspective of several decades, I have a critical approach to what I found natural at that time. This results, in the first place, from the fact that in the course of my life—in a foreign environment, though—I was also given the privileged task of determining the material and the methods of acquiring and passing on knowledge. What I always remained faithful to was the principle of enforcing a strict system of requirements, and putting a high value on time. As I have already mentioned, I started studying the Turkish language as a freshman with Lajos Fekete. The textbook in the first semester was Türkisches Übungsbuch by Gyula Németh. This volume, accompanied by a grammar book, was published in the series Sammlung Göschen during the years of the First World War. It was, in fact, prepared for German soldiers, advisors, and frontline fighters delegated to the Ottoman army on the Middle East fronts. The goal was that they should study the Turkish language and be able to communicate with their allies in an easier manner. The well-selected, simple texts were given to the students in two variants: in Arabic script and Latin transcription. The grammar attached to the series was a masterpiece, which served its goal perfectly. Its merit was that it presented the extremely rich forms of the Turkish language succinctly in a simple summary, almost in the form of a table. Pulling aside the curtains of idiom, with its still colorful ArabicPersian undertones, the grammar directed attention to the Turkish substance lying behind. We completed the two booklets of Sammlung Göschen in the first semester. The real diffi33

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culty, however, lay not in the texts, which were in fact small. The tough job was to learn Arabic script. I remember that at this point during the semester a good many students capitulated. They quietly left Lajos Fekete’s language course. In later years, I was also able to witness this process a good many times. Clearing the obstacle demanded great efforts from me too. I can remember very well that during Christmas vacation, I spent hours learning the script, trying to decipher it by “memorizing with my eyes”. But I managed to clear this hurdle well— during my exam in January, Lajos Fekete was satisfied. In the second semester, when Lajos Fekete threw me into deep water (at this time, I was his only student), there was no longer a transcription to go with the texts selected for reading. Slowly, we moved away from printed texts toward handwritten ones. It is common knowledge that eight centuries of Ottoman writing created a host of variants. Under the pens of the literate Ottomans, these appeared in countless further ducti. In order to tap into the sources of the Turkish past, you had to break through this “wall” of writing. Lajos Fekete was the best international expert on the Ottoman jungle of writing who blazed a trail with a sure hand and showed me the way. His way of teaching the language focused on writing and content. In the case of a given grammatical category, it was beyond his interest to draw a wider, either synchronic or diachronic picture. The contemporary Turkish language, which he naturally spoke well, was not his cup of tea either. I remember that much later, when I asked him to read modern texts in Latin scripts as well, he was slightly taken aback by my wish. In my freshman year, besides my other subjects, I was studying Turkish as a history major on my own volition, as a “hobby”, if you like. In my sophomore year, when I became a single-major Turkologist, the situation changed completely. The curriculum and my syllabus, the classes and their topics, were already determined by the Institute of Turkology. In this regard, the Head of the institute, Gyula Németh, had very clear 34

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views, based on his decades-long practice as a teacher. This began with language teaching which consisted, basically, of three stages. The first one was Übungsbuch. In the classes of Lajos Fekete, I got through that already in the first semester. The second step was to read the Turkish novel, Çalıkuşu (Wren) by Reşat Nuri Güntekin (1889–1956) in Arabic script. Gyula Németh put the job in a very simple way: “Mr. Hazai, you will have read the book by the end of the semester, and no matter where I open it at the exam, you will have to read and translate that passage.” It was a serious, time-consuming task which made the use of Arabic-letter Turkish dictionaries necessary. I had to learn how to do that in practice. I remember that I set out to do the job with a tight timetable—with a schedule to read 25 pages a week. In the beginning it was difficult. Later, it was easier to meet that goal. I read the last 100 to 150 pages already in an easy manner, with little use of the dictionary. In the beginning, in one or two cases, I had to consult with Lajos Fekete, but later I did not need his help. Parallel with the above task, I naturally continued the reading of historical texts. (If I am not wrong, in the third semester we were already reading Einführung and Türkische Schriften, Ottoman documents related to Hungary published by Fekete.) I would like to add something to Çalıkuşu. This book by Reşat Nuri Güntekin, the story of the life of a female teacher who made her way to Anatolia in the 1920s, is a well-known classic of Turkish literature. It is present on the book market even today, mainly to meet the demand of schools. The language reform, first proclaimed in 1928, resulted in a transformation of the Turkish language to such a degree that for the young people in Turkey it is now printed in a linguistically simplified, reformed—in Turkish, a sadeleştirilmiş—version. Today, students would have difficulty understanding Çalıkuşu in its original language. By that point, Gyula Németh had outlined my schedule for further language study. By the end of my senior year, I was 35

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supposed to get through the Ottoman anthology by Moritz Wickerhauser (1815–1871), which introduces its reader to the study of difficult historical and literary texts by applying the principle of moving gradually. I managed to fulfill this assignment, too. Here, however, I needed the guiding hand of Lajos Fekete. So it was during his classes that we read these texts. These were the three pillars of Gyula Németh’s language instruction: Sammlung Göschen Übungsbuch, Çalıkuşu and Wickerhauser. Anyone who failed to get through these three assignments was not considered by him to be a Turkologist. On many occasions, he would qualify the command of Turkish of some people by using his own ironic phrase: “They misunderstand an easy text with a dictionary.” Fortunately, Turkology in Budapest—to Gyula Káldy-Nagy’s (1927–2011) credit—remained faithful to the principle of the meticulous study of the Turkish language for a long time. Tibor Halasi-Kun (1914–1991), who made his way to Columbia University in New York in the 1950s to establish Turkology there, applied in his language teaching Gyula Németh’s model. He even translated his grammar book into Turkish. For that, he endured much criticism from some American linguists. He was also planning the publication of Wickerhauser. I saw the manuscript myself. This project of his may have failed to materialize only because his partner, Peter de Ridder (1923–2009), drove Mouton Publishing House into bankruptcy. The curriculum of Turkology was based on the traditional program of Gyula Németh. His two great introductory lectures (Old Turkish Peoples, Contemporary Turkish Peoples) offered a wide survey of the past and present Turkish world. In addition, during my five semesters as a Turkologist, he read several excellent lectures on the most diverse spheres of the field (Old Turkish inscriptions, Ottoman literature, etc.) We even had a look at more distant Turkish languages (e.g. Volga Tatar). In such a way, by the end of my studies I had a solid picture of Turkology, its dimensions, its auxiliary disciplines and the his36

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tory of the research. While imparting his knowledge, Gyula Németh always managed to make the latter subject colorful by sharing with us his experiences gained during his personal contacts with the Turkish people and the masters of Turkology. In this way, we felt some proximity with the human side of the outstanding representatives of international Turkology. During my years at the university, I enjoyed the best possible relationship with all my professors. My relation- György Hazai in his University years ship with Gyula Németh was especially intimate. He soon hinted at me that he wanted to keep me at the department. He proposed that I should become an aspirant so that I might earn my doctorate (at that time, it was referred to as “candidate in sciences”) as soon as possible. For this reason, he requested that the university should shorten my compulsory one-year practice at a museum to one month so that I could continue my studies with him from September 1954. I spent the summer of 1954 on a practicum in the National Museum with Géza Fehér Jr. (1917–2005). Our friendship for life started there and then. The first half of the 1950s brought me another, somewhat similar friendship. In the fall of 1952, I encountered Gyula Germanusz (1884–1979) whom I had known well since 1950. I had attended a few classes of his, but I had never been his student. Irrespective of that, we had a pleasant relationship. He was pleased to tell me the news that a few young intellectuals from 37

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Turkey had arrived in Budapest. They were going to work for the Turkish programs of Hungarian Radio. He suggested that I should visit them as early as possible—contact with them would bring me closer to the contemporary Turkish language. He even gave me their addresses and telephone numbers. I did not delay making contact with them. But when we first met, and even later, we spoke French for a long time with each other. Later, I will speak about the details and several aspects of my friendship with Gün Benderli (1930–) and her family that started at that time and continues to the present. I will mention here only the fact that it was at their place that I met Nâzım Hikmet (1902–1963), the outstanding Turkish poet who often visited Budapest at that time. At the time of my university studies, the teaching of the living Turkish language was simply missing from the curriculum. It was the wife of Géza Fehér Jr. who had the job of language assistant. She had a wonderful command of the contemporary idiom spoken in Istanbul, but was unable to impart her language skills. As far as modern Turkish was concerned, my command of the language reflected the idiom of the Turkish documents and chronicles from the 17th to 18th centuries. This changed after my study trip to Bulgaria in 1954 due to my daily contact with local intellectuals there. Within a few months, I was already in possession of the contemporary Turkish language. The idiom of the documents and chronicles had moved to its right place within my command of the language.

The Aspirant (1954–1957) The changes in the Soviet Union that followed the death of Stalin were perceived by everyone as the harbingers of greater upheavals. The heavy swell of the seas of great politics—which may be difficult to imagine today, but was really the case—even reached Turkology. New Soviet foreign policy wanted the world to believe that the cold war had been a miscalculation by 38

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Stalin and in the future would belong to the past. From among the concrete actions, I highlight an event that was important from the point of view of Turkey. The Soviet Union blamed Stalin for maintaining a territorial claim on three East Anatolian provinces (Kars, Van, Ardahan), and the new leadership abandoned this claim. In order to improve its relations with Turkey, Moscow cast a role for Budapest, too. In 1955, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs approached Gyula Németh, requesting the institute to invite our Ambassador to Turkey and host a conversation with Hungarian Turkologists on several topics. They even revealed the subjects: we should try and improve the former good relations between Hungary and Turkey that deteriorated during the years of the Cold War. For instance, Mehmet Fuat Köprülü (1890–1966) should be reinstated as a member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. He had been stripped of this title because he was Foreign Minister (1950–1956) in the government of Demokrat Parti, coming to power in 1950, and in this way, played a great part in the integration of Turkey into the Western bloc and NATO. Also, a Hungarian Turkologist should visit Turkey in order to renew their formerly excellent relations. Gyula Németh had told me about the topics well in advance, adding that he had also briefed Lajos Ligeti. The reaction of the latter was that he welcomed the initiative, and believed that he should be the first one to visit Ankara and Istanbul. He supported this by the grotesque argument that Gyula Németh’s good relations with scholars in Bulgaria might “irritate” the Turkish side. Gyula Németh, who always avoided clashes with Lajos Ligeti, told me that during the discussion he would support this proposal and asked me not to make any remarks in connection with it. The discussion took place according to this scenario. To my surprise, the people from the Foreign Ministry failed to realize the absurdity of Lajos Ligeti’s proposal. They simply took note of it. Nothing materialized from this effort. This issue too was 39

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swept aside with the events of 1956. Life created new conditions that made it possible for Hungarian Turkologists to visit Turkey in 1957 under completely different circumstances: in the framework of an invitation to a congress. I would like to return to that later. Between 1951 and 1953, the visits of Gyula Németh abroad were important events in the life of the department. As I look back on them now, they greatly influenced the course of my life as well. At that time, only the very privileged were allowed to travel abroad. As a member of the Academy, he belonged to this category. In 1951, he visited East Germany, which had been founded not long before in 1949. It was a protocol obligation to pay a visit to the newly reorganized German Academy (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften) and the national universities (Berlin, Halle and Leipzig). This was designed to demonstrate that the new socialist state, the German Democratic Republic, could count on the support of Hungary, which was also moving on the road to socialism. Gyula Németh could not meet most of the members of the older generation of German Orientalists because the majority of them chose the Western side after the partition of the country. But he managed to see the elderly Carl Brockelmann (1868– 1956), the pontiff of Arabic studies, who had, with several of his valuable publications, enriched Turkology, too. His pioneering work on Maḥmūd al-Kāšġarīs Dīvān luġāt at-Turk (Mitteltürkischer Wortschatz) was published in Budapest as the first volume of Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica in 1928. They had been cultivating a friendly relationship for several decades. Gyula Németh took advantage of the study trip that had, in fact, been forced on him, by working in the libraries. He collected material for his planned bibliography—Sovietico-Turcica—in the Staatsbibliothek in Berlin and in the library of Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft in Halle. Upon his return, he shared with me his experiences and impressions. His verdict on East Germany was summary: this country was incapable of surviving, it 40

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was going to fail. You had to wait, however, almost four decades for this prophecy to be fulfilled. It was in connection with this trip that I first heard the name Professor Wolfgang Steinitz (1905–1967), the Vice President of the Academy in Berlin. According to the short introduction by Gyula Németh, this renowned Finno-Ugrist and honorary member of our Academy spoke Hungarian, and liked Hungarians. I did not suspect at the time that he was going to be one of the defining figures in my life. In 1952, another study trip took Gyula Németh to Bulgaria where he accidentally made an important discovery for Turkology. His hosts added an excursion to his schedule. The port of destination was Kyustendil in South-West Bulgaria where at that time a few Turkish families still lived. Gyula Németh was surprised to find that they spoke the same archaic Turkish dialect as the Turks in Vidin in North-West Bulgaria. He had been studying the language of the latter for decades by returning to the small town on the Danube on a regular basis in order to publish a monograph. After this experience in Bulgaria, it became clear that the Turkish dialects in the Balkans could be divided into two groups—the archaic dialects of the Western Balkans, which are sharply differentiated from the dialects of the Eastern Balkans that demonstrate a more “modern” system of phonemes. The border between the dialects lies in Western Bulgaria. This discovery defined the scholarly program of Gyula Németh and that of the people working with him for decades to come. My research and also that of Zsuzsa Kakuk who at this time, upon completing her work as an aspirant, officially became an associate at the Institute of Linguistics, but remained in contact with the Institute of Turkology as well. During his stay in Bulgaria, Gyula Németh became acquainted with the young Turkologists-historians working on Ottoman documents, defterler, etc., kept in the State Library in Sofia. This was where the idea came to him to send me on a longer 41

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study trip to Bulgaria. In his past as a teacher, this decision had antecedents—both Tibor Halasi-Kun and János Eckmann (1905– 1971) spent time among the Turks in Bulgaria in the 1930s at his initiative and encouragement. Well, I was to share the same “positive fate”. The project began in the summer of 1954, immediately after my graduation. Before I became a single major and studied in the Institute of Turkology, Gyula Németh indicated that he was counting on me to implement a project of his. What he referred to was the compilation of the bibliography of Soviet Linguistic Turkology. Allow me please to call this endeavor, based on the title of the book published in 1960, simply Sovietico-Turcica. The project was about meeting a legitimate demand for orientation and information. In fact, the job should have been done by Soviet Turkologists, but no one there had thought of such an enterprise. As far as the work was concerned, Gyula Németh provided me only with modest instructions. I embarked on the job, which consisted partly of putting information from a host of journals on slips of paper, and partly of reviewing the bibliographical material that Gyula Németh had collected for the purposes of research and teaching. In this way, I soon acquired a picture of this complete scholarly documentation since I had to take each slip of paper from it into my hands. By doing that, I learned very much. But soon we had to recognize that the material at our disposal in Budapest was small, and was far away from meeting our original concept. *** I have to say a few words about developments at the university during these years, which determined the fate of certain majors in Oriental Studies, and that of Turkology for many years. They were connected with the evolving ambitions of Lajos Ligeti to organize scholarly research. As an aspirant of Gyula Németh and then his single assistant for a long time, I was an eyewitness to them. The peculiar relationship between Gyula Németh 42

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and Lajos Ligeti was projected on all that. They respected each other’s knowledge, and this was, perhaps, the only thing that could be called good in their relationship. Gyula Németh would talk about Lajos Ligeti quite a lot. What he said to me was always intended as a piece of advice. “Be careful with him, he is a selfish, ruthless person who is not selective in his methods.” The instruction manual was simple. “Avoid any confrontation with him.” He corroborated his opinion by several stories. He told me, for instance, that Lajos Ligeti and his older brother attended high school in Balassagyarmat. His brother had lost a year in his studies so they were sitting the school final exam together. Their class had managed to get hold of the expected questions at the graduation exam only to have the Ligeti brothers tell on their classmates. He told me the story in a “no comment” style. The lesson of the parable was obvious: sapienti sat. The other story was the outlining of the academic career of Lajos Ligeti. This, in essence, was connected with the reorganization of the Academy in 1949. Gyula Németh told me that he had received an invitation from György Lukács (1885–1971) to participate in a meeting in his apartment. Besides him, József Révai (1898–1959) and Béla Fogarasi (1891–1959) were present. The three chief ideologues, who had been assigned the job to establish the new Academy, informed him that the Party would like to see him in the chair of the Vice President of the Academy. (It had already been decided that István Rusznyák, representing medical sciences, would be the president.) There was one condition attached to the offer—he was expected to write an article, criticizing the old Academy. This would have been published in a daily paper. Gyula Németh, who was not exempt from human vanity either, but was also a person who would mull over what jobs to take on, said no. Instead, he recommended Lajos Ligeti, saying that he would certainly be ready to write the desired article. A few weeks later, this piece, that had been ordered by the Party and the writing of which had been rejected by Gyula Németh, was published in Magyar Nemzet newspaper. 43

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In my conversations with Gyula Németh, the name of Lajos Ligeti came up several times in various contexts, but always in the form of a negative parable. His words always revealed that he despised him to the same degree that he respected his knowledge. At the same time, he was afraid of him, and this was what determined his behavior. In this way, Gyula Németh, in essence, always yielded to him. It happened around 1954 that Lajos Ligeti was given the assignment by the Academy to travel to Prague. There, he was hosted by the Czech Orientalists whose academic institute— Orientální Ústav—was a few steps away from the Charles Bridge. At that time several dozen Orientalists worked in this magnificent building, which after the change in the political system was returned by the Czechoslovak government to the Sovereign Order of Malta. In essence, they represented all the fields of Oriental research. Lajos Ligeti was deeply hit, almost shocked by these impressions. He might have felt that back in 1949, he had been too modest and asked for too little. He should have replied to the chief ideologues of the Party, who placed him in the chair of the Vice President of the Academy, that he was ready to write the requested article, but he also had a wish—he wanted an academic institute. The answer to this request would surely have been whether there was a similar institute in the Soviet Union? And the information about the Institut Vostokovedeniya in Moscow and Leningrad would have reassured the Party. But things did not work out that way. Well, upon his return from Prague, Lajos Ligeti was intent on doing something to regain what he had missed. He wanted to shape Oriental studies in a way that matched his own profile. One of the most important obstacles to this was presented by Turkology that had become more active with its research in the Balkans. Another factor was that in 1955, the Institute of Turkology at the university received some extremely talented new students who—within a few years—represented great research 44

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potential. Unfortunately, the 1956 Hungarian uprising drove them abroad. In 1955, Lajos Ligeti wanted to raise awareness of his more active presence in the future by organizing the “Days of Hungarian Oriental Studies”. In reality, besides his well-known works in the scholarly life in Hungary, he had neither a concrete program, nor any assistants. Because of a serious conflict earlier that was not without any political undertones, he kept a distance from his former students. He did not bring them back even later. And there were no new ones yet. At the conference in 1955, the confrontation with Turkology became obvious. The substantive program was delivered by the Turkologists (Gyula Németh, Zsuzsa Kakuk and myself). It was us too who drafted the conclusions. These were never published. Lajos Ligeti handed over a totally different text to the publishers. You had to draw some conclusions. The steps that might have been taken that would have created a “conflict” with Lajos Ligeti, were, as to be expected, not taken by Gyula Németh. That was the reason why everything shifted toward “Altaic Studies”. According to Ligeti’s plans, Turkology, especially Ottoman studies, would have been condemned to play the role of a “decoration”. A bit later, when I write about 1957, the antecedents in 1955, outlined above, will make these events more comprehensible. My own initiatives to present contemporary Turkish literature took place in the years when I was an aspirant. I became acquainted with it on my own volition. The idea that its outstanding products should be translated into Hungarian was obvious in itself, but it was also suggested and supported by the demands of the publishers. At that time, the ambition to achieve entirety—in the geographical sense of the word—in translating literary works was taken for granted. This enjoyed the necessary financial support as well. In this way, publishers, 45

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subsidized by the state, were pleased to accept works connected with Turkish literature. As for me, I came into contact with Európa Publishing House in 1955. It happened in connection with the publication of the poems and dramas of Nâzım Hikmet. The text of the volume found itself first in the hands of a “language genius” who had the command of several dozen languages and translated into these. The rough translation produced by this person belonged to the category of grave and ridiculous misinterpretation. The publisher, who had doubts about the skills of the translator, turned to me for help, and then, after finding out the facts, commissioned me to take care of the volume. The book was well received. It offered a rich and authentic picture of the ars poetica of the great poet. Before Hungarian readers only had access to it from French language translations. While cooperating with Európa Publishing House, I conceived of a plan to compile an anthology of Turkish lyrical poems. The editor, Uncle Feri Pákozdi, gave me a free hand as far as the selection was concerned. There were no restrictions concerning the number of pages of the volume, either. It was, rather, the requirement to present the full picture that was important. That was how an anthology of Turkish poems Szenvedélyek Tengere (Sea of passions) (1961) came about. It offered a unique cross section of eight centuries of Turkish lyrical verse, diverse and rich in both topics and forms. The critics in Turkey appreciated the book enthusiastically, the writer Sami N. Özerdim, for instance, underlined that the variety and the selection were unprecedented. The cooperation with the Hungarian poets who worked on the rough translations, was a joyful experience. I am still in a friendly contact with those poets who are still alive. Besides the young poets, some elderly masters had also expressed an interest in the volume, and joined the group of translators. István Vas (1910–1990), who was, by the way, on the permanent staff of Európa Publishing House at that time, 46

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warmly welcomed this endeavor. Through Gyula Németh, he had been interested in Turkish poetry even before 1945, and fell in love with the work of the great 18th century lyric poet, Nedim. He would always refer to him as the “divine Nedim”. He enriched the volume with delightful translations. The other great experience was that Lőrinc Szabó (1900–1957) also participated in the work. The great poet and master of literary translation had heard that there was a Nâzım Hikmet volume in the making. This aroused his interest. Previously, several pieces of controversial news about the Turkish poet had reached him. He would have liked to establish a personal contact with his lifework. But his health was already very unstable. Because of this, through Uncle Feri Pákozdi, he asked for the possibility to take a look at the full manuscript so that he could make the selection himself. We were pleased to meet this request. The massive manuscript of the rough translations—with the various notes on metrics—was delivered to his apartment. The Master chose the three most beautiful poems by Nâzım Hikmet with a sure hand and conjured three translations with wonderful cadences and vying with the original in their lyricism. In 1957, I participated in the Congress of Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Society) which provided an excellent opportunity to meet Turkish writers. They, as well as the poets, played almost the same role in the life of the Society as the linguists. The writers, who had heard about my Nâzım Hikmet volume in one way or another, were eager to contact me. The great poet himself was still persona non grata in the official intellectual public life in Turkey. His life and work were all the more revered among the circle of the writers. However, we still had to wait decades for the official rehabilitation of the great poet—who had previously been imprisoned. It was during the congress in 1957 that I met Haldun Taner (1915–1986), the outstanding short story writer and a man of the theater. We established a friendship for life. In Istanbul, he 47

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introduced me to the novelist Orhan Kemal (1914–1970), the poets Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca (1914–2008) and Melih Cevdet Anday (1915–2002). They were also represented in my anthology by several fine poems. The writers in Istanbul were aware of my initiatives to publish translations and for this reason, were glad to maintain contact with me in the coming years as well. At that time, two publications resulted from these encounters. Magvető Publishers issued the novel Ince Mehmet (Sovány Mehmet / Mehmet, My Hawk) by Yaşar Kemal (1923–2015) who had reached the stage of nomination to the Nobel Prize. And Európa Publishing House came out with the excellent short novel by Haldun Taner—Ayıșıǧında Çalıșkur (Holdfényben a Csaliskur / Chalishkur in Moonlight) in the series of the Modern Library. This work faithfully reflected the author’s bond with the theater. On one occasion, I even told him that the theater reverberated in this long short story to such an extent that he should write a version for the stage of it. He took heed of my advice, and on the front page of the manuscript he expressed his gratitude for my encouragement. It is him to whom I am thankful for my first visit to the theater in Turkey. Haldun Bey had a theater company of his own, Devekuşu Tiyatrosu (Ostrich Theater), and that was where he took me. The last time we met was in Berlin in 1981 when during the rule of the military junta several Turkish intellectuals were trying to find the lee side abroad. I invited him to Ganymed Restaurant beside the Brecht Theater Berliner Ensemble. Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956), the German playwright used to be a regular guest in this magnificent place where over the years I also became a regular. The restaurant was located in the immediate vicinity of the border crossing point in the building of Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse. Its location made it easier to receive guests there from West Berlin. Later, I would greet his bust in the boat station in Kadiköy where Haldun Bey would pass every day in order to cross from this nice district of Istanbul in Asia to the European side. I 48

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György Hazai with Edit Tasnádi

maintained contact with his wife in the coming years, too. At her initiative, I was one of the participants and lecturers at the literary conference dedicated to Haldun Taner in 2004. On my arrival to Berlin in 1964, my contacts with the publishers in Budapest slackened. To tell you the truth, because of my new job I did not have the time to deal with Turkish literature with my former intensity. For quite a time, I was still delivering reports as a publisher’s reader, and did the job of compiling and editing a short volume of Nâzım Hikmet. That was all I did in this field. My consolation in this inevitable change was that the cause of presenting Turkish literature in Hungary had, in the meantime, found itself in competent hands. The excellent translations by the Turkologist Edit Tasnádi (1942–) were offering a picture of the new masters, as well as settling old debts. By coincidence, upon my return from Berlin in 1982 yet another honorable job in translation came my way—namely, the rendering into Turkish of the magnum opus of the great Hungarian poet Imre Madách, The Tragedy of Man. 49

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In 1984—I do not really know at whose initiative—György Lengyel (1936–) approached me. The eminent stage director, later manager of the Madách Theater, had directed an excellent interpretation of the drama. He turned to me with the request that I should participate in the program to host a Turkish guest arriving in Budapest. The guest was Haldun Dormen (1928–), an outstanding personality in theater life with whom György Lengyel had come into contact in the international arena of directors. The Tragedy happened to be on the program of the Madách Theater, so one evening we went to see the drama. Haldun Dormen became captivated by the piece. He insisted that the drama should be translated into Turkish by all means. György Lengyel contacted the Institute of Theater Studies, which was pleased to undertake the job. (In those days, there were still plenty of opportunities for that.) The work was done by two people, my friend Gün Benderli, who had a remarkable theoretical and practical command of the Hungarian language, and myself. Our task did not prove to be easy. We had to absorb all the details of the text. However, during the translation, we could rely on the support of György Lengyel at all times. The translation was completed, but publishing it proved a long ordeal. A drama from behind the Iron Curtain—even if it was written a century before—was surrounded by distrust. After the Iron Curtain collapsed, and with the successful intervention of Professor Hasan Eren (1919–2007), who at that time headed Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Society), the Ministry of Culture of Turkey published the book in 1998. I am proud of this success in cultural diplomacy.

My Years in Bulgaria Gyula Németh mentioned to me already at the time of my final years at the university that he was planning to send me on a longer study trip to Bulgaria, commissioned by the Academy. 50

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He had very pleasant memories of the country due to his study of the dialects of Vidin before the Second World War. All that was confirmed by his experiences during his trip to Bulgaria in 1952. During his stay in Sofia, he could see that our colleagues there, enjoying the support of the local Academy, possessed ever expanding opportunities to study the country’s Turkish past. This, in turn, opened serious channels for both local and international research in Turkology. In the summer of 1954, just before graduating, I received a note from the International Department of the Academy that I was allowed to prepare for a six-month study trip. Departure was set for the summer, i.e. the period after completing my university studies. Everything went according to schedule, and I was able to leave for Sofia in the middle of the summer. This study trip did prove to be extremely useful to me. I made contact with Bulgaria’s young researchers of the Ottoman past, who soon after became not only the leading personalities in local research but played an important role in the international arena as well. Here, I have to mention the names of Vera Mutafchieva, Bistra Cvetkova (1926–1982), Nikolay Todorov (1920–2003) and Strasimir Dimitrov (1930–2001) with whom I developed very friendly relations. One of the main focuses of their work was the Oriental collection of the National Library where not only old manuscripts but documents were kept as well. This valuable material found its way into the library in a peculiar fashion. The Bulgarian state purchased this collection as wastepaper, but on recognizing its real “second hand” value, immediately sent it to the library. As a point of interest, I make the remark here that the Academy provided significant financial support for the study of these documents. In order to achieve this goal, they mobilized the members of the older generation who knew the Arabic script from their everyday lives. In this way, about a dozen elderly gentlemen worked on the classification and transcription of the texts. 51

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The Head of this department of the National Library was the historian Boris Nedkov (1910–1975) who had pursued his studies in Germany and had already demonstrated his talent with several publications. The schedule of the study trip also included a visit to Bulgaria by Gyula Németh in the fall so that he could make a tour in the country to study Turkish dialects. I was scheduled to participate in his study tour. Our trip did materialize and brought me an extreme wealth of knowledge. The most important dividend paid by almost six months in Bulgaria was that I spent a lot of time in the company of the local Turkish intellectuals, who made my command of the Turkish language active. In other words, it was here that I established an active contact with the living language—it was here that I learned to speak Turkish. One more event during the study trip to Bulgaria later proved to have a great impact on my life. During his stay of a few weeks in Bulgaria that fall, Gyula Németh was invited to dinner by Professor Vladimir Georgiev (1908–1986) who at that time was the leading personality in social sciences in Bulgaria. He held the positions of the Vice President of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences and the Rector of the State University in Sofia simultaneously. The dinner took place in the elegant Opera Restaurant, and the language of it—because of Georgiev’s wife, if I am not wrong—was French. (Georgiev had an excellent command of German too.) During the discussion, we learned a remarkable amount about the plans Bulgarian scholars had concerning Turkology. The most important element was the idea of greatly expanding the already existing Department of Turkology at the university. What lay behind the idea was the fact that the government was planning to set up schools with Turkish as the language of teaching. The task of the Department of Turkology would have been to train the teachers for these schools. During the disccussion over the dinner, Georgiev asked Gyula Németh and me whether there was a possibility that I might 52

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become a visiting lecturer at their university. Propriety required that the question should be answered by Gyula Németh. After he had said yes, it was appropriate for me to give my reply. After dinner, my professor and I exchanged a few words about this question, but neither of us considered it as a seriously urgent issue. A year later, it turned out that we were wrong. In the fall of 1955, the invitation from Vladimir Georgiev of the University of Sofia’s Department of Turkology arrived. Meanwhile, in the fall of the same year, under the tutorship of Gyula Németh, I started my studies as an aspirant. Since the topic of my doctorate dissertation would have been chosen from the field of Turkology related to the Balkans, a longer stay in Bulgaria seemed to be an advantage rather than an obstacle in securing the permission of the Scientific Qualifying Committee, especially because the request enjoyed the unambiguous support of the professor involved. The only obstacle to overcome was how to arrange yet another delay with the Hungarian military reserve for the officers’ training which was compulsory for all students. The notice of the draft had been delivered to me almost at the same time as the invitation to Sofia. Even that did not prove to be a difficulty—the officials of the People’s Army gave a positive reply to the Academy’s request for another delay in my training. So the road opened in this respect too. At the beginning of 1956, I left for Sofia so that I could be at the university for the beginning of the semester. My integration there did not present any problems either. I started my work in the second semester of the academic year. For one semester, I taught a small group of seniors—about twenty students. However, my main task was connected with freshmen. They were the teachers for the planned Turkish language high schools. Their number was around a hundred. With the exception of two of them, their mother tongue was Turkish. These two also learned Turkish in their childhood. In this way, the language of my lectures could easily be Turkish. 53

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This presented to me a great challenge. I had just graduated, and acquired a command of modern Turkish—that is to say, the spoken language—when life immediately confronted me with such a task! In fact, I can perceive the problem now as I write these lines. At that time, I did not even think about it—I embarked on the job as a matter of course. I was able to hand out my lectures to the students in the form of reproduced notes. Even today I keep a copy of them. I can still recall with pleasure the three semesters at the University of Sofia, and my problemfree relations with the students. When life made that possible, I was always glad to see them again. It was only natural that besides teaching at the university, I continued the scholarly work that I had started before. During this time, the topic of my future doctorate dissertation matured. This is the point where I have to mention the question of the financial side of my activities—in other words, how the issue of my salary worked out. In a bizarre way, the arrangement was extremely advantageous. The story here was—as it turned out later—the following: when the University of Sofia initiated my invitation, it was indicated by the competent officials that there was no budget for this position in the bilateral cultural-scientific agreement. The process should have been started much earlier. However, if the university insisted on its initiative, the issue of the visiting lecturer’s salary could be settled in the framework of the bilateral cooperation agreement in the economic-technical field. Since the matter was urgent, the university gave a nod. They must have been absolutely uninformed about the financial implications involved. And the difference in the salary was simply gigantic. While the fee according to the cultural agreement was calculated on the basis of the salaries of teachers at the university, in the framework of the economictechnical agreement it was adjusted to the allowance for engineers and technicians who traveled to Bulgaria to work on joint projects. The two sums were worlds apart. The Bulgarian side had to swallow the bitter pill—under the terms of the agree54

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György Hazai and his students on the stairs of the Sofia University

György Hazai collecting dialects in a village in Bulgaria

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ment—it had to pay. The Commercial Section of the Hungarian Embassy, which was partly responsible for the matter, also insisted on it. After lengthy negotiations, a smashing sum of money was fixed for me. I can remember well that it was about 4000 leva, more than the salary of the rector of the university. I confess. I always felt ashamed when this sum was handed over to me at the central cash register of the university. I thought this must have been ten times more than the salary of the cashier. What I wrote above explains how this accident, the miscalculation by the bureaucracy, made it possible for me—besides buying an apartment in Budapest—to make trips to conferences abroad without difficulties. I will naturally tell you about these later on. The peculiar change in the administrative framework outlined above had another, as it turned out later, not insignificant aspect. Since on the part of Hungary, my work in Sofia took place not under the cultural but the technical cooperation agreement between the two countries, the Hungarian liaison for me was not the Embassy, more precisely its cultural attaché, but the Commercial Section, and one of the officials there, appointed by its Head. At the Commercial Section, I was received cordially. They found it funny that a man with an academic background was sent to them. Maintaining contact was easy since their office was located very close to the university. I regularly stopped by them because you could always receive useful information, such as how to come by hard currency. I needed the hard currency when I travelled to Yugoslavia, and especially later, to Ankara and Munich. They willingly lent me their tape recorder, at that time a great novelty, which I used during the collection of dialects. It was an Orion, not yet in commercial circulation. The twenty-kilogram appliance was not easy to handle, but it gave me an important headway in my work. In the fall of 1956, in the framework of the project on Balkan Turkology, Gyula Németh paid a visit to Albania too. He want56

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ed to take me with him but because of my work in Bulgaria, it couldn’t be arranged. MALÉV (Hungarian Airways) already operated a flight between Budapest and Tirana which flew via Belgrade. But the stopover was of a technical nature only; the plane was not allowed to take passengers on board. The voyage between Varna and Tirana by boat would have been too long, and I could not afford that time because of my teaching obligations at the University of Sofia. In this way, I reached Tirana only many years later, on the occasion of an AIESEE Congress (Association Internationale d’Études du Sud-Est Européen). At the same time, the years in Bulgaria—in an absolutely unexpected way—brought one of the big “changing points” in the course of my life. In the fall of 1956, during the visit of Gyula Németh to Sofia, I had a—let me find the most suitable word— clash with the master. He had earlier indicated to me, and then in the course of 1957 confirmed, that on completing my time as an aspirant, we would go our separate ways. Although the Scientific Qualifying Committee would have provided me with a job at the Department of Turkology at ELTE University, he did not approve of it. I will return later to how this matter evolved. For me, the fact was that from the fall of 1957—when my time as a visiting lecturer in Sofia expired—I would become an unemployed Turkologist with a degree. I confess that I did not really feel the gravity of that. We lived in different times. I was sure that this matter would be sorted out—from the stormy area, I would again find myself on the lee side without great difficulties. That was how it happened. The first chapter of wading out of home waters was connected with my time in Sofia. From the spring of 1956, my trips became much easier and more simple because one was allowed to travel across Yugoslavia, too. On my return trip, I spent a few days in Skopje where, with the help of my Turkish friends there, I conducted very useful research into dialects. When I got back to Sofia, the news was waiting for me that Nâzım Hikmet had arrived to Bulgaria for a 57

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few days and had already made inquiries about me. I immediately contacted him. It was in Budapest in 1955 that we last met, so I had plenty to tell him about. Naturally, I also told him about the state of my affairs: namely, the prospect that from the fall of 1957, I was going to become “an unemployed Turkologist with a degree”. “You are telling me this at the right time,” he said. “I was in Berlin a few weeks ago where I had several meetings with Professor Wolfgang Steinitz, the Vice President of the Academy there, who also played an important role at Humboldt University. He told me he wanted to renew research of Turkology in Berlin, namely the work on the materials of the Turfan expeditions collected before the First World War. Between the two World Wars, this research made enormous progress in international Turkology. He asked me whether I could recommend someone. I promised him that I would take a look around. “Would you be interested in this?” he inquired. I naturally replied yes. “I am ready to write to Wolfgang Steinitz immediately but if we want to do that in German, you will have to help me draft the letter”, he said. My first trip to Turkey took place in July in 1957. The prelude to that was that Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Society) had invited the Department of Turkology of the University of Sofia to their congress that was held in Ankara at the beginning of July. The Society had indicated that they would cover the costs of the accomodation of the participants. I had received permission from the International Department of the Hungarian Academy of Science, and the territorial scope of my passport had been extended, so I was able to make the trip. From Hungary, Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti had also been invited, and both had accepted. I had naturally informed them in a polite way that I would participate in the congress too. They had not been very enthusiastic to learn about this. It is impossible to describe in a few sentences what it meant for a young Turkologist to be able to travel to Turkey in the era of the Iron Curtain. 58

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Participants at the congress of Tu- rk Dil Kurumu in Ankara in 1957. Standing from left: Hasan Eren, Hâmit Araslı, Ragıp Özderem, Włodzimierz Zajacakowski, György Hazai, Andreas Tietze. Sitting: Ervand Serovtyan, Nurettin Artam, Agâh Sırrı Levend, Lajos Ligeti, Zeki Velidi Toğan

Allow me please to tell you about this great experience in my life in more detail at another point. This jump in the chronological order is also made necessary by another event. The congress in Ankara offered something that was especially important to Hungarian participants. It was here that the elite of Hungarian Turkology met for the first time since the Second World War. These were the people whose work before 1945 had played a decisive role in the development of this discipline, and had achieved a distinguished place in Hungarian and international scholarship. The three most illustrious disciples of Gyula Németh—Tibor Halasi-Kun, Hasan Eren and János Eckmann participated in the congress, too. We were all aware of the fact that their lives and the relationship among them would have been very different if 1945 had not happened, and if the Iron Curtain had not descended across the continent. For them, I was the only unknown figure—they could, essentially, form an opinion of the value of the beginner Turkologist only on the basis of my two lectures at the congress, and my 59

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command of Turkish that they heard during our daily contacts. Later on, I established very pleasant relations with all of them. In Istanbul, János Eckmann even took me for an outing. This was how I saw the islands in the Sea of Marmara. Later, during our meetings in New York and Budapest, we formed a very close friendship. I will tell you at the right point of the chronology how I went on to become Halasi-Kun’s successor as the editor of the international journal of Turkology—Archivum Ottomanicum—that he had founded. Hereafter, it was only vigorous correspondence and an exchange of books that connected me with János Eckmann. After he had made his way to the US, we met only once. A close relationship with Hasan Eren—as a colleague and friend—developed as a matter of course since we went on meeting each other in Turkey. A good number of issues in Turkology connected us. In Ankara, Tibor Halasi-Kun drew my attention to the International Congress of Orientalists to be convened in Munich at the beginning of September 1957. He handed over the circular to me and encouraged me to register. On receiving a positive reply from Munich, and asking for the permission of the Academy, I decided to travel to this congress and return to Budapest from there. What happened later justified my decision. The congress in Munich, just like the one in Ankara, was a singular experience for a young researcher just beginning his career. It provided the possibility to personally see and meet the great minds of our profession whose names had meant only books and articles to me before. However, what was most important to me were the developments concerning my hopes for Berlin. Hungarian Turkology was represented in Munich by Gyula Németh, Lajos Ligeti and Lajos Fekete. Although my “separation” from Gyula Németh was already common knowledge, this did not mean a change in contact with me at all. I was a student of all three of them, and there was no way of changing that fact. We maintained a normal tone of speaking to one another. One evening, we were sitting in the restaurant of their hotel 60

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near Karlsplatz. Tibor Halasi-Kun and his wife were also with us. During the conversation, Gyula Németh stood up to greet someone who had just entered the restaurant. “Steinitz is coming”, he said. Wolfgang Steinitz was well-known in Budapest as the Vice President of the Academy in Berlin and an honorary member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. After greeting us, Steinitz told us that he had a specific aim in visiting the table of the Hungarian Academicians. “I am pleased to see you”, he said, “because I want to talk to you about an important matter. Do you know a young Turkologist by the name of György Hazai?” “Sure enough”, was the reply, “he is sitting right here at this table.” This was a great surprise for W. Steinitz who produced the letter by Nâzım Hikmet, and went on to tell us about his ideas to renew the Turfan research in Berlin. “It is really great that Mr. Hazai is here. In this way, I can introduce him to Annemarie von Gabain (1901–1993) and Richard Hartmann (1881– 1965) too, whose approval is important to move this matter forward. Both of them are here in Munich.” Annemarie von Gabain was one of the founders of the Turfan research, and a corresponding member of the Academy in Berlin, but she lived in Hamburg. Richard Hartmann was the Director of the Academic Institute for Oriental Research in East Berlin (Institut für Orientforschung). These introductions took place in Munich at that time. Wolfgang Steinitz soon after said goodbye, leaving the Hungarians on their own with this surprising news. It was welcomed only by Tibor Halasi-Kun in an enthusiastic way. “Georgie! This is great”, he said. “Don’t worry about the Uyghur-Turkish language, with your command of Ottoman Turkish you will get along with it easily.” Understanding the situation, Tibor deflected the problem of not being perfect in Uyghur-Turkish. Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti remained silent. Because of the presence of Tibor and Éva, they refrained from commenting on what had happened. It was only the following day that Lajos Ligeti made a remark to me: “Son, you mustn’t do such a thing.” 61

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(He forgot about his own efforts to try and land a job in Paris.) The congress in Munich testified that no matter how heavy the headwinds, you can stay on your feet.

My Return from Sofia: Budapest 1958–1962 From mid-September of 1957, I became a citizen of Budapest again. The reception was, perhaps, even worse than I had expected. My status as an aspirant officially came to an end. As far as my salary was concerned, this did not actually matter at all, since I was eligible for an allowance until I found a new job. Today this would be unimaginable! The Scientific Qualifying Committee, the one responsible for the aspirants, provided all the members in our class with a job. Me too. The job of an adjunct professor was waiting for me in the Institute of Turkology of ELTE University. However, Gyula Németh replied to this offer in writing that he was not prepared to accept my posting. Instead, he made several proposals. Today I can only remember the first one—a position at the Embassy in Sofia. The other items of his proposal were similar to that. Their message was, however, exactly the same—“banish him from Turkology!” Months of squabbling began. The procedure that lasted till the spring of 1958 was becoming more and more embarassing for the “decision-makers”. The solution was found by Academician László Bóka (1910–1964), the Secretary of the relevant department of the Scientific Qualifying Committee at the time. I had been attached to him since my student years. During my studies at the university, he was my Dean. I can recall the pleasant conversations we had. His brilliant use of the Hungarian idiom had always impressed me. As a member of the “circles” playing a decisive role in the lives of people, he cultivated intimate relations, especially with Hungarian linguists. His judgment of Gyula Németh was dominated by respect, while he felt mainly contempt for Lajos Ligeti. We were well into 1958, when the Head of human resources 62

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of our department, Margó Bernáth, who always managed our affairs with benevolence, called to tell me that our Secretary, Professor Bóka wanted to see me. This conversation took place in the usual cordial way. He made his proposition. “It has occurred to me that your research in the Balkans is not really far from István Kniezsa’s (1898– 1965) research interests. You could work with him in a post of the Academy. Your job of an adjunct professor would be given to Zsuzsa Kakuk. You, converting her job in the Institute of Linguistics into a research post of the Academy, would go to the Department of Slavic Studies of ELTE. Kenéz (that was the nickname for István Kniezsa among the students of Eötvös College) will surely agree and is ready to accept you. I will talk to Gyula Németh and ‘Yellow’ too (in the college, that was the ‘cover name’ for Lajos Ligeti). I believe everything will be all right.” I could only express my thanks for his excellent proposal. The continuation of the matter was also characteristic. In the evening, there was a meeting of the Orientalists’ circle in Belvárosi Café. At the table Lajos Ligeti said to me: “Son, see me in my room.” In the jargon of the “circle”, this meant that he wanted to tell me something tête-à-tête. On such occasions, the people involved would move away from the main table so that they could settle the issues that concerned only them. That was what happened that evening too. Ligeti gave me a sharp look and then said: “Son, I can no longer tolerate that your affairs are still unsettled, and sooner or later you might even have financial problems. At the department, I have managed to settle the following.” After this, he related to me the model worked out by László Bóka. Paris vaut bien une messe (Paris is well worth a mass), said Henry IV in the well-known historical situation. I just had to express my thanks, and this did not force me to change my beliefs. So I stammered out the words of gratitude that the Khan of Hungarian Oriental Studies must have expected. When I told all that to László Bóka, he 63

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said: “The Yellow is incapable of changing his spots.” However, what was important for me was that I found myself on the lee side after all. *** Upon my return to Budapest, the most shocking thing for me was the hostile reception by my close colleagues: I mean the colleagues of my own age at the Depatment of Oriental Studies. When I left for Bulgaria, we maintained the best possible relations. But upon my return, they received me as an enemy to be excommunicated. Is it possible for envy to be distructive to such a degree? Can people be manipulated that far? Is this how you win favors with the bosses?—I asked myself these questions. The chief assistant of Lajos Ligeti was in the vanguard. He even told me openly: “By travelling to the two congresses, you have gained illegitimate advantages.” Well, a few years later, he wanted to take his revenge on me. (A few decades later, it was ironic how this person, who had been the master of the methods of the party-state, became the champion of democracy.) In the Institute of Turkology, an incredible atmosphere was created around me. The chief assistant, who had just returned to the university and was, I believe, working as an adjunct professor, was carefully collecting news about me and forwarding these to Lajos Ligeti directly. People would not dare to talk to me, lest the Big Bosses learn about it. I remember well how Károly Czeglédy, who tried to keep a distance from this ugly campaign, asked me to walk over from the corridor facing Váci Street (where the institute was located) to the safe side of the building on the Danube, lest someone notice that we were meeting. On the other hand, the Institute of Slavic Studies offered me pleasant security. From the tormenting headwinds, I again found myself on the lee side. István Kniezsa, a morally flawless person but also a charismatic personality, held a security umbrella over me. Beside him, I felt safe in an intellectual sense. 64

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However, I could not sever my working relationship with the Institute of Turkology. The work on Sovietico-Turcica, already under my leadership at the time, still connected me to it for some time. The documents relating to the volume were kept there, and my colleagues, whose research was funded by the Academy, worked on the material there. I knew, however, that everything would come to an end within the foreseeable future, and my contact would be broken with this workplace that had once been so pleasant a few years before, but had become a hornet’s nest for me. I concentrated all my attention and energies on work. I completed my doctorate dissertation in 1958 and defended it in 1959. In 1960, Sovietico-Turcica was already being printed. The bulky anthology of Turkish poetry, The Sea of Passions, was already in the hands of the publishers. In the meantime, several of my articles were published in Hungary and abroad. On the orders of Lajos Ligeti, I continued to remain persona non grata in the domestic issues of Oriental Studies. I was carefully kept away from the Committee of Oriental Studies, which at that time exercised more serious powers. There Lajos Ligeti relied exclusively on persons loyal to him. Preparations for participating in the 25th International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow in 1960 (XXVème Congrès International des Orientalistes) faithfully reflected Ligeti’s goal and the methods. Assistant Number 1 did his job like the Big Boss expected. The Academy and the Ministry together provided many places—16 in all—for Orientalists to go to Moscow. The Academy’s quota was filled by people from the university. There was no possibility to do it another way. As a researcher at the Academy, I was not allowed to join the contingent from the university. Although I was the only one who could have presented a book with the potential to receive great attention at the congress, I was barred from participating. At this time, people were already allowed to travel to socialist countries by covering their own costs. However, according 65

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to the Department of International Relations of the Academy, this was not possible for this conference because the participation fee—USD 10—had to be paid in hard currency. The congress would, in turn, forward these hard currency sums to the international organization of Orientalists. At least, that was the information we received from the Academy’s Committee of Oriental Studies. I simply knew that this was a bold-faced lie concocted by Assistant Number 1. In the beginning, I was powerless. But, I was assisted by providence. In December 1959, I made a study trip to Prague by covering my own costs. I combed Prague’s libraries, hunting for Turkish texts written in Latin in some old publications. The Czech Orientalists held their annual meeting that same month so I heard a great deal about their preparations for the congress in Moscow. At the end of my stay in Prague, I paid a farewell visit to Orientální Ústav. They told me that they expected to send a delegation of 30 to 40 people to Moscow. Many would naturally cover their own costs. “How did you manage to provide the USD 10 per head to be paid in hard currency?” I asked. The “information” that our Academy had told us made their blood run cold. Dr. Karel Petráček (1926–1987), the Deputy Director and an eminent Arabist, did not hesitate for a moment. He rang the bell for his secretary, asking her to put a call through to Bobodžan Gafurov (1908–1977) in Moscow. Gafurov was the Director of the Institut Vostokovedenija in 1956–1977, and the Chairman of the congress. At that time, making a telephone call was not as simple as it is today. However, the following day Dr. Petráček informed me that there was a fatal error—the USD 10 could be paid in rubles too. I arrived home one or two days before Christmas, so I took my first steps in pursuing this issue in early January. I paid a visit to Péter Vas-Zoltán, the Head of the International Department, and told him the news that I had brought from Prague. He immediately called Évike Bajk, the desk officer for the Soviet Union, and instructed her to place a call to Moscow. The 66

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György Hazai is delivering his lecture at the Congress of Orientalists in Moscow in 1960

connection in this case was not made immediately either. The following day, however, Péter Vas-Zoltán telephoned me—he had received the same answer as our colleagues in Prague. He also added that after his call, the issue started to trouble our Soviet comrades as well. They began to worry that this misunderstanding might have a negative impact on participation by Socialist countries. Péter Vas-Zoltán took immediate action. Éva Bajk was given the task of informing the Orientalists who wanted to participate in the congress given the new situation. Assistant Number 1 shared the news that through his “efforts” it was now possible to pay the USD 10 in rubles. That meant that the main obstacle for paying for your own travel costs had been removed. During that meeting I did not say a word. But I was very pleased that many of my colleagues would be able to travel to the congress. The reception of Sovietico-Turcica was a great success among Turkologists at the congress in Moscow, although what I had in 67

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my hands were only galley proofs of the text. My lecture also turned out well. Just as it had happened at other congresses, I built a relationship with several colleagues, which has lasted to the present day. This resulted in an exchange of knowledge, information on research, and books. The Austrian Turkologist Andreas Tietze (1914–2003), who at that time worked at UCLA (University of California Los Angeles) in the USA, also participated in the congress. He knew that during my time in Moscow I would meet Nâzım Hikmet with whom he wanted to be acquainted. I arranged a dinner for the three of us. Nâzım invited us to his apartment. It was an unforgettable evening, and the last time I saw him. Nâzım’s weak heart to which his poem Angina pectoris was dedicated, stopped beating in the spring of 1963. At that time, the Soviet Union was very inexpensive for visitors from abroad, especially visitors from Socialist countries. The flight, hotels, restaurants, taxis, simply everything important to a tourist, was cheap. This dolce vita completely changed in the second half of the 1960s. But on this visit, expenses were so low I needlessly changed too much money. I stayed at the comfortable Hotel Ukraina, and I could afford a trip to Leningrad. What was more, I went by air. Tension in Budapest reached a crescendo in 1961. Everyone conspired against me. The engine of the “Holy Alliance” was the adjunct professor at the Institute of Turkology, who at this time and later as well, was famous for collecting and delivering news to the local Party office. This was how he expressed his gratitude to the Party for allowing him back to the university. His reliable helper was a teacher at the Department of Sinology who, as a veteran Party member, was known to be a prominent “mover and shaker” of news. Two Turkologists joined them. They collected everything that they knew about me, or invented more. By doing so, they worked themselves up. In the end, they served this cake of gossip and intelligence to the Party cell, which had no choice but look into the matter. We were all 68

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summoned to the Party office to be interrogated. The Chairman of the Commission appointed by the Party was one of the professors from the Department of Pedagogy. I can no longer remember his name. As I learned later, he and his comrades in the Social Democratic Party had also been imprisoned during the Rákosi era on trumped up and false charges. That was why he reacted to issues of this nature in a particularly sensitive way. The people summoned were questioned one by one. This took quite a long time. I was the last one in the line. The Chair man said only this: “Comrade Hazai, we have no questions for you. You deserve apologies for what has happened.” He did not say a word about the “charges”. What he added was rather a reflection for the members of the Commission. “You now see how in the past false accusations and humiliations in the courtroom resulted from spreading gossip.” He was referring to the case of the prominent communist László Rajk who had been charged with “treason” and “collaboration with the imperialists” while an internee in France. This story was one of the key elements in the indictment against this politician in the show trial organized by Rákosi. The inquiry ended with that. I did not learn there what I was accused of or, to put it more precisely, what they had invented against me. But I did learn that one of my accusers was forced “to substantiate his evidence”, and he immediately pointed a finger at someone else as the source of this particular piece of information. In this way, it became clear: the case was pure fantasy. Its architects had hoped that they would be able to achieve success, as it used to happen before. However, I did learn something. The “news traffickers” claimed to know more about my “affairs” at the university in Bulgaria than I did. I would like to mention only one story, because of its funny absurdity. One of the matadors had been to Lovech, Bulgaria. There a gypsy woman showed him my business card and claimed that I owed her a large sum of money, perhaps a hundred leva. According to the tale, she must have expected the 69

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accidental visitor from Hungary to settle this “debt”. I would like to add here that I had been travelling quite a lot in Bulgaria where I had been to scores of places. But I had never been to Lovech. And for quite a long time, my financial circumstances were not as good as they were during these one and a half years in Bulgaria. My savings, as I have already mentioned, made it possible for me to purchase an apartment in Budapest. I never needed a loan, let alone from a gypsy woman in Lovech. The Party apologized to me for what had happened. It never occurred to the snoopers, fabricators of ghost stories, to do the same. And it became even clearer to me that I was better off to leave Budapest. At the right moment, providence compensated me for what had happened—from one day to the next, the subject of my invitation to Berlin, first raised in 1957, gained momentum. *** The readers may find it odd, but here I must tell you about my Jewish relations first. There is a good reason for the digression. Life arranged it so that my one and only childhood friend was a Jewish boy. His name was Iván Solt. My parents knew his parents from their time in Miskolc. His mother, Aunt Wanda, came from the Bródy family in Miskolc which had a good name there. Iván and I met in the elementary school on Stefánia Road, which belonged to the nuns of the order of St. Ursula. We were school mates and soon became friends. One of the important reasons for this was the fact that among the pupils in this exclusive private school we were the only boys. All the other pupils—in the other classes as well—were girls. Our close friendship was strengthened by the fact that we lived not far from each other in the district of Zugló. The Solt family lived in a wonderful villa with a garden on Columbus Street. We lived in a modest tenement block on Gizella Street. Because of their common roots in Miskolc, our parents discovered each other earlier than we, the children, did. Iván was 70

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not an easy child to handle. He was a mischief-maker who constantly got on the nerves of his parents. From the point of view of the adults, I was a much easier child. So looking back at those wonderful years, I can say that Aunt Wanda and Uncle Nándor must have taken it as a gift from heaven when Iván and I made friends. We would always spend the afternoons together. Their vast garden was a splendid place for us and in the “children’s suite” in the house, there were many things to entertain us. It was thanks to the Solt family that I learned the wider dimensions of middle-class life. During my years at high school, our paths parted somewhat since Iván went to Szent István High School, and I went to Trefort. But that did not change our habit of frequently meeting in Zugló. Then 1944 arrived—and for the Solt family, it brought the yellow star, the ghetto and horrors during the siege of the Red Army. Respite after the war did not last long—Uncle Nándi’s paint factory was nationalized and the family was resettled. In 1956, I found myself in Bulgaria. Iván, who loved my mother like his own and was in permanent contact with her. In November 1956, too. At this juncture, it was my mother who told him to make his way to the West immediately. It was her who packed him food for the road. He ended up in New Zealand. He visited Hungary every two to three years after he was allowed to do so. We last saw each other in 2000. These are all unforgettable episodes in my life. Life gave me the chance to establish an excellent relationship with Chief Rabbi Sándor Scheiber (1913–1985) who was an outstanding Orientalist. Our acquaintance, besides cordial conversations, had two concrete effects. In Sofia, I procured for him historical documents in Hebrew in several thick volumes published by the Academy. The other issue, however, was more important, and I played a certain role in it. I was in my junior year at university when I became the group leader of the Oriental study majors. At that time, a Jew71

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ish student was admitted and, because of his interest in Hebrew and Arabic studies, was put in the care of Professor Károly Czeglédy. He visited the Institute of Turkology since this was where classes for Hebrew and Arabic majors were also held. What had happened: this student disappeared from one day to the next. A week and then two weeks passed, but he failed to appear. As a group leader, I had to report this to the registrar. There, the Head of the department, Comrade Kékes, who was one of the dominant personalities at ELTE at the time, told me flatly that I did not need to try and find him because he was in a “safe and good place”. Fortunately, after the first political respite in 1953, many people who had been removed from the university in the previous years were allowed to return. This is what happened to our fellow student. It turned out that he had committed the folly of paying a visit to the Israeli Embassy in Budapest, perhaps in order to get some newspapers. When he left the building, the black car was already waiting for him, and took him to the “safe and good place”, as indicated by Comrade Kékes. When he returned to the university, I tried to help him integrate. To tell you the truth, I had completely forgotten the details and even his name. Sándor Scheiber, on the contrary, found a way of expressing his gratitude to me at that time. No matter whether it is a good or a bad deed, life will always settle the bill. That was what happened in this case, too. It must have been in the early summer of 1961, that Professor Heinrich Simon (1921–2010), who later became my immediate boss at Humboldt University, visited Budapest. He was a Hebrew-Arabic scholar. To escape the persecution of Jews, he emigrated to Palestine, and spent the years of the Second World War there. He visited Budapest in order to finalize my invitation to Berlin. He maintained an excellent relationship with Wolfgang Steinitz and was well aware of what had happened in Munich in 1957. He found it only natural that he should pay a visit to Gyula Németh to discuss the matter. As things worked out, Lajos Ligeti and Károly Czeglédy also took part in their 72

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conversation. As I learned later from Sándor Scheiber and Heinrich Simon, during the discussion Gyula Németh immediately took the floor with Lajos Ligeti offering him low-key support. Károly Czeglédy remained silent. They “washed the baptismal water off me”—they simply excommunicated me. Naturally, Heinrich Simon visited his fellow Hebrew scholar, Sándor Scheiber, and told him what had happened. Scheiber flew into a rage and said: “If you heard that from the mouth of Gyula Németh, you can be absolutely sure that the opposite is true. I know György Hazai well, he is a nice, talented colleague who is a good friend. He will prove to be an asset for you in Berlin.” I heard this from both of them. I know nothing about the details of Wolfgang Steinitz’s interpretation. Behind all this, there was a “historical” explanation. For decades, the Jewish Theological Seminary had loathed Gyula Németh because it was him and not their own candidate—Ignác Kúnos (1860–1945), a scholar with no small record in international Turkology at the time—who was appointed the successor to Ármin Vámbéry (1832–1913) at the university in Budapest in 1915. This attempt at doing me in did not work out either. Soon after the invitation from Humboldt University arrived. They wanted me to be a visiting associate professor for four semesters. They asked me to travel to Berlin in order to sort out the details. The visit was timed according to the always busy schedule of Wolfgang Steinitz. This trip took place a few days before Christmas in 1961. If I am not mistaken, I spent three nights in Berlin. Besides the competent people in the Ministry and at Humboldt University I naturally had conversations with Wolfgang Steinitz and Heinrich Simon, who even invited me to supper at his apartment in Pankow. I spent a wonderful evening with them, which was when he told me what had happened during his visit to Budapest. East Berlin—where the Wall, separating the two sides of the 73

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city, had been erected only a few months before—was desperately dark and gloomy. Despite this, I was content with my situation—I was sure that Berlin would prove to be better for me than staying at home. The move scheduled for the fall of 1962 was delayed for another year for technical reasons. The Ministry in Berlin had made a mistake—they had forgotten that the post they wanted to offer to me would only become vacant a year later. (It was occupied by an Arabic language teacher). In this way, the time of my departure was moved to September 1963. Ironically, there was one more small delay. A “world event” intervened. Because of the memorable smallpox quarantine, “organized” by our authorities in Hotel Royal, the border was closed. I could depart only after the quarantine had been lifted on September 17.

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o with some delay, I finally arrived in Berlin at the end of September 1963. Humboldt University provided us with a two-and-a-half-room apartment in the Prenzlauer Berg district, a name that would later become known to the whole world in the year of the Wende—the change in the political system in 1989. The four-storey apartment building had a large playground. This is worth mentioning because my twin daughters, born in 1969, took their first steps in this park in September 1970. The city, perhaps because it received me with a nice, sunny fall weather, revealed a somewhat friendlier face than during my visit in December 1961. We discovered its poverty and unhappiness, especially in our district, only later in our everyday life there. My pen is too weak to record all of this in these memoirs. I would like to provide only a brief background—its description in detail is not the task of these memoirs. In the 1990s, I received a gift of a book —more precisely a wonderful photo album dedicated to these dark years in Prenzlauer Berg. The artist presents these years in the working class district, which became world-famous during the Wende, with staggering power. In the photos, it is the dark shades that dominate, and hopelessness surges from the volume. This book is a faithful testimony to what surrounded me during those years. I must not be unfair. The historical district of Berlin, which had been ravaged by the war, presented a different face. And my actual activities were downtown at Humboldt University and the Staatsbibliothek (National Library). In this way, the major theater of my life was Avenue Unter den Linden and Bebelplatz in the center of town for two decades. What I am telling you now forces me to leap ahead a few decades. In 2002, when serving as founding rector of Andrássy University in Budapest, I prepared for the visit of the President of the German Federal Republic, Johannes Rau, and received a 75

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telephone call from his Protocol Office. They asked me whether I could propose something that would be a fitting gift from the President to the new university in Budapest. The only thing I could think of was a tableau or a print of Humboldt University. That would stress in a symbolic way that Andrássy University should carry on in the tradition of Wilhelm von Humboldt. The tableau was delivered in due time, and was waiting in the rector’s office to ceremoniously be handed over by the Bundespräsident. After the gift-giving ceremony when the stress of protocol had relaxed, President Rau walked up to the tableau and scrutinized it one more time. He turned to me and asked from what perspective Humboldt University was presented there? Johannes Rau came from the Ruhr region, he did not really know Berlin, and especially the Eastern part of it at all. He also felt uneasy about the fact that the tableau, with its historical perspective, also showed the Berlin City Palace (Stadtschloss) that had become the victim of destruction during the war and after. In turn, I explained to him all the details of Unter den Linden Boulevard. “Well, I would never have thought that the history of Berlin and Unter den Linden would be explained to me by a Hungarian professor,” he said. But let us now return to the middle of the 1960s. In Berlin serious work was awaiting me, with dimensions widening by the day. At Humboldt University, Turkology was connected to the Westasiatisches Institut. The Head of the institute was Professor Heinrich Franz Josef Junker (1889–1970), an elderly and renowned expert on Iran. His deputy was Professor Heinrich Simon about whom I have already told you. I received four nice students. Three of them were sophomores and the fourth one was a junior. All had been dealing with Iranian studies. The three sophomores had actually been transferred to Iranian studies because I had arrived a year later than expected. Peter Zieme (1942–), the junior student and one of the best students of Heinrich Franz Josef Junker, became a Turkology major after acquiring excellent knowledge in the re76

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lated fields. After spending two years with me, he graduated with exceptional results. For the tireless Wolfgang Steinitz, although he carried thousands of heavy burdens on his shoulders, it was self-evident that he should take good care of me. He made sure that I established contact with everyone, and he directed me to necessary places or prepared the ground for me. First, he introduced me to the Turfan Collection. At that time, the collection officially belonged to the Institut für Orientforschung, functioning within the framework of the Academy but still located in the building of the Staatsbibliothek. The texts preserved between sheets of glass were displayed in special cases. My introduction was simple, but constructive. Steinitz’s institute was located in a street running parallel with Unter den Linden. So one day the two of us walked over to Unter den Linden. At the Staatsbibliothek, we visited the secretary to the Director of the Institute of Oriental Studies. Wolfgang Steinitz told Frau Müller the following: “Please take up one issue that I had already discussed with Walter Ruben (1899–1982) on the phone. Dr. Hazai, an associate professor at Humboldt University, will start work on the Turfan texts. His salary will be fixed in a Werkvertrag (contract for work). Please prepare it for the Director to sign. And please find a suitable appointment time for Dr. Hazai to be introduced personally.” The already elderly Ruben, who lived in the suburb of Grünau, did not visit his institute every day. But I did not have to wait for long. Frau Müller gave me a call and proposed a date for my introduction. Walter Ruben received me in an extremely cordial way. The reason for this was that he had lived and worked in Turkey (1935–1948). He was one of many Germans who emigrated to Turkey, and he worked for a long time at the new faculty, established in 1937, at the University in Ankara. The new school —Dil ve Tarih-Coǧrafya Fakültesi (School of Linguistics, History and Geography)—offered the various disciplines of Oriental Studies. Ruben was the Head of the Department of Indology. 77

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Later, his life took him to South America, and from there home to Germany. During our first discussion, thousands of topics presented themselves. He recalled his time in Ankara, and he wanted to be told about everything and everybody. By way of bidding farewell, he said: “We must continue our conversation in my home. We will expect you for dinner.” But we did not manage to run out of topics even over that dinner. So I returned to his home in Grünau on many occasions for visits. Wolfgang Steinitz also invited me to his home. He had already invited me the first time we met. However, because of his current duties, our meeting was postponed until a bit later. Heinrich Simon, whom I had already visited in his apartment in Pankow in 1961, also took excellent care of me. It was there and then that I learned that people who had been forced to live as an immigrant for a long time would always take good care of a newcomer who found himself far away from home. Very soon, I received my third job in Berlin. This was editing the Turkology column of Orientalistische Literaturzeitung. The editorial office was located in Leipzig, so I did the work by corresponding with the editor-in-chief. The soul of Oriental Studies in this distinguished journal was an elderly lady—nomen est omen—by the name of Frau Lucie Geist (spirit) (1902– 2008) whom I visited when I made my first trip to Leipzig. Later, Professor Hintze (1915–1993) became the editor-in-chief of this periodical. He also headed the institute after Walter Ruben retired. During the fall and winter months, he frequently travelled to excavations in Egypt, and often asked me to take care of the editions. One of the added values of my stay in Berlin was travelling. In 1964, the validity of my passport had been extended both to Europe and Asia. In this way, it was possible for me to travel to the West at any time. The only technical obstacles for travelling to congresses were the visas. Because of the diplomatic isolation of East Germany, it was only possible to obtain them in 78

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PIAC meeting in Bonn, Germany 1974

Budapest. Filing an application with the Travel Board—established by the Western Allies and located in West Berlin— was extremely cumbersome. I make the casual remark here that East Germany regarded this institution as undesirable. Taking advantage of opportunities, I made trips to the West several times a year. One of the most important international forums of our profession at that time was the Permanent International Altaistic Conference (PIAC), which was established in 1958 at the initiative of Annemarie von Gabain and Walther Heissig (1913–2005). From 1960, Denis Sinor (1916–2011) was at the head of this modestly sized organization as its Secretary General. For a long time after 1964, I took part in all of the PIAC meetings. From a scholarly point of view, the session organized by Professor Alessio Bombaci (1914–1979)—an unforgettable colleague and good friend—in Ravello in 1966 proved to be the most significant. After what I had learned there, it became clear that significant innovations had to be introduced into Turfan research in Berlin. It was Professor Shichirō Murayama (1908–1995) who drew my attention to this fact in Ravello. He listened with interest to my lecture on renewing re79

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Denis Sinor, György Hazai at the PIAC meeting in Berlin, 2006

search of the Turfan texts in Berlin. He then told me that at the Buddhist Ryukoku University in Kyoto, where those materials were kept which the renowned researcher of Central Asia, Kozni Ōtani (1876–1948) had discovered, several experts were working on the sources of Central Asian Buddhism, written mainly in Chinese. They could be of enormous help for us in Berlin in identifying, cataloging and processing the Uyghur and Chinese language texts. It would be useful for the two institutes to cooperate. This proposal from a colleague and a friend promised to substantially widen our horizon. The only obstacle to making good on the initiative was the diplomatic isolation of East Germany. By 1968, with the assistance of Professor Murayama, we managed to have a professor from Ryukoku University— Taijun Inokuchi (1922–2018)—remain for a longer period of time in Berlin where he worked on the Turfan Collection. Parallel with that, I travelled to Japan where, taking advantage of the assistance of Professor Murayama, I contacted all the organizations in the country that might have been involved in the matter in any official way. I delivered a lecture at the University of Tokyo 80

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and Kyoto, as well as in the well-known Toyo Bunko, which is today one of the most important libraries and reseach institutes dedicated to the study of Asian history and culture. The fact that my trip to Japan coincided with the session of the International Congress of Anthropologists also helped me find another way into the country. I have preserved in my memory the unforgettable experience of the days I spent there with Gyula Ortutay (1910–1978). The trip itself was also memorable. In August 1968, we left Berlin while listening to the latest news from Western radio stations on what was happening in Prague. We made our way across the Soviet Union by air and by train to Nakhodka, the Soviet civilian port on the Pacific Ocean. From there, we continued to Yokohama by boat. Because of developments in Prague, a nervous mood prevailed in Moscow. There was simply no information. At hotels in the center of the city, you could always buy the newspapers of the Western “sister parties” (L’Humanité, The Daily Worker, etc.). These suddenly disappeared. In Japan, we also learned how far Europe lay from this distant corner of the planet. English language papers covered the news from Europe in a very short bulletin on their last pages. We learned about the real state of affairs only a few days later when Gyula Ortutay arrived. The voyage by sea was also memorable. As soon as our boat had left the Bay of Nakhodka, we found ourselves in a typhoon. The captain made a large detour to the North in order to avoid the eye of the typhoon, which was located just between Nakhodka and Yokohama. But the sea rocked the boat horribly even in this zone. By the end of the voyage, everyone felt seasick. I usually had no such problems when travelling by air or sea, and this time was the same. The Soviet delegation to the congress in Yokohama was also travelling with us on the boat. On the last morning of the voyage, my friend Nikolai Aleksandrovich Baskakov (1905–1995), the outstanding professor of 81

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Turkology from Leningrad, and I were the only passengers that reported for breakfast. The crew serving us had also been severely depleted. Rife with events, an excellent reception hosted by the Hungarian Embassy completed the trip. Gyula Ortutay arranged my invitation. Everyone that I had met in Japan attended the reception, which made a useful contribution to forging our bilateral relations. We journeyed home via Dushanbe where I again exchanged views with Bobodžan Gafurov on the PIAC meeting, scheduled for Berlin in the summer of 1969. We made stopovers in Ashgabat, Baku and Moscow. At the airport in Ashgabat, Zılıha Bakıyevna Muhammedova (1922–1984) was waiting for me with a huge melon and a large box of caviar. We shared all this with Hungarians studying in Baku. I had heard before about the fame of Turkmenistan’s melons. I have to confess that they enjoyed their good reputation not without reason. I spent 1968 and 1969 organizing the PIAC meeting in Berlin. This work too had its own antecedents. I had already indicated to Denis Sinor that I would try to achieve what had seemed impossible before, but now offered some hope for success— to persuade the Academy in Berlin to invite the PIAC meeting there. Wolfgang Steinitz would have been able to greatly assist me with this endeavor, but he was no longer alive. However, after having spent a few years in Berlin, I already had the authority to embark on the matter on my own. I proposed that as a first step we should ask Moscow and Leningrad for their opinions, and encourage them to participate in a representative way. The idea worked. The discussions with Bobodžan Gafurov in Moscow and with Yuri A. Petrosyan (1930–2011), director of the Leningrad Branch of the Institut of Oriental Studies, USSR (1963–1996) in Leningrad proved promising. By this time, things had become somewhat more relaxed in the Soviet Union, too. The model of “naucsnaja turisztika” (scientific tourism) had also developed, which substantially widened our opportunities. 82

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A few months later, we received confirmation of our preliminary success—Moscow would send a delegation to the PIAC meeting to be held in 1969 in Berlin. We had been granted the right to organize the event at the meeting in Copenhagen in 1968. The PIAC meeting organized in the summer of 1969 was completely changed in magnitude and composition. Forty experts from the West (West Germany, France, Italy, and Turkey), another 40 from the Soviet Union, and 20 from Eastern Europe participated in its work. The other participants were comprised of East German colleagues. I can still recall the first two scholars because they expedited an important two-way breakthrough. These academics were bolstered by the many participants and the volume of lectures that was published in 1972. It was in Berlin that the PIAC meeting turned into a true international forum. Denis Sinor wrote about the PIAC meeting in Berlin with great appreciation. I quote him: The breakthrough came from the least amenable Socialist country and was the merit of the Hungarian Turkologist György Hazai, then teaching in East Berlin. How he managed to convince the notoriously dogmatic and rigidly communist leadership of the Akademie der Wissenschaften der DDR to invite the „American” PIAC to Berlin, remains, for me, a mystery, and I can only hope that he will reveal the secret in his memoirs. The meeting was one of the largest ever, perhaps around one hundred and fifty participants and, as could be expected, fairly formal. We did not stay under the same roof and dispersed for the meals, but we had one or several very generous receptions. On a purely scholarly level—perhaps because of massive Soviet participation—the 12th meeting was probably among the best ever held. The impressive vol3 ume of the Proceedings bears witness to this statement. [sic!] 3

Denis Sinor: Forty Years of the Permanent International Altaistic Conference (PIAC) in Altaic Affinities, Proceedings of the 40th Meeting of the

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It was not easy indeed to organize this conference. It was of the utmost difficulty to obtain the visas for the forty participants from the West. The International Department of the Academy required the political background of each participant. We obliged their request by a fictitious and duly touched up text. The point here was that the expert in question had to be considered a sincere supporter of social progress. (My main helper in drafting the texts was Peter Zieme.) This was a valid argument since everyone believes in progress; only they may have different opinions on how to achieve it. During the conference it was pouring rain, which is quite unusual in the summer in Berlin. This forced the participants to be all present in the sessions held in the main building of Humboldt University. The weather cleared up only on the last day when we made an outing to Potsdam. Lunch took place in Cecilienhof, which served as the seat of the conference of the Great Powers that put an end to the Second World War in 1945. After the PIAC meeting, I received numerous congratulations and thank you notes from my dear colleagues. The opportunities that had widened for me in Berlin in all respects had yet another effect, which had a decisive impact on the years I spent there. Here, I have to begin my recollections with an anecdote common knowledge in Berlin and that might actually have taken place. Erich Honecker was receiving an Ambassador from Africa for a farewell visit and asked him the following question: “Your Excellency, what did you like the most during the years that you spent here?” “West-Berlin”, was the reply. This was by no means true for me. However, over the years my contact with West-Berlin determined the course of my life greatly. The major factor in this was the “Western” Staatsbibliothek established at that time. The core of that library was conPermanent International Altaistic Conference (PIAC), Provo, Utah (1997); Edited by David B. Honey & David C. Wright, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana (2001); page 8-9.

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stituted by the collections salvaged during the war from the “historical” Staatsbibliothek Unter den Linden. The library set up in this way operated first in Marburg. At the initiative of Bonn, that is the Bund (Federal Government), and as a result of the cooperation among the Länder (Federal States), a foundation was established with the idea to transfer this library from Marburg to West Berlin. The library was housed in a magnificent building that met the demands of the readers in all respects in the vicinity of Potsdamer Platz. This masterpiece of architecture by Hans B. Scharoun (1893–1972), together with the building of the Berlin philharmonic orchestra also designed by him, lend a unique character to this part of the city even today. (I wish he had designed the reconstruction of Potsdamer Platz after the Wende (1990)! It is a sorrowful example of blowing a great opportunity even if you have plenty of money.) I was introduced to the Staatsbibliothek in West Berlin by Dr. Wolfgang Voigt (1911–1982). At that time, he was the Head of the Department of Oriental Studies. He had two other even more important functions: for decades, he was the executive Director (Secretary General) of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft, and he managed the greatest and most successful project of Oriental Studies in Germany, the Katalogisierung der Orientalischen Handschriften in Deutschland (Cataloging of Oriental Manuscripts in Germany, or Union Catalog of Oriental Manuscripts in Germany). Its significance is demonstrated by the fact that this series has published 147 catalogs and 52 supplements in monograph form to date. This project made, at the same time, a serious contribution to raising the next generation of Orientalists. The reason for that was that Dr. Wolfgang Voigt was able to finance not only the publication of the volumes, but their preparation as well. This meant jobs for generations of young researchers waiting in this elegant parking lot for a position at the university. In this way, it is obvious why such a great number of people were connected to the project. The professors who embarked on compiling a volume frequently put 85

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their jobless students under the wing of Dr. Wolfgang Voigt. This unprecedented project held Oriental Studies in Germany together. The office in West Berlin was visited by practically everyone, whether the scholar was elderly or a young Orientalist. I met quite a few representatives of research fields close to my own in that office. Dr. Wolfgang Voigt made sure that I had this chance. I met Dr. Wolfgang Voigt in person after the PIAC meeting in Berlin. Barbara Flemming (1930–2002) and Hanna Sohrweide (1919–1984), his assistants in the project of cataloging for a long time to come, initiated our meeting. He paid a visit to my home and we soon found common ground. I was able to assist him in maintaining contact with Orientalists in East Germany, and he helped me in a million other ways. At that time, his office in West Berlin was still located in Bendlerblock on Reichpietschufer. He once gave me a short introduction of the building’s history. He showed me the room where the headquarters of the Wehrmacht during the Second World War were located, and also the place in the yard where members of the conspiracy against Hitler were executed in 1944. Soon after, his office moved to the new building in Potsdamer Strasse 33, which was continuously receiving collections of books from Marburg and where the actual activity of the library was slowly being launched. I am not exaggerating, but at that time—and even for a long time afterward—I was the most important visitor to the library, and far too spoiled. Dr. Voigt introduced me to everyone whom—he thought—might be useful for me. That was how I met Dr. Franz Görner (1935–), the Head of the Osteuropa-Abteilung (East European Section) who later helped me greatly in compiling my Bibliographisches Handbuch der Turkologie. Thanks to Dr. Voigt, I also had the resources of the office at my disposal. Xerox photocopying, still in its infancy at that time, was practically unknown in the East and for well-known reasons, was prohibited for ordinary mortals. In Dr. Voigt’s of86

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fice, I was allowed to make as many copies as I wanted to. His phone, through which I was able to reach the whole world, was also at my disposal. In this way, the running of my business accelerated and, at the same time, bypassed the control by East Germany. What is more, Dr. Voigt helped me with my trips to congresses, which by this time faced only financial barriers. And he was always able to take care of this problem. Let me illustrate my privileged relationship with the library with the help of the following funny story. When the official opening of the library was approaching, Dr. Franz Görner indicated that the Director General wanted to talk to me. During our conversation, he told me the following: The library had encountered a problem with the protocol of the opening ceremony. The plan had been that the Länder, which had played an important part in establishing the library, would be represented by the State Secretaries for Culture, for whom the second and the third row in the orchestra section was reserved. However, one of the State Secretaries could not make it to the opening ceremony, which upset the whole seating plan. Since protocol enjoyed great respect on both sides of the political spectrum, only a person could be seated there who was unknown in those circles. Would I mind taking the role of this “unknown” person? I did my best to excuse myself. “Any doubts about me by the Head of State and the State Secretaries of the Länder might be embarrassing”, I said. My reservations were brushed aside. “The politicians must be greeted with dry politeness. Guten Tag Herr Bundespräsident, Guten Tag Herr Staatssekretär! It would be for them to be embarrassed because they would not be able to identify you.” That was exactly how it happened. I joined the circle of the State Secretaries. After mutual greetings, they talked among themselves. We were waiting for the arrival of the main guest, the Bundespräsident. Everything happened exactly the way it had been planned. Walter Scheel (1919–2016) greeted the State Secretaries one by one. When he reached me, I could see that he 87

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was searching his memory because he did not know who I was. But his greeting and my reply took place without problems. We managed to cover the most difficult part. I have to add something else to this story. I had every reason to worry that in the evening news on the Western television channels I would be seen in the East too. Just to be on the safe side, I was wearing sunglasses. That was how I was photographed and appeared in the picture that was printed in the volume published for the opening ceremony of the library. I was attached to the library through another important contact. Dr. Klaus Schwarz (1943–1989), the extremely talented young Turkologist, who—unfortunately, passed away in tragic circumstances very early—made his way to Berlin at the beginning of the 1970s. He studied at the institute of Hans Robert Roemer (1915–1997) in Freiburg, and his master in Turkology was Josef Matuz (1925–1992). It was the latter who directed him to me. In a very short time, we established an extremely constructive relationship. We met almost every day. He shared his office with me—it became my most important base in West Berlin. Besides our common interest in research, there was something else that connected the two of us. It was his work as a publisher. He embarked on this by launching a few series that still flourish in the hands of his successor. He founded a series for me too in which two volumes were published in his lifetime. Today, this series (Studien zur Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur 4 der Türkvölker) has lived to see volume no. 21. His successor, Gerd Winkelhane (1949–2018), a good friend to him and me, kept the name Klaus Schwarz Verlag that already enjoyed a good reputation in the world of publishing. In the 1970s, Klaus Schwarz and I conducted several “operations” together. I was a kind of “silent partner”. What I know about publishing can be attributed perhaps to this experience. Besides the Staatsbibliothek, I maintained excellent relations with the experts on the Balkans at Freie Universität Berlin, and 4

Editor’s note (2019): The series has currently 30 vols and is continued.

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in particular with Professor Norbert Reiter (1928–2009), who included me in the editorial board of Zeitschrift für Balkanologie. He and I organized a successful international conference together, which was attended by outstanding people, such as Karl Heinrich Menges (1908–1999), Andreas Tietze and many others. The event was held in Reiter’s institute in Berlin-Dahlem. In the East, I had to keep silent about taking such a role in the West. The official position in general was that you had to avoid contact with the kapitalistisches Ausland (capitalist foreign countries). Especially with West Berlin, the “hub of imperialism”. In these years, I received a lot of assistance from Frida Müller with whom I managed to establish my second base. She had retired from the Academy Institute in the East in 1970 and moved to West Berlin. My correspondence was essentially conducted through her home address (Neukölln, Sonnenalle 130). With her excellent knowledge of people and places, and her contacts, she gave me a helping hand in many things. At the beginning of the 1990s, I delivered a lecture at the Institute of Turkology at Freie Universität, and I invited her to attend. This was the last time I saw her. I was working in Cyprus when I lost Tante Frida. We have rushed forward in time a bit. Let us return to the beginning of the 1970s. The turn of the decade brought quite a few changes in everyday life and also in the atmosphere in East Germany. The country was visibly doing better. By the nature of things, the helm was taken over by younger people who decided on keeping an even more consistent distance from the other Germany. The electoral success of Willy Brandt, the formation of the SPD–FDP coalition government, and the proclamation of the New Eastern Policy irritated them. They were unable to digest that their old rivals, the Social Democrats, had dropped their anchor in government. All that did not leave the field of culture and research and our specific sphere untouched. A process started that was sym89

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bolized best by a change in the name of the Academy. The Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften became the Akademie der Wissenschaften der DDR. Scholars living in the West were no longer allowed to become members; the Academy already belonged exclusively to scholars in the East. While the former Academy expressed the idea of German unity, the latter—even in its name—suggested final separation. Our field also underwent a change. The old institute was integrated into a larger unit. In this way, there was some existential uncertainty even around the Turfan research, which fortunately did not last long. The success of the PIAC meeting organized in 1969 provided some modest capital, but not security. During the transition period, when the “matadors of reform” were gauging the development of research, they even asked at one of the meetings whether there was a need at all for Turkology as a major. The argument that research in Berlin was highly appreciated in Japan received the reply that if that was the case, we should sell the collection to the Japanese. Naturally, it never got so far that such ideas had to be taken seriously. Still, the above reply expressed the opinion of certain circles and offered an insight into the negative feelings that were generated against our field of academia and those, which shared our fate. It became routine for people to boast about research as if it were a necessity just to try to forget it, and make people forget it the following day. In East Germany, Leipzig University was the model for Oriental Studies. And there, the contemporary Near and Middle East was the focus of research. Turkology there was placed to the category of “Schmalspur-Orientalistik” (narrow gauge Oriental Studies). The ideal researcher was one who analyzed the perspectives of the struggle of the working class in the Eastern countries, and issued findings in harmony with the concepts of the Party organs. Meeting the expectations of the Party was necessary for salvation. The expectations may be well illustrated by the following 90

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case. One day, our secretary told me that the International Department of the Party had contacted the office of the Rector and asked for information on the visit of the Soviet Chief of Staff to Ankara. “What shall we reply?” she asked. My answer was the following: “Turkology in Berlin was not informed about the trip by Moscow, neither did Ankara contact us. In this way, we unfortunately have no information.” The atmosphere is well demonstrated by the case when I, as member of the East German delegation, took part in the work of the International Congress of Mongolian Studies in Ulaanbaatar in 1970. The Academy delegated two people: Peter Zieme and myself. The journey of the others was organized by the Ministry. In this way, we were able to make our trip independently of the main delegation. The “joy of being together” was limited to our stay in the Mongolian capital. The delegation was headed by Professor Kurt Huber (1923–), the Director of my institute who had nothing to do with Mongolian Studies, but was regarded as a good comrade. He was not a malevolent person, just simply a narrow-minded one who did not harm research, but did no good for it either. It was Kurt Huber who briefed the delegation from East Germany travelling to the congress. We were told to avoid contacts with the participants from capitalist countries. It was expressis verbis forbidden for us even to exchange a few words with Walther Heissig who enjoyed great respect and was the Head of Mongolian Studies at the University of Bonn. We were not allowed even to greet him. All that was devised and fed to the Heads of our delegation by Peter Vietze (1939–2008), the scholar of Mongolian Studies in Berlin who had the mindset of Lucifer. The idea was obviously a trap that was difficult for two of us to avoid—Erika Taube (1933–), the scholar of Mongolian Studies from Leipzig, and myself. As far as I was concerned, Peter Vietze had an inkling that I cultivated excellent relations with Walther Heissig. However, he did not know the details— that I had delivered a lecture in his institute in Bonn. And he 91

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did not have the faintest idea of the fact that every time Walther Heissig visited Wolfgang Voigt in Berlin, we met and often had lunch together. I sorted out the problem in a simple way. I asked Denis Sinor to let Walther Heissig know that I was not allowed to greet him. I told him about the details when we met in Denis Sinor’s room. Naturally, Peter Vietze was watching, what is more, must have had it watched what was going to happen between us. However, we played our roles well. We did not even nod to each other during the meals either. We greeted each other by a wink. Peter Zieme and I managed to survive the provocation. Erika Taube foolishly fell into the trap. This entailed serious consequences for her—because of her “offense”, for several years she, like many others, was not allowed to travel abroad. From the point of view of our profession, however, all of this was turmoil on the surface and did not really concern the actual work. At the university, the second generation of students graduated in Turkology. One of them made his way to the Turfan research at the Academy. The defense of the dissertations under my guidance took place one after the other. I received an aspirant from Sofia—Svoboda Petrova (1935–)—and two from Tashkent—Sayora Khasankhanova (1951–) and Natalya Shakirova (1952–). They all defended their dissertations successfully. I was able to summarize the situation with the wellknown proverb: the dogs bark but the caravan goes on. And in the judgment of international public opinion, our caravan was moving ahead well. In the 1970s, I encountered several important tasks in the field of organizing scholarly work. One of them was to establish an international forum for Turkology, or to put it more precisely, a forum for Ottoman studies. This need had been felt for a long time. In 1970, when the PIAC meeting was held in Strasbourg, Denis Sinor, who did not really like Turkology, could not digest the fact that Irène Mélikoff (1917–2009), who on the other hand was not only fond of Turkology but of the Turks as 92

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well, demonstrated this fact by organizing this meeting. (In this respect, Denis Sinor was a loyal student of Lajos Ligeti; he “loved” Turkology only when he needed it from an organizational point of view.) All that forced us to take steps in Strasbourg. Louis Bazin (1920–2011), Irène Mélikoff and I had been planning together to establish independent international forums of Turkology, while taking into account the magnitude of order and the specifics of the various subfields. We wanted to establish the first one for Ottoman studies. Irène was enthusiastic about the project. Louis Bazin agreed too although he indicated that he did not wish to actively participate in this, since it was not his field. He and Irène were good friends. They had been studying together in Paris with the French scholar Jean Deny (1879–1963). While we were still in Strasbourg, I convinced them that the initiative had to be formally launched by Irène. “I come from behind the Iron Curtain—my proposal could be misinterpreted.” That would not be the case for Irène. They accepted my arguments. Naturally, the initiative had to be coordinated with our colleagues from Turkey. We had several meetings. During the Congress of the History of Turkish Art in Aix-en-Provence (1971), we briefed Talât Sait Halman (1931–2014), the Turkish State Secretary of Culture at the time (and a student of Tibor Halasi-Kun) about the project.

Snapshots from East Germany Political journalism in East Germany was a caricature in itself. It was impossible to explain away things to the satisfaction of the Party or simply remain silent about them. Through Western television and radio channels, news immediately reached the citizens of East Germany since everyone watched or listened to them. The requests and bans of the authorities produced no effect. This led to inexplicable and grotesque situations. It was on September 1st 1975 that a charter flight of Inter93

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flug, taking West German businessmen to the Leipzig Fair, crashed during landing, 27 passengers of 34 were killed. The Politbüro in East Berlin was still in session, discussing when and how this piece of news should be broadcast when everyone had already learned about it through the Western media. The announcement of the release of a leader of the Communist Party of Chile from one of Augusto Pinochet’s prisons was also instructive. In East Germany, there had been a lengthy campaign of solidarity and the arrival of the politician in Europe was celebrated as a great victory of international cooperation. The flaw in the matter was that the Western television channels were giving live coverage of the scene at an airport in Switzerland where the Chilean politician was exchanged for a high-ranking American who had been convicted in the Soviet Union. At the university, while recruiting participants for the rally to be organized for this occasion, the instructions from above naturally said that the people should be made aware that this event is a great success of international solidarity. Someone asked whether there was a concern about the fact that East Germans had seen the “exchange of prisoners” in the Western newscasts. The reply was that we could not know about that since we were not watching these channels. The most important elements of the security of the country were the efforts to hermetically seal certain spheres from West Germany. A comical example of that was told to me by my tailor. He was working in the elegant Haus der Mode on Unter den Linden Avenue. He told me the story that one day he was offered the job of becoming the official tailor of Comrade Erich Honecker, the Secretary General of the Party. There were no problems with his workmanship or the local recommendations either. Ultimately, he did not receive this great honour because his brother lived in West Berlin where he owned a prosperous newsstand. Besides that, the two brothers met regularly at Lake Balaton in Hungary. I developed a very close friendship with my tailor, Mr. Cars94

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ten. In this way, I was able to give him a helping hand with his trips to Hungary. It was common knowledge that East German tourists coming to Hungary did not have many forints to spend. Once, he turned to me with the request that he would like to settle my bill in the Haus der Mode and then receive the equivalent sum in Hungarian forints from me. I was pleased to accommodate him. We were very sorry when we had to say goodbye to each other in 1982. Western press and books were naturally considered public enemy number one by the system. Bringing these into the country essentially qualified as smuggling, and besides the confiscation of these items, was judged accordingly. Returning East German tourists were often embittered when at the border East German customs officers seized the West German publications they had purchased in Hungary. In libraries, a peculiar filter operated even in the case of lexicons. Some of the volumes were not available because a few entries, to put it mildly, differed from the official position. It sometimes happened that I had to take a look at such volumes in West Berlin. All this reminded me of the Soviet practice that I had encountered before. In 1953, when Lavrentiy P. Beria was eliminated, the entry for him in the Bolshaya Sovetskaya Enciklopediya became somewhat unsettling. So the publishers asked subscribers and customers to cut out the entry for Beria and insert in its place a new entry sent by them.

Contact with Budapest during the Berlin Years The title of the chapter itself indicates that during my years in Berlin, I remained in the closest possible contact with Budapest and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. I can put it in a way that my life was flowing in two streams. It is true that I lived in Berlin, but when it was necessary, I was present in Budapest too. The first matter in Pest to be mentioned was my academic 95

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doctorate dissertation that I had been working on for a long time. I wanted to complete it as soon as possible—it was submitted already in 1963. My other obligation was the exhibition “Historical Relations between Hungary and Turkey” to be organized in Turkey. My friend, Géza Fehér Jr., and myself planned the display, as commissioned by the Institute of Cultural Relations. We had the job of setting up the exhibition in Istanbul and Ankara. Things worked out in a way that it was my turn to travel to Istanbul first. This was followed by Géza’s trip to Ankara. My journey was linked to the International Congress of Orientalists that was going to take place in New Delhi, and would begin its work in the first days of January 1964. My journey to Istanbul was via Bombay. There was some problem with the direct flight of BOAC (the predecessor of British Airways) and the plane was stuck in Singapore. So from Bombay, I took a flight by Air India to Beirut and from there another one by Lufthansa to Istanbul. We landed in Beirut at about two in the morning and the airport was deserted. Although I was a transit passenger, the border guard checked my passport and then asked how long I intended to stay. I told him that I was leaving in the morning. “Sir,” he said, “I will give you a visa for five days anyhow. Perhaps you will change your mind.” In those days this gesture seemed to be almost incredible to a passenger from behind the Iron Curtain. In possession of the visa, I was able to take a short walk in the small square in front of the airport, inhaling deeply the January air, which in Beirut was already springlike. The flight in the morning offered me another unforgettable experience. The medium-sized Boeing carried only two passengers. The pilots invited us into the cockpit. I was able to enjoy flying from this position for the first time in my life. In the sparkling sunlight, Istanbul offered an awesome spectacle. This fine springtime weather lasted for one or two more days. By the time the exhibition opened, everything had chang96

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ed. The city had not often seen a day like that before: wind, snow, ice, and roads that were not possible to navigate. On the road descending from the Hotel Hilton to Dolmabahçe, 16 cars crashed into one another. All that made the preparations for the opening of the exhibition very difficult. The venue was the salon of the Academy of Fine Arts (Sanat Akademisi) with a view of the Bosporus. In Istanbul, there are thousands of places that offer a wonderful panorama. The terrace of the Academy, overlooking the seaside, was one of them. Despite the rough weather, the opening of the exhibition worked out well. In normal circumstances, many more guests would have come. In this way, we had to provide some “ersatz people” for the press. The students of the Academy were pleased to play this role. They devoured the delicacies of the rich buffet provided by our Consulate General. The mood was perfect, and the press coverage was the same. From Istanbul, I flew on to Belgrade by PANAM, to catch the Tirana–Budapest flight by MALÉV. The plane was allowed to take passengers, unlike in 1956. But I had bad luck—the plane failed to land and gracefully flew over Belgrade to Hungary. So I had to cover the last stretch of my trip by train. My travelling companion in the sleeping car was József Oláh, who was to become our Ambassador to Belgrade and Moscow, and at the time was working as a Counselor at our Embassy in Belgrade. In Budapest, where I had been planning a short stay only, the news was awaiting me that István Sinkovics (1910–1990), the Dean of the Faculty of Humanities, was expecting me for a discussion. Fortunately, it did not prove to be difficult to find a suitable date. Loránd Benkő (1921–2011), who was Vice Rector at the time, also took part in our conversation. They had heard that my academic doctorate dissertation was ready and they wanted to learn about my plans. They told me that Gyula Németh, who had well passed the retirement age, given the number of his active years, was on the threshold of retiring, and they had to think about the future of the Institute of Turkology. 97

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They asked me whether I would be willing to accept an appointment as an associate professor. My reply to the question was a question. Who was going to be the boss of this associate professor: in other words, who was going to be the head of the Institute? They prevaricated, saying this was not yet certain. I thanked them for the offer and indicated that given current conditions, I could not accept it. I will continue to stay in Berlin since as far as Turkology was concerned, there was a clear hierarchy there. “Who is your boss there?” they asked. The answer was very simple. As far as Turkology was concerned, it was me. On that note, the conversation was over. István Kniezsa told me that Loránd Benkő had contacted him on the matter of both the department and my dissertation, asking for his opinion of me. This was required because “Ligeti considered you to be an unsociable person”. Kniezsa replied that Hazai was one of the nicest colleagues at the Department of Slavistics who had the best relations with everyone and whom everyone liked. Kniezsa told me all that during my short stay in Budapest. His tone implied that the conversation with Loránd Benkő made his blood boil. As a person, he had an explosive temper—he always reacted to injustice in a fever pitch. This was the last time I saw him. On the Ides of March 1965, death unexpectedly took him away. At this point, I have to add to the above that many years later Loránd Benkő apologized to me for everything. He was my only colleague in Hungary who reacted to what had happened in those years with this gesture. My unambiguous position on the matter of the job of an associate professor in Budapest opened the road for Lajos Ligeti to take over the Department of Turkology. It was an old dream of his to become successor to Gyula Németh. Although at the time this was allowed to happen only as a temporary appointment, his old wish still came true. By promoting Zsuzsa Kakuk to associate professor, he was able to head the department, relying on a loyal subject. Gyula Németh—if I am not wrong— re98

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tired in the summer of 1964. The changes above took place after this. I cannot recall the exact chronology. After January 1964, the matter did not bother me any longer. Henceforth, Lajos Ligeti was concerned with the procedure of my doctorate dissertation that I had already submitted. He did everything he could to delay the procedure. The Scientific Qualifying Committee appointed Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti to be my opponents. However, a third one was still missing. Lajos Ligeti managed to arrange for Zsigmond Telegdi to be given the assignment. He was the Head of the Department of General Linguistics of ELTE, and at the same time, a professor of the Persian language. (I had an excellent relationship with him—I had been studying Persian with him for several semesters.) At that time, however, he was working in the US on a long-term Ford scholarship. In this way, a delay of one and a half or two years seemed to be guaranteed. That was exactly what Lajos Ligeti wanted to achieve. It was Gábor Tolnai (1910– 1990), the Chairman of the Scientific Qualifying Committee, who gave me a helping hand. He suggested I write a letter to Zsigmond Telegdi and ask him to turn down the assignment. As expected, he was immensely pleased to meet my request. He did not really need this job when he arrived home for which he would hardly have been able to find the time. After the negative reply from Zsigmond Telegdi, Gábor Tolnai did not ask the Orientalists in Hungary any more, but made the decision himself. In this way, the third opponent became József Blaskovics (1910– 1990), a Hungarian-speaking Turkologist in Prague. Gyula Németh wrote a thoroughgoing and extremely positive judgment on my dissertation. He informed me about this in a letter. Allow me please to quote below the relevant parts of it. My Dear Friend, It has been about six weeks now that I have been dealing with your work. It is a philological and historical concept of real value indeed, and it is written well. It is going to move research forward and will 99

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bring many benefits. You will learn about the details from my remarks as an opponent. I will complete them within a few weeks. Best Wishes and Sending Kisses to Your Wife’s Hands, Gyula Németh This obviously tied the hands of Lajos Ligeti who could not represent a view that differed from Gyula Németh’s. He did not even know the topic, its background and dimensions. Károly Czeglédy said: Uncle Gyula had exploded the bank! In September 1966, twenty months after its submission, the disputation on the dissertation was held in an extremely pleasant atmosphere. My doctorate certificate was issued in December 1967. Peace with the authorities of Oriental Studies was re-established—for a long time to come “treuga Dei” prevailed. The other matter, looking at it from another perspective, was more serious. This was the initiative of Gyula Ortutay to nominate me as a corresponding member of the Academy. I had an extremely good relationship with him since my student years. He also had a good working relationship with Wolfgang Steinitz. Gyula Ortutay often visited Wolfgang Steinitz, and was very happy that I had come under his wings. Our meeting at the Congress of Anthropologists in Japan in the fall of 1968 brought us even closer together. It was at that time that he first raised the issue of my Academy membership. A little later, when he visited Wolfgang Steinitz for the preparations of the International Finno-Ugric Congress, he addressed the issue again and followed up with concrete steps. Although Gyula Ortutay did not receive much encouragement from the Head of section of our field at the time, he assumed the responsibility to nominate me. Lajos Ligeti reacted with a serious threat. If Gyula Ortutay submitted the nomination, he would take a stand against it at the session of the section, because under our “common law” an Orientalist could be nominated for the membership only by an Academician who was an Orientalist himself. Gyula Ortutay—very wisely—wanted to avoid all confronta100

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tion that might remain an unpleasant memory for some people and have a negative impact on the matter at a later stage. In this way, the matter of my corresponding membership in the Academy came only up again in the second half of the 1970s. I do not know any more how and why, but Lajos Ligeti reconciled himself with me. I know for sure that it was not me who took the initiative—I did not beseech him for absolution. It was rather the opinion his fellow Academicians had of me that forced him to change his position. Everyone considered my score in the elections at the end of the 1970s to be promising. They all said that in the next round I would have a good chance. That was exactly how it happened. In the elections at the beginning of 1981, I achieved it. Béla Köpeczi (1921–2010), Lajos Ligeti and Ferenc Tőkei (1930–2000) were the ones who recommended me. Two more nominees managed to clear the obstacles. However, the section was intended to receive only two positions. If you considered the ballots only, István Borzsák (1914–2007) (yes:21, no:1) and I (yes: 13, no:9) would have been entitled to the two positions. The other two nominees—József Herman (1924-2005) and Béla G. Németh (1925–2008)—received only 12 votes each. The Head of section, Miklós Szabolcsi (1921–2000)—the great master of spiteful schemes—immediately announced that the number of the ballots did not matter at all and did not have to be respected. János Szentágothai (1912–1994) President of the Academy, however, insisted on respecting the number of ballots. This put the Head of section, who had promised the Party a different outcome, into a difficult situation. So it was finally “the White House” (the headquarters of the Party) that had to help in settling the issue. The discussions behind the scenes brought the simplest solution—the quota was raised. This was advantageous for the other sections as well. György Aczél (1917–1991), the almighty communist politician in charge of all cultural issues, gave his blessing to the new settlement because it meant he could make good on the prom101

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ises he had made to the other sections as well. The problem of Miklós Szabolcsi was sorted out but he could not forget this case. Later on, I had to repent my sin. That was how I became an Academician in 1982, almost timed to coincide with my 50th birthday. At that time, I was the youngest corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. At this point, I have to go back in time a few years. As far as the Department of Turkology was concerned, Lajos Ligeti was already in possession of it. He was, officially, the Master of Turkology. At the same time, he knew very well that I was not the type who would become a “nuisance” around his dominion in any way. We had never spoken about the department before. It came up between us for the first time in 1970. This was the year of Lenin’s 100th birthday. On this occasion, the Academy in Berlin organized a scholarly session to which it invited the “sister Academies” as well. The Hungarian delegation was headed by Lajos Ligeti. The “fateful” conversation took place at my apartment in the capital of East Germany over dinner. He presented what he had to say in an excellent way. Today, we would say that he was at his very best. “Son, you know that I will give up the Department of Turkology soon. Turkology is waiting for you. But you are a swine. It is money that is important for you, and in Berlin you are making more. That is why you do not want to return home.” He was right—I did not wish to return home, but more than one factor played a role in this. I was having a good time in Berlin, which offered me more than Budapest did in every respect. The work was interesting and my colleagues were kind. And I was able to expand this foreign position into scores of advantages. I would have had to give up all that in return for stepping into a hornets’ nest. I had already considered all of this, so my decision that I would not be interested in the department in Budapest had been made well before this conversation in Berlin. In Berlin, I told Lajos Ligeti my opinion for the first time. He 102

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was very satisfied with my reply. He knew very well that when I was away, the Department of Turkology would remain within the sphere of his power even if he was officially no longer the Head of it. After I declined without any difficulties, objection or argument, he immediately opened the last “gift box” that he had brought to Berlin. “So you would agree that Zsuzsa Kakuk should take over the Department of Turkology as a professor?” he asked. “To my utmost,” I replied. The winner of the matter appeared to be Zsuzsa Kakuk, but the real winner was me. However, I was wrong about one thing. I thought that my decision would reassure my colleagues at home who had been watching what was happening around me with loaded weapons in their hands, ready to defend the barricades when necessary. It seems to be incredible that even after so many years they were worried that I would make my way back to the Department of Turkology. The meeting in Berlin made treuga Dei with Lajos Ligeti stronger. But that did not last long. The next clash between us occurred about the issue of publishing my doctorate dissertation. I will tell you about that later, at the proper time. In the meantime, independent of me but also of concern to me, the review of the state of affairs, of the “set-up” of Turkology, and especially of the research conducted at the Academy, took place. Deputy Secretary General of the Academy, Béla Köpeczi oversaw the process. I can remember well that he called a plenary session at the beginning of summer, to complete the process. I managed to participate in it by way of a flying visit. The meeting took place at the Academy of Sciences. After quite a long discussion, Béla Köpeczi and I left before the end. He hurried to his office and I to the airport. When we left the room, we said goodbye. His only comment about the meeting was: “These people are interested only in one thing—what they would like to become.”

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Journeys to the Soviet Union My journey to summer congresses became a regular occurance. So within the framework of my life in Berlin, a long cherished ambition came true. I was able to pay a visit to the research centers of the Turkic peoples in the Caucasus and Central Asia. It all materialized when I received an invitation to the Congress of Turkish Dialects, held in Baku in the fall of 1965. The chief organizer of the congress was Mammadagha Shiraliyev (1909–1991), the Director of the Institute of Linguistics in Baku whom I met in Ankara in 1957 and Moscow in 1960, and with whom I cultivated a very cordial relationship. The antecedents were also important for both of us. We had both been visiting lecturers in Sofia, we had succeeded each other by no more than one or two semesters. As you say in Turkish: halef selef olduk (we followed each other). In September 1965, on returning to Budapest from the PIAC meeting in Bad Honnef, I approached the International Department of the Academy with the request that I would like to participate in the congress in Baku and would cover all my costs. I received nothing encouraging from the bureaucracy. “In principle, everything is all right, but you need much more time to implement such a project. However, we may have some good luck,” said the desk officer at the Academy of Sciences. To the surprise of all of us, the reply from Moscow arrived in just over two weeks—they were pleased to welcome me to Baku. I added to this journey to the South Caucasus a short stay in Moscow and Leningrad. Since the International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow (1960), I had excellent personal contacts with my colleagues in the Soviet Union. There was a vigorous correspondence and an exchange of books going on between us. A year later, in 1966, having learned the lessons of the previous year, I indicated my intention in Budapest in good time that I wanted to travel to the Soviet Union again. This time the destination was the Soviet Socialist Republics in Central Asia de104

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pendent on Moscow: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. In the end, I added to this trip a two-day visit to Baku. However, I did not manage to visit Tashkent, Bukhara and Samarkand—a powerful earthquake in Tashkent had interfered with my plans. With a view to the circumstances, the Soviet hosts asked our Academy to cancel the stretch of my trip in Uzbekistan. I met this request with some understanding but not without a lot of regret. In the end, things worked out in a way that I had to travel via Tashkent after all. I could not stay for the night but it was possible to drive across the city—what is more, I even managed to visit the bookshop of the Uzbek Academy of Sciences. The trip was extremely rich in experiences. I paid visits to the local Institutes of Linguistics—I received stacks of books as gifts, and I purchased as many as I was given. I had already known that the system of sending books by post was working flawlessly. This time too, the packages of books had arrived in Berlin before I did. In 1960, when I was directed from the bookshop in Moscow to the post office next door, I took this—initially—for a well-functioning service. I grasped the point when I saw how in the post office in Tashkent the contents of the packages of the people in the queue in front of me were examined. Each piece was checked one by one, and by hand. What seemed to be a useful service in Moscow was actually nothing more but an exercise in strict control. In this, the old Russian tradition lived on. A real desert summer met me in Turkmenistan. Although it was only June, it was possible to exist, virtually, only early in the morning and in the evening. In these hours, the air turned lukewarm and it was pleasant to spend time in cozy summer arbors. The president of the Turkmen Academy of Sciences (1966– 1975) was Pigam Azimovich Azimov (1915–1994), the Turkologist whom I had met at the International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow. He received me in a royal style, indeed. I was 105

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aware of the fact that Turkologists from abroad did not frequently make it to the land of the Turkmens. That was the reason why they made such a fuss over my visit. Professor Azimov was not only the President of the Academy of Turkmenistan but, as a member of the Supreme Soviet, was also a player in grand local politics. One day, he took me to the border between Turkmenistan and Iran where there was, obviously, no traffic at all. The road took us across a military camp into a narrow valley, which was closed by an iron gate. You could not see anything from the other side of the border. There were soldiers armed to the teeth everywhere, looking after the safety of the Soviet land. However, when Professor Azimov showed them his identity card, they all immediately saluted—the road became clear.

Travelling Yesterday and Today Yesterday means the 1950s. Today, the generation of Schengen cannot even picture the conditions of travelling at that time. Perhaps, this is the reason why it is necessary to recall them now. Because of the way my career in research worked out, I have done a good deal of travelling all my life and acquired quite a lot of experiences. In the early fifties, getting hold of a passport was not an easy procedure. After 1956, this became significantly simpler, as far as the socialist countries were concerned. In the designated offices of IBUSZ (state-controlled travel agency)—after an acceptable waiting time—it was possible to obtain a passport. In the case of individual trips, a letter of invitation was compulsory. In the case of the researchers of the Academy of Sciences, this was replaced by an official letter of recommendation. When you were already in possession of a valid passport, it was possible to buy a train or plane ticket. What is more, it was possible to purchase foreign currency as well. The sum of it was kept within reasonable limits. 106

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Recalling a few memories will make things more lucid. When I made my first trip to Bulgaria in 1954, I still needed an entry, and then for the return trip an exit visa. If I had taken the train, I would have needed a transit visa for Romania too. As far as I can remember, these restrictions started being relaxed in 1956. The summer of 1956 brought a great change—the possibility to cross Yugoslavia opened up. I can remember well that around May, when I was travelling from Sofia to Budapest, I still needed a transit visa. I received it at the Embassy in Sofia in the course of a day. I mention this fact just because to obtain a transit visa from Romania—according to the remarks of other people—sometimes took two weeks. In the summer of 1957, when I was again travelling from Budapest to Sofia, I had a memorable experience. Because of my trip to the congress in Turkey, the validity of my passport had been extended to the whole of Europe. In Kelebia, Hungary, I was forced to get off the sleeping car in the middle of the night because they did not find my passport to be in order. The problem was that at the beginning of 1957, the passports that had been issued before, were “validated again” by a stamp with the Kossuth coat of arms. This stamp was there in my passport. However, the high-ranking border guard found fault with this stamp not having been placed under the other stamp, the one that extended the territorial validity of my passport. He placed a call to the duty officer of the competent organs of the Ministry of the Interior where they reassured him that my passport was in order—the coat of arms of Kossuth had to be stamped into the passport only once, and not in the place of its territorial validity. Despite that, my luggage was thoroughly searched and then I was told in a noble and benevolent way that I was allowed to leave the country on the next train. I had to wait until the afternoon of the following day. This was annoying because my colleagues in Belgrade were waiting for me in the morning in vain. I arrived only by the evening. A few of the trips by train during my years in Berlin also 107

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proved to be memorable. In the first years, you had to bear in mind that you were only able to enjoy the services of the dining car if you tucked away some foreign banknotes into your pocket, that is to say, by violating the currency regulations. Later on, this was considerably simplified. You were allowed to pay in East German marks, or Czechoslovak korunas or Hungarian forints according to which country the train was crossing at the time of your meal. The most important experience of travelling in a sleeper in the winter was that it was impossible to regulate the temperature in the compartments—the passengers either froze to death, or sweated buckets from the unbearable heat. One of the passengers remarked with bitter irony that it was easier to set the temperature in the cabin of astronauts orbiting the planet than that in a train. In some cases, passport control in East Germany also created unpleasant memories. I remember that once in Bad Schandau in the early hours of the morning, during the always stiff and rousing control of passports, the question was asked: “Where are you going?” My reply was: “To Berlin.” “Are you trying to say to Berlin, the capital of the German Democratic Republic?” The border guard was quite surprised by my answer: “I do not need a political seminar now, I want to sleep.” During the course of my twenty years in Berlin, fortunately I travelled by train only a few times—I usually went by air. If my memory does not fail me, it was already in the middle of 1965, at the very beginning of my stay in Berlin, that IL–118 planes with a bigger capacity came into circulation—and on board of these airliners, it took a good one and a half hours to cover the distance. But the most important thing was that there were several flights every day—especially in the summertime. The number of MALÉV and Interflug flights was almost the same. The following funny experience is connected to the airport at Schönefeld. It was during the last months of my stay that I 108

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was flying from Budapest to Berlin. My little daughters had already returned to Budapest. My trips home included taking much of their stuff to Budapest. So I returned to Berlin with a lot of empty suitcases. At the luggage-claim in Berlin, I was waiting for my suitcases for a long time but they would not show up. All the luggage had already been picked up when a customs officer approached me and led me into a room. “Do these suitcases belong to you?” he asked. Hearing my affirmative answer, he asked me to open them. They were all empty. “Why are you travelling with empty suitcases?” he demanded. I replied the question with another question. “Is it forbidden by the laws of the German Democratic Republic to enter the country with empty suitcases?” He was quite confused by the question. To ease his confusion, I explained to him that I had been a visiting professor at Humboldt University for two decades, and my suitcases were empty due to the preparations of my final return to Hungary. When defeated, a Prussian official will switch his behavior from aggressiveness to subservient apologizing. That was what happened on this occasion too. The formal part of leaving Hungary was—by and by—simplified. First, I received in my service passport a permanent permission to leave the country. This was replaced by the system of five “windows” or five exit stamps. However, you had to be very careful with these “windows” reserved for the exit and entry stamps, since in order to obtain your visas for a trip to the West, you had to travel to Budapest. In this way, you ran out of your five “exit windows” very quickly. At the end of the 1970s, when East Germany was recognized and the Western Embassies appeared in East Berlin, the situation became somewhat simpler—I was able to obtain my visas in Berlin too. *** During the years I worked in Cyprus, from the point of view of the formalities of travel, no problems presented themselves. The Hungarian “world passport” allowed you to travel anywhere in 109

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Europe without a visa. The only problem was with the trips themselves. MALÉV launched a regular flight between the two countries very early, soon after the founding of the Republic of Cyprus (1960). There was a flight almost every day. I can, however, describe the timetable of the flights only by saying: it was “a dog’s life”. As the last flight in the evening, the plane took off from Budapest a few minutes before midnight and after flying for three hours landed in Larnaca at four in the morning local time. Picking up your luggage and the drive to Nicosia, if you were lucky, took you another hour, so you went to bed at about five or half past five. The return flight was unbearable in the same way. You had to leave home at two a.m., the plane took off at about four, and landed in Budapest at about six in the morning. There was a peculiar reason why the arrivals were always punctual. MALÉV happened to be the last flight to take off at night and it had to leave at the given time because early in the morning the Larnaca airport was closed for technical reasons (cleaning, etc.). Therefore, you could be absolutely sure that MALÉV 225 will land at about six, as scheduled. (The Greek words the air hostesses spoke for 225—dio dio pende—that I heard numerous times in the silence of the already deserted airport, still ring in my ears.) In this way, between eight and nine in the morning, I was able to meet my colleagues to discuss our business. At noon, I had lunch in my favorite tavern in Pipa Street, and then I had a good rest, a long siesta. These flights during the night always took place on Saturdays to Budapest and on Mondays to Larnaca, usually once a month. In such a way, during the years I spent in Cyprus, I must have taken this flight—by my own calculations—more than a hundred times. In some cases, I even flew on to Berlin, Paris or Istanbul. Most often I flew on to Vienna. This took place on the Sundays of the weekend flights. I departed in the morning and spent the day with Andreas Tietze. We would discuss our current affairs and then I would return to Budapest on 110

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an early evening flight. The funny side of it was that I never managed to fly to Vienna in such an inexpensive way as during these years. The ticket to Vienna, when added to the Budapest– Larnaca–Budapest route, cost about USD 10 extra. *** During the more than a hundred flights to Cyprus, it occurred only once that I did not manage to arrive in Larnaca on time. In November 1995, on a return flight from Paris—due to a heavy downpour—the plane was not able to land and had to fly on to Damascus. A few hours later, we were allowed to fly to Cyprus. This “outing” to Damascus happened to me for the second time. In 1977, I had to fly to Athens for an AIESEE conference. When the evening MALÉV flight to Athens–Damascus departed, we were told that the plane would be flying straight to Damascus because the airport in Athens was closed due to a strike. The following day—a Sunday—the stoppage would be over, and I would be able to reach Athens on the return flight. In 1995, almost twenty years later, I saw the transit area of the airport in Damascus again where nothing had changed. The passengers were treated to the same slovenliness.

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III

The Years Gliding By: Budapest (1982–1991)

Return to Budapest

I

t was essentially in the fall of 1982 that I started to integrate into my own working environment, the community of Orientalists in Hungary. Before that, in September, I took part in two congresses on Turkology: first in Tunis, and then in Istanbul. When building my modest research unit in Budapest, I had to adjust to the situation determined by circumstances. I had to accept what there was, or to put it more precisely, who was there. In this way, the balance, in retrospect, shows a mixed picture. To my great fortune, I was able to rely on Pál Fodor (1955–) from the very beginning. He graduated in Turkology and had mature ideas and judgments on academia, and on Turkology. He was also a diligent and hard-working person: the type of young researcher that has become more and more rare in our country; the one who not only talks about things, but embarks on the job and implements plans. I believe that at this point I have to cite someone’s earlier judgment of him: “You know, he is perhaps the only young researcher whose every line has to be read.” A few years later, he officially left us because he had received an advantageous job offer from the Academy’s Institute of History. Our close working relationship was, however, maintained. As the most important permanent link I would mention the Turkologischer Anzeiger/Turkology Annual, a pillar of which Pál Fodor has remained up to the present day. After graduating in Turkology, Ilona Dorogi (1960–) came to work with me. Her great knowledge of the Turkish language and paleography made it possible for her to join several of my projects. She confessed that she had no ambition to rise to the higher spheres of academia—she was content with the lower 112

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ranks. However, she met her obligations with exemplary punctuality. I could rely on her in everything and at any time. And with this work ethic, she became a fine expert on the philology of Ottoman manuscripts, the knowledge of the sources in the bibliography of Turkology, and the methodology of collecting and processing data. Another colleague who graduated in Turkology, B. Fahmi Sahla (1951–) did not wish to have laurels in research either, but played a serious role in publishing our papers due to her skills with the word processor. She was accurate and reliable. She left us when she had reached the early retirement age. In this chapter, I introduced only the first team of our turkological research unit. The ones who joined us later will have to understand this “priority”. I will tell you about them in a different context. In Hungary, I did not officially have any students since I had no connection with education at the university. However, during the joint projects of the research group, I tried to impart my knowledge to my younger colleagues. I confess that I felt honored and pleased when on my 80th birthday, Pál Fodor, while greeting me at the Department of Philology of the Academy of Sciences, expressed his thanks and said that he had found our working relationship of several decades useful, and positive for the course of his own life. There is one more person that I have to tell you about: a colleague whose friendly cooperation in Turkology goes back more than several decades. This was János Hóvári (1955–) who later became our Ambassador to Ankara. The renowned Turkologist-historian was at that time a young researcher at the beginning of his career at the Academy’s Institute of History. Until 1992, that is until I left for Cyprus, we made and imple mented a host of good initiatives in Budapest, and then in Cyprus. This was the beginning of a productive friendship lasting up to the present day. I believe that I have reached the point where I must say a 113

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few words about something that can only be called a “bizarre moment”. It was common knowledge that only few people managed to get into the inner circle of the President of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences who served between 2009 and 2014. “Someone” from among the Orientalists had told him that György Hazai had a very poor relationship with his former students. His Vice President, with whom he had shared this "information", gently informed him that György Hazai did not have any students in Hungary since he had always taught at foreign universities. I think it is appropriate to cite here the Hungarian proverb: “Birds of a feather flock together.” The other operation was more characteristic. It faithfully demonstrated the strong fear that I—then in my seventies— might still find my way to the Department of Turkology at ELTE. In these circumstances—they must have thought—only making alliances will help. This is the point when I have to tell you about the background. In 1981, in my capacity of President of the Hungarian National Committee of AIESEE, I took part in the session of the Bureau, the executive body of the society in Volos, Greece. Simultaneously with the session, a symposium on history was also held, which was attended by participants from Hungary as well—István Diószegi (1930–) (the Dean of the Faculty of Humanities at the time) and Professor Emil Palotás (1936–). By accident, again a topic of history was selected for the next symposium, or more precisely, the historical period that they were interested in through their own research. During the session of the Bureau—where I was held in high regard because of my former contacts in the Balkans and Turkey—I indicated that Hungarian historians were very interested in the topic, and they would certainly be ready to cooperate in the work. This information, which counted as a concrete proposal, was received in the expected way. A resolution was adopted that secured the participation of Hungarian researchers who were dealing with the given historical period. 114

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I knew István Diószegi from my time as a student of history at the university. He had graduated one or two years before me. His wife, Mari Berényi, was one of my classmates. Decades had passed when we saw each other again in Volos where he witnessed that I was very much at home in the international organization of scholarly work. I was pleased to tell him about the resolution of the Bureau. He was even more than pleased to hear it, and added (I can remember only the main point): “You know, it is very rare that Hungarians would help each other, especially when they are abroad.” I can remember my reply much better: “István, I was delegated by the Academy of Sciences to this post so that I could promote the interests of Hungary.” On his arrival home, István Diószegi proposed that the Faculty of Humanities award me the title of “Professor Emeritus”. He had not said a word to me about that—I learned about all this much later. The “Bourbons” immediately forged an alliance. The coryphaeus of the Departments of Oriental Studies concocted a way how to prevent the granting of the title to me, just as they did in 1961 when they denounced me to the Party. I heard later that it was the Maestro from the second floor who had come up with the vital key to the solution. In order to receive the title, the regulations at the time stated that the candidates needed to have taught at the faculty for at least four semesters. And I had only two semesters in the Institute of Slavistics. (The semesters at the Institute of Turkology were “forgotten”.) There was no way of appealing this argument. The faculty rejected the proposal of the Dean who, when we met once much later, told me: “This was the greatest and most painful fiasco during my time as Dean.” Let me tell you what happened after this. In 1986, my wife and I spent the summer, as always, on my mother-in-law’s country house in Dordogne, France. When I returned to Budapest at the end of August, a telegram from the Rector of ELTE was awaiting me, saying that they were expecting me at the ce115

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remony where I would be awarded the “Professor Emeritus” title. They wanted to hand over the certificate at the opening of the academic year. Who had relaunched this matter? Why had the former restrictions not mattered any more? I still do not know. In the fall of 1983, an unexpected turn shifted my life in a new direction—I found myself at the head of the Publishing House of the Academy. The background to this was peculiar and random things played the most important roles. In the spring, as a new corresponding member and as propriety dictated, I paid a courtesy call to the President and the Secretary General of the Academy of Sciences. President János Szentágothai—an outstanding brain scientist—had a sparkling mind and was interested in everything. He was keen to learn all the details of Turkology, of the Turkish past and present. Later, we had many long and pleasant conversations, he never ran short of questions. My visit to the Secretary General of the Academy at the time, Lénárd Pál (1925–), was preceded by his request for information from my friend, Ferenc Rottler (1935–2016), the Head of the Department of Social Sciences. The Secretary General inquired in a letter whether my visit had a special goal. Ferenc Rottler’s answer was that it did not: “György Hazai had—after a long stay abroad—returned to Hungary not long before. For this reason, he was not very well-known in the Academy of Sciences. He would like to introduce himself.” This conversation—with its very different character—was also extremely pleasant. Among others, we touched on the issue of publishing scholarly works. On the basis of the experiences of publishing my own books in the West, as well as my general experiences as a publisher, I was able to say quite a few things about the various aspects of the topic. I felt that the Secretary General was surprised by my expertise. This meeting of ours remained there in his memory. It was already in the fall that Kálmán Kulcsár (1928–2010), 116

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the Deputy Secretary General of the Academy with whom I had a very pleasant friendly relationship, gave me a call and indicated that he wanted to talk to me. He told me that it was about the Publishing House of the Academy where a serious internal conflict had broken out due to personal reasons. For the time being, this did not threaten the functioning of the company or its financial stability, but naturally the situation could not be sustained for a longer period of time. The Director at the time, György Bernát (1916–1992), whose retirement was impending anyway, was ill and being treated in hospital. In this situation, the Secretary General of the Academy, who had decided on a radical reorganization, wanted to make his moves immediately. He wanted György Bernát to retire, and subsequently merge the two companies—the publishing house and the printing office. The Secretary General wanted to appoint an Academician to head up the merged companies. His candidate for the post of the new Director General was me. This was quite a surprise for me. I remember we were talking about the details for a long time. Kálmán Kulcsár was familiar with them since one of his duties assigned by the Secretary General was the supervision of the two companies. I asked for a short time to think it over and then I said yes. It was clear that at the publishing house, a feverish hornets’ nest awaited me. But the issue had another poisonous component that I realized only later. After some time passed, I learned that a political confrontation was behind Lénárd Pál’s decision. The followers of, György Aczél, the chief of cultural affairs and a group of rebellious “Young Turks” were conspiring under the aegis of the Party Committee of the fifth district of Budapest. The Committee wanted Lajos Gubcsi (1948–), György Bernát’s deputy, who enjoyed the full support of the Alliance of Young Communists (KISZ), to be appointed to this post. Not long before these events, Lajos Gubcsi made himself famous all over the country by building a luxurious villa in Buda that even the Party could not turn a blind eye to. The case even found its way 117

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onto the agenda of the Politbüro. At the Academy, the mover and shaker of the conspiracy was the Head of the financial department, Dr. István Csomó (1935–2003), who had a history in the Munkásőrség (the Workers’ Guards) and was a confidant of the Party Committee of the fifth district. Later on, I had to do penance for being chosen by Lénárd Pál. What I am going to tell you further on will demonstrate this in a lucid way. I was appointed as of January 1, 1984, but I had to start onthe-spot inspections much earlier than that. In the beginning, the state of affairs was the following. Lajos Gubcsi, the executive Director, left almost immediately. He had rejected my request to stay. The Director of finance, Tamás Mészáros, who went on to serve in important posts in public life, announced that after preparing the annual accounts, he intended to leave and go back to the university. (This situation started to worry even Comrade Csomó. He would have been held responsible for leading positions around the Director General suddenly falling vacant.) The Head of the literary section was the extremely well-informed and highly experienced Edith Róth, who according to the rumors at the time enjoyed the support of Comrade Aczél. She was busy leading the editorial office that produced thousands of problems, mostly of a personal nature. The reason for this was that the focus of the warlike personal conflicts, generated by the editors who were mostly members of the Party, were centered in her office. Lénárd Pál and Kálmán Kulcsár had made sure that by the time I arrived, György Bernát’s secretary, who during the “interregnum” introduced a kind of personal dictatorship, would not be there anymore. She had been pensioned off, so I did not have any contact with her. The process of taking stock that had started earlier at the Academy continued. The catalog of problems grew thicker and thicker. Let me give you a very short overview of all these problems, which, of course, existed at other publishing houses as well, but 118

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were especially grave at ours, a house responsible for the publication of scientific books and journals from all kinds of fields. The otherwise not insignificant state subsidies were not sufficient to cover expenses. Although the three large stateowned distribution companies had the duty to sell scientific books, they wanted to get rid of this job whenever and wherever it was possible because the overwhelming majority of the publications produced serious deficits. In this way, not a small part of the unsold scientific books and periodicals were deposited in warehouses—either at theirs or at the Publishing House of the Academy. At the same time, the stock of incomplete works had mercilessly grown. These were the mass of products —be those books or journals—into which the publishing house had already invested a lot of money. In other words, the author, the editor, the illustrator, etc. had already been paid, but you could not foresee when the publication would be ready and enter circulation (i.e. when the process of the recovery of the active capital would begin). Naturally, there were quite a few manuscripts that had already been handed over for publication, and were losing money. In these cases, you could be absolutely sure that they would never be published, or if they were, they would never make a profit. There were strict regulations on this stock of completed (but unpublished) works, which were a serious burden on the shoulders of the publishing house—these items were allowed to be written off only from annual profits. In this way, the sums of money available for raising the salaries, bonus payments, and making investments became smaller. In this respect, it was the situation around the flagship product, the Academic Great Encyclopedia that struck the publishing house most severely. This was a classic example of how an encyclopedia—and especially one of this size—must not be compiled. The list of entries was far from being completed when the work of actually writing the entries in several fields had already started and what is more, all across the alphabet. In 119

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other words, in a certain field the entries for the volume V-Z to be published in ten years’ time had already been written, while in other fields there was no way of knowing what exactly would find its way into the other volumes. Two things were, however, guaranteed: part of the entries written too early would become obsolete by the time they were printed, and that the money spent would be tied down for the unforeseeable future. The relationship between the Academy, making the majority of publishing orders, and the publishing house—regarding the most significant issue, financing—was completely unsettled. The Academy believed that the publishing house was receiving a nice subsidy from the central budget, so it had no further obligations. The publishing house was provided with abundant orders from the Academy. It had to meet the plan for the books to be published by the ten departments and the presidency, which was about 1200 folios. It had to publish more than a hundred Hungarian and foreign language journals, and an editorial board had to be maintained for the Academic Great Encyclopedia, etc. What I am telling you seems to be almost unbelievable today. You could know only the title and the planned number of folios of any given work—nothing more than that. In the first place, the most important thing was to know how much it would cost to produce. It proved to be extremely difficult to convince the Academy that this situation was untenable. Finally, they did realize after all that two books were identical only from the point of view of their size on the bookshelf. The cost to produce them could be very different. After great fights and more than two years, we managed to switch from folio-based planning to cost-based planning. This did not mean at all that the many financial issues between the Academy and the publishing house had been settled. The Academy as chief authority kept violating the company act, which forsaw to give an assignment to its publishing 120

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house only if it covered all the costs as well. This concerned, for instance, the publishing of Hungarian language journals that lost tens of millions of forints on an annual basis. Besides the above reasons, the settling of the issues around the Academic Great Encyclopedia, a reasonable reorganization of the whole work and the setting of an acceptable date for publication were all the more urgent because the press exerted continuous pressure about the issue. The bankrupt project offered an excellent topic for the press, as it searched for its new role. The criticism was, in fact, indirectly meant for the cultural ministry, but at the same time also voiced general dissatisfaction. The necessary steps had to be taken as early as possible. Béla Köpeczi, the former editor-in-chief of the Encyclopedia but now Minister, could no longer undertake this job. The new person had to be “invented by the leadership”. At that time the Party— under the pressure of the rising younger generation— removed Péter Rényi (1920–2002) from his post as the editor-in-chief of Népszabadság newspaper. He had to be given some sort of a golden parachute. The publishing house could only bow to this decision from above to hire Rényi as editor-in chief. Péter Rényi came forward fairly soon. He was a loathsome, conceited and aggressive fellow. His visit always resembled the invasion of the Tatars. When he entered the room, you had to open the window promptly—otherwise, within one or two minutes you would have suffocated from cigarette smoke. It was impossible to reach an agreement with him—he knew no other approach, but his own. Furthermore, he had one more specialty. The pitch of his voice kept rising, especially when opinions contrary to his were presented. At such moments, his voice would turn into a howl. I remember well a comic scene. Once, by coincidence, we both arrived at the gate of the residence of the West German Ambassador for the national day reception. As we were ascending the stairs, we started talking about current issues. He rose to the level of the howl, just as we had reached the Ambassador, 121

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greeting the guests. You can imagine how surprising this scene was for our host. Péter Rényi called on János Szentágothai, the President of the Academy, in order to present his grandiose plans. The President was smiling when he told me about his complaint: “You cannot have a debate with this Hazai. I can never make him lose his composure.” We waited out that Péter Rényi was dropped from the equation. It was also fortunate that Iván T. Berend (1930–), who was destined for the chair of the President of the Academy of Sciences, was also applying for the job of editor-in-chief of the Encyclopedia, a post that also carried a substantial salary. He had ambitions that knew no limits combined with an insatiable appetite for money. His standing in the Party was better than Rényi’s. This was the decisive factor. After this, the Great Encyclopedia found itself on a different track. The state coffers opened for the new editor-in-chief. Tens of millions of forints were provided through the National Technical Development Committee to create a computer base for the project. At this point, I hastily left the process, since the project involved at certain points the general budget of the Academy which belonged to the competence of Comrade Csomó. I also learned that he had received a special presidential commission to prepare the investment plan for the Great Encyclopedia. There was a special disbursement for the new task. As was customary within the office of the Academy, this sum of money was later included in the salary. This was also the model for Comrade Sándor Kónya (1927–) when he, as the Head of the office of the Academy, immediately received a special commission and a salary. This happened a few years later when he was appointed Head of the Supervisory Committee that was established at the initiative of Comrade Csomó in order to keep a constant eye on the activities of the publishing house. The fierce internal conflicts that had broken out in the last stage of György Bernát’s directorship died down during his long treatment in hospital. There were several points where I 122

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had to handle the issues in person. The people understood that I did not wish to take the side of one or the other party, but get rid of the petty bickering, restore order—and finally focus on the work itself. I have to say a few words about the human resources of the new company that was created by the merger of the publishing house and the printing office. In this respect, the two units were as incompatible as fire and water. The printing office was an industrial factory where organized cooperation and workplace discipline constituted the foundations of everything. No one thought of calling this order into question. The publishing house was just the opposite: workplace discipline was considered by everyone to be a bad thing of no use. In the first place, by the editors. As far as the headcount was concerned, the lady and gentleman editors represented the majority at the publishing house. The personnel responsible for distribution, among them a few workers doing deliveries, made up the minority. The latter were disciplined, hard-working colleagues. The composition of the marketing department was very heterogeneous. Editors, by nature, are peculiar creatures. They are clever, well-informed persons who can substantially contribute their knowledge to making the books under their care more beautiful and better. At the bottom of their hearts, given their qualifications, many of them find it offensive, almost humiliating that they have to tend to the intellectual product of someone else to make it formally spotless. And they naturally believe that they are smarter than anyone else. Unfortunately, the latter made up the majority at the publishing house. In forming the team of the editors of the publishing house, personal history also played a role. For the most part, two types of intellectuals found their way into this group. Firstly, there were those who were useless for the Party and were being disposed of. And secondly, there were the ones who had been sidelined for political reasons. There were, of course, quite a 123

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few distinguished editors working at the publishing house. It was possible to collaborate with them in a wonderful way. It was no accident that when the company was privatized and came under Dutch management, they were the ones who were able to remain on their feet. Most of the opinionated smart-head troublemakers had to say goodbye to their jobs straight away. From the first moment I established excellent relations György Hazai at the Publishing House with our colleagues in the of the Academy of Sciences printing office. One of the reasons for this was that they had known me before. During my time in Berlin, three of my books were printed there and during the summer holidays I spent long hours proofreading the manuscripts in the offices of their managers. So they knew very well that I was an early bird just like them, and that for me it was the work that mattered. In the beginning, I was less familiar with the publishing section. I needed more experience so that I could initiate some kind of changes later on. Very early on I noticed that I could not rely on the support of the financial department of the Academy, our immediate supervisor. It would have been better for us if they were simply "roughing us up". Comrade Csomó found it extremely difficult to say good things about us, and especially about me to our boss at the Academy, Kálmán Kulcsár. All that naturally found its way back to me right away. In the beginning, Comrade Csomó tested me with petty methods. Quite often, my phone 124

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would ring at about eight in the morning. The point of this was to check whether I was already in the office. After my secretary, Katalin Fejes, replied once or twice that the Director General started the working day in the printing office at seven in the morning, Comrade Csomó abandoned this kind of operation. Instead, he resorted to discrediting me. In this way, he wanted to prove that an Academician was unfit for such a post. Only an officer loyal to the Party was able to pick a suitable person. One of these cases was connected with the National Bank. In financial institutions, the process of slowly phasing out state subsidies had already been launched by that time. A high-ranking official called into question the subsidy for the publishing house too. We had to protect our interests and explain the unique features of publishing scientific books—contrary to the expectations of Comrade Csomó, we managed to do that very well. Our host was very satisfied with our meeting. “I have learned a lot from you”, he said. Comrade Csomó, who had always regarded me only as a Turkologist, was surprised to see that I had “a smattering” of ability for management, and what is more, that I possessed an overview of how academic works are published internationally. Comrade Csomó set the other trap at his beloved Party Committee of the fifth district. Already in the first months of 1984, a discussion took place, at his prompting, with the Secretary of the Party Committee. She was a woman who had been serving as “chief pioneer” in the movement. (After the collapse of the system, she landed a managerial job at the State Insurance Company.) The balance sheet that the publishing house had inherited was in no way rosy. In order to interpret it, I received unexpected help from Magda Molnár, the Director of the successful Helikon Publishing House, and a member of the Party Committee. When she heard that the stock of our incomplete works was more than 22,000 unpublished folios, she dropped a question in horror. “Oh my God, what has been going on there that such a stockpile has been accumulated?” 125

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Needless to say, this question was addressed first to Comrade Csomó, since the supervision of the work of the publishing house had been exclusively the official obligation of his department for many years. The third such discussion initiated by Comrade Csomó took place with István Láng (1931–2016), the Secretary General of the Academy. The topic was the situation around the publishing of journals, or to put it more precisely, the phasing out of the vast number of editions waiting to be printed. In other words, the question was: how could you reduce the delay in the publishing? However, it was not the printing office that was culpable. It was only possible to drop the manuscripts at the printing office one by one since the costs of production were not covered. In principle, the whole backlog could have been handed over since there was plenty of printing capacity around. It was only a matter of money. We would not have been able to foot the bill since the products did not generate any income. Instead, they increased the deficit. This was the point when the truth was unmasked. The Academy of Sciences was forcing its publishing house to fund the printing of its journals without contributing a farthing to this. So the root of the problem was to be found not at the publishing house, but at the chief authority that was violating the company act. Every time an opportunity presented itself, Comrade Csomó annoyed me and the publishing house. He revealed his true self in 1989 and 1990 when at the time of the unjust attacks on the publishing house, he failed to come forward with the facts that he was perfectly familiar with: facts that would have refuted the unfounded accusations. Instead of taking a simple stand, he sided with the ones intent on wrecking, and provided them with encouragement from the background. At this point, I have to add to this characterization that his extremely friendly face and subdued tone proved to be an excellent mask. At the Academy, he managed to make many people believe that he was an honest supporter of their projects. He failed to do the same at 126

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the publishing house. Many of us called him an opossum. If you have been to the zoo, you will remember the sign outside the cage of this small mammal: “Do not be fooled by its friendly look, this animal has a sharp bite.” Despite all that, the machinery somehow started to work, and as time passed it began to move reassuringly forward. Although I managed to arrange that the sum of the state subsidy should be increased from HUF 35 million to HUF 58 million, it was obvious that the breakthrough would come from somewhere else. The only answer was to widen the number of the profitable publications and to increase their share in the distribution. So we launched new series, and searched for good titles. We did everything we could in the field of publishing dictionaries and encyclopediae in order to renew and enrich the program. However, our hands were very much tied in this field. This was a job that demanded huge investments of money and time. We did have spectacular success in increasing our share in the distribution of books in Hungary. The refurbishing of the Stúdium bookshop in Váci Street, and making it a two-storey bookshop was followed by the opening of two more bookshops —Magiszter on Városház Street and Famulus on Gerlóczy Street. In Szeged, we opened our first bookshop outside the capital. The academic centers in Miskolc, Debrecen, Pécs and Veszprém would have liked similar bookshops supported by the Academy of Sciences. This, however, failed to materialize. We made giant steps in publicizing our activities both in Hungary and abroad. Previously, we used to have exchanges of exhibitions only with the Comecon (Council of Mutual Economic Assistance or KGST) countries. At my initiative, we widened this practice to the Western countries (the United Kingdom, France, West Germany). The presentations made by our partner Academies, the institutions organizing scholarly work, and the prestigious publishers in the refurbished bookshop in Váci Street always brought great success. Over the years, the Stúdium bookshop became a modest cultural forum, which hos127

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ted events that people in Budapest were pleased to visit. Several Ambassadors, who used to come to these events, considered them as political openings. One of these exhibitions has firmly remained in my memory although it was not organized at our initiative. It was in 1989. The Deputy Minister for Culture Ferenc Rátkai gave me a call. During my years at the publishing house, we were able to cooperate in an excellent way—an old friendly relationship came back to life since we used to be classmates at university. “Georgie, I need your help”, he said. “We will soon establish diplomatic relations with South Africa. Before this, they would like to introduce their country with an exhibition of books. The Foreign Ministry is, however, concerned because the same exhibition was smashed by anti-racist demonstrators in Vienna. We would not like to say no, but we would also like to avoid trouble. Do you think you could help? Would you mind receiving this exhibition in the Stúdium?” Naturally, I replied in the affirmative. A wonderful event came about. The main role was not even played by the books, but by the setting. The guests decorated the first floor of the bookshop with rare orchids from Africa and visitors were treated to excellent South African white and red wine. It was a great success, which paved the way perfectly for negotiations on establishing diplomatic relations. I remember that later one of the leaders of the Foreign Ministry gave me a call, and expressed his thanks for the publishing house’s assistance. The joint exhibitions of books offered a lot of other advantages as well. The books on display found their way to the library of the Academy in Budapest. Such gifts were always welcome there since they were never loaded with money—especially hard currency—to spend on purchasing new books. On the other hand, the publishing house had an opportunity to present its products not only in Sofia or Warsaw, but in several of the big cities in Europe. All the costs of this publicity were covered by our foreign partners. The publishing house had to 128

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cover only the travel expenses of the people who set up the exhibition. In the field of publishing encyclopediae, we launched several smaller projects, but had to devote our main attention to two works of more monumental sizes. One was the Academic Small Encyclopedia and the other the Hungarian Larousse Encyclopedia. By publishing these two works, our strategic goal was to try and fill the vacuum on the market for general encyclopediae until the resuscitated Academic Great Encyclopedia could be published. Publishing the two smaller volumes satisfied the hunger generated by the press, and eased the tension around the issue. (As far as media criticism was concerned, it should be added that at that time the press upset the general mood of the government with much more serious issues.) We completed the Academic Small Encyclopedia relatively quickly. The small two-volume handbook—published in 1989— was edited by two Academicians. It was the product of years of work, and for them its publication marked the end of an era. The Small Encyclopedia possessed a symbolic feature—the first 5 volume included an entry for József Antall. The other small general encyclopedia was the three-volume work published under the title Hungarian Larousse Encyclopedia. I had started negotiating for it with its Paris based publishers in 1985. My negotiating partner, Mr. Hubert Deveaux, had received me with some mistrust. On the one hand, he had doubts whether a Western encyclopedia would be allowed to be published in Hungary at all. On the other hand, it seemed to him incredible that the Hungarian state would provide hard currency to pay for the copyright. I replied in all honesty that I believed that only his second concern was real (i.e. whether we would be able to find the necessary money). In this respect, I relied on the assistance of Béla Köpeczi, and was not disappointed —the money was very soon at our disposal. At the publishing house, we started the preparations of the 5

First Prime Minister of Hungary after the political changes, 1990–1993.

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volumes so that we could sign the contract as soon as possible. This time, as always, it was the usual Hungarian approach that prevailed—the first thing was to rally the counter-arguments, to present the difficulties, and to demonstrate that the project was not feasible and the best option was to abandon it. The leading role was played by the Head of the exports department, Géza Takács, who was otherwise an educated person with a good command of languages. There was a true story about him. While discussing a publishing project, my predecessor György Bernát once said to him: “Géza, forget about your first ten counter-arguments and begin with number eleven.” But there were others who played second fiddle to him by saying: Larousse would not accept the proper number of Hungarian entries, and it would inspect the manuscript so carefully that the project would be delayed indefinitely, etc. I knew very well that the opposite of all this was true since I had spoken about all these details with Mr. Deveaux, the export manager of Larousse. Our talks unequivocally demonstrated that the publishers in Paris were solely interested in receiving their payment. In everything else—having trust in our fairness and skills—they gave us carte blanche. Finally, we signed the contract. It proved to be extremely advantageous for us since Mr. Deveaux had underestimated the demand in the Hungarian market—he had thought that we would be able to sell 30,000 copies at most. So he generously set the number of copyright copies under this number. Of course, we knew very well that the demand on the Hungarian market was much higher. The actual circulation was around 100,000 copies. The negotiations progressed in a warm and constructive atmosphere, and Mr. Deveaux visited Budapest several times. His visits were followed by the visit of the manager of the company, and our two publishing houses established excellent relations. As a result, Larousse soon presented a fine book exhibition on Váci Street. 130

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Signing the contract with Larousse Publishing House

At the Frankfurt Book Fair, they promoted us very kindly. At one of their gala evenings, I was introduced with the words: “Monsieur Hazai comes from the East, but you can negotiate with him as if he were from the West.” Allow me please to mention one more funny and instructive detail. The work of editing the Encyclopedia—under the leadership of Professor János Szávai (later our Ambassador to Paris) began very nicely. I think it was on the street that I accidentally bumped into the Head of the Cultural-Scientific Department of the Party at the time. “I have heard about the Larousse. You will 6 surely put it on the agenda of the AgitProp Committee?” I confess I had not thought of that during the whole project. A few months after this encounter, there was no AgitProp any more, and the Party controlling these propaganda departments already had a different political standing. The editors at the publishing house did not miss the opportunity to make themselves heard. We had asked our department for encyclopediae to prepare a working paper, which would 6

Censorship organization during the communist era.

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suggest where the contents of Larousse still contained a gap from a Hungarian point of view, and where entries had to be expanded and new entries added, etc. Our editors went to the Hungarian state radio and tried to prove with this working paper that “this incomplete encyclopedia” must not be published. Had they done this at a Western publishing house, the following day they would have been sent packing! When the first of the three volumes of the Hungarian Larousse Encyclopedia was published, I was no longer in Hungary. My successor and friend Ferenc Zöld told me that it was a great success on the book market—it sold almost 100,000 copies, and this income was a life saver for the publishing house. The circulation of the additional volumes—because of the narrowing of the book market in the years after the change in the political system— was substantially smaller. The second volume ran “only, but the still” impressive print run of 70,000 copies. At that time, this was a dream circulation in the Hungarian book market. The deteriorating economic situation of the country had more and more influence on our world too. It was perhaps the imposition of the new tax system that was the most sensitive for us. For an ordinary man, the only innovation was that he had to think in terms of gross and net income. It was the duty of employers to raise the previous net wages and salaries to the level of gross income. All this was an enormous burden on companies since they had to come up with the necessary sums of money. With this operation, the state had essentially ransacked the whole country. But there was more to it than that. Everywhere we turned more money was demanded from us. We had already got used to the price of paper going up all the time—sometimes drastically. But when City Hall raised the rent of our printing office to an inconceivable extent, we really cried out in pain. To understand this, you have to know that our printing office had two premises. The newer one was established by the Academy in Martonvásár in the 1970s. The oldest part—essentially the head132

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quarter—was located in the City Hall building on Gerlóczy Street. The machine-room operated in the City Hall’s former chapel. Needless to say, the rooms at our disposal were totally unsuitable for a printing office. The case-room met the requirements of hot metal typesetting still used at the time, but there was serious concern about all the other stages of production— it was very difficult to install the machines. The money we were paying for the rental in Gerlóczy Street was in the millions of forints already at that time. The drastic raise of the rent by City Hall also conveyed the message that we had better move out fairly soon. As a post-script to this story, I must point out here that these premises are still vacant today. The Academy was naturally aware of our concerns. The financial department, supervising our economic activities—on the basis of the two annual balance sheets—saw very well what our plight was like. Instead of actual assistance, of easing the burden on us, the Academy came up with a different answer—it set up a supervisory commission. Its task was to ascertain the financial situation of the publishing house on a quarterly basis. The supervisory commission was independent from the financial department. Although Comrade Csomó appointed his number 1 confidant—Sándor Kónya, the Head of administration at the Academy—to chair it, the other members were independent experts from business and finance, etc. For us, the most important thing was that our bank was also included in the work of the commission, namely the person who oversaw and officially watched all our transactions at the bank every single day. I have to tell you that these well-informed professionals had a very positive and supportive attitude regarding the affairs of the publishing house—so we established the best working relationship with them. As time passed, it turned out that the supervisory commission had an attitude that was different from the one that Comrade Csomó—taking part in all the sessions—had expected. He had thought that he would receive ammunition from these ex133

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perts for his scheming. The opposite happened—the supervisory commission was on the side of the publishing house. I can remember very well that during one session a banking expert openly told him: “Steve, can’t you see that you are pushing the company under water? Do you want it to go bankrupt?” In 1989, the whole country underwent upheaval. The publishing house as well, but nothing changed in the printing office. These honest workers met their obligations—they continued their everyday work. But the editors did not. These people, who had been taking maximal advantage of the opportunities offered by the publishing house, did everything they could to blacken the reputation of the management, me, and my fellow directors. They demonstrated their great imaginations as they dragged our names through the mire, and made accusations. They were unscrupulous in choosing their methods. And in all this, they found encouragement and support from Comrade Csomó who had loyally served the Party with the workers’ guard for decades. I even received an absurd message from him through Comrade Kónya that I should do everything to prevent the editors from joining the trade union. Comrade Csomó, however, was only communicating with them—he no longer cared for the old trade union. By coincidence, I can link the beginning of the events with a concrete date. It was in 1989 that at the initiative of Iván T. Berend, our publishing house established a relationship with Ferenczy Media in Munich. Iván T. Berend had attached great hopes to the promises of József Ferenczy (1919–2011), the extremely influential media mogul of Hungarian descent. From this point on, the relations developed very well. József Ferenczy asked the publishing house to begin preparing a biographical novel about him, and was ready to cover all the expenses. Besides this, he bought the majority of the printed copies. The work was presented during a splendid reception in what is today the Hotel Marriott in Budapest. The novel did not cost us anything—on the contrary, it generated a modest profit. At that 134

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time, any of the publishers in Budapest would have been pleased to have had this volume as their own. We presented concrete figures on the financial background of the publication to the protesting editors. Their failure in this case stimulated their appetite for a fight and their vindictiveness. It would be a waste of paper to tell you about this in detail. However, I would like to recall a series of events that determined the life of the publishing house for at least a year. One of the events was when we moved house to our present premises: the building in Lágymányos that during the later privatization was purchased by the Dutch Wolters Kluwer Company. The point of this action was to sell the renting rights of a few of our offices in Pest, and use the income to purchase an HQ that would house all our departments. It was not difficult to sell the rights, but it did not prove easy to refurbish the central building that we had picked and moved into. György Lovász, our executive Director, deserves praise that deadlines were met and things worked out according to schedule—somewhat of a miracle in our beautiful country. We had agreed that during this time—almost a year—he would be dealing exclusively with this job, and all the other affairs of the publishing house would be handled by me. The editors declared a holy war. They turned to all forums of the Academy to brief the competent persons on our “illegal actions”. The fact that they approached even the Public Health and Medical Authority—which was responsible for issuing the permit for the use of our new building—demonstrated their fanaticism and methods. In order to achieve a negative assessment by the authority, they had clogged the toilets. They had hoped to reach their goal with the caused flood and the inundation of several floors. On seeing all this, even the authority’s officials were shocked. “What kind of people are these?” they asked. The operation of the editors failed—we received the permit and were allowed to move into the new building. I would like 135

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to add that during the editors’ campaign of provocations that went on for months, the Academy of Sciences did not voice its opinion a single time. Neither in the press, nor at the publishing house. With this solidarity, Comrade Csomó intended to express that he had already taken the side of the followers of the new era. In the middle of summer of 1990, I was fed up. Seeing that the Academy had left me in the lurch, I decided not to lend my name to this monkey business any longer. The concrete opportunity was provided by the half-year balance sheet. As always, the chief accountant of the publishing house, Vilmos Tóth, paid a visit to me in order to brief me on the figures before the final copy was prepared for signature. “Our deficit amounts to HUF 40 million. Now I can play with it so that it does not appear in the accounts. But you can’t do that at the end of the year, then the deficit will definitely have to be highlighted. What shall I do?” “Vilmos,” I said, “show it in the accounts now. This figure will help me with my next move.” I briefed Sándor Kónya, the Chairman of the supervisory commission, on the situation. I told him: “Sándor, it was my request that the half-year accounts should not be cooked. If it is necessary, let’s come clean about the deficit. But be careful! What is in the bedpan will pour on you first. This deficit corresponds precisely to the sum that the publishing house loses each year because the Academy forces us to publish Hungarian language journals. As you are aware, this method flagrantly contradicts the company act. Do you want the press to start taking shots at the Academy because of this too?” There was no need to keep on explaining the matter to Sándor Kónya. He had known this very well from before. Miraculously, Comrade Csomó raised the missing funds within days. The Academy was no longer in arrears. By accident, this transfer of money coincided with another one. An official from the Ministry of Finance called to tell me that they were eliminating the state subsidies on publishing 136

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books. (This sum of money was around HUF 300 million at that time. The publishing house’s share was HUF 58 million.) We were fortunate that he managed to include our share—the HUF 58 million—in the budget of the Academy. Well, during the following years this HUF 58 million and the above mentioned HUF 40 million added to it became the starting sum in the settlements of accounts between the Academy and the publishing house. By the time this mechanism and the details were hammered out, I was no longer working for the publishing house. After what had happened in the middle of summer, I wrote to the Secretary General of the Academy of Sciences István Láng, indicating to him that I would like to leave my post as the Director General at the end of the year. However, because of his absence, we only sat down to discuss this at the end of summer. István Láng knew very well that I wanted to return to my scholarly work. He promised me that there would be work at any of the institutes of the Academy. I replied that I had no reason for a change, i.e. I would like to return to the research group of Oriental Studies under the aegis of the Institute of Linguistics. That was what happened. The process of this simple case—due to the good offices of Comrade Csomó—had another twist. At the end of November 1990, the financial department called to tell me that I could pick up my working papers. This way of handling things did not reflect my agreement with the Secretary General of the Academy. István Láng was a fair and honest person. I knew that this formula, which would have meant that the Academy was not transferring me to another job but firing me, had not been invented by him. The morally corrupt potentate at the financial department had a hand in this. I found it distasteful that I should disclose the matter to the Academy of Sciences myself. I asked Academician József Herman, the Director of the Institute of Linguistics at the time, to contact the office of the Secretary General and put an end to the story. He did have a clear picture of the administration. A few 137

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days later he called: the matter has been settled and they were kindly expecting me on January 1. The next months went by in relative calm. The editors were satisfied. They were already concentrating their attention on the succession: the new director general and the procedure related to his appointment. At this time, more and more people regarded the publishing section of our company as a sinking ship, and more and more of them were leaving. The leaders of the Academy failed to bid farewell to me in any way. I believe this was a unique case in the history of the institutes of the Academy of Sciences. They must have been concerned about what the near future might bring, and did not dare risk such a thing. Officially, I quit on December 15. On getting home, it was perhaps the first time that I really felt tired. And at the time, I was already able to afford it. At home—after a good sleep— my first job was to open my mail for the first time in months. Among the letters from abroad, there was an invitation to an international conference on Turkology on Crete. The meeting, planned for the beginning of January, was organized by my fine colleague Elizabeth Zachariadou (1931–2018) and her husband Nikos Oikonomides (1934–2000). I had received the invitation already in the summer. At the time, I did not manage to deal with it and even forgot about it. Now that the letter was in my hands, I immediately decided to participate in the conference. I called Elizabeth who enthusiastically welcomed me. There was no way of knowing at that time how, as a consequence of this trip, my life would go on to be connected with Hellas, or to put it more precisely with Cyprus. And in this way, I would again find myself on the quiet lee side of events.

The Hungarian–Turkish Friendship Society In the last years of the 1980s, I broke with the past and consciously looked for a new future. Among the numerous things 138

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that were happening, there was one that concerned a wide circle of intellectuals in the country. This was the passing of the act that allowed setting up various civil societies. Among these, "bilateral" friendship societies started mushrooming. It was common knowledge that only the Hungarian-Soviet Friendship Society was once allowed to exist. It dealt with, first and foremost, wide-ranging cultural activities. As far as I was concerned, I came into contact with two bilateral friendship societies that were established during the time of the great changes. The first one was the HungarianDutch Friendship Society. Here, I accepted the candidacy of Chairman at the request of the Ambassador of Holland, who was of Hungarian descent, but I was able to step down fairly soon. The other organization of this type was the HungarianTurkish Friendship Society, established at the initiative of Hungarian Turkologists, which functions successfully up to the present day. The Society was officially formed in the office of the Director General of the Publishing House of the Academy. The founders, among whom the most active was János Hóvári, nominated me to be Chairman. I did not want to hear about it because I believed that Géza Fehér Jr.—admired by all of us—deserved this post because of his age and activities. In the end, my proposal was adopted and Uncle Géza became the first Chairman of our Society. Life unfolded in a way that the Society came into the limelight soon. Actions aimed at removing ethnic-Turks from Bulgaria in humiliating circumstances were growing. At the initiative of János Hóvári, who soon entered the diplomatic service, our Society drafted a resolution of protest, which the media, hungry for news of this type, published immediately. This triggered an official protest from Bulgaria. I can remember very well that the Ambassador of Bulgaria, whom I had known from before, indignantly raised the issue of our protest at a reception. The appearance of bilateral friendship societies brought a new problem to the surface. Although their activities had star139

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ted, they were all struggling with a lack of housing. They did not know where to hold their events. I can remember that in some cases, it was Imre Pozsgay (1933–2016), the Minister for Culture who gave us a helping hand by once or twice placing a room at the headquarters of the Patriotic People’s Front in Belgrád Embankment at our disposal. It was during these days that the leadership of the Hungarian-Soviet Friendship Society contacted me and proposed that we should establish a joint organization under the name “The House of Nations”, which would be located in their former headquarters. For us, it meant that we could save our resources, and for the dozens of other new societies this was a potential foundation for support. It was evident that such a transformation required several important legal steps since it was about nothing less than the termination of the Hungarian-Soviet Friendship Society, and its integration into a different organization. All that was coupled with issues connected with the assets. The leaders of the new friendship societies approved of the proposal because they saw in it the solution to part of their problems. It was obvious that the matter should be handled with the greatest possible secrecy because should it come to light, the press would tear us to pieces. Because of the Publishing House of the Academy, I was already a favorite target of the liberal press, which would never have been interested in the fair presentation of the facts, but would devour and sensationalize the details of this news. Miraculously, everything took place orderly and quietly. The agreement that closed down the past and opened really new perspectives was signed by Academician Brunó F. Straub (1914– 1996), the Chairman of the Hungarian-Soviet Friendship Society, and by me on behalf of “The House of Nations”, which I helped to create. I held this post until I left for Cyprus. It was inherited by Éva Rubovszky (1945–) with whom I always enjoyed excellent 140

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cooperation. She required my opinion and assistance after this time too, and I was always pleased to be at her disposal. When I was elected the Honorary President of “The House of Nations”, I truly considered it a great honor. *** In 1988, we organized an exhibition of books in the National Széchenyi Library on relations between Hungary and Turkey. The display relied almost exclusively on the materials of the library. At the same time, a beautiful and successful bilingual publication was also released: Hungarian-Turkish Shared Past. This was the reprint of a fine collection of paintings showing Istanbul at the beginning of the century. The opening ceremony took place in the National Széchenyi Library. The Turkish national anthem İstiklâl Marşı (Independence March) was performed by a Hungarian orchestra, not in its well-known bouncing rhythm, but rather in moderato. The unforgettable Ambassador of Turkey, Halit Güvener, reacted to this in a very nice way: “It is perhaps even better this way,” he said. After this, he gave a great reception to which he invited everyone from the National Széchenyi Library who had contributed to the exhibition.

Berlin: the Wende It was only natural that the reunification of Germany (1990), the Wende, and the future changes it would bring, closely concerned my “family” of Turkologists. The question was: would they be able to continue their research and earn a living. When I saw them at this time in Berlin, we obviously talked quite a lot about this. Understandably, they all expected me to help them although we all knew that the chances of that were minimal. There was still a point, however, where I was able to do something for them. I can no longer remember the exact time but I am able, to some extent, reconstruct the time frame on the basis of certain events. I was frequently invited to the dinner parties 141

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of the Ambassador of West Germany in Budapest, who was an Orientalist, by the way. One dinner invitation came on the occasion of Mr. Heinz Riesenhuber’s visit to Budapest, the Minister for Research and Technology in the West German government. I remember that shortly before dinner, I had a telephone conversation with my friend, Klaus Schwarz, the Turkologist and publisher. When I mentioned my dinner invitation, he advised me to hint appropriately at the Minister’s elegance, which was “the talk of the town” in West Germany. Well, as it happened, I was seated at the Minister’s table. When I introduced myself, I indicated what a pleasure it was to meet him, a man who—besides his achievements in science— was considered by the German press to be the most elegant personality in the political life. My compliment produced an astonishing effect—it went on to determine the atmosphere at the table. The main topic of conversation was the imposition by the Hungarian government of new taxes similar to the tax system in the West. Heinz Riesenhuber only said that he admired the courage of the Hungarian government to undertake the introduction of several taxes simultaneously. As he put it, none of the political parties in West Germany would have the courage to take such a step. In reconstructing the date of the above mentioned dinner, it helps that József Antall—my classmate at the university and my friend—was also present. At that time, he and I were often together at such occasions. It was Antall who usually took my wife and me home in his car. I did not think at that time that my meeting Heinz Riesenhuber could ever play a role in my affairs in Turkology. However, after the discussion with my colleagues in Berlin, I felt that it might be useful if I took some steps. I received an extremely positive reply to my letter to the Minister in which I drew his attention to the international significance of the Turfan research in Berlin. I received a meaningful reply, however, only later. In the 142

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winter of 1991, at the initiative of the University of Freiburg, I spent a month in this nice town with which I also had family ties. My nephew, Tibor, was a brilliant pianist and professor at the Department of Piano at the Academy of Music there. I visited him and his family very often. At the university, I met Professor Wolfgang Raible (1939–), the outstanding scholar of Romance languages with whom I spoke about my years in Berlin. I told him my concerns about my students. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” he said. I learned after this conversation that he was the Government Commissioner of West Germany for the reorganization of the Institutes of Social Studies in the former German Democratic Republic. The following day when we met again he said only this: “Herr Hazai, I have had a look at the files on Berlin. I can only congratulate you—there are neither scholarly nor political problems with this department of the Academy. Your students can continue their work.” I took this news as perhaps the greatest success in my life. It was a great honor that Wolfgang Raible participated in the symposium that the Academy in Berlin organized on the occasion of my 80th birthday in 2012.

A Look Behind the Wings In these memoirs, which focus on the events, details, and connections of my scholarly career over the decades, my private life is obviously accorded less room, if any at all. However, it may be that what happens behind the wings assumes a role that is greater than expected. These events leave their narrow framework and affect a wider circle. And there, because of the prisms distorting the image, a picture may be created that substantially differs from reality. So it is better if the information is shared by the real source—that is me. We wanted to settle the issue of my marriage that deteriorated during the years in Berlin and led to divorce upon our re143

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turn to Budapest. There was an agreement on the whole of the issue and also on how to share our assets, but there was no consensus concerning the custody of our two children. My twin daughters wanted to stay with me—they wanted to continue their lives with me. In this respect, they had their own positive experiences during our years in Berlin, since it happened quite often that we spent long periods together without their mother. The three of us had very pleasant memories connected with these times. What had developed between us at that time contributed to our relationship in the present. In the Hungarian court system, children under the age of 14 can be summoned only in exceptional circumstances. Since this was not the case, it was the court-appointed psychologist that my daughters told their unanimous opinion that in the future they wanted to live with their father. The position of my two children—demonstrating their maturity—was corroborated by a Rorschach-test that our family underwent and that was—for different reasons—instructive to me as well. The test revealed the following things about me: “His relationship with his children constitutes a fundamental part of his emotional and intellectual personality. Possesses better than average educational aptitude.” Legal circles still recall and refer to the unambiguous and professional ruling of the court in this case. It is quite rare that a father is awarded the custody of his daughter but that this should happen to twin daughters was considered unique. The separation and the three of us “starting a family” naturally created a great amount of difficulty through no fault of our own. My family's due place is, however, behind the wings. This topic appears here only to complete the picture of my life—albeit in a different sphere—and demonstrate how the three of us had to stand our ground.

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The Years Gliding By: Cyprus and Me (1992–2000)

By Way of an Introduction

F

rom Budapest it takes three hours to fly to Cyprus. The MALÉV flight departs shortly before midnight and the plane lands—because of the time difference—at four in the morning. My car waits for me in the parking lot of the airport. The trip to my house is not long, it is less than fifty kilometers. You have to cover that on a freeway. The speed limit is a hundred kilometers an hour but the police in Cyprus do not control it even in daytime, let alone during the night. So the hand of the speedometer dances at about 150. As I approach Nicosia, the road starts to gently ascend. At night, the landscape is almost as if you were driving on another planet, perhaps the Moon. I drive toward the North, so on my right it is the slowly rising red disc of the Sun that dominates, and on my left the Moon is bidding farewell to the night. It is a transcendent spectacle. For me, this image always involved the following question: what business do you, a Hungarian Turkologist, have here in Cyprus? When several decades ago you enrolled at the university in Budapest, would you have imagined that during your life this Eastern Mediterranean country would be one of the scenes of your career in Turkology, one of your homes? On the freeway, we reach the campus of the university. I know that I have to slow down here because the lamps indicating the border of the city are only four kilometers ahead. It is time to pay attention to my speed. The images that I always encounter during my drives after arriving early in the morning and the question I sometimes ask myself on these trips soon disappear like a mirage. I know that within a few minutes I will be home.

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How Cyprus Became My Home The starting point was the symposium of only a few days organized by Elizabeth Zachariadou and her husband Nikos on Crete in January 1991, or to put it more precisely, in the town of Rethymnon, under the title Halcyon Days in Crete [sic!]. It was during my trip there that I learned that the Government of Cyprus was founding a university in Nicosia, and wanted Turkology to play a serious role in it. The island country, which had a flourishing economy at that time, was able to implement this costly project without any difficulties. The country that used to be under British rule made itself heard in great politics through its independence movement in the 1950s. Founded in 1960, the Republic of Cyprus has become a permanent factor in international politics because of the conflict between Greeks and Turks living on the island, and then the de facto division in 1974. Elected President in 1986, Georgios Vasiliu, who graduated from university in Budapest, paved the way for reunification with several international initiatives, which were well received. Establishing the state university was one of the remarkable elements in this project. Such an institution had not existed in Cyprus before. After graduation from school, students who wanted to continue their studies often went to Greece, or if the financial circumstances of the family permitted, to Britain or the US. The plan to found a university, of course, generated extraordinary interest in Cyprus. Several aspects of the project, quite understandably, became the object of animated social debates. Georgios Vasiliu’s plan to establish a university included an element that was organically connected with the President's project for reunification, and assumed serious international dimensions. This idea was that Turkology should be given a place at the new university as an independent department. This sent a clear message to the Turkish inhabitants of the island. But the 146

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greater political world also took notice, indicating its interest and support for the plan through the inclusion of UNESCO. In order to demonstrate the significance of all this, I have to point out that this initiative by Cyprus, if we look at the historical perspective, was unique of its kind. It is common know-

Pál Fodor, Erzsébet Jáborcsik, wife of Pál, Elizabeth Zachariadou, György Hazai, Nikos Oikonomides, Elizabeth’s husband on Crete in January, 2000

ledge that Southeastern Europe was part of the Ottoman Empire for half a millennium. Aware of this fact, most Balkan countries today devote special attention to studying the Ottoman past and Turkology, which plays a key role in it. This is perfectly demonstrated by the structure of the universities and the research institutes there. Until quite recently, Greece was the sole exception where Turkology was not present in an institutionalized form—e.g. with an independent department at one of the universities. By establishing its university, Cyprus could take credit for drawing the attention of the Hellenic world to this significant fact in cultural and academic policy. Elizabeth Zachariadou was extremely pleased that I was interested in establishing Turkology in Cyprus. She could also 147

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understand—apart from professional interests—the President’s emphatic wish, which he addressed to the university’s founding rector, the historian of medicine Nelly Tsouyopoulos (1930– 2005). The President requested that they should take great care to consider current politics as well. “We must avoid that a Greek nationalist should be appointed to be Head of this department,” he emphasized. “It must be headed by someone who is accepted by the Turks too.” The solution that the Head would be a Hungarian Turkologist was more than the President had expected. Georgios Vasiliu and I cultivated the best possible and constructive relationship during my time in Cyprus, although his presidential mandate did not last long. During our friendly conversations, we realized that we had been students at ELTE at the same time, although we had not known each other personally. The issue of my appointment took place according to the timetable of protocol. I sat for the usual interview in the early summer of 1991, received my appointment in the fall, and delivered my inaugural lecture in the spring of 1992. In the meantime, plenty of events in Europe arose too. We purchased the valuable personal library of Andreas Tietze for the university. In order to sort that out, Madame Rector and I—and later a librarian of the university—travelled to Vienna, but I also had to make good on a former commitment to Freiburg. This is the point where I have to say a few words about the founding rector of the University of Cyprus, Nelly Tsouyopoulos—a person of unprecedented human and scholarly qualities—who has, unfortunately, already departed this life. She was the Head of the Institut für Geschichte und Theorie der Medizin at the University of Münster. Our common German background in life was a solid foundation for our mutual understanding and harmonious cooperation. At the same time, she paid great attention to introducing me to life in Cyprus, and creating a circle of friends for me. At her request, I started my work in May 1992. There was a 148

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domestic political reason for this request of hers that concerned not only me—she wanted to demonstrate to the Cypriot public that the university did exist and that the professors were already present. However, the reality was that the ones that were in Nicosia already in early May—perhaps about six of us —were mostly professors recruited from Cyprus, and one coming from Athens. The great majority arrived at the end of August, or the beginning of September to start their activities at the university. I already had a place to live. The rented villa was empty but was at my disposal. The necessary basic furniture was lent to me by my local Turkish friends. My wife and I wanted to purchase the permanent pieces in the fall. At this time, she was still in France—our plan was that she would arrive in Nicosia for the university’s opening in September. This unusual summer was not uneventful. People were absorbed in the developments of great politics, and the hope for reunification that seemed concrete. Many of them were already drawing the new border line and making comments on that. The hopes for a possible change were nourished by several events. I witnessed some of them myself. One day, the phone rang. One of the diplomats of the Greek Embassy was on the line, whose name was well-known to me because he was a Turkologist. This young man, who was born in Istanbul and spoke Turkish as his mother tongue, was posted by Athens from Canada to Cyprus with the barely concealed explanation that his services might greatly be needed in Nicosia in the coming months. Making contact with the Greek Embassy and then with the Ambassador himself meant establishing contact with the world of diplomacy as well. It happened around this time that the German Ambassador called me and invited me to a discussion. He asked for my assistance in a certain matter. He told me that as far as he knew, I was the only person in Nicosia who spoke both German and Turkish. For this reason, he asked me to help the crew of the 149

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prestigious German television channel ZDF, which was shooting in Cyprus at that time. I naturally said yes. The work was extremely instructive to me since these were my very first steps in Cyprus. The television crew made its way to Pila, which enjoyed a unique status on the divided island. This was, namely, the only village that had a significant Turkish population, but remained in the Greek zone. The village had an extraordinary appearance. The quadrangular square that constituted the center of the settlement testified to the presence of the three “political factors”. On one side, you had the café for the Turks, and opposite to it the one for the Greeks. In the square between the two cafés stood the building where the UN peacekeeping forces were located. This was a tragic picture, or rather a caricature of the state’s attempt to reach an agreement among its nationalities: of finding a way into the 20th century. One more thing has to be added here. Behind the village, there was quite a steep hill, which was controlled by the Turkish side. The news was that in Pila, you could always buy goods from Turkey. In the Turkish café, you could always drink beer from Turkey (Efes Pilsen), and find other products too. During this peculiar time before the beginning of the academic year, I participated in quite a number of very pleasant outings organized by Nelly and her friends. That was how I found my way to the mountain village of Fikardu with its spectacular view, which I visited on many occasions with my guests to Cyprus. The inauguration of the university and the start of the academic year approached soon. This was when we learned the news that was a great surprise for everyone: more than 800 young people had applied for the Turkish major—by far more than for any other major—that was considered an “accessory” subject during the planning period. There was no doubt that the reunification ideas and the efforts of the President, promising a new vision, played a great role in this. The calm of the summer was replaced by the excitement of 150

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feverish preparations. The most important concern of the professors, arriving for the opening of the academic year, was to obtain the suitable clothes—the gown and the gala hat that befitted a professor. The people making these outfits did profitable business within a few days. I have preserved a pleasant memory of that time. In order to have my hat made, I went to the address that had been given to us by the organizers. There, two elderly ladies took measurements and did what had to be done. While working, they were —to my great surprise—speaking in Turkish. They were very pleased when I addressed them also in Turkish. They told me that they belonged to the local Armenian minority but during work, they often would speak Turkish. Within their family, the language of intimate communications was also Turkish—they used this language during the conversations over lunch and dinner. As the ceremonial opening of the university approached, battles over details intensified between the government and the opposition. The latter keenly followed developments, hoping to find mistakes that could be trumpeted all around the world by its press. Their persistent work was finally crowned by success. It turned out that the Greek Minister for Culture had failed to receive his invitation to the opening ceremony. It was not possible to sort out whether the letter had been lost in Nicosia or Athens. But this was enough to trigger a huge campaign against the university and Nelly Tsouyopoulos, the Rector. It is not difficult to guess what it was all about. The Right saw its case proven—the goal of the university was to weaken Greek intellectual ties and smuggle in Turkish influence. Journalists blessed with a rich imagination—and there are plenty of them everywhere—were able to chew on that for a long time. It was by coincidence that our department, which was ab ovo caught in the crossfire of the political attacks, managed to gain a peculiarly positive role around the opening. On campus, I ran into an old friend from Greece, Professor Kostas Svolo151

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poulos (1938–), the outstanding historian with whom I had been closely cooperating for many years. Our relationship had started in the framework of AIESEE and continued by organizing an exchange of exhibitions of books between Budapest and Thessaloniki. I add here that our friendship is still strong. In the meantime, Kostas became a member of the Greek Academy of Sciences and was also the Secretary for Publications of it. “Kostas, did you also come for the opening ceremony?” I asked. “No, no, I have got other matters to see to. But once I am here, I will take a look at the new university. But what are you doing here?” In reply, I told him about my adventures in Cyprus. “Well, these guys here in Cyprus! They couldn’t have found a better Head than you,” he said. “Kostas, my class is beginning soon. Would you consider giving a lecture to my students?” Kostas’s family came from Istanbul and he was the best expert on the relations between Greece and Turkey in the 19th and 20th centuries. The answer to my question and request was an excellent lecture, which in fact was also covered by the press. Kostas was well-known, not only as a brilliant historian in the Hellenic world. It was common knowledge that he was the godson of the father of Greek right-wing politics, Konstantinos Karamanlis, and after the death of the great politician, he headed the foundation bearing his name. This piece of news unexpectedly gave the university— caught in the crossfire of attacks—credit that could not be denied. Nikos Vakis, the Head of administration, approached me. “George, how on earth did you do that? Do you know how much it helped us in this situation?” “Nikos,” I replied, “Kostas is an old friend of mine. I was pleased to be able to introduce such a distinguished person to my students. And I was even more pleased that this has given you some assistance.” After this, months and years of pleasant work followed. As in any community of people, there were also problems, but the solutions always arrived in time. 152

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I have to highlight a peculiarity of social life that was extremely agreeable for me. There were no Hungarian institutions on the island. Our Embassy had been closed down just before we arrived. The Hungarian language was present mainly through the women who married doctors in Cyprus. They stuck together and founded a Friendship Society too. My wife and I were always invited to the St. Nicholas celebrations hosted by this Society. Here, we usually met one or two representatives of the Hungarian contingent of the UN Peacekeeping Forces (UNFICYP). For them, it were exclusively these events that meant contact with Hungary. I can remember very well that during one of these events—it may have been the first one—a high-ranking “warlord” turned to me with the following request. “Professor, would you mind translating a few sentences into Turkish that we could use during our patrols at night.” “Certainly,” I answered eagerly. He then gave me the sentences: “Don’t shoot, we are Hungarians in the UN forces. Lower your weapons, etc.” During the next St. Nicholas evening I learned that the few memorized sentences in Turkish did achieve their effect. In some cases, they settled one or two potential con flicts. My only institutional contact with the Hungarian world was MALÉV, and its local representative Gyuri Mátyásy, who was always smiling and helpful. I mention him here, and not in the chapter on my friends for a reason. I do not know how many flights we completed together, but at least several dozen. He rolled to our house in his car at about two at night. In the comfort class on the plane, there was almost always a vacant seat so after take-off, I had a rest of three hours. During the drives at night, I learned a lot from him about flying in which he was an expert with a degree. I am sorry even today that our relationship became looser in Budapest. The only reason for this was geography—his home was on the Római Danube bank in Buda, and mine on the Ferencváros bank in Pest. I was always happy when we saw each other again on the occasion of birthdays 153

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with a round number. We would hug each other as old friends from Cyprus.

Snapshots from Cyprus What was Nicosia like when I made my way there? If you knew the city well, you witnessed how a village-like Mediterranean settlement was transformed by sudden economic growth into a modern metropolis, how nine-and-ten-storey condominiums replaced quaint old houses, and how the gigantic glass and steel buildings of the banks and corporations strained to reach the sky in a spectacular way. With respect to this progress, we lived in a district that had evolved on the periphery of this breathtaking development of the city. It was an area that gradually developed into a neighborhood of villas, but also preserved a little of its former village-like atmosphere. It was perhaps the concert of barking dogs at night or the crowing of cocks in the morning that reminded us of this. In this green zone, the wonderful Mediterranean vegetation was naturally also present. In front of our house too, citrus trees grew, producing a rich harvest. And the porch had a special atmosphere because of the Southern flowers, the bougainvillea with their magnificent riot of colors. Cars were the fundamental and determining factors of life. A lot of families could easily afford a car for each member. In some modest form, there was a network of buses too, but you could find only a few guest workers from the Far East riding them. The locals had no idea where these buses were going and from where. To tell you the truth, I myself did not know more than where the “central bus station” was. Essentially, the city no longer wanted to bother with pedestrians. At press conferences, journalists even broached the subject with the mayor that there were no sidewalks in the streets. In reply, the mayor’s justification was very simple: “The city 154

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had already moved in the direction of the US tradition: there were no pedestrians left.” It was in the Old City that the division hit in the most dramatic way. Here, it was clear that time had almost stopped. Most people living there were craftsmen who had been working there long before. They did not really have a choice. Since their workshops were located there, they had to go on with their lives in this way. As you moved closer to the de facto border line between Greek and Turkish Nicosia, that is to say, the barbed wire, you saw more and more deserted houses falling into ruins. The owners may have been living in different places already, perhaps not even in Nicosia, so they did not care in the least that their houses were collapsing. Despite all that, the historical quarter of the city lost nothing of its allure. Tourists often visited it, and walked down in its zigzagging, meandering streets. There was a good reason for this. Besides Berlin, this was the place where you could experience what a divided city was like—naturally, a Mediterranean version of it. The difference was instructive. As opposed to the Berlin Wall, built with Prussian precision, the composition of oil barrels botched together mostly with barbed wire, made this “fortified border” look like the set of an operetta. You have to add one more thing to the comparison. In Nicosia, unlike in Berlin, no one wished he lived on the other side of the border. It was, however, an excellent place where the hotheads were able to organize political demonstrations. And the young people were, unfortunately, always ready “to buy into” that. I can remember one of these demonstrations quite well. In Athens, the Greek and Turkish national basketball teams were playing a match, perhaps the European Cup. Already in the late hours of the night after watching coverage on television, the young people of Nicosia felt the urge after the victory of the Greek team to march to the border and shout toward the Turkish side: “We are stronger! We are going to win!” Later, the world around the Old City of Nicosia also chang155

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ed. A good many years later, in the last days of November 2010, I visited the place again. I had to be present at the defense of the doctorate dissertation of one of my former students. The university reserved a hotel for me in the Old City where I had never stayed before. In this way, I became a witness to the enormous changes that had taken place at the initiative of the UN and with the cooperation of UNESCO. In the heart of the Old City, with the agreement of all the parties concerned, a crossing point had been established between the two quarters. Besides the local Greeks and Turks, tourists were also allowed to use it. The new situation had given tourism huge momentum. After an almost symbolic passport control, and instead of the former crossing point lying further away, foreigners arriving in Greek Cyprus were able to make their way to the Turkish side in the heart of the Old City. On the other side, taxis waited in line to take them to the Northern parts of Nicosia or anywhere else. Ledra Street, which lead to the crossing point, was flourishing—rows of restaurants and snack bars waited for tourists who were pleased to sit down at a table in this pedestrian street that had once been almost deserted. Tourism prevailed—politics played second fiddle to it. Naturally, I have to offer an account of the Cypriots themselves. After spending a long time on the island, what did I think of them? I have to tell you in advance that the people of Cyprus, although their language and world of ideas are Greek, are very different from their ethnic brothers in Greece. Having lived separate lives for centuries, and also the fact that they lived their lives under the rule of two great powers—the Ottoman Empire and the British Commonwealth—has had a great impact on their character. They are extremely honest, which is proven every day in all contexts. I have seen and experienced thousands of examples of that. I have to stress that we never had to lock the front door of our house or apartment when we left. It was the same with our car. No one had to worry that something might be stolen. 156

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I would like to tell you about a minor case, which took place at the university. When a foreign guest gave a lecture, we purchased—as usual—some wine, coffee, muffins, etc. to treat the invited guests. For this purpose, the administration had given us twenty pounds (about USD 40) which proved to be too much. The secretary returned the five or six pounds left over to me which I put into the open bookcase, a place that could very well be seen by everyone. I was curious what would happen. Will someone, a student or a cleaning lady, touch the money? Months passed and the money stayed in the bookcase. Our move from the building put an end to this state of affairs. It was British traditions that dominated the management of official matters. They could not even think of a different way of handling things. The effort to reach a maximum consensus prevailed in almost all spheres of life. The goal was always to find a 100 percent agreement. My memory has retained a funny example of that. The students and I had to fix a date for oral exams. We started the discussion with calendars in our hands. The first possible date was not acceptable for everyone so they asked whether it was possible to have two dates for the exam. When I said yes, a third and fourth date was also proposed. Finally, I offered them the suggestion that the twenty students put together a list of who wanted to have the exam on which date. All possible dates were suitable for me. (By car, the campus was four minutes away, so it was really all the same for me what dates they would be suggesting.) The reply was that this was an excellent solution for them, but they would rather give their final answer a bit later because they would first have to discuss the issue among themselves. It was very difficult for the individual to break away from the collective. They made up their minds in both essential and marginal issues with great difficulty. One of my friends, a diplomat who had a very important job in the Foreign Ministry of Cyprus, told me the following. His son, together with several young people from Cyprus, had been studying in Canada. On the basis 157

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György Hazai on the Seaside in Cyprus

of the years spent there, he registered the differences in relationships in the following way: “If a Canadian says ‘yes’ he means ‘yes,’ and if ‘no’ is said it means ‘no’. Cypriots would characteristically also say ‘yes’ and ‘no’, but they would immediately add—‘we still have to talk about this’.”

What Happened During My Years in Cyprus? In the beginning, the invitation to the island country seemed to promise years without a lot of worries. The same was suggested by the university and, in this way, the planned structure of Turkology as a major. I was prepared to put my research topics into the focus of my activities, and to enjoy what this gem of the Mediterranean world, the island of Aphrodite, had to offer. No problems emerged with the latter. As far as work was concerned, it greatly multiplied. It all began at the university, where—as I have already said— the dimensions of the Turkology major assumed directions that were totally different from the originally scheduled ones. Each 158

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year, the Department of Turkish Studies received twenty students who were rightly expected to learn Turkish well and gain an insight into both the past and the present of the Turkish world. In the meantime, you had to find the professors to teach all these topics on the basis of what overall international Turkology had to offer at the time. Besides this, there was, however, a host of other tasks that I had to carry out, arising, in the first place, from my international obligations. And the circle of these obligations greatly widened, due to several unexpected circumstances. In 1990, I took over the post of Secretary General of the International Union of Oriental and Asian Studies from Louis Bazin at the session of the Bureau in Paris. From now on, I took care of applications of member organizations for subsidies. And at that time, when UNESCO was closer to scholarly concern, this meant actual work to do since the sum of money that could be granted for publishing books and organizing conferences was between USD 20,000 and USD 30,000 on a biannual basis. What is more, every second year I had to participate in the General Assembly of CIPSH (International Council for Philosophy and Human Sciences). In 1992, it took place in Zimbabwe and then in 1994, I organized it in Cyprus. Many people believed this was, perhaps, the last General Assembly when financial relations with UNESCO were unproblematic. However, the representative of the organization took part in the work of the conference at our expenses. The session of the General Assembly in Paris in 1996 already foreshadowed the problems of the years to come. I will tell you about them at a later point. In 1990, I was elected to become member of Academia Europaea that was established in 1989. Just a little time passed by when London honored me with an invitation to accept the chairmanship of the unit of Oriental Studies, officially called a Subject Group. (Grosso modo corresponded to the post of the Head of section at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.) This was not only a great honor but a time-consuming exercise as 159

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well. At this time, the institution was still being shaped and was looking for its new members. Taking part in this process, as far as Oriental Studies were concerned, became my task. It was quite a lot of work to prepare the candidacies, to coordinate these nominations for membership with the active German, British, French and Italian, etc. members. Naturally, I was welladvised to participate in the General Assemblies too. I was present in Cracow, Uppsala, and in 1996 in Barcelona I organized one of the symposiums that constituted the main program. There was an amusing prelude to this assembly in Barcelona. With a view to the Muslim past of Spain, it was already at the preceding General Assembly that the Oriental Studies unit offered to the Academia Europaea headquarters in London to organize a symposium on this subject. The reply of the organizers was negative since—as they said—they were already in contact with the Spanish organizers and the local Orientalists working on the same idea. Several months passed and then, some six weeks before the meeting, the events took an unexpected turn. The Secretary General called me from London and told me in desperation that their plan for a symposium had fallen through. Could I, perhaps, improvise and come up with something in the matter? Within a week, after intensive telephone calls all around, I was able to tell him at the General Assembly that he could rely on our program. I managed to enlist excellent lecturers: Robert Mantran (1917–1999) and Michel Balivet (1944–) from Aix-en-Provence and Elizabeth Zachariadou from Crete. The program worked out very well. With this, my actual activities in the Academia Europaea came to an end. It was always with pleasure that I received the invitations to the next General Assemblies, but I participated in none of them. The organizing of ICANAS (International Congress of Asian and North African Studies) in Budapest also coincided with my time in Cyprus. The right to hold the congress was awarded in Hong Kong in 1993 to the Csoma Kőrösi Society (Society of 160

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Hungarian Orientalists)—which had offered to host the event— and it was held in the Hungarian capital in 1997. I organized it —as mentioned earlier—from Cyprus. The success of the congress could mainly be attributed to my colleagues in Budapest who had devoted their hearts and minds to the work. However, for me the issues of ICANAS did not end in 1997. Having a function in the International Union of Oriental and Asian Studies, it was my job to make sure that there was continuity. In this way, Charles Leblanc (1935–), the outstanding Canadian Sinologist took over the chairmanship of the congress from me and visited me in Cyprus twice to consult on the various details regarding the work of organization. This cooperation continued in Montreal in the spring of 2000. But this already belongs to the story of the next period in my life: the time after Cyprus. As far as scholarly work was concerned, and especially the publishing of it, everything went on in the usual framework and rhythm. When Lajos Ligeti died (1987), I inherited the editorship of the series Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica, which enjoyed a prestigious past since its first volume, the famous work by Carl Brockelmann, Mitteltürkischer Wortschatz nach Maḥmūd al-Kāšġarīs Dīvān luġāt at-Turk was published in 1928. During the lifetime of Lajos Ligeti, 32 volumes were published in the series. The first volume I edited came out in 1991. During the following years I managed to publish 17 volumes. Among the authors were outstanding foreign Orientalists like Peter Zieme, Louis Bazin, Lars Johanson (1936–), Sigrid Kleinmichel (1938–), Andreas Tietze and Joseph Yahalom (1941–). Our other ongoing program was the publishing of Turkologischer Anzeiger, naturally continued. The only novelty was that co-founder Andreas Tietze was willing and able to play only a smaller role in the editing and publishing of the volumes. The main reason for this was that he was getting older. He wanted to devote his time to the great endeavor of his, the compiling of 161

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the etymological dictionary of the Turkish language. However, we were able to take advantage of his friendly advice until the last days of his life. My previous obligations to edit journals changed in a minimal way. At the beginning of the 1990s, I gave up editing the Turkology section of OLZ (Orientalistische Literaturzeitung). In the case of Zeitschrift für Balkanologie my role became more “prestigious”. In 1995, at the AIESEE Congress in Thessaloniki, my dear friend from Berlin, Norbert Reiter, the editor-in-chief at the time and Gabriella Schubert (1943–), the editor-in-chief today, asked me to join the editorial board. I was pleased to do so. In the sphere of publishing, the focus and most important part of my work was the post of editor-in-chief of Archivum Ottomanicum, the prestigious international journal in our field of research. I inherited this position from Tibor Halasi-Kun, who passed away in 1991. I will tell you about this inheritance at the right place. The issue of continuing Fundamenta Philologiae Turcicae also belongs to the realm of my publishing activities. The preparation of the third volume for printing, edited by Hans Robert Roemer, essentially became my task. The situation with the fourth volume, edited by Erik-Jan Zürcher (1953–), was the same. But all that already belongs to my “post-Cyprus” life. Glancing at the balance of my activities in Cyprus between 1992 and 2000, I can say that these years were by far not retirement to “Mediterranean ease”. In order to meet my obligations, I had to be permanently present at the various theaters of activity. In this way, I was continuously travelling between Cyprus and Europe. Because of the projects connected to Budapest, I aslo flew home for a weekend each month without exception. I would arrive on Saturday early in the morning and fly back on Monday night. During these years, I had to meet my obligations at the Association Internationale d’Études du Sud-Est-Européen (AIESEE), 162

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which was connected to the Hungarian Academy. This was due to my post as Chairman of the Hungarian National Committee. So during the congresses, I also took part in the General Assemblies, which took place in Thessaloniki in 1994, and in Bucharest in 1999. The latter proved significant because the Romanian delegation made a pact with the French and together they made an attempt to ignore the Albanians’ legitimate right to hold the congress in 2004. They wanted to move the event to Paris. As a result of my resolute stance and successful lobbying, Tirana received the right to be the host, which Albania had been entitled to for a long time. The Romanians and the French, who had been arguing that the Albanians would not be able to organize the congress, were forced to admit in Tirana that their prophecy was unambiguously wrong. The biennial symposium Halcyon Days in Rethymnon was another scholarly meeting I attended in the 1990s. This exclusive gathering was perfectly arranged and always held in January. The founder of the forum, the person who suggested the subjects and drove its organization, was Elizabeth Zachariadou. The timing of the forum was based on the legendary observation of the old folks on Crete that around the second week of January, precisely around Halcyon Days, the winter storms would disappear and the sea would grow calm and nice, and there would be sunny days. Trusting this tradition, Elizabeth chose this date for the meetings that were held every second year. The subjects were always selected extremely well and the most distinguished experts on these subjects received invitations. The number of participants never exceeded forty. The high level of scholarly proceeds from Halcyon Days is well illustrated by the elegant volumes that were always published in due time after the symposiums. I have already told you what role the meeting on Crete in January 1991—organized in a real springtime atmosphere— played in one of the great changes of my life, namely my “adventures” in Cyprus. Because of my new capacity, I participated 163

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in the subsequent symposiums already as a member of the organizing committee. This, however, did not entail any actual obligations. It was essentially a gesture on Elizabeth’s part who wanted to demonstrate that because of my position in Cyprus, I belonged to the Hellenic scholarly community too. Although the meteorological forecasts sometimes failed to come true, I have very nice and pleasant experiences about the Halcyon Days symposium. It also happened that we walked from the hotel to the symposium in stormy and rainy weather. But that did not change our mood. The nice excursions always took us to unknown corners of the island. This was when Crete and especially Rethymnon, places I was always pleased to return to, won my heart. And as fate would have it, I managed to return there many times. The beginning of my deepening ties with Crete happened during my last year in Cyprus in 1999. Elizabeth spent a semester at our department as a visiting professor. During our numerous conversations and discussions, she mentioned one of her “debts to research”. It was about the invaluable kadı registers, i.e. registers by judges and notaries (sicil defterleri), which were kept in the library of Heraklion. These 170 volumes covered the Ottoman period of the history of Crete almost without any gaps in time. Elizabeth was distressed that during her time as a professor on Crete she did not manage to find the time to do something with these sources that were significant to both local history and universal Ottoman Studies. Naturally, I promised her that I would give her a helping hand. The first step was to take a look at the material. We agreed that we would continue our discussion on the “spot of the sources”. This visit to Crete in June 1999 is etched in my memory. It was my first visit to the island in the summer and the first time that I spent a bit more time in its “capital”. During these days, the library of Heraklion was hosting an archeological history of art exhibition that was regarded as a world sensation. Gorgeous paintings were on display that had been discovered in Halum in 164

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North-East Africa. The exhibition was approaching its end, but luckily I managed to enjoy the spectacle of these treasures for two days. The celebration of Elizabeth’s birthday boosted our good mood. The Director of the library, Mr. Savvakis, and I easily found common ground. We decided to launch a HungarianGreek research publishing project. It actually began in 2000. So I will tell you about it later on.

The 35th ICANAS in Budapest (1997) In all branches of science, personal contacts, workshops, and establishing permanent constructive relationships leading to useful cooperation are rightful and understandable requests. This especially holds true of Oriental Studies and within that Turkology. My university years coincided with the most severe period of the Iron Curtain. After 1956, a gradual thaw took place in our country that my younger colleagues and I were able to take great advantage of. The most prestigious meeting in our younger years was the International Congress of Orientalists (Congrès International des Orientalistes) that was founded in Paris in 1873 and since that time changed its name twice. Today, it is called the International Congress of Asian and North-African Studies. Between 1957 and 2006, it held 15 sessions. I participated in this congress for the first time in 1957 in Munich. Later, fate arranged for me to establish ever closer relations with this institution. The first time I became a member of the single official organ of the congress, the International Consultative Committee, was in Paris in 1973, at the session commemorating its centenary. I received this position because of my post as the Secretary of the International Union of Oriental and Asian Studies, the international scholarly organization of Oriental Studies that was working under the aegis of UNESCO and CIPSH. The Union, established in 1951, had—ab ovo and emphatic165

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ally—nothing to do with the congress at all. The latter had existed and worked as a completely independent and autonomous organization for a hundred years. Its sole role was convening the members to the congresses. Contrary to that, the job of the Union was firstly to distribute UNESCO subsidies among the member organizations. The 100-year old mechanism was working without a hitch till the congress in Mexico (1976). Here, the congress was pleased to accept the Empire of Iran’s offer to hold the next session in Teheran. In 1979, however, history intervened, the Islamic Revolution in the country made that impossible. It was there and then that it turned out that the congress—functioning for more than 100 years—did not have a mechanism to ensure its continuity. Louis Bazin and I realized that in this situation—although it would not have been our job officially—the international community of Orientalists expected that measure were taken and colleagues expected Louis Bazin and myself to do so. We established a hot line between ourselves made possible by the fact that I was free to use the infrastructure of the office of Dr. Wolfgang Voigt, the representative of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft in West Berlin. We regarded him as the most successful organizer of scholarly activities in Oriental Studies in West Germany. We started looking around. It turned out very quickly that we could not count on West Germany as a venue since the Federal Government was offering financial support for the International Congress of Philosophy in Düsseldorf. Finally, we decided to approach Japan. In the Union, Oriental research in Japan was represented by the distinguished Professor Tatsuro Yamamoto (1910–2001). Luckily, we did not have to wait for long to reach him. At that time, he had an important position in CIPSH. If I am not wrong, he was the President of the organization, and had to fly to Paris soon for the next session of the Bureau. Louis Bazin, who was familiar with the Japanese world, presented our request. Those who have already negotiated with 166

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Japanese know they will only promise something if it had been secured in multiple ways, and if the matter has solid foundations, especially its financial coverage. This was the case with Professor Yamamoto as well. He replied that Japan would be interested in this matter, which he would warmly support. We would, however, have to wait for the decision. The wait might be long, but we were sure we would be successful. We were aware of the fact that through his marriage, Yamamoto had close links with the Emperor, who, in turn, was famous for his commitment to research. In the end, the congress took place in Tokyo and Kyoto in September 1983. The successful steps that Louis Bazin had taken in UNESCO, as well as the generous invitation of Tatsuro Yamamoto, made it possible that all the Union’s Bureau members were able to participate. We joined the large French delegation in Paris and flew together to Tokyo via Alaska. It was a great experience. In the course of a single day, we saw the morning twice. Besides this, my memory has also preserved the two huge stuffed bears— one brown and one white—that were on display in a glass cage at the Anchorage airport. The congress went down in an excellent atmosphere and unfolded just as Louis Bazin and I had expected. The patron of the congress was Prince Fujieda Akira (1911–1998) He, as a distinguished archeologist, had special ties to Turkology. The reception he gave in Kyoto in honor of the Consultative Committee has also remained unforgettable for me. At dinner, smoked salmon was placed on the table in the form of a huge hill. In Tokyo, Tatsuro Yamamoto invited us to a gorgeous Chinese restaurant. He apologized that he could not invite us to his home. The reason he said was that his house was going to be demolished as part of an urban development. He would have had to pay an astronomical tax if he had defied the decision of the authorities and kept his house. At the congress, the Consultative Committee expressed its 167

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thanks to the Union for “rescuing” this prestiguous forum of international Oriental Studies. At the same time, it included in its statutes that the job of securing continuity was entrusted to the Union. The following sentence had found its way into the statutes: The duties of the Bureau of the International Union for Oriental and Asian Studies in respect of the International Congress shall include, but shall not be necessarily limited to: (a) action upon the venue of the forthcoming Congress if no decision has been reached at the Congress just concluded in accordance with the provisions of Article VI of the Statutes of the International Congress for Asian and North African Studies; (b) considerations of questions brought before it concerning the scope and general character of the forthcoming Congress, with the making of recommendations to the Organizing Committee of the forthcoming Congress; (c) arranging of a new Congress to convene, if for any reason a situation should arise affecting the continued existence of the Congress. This was an unambiguous recognition of the Union’s efforts. Louis Bazin and I stressed that in case continuity was threatened for one reason or another, the Union would again be ready to assume the role of an intermediary, but had no intention to take an active role in organizing congresses. The other important decision of the Consultative Committee was that it approved the name of the congress. The debate launched in Paris in 1973 had two basic elements. One of them evolved around the interpretation of the word Oriental. The Japanese were very resolute in rejecting the application of this word to the whole of the Asian continent and suggested the word Asian instead. However, they were forced to accept the counter-argument of the Europeans that this amounted to the exclusion of the Arabic countries in North Africa, and cut the organizing work of Arabic studies in two. This was how the term North African was put in correlation with Asian. The other change was of a content nature. During the con168

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gress in Mexico, due to the interest of Madame President Dalla Lama (later the Mexican Ambassador to India) the organizers intended that social sciences should play a greater role than humanities. The session of the Consultative Committee in Kyoto underlined the traditional character of the congress when it adopted the name International Congress of Asian and North African Studies (ICANAS). After Japan, it was West Germany that undertook the job of organizing ICANAS. This took place in Hamburg in 1986. The local organizers were struggling with two problems: the first was financial. The use of the elegant congress center that resembled a luxurious palace drained their resources. The other problem was also a “domestic issue”. The centers of Oriental Studies in Southern Germany tried to “screw” their colleagues in the North by quietly staying away. Such intrigues were not limited to our country, I realized. Despite all that, ICANAS ended in a pleasant atmosphere— the baton was taken up by Toronto. Unfortunately, I did not travel to this congress held in 1990. At the publishing house, the fight had already started. Under the colors of liberalism, in the heated atmosphere generated by themselves, the editors did everything they could to make the functioning of the company impossible. In these circumstances, it was more advisable for me to stay at the helm. The matter was most annoying because the idea to invite ICANAS to Budapest had matured by that time. I found that János Harmatta (1917–2004) and Ferenc Tőkei were willing to lend their support to the issue. Before the congress in Toronto, we had agreed that we would ask Denis Sinor to submit our proposal. He was a sincere supporter of and a permanent participant in ICANAS. In Cambridge in 1954, he was the Secretary General of the congress. He and I had talked more than once about organizing the congress in Budapest at some time. He welcomed this idea and assumed the role of the intermediary in Toronto. Although the outcome—because of unexpected cir169

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cumstances—was not exactly what we had hoped for, he performed this task excellently. At the congress in Toronto, the unexpected development was that Hong Kong too would have liked to host the next ICANAS. They were aware of our interest, and at the same time, they begged us to give it up for their benefit. The reason was simple and understandable. For them, 1993 was the last year they were still able to organize the congress in the traditional framework of their life: that is, before their return to China. However, they promised us that in Hong Kong, they would warmly support the adoption of the invitation of Budapest. We were pleased with the outcome although it was different from what we had expected. At that time, I did not think of the “technicality” that from 1992 my life would be connected to Cyprus. In other words, I would have to manage the organizing work from there. Mr. Cheng, the Chairman of the congress in Hong Kong, who was grateful for the “generous concession” of the Hungarians, was as good as his word. During the session of the Consultative Committee that was conducted in an excellent atmosphere, his position contributed to the unanimous resolution— the next ICANAS would be held in Budapest. As usual, the fixing of the exact date was left open. In an extremely positive development, Montreal and Moscow also offered invitations to ICANAS. A friendly consensus was ultimately reached between these countries. I first briefed Domokos Kosáry (1913–2007), the President of the Academy of Sciences, on the success of Hungarian Orientalists. He was pleased with the initiative and assured me of his support. János Harmatta, Ferenc Tőkei and I had already thought of formally placing the matter into the hands of the Csoma Kőrösi Society. Officially, they would be the organ that issued the invitations, and could also take part in the organizational work to the limit of their possibilities. 170

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So, the steps that we had taken previously were adjusted to this plan. It was obvious that I had to brief the Assembly, the decision-making body of the Csoma Kőrösi Society, on these developments. This session has firmly remained in my mind. After learning the news, and forgetting about the past, the usual Hungarian pessimism was vented. “Can we possibly do this? Wouldn’t it be better to withdraw? What could happen in such a case?” My reply was that it would be better to take on the job and not to think of withdrawing. My answer to the question—what would happen if the Society rejected the proposal—could only be that nothing, except that the reputation of Oriental Studies in Hungary would be harmed. The issue will remain in my hands in my capacity as the Secretary General of the Union. Under the statute of ICANAS, it would be my duty to find the premises for the next meeting. (However, I did not add that this would be in Hungary with or without the Csoma Kőrösi Society.) The proposal was—in a cumbersome way—finally adopted. Later, this reluctance turned into quiet, passive contemplation. This was surely better than facing treacherous resistence. Although this approach was essentially limited to the “Cheerleader” from Szeged, it emerged very early on. I can no longer remember whether it happened during the session of the assembly of the Society or that of the organizing committee, but the Master, who was invariably on his high horse, stood up and voiced his objection. He did not find the handling of the financial matters in the existing organization safe and secure, especially since large sums of money were going to change hands. My reply was: if ICANAS had a cash register, it would be empty at that moment, and would stay that way for a long time. Besides, I had been at the head of a state enterprise for eight years where I had to account for almost a billion forints every year. In this way, such an obligation was not unfamiliar or alien to me. The “activities of the opposition” were not limited to such objections. Instead of trying to find sponsors offering financial 171

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support to ICANAS, they were making telephone calls: “Think it over, or you’ll find that you are working for Hazai.” Fortunately, at that time I was already working in Cyprus, and learned about all this only later. *** Looking back to that time, it is almost incredible how we managed to organize a world congress by remote control. Especially without having a permanent administrative secretariat. As far as I can see today, the key to our success lay in the talents of my colleagues who had joined me. First and foremost, they were characterized by action and not only talk. They sorted out issues in the way necessary to solve them. As I learned in the academic world in Budapest after the years I spent in Germany, this practice was no longer the typical approach in our “beautiful” country. Their names must appear here by all means. I have to mention Tamás Iványi (1944–) first. He was the beating heart of our enterprise by creating and running the computer database of the congress. In normal circumstances in Hungary, three overconfident secretaries would have been dealing with this job— poorly. May I add here something that concerns the whole of our small staff—during the years of our work together we did not have a single minor clash. I would list the names of the other colleagues in an alphabetical order: Éva Apor (1937–), Kinga Dévényi (1957–), Sándor Fodor (1941–), Masanori Jamaji (1944–), and Éva Rubovszky. She was in charge of the “portfolio of the treasury” that demanded extreme attention especially while the congress was going on. Being a good bank clerk, she impressively attended to her duties. The secret of the event’s success was really in its finances. When we began organizing, what we were able to count on was only the—“there isn’t any…”. The Academy offered financial support to the tune of not more than HUF 100,000. This sum 172

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György Hazai and Prince El Hassan bin Talal at the ICANAS in Ankara, 2004

was allocated from a fund that was evenly distributed to twenty events, regardless of whether they expected 100 or 1,500 participants. I can remember very well that the above sum was enough only to pay for the printing of the first circular. But there was not a cent left for distributing the circular. At this point, it was the partner universities and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that came to our help. Since the presidential visit to Ankara in 1989, I had pleasant relations with László Kovács, the Minister at that time. He was pleased to embrace the cause of ICANAS. What he concretely offered was the courier service of the Ministry in the case of deliveries to several countries, mostly distant ones. In this way, we managed to clear this obstacle too. I received useful assistance from László Kovács in other respects as well. After the reception given in his honor during his official visit to Cyprus, we met in private and exchanged views on several details. Because of events in Israel—the murder of Yitzhak Rabin—he had to cancel his visit to the country. As a result of that, Jordan was given more weight in his schedule. It 173

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was thanks to his efforts that Prince Hassan bin Talal accepted an invitation to ICANAS. As the official heir to the throne, he contributed to the success of ICANAS as the keynote speaker. The Prince went on to offer invaluable assistance to me in various issues in the Middle East. So we managed to clear the first round without any expenses. However, it was clear that we had to continue to be frugal. Fasting would last until we had received the advance payments of the participation fees. So we abandoned the idea of holding ICANAS in the Budapest Congress Center. They made an offer of CHF 11,000 per day. The examples of Hamburg and Montreal demonstrated precisely what a financial trap such a solution would entail. We stuck to the most modest and classic method—we asked the partner universities to provide us with the necessary number of lecture halls. (In this, we followed the example of Munich, 1957.) As far as the participation fee was concerned, we adopted the golden mean: if I am not wrong, it was USD 130 (about HUF 15,000 at that time). This proved to be a modest sum and did not discourage those interested in our event. In return for this sum, we were able to offer two receptions during the congress. We had also had suggestions that this fee was too high, and if reduced, more people would surely come. In response, I had to take a very firm stand. With some difficulties I managed to explain that people who cannot afford USD 130 as a participation fee would not be able to cover the other costs (travel, accommodation) either. It was an important element in the strategy that we cooperated with a professional congress organizer, Scope Ltd., which was operating within the structure of the Academy at that time. We divided the tasks. We oversaw the scholarly program, and they handled the logistics (accomodation, etc.) Processing fees was also their job, these sums were also transferred to their account. This meant that with the exception of any modest sponsorship that might be offered, all money was in their care. 174

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We and the management of Scope Ltd., Gusztáv Hencsey, and his staff, developed a harmonious working relationship. This greatly contributed to the organizing work going smoothly. The number of applications to the congress was most reassuring, and in the spring of 1997, the transfer of the fees to the account of Scope Ltd. began. This was the moment when we were able to feel a little at ease as far as the finances of the congress were concerned. In the end, we had a positive balance of HUF 200,000. This sum was György Hazai delivering his lecture left in the account of the at the ICANAS in Budapest, 1997 Csoma Kőrösi Society. I have to say a few words about the support of CIPSH. Through the Union, we received USD 4,000 from them. However, under the rules of UNESCO, it was possible to use this sum only to cover the travel and participation expenses of scholars from the Third World. To be absolutely on the safe side that the money would be in our hands in time, a few days before the congress, I flew to Paris and brought it back to Budapest in my pocket. This money was finally used to cover the travel expenses of several outstanding professors from Cairo and Alexandria. The Honorary Chairman at the opening ceremony of the congress was the President of the Republic of Hungary, Árpád Göncz, who returned to Budapest, having interrupted his vacation for this event. It was also thanks to him that we managed 175

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to have the opening reception on the first evening in the splendid building of the Hungarian Parliament. However, we had to foot the HUF 2,000,000 bill! Since the catering company enjoyed a monopoly there, everything cost much more than if we had given the reception in a different place. But we did not mind. We were pleased that we were able to provide the participants with such a unique experience. The opening remarks were made in the Dome of the Parliament. However, the host, Árpád Göncz, had appointed me to make them. So, I started my remarks by mentioning this “presidential assignment” that—as I put it—I had accepted because it would have been improper to refuse the Head of State. The reception in the Parliament building was the coronation of the opening day. The closing reception was held in more adventurous circumstances. We had been planning to hold the event in the restaurant “The Old Boat” on the Danube. Since it would have been too small for all those invited, we also arranged for another boat to be connected to it. Everything had been prepared, and we had already signed the contract. That was the moment when the Danube “butted in”. A sudden flooding of the river made the operation, and the approach of the boats impossible. Within a short time, we were forced to improvise. Fortunately, the Danube Palace in Zrinyi Street was free on Friday midday and was able to hold the reception. It also went down in an excellent atmosphere. We apologized to the guests for having to change the premises. For them, however, it coincided with the spectacle of a unique natural event, the flood of Budapest. During this reception János Harmatta told me the following: “Georgie, thank you for your attentiveness and for bringing the congress here. This is going to be my last one.” Well, not all Hungarian participants expressed their appreciation or thanks to me. A younger colleague, whose frugality had already become legendary among the Turkologists, told me off because no coffee or tea had been served during the recesses. 176

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Another “sting” came from three foreign participants. They turned to the Chairman of the Department of Philology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Zsigmond Ritoók (1929–), and officially denounced me. The reason for this was that some guests had ordered full board, but by the time they reached the tables, no food was left. In this matter, the “devil’s cloven hoof” was clearly visible. These participants would have been able to learn the coordinates of the Department of Philology only from a Hungarian At ICANAS: György Hazai and source at the Academy. As an Árpád Göncz Academician, I belonged to this department, and they must have thought that was the best place for their complaint. They had not realized, of course, that the department had nothing to do with organizing the congress, let alone its supervision. Zsigmond Ritoók, with whom I had had friendly ties since my student years, immediately briefed me on this denunciation. I answered that the organizing committee of ICANAS was exclusively responsible for the scholarly program of the congress. All other logistical issues—guest accommodations, catering, etc. —were handled by Scope Ltd. So I had to forward the complaint to Gusztáv Hencsey who gave a substantive answer, saying that their complaint was probably valid. The reason for the missing food was that among the guests there were several ingenious ones who arrived early and—thinking to the future—made “doggy bags”. The matter was closed by this somewhat comical, but simple explanation. However, since some of my Hungarian 177

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colleagues had likely been behind this affair, this exchange of letters left some bitterness. The 35th ICANAS in Budapest was a success, driven home by the fact that Denis Sinor, the great critic, spoke of our organizing work with appreciation. *** Under the agreement reached in Hong Kong, the next two ICANAS were scheduled for Montreal (2000) and Moscow (2004). And in Moscow, it was Ankara that took the baton for 2007. In all three conferences, the organizers requested my assistance and experience. However, I indicated to them on each occasion that I was happy to oblige them in my capacity as Chairman of the ICANAS in Budapest and not as the Secretary General of the Union. By doing so, I wanted to emphasize that the organizing of ICANAS was the job of the institution that had invited the congress. As far as ICANAS was concerned, the Union had one single job—to secure the continuity of the congress, should there be a need for that. *** As things worked out, another such situation arose again. In Moscow, Leiden received the option to organize the congress after Ankara. The Dutch, however, did not take the matter seriously, and did not want to take advantage of the right they had been granted to organize the event. And it did not occur to them to inform the concerned parties about this properly. So yet again a vacuum emerged, which persists as I write these lines in 2015. Over the years, this affair has created much trouble and work. As time was passing by, enormous changes were taking place in the field of scholarly meetings—the congresses and symposiums. The age of globalization altered the good old practices. There are quite a few people who believe that the time of 178

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the great congresses is gone and that the future belongs to events with a smaller number of participants. No one questions the usefulness of and the necessity for such meetings that provide an opportunity for an intensive exchange of ideas. I founded a small congress, the CIEPO, that went on to become a larger forum. When I was in Cyprus, I organized symposiums on various subjects on a regular basis— sometimes even twice a year. At the same time, I have always emphasized—and do so today—that we have to preserve the grand congresses. This organization, established in 1873, is an institution of international Oriental Studies that raises awareness over five continents of our presence in the world of research. It also strengthens our ties with UNESCO and CIPSH. No one would think of abandoning the gicantic congresses that are regularly held in the natural sciences.

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My Return from Cyprus (2000)

A

lthough my official work in Cyprus was completed on August 31, 1999, (i.e. when my contract expired) my actual return home took place at the end of January 2000. No urgent matters were waiting for me in Budapest, so we were able to stay on the island for a few more months, enjoy the fall in the Mediterranean, and Christmas with its peculiar Cypriot atmosphere. I was able to handle the jobs connected with my research work from behind my desk in Cyprus, so there was no reason to change our decision.

Kinga and Cecilia Hazai hold a reception on the occasion of their father’s return from Cyprus, May 12, 2000

As far as moving back to Hungary was concerned, there were naturally quite a few things to see to. No matter how we tried to give away our “acquisitions” (furniture, etc.), many 180

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things were left that had to be delivered to Budapest. It was my daughter Cili who gave a helping hand with the frustrating details of moving. She flew to Cyprus for a few days to handle these issues. Once in Budapest, I had been planning to deal exclusively with the implementation of my own projects in Turkology. I will have to tell you at another point how my hopes only partially materialized. When I was back home, to me the most important job seemed to be securing continuity. To continue the research projects in process, and to meet my obligations in international publishing and organizing scholarly work. The only new task was to organically integrate the publishing of sources from Crete (Kadı Sicil Defterleri) into our program. It had become impossible to publish anything related to Oriental Studies through the Publishing House of the Academy. Establishing a new series elsewhere was the answer. In principle, Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica was at our disposal, but the astronomical demands for support of the Dutch Wolters Kluwer Company, the new owners of the Publishing House of the Academy, made it practically impossible to work with them. We had to find another solution and fortunately it presented itself very soon. This was the renewal of the series Studien zur Sprache, Kultur und Geschichte der Türkvölker that had been established by Klaus Schwarz at his publishing house in 1980. Only two volumes had been issued in the series. The tragic early death of Klaus and my departure from Berlin made it unlikely the series would ever be continued. However, fate intervened and the series was able to renew itself. What is more, it provided an opportunity for important projects to find safe haven. What I am referring to is my own publications that I had been busy working on during my years in Cyprus, which only needed proof-reading before going to print. The reboot of the series was introduced by two prestigious opuses: the painstaking analysis by Professor Gottfried Hagen (1963–) (University of Michigan, Ann Arbor) of the outstanding 181

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work of the Ottoman geographer, Kâtib Çelebi (mentioned as Hâcci Halfa in old Turkish manuscripts), and Matthias Kappler’s (1962–) excellent history of language and culture that explored the Turkish literary treasures found among the Greeks living in the Ottoman Empire. These were followed by the publication of the manuscripts that I had been working on for a long time, building them into the concept of a wider analysis of the history of language. It was thanks to my years in Cyprus that upon my return home, these writings reached a stage close to publication. Since each book has a history of its own, I would like to tell you about them in detail. And I have to say in advance that the three manuscripts—that I published the transcription and facsimile of—are invaluable possessions of the Oriental Collection of the Academy's library. Their publication settles an old debt to Oriental Studies in Hungary. The first work was a manuscript from the 15th century— Ferec ba’d eş-şidde, a piece of early Turkish writing. It was the Hungarian Turkologist Ármin Vámbéry who first drew attention to this volume, consisting of 42 short stories, and considered to be one of the first products of Anatolian Turkish prose. He did so in a work of his in 1901 and also published one of the stories. The outstanding Hungarian Turkologist, while studying manuscripts in Bursa, was still able to see a manuscript of this work dated at the end of the 14th century. This manuscript, however, can no longer be found. So today, we must consider this manuscript written at the Court of Edirne in 1451 and kept in the library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences to be the oldest version of the work. Andreas Tietze started dealing with this important literary work—translated from Persian—while in emigration in Turkey during the Second World War. With the assistance of Gyula Németh, he got hold of a photocopy of the work in Budapest, and planned a three-volume series on it to be brought out by Mouton Publishers of the Netherlands. However, this project ended in failure through circumstances that are now difficult to 182

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explain. According to the manager of Mouton, on the brink of bankruptcy at that time, Andreas Tietze’s manuscript was accidentally shredded in the printing house due to a false interpretation of one remark in the proofs by the author. No trace was left of the hefty text: either of the manuscript or of the proofs, although the prelims, the first four pages of the proofs survived. The story of the “accident” in the printing house is hardly plausible. In my view, it was a simple lie. The truth was that the publishing house—due to its bankruptcy—would not have been able to cover the costs of printing and wanted to get rid of its obligations in such an outrageous way. Several years of work by Andreas Tietze were lost. When we met during his trips to Europe in the summer, we often talked about the mysteriously tragic fate of Ferec ba’d eşşidde. However, it was impossible to convince him to start the work again. He did not even want to hear about that. Finally, he accepted my suggestion that we should embark on publishing the text together. The idea was that the time-consuming work of editing would be done by my research group under my supervision, and that we would consult together on the final version of the text. That was how it happened. Discussing the questions of the new text became the most important issue of our more and more frequent meetings. I would not be able to list where and on how many occasions we worked on this edition. I have already told you at other points in my present memoirs that during my time in Cyprus I regularly paid lightning visits to Vienna. And the most important topic of these was always the Ferec ba’d eş-şidde edition. In November 2002, I had to go to Vienna because of issues in relation to Andrássy University. I stopped by Andreas’s Turkology workshop at Türkenschanzgasse 4. He was pleased to hear that the volume would soon be on its way to the printing house, and that the work of his early scholarly years would materialize after all, even if in a different way. He did not live to see that—he died before Christmas 2003. 183

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Later, while preparing the catalog of the Turkish manuscripts kept in Budapest, we came upon a so far unknown version of Ferec ba’d eș-şidde. The manuscript that Andreas Tietze and I were editing for publication had been translated into Turkish from Persian. This manuscript was copied numerous times over the centuries and has survived in numerous versions. The manuscript that we came upon was a version translated into Turkish from Arabic, a version of one of the countless works that is well-known in Arabic literature in this genre. These were completely different stories that were essentially connected with the Abbasid period of the Arabic world. Besides the manuscript that is kept in Budapest, there is only one more copy of this work that we know about—in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. So what we had was nothing less than the discovery of a new, so far unknown work of Turkish prose in translation: a peculiar trend in the early Turkish literature in Anatolia. It was only natural that the analysis of this manuscript should be part of our working program. Another dividend of this cataloging work was the presentation of the illustrated manuscripts of the collection in a small, independent booklet. The next volume in the series was the publication of an extremely valuable manuscript of the library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. This work was the Turkish translation of Taẕkaratu l-Awliyā (Memoranda of Saints)—a very popular book in the Muslim world by Farῑduddῑn Aṭṭār, the 13th century Perduddῑduddῑn Aṭṭār, the 13th century Pern Aṭṭār, the 13th century Persian scientist and man of letters. Several Turkologists, first among them József Thúry (1861–1906), and then in his wake Mehmet Fuat Köprülü, and naturally Gyula Németh had taken notice of this work, and especially because at the time it was written (1341), the manuscript had a high rank among Turkish linguistic sources. Gyula Németh himself said that he never thought of publishing the work although he kept an eye on what was happening to it. He had his doubts about László Ráso184

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nyi’s (1899–1984) intention to publish it. In the charming way that was typical of him, but also with a sting that hit with frightening accuracy, Gyula Németh put it in the following way: “He can’t do it. He barely speaks Turkish. Even with a dictionary he misunderstands an easy text.” (This qualification of his struck other people too.) In the 1960s, András Bodrogligeti (1925–2017) was thinking of publishing the manuscript, and he even announced this plan at one of the congresses. However, other obligations like his invitation to UCLA prevented him too from embarking on the work in earnest. My work was first published in the Ottomanist journal Archivum Ottomanicum, and then in two volumes in our series—Studien zur Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur der Türkvölker, Klaus Schwarz Verlag. The third text that was published was Tārῑḫ-i Ungurusḫ-i Ungurus by Tercümān Mahmūd, a chronicle that had long been known in Hungarian academia, and was often misinterpreted. It was during my student years that the single manuscript of this work located in Budapest—described as mysterious—caught my attention. Upon my arrival at the Institute of Turkology, we ordered a photocopy of it, and I started to work on it. It may seem funny today but because of my many new obligations, I interrupted the work untold times. I published its Hungarian translation in 1996. However, the transcription of the Turkish text came only out in 2009. The three published texts—besides all having their peculiar value and features—were created with the goal that they would serve as the basis of a comprehensive linguistic analysis of early Anatolian Turkish from three consecutive centuries and had, in certain respects, the same linguistic character. The settling of this debt is one of the jobs on the agenda of my activities today. Some other works, written by other authors, were also published in this series. In this way, much to the delight of my good old friend Gerd Winkelhane, the owner of Klaus Schwarz 7 Verlag, the series has reached volume number 21. 7

Editors note: Today (2019/20) we work on preparing print of vol no 30.

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Incidentally, the volumes were printed in Budapest, in the Akaprint Printing House. I make this remark only casually, although it was of the utmost importance for the existence of the series. The already retired László Freier, my dear former colleague at the Publishing House of the Academy, had the lion’s share of responsibility in creating the house’s ambitious printing standards. *** From the beginning of 2001, an important scholarly and publishing opportunity arose that I had never expected. It was my participation in preparing the catalog of the invaluable Turkish manuscripts, kept in the Library of the Academy. The priceless collection in Budapest is absolutely unique. Its peculiarity resides in the fact that it found its way to the library not due to accidents, donations or purchases. This collection of manuscripts came to Budapest by favor of Dániel Szilágyi (1830–1885), a Hungarian compatriot who had found refuge in 8 Turkey. He joined Lajos Kossuth’s army as a young hussar officer after the capitulation at Világos in 1849. It is common knowledge that the leader of the War of Independence, having asked the Ottoman Empire for asylum, spent several years in Turkey as an émigré. Dániel Szilágyi settled down in Istanbul, and after some difficult years as an interpreter and translator, later as the owner of a second-hand bookshop, he became a respected citizen of Constantinople. He never returned to Hungary. It was only his magnum opus, his unique collection of manuscripts, which was extremely precious from a scholarly point view, that made its way there. The collection was purchased—at the initiative of Ármin Vámbéry—by the Hungarian Academy of Sciences from the heirs, the sons of the book collector. This collection of manuscripts differed from similar ones that came to Europe because its compilation was not accidental 8

Lajos Kossuth (1802–1894), political leader of the Hungarian War of Freedom 1848–1849, 2nd Prime Minister of Hungary. 186

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or happenstance. Dániel Szilágyi, a former student at Debrecen Reformed Church College, was well versed in theology, and was consciously searching and selecting, following the principles of linguistic research when looking for old books. His studies had taught him that in the case of a given work, you had to acquire the oldest manuscript, as well as any later and paralell manuscripts. As a result of his efforts, he obtained manuscripts that are regarded as unmatched treasures in the history of Turkish language and literature. Dániel Szilágyi studied Ottoman literature and history thoroughly, and then—on the basis of this knowledge—searched for works that were important literature because of their contents or age. It was no accident that the oldest versions of the two important works of Ottoman literature that I have already mentioned found their way into his collection. Previously, the only information about the collection was a short list of titles—the creation of a systematic catalog of these manuscripts was an unsettled debt of Hungarian Turkology. Gyula Németh was familiar with the collection. When he was still a young Turkologist, he undertook the publication of an important work in the collection, but later turned his attention elsewhere. In this way, he was trying to encourage people around him not to forget about the Turkish manuscripts housed in Budapest, which offered researchers a rich range of exciting topics. He did not, however, succeed in his efforts. It was by accident that the collection of Turkish works in the Library of the Academy came to the limelight in 2000. That year, the Hungarian Academy of Sciences extended an invitation for a lecture and sabbatical to one of its honorary members, a former student at the Eötvös College, and one of Gyula Németh’s best students—Professor Hasan Eren from Turkey. The Master was accompanied by Ismail Parlatır (1946–), a professor of Ottoman Turkish literature at the University of Ankara who was a well-known specialist in the study of old manuscripts and texts. 187

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Ismail Parlatır, Edit Tasnádi, Ambassador Ender Arat, Hasan Eren, Ayşe Arat, György Hazai at the residence of the Turkish Embassy in Budapest, 1999

The guests paid a visit to the Oriental Collection of the Library of the Academy, which Hasan Eren had known well from his student years, but proved to be a surprise to Professor Ismail Parlatır. Naturally, the Turkish manuscripts caught his eye first, about which only two handwritten lists gave some modest information. Professor Parlatır recognized the unrivaled value of the collection immediately. It occurred to him that he would initiate the preparation and the publication of an up-to-date catalog. It was obvious that he would have to play the main role in that. The work had to be based on his expertise in transcribing and studying Turkish manuscripts. This demanded that in order to study them, he should spend long periods of time in Budapest. The most obvious solution for the Hungarian Academy of Sciences was to issue an invitation to Professor Parlatır, allowing him to start the work of putting together the catalog. Fortunately, His Excellency, the distinguished Ambassador of Turkey 188

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Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, Ismail Parlatır, and György Hazai in the Oriental Library, July 2001

Turkey’s Foreign Minister İsmail Cem, Ambassador Ender Arat and György Hazai during the Minister’s visit in Budapest, March 2002

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at that time, Ender Arat gave us a helping hand. He offered to obtain the financial support of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Turkey, and more precisely, that of its Directorate General for Culture. This office with its financial resources would provide Professor Parlatır with a research scholarship for a few years so that he could work in Budapest. The proposal was adopted and Professor Parlatır spent part of three consecutive summers in Budapest to do the job. He locked himself up in the Oriental Collection where he worked from the opening to closing hours. He did not even leave for lunch. He always had his meals at our place in the evenings. It was my job to buy the ingredients at the Turkish butcher, Sezgin Bey, on Magyar Street. The food on our table demonstrated Professor Parlatır’s remarkable knowledge of the Turkish cuisine. (The way the Professor cut and handled meat was appreciated by Sezgin Bey too.) This happened every single night. Besides the culinary delights, the focus was the transcription of the manuscripts. We discussed the progress of his work, and tried to find answers to the questions. Luckily, Professor Parlatır stayed not far from our place, so our evenings could be as long as we pleased. (I mention in parentheses the contribution of my daughter Kinga, to the project: we put Ismail up in an apartment in Kálvin Square that belonged to a client of hers from New York and was vacant in the summer.) I have to mention that during these years, we were always able to take advantage of the support of the late Secretary General of our Academy, the Academician Attila Meskó (1940– 2008). In the summer, he always took care of our guest. His most important assistance was offered at the completion of the project—he covered the printing costs of the English language version of the catalog. The catalog project was enthusiastically and actively supported by Barbara Kellner-Heinkele (1942–), professor of Turkology at the Freie Universität in Berlin. During these years, she 190

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often visited Budapest where we were able to consult with her. In addition, in December 2005 with the support of German sponsors, she organized a workshop for about 15 people in Berlin on the topic of cataloging manuscripts. One of the major points of our discussions was our project in Budapest. The fact that I became an honorary member of the Academy of Sciences of Turkey at this very time also played a role in creating the necessary conditions for publishing the catalog. The handing over of the certificate took place during the summer Assembly in 2002. From this time on, I had regular contact with the President at the time, Professor Engin Bermek (1939–). During our meetings, the earlier idea that the catalog be brought out as a joint publication of our two Academies was finalized. The Turkish language volume was published in 2006. Its presentation, together with the English-language version published in Budapest in 2008, took place in Ankara in May. (In the transcription of the manuscripts, the two versions are virtually identical. Differences appear only in the introduction, index and footnotes.) The event together with a reception was hosted by the Turkish Academy of Sciences (TÜBA) and the Embassy of Hungary in Ankara. In this way, the joint scholarly project was successfully completed. The two volumes were printed in the framework of the cooperation agreement between Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences as their first joint publication. There was a modest by-product of cataloging the Turkish manuscripts in Budapest. The illustrated manuscripts of the collection were presented in a beautiful booklet. Thanks to the support of the Secretary General of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences at the time, Attila Meskó, the selected photos and miniatures were published in colorful presentations. This project was a digression from my own work in Turkology. But I did not regret it. Besides settling an old debt of Turkology in Hungary, we managed to provide international Turkology with an important handbook. Fulfilling this obligation 191

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also offered me the advantage of picking up each and every manuscript in the collection. So it was no accident that this work led me to further discoveries. That was how the processing of two important manuscripts was integrated in the action plan of my research group. In the meantime, the project to publish the juridical records (Kadı Sicil Defterleri) of Heraklion was also launched in Crete. The driving force of our work was our colleague Miklós Fóti (1971–) who, relying on his excellent knowledge of the language and paleography, coped with the text and its extremely difficult ductus in a remarkable way. It was these texts that found their way into the hands of our Greek colleagues in Crete. On the basis of the Turkish texts, they prepared their Greek language registers, while also taking care of the rich material of names of places and people. The handling of the latter required a command of Greek. As a result of the project financed by the Vikelaia Library in Heraklion, three volumes of the sicil collection were published in an impressive size (I: 2003; II/1: 2008–II/2: 2008; III/1: 2010–III/2: 2010.) Due to the belttightening caused by the economic crisis in Greece, there was a delay in publishing volume IV, which did not come out until 2014. International Turkology is waiting for the publication of the original Turkish materials of the volumes that have been published so far. My friend Gilles Veinstein (1945–2013) kept urging me to do so since sharing the experience acquired during the handling of this extremely important source, and in answering the complex paleographic questions would be useful for scholars who deal with similar documents. However, so far we have only had time and energy to come out with two articles presenting these materials. During the years of work on the project, I had to visit Crete several times. The presentations of the published volumes were very instructive. The ceremonial hall of the Vikelaia Library was always full of people interested in the project. The patriotic 192

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feelings that were demonstrated by the inhabitants of Crete commanded respect. Altough they had done so before. It is well known that in 1941 during the Nazi occupation of Crete, an SS general ordered the Turkish Kadı Sicil Defterleri to be discarded. His verdict was that “in the age of Hitler there is no need and there will be no need for them”. The citizens of Heraklion saved the volumes from the trash and hid them in their homes. After the war, all—without exception—found their way back to the library.

Ambassador József Tóth, Elizabeth Zachariadou, György Hazai at the presentation of the Kadı Sicil Defterleri in Athens, Greece, March 2011

The project achieved great success in the field of GreekHungarian relations too. In March 10, 2011, the Ambassador of Hungary to Greece at that time, József Tóth, briefed the press on the volumes published so far in Heraklion. Over the years, the hope of expanding the project to Turkey also emerged. In the archives of Istanbul Turkish researchers had found documents similar to the Kadı Sicil Defterleri that relate to Heraklion. A joint research project would be to everyone’s benefit. Our attempts that were once supported by the State Secretariat of the Turkish Foreign Ministry have not 193

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borne fruit so far. What was easily implemented in the field of Hungarian-Greek relations proved to be a lot more difficult in the Turkish-Greek milieu. There, the mills of God grind slowly even today.

TUA BA In 2001, the Turkish Academy of Sciences (Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi, TÜBA) elected me an honorary member. The certificate was presented during the General Assembly in 2002 where I had to make a few remarks. TÜBA counts as a new scientific institution in Turkey. Its founder was Erdal İnönü (1926–2007), the son of the late President and former comrade of Atatürk, İsmet İnönü (1884–1973), who had completed his studies in the United States. His field of science was physics. On his return home, relying—naturally— on his father and his circle, he founded TÜBA, which focussed strongly on the natural sciences. The role and weight given to the humanities, including Turkology, has been by far more modest up to the present day in comparison with the other disciplines. The first two honorary members in this field, elected from abroad, were Andreas Tietze and the historian Bernard Lewis (1916–2018). It was a great honor for me to be elected as the third one. I realized that I had to do everything to establish a relationship between TÜBA and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, even knowing that it would be the Departments of Natural Sciences that would benefit from it. My initiative to invite the President of TÜBA, Professor Engin Bermek, who represented medical sciences, received a sympathetic ear from the President of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Elek Szilveszter Vizi (1936–). Unfortunately, an obstacle arose on the Turkish side and the visit failed to take place. However, Engin Bermek wished to have a meeting arranged, and therefore extended an invitation to the President of 194

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György Hazai receives the Certificate of Membership from Engin Bermek, President of the Turkish Academy of Sciences, June 6, 2002

the Hungarian Academy of Sciences to come to Turkey. This visit was delegated by Elek Szilveszter Vizi to the Secretary General, Attila Meskó. He insisted that I should be part of his three-member delegation. No matter how I argued that this person should be a representative of natural sciences, his counterargument was that “the architect of the relationship must be present at such a visit”. Eventually, I had to give in. The third person in the delegation was Katalin Hajós, the desk officer at the Foreign Relations Department of the Academy who stood in for Academician László Romics (1936–2011), who had originally been chosen, but was held up by a family obligation. Attila Meskó was extremely satisfied with the visit where he met the representatives of his own field of geophysics and also paid a visit to their research institutes. He said that during the visit he had learned a lot about organizing science. It was only natural that he invited the President of TÜBA to Budapest for a return visit. In 2008, Attila Meskó unfortunately died. So I thought it was 195

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my natural duty to do everything for this matter not to fall into oblivion. But this did not prove easy because the new President of the Academy had his own agenda, and developing scholarly ties between Hungary and Turkey was not on it. When an initiative was not made by him, the matter gained his support only with enormous difficulties. Just to get into his office amounted to a successful military operation. But I did not give up the fight. It took me about a year to arrange a visit for the President of TÜBA, the eminent professor of medicine Yücel Kanpolat (1941–2016). It took place at the beginning of 2011, and was exceptionally successful. At a dinner given by the Turkish Ambassador Kemal Gür our guest met with experts from the Hungarian Academy of Sciences working in similar fields. Professor Kanpolat developed good working relations with them, especially with Elek Szilveszter Vizi. I was also present at the visit to the Institute of Experimental Medical Research where Elek Szilveszter Vizi was Head of the pharmacological department. Whenever I meet him, he is always pleased to tell me about the further development of their ties.

The Founding of Andra/ ssy University In 2002 to begin anew in Budapest presented problems only because of a few technical issues I expected to solve right away. So I had great hope that nothing would tear me away again from Turkology. In other words, I hoped to be able to use my strength to implement my plans for research. It did not happen exactly this way. András Levente Gál, the State Secretary for Public Administration at the Ministry of Education at the time, with whom I had a good relationship, told me that the Prime Minister had an important idea in the sphere of higher education: an idea with an international dimension. During his talks with Edmund Stoiber, the Prime Minister of Bavaria, the idea was raised that a German-language university should be established in Budapest. 196

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The concept was also supported by the other Southern German state of Baden-Württemberg. Austria liked the project, and Berlin supported it too. Switzerland would be involved later. The matter had to be wrapped up as early as possible because the Prime Minister wanted the new university to open its gates in 2002, election year. András Levente Gál thought that I was perfect to take up this mission because of my experiences in cultural diplomacy, the twenty years I spent in Berlin, and my command of the German language. For the above reasons, he wanted me to assume the post of the founding rector of the new university. If I agreed, he would make this proposal through his Minister to the Prime Minister. After several discussions, I gave in. The Prime Minister approved the proposal straightaway. The reason for that may have been that he and I had met in a completely different context early in the summer. Namely, I was member of a government delegation to Turkey headed by him. Despite the tight program there, we were able to exchange a few words almost every day. There was no doubt all that played a role in his decision to personally endorse me. I had never reckoned with such a job before, and never had such ambitions. The task of establishing and launching the university as a founding rector fell on my shoulders unexpectedly. Today, I am pleased that I managed to cope with this challenge. However, it took quite a lot of time and energy to travel the thorny path of establishing Andrássy University. Looking back to the creation of the university, I have to highlight the efforts of Dr. Erich Kussbach. The Austrian diplomat, born in Hungary, was Ambassador to Budapest for a long time, The process of founding the university was launched by his office. He passed the baton to me. Over the years, our cooperation was pleasant and productive. We were attached by friendly ties and understood each other very well. By the nature of things, the issue of Andrássy University involved me with daily politics too. The overall lesson was de197

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The Discussion of the Results in the Parliament of the Prime Ministerial visit to Turkey, Mihály Hoppál, Lajos Gecsényi, János Hóvári, Pál Fodor, Viktor Orbán, György Hazai, Géza Dávid, Tibor F. Tóth, 2000

pressing. This sphere and its political figures were characterized by their inability to understand one another. Opinions and verdicts were always formulated without the players learning the facts and analyzing them. Compared to political headwinds, personal backbiting had a minimal weight in the process of establishing the university. But what backbiting existed naturally appeared on the Hungarian side. One of my colleagues overheard a Hungarian professor who was trying to persuade the head of the Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung (Humboldt Foundation) during a visit to Budapest, that “the insignificance of my scholarly past was well demonstrated by the fact that I was a professor at the University of Cyprus”. He somehow “forgot” about the two decades that I had spent at Humboldt University in Berlin. It was also difficult to handle the press. There is no limit to the ignorance and self-confidence of Hungarian journalists. The questions from journalists, who kept commenting on the issues of the University of Cyprus, were inevitably repeated. “How is 198

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it possible that you, a Turkologist, are undertaking such a job when the planned working program of the faculties is far away from your field? What could be your role at these faculties?” Willy-nilly, Nelly Tsouyopoulos came to my mind. Her ripostes provided me with ammunition. My answers were identical to hers. “I am not establishing this university with the ambition to find or create new functions for myself. I have got my place and task in my own field of work which is Turkology. That’s where I would like to return. The new university does not belong to my field of research. It is the colleagues to be appointed that will create its character to the best of their abilities.” I remember that the daily newspaper Népszabadság carried two lengthy articles about the project. The main point was that the good idea and initiative (the German and Austrian participation could not be ignored) was implemented by the Government in a poor way. Because of his degree in scholarship and important posts, the author of these articles was also present at the General Assembly of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. I made contact with him through his colleagues. I introduced myself to him, indicating my link with Andrássy University. “You know, I am the one whom you have addressed already in two voluminous newspaper articles.” To this, he replied: “You mustn’t take this seriously. It was a job ordered by the Party.” The process of establishing and launching the university was upset by the electoral defeat of FIDESZ in the early summer of 2002. The new administration lost no time in announcing their demands. The new Minister had no intention of continuing the project. However, he could not ignore the existence and interests of the German and Austrian partners. What the Minister would have liked to do was to put the new institution completely at the disposal of his friend in the Party, András Gerő. The Minister even gave me a call and asked how their move into the university could be arranged as soon as possible. Because of the legal framework, I could only answer that it was for the advisory board appointed by the Ministry to run the 199

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university to address this. And there the German-Austrian presence was important. They would obviously not consider any kind of cohabitation. The German Ambassador was in close contact with me so that he could have accurate information on how things were going, and provide help wherever necessary and possible. I asked him to do only one thing. Could high-ranking German politicians arriving György Hazai holding the keys to the in Budapest in the follow- Andrássy University ing days make contact with our Minister, and underline the importance of launching the university. As I heard later, within days our Minister flew into a rage whenever he heard the name Andrássy University. However, the university managed to survive this difficult period of its birth. At this point, I have to remark that the Political State Secretary of the Ministry, István Hiller, played an extremely positive role in the struggle for keeping the university on its feet. The university ows him gratitude for managing to win the game after all. The closing act, the ceremonial handing over of the key of the university in the presence of German Federal President Johannes Rau, took place in the spirit of full harmony and received remarkably good press coverage.

The ColleB ge de France and Strasbourg The duties around Andrássy University put a brake on my work in Turkology for three years. But during my years in Cyprus, I 200

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established a habit of maintaining contact with my colleagues and participated in joint projects by “remote control”. However, keeping contact was substantially easier. In this way, despite my obligations, our work progressed in a promising way. I took great pains to reduce my trips abroad to only the most necessary and important ones. I decided to give up the grand congresses (the kurultays in Ankara and other Turkish symposiums as well as CIEPO). I still had plenty events left. However, in 2001 I was honoured with an invitation that I was pleased to accept. The most prestigious institution of education in France, Collège de France, asked me to deliver a series of lectures. I became the first visiting professor at the Department of Turkology that had been established at the institution not long before. I had to deliver four lectures in a month on various topics in Turkology. I had frequently been to Paris, but for the first time in my life I was able to stay there longer. I even had the opportunity to do some work in their famous oriental library which was a real treasure trove for a researcher. My month of May in Paris was spent calmly. I had to fly back home for two or three days only once in order to participate in an important coordination meeting with our German partners over one of the issues of Andrássy University. Even before my duties around Andrássy University took shape, I made a trip to Strasbourg. The Council of Europe wanted to work out a program for research of documents in the Turkish archives. During the one-day conference my colleagues and I put together a program which—as many others—never materialized. Two nice and at the same time sad experiences were connected with this trip. In Strasbourg, it was the last time that I saw Irène Mélikoff with whom I had very old friendly ties. I visited her in her apartment where she was just recovering after a serious eye operation. “Georges, we can’t go out for dinner. But there is a bottle of fine champagne in the fridge, waiting for us to make a toast.” 201

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The next time I visited this nice town was in 2010 to take part in the commemorative meeting on the first anniversary of her death. The town was close to my heart not in the least because of her. Whenever I was in Strasbourg, I always visited Tibor Hazay (1937–2009), my cousin who lived in Freiburg, Germany and was the Head of the Piano Department at the Academy of Music there. At that time, he was already seriously ill and an in-patient at a clinic. I saw him too for the last time.

A Requiem for a Job in Oriental Studies The research group of Oriental Studies was initiated by Béla Köpeczi and established by Ferenc Tőkei in 1982. Its mission would have been to unite all the researchers in posts financially supported by the Academy. This actually meant the intellectual and administrative unification of the researchers who belonged to the research group of Altaic Studies established by Lajos Ligeti and later headed by György Kara (1935–). The researchers of the Academy working in Szeged under András Róna-Tas (1931–), as well as the ones in Budapest under Academician Ferenc Tőkei also belonged to the research group of Oriental Studies. I must give you some background so that readers can understand how the story evolved. Allow me please to start by telling you about the research group headed by Ferenc Tőkei. When Ferenc Tőkei became a corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, he created research jobs for a few close colleagues at the Academy. He installed these researchers at the Oriental Library of the Academy. For the researchers this meant only a formal link with the library which was simply calculating and paying their salaries. This situation was changed by a sudden turn of events. In the middle of the 1970s, when Béla Köpeczi was the Secretary General of the Academy, the salaries of the researchers were raised. However, 202

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this did not cover the people who were working at the library, and the Tőkei Group would have been left out of it. Béla Köpeczi had every right to consider this to be unfair and sorted out the problem with what he thought was a “temporary” solution. He asked for the assistance of the Director of the Institute of Linguistics so that he could “re-settle on a temporary basis” the few researchers from the library to the institute. His idea was that these “temporary posts” would last only a few weeks, and then the researchers would again continue their work in the library. Needless to say, things did not work out that way. Everyone forgot about this “temporary status”, and the researchers of the Tőkei Group became connected with the Institute of Linguistics. In order to corroborate the above story, allow me please to add that it was told to me by Béla Köpeczi himself at one of our department sessions. What he wanted to illustrate was what a “temporary” settlement meant in Hungarian practice. These still waters were stirred by the waves created by my return from Berlin in 1982. Béla Köpeczi wanted—with all his heart—to arrange that upon my return, a sufficient research capacity be at my disposal. Besides this, he wanted to see some sensible concepts, concrete plans in the whole field of Oriental Studies that would guarantee results. I have already told you about the meeting that he initiated on the matter back in 1981. This was summed up by Béla Köpeczi in the following way: “These people are interested only in one thing—what they would like to become.” The important thing was that the research group of Oriental Studies, uniting all the research capacities financed by the Academy, was able to continue its work in the Institute of Linguistics under a special status. Namely, the official ties involved the financing of the group and not its intellectual control. In other words, the Director of the Institute of Linguistics had nothing to do with and had no say in the work of the Oriental203

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ists. The role of the institute could be described solely as the place where scholars picked up their salary. Ferenc Tőkei, with whom I was connected because of our years together at the university, was a scholar who was blessed with excellent abilities and outstanding theoretical insights. At the same time, he was completely illiterate as a manager and administrator. After my return home, I tried to make him conscious of the fact that he was the Head of the whole Oriental research and that he should be privy to the complete picture and details of the work being done. To tell you the truth, he failed to understand the point. As far as I was concerned, my ambition was only that the work in my modest but thriving unit of Turkology (it was comprised of four people altogether) should be done well. We had our own goals and timetable. I avoided taking part in anything else. Given this structure, I never intervened in the work of Feri Tőkei’s research unit. This distance was kept for fifteen years: that is, the time I spent at the Academy’s Publishing House and in Cyprus. During this time, Ferenc Tőkei realized that I did not have any “bureaucratic ambitions”, and I never wished to become his official deputy. At the same time, he also understood that he had nothing to fear from me in the field of Oriental Studies. I did not have any ambitions to expand my influence.

Turkology in the Institute of Linguistics What I am going to tell you below should not be interpreted as the continuation of what I have just described. It is meant to help you understand the atmosphere that had formed before. The leadership of the Institute of Linguistics did not care for the activities of the Orientalists. The work of the Turkologists— perhaps as a result of “outside impulses”—seemed to have rather irritated them. This is most clearly demonstrated by this account provided by the leadership of the institute. I would like to 204

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illustrate this with the help of an account based on a festive occasion.

THE INSTITUTE OF LINGUISTICS OF THE HUNGARIAN ACADEMY OF SCIENCES IS 50 YEARS OLD September 12, 1949 A review of the main activities and achievements The Institute of Linguistics of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences Budapest 1999 THE DEPARTMENT OF ORIENTAL STUDIES Head: Ferenc Tőkei The research group of Oriental Studies of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences became the Department of Oriental Studies of the Institute of Linguistics of MTA only in 1993. The institute has preserved its unique features up to the present day, and unites the work of several researchers working in other institutions. Research into Buddhism has come to the fore in order to satisfy the enormous interest in it with the help of authentic documents. This work, even if not officially so, can be considered “collective”. The individual scholarly output of the researchers in the field of Sinology, Mongolian and Tungus Studies, Tibetology and Arabic Studies receives international attention and recognition, as is demonstrated by the numerous invitations from foreign universities. The publication of sources in Hungarian journals and series of books is done in foreign languages too. Based on opportunities and requests, a range of translations and studies can be read in Hungarian too, for instance, in the latest bilingual volume of History and Culture. This also serves the purposes of teaching Oriental Studies at the university well. In the field of Sinology, a unique international and almost unprecedented undertaking is underway—the institute and Balassi Publishing House have launched a bilingual series with the title Chinese205

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Hungarian Books in which already seven volumes have been published. It is well-known that the interest in Oriental cultures is enormous worldwide. The world view of Oriental literature, arts and religions attracts more and more people including committed followers and disciples in all the countries in the world. International Oriental Studies realized a long time ago that it had to catch up with its shortcomings. The researchers have to look beyond the circle of their colleagues, and talk to a wider audience, providing it with authentic, real scholarly information, discovering and processing new sources, and at the same time complete research of established sources to reinterpret them. For this reason, a new upswing in critical reading can be seen in international research—more and more brand new sources are discovered, new interpretations are worked out and are made accessible to a wider circle. It has been a serious problem in public education in Hungary since the 1990s that there has been an avalanche of dilettantes and swindlers on the loose in the propagation of Oriental culture. It has become clear that in order to evaluate the products of publishing houses that were ignoring professional control, it is necessary that academic Oriental workshops should become the office sources of information on Oriental Studies. This task demands enormous efforts from the workshops of Oriental Studies since what they are expected to do is not simply popularize, but keep pace with international research, preserve and add to the traditionally good reputation and very favorable international recognition of Oriental Studies in Hungary. The majority of Orientalists in Hungary have recognized the magnitude of the challenge and is trying to draw attention to authentic research with the help of innovative steps. The significance of research of Buddhism has to be underlined. Buddhism, as the first world-wide religion, has spread in ever larger circles for the past about 2500 years—today, it is practiced virtually throughout the whole world. Today, we cannot speak about general education without some knowledge of Buddhism. However, in order 206

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to achieve that we have to provide those who are interested with authentic sources. This is even more valid for Buddhism in Tibet. The researchers of the department give classes at universities and colleges. The role they play in international scholarly life could be well demonstrated by the fact that in 1997, the Oriental World Congress (ICANAS) was—successfully—held in Budapest. Ildikó Ecsedy is a member of Academia Europaea and a laureate of the József Eötvös wreath of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Besides doing research of several subjects, year after year, she writes several dozens of reviews for the Sinology journal of international significance, the Revue Bibliographique de Sinologie edited in Paris. She is also the editor of the series: Csoma Kőrösi Pocket Library. History and Culture, as well as the bilingual series Chinese-Hungarian Books were founded and are edited by Ferenc Tőkei. The multifaceted nature of the work of the department is duly reflected by the Bibliography. This unambiguously demonstrates that the activities of the Turkologists failed to make their mark among the leadership of the institute. On the other hand, it is really surprising that ICANAS, the International Congress of Orientalists in Budapest (1997) that had been initiated and organized by myself, and of which I was the President, was mentioned at all. This inaccurate summary could be taken for nothing else but a malevolent deception. It is because of this misinterpretation that at this point I have to list the international publications of our modest-sized group of Turkology during this period of time. The following were published between the time that I was transferred to the Institute of Linguistics in the 1970s and 1999 when the volume —cited above—marking the institute’s jubilee was published. 1. In cooperation with the University of Vienna, the publication of volumes 1-23 of Turkologischer Anzeiger/Turkology Annual (Vienna, 1975-98). 2. The editing of the journal Archivum Ottomanicum (Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz) vol 13 (1993-94) to vol 14 (1995/96). 207

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3. Editing of 15 volumes in the series Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica. In addition, editions of manuscripts of the oldest Turkish prose kept in the Oriental Library of the Academy, were prepared. These volumes were published later in 2006, 2007 and 2008. Apart from other shorter, auxiliary studies, these publications constituted the contribution of our modest-sized unit of Turkology to the institute’s activities. Unfortunately, those who summed up the output of 50 years failed or rather did not wish to take into consideration the data of the annual reports. In such a way, Turkology failed to appear in this account.

Conferences on the Balkans In 2009 and 2010, I was invited to conferences in Skopje and in Prizren that recalled memories of my first visits to the Balkans in 1957 when I was collecting material on Turkish dialects in the former Yugoslavia. How different the political circumstances in these two places were compared to those days! Both Macedonia and Kosovo had become independent states. I had very pleasant experiences in Skopje (Üsküb in Turkish). The few days that I had spent there in 1957 were made unforgettable by the organizing work of two young Turkish students of literature: Fahri Kaya (1930–) and Necati Zekeriya (1928–1988). Necati unfortunately passed away very early. But Fahri, who had made a political career in Tito’s Macedonia and reached a high post in government, was still working with incomparable zeal. This time, he organized a successful trip by car to the mountains from where there was a splendid view onto this friendly town. We recalled our memories of 1957. And naturally we spoke quite a lot about the great political transformation: the disintegration of Yugoslavia. At one of the official dinners, I was seated beside two illustrious Macedonian representatives of the Tito era. One was Tito’s personal interpreter who had been a close associate of the great politician for 208

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decades. When he spoke about Tito, his words reflected sad nostalgia. The conference on the Balkans and Turkology in Prizren was organized from Ankara by TİKA (Türk İşbirliği ve Koordinasyon Ajansı Başkanlığı, Turkish Cooperation and Coordination Agency) in cooperation with the local university. I was proclaimed the Nestor of Balkan and Turkish studies, so I was the first speaker at the symposium. My remarks had an interesting follow-up which made me think a little. During a recess in the conference, a much younger colleague from Turkey came up to me with the following words: “Hocam, you have said everything that I would have liked to talk about after lunch.” My reply was this: “Dear Colleague, I didn’t really say anything new, I just summed up what I had written in the 1950s-60s that can also be found in my book Kurze Einführung in das Studium der türkischen Sprache published in 1978.” The young colleague was unfortunately unfamiliar with it and so in 2009, he was trying to present the long developed topics as novelties. When I was leaving for the airport, Fahri Kaya handed me his booklet on the outstanding Turkish intellectuals in Macedonia in the 19th and 20th centuries. I was pleased to read these rich studies about people such as İsmail Eren (1923–1993) and Necati Zekeriya with whom I had had good relations during the Balkan years of my youth. My other recent visit to the Balkans took place in 2010. The opportunity was offered by the invitation to the conference of BALTAM (Balkan Türk Araştırma Merkezi), the Turkish Research Center in the Balkans that was founded by a nice Turkologist couple, working in Prizren. My friends had organized this event several times. This meeting on Turkology had won a distinguished place among the small congresses. I was always honored to be invited but I never managed to find the time to participate. This time, however, I was pleased to oblige them. The conference was held through the serious intellectual assistance of academia in Turkey and the significant financial 209

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support of the Turkish state. The elite of Turkology from Turkey were present at the event but the Turkish military contingent, functioning in the framework of the UN, was also represented. For me, this offered the advantage that I was able to discuss with my colleagues several issues concerning Istanbul and Ankara. I can remember that it was during the journey by car to the airport in Kosovo that Şükrü Halûk Akalın (1956–), the Chairman of the Turkish Language Society at the time, and I discussed the issues of the Kurze Einführung in das Studium der türkischen Sprache, which was close to being published in Turkey. Even the Turkish title of the book was elaborated during this journey. For me, glimpsing at life in the new states in the Balkans was a great experience in itself.

The CIPSH (International Council for Philosophy and Human Sciences) Assemblies in the New Century The year 2000, when I returned from Cyprus was the year hailed as the first year in the beginning of a new century and millennium. It began with important journeys for me. Professor Charles Leblanc, the remarkable Sinologist who was the Chairman of the 36th ICANAS due that fall, had indicated to me already in Budapest that he counted on my help with the organizing work. When I was in Cyprus, he visited me twice in order to seek advice and information. I did provide him with plenty of that. In the year of the congress, he expected me to fly to Montreal at least once so that we could discuss everything on the spot. This trip took place at the beginning of April, just as winter was bidding farewell. I can remember very well that the Hungarian Ambassador of Canada, the unforgettable Marta Moszczenska, told me that I should expect to find snow close to one meter high. By the time I arrived, miraculously, only massive spots of snow had been left as spring slowly made its presence known. 210

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It was luck that my journey coincided with the visit to Montreal of Elizabeth Zachariadou and her husband, Nikos Oikonomides. The reason why they returned to the scene of their long political emigration was to eliminate the last link: to sell their former house. The matter had already been finalized—it was only the last official steps that had to be taken. So during these days, I was able to enjoy their hospitality and guidance as well. It was the last time the three of us were together. After his return to Athens, Nikos was bedridden with a serious bout of pneumonia. In the hospital, he fought for his life for weeks. Unfortunately, in vain. In his home, my friend Charles Leblanc proved to be a great host. After going over the issues connected to ICANAS, he showed me the sights of Montreal, and even took me to Quebec City. The trip by car, seeing the present and past of this gem of Canada was a great experience. When I was leaving for the ICANAS Congress at the beginning of September, I already knew the city well. Its face at the end of summer was much nicer than in spring. Since I was the Chairman of the preceding congress, several duties in protocol awaited me. In harmony with the traditions, at the opening ceremony, it was my job to greet the participants. But I also had to take part in several round-table discussions separate from the Turkology section. The topic of one of these was the perspectives on the development of fields that were close to ours. The other “Hungarian” participant was Denis Sinor. My other overseas trip took place only a few weeks after ICANAS—I participated in the work of the General Assembly of CIPSH in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Observing life in this exciting country and beautiful city was an unforgettable experience. The assembly itself—as we had already seen in previous years — did not really bode well as far as the expectations in connection with UNESCO were concerned. Later, these expectations were justified at the assemblies in Beijing in 2004 and Alexandria in 2006. The denigrating and arrogant policies of the UNESCO ad211

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ministration toward CIPSH, the prestigious international organization that had been established by UNESCO itself, was more and more prevalent between the two institutions. I can mention as an example that UNESCO announced on the eve of the assembly in Beijing that for the post of the President of CIPSH it was nominating a Korean diplomat who had been working in the administration of UNESCO (and whose field was philosophy). His former tie with CIPSH was that he had taken part in the assembly in Buenos Aires. The nomination was, in fact, an appointment. Who would have dared to contradict UNESCO which was in possession of the key to the cash register? When the announcement was made, the information was also added that the candidate had to take part in a meeting in Paris first. It was from there that he would fly to Beijing so that on the last day of the assembly, he would be able to greet his new organization of which he had become President. Unfortunately, we were waiting for him in vain. But the next piece of information soon arrived. He had had to fly to Mexico on an urgent UNESCO matter. So he would make the first contact with CIPSH later. All this perfectly illustrates the policies and style that prevailed in UNESCO over the past decades. As far as culture and academia are concerned, the organization has been moving away from its original objectives. And as far as substantive action is concerned, it has been floating in a milieu that is incomprehensible to me. A sad concomitant phenomenon of that is the unabashed demands of foreign travels of a bureaucratic, self-perpetuating clique misusing public funds. Let me add a minor example of the above that proves this point. The venue is the headquarters of UNESCO in Rue Miollis where member organizations—because of the increasingly large membership— have smaller and smaller office space. I had some business to attend to on one floor of the building. In the elevator, two UNESCO diplomats were exchanging a few words. “I hope you will be there at our next meeting in New Delhi.” “Unfortunate212

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ly, I can’t,”—was the reply—“because I have to go to this and this session in Rio de Janeiro.” For me, it was the assembly in Alexandria in 2006 that put a practical end to the series of CIPSH sessions. Due to my wife’s illness, I wasn’t able to participate in the following meeting in Cape Town. But I had become President of Union, so I was able to delegate this job to the Secretary General of the organization in good conscience.

Other Scholarly Events after 2000 The decade after the year 2000 enriched my life by participating in two annual meetings and the obligation to publish the proceedings. One was the annual scholarly conference initiated by the director of the Hungarian publishing house Lilium Aurum located in Dunajská Streda in Slovakia. Later, I am going to tell you about this in detail. The other regular obligation was to deliver lectures at the Hungarian-Azeri academic conferences that had been launched by the extremely active Ambassador of Azerbaijan in Budapest, Hasan Hasanov. I devoted my remarks there to the general issues of Turkology that were most probably of interest to my colleagues from Baku. The Ambassador, who never ran short of initiatives, was very grateful for my personal contribution. He must have sensed that I was pleased to do this, and he wasn't wrong. My ties with my colleagues from Azerbaijan and Baku lived in me as everlasting memories. The Ambassador reciprocated my modest contribution to his initiatives with a nice gesture, he honored me with an invitation to a short stay in Baku in March of 2007. At first, I resisted, but then, at the behest of my friend, Mihály Hoppál (1942–), who was also involved in the issue, I gave in. In the end, I did not regret it because we spent a few pleasant days there together. After many decades, I was able to see Baku again where in the second half of the 1960s I had been on several occasions. 213

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Unfortunately, I managed to see only very few of my colleagues and friends from the 1960s. Ambassador Hasan Hasanov’s gift to me on the occasion of my trip was, that he had the bibliography of my publications printed in Baku. Although I had drifted far away from the research of the Old Turkic period, my colleagues and friends in Berlin reminded me of my ties with them and with the Turfan Collection. They asked me to deliver lectures on prestigious subjects at the conferences that were organized to mark the 100th anniversary of the birth of Annemarie von Gabain (2002) and the first Turfan expedition (2004).

My Ties with the Heritage of AG rmin Va/ mbe/ ry It was by coincidence that during the course of my life, I had come across Ármin Vámbéry, this great figure of Hungarian and international Turkology. I was still an aspirant when the Hungarian journal Nyelvtudományi közlemények (Studies on Linguistics) asked me to write a commemorative piece on Vámbéry. During a conversation with Gyula Németh, this job also came up. He too was among those who were critical of Vámbéry. As far as I can remember, Gyula Németh did not mention that he knew his predecessor personally. Vámbéry had long been retired when Gyula Németh started his studies in Turkology. In this way, his opinion was essentially determined by the picture that was formed in Hungarian academia in the wake of the “Ugor-Turkic war”. He approved of my intention to take a thorough look at the whole of Vámbéry’s work in preparation for the article. I was as good as my word. This modest piece of writing was prepared and published under the title In Memories of Ármin Vám9 béry. What I wrote there was very different from what Gyula Németh thought of Vámbéry. Later he said only this: “I have 9

In: Nyelvtudományi Közlemények, 1963. Vol. 65, pp. 196–200.

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read your piece. I think you are right.” Self-criticism was the master’s strength. My work connected me with Vámbéry later too. I was already in Berlin when Gyula Ortutay approached me and asked me to write a volume on Vámbéry for his series A múlt magyar tudósai (The Hungarian Scientists of the Past). I accepted the assignment and the volume was published in 1976. Later, the Publishing House of the Academy issued it in electronic form as well, and it was reprinted in 2001 by Lilium Aurum Publishers in Dunajská Streda (Dunaszerdahely), Slovakia. Around that time a remarkable biography of Vámbéry was published by Lory Alder and Richard Dalby which drew attention to several new British sources (The Dervish of Windsor Castle. The Life of Arminius Vambery. Bachmann and Turner, London, 1979). This gave me the idea to try and find traces of Vámbéry on the basis of British lists of sources in the contemporary materials in the library in West Berlin. The work that I just managed to begin promised good results—I still keep the copies of the articles that I had found at that time. I am convinced that more research in the British libraries and archives would make the discovery of many new sources possible. In 1999, at the initiative of Gyula Hodossy, who was the devoted manager of the Lilium Aurum Publishers founded two societies (Vámbéry Civic Association and Vámbéry Scholarly College) in order to cultivate the memory and scholarly oeuvre of the great son of Csallóköz (Žitný ostrov in Slovakia). The volumes of the annual Vámbéry conferences demonstrated faithfully what enormous capital lay in his heritage. All that, as well as the Turkological content and the relevant political considerations at the time, made it a natural obligation for me to accept their invitation to participate. I was pleased to do so because I thought I was serving a good cause in Turkology and a patriotic one at the same time. Apart from the conferences, I did my best to give a helping hand—wherever it was possible—to the initiatives connected with Vámbéry. 215

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György Hazai and his good friend, the creator of the Vámbéry Civic Association, Gyula Hódossy

Just as we can be pleased that our friends across the border make a point of cultivating the legacy of Ármin Vámbéry, it was just as saddening that Turkology in Hungary—which actually came to life thanks to the activities of Vámbéry—failed to embrace this precious scholarly treasure even today. I felt honored to be elected the Chairman of the Civic Association, which looks after the legacy of Vámbéry. I was also honored to be decorated later with the Vámbéry Prize that the Association created. Over the years, a few modest writings of mine were published in Dunaszerdahely. They were all, without exception, connected with the presentation of this or that aspect of the Vámbéry œuvre. In this way, for a decade I was able to pay more attention to cultivating this initiative that enriched Turkology and, at the same time, strengthened the ties between Hungarians in Hungary and the ones beyond the border, in Slovakia. The centenary of Ármin Vámbéry’s death was in 2013. For me, as a Hungarian Turkologist, it was obvious that I should do everything I could to honor him. But in the heavy headwinds, 216

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which sometimes forced complicated detours, it was very difficult to achieve my goal. Let me record a few instructive details here. It was impossible for me as an Orientalist Academician to turn directly to József Pálinkás (1952–), the President of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences because of his disinterest in such matters. This obstacle made me look for a bypass. The matter was saved by the assistance of Judit Hammerstein, the Deputy State Secretary for Culture. I asked her to reach out to the President of the Academy in an official letter and brief him on the Vámbéry centenary, and also tell him that the Ministry of Culture would be pleased to cooperate with the Academy in commemorating it. The letter was preceded by a substantive discussion in the Ministry. You could not say “no” to a request on such a level. But the groaned “yes” was quickly followed by saying that the Academy was not willing to spend a dime on the centenary. So, to supplement the support of the Ministry of Culture that was not plentiful but still provided a solid basis for the work, Pál Fodor and I tried to find more funds to implement our plans of organising an In Memoriam Vámbéry conference. The first result was the publication of a modest but handsome booklet which was worthy of the event. The small but nicely documented publication had, in fact, been picked out as a reprint of vol 8/2013 of Magyar Tudomány (Hungarian Science). On September 13, 2013, we managed to hold a high-level international conference in the Aula Magna of ELTE. The lectures delivered there by Turkologists from Germany, Turkey, Israel and Hungary were published in my journal Archivum Ottomanicum (vol 31.2014). This is the point where I have to mention that at the initiative of our Turkish friends, the Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Society) commemorated the Vámbéry centenary in the framework of a prestigious conference. It took place in September 2013 in one of the most elegant hotels, located in the heart of Ankara. A sea of flags, banners and posters reminded the participants of the outstanding lifework of the Hungarian 217

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scholar who helped found the academic ties between Hungary and Turkey. (Imagine if István Széchenyi Square in Budapest were covered with flags and Vámbéry banners from the building of the Academy as far as the hotels opposite. This was the reception in Ankara.) Fifteen Hungarian Turkologists were able to participate in this conference as the guests of our Turkish friends. The scholarly institutions in Turkey dipped deep into their pockets for the sake of Hungarian-Turkish friendship and were pleased to do so. After the reception at the Embassy of Hungary on the evening of the conference in Ankara, we Hungarian Turkologists stayed together for a few minutes. This was a “rare opportunity” for a confidential exchange of views in a constructive atmosphere. (It was rare because we never sought nor required such a meeting in Budapest.)

The Year 2014 The comedy by Ferenc Molnár A Game in the Castle (Játék a kastélyban) is considered the author’s most humorous work. In the opening scene of the play, the protagonist Turai, a playwright, is asked the following question. “What are you so deeply thinking about?” He replies: “I am thinking about how difficult it is to begin a play. How should a good play start?” As far as I am concerned, I am facing a somewhat similar question. This moment has perhaps just arrived. How shall I finish these memoirs? By the very nature of this genre, chronology plays a decisive role. At the same time, everything else connected with events often overrides the demands of the timeline and may lead one into different areas. Since I would like to see my memoirs in a printed form, I have decided that the last point of the retrospection would be December 2014. Recording what might happen to me after this date will not be covered in this volume. *** 218

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As my point of departure, allow me please to return to September 2013, the conferences on Vámbéry in Ankara and Budapest. My plan had been that I would close the year with these two events, only one of which required that I do some work: the conference in Budapest. However, things worked out in a different way. The President of the Turkish Academy of Sciences (Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi—TÜBA), Ahmet Cevat Acar asked me to participate in a meeting in Ankara in December 2013 because he wanted to exchange a few ideas with me on some issues connected with publishing. After thinking for a while, I said yes. December in Ankara—if there is no rain or snow—is usually pleasant. Even if the weather is a little bit colder than in Budapest. My friend and Ambassador János Hóvári, dispatched me to the meeting in the Ambassador’s car. The headquarters of TÜBA stands in a centrally located place, next to the television tower (Atakule). The Ambassador and his wife—I can remember it well—suggested that the car should wait for me or return to fetch me. I declined this proposal with thanks, saying that besides the possibility of asking TÜBA to give me a lift, I could cover this short distance in a taxi. I was wrong, but this mistake was perhaps to my benefit. There was no problem with the car: the only difficulty I had was walking a short stretch. It made me conscious of the fact that I was not the man I used to be. Everything was all right in my head, but not in my body and I found the rigours of everyday life taxing. The medical tests in Budapest in January confirmed that I had to live my life in a different way than before. But I considered it a priority that I meet the obligations that life had assigned me, and if possible complete them. So in January 2014, my daughter Cili and I flew to Baku in order to talk to the President of the Academy of Sciences of Azerbaijan about issues connected with ICANAS. The matter had long antecedents, so an exchange of opinions was overdue. 219

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We had planned to be away for two working days. It was a great experience also for Cili to see the rise of Baku, the pearl of the Caspian Sea, out of the depths of its Soviet past. (My daughter had not had any previous experiences of the city.) Our stay in Baku was organized in the traditional Azeri way. The main role was played—as I had learned during my previous visits—by the culinary delights. During lunches and dinners our tables almost sank under the weight of a multitude of delicacies, and it normally took four or five hours to finish a meal. This visit, however, had a further and unexpected aspect for me. In order to be able to explain it, I have to look back to the past. When I visited Baku in 1965, I looked at the handbooks in the library of the Academy. It struck me immediately that they hardly had any books from Turkey. When I made a remark on that, they sadly admitted this fact. It was not difficult to find out the reason. It was a well-known fact that the repression of the Stalinist period hit Azerbaijan especially hard because Turkey was its neighbour. This repression even reached the bookshelves of libraries. What had been published in Turkey was— as a matter of fact— banned even after Stalin’s death. During this first visit to the Academy in Baku, I made the promise to send them all my extra copies of my books on a regular basis. They were very grateful for this already at that time. I remember that each year they sent me well wishes for the New Year, thanking me for the extra copies. However, something extraordinary happened before my trip at the beginning of 2014 when a sudden action by the Director of the Institute of Linguistics forced our research group to leave our offices. This meant for us an additional burden of moving, which was not easy from a technical point of view. As far as I was concerned, the extra copies of my Turkish books needed to be removed. But where to? I could not take them to my apartment because I did not have much empty space left. It occurred to me that I would ask the Ambassador of Azerbaijan to Budapest and offer these copies to the Central Library of the Acad220

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The Handing over of the Catalog of the Books Donated by György Hazai in Baku, January 2014

emy of Sciences of Azerbaijan. The Ambassador, who was a Turkologist and a remarkable literary historian, was pleased to make arrangements. As a result, 30 cardboard boxes of books found their way to Baku. The Ambassador had the delivery done by Turkish Airways, which waived the EUR 2,000 charge. The real surprise was, however, waiting for me in Baku. Handling the material as a separate collection, the Academy had prepared its catalog. And they timed its presentation in the framework of an exhibition for my stay in Baku. It was there that I was told that they were going to place the collection in a dedicated reading room, named after me. In February, I was pleased to participate in the ceremony at the Hungarian Embassy in Berlin where Barbara Kellner-Heinkele was awarded the decoration Pro Cultura Hungarica. Needless to say, all the Turkologists important to both me and her were present at this event. We all dined and spent the evening together. To all this, a very special experience was added. The extremely successful Head of Collegium Hungaricum, the Hungarian 221

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Ramazan Gorkhmaz, Chief of Turkish Caucasian Union of Universities, Cecilia Hazai, György Hazai, Isa Habbibeyli, Vice-President of the Academy of Sciences of Azerbaijan visiting the President of the Academy, January 2014

Cultural Institute in Berlin—founded several years before—was Can Togay, the son of my friend, Gün Benderli. He had often urged me to stay with them and said he would gladly put a guest room of the Collegium at my disposal. Over the years, I had never done so, it was my hosts who provided me with accommodation. This time, however, I intended to spend a few nights in the Collegium Hungaricum. I wanted to say goodbye to the historical center of the city, Humboldt University, Staatsbibliothek, Bebelplatz, Unter den Linden Boulevard, the equestrial statue of Frederik the Great that radiated dignity, and everything else that had been the backdrop of my everyday life for two decades. I spent the next months working quietly at home going out less and less. This quiet lifestyle was interrupted by the invitation to visit Ankara by the President of the Republic of Turkey. On June 11, they planned to give me a high decoration (Decoration of the Order of the Republic of Turkey and the Order of 222

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Merit) in recognition of my work in Turkology. Since the costs of the trip were covered by the hosts, propriety dictated that neither of my daughters should accompany me. However, Ambassador Şakir Fakılı, the great friend of Turkology in Hungary, arranged for a young colleague to accompany me as the guest of the Turkish side. My Turkish hosts, as well as our Ambassador, János Hóvári, paid attention to each and every detail. The most important thing was that during the elegant ceremony, I was able to meet several friends and colleagues. I recall that Ahmet Cevat Acar, the President of the Turkish Academy of Sciences, was among the first to congratulate me on being decorated.

György Hazai receives the State Decoration of the Republic of Turkey

In Budapest, everyday work was waiting for me. This would have been interrupted by our usual stay in Théoule in the summer, where, as before, the continuation of the work on these memoirs would have been in the focus of my “rest”. The trip that had been planned for August 8 did not, however, take place. The health of my wife forced us to cancel it at the last moment. Looking back at the course of events, I confess that our decision was fortunate. The flight may have been difficult for me too. Luckily, we had organized the trip in a way that my wife and I would have travelled together with my daughter, Kinga. She stayed with my wife and me until the afternoon so that she could attend to everything we needed before she left for Théoule without us. 223

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I had expected this summer to be calm. It did not happen that way. On the afternoon of August 13, a short two-minute telephone call informed me that I had lost someone with whom I had been friends since the 1980s. The three sentences uttered during that call bored into my heart forever in an indelible way. I felt as if a rock had rolled over me. And that I had to live together with this pain until the end of my life. All our common memories—Potsdam, Ayasofya and the Danube Bend—would appear every single day and add to the weight of my grief. My consolation could only be that I would not have to carry this burden for a long time. The only thing I could do was to force myself to tenaciously meet the obligations of my work and everyday life. It was not the first time that such a thing had happened to me. It was in the second half of October that the 21st session of CIEPO, the international symposium of Ottoman Studies took place in Budapest. There is no need for me to repeat here what I had already written in another chapter about my role in the creation of this forum. This time fortunately I had no obligation to organize the event. This work was done by Pál Fodor in a way that received universal appreciation. My only job was to deliver the opening remarks, which were dedicated to the origins of CIEPO (speech published in Archivum Ottomanicum 33 (2016), pp. 9-11). I was pleased to oblige the symposium. It was also an obligation since from among the founders, I was the only one who was still alive. I did not participate in the other sessions and receptions of CIEPO. However, I was pleased to host a lunch in the Club of the Academy for my friend, Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu (1943–), who is a prominent personality in international politics and academia in Turkey. A day later, our meeting was repeated in the same place, but in a very small circle—we were the guests of Ambassador Şakir Fakılı. In the last days of November, I had a small working meeting in Budapest with the participation of three colleagues from ab224

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From left: György Hazai, István Ormos, Sándor Fodor, Barbara KellnerHeinkele, Anas Khalidov, Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, János Hóvári at the Conference on Islamic Manuscripts in Vörösberény, Balatonalmádi, Hungary 1990

road. The topic was the future of the bibliographical series Turkologischer Anzeiger/Turkology Annual. How would we continue it in the age of the internet? That was the question that we were trying to answer. Several interesting suggestions were made. Our colleagues from Turkey proposed that we continue the exchange of views in Istanbul in 2015. This suggestion, which amounted to an invitation, was accepted. Fortunately, I managed to dissuade them from asking me to play any active role in that meeting. New Year’s Eve in 2014 reminded me of New Year’s Eve in 1981, which I also spent alone. At that time, I was watching the spectacle of West Berlin’s fireworks from the window of my apartment in Berlin-Marzahn. This time I watched the show on the Danube bank. The past year was the most difficult one of my life. I could only hope that the next one would be better. 225

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So this is the point where the part of my memoirs, following the thread of chronology, comes to an end. From this vantage point, I think of the wonderful seashore in Théoule with its red rocks: my Tusculanum where I had started putting these words to paper.

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Encounters

Friends and Colleagues By Way of an Introduction

A

t first glimpse, the reader may find this chapter of my memoirs a bit long. As far as I am concerned, I would rather call it short. During the various legs of the journeys of my life, the decades that I worked abroad, I forged countless ties of friendships. Among these, there were quite a lot of people who had nothing to do with my profession—Turkology: the central topic of the present volume. It is obvious why I am not telling you about them in these pages. I had to be selective even when discussing my colleagues and my friendly relationships in the Turkish world. All those who are not mentioned here are very much alive in my memory. I hope that their role and importance will come across the lines of this book after all. Thanks to fate and my work, life has introduced me to an untold number of people. And these encounters were often connected with very different regions and countries, and within them, very different milieus. I must begin the list with my superior: the people who stood above me from my beginnings in Budapest, through Bulgaria and Germany to Cyprus. The people who were my principals, or in some cases, were simply beside me while I did the work that had been assigned to me. By being able to peak into their workshops, I learned a lot. The life of a person in academia is determined, apart from circumstances and events he cannot control, by the tasks assigned to him and—in the deeper sense of the word—by his encounters. One must always bear in mind his experiences. This is how I have always felt and how I still feel today. I must begin with Gyula Németh. I obviously owe this to the professor who launched my career: the type of teacher whom the Germans call Doktorvater. 227

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My Masters in Hungary Gyula Ne/ meth (1890–1976)

This is perhaps the chapter where it is the most difficult to set pen to paper. My feelings of sincere respect and love are mixed with the not really pleasant memories of my conflict with Gyula Németh. Our friendship returned to a harmonious one, but our relationship loosened somewhat because of my stay in Berlin. During that time, we understood each other very well. As I have said before, I started studying the Turkish language and paleography already as a freshman, just a few weeks after the beginning of the academic year. I regularly visited the Institute of Turkology to take part in the language classes of Lajos Fekete. My studies focussed on Turkish chronicles and documents essentially right after I had learned the basics of the Arabic script. That was the time when I first met Gyula Németh, which was not more than an introduction. The idea that I should stay in the institute as a single major in Turkology came up in the third semester. Naturally, the implementation of this idea depended mainly on Gyula Németh. He had received a favorable opinion of me from Lajos Fekete, but that was not enough. He wanted to come to know me better. A long confidential conversation took place where he asked me about my family circumstances and my studies in high school. He knew all my teachers from the Trefort school quite well. This was understandable because of the interconnectedness of the two institutions. During our conversation, he also inquired about my language skills. In this, he had a very simple method. He picked up a book in German, French and English from the shelf in his office and made me read a few lines. He was satisfied with the result. He said only that I would have to learn Russian too. My answer was that this was already happening since Russian was a compulsory subject for everyone from the second semester. However, I was surprised by the fact that he considered this matter topical and important. He even 228

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made inquiries with my teacher of Russian about my proficiency. I understood the reasons for that only when he had shared with me his plans to compile the bibliography of Soviet Turkology. His expectations made it clear from the very first moment that in the future I would become his student and that I would have to delve deeply into linguistic Turkology. He agreed that I should keep contact with Lajos Fekete’s field of the research and that I should continue to attend his classes on reading and studying the texts of documents. But he also unambiguously designated my priorities. During a conversation at the institute, Lajos Fekete hinted that he would like to count on me in connection with the elaboration of a certain subject matter. I can remember Gyula Németh’s firm statement very well. “Lajos, there are much more important jobs awaiting Mr. Hazai.” As far as language and linguistics were concerned, he gave me very clear assignments. He was not teaching the language itself, at least not in the years that I spent beside him. In this, he completely relied on Lajos Fekete and the working discipline of his students. As I have already told you, my first assignment was the anthology Türkisches Übungsbuch that he had published in the series Sammlung Göschen. After this, by the end of the second semester, you were expected to have read Çalıkuşu (Wren) by Reşat Nuri Güntekin in the Arabic script edition, and by the end of the fourth, the bulky anthology by Moritz Wickerhauser that required quite a lot of dictionary work. In linguistics, Gyula Németh launched me in the summaries of general linguistics by Zoltán Gombocz (1877–1935). The extracts from the monographs of linguist Hermann Paul (1846– 1921) and experimental psychologist Wilhelm Wundt (1832– 1920) were published on the pages of the journals Magyar Nyelv (Hungarian Language) and Magyar Nyelvőr (Hungarian Linguistic Guardian) and served to inform Hungarian linguists. Gombocz’s theories of phonetics were included in my assignments. Besides these, Gyula Németh also drew my attention to 229

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the Phonetics by Géza Bárczi (1894–1975), which was published as a university textbook at that time. The famous work by Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913), Cours de linguistique générale, also belonged to the spectrum of Gyula Németh’s general linguistics. I can remember very well that the concept of the work, the pioneering formulation of the demand for a synchronic description of languages came up in our discussions several times. Gyula Németh confessed to me that he would have liked to make this work accessible to Hungarian linguists, just as Gombocz’s work had been. The real motive behind this plan may not have been the impulse generated by the theory of Saussure. Németh certainly wanted to please his own master, Gombocz, whom he held in high esteem and who had suggested this idea. In fact, the horizon of Gyula Németh’s expertise in general linguistics ended in the sphere of the history of languages. Phonology was not his cup of tea. His opinion was the following: “They discovered that the difference between the phonemes ‘ai’ and ‘ei’, as in the words ‘my’ and ‘may’, constitutes a difference in meaning. But they were unable to say anything more intelligent than that.” All his writings did reflect a pre-phonological approach. What could a Turkologist, whether a beginner or a more proficient scholar, learn from Gyula Németh? An awful lot! The Çelebi—as he was called in the circle of Turkologists—had an enormous insight into the gigantic architecture of Turkology. And there, he was very much at home on each and every floor. He knew extremely well the problems of the language, literature and history, their sources and the people who were working in those fields. He kept a constant eye on new literature and he always updated his dossiers in which the scope of his knowledge was recorded on small slips of paper. One of the important sources he used to keep pace with general developments was Orientalistische Literaturzeitung. He kept an eye on new developments in adjacent disciplines such as Arabic and Iranian Studies. As far as I was concerned, I was fortunate enough that 230

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later, because of our common work on bibliographies, I worked on his dossiers, which exceeded the number of the lectures he was delivering. But it also happened quite often that he gave me the relevant dossier on a given subject matter, saying that I should first orientate myself with the material on these slips of paper. When he launched a student into a subject, he always limited himself to a short introduction. After this, the student found himself in deep water from where he had to swim out on his own. But Gyula Németh would always read the end-product paper very carefully. He would mention repeatedly that one of the most important features of academia was the correction of mistakes in a beginner’s research. I was able to take advantage of this while writing my BA thesis. But when doing my doctorate thesis, I was on my own both in narrowing down and elaborating my subject matter. The tension arising from our deteriorating relationship had reached its climax at that time. But besides Turkology, I also learned quite of lot from Gyula Németh, things that I took advantage of later. It was from him that I learned how to write an official letter or an assessment of a scholarly paper. My first attempts at such jobs were not good. But he always corrected my mistakes with a lot of patience. What I chiefly learned from him was his high esteem for time. I remember that during a short conversation, he reminded me of time’s great value. “You know, Mr Hazai, you mustn’t forget the German saying: Fleiß macht Genie. I,” he added in a polite way, “apply this mainly to myself. But you can also think about it.” Of course, I did not adopt his strict timetable that was wellknown and often mocked by his friends and colleagues. But it was from him that I learned to appreciate the benefits of managing my time. Eventually, this became an essential factor in my own life. During my years at the university, we developed a close and 231

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extremely intimate friendship. As far as his correspondence was concerned, he entrusted me with opening his mail, and expected me to brief him on what he had received. And there were no restrictions or exceptions in this respect. For a long time, Gyula Németh was the Chairman of the 10 Committee that awarded the Kossuth Award. Because of that, I would learn the results well before the decisions were made public. But he also entrusted me with his finances. When he was abroad, I picked up his salary too. (At that time, bank transfers were unknown.) The money then found its way into a drawer in his desk. I was the only one who had access to it. His only instruction to me was that from this sum, I was allowed to “lend money” to his wife only in case of an emergency. *** Our relationship began to deteriorate in October 1956 while we were in Bulgaria. I was still an aspirant of his, but I was also teaching at the University in Sofia. Gyula Németh visited the Bulgarian capital as a member of a delegation from the Hungarian Academy. Because of the events in Hungary, he was not able to return home for quite a few weeks. He and many others had to wait for air traffic to Hungary to be restored. During these tense days, he and I, naturally had many conversations about politics, the near future and within that, the fate of Turkology. In his statements and behavior, he revealed a face that was very different from the one he usually wore. He may have been worried—at least, this is what I think today— that later I would use all that I had heard against him. That is why he may have decided as a precaution to part ways with me after I completed my time as his aspirant. In addition, he also did things that were difficult to explain even at that time. Later, he would deeply regret them all. This sad state of affairs did not last long. In the winter of 1962, when it was well known that my invitation to Berlin was 10 The highest Hungarian state decoration.

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going to materialize, I took a holiday in Mátraháza at the Academy’s holiday home. When we arrived, members of the previous group of guests were waiting to leave. Among them was Gyula Németh whom I greeted with respect. The small lobby of the holiday home was full with people mingling, both newly arrived guests and people completing their holiday. Gyula Németh was conducting a vigorous discussion with György Lukács. Quite by accident, I sat down behind him and overheard their conversation. György Lukács was asking about Gyula Németh’s students. He told him that they had all, without exception, made their way abroad and were working in Turkey and the US. Then he added: “One of my best students is going to Berlin now. He has received an invitation from Humboldt University to become a visiting lecturer.” In other words, it had not taken long for me to reappear in his mind in my old status. In the summer of 1965, when I returned from Berlin for my usual family visit, I paid Gyula Németh a visit at the department. By this time, it was well known that he would retire soon. When I entered his office, there must have been four or five people around him. A pleasant conversation followed during which he brought up the topic of the department’s future. “You are going to become my successor,” he said and then handed me a copy of Voprosy Jazykoznanija, which contained one of his articles. He dedicated the edition in the following way: “To the bright future from the dark past.” This was also an example of his unmatched humor. His sharp hints always struck where they were intended to. They always hit their target, and triggered the intended effect. However, as a I mentioned before, Gyula Németh took a spectacular step in restoring our friendship when he took part as the opponent in the defense of my doctorate thesis in 1966. During the following years, I was in regular contact with him right up until his death in 1976. We would meet in a café next to his apartment on the corner of Verpeléti and Frigyes 233

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Karinthy Street. As far as I can remember, every conversation we had at this time was pleasant and friendly. *** There is one aspect in the balance of my relationship with Gyula Németh that I must not keep quiet about if I want to be true to myself. Looking back at our conflict, I am terribly sorry that our ties deteriorated for a short time. However, I do not feel that I was the one to be blamed for that. What happened did happen. I owe gratitude to fate that everything happened in this way. Working under the protective wings of Gyula Németh had been a great benefit. To be the first apprentice of the Master is fine, but it is not without disadvantages. The break-up with him threw me into deep waters. And I had to swim without any assistance. Lajos Ligeti (1902–1987)

It is much more difficult to write about Lajos Ligeti. Mostly because negative elements dominated in my relationship with him. And all these elements, without exception, were due to his incredibly “complicated” personality. I could replace the word “complicated” with dozens of negative epithets, but I believe that this would oversimplify his character. Gyula Németh, who had an extremely high esteem for Ligeti’s knowledge, always warned me to be on my guard when dealing with Lajos Ligeti. He characterized his former student with a host of true stories. Their relationship was predetermined by a fact that could not really be changed. This was the minimal age gap between the two of them. For Lajos Ligeti, this meant that he would never be able to become Head of the Department of Turkology for a prolonged period. In other words, he would never become the master of Gyula Németh’s department. His decision to study the languages of Central Asia—apart from being a fas234

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cinating topic—was obviously motivated by this factor to no small extent. Lajos Ligeti was a man with a peculiar frame of mind. On the one hand, he needed students because he enjoyed the “sparks” that came from sharing knowledge. On the other hand, he loved torturing his students. No matter what kind of question was on the table, whether it was a scholarly one or an organizational one, he always sought to have the last word when the solution was found. At such moments, a peculiar smile—the vague smile of an inquisitor—appeared at the corner of his mouth, which was intended to indicate his superiority. Only at the dinner table was he really able to relax. This was when he talked about his life and he never missed a chance to boast. Dènes Szabó (1913–1994), the remarkable linguist, called these well-known and all-too-common outpourings the “fairy tales of Lajos Ligeti”. (By the way, we referred to our group meetings by the Russian word kruzhok, circle.) His favorite “fairy tale” topic was his reminiscences of his years in Paris. And he stressed the point that, upon his return from his studies abroad with prestigious publications under his belt, he was not immediately appointed to head a department at the university. “Do you know what I did then? I took the train to Paris. And there I received such a serious proposal that forced the competent people in Budapest to really think about things.” In a summary of the course of his life, he says that in Paris he was offered a professorship and citizenship. He also told me this story several times. With the benefit of what I know today, I would interpret this anecdote in the following way. Lajos Ligeti probably received an acceptable job offer at most. I believe that linking this with citizenship is absurd. Nowhere in the world, let alone in France, is citizenship linked with a job offer. These are issues which cannot have anything to do with each other. I do have some personal experiences about the procedure: in 1999—exclusively at the request of my French wife—I was granted French citizenship. 235

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Lajos Ligeti loved quoting himself. Both when he told his “fairy tales” and on other occasions too. Once in the 1930s, it was his job to deliver a laudation. As the representative of the emerging young generation, addressing his words to the senior participants, he began like this: “The young generation of scholars believes that academia begins with them.” This statement— since it was the senior participants that formed the majority there—was received with palpable approval. However, Lajos Ligeti went on. “As far as the old generation is concerned, they must know that it is not with them that academia will end.” He was awfully proud of having cracked this joke. This was one of his favorite “fairy tale”. When he told it, he would often warn the young titans criticizing their predecessors with the following words: “Be careful. The time when it is your turn to be old and stupid will come very soon.” I can remember two of his favorite sayings that he would frequently repeat. He used one to address people who got stuck with already well-known and more or less exhausted subject matters, and were unable to turn to new issues. He put the following label on the activities of these: “Scratching around in the garbage can of others.” Another favorite expression of his was “free of charge hypothesis”. This was addressed to colleagues who, instead of seeking a substantive connection between the facts, jumped into fantastic interpretations and conclusions. I confess that I never understood why Lajos Ligeti, who spoke excellent French, was using the French saying hypothèse gratuite which means “arbitrary hypothesis” in the form of “free of charge hypothesis”. He had a very peculiar relationship with Turkology, which was not easy to interpret. Gyula Németh was still very young in 1918 when he became Head of the department after his predecessor Ármin Vámbéry died in 1913. Lajos Ligeti was the most talented and promising person in the first generation of his students: someone with great expectations. I met him for the first time as a student in my junior year. That was when I enrolled in 236

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one of his classes. This was something that Gyula Németh had also encouraged me to do. Although he did not have the least liking for Ligeti and on top of that was also afraid of him, he had a high esteem for his knowledge. But Németh was always careful to preserve the distance between them. He emphatically advised me that I should enroll in one of his classes. “You will learn a lot from him. And you should also establish contact with him. It is indispensable to your future.” I did learn a lot from his lectures, and his seminar was especially useful for me. During my student years, our relationship was unclouded. He was aware of the fact that my interest did not cross the borders of the Ottoman Empire. So he was certain that I would never become a close student of his. I found myself in his crosshairs when in the mid-1950s, having seen the dimensions of Oriental Studies in Prague, he started—belatedly—building his research unit at the Academy. In these efforts, however, Gyula Németh’s Turkological research on the Balkans must have presented a serious challenge. And since I was an active part in these plans, I became unambiguously, but not explicitly persona non grata. My clash with Gyula Németh in Bulgaria and the administrative consequences of that played into his hand. It was my master after all who wanted to remove me from the ring. During this time, Lajos Ligeti and I had very few dealings. Our relationship was, in fact, limited to the issues connected with my papers for Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, the journal of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. The role he had invented for himself in finalizing my job in Budapest looked rather like a caricature. He resorted to a ridiculous drama in an attempt to force me to be grateful to him and keep me within his power. But my invitation to Berlin made it clear that I had moved beyond his reach. He had to pay attention only to my thesis for a professorship since if I managed to defend it successfully, it would have opened the way to the Department of Turkology in Budapest. Because Gyula Né237

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meth “had exploded the bank”, Lajos Ligeti suffered an almost humiliating defeat. He could not do anything else but enthusiastically recommend my dissertation—the subject matter of which he was not even familiar with—for acceptance. After this, two more issues arose that resulted in a break in our relations. One of these revolved around the issue of publishing my dissertation. The Publishing House of the Academy was more than pleased to print my work because I had already reached an agreement in principle with a partner publishing house in the West that I had found, namely Mouton. This arrangement, avoiding the various problems with quotas, would have brought the publishing house in Budapest an “exported book” and, in such a way, income in hard currency. For this reason, it was easy for them to handle such a publication in a preferential way. However, the road to finalizing the project lead through Lajos Ligeti. He had introduced the feudal custom that any book by a Hungarian Orientalist must be published in the series Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica (BOH) which was edited by him. He also rejected any arrangements for such a volume in BOH to be published jointly with another publishing house. He put this “principle” in a short way: “Any volume in BOH could carry only the emblem of the Publishing House of the Academy.” György Bernát, Director of the Academy’s Publishing House, raged because of the—to put it mildly—anachronistic policy, but he could do nothing to thwart the powerful Academician. He asked me to try squeezing the approval out of Ligeti. Without much hope, I undertook this job. Our exchange of views, as it had been expected, proved to be unsuccessful. Since during the discussion I had made quite strong statements about Ligeti’s point of view, the result was that our relationship was severed for quite a long time. Later—without having consulted me—he agreed after all that the volume, although it was published by Mouton, could be included in the BOH series. Our strained relations, which everyone at the Academy was aware of, were com238

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The last visit by György Hazai to the home of Lajos Ligeti, April 19, 1986

pounded by ethnographer and politician Gyula Ortutay’s announcement in our department that he would like to see me among the corresponding members of the Academy as soon as possible. This step of his amounted to high treason in Ligeti’s eyes. In this way, my relationship with Lajos Ligeti remained at a nadir for many years to come. There were no opportunities for any kind of contact while I worked in Berlin. Time was, however, on my side, and was working for me. A tacit consensus was forming among the Academicians that my nomination for corresponding membership should be launched. This fact was imparted to Ligeti too. What is more, the department added that they would appreciate if he were the first one to propose me. The only job assigned to me was that I had to pay him a visit where we were allowed to strictly speak only about the future. I, after all, emerged from our great clash the winner. I can summarize the facts and experiences of the rather gloomy relationship between the two of us over several decades with the well-known German saying: Ende gut, Alles gut. 239

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When the recommendation for membership in the Academy was launched, I was asked to say goodbye to Berlin and return to Budapest within the foreseeable future. I promised to do so and managed to arrive in Budapest quite soon—as early as 1982. During the years after my election to the Academy, Lajos Ligeti and I worked well together in the department. And he was very proud that soon after my return from Berlin, I became the Director General of the Publishing House of the Academy. He was grateful that I paid special attention to the issue of his last great books. His opus magnum, the summary of his lifework, was published in 1986. Its title was The Turkish Ties to the Hungarian Language before the Conquest and during the Age of Árpád. I was taking part in a conference in the US when he was hospitalized. So I did not manage to pay a visit to his bed. I said farewell to him in the Farkasréti cemetery. The Ne/ meth-Ligeti School The order of the names in this title is by no means an accident. It expresses the timeline and the priority in my life. I started studying Turkology with Gyula Németh and I completed my studies with him too. These facts are also documented in my university exam book. Later, I never had to invent the story that I had been studying Turkology at the university, and that I had studied under Gyula Németh. Why am I putting an emphasis on this? The only reason for doing so is that a peculiar trend has recently cropped up in Oriental Studies in Hungary. Fortunately, this trend is rare. I am talking about the effort to make the public (from scholars to journalists) believe that someone had been studying Turkology and had been the student of Gyula Németh. True, the diplomas issued by the university would not confirm that, but who bothers to check and in the end who cares? There are few people left who could come forward as witnesses from the relevant years. I am, however, one who can. The schools of the two masters were similar in many ways, 240

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both in substance and methods. This arose from their teacherstudent relationship. Both possessed an excellent overview of their professional field. On the basis of their knowledge, both of them were able to work successfully in any of the sub-fields of it. However, what they were both most devoted to were the Eastern threads of the history of the Hungarian people and within those, the subject matters of the early historical and linguistic ties with the Turkic people. The range and depth of Gyula Németh’s knowledge of Turkology are proven by the academic careers of the students who studied with him in the 1930s. This was a successful and profitable investment in intellectual capital that Budapest shared with internationally recognized and prestigious universities and research institutes. Let me give you a list of the names: Tibor Halasi-Kun (Columbia University), Hasan Eren (Ankara Üniversitesi, Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi), János Eckmann (University of California), Ferenc László (1895–1960) (Universität Köln), András Bodrogligeti (University of California), Zsuzsa Kakuk (ELTE, Budapest). The above list makes you think very hard about the international scope and range of Turkology in Hungary at that time: especially in comparison with the present, which pales in comparison to the past. The school of Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti were known for their emphasis on the basics. They welcomed students to work on new subjects, but did not encourage them to venture into new fields. The focus of their interest was on the etymological connections that confirmed linguistic ties, and the study of historical texts. In this field, facts dominated. Theoretical linguistics, the learning and application of new theories, were beyond their sphere of interest. Gyula Németh’s role model in his relation to general linguistics and other disciplines was Zoltán Gombocz. He knew that the great Hungarian linguist had—in excellent summaries—presented the syntheses of the history of languages of Hermann Paul and the psychology of languages of Wilhelm Wundt to the linguists of Hungary. For Németh, these 241

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writings were his Bible. For me, these were the first and only materials that I ever received from him as “recommended literature”. He was pleased that I took detailed notes of them. Both Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti possessed knowledge in their professional fields that was based on extremely wide foundations. So they were able to guide anyone to either a subfield or a neighboring discipline with confidence. The weakness of teaching Turkology was that it dispended Islam in modest doses. Károly Czeglédy possessed excellent knowledge of several areas of Islam. However, his lectures were given preference—at least when I was a student—to his fruitful research of the early history of the Hungarian people. The focus of Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti’s school was to an extraordinary, perhaps exaggerated extent on publishing. This was also connected with the fact that in 1950 Hungarian Turkologists created a new international journal, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae. This journal replaced Kőrösi Csoma Archívum, which barely survived between the two world wars, and practically stopped publication in 1939. At the same time, a new opportunity opened in book publishing: an opportunity that had to be seized. Lajos Ligeti, the editor-in-chief of Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, was always on peoples’ backs, making them understand that he was expecting scholarly articles from them. It was obvious to everyone that the real value of an elaborated subject was in publishing it. In this respect, there was a complete agreement between Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti. Only works published in foreign languages really counted. There is no doubt that the consistent application of this principle determined the future careers of several of my colleagues, and to no small extent, mine as well. Lajos Fekete (1891–1969)

Lajos Fekete played no role in the great “turning points” of my scholarly career. As far as imparting and increasing knowledge were concerned, he contributed just the opposite. I studied the 242

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Ottoman language and paleography with him. In practice, this process never came to an end. Later too, when I was already working independently with the text of a document or a historical-literary work, and a problem emerged in reading or interpreting it, I always had the chance to turn to him in good faith. He would give generously of his time and expend every effort to help a student. It was a sacred duty for him. At that time, I was able to reciprocate only by assisting him in his preparations for the ideological courses (“the dilating of the heads”, as we put it) that were compulsory for professors at the beginning of the 1950s. This point requires some explanation. It was in 1951 and 1952 that the Party unit of the The Faculty of Humanities organized every eight weeks seminars in Marxism-Leninism for professors who were not members of the Party. The one that Lajos Fekete had to attend was held by classical scholar Imre Trencsényi-Waldapfel (1908–1970), who was regarded as a chief ideologue. During these seminars, the participants discussed certain topics on the basis of “recommended” literature. This serial obligation was a torment for Uncle Lajos whose mind was light years away from all that. The “students” were expected to actively participate in and contribute to the seminars. All this was supposed to demonstrate that they had actually read the compulsory texts. Lajos Fekete was aware of the fact that these subjects were also part of teaching Marxism-Leninism to the students, so he would be able to count on my help. That was really the case. I helped him with his preparations for this “dilating of the heads”. If there was an opportunity, I tried finding Turkish examples for historical materialism so that they could demonstrate that Lajos Fekete had really immersed himself in the subject. His life focused on interpreting documents in Arabic script with the most illegible ductus. He would read these in the evenings too. His wife, Aunt Rózsika, asked him the following question while he worked in complete silence: “Lajos, may I ask 243

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you something?” His reply was: “You can always ask questions, but I don’t know whether I will answer them.” He completed one of his opus magnum just before his death. Because of Hungary’s peculiar publishing situation, he turned to me for help. (Allow me please to be very direct. Lajos Ligeti instead of saying just one positive word, was blocking the publication of this work.) Obviously, I was pleased to come to Lajos Fekete’s aid. I was just about to tell him the good news of having made progress in the matter, but was no longer able to do so. He passed away a few days before I arrived from Berlin. In this way, his book remained on my hands. I will tell you about the details of this issue at another point. My Friends in Hungary It was perhaps life and my long stays abroad that caused my circle of friends to be very narrow. The only childhood friend of mine, Iván Solt, was blown to New Zealand by the whirlwind of history as happened to many Hungarians. Later, when he visited Hungary every two or three years, he would always pay me a visit. We always delighted in recalling the years we spent together in the Zugló district of Budapest. The last time he called on me was shortly after my return from Cyprus. *** In Budapest, it was the historian of Islamic art Géza Fehér Jr. with whom I—during my years at the university—forged a lifelong friendship. I established “official” contact with him at the end of my university studies. It was under his tutorship that I did my compulsory practice in Museology at the National Museum. Géza was a kind, quiet and amiable person. His character is described with great respect and in a masterly way in István Fodor’s (1943–) obituary, the Director General of the National Museum. I would like to add just a few details to it on the basis of my own experiences. 244

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During the years that I spent in Berlin, I visited him whenever I returned home. But we spent quite a lot of time together in Turkey too. The opportunity to do so was offered by the congresses held there. We would notify the organizers or the hotels that we wanted to share a double room. Even the extra time we gained in this way would always prove to be too short. Géza was in love with Turkey, especially with Istanbul where he spent the best years of his youth, as well as the war years because of his father, the great Hungarian archeologist Géza Fehér (1890–1955). He introduced me to a thousand details of everyday life in Turkey. He was fond of Turkish cuisine. This usually meant that he was unable to resist the temptations of this rich food and would suffer an upset stomach on his first day for which he would do “penance” for many days to come. On my return from Cyprus, I immediately contacted him, but no regular meetings took place between us. It would have been too much for his poor health. For me, these years as Founding Rector of Andrássy University were not easy. So I was not able to see him very often. One of our mutual friends told me that Géza was dying. I rushed to the hospital immediately. As always, his first question was what I was working on, what I was publishing. I was just about to take a trip to Turkey. He turned to me with a request. “Georgie, do me a favor. Please buy a bottle of perfume for my wife in the duty free shop. You know she was always so happy when I brought her a surprise from there.” It was as if he knew that this time it would work out differently. I handed over the small gift to his son, Géza junior, in the funeral home. “Your father asked me to buy this for your mother. Please give it to her. Now I would like to offer only my condolences.” This was how I said goodbye to Géza, my unforgettable friend. *** In Hungary, contacts that can qualify as friendships developed only with a few colleagues, with Pál Fodor, János Hóvári and Tamás Soós (1950–2016). 245

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Pál Fodor was my first colleague after my return from Berlin. As far as János Hóvári and Tamás Soós are concerned, one fine day they—independently of each other—knocked on the door of my office in Országház Street. “We have heard that Professor Hazai has returned from Berlin. We would like to introduce ourselves.” This acquaintanceship grew into very active cooperation and then matured into sincere friendship. I confess that in the peculiar milieu of Budapest, recalling the not always gratifying past, I felt very good about that. It is well-known that János Hóvári, who entered the diplomatic service, had a brilliant career. He served as the Ambassador of Hungary in Israel, Kuwait and Turkey, and for two years he held the important post of Deputy State Secretary responsible for global affairs. At that time, he and I would meet at numerous receptions. He would always introduce me to the Ambassadors saying, “This is my professor.” The truth was, of course, that I had never officially been his teacher, although during the years in Budapest, we worked together on a good number of projects. I confess that he honored me with the above introduction. It felt good because by saying that, he indicated that during the years he was able to benefit from our warm professional relationship. Tamás Soós was and still is in love with the Middle East. He always surprised me with the new initiatives he launched that enriched the culture of his birthplace, the town of Eger. What he would have liked to do most was to resettle the whole of Hungarian Turkology in Eger. He was always generous with his hospitality. Ja/ nos Harmatta (1917–2004)

During the years when I was a student, János Harmatta would often visit the Institute of Turkology. This provided me with the opportunity to introduce myself to him. However, a closer relationship between us developed much later, during my time in Berlin. He would regularly visit Berlin and the Turfan Collec246

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tion, that I was responsable for. János Harmatta had an excellent relationship with the outstanding professor of Iranian Studies, Werner Sundermann (1935–2012), whom I “transferred” from Humboldt University to the German Academy of Sciences. During his visits to Berlin, János Harmatta and I became very close friends. Our views on the plight and issues of Oriental Studies in Hungary were identical. He too rejected the rule of Lajos Ligeti, both its policies and style that were very difficult for him to tolerate. The friendly relations that we established in Berlin made it natural that during my visits to Budapest, I should always meet him for a short exchange of ideas. He did a lot to pave my way to membership in the Academy. After my return from Berlin, we collaborated on issues surrounding Oriental Studies. I felt honored that he would always seek my opinion of the manuscripts related to Turkology he was working on before the material went to print. Be/ la Ko- peczi (1921–2010)

Unfortunately, I can no longer remember when and how I met the historian Béla Köpeczi. It may have taken place during the 1970s when he was already working in important posts at the Academy. This was the stage of his academic career when he studied the beginning of the 18th century, the era of Imre Thököly and Ferenc Rákóczi with ever growing zeal. The object of his studies was the lives of these two great historical figures and all their Turkish implications. This was the field of research where he required my opinion and advice. He would often come to Berlin. On these occasions, he would always notify me in advance and reach out for me. I still remember our pleasant discussions. In 1978, Béla Köpeczi organized a conference on Imre Thököly in Hajdúszoboszló, Hungary. He invited me too, asking me to deliver a lecture on the historical Turkish sources of the age. I was pleased to oblige him and bring along my colleague from 247

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Budapest, Anna Horváth (1944–). Our remarks were well received. This was already the time when my return from Berlin and the issue of my membership in the Academy were more and more on the agenda. I was able to rely on the great support of Béla Köpeczi in both. He was appointed Minister of Education and Culture in the summer of 1982. My final return and moving home coincided with that period. So from the end of the summer, he and I were in permanent contact with each other. During our first meeting, he asked me the question directly. “How and when shall we launch the issue of posting you to the Department of Turkology?” He was surprised by my reply. “Uncle Béla, I would like to get rid of this bitter cup of tea. I would like to stay at the Academy. If you join this department, you will inevitably step into something.” Although my position surprised him, he accepted it. The subject matter of the shared past of Hungary and Turkey that he was working on continued to stay on the agenda of our discussions. However, our working relationship became closer. He was very pleased when he learned that from January 1984 I had taken over the Directorship General of the Publishing House of the Academy. We established day-to-day contact over several important issues related to cultural and publishing policy. I knew that he could surely count on me and I was also certain that I could enjoy his support. Let me give you a few examples. The Academy published the three volumes of “The History of Transylvania” under his editorship. During the process, he could obviously count on me keeping an eye on the key stages of the project. The closing act after the publication was an international press conference, the first of its kind in Budapest. This really contributed to the unprecedented success of the book. The first 40,000 (!) copies were sold within a few days. We were able to start printing the second edition immediately. 248

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The press conference proved to be very instructive. The Foreign Missions in Budapest were also invited and—with the cooperation of the Foreign Ministry—they also received complimentary copies. The package of books that had been posted to the Ambassador of Romania was returned unopened. The message was unambiguous—the Hungarians had nothing to do with the history of Transylvania. The launch of the Hungarian Larousse Encyclopedia also enjoyed the support of Béla Köpeczi. He managed to squeeze the necessary amount of money out of the tight hard currency budget that was available for covering the copyright of foreign works. It was thanks to him that the Hungarian Cultural Institute in Paris was set up in a dignified home. The necessary finances—the not small sum of hard currency—were raised in this project in a miraculous way. The Academy’s Publishing House contributed to the launch of the institute’s program with an exhibition of books. My own contribution was a lecture, or more precisely, a film on the topic of the shared past of Hungary and Turkey. It was again Béla Köpeczi who raised the funds for the French version of this film. And I could go on and on. What I have told you demonstrates how close a working relationship we had. All that was connected to several pleasant personal experiences. During his official visit to Paris, I was able to participate in an important political program as a member of his delegation. It was a great honour to meet two Ministers of the first Mitterand administration—Jacques Lang and Jean-Pierre Chevenement. I also have pleasant memories of another trip with Béla Köpeczi. This time, I was the only one who accompanied him. Our rooms were reserved in a quaint hotel near the Boulevard Raspail, not far from the statue of Balzac. In the evenings, after the official programs were over, we went to the theatre or the cinema. And we completed the day in La Coupole or La Rotonde: the well-known restaurants not far from our hotel. He just loved Paris. A trip like this returned him to his youth. On such 249

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occasions, he would not resist tasting the inexpensive and fattening grillon (lard) again which must have played an important role in the meals of his youth. What I honored and appreciated in him most was that all political titles and ranks were of secondary importance to him. He always remained a scholar. It was academia that elevated him to whatever political posts he assumed, and he always remained faithful to it. I have preserved two memories that underline this. It happened in Berlin, perhaps in 1980 or 1981. Béla Köpeczi arrived as the representative of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences for a one-and-a-half day ideological conference. Before the trip, he gave me a call, asking me for my assistance in organizing his private program. “The official program is tight. But I would like to get to the library in West Berlin by all means where I would like to take a look at some materials. I want to skip out of Hager’s lunch.” (Kurt Hager was a member of the Politbüro and the chief ideologue in the age of Erich Honecker.) After this, he gave me the titles of the books and the signatures of the manuscripts he wanted to see. It was not difficult for me to have the material prepared for him. Our only problem was the shortage of time. We were planning to leave at 11:30 and be back to the conference by 14:00 o’clock. That was how it all happened. He managed to examine all the materials and in the end, we even had some time left. “Let’s go to a bookshop, I would like to take a look at the new publications. And if we still have some time left, I would like to buy a Schmidt cap.” The black mariner’s cap worn by the German Chancellor (1974–1982) Helmut Schmidt was at the peak of his popularity at that time. We even managed to arrange that. And he was back at the conference on time. My other experience is connected with his departure from his ministerial seat. It took place in 1988. The following morning my secretary at the publishing house told me that Béla Köpeczi was on the line. “Finally, I am able to deal with my 250

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own matters. Please, prepare the editing of three of my books. You know that I prefer working with Jóska Kormányos.” We put matters on track immediately. When he became bedridden, I was in contact with him as much as it was possible. It became tradition that we spent Christmas in England with the British branch of my family. We were scheduled to leave in the afternoon of December 23, 2009. So the whole morning was free. I was able to phone my friends and wish them a Merry Christmas. I, obviously, thought of Béla Köpeczi too since I knew that after spending a long time in hospital, he was already at home. I hoped that the phone call would bring some good news from him. The news was, however, devastating. It was the nurse who answered the phone. “The Professor is asleep”, she said. Then she added: “He is not very well at all.” She shared with me some details. I asked her to give my regards to him and tell him that we have faith in his recovery. I was overwhelmed by feelings of unease when I put down the phone. Béla Köpeczi passed away on January 17, 2010. My Turkish Friends in Budapest I will tell you about my Turkish friends in Budapest—Gün Benderli, her first husband Necil, her second husband Attila and Gün’s son, Can Togay—separately. Our relations started during my university years and were strengthened over the next decades. It is thanks to them that I actually managed to widen and perfect my ability to speak Turkish that I had learned among the Turkish people in Bulgaria. And it was at their initiative that I became a co-worker of the Turkish program of Hungarian Radio between 1957 and 1963. This meant that I was in daily contact with these friends. These contacts continued in Berlin and later in Budapest. Over the years, we collaborated on several projects together. Suffice it to point out only two of them: the anthology of Turkish poems The Sea of Passions, and 251

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the translation into Turkish of The Tragedy of Man by Imre Madách. As I have told you before, the latter could never have materialized without the enthusiastic and intense work of Gün. The Turkish volume is Number 24 in the long line of translations of the Tragedy of Man. With this, Gün has truly written her name into the history of Hungarian literature. But I am immensely proud of this joint effort of ours. My Other Masters As fate would have it, I broke away from my alma mater quite early and joined other institutions of the university and the Academy. Because of this, I came into contact with several remarkable scholars from whom I learned a great deal about scholarship, organizational work and human values. Vladimir Georgiev (1908–1986)

Chronologically, my first major influence was Academician Vladimir Georgiev, the Rector of the State University of Sofia, and an outstanding philologist in Classic and Indo-European Studies. This is, however, but a “miserly” description of the knowledge he truly possessed. He was at home in all fields: from general linguistics to Bulgarian Studies, and his approach was creative. He was also the spiritus rector of important projects like the Institute of Linguistics that was established at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences after the Second World War. Vladimir Georgiev was an extremely disciplined person. He managed to meet his obligations by employing a strict timetable. Besides being the Head of the department, for a long time he was also the Vice President of the Academy and the Rector of the University of Sofia. Beyond that, he was extraordinarily active in several fields of linguistics, as documented by his prestigious publications. Although he really had to be “stingy” with his spare time, he still found time for me when I turned to him with an issue. It was his incredible ability for work and discipline that enabled him to be successful as both an administrator 252

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and researcher. He was somewhat of an introverted person. I believe he had to mobilize all his reserve energy to meet his many obligations. That was the backbone of his character. He was interested in Turkology—apart from its implications for Bulgarian Studies—because this field was still in status nascendi in Bulgaria. In essence, I owed my invitation to Bulgaria to this fact. His students belonged to the vanguard of academia as well. I established friendly ties with his close associates, among them Ivan Duridanov (1920–2005) and Yordan Zaimov (1921–1987). Since I was dealing with Turkish-South Slavic relations at that time, I was able to rely on their assistance and guidance on many occasions. A friendship grew between us. I saw Vladimir Georgiev again in 1966 during the International Congress of Balkan Studies, the first great gathering of AIESEE, which was chaired by him. He was pleased to learn that my life had taken a favorable turn, and that I had set my anchor in Berlin. Istva/ n Kniezsa (1898–1965)

The second great influence on my career was Academician István Kniezsa, Head of the Department of Slavistics of ELTE. In 1957, when Gyula Németh “banned” me from Turkology, he accepted me as a researcher at his department at the request of László Bóka, the Secretary of the Department of Philology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. The scholarly basis for that was my dissertation as a candidate of sciences dedicated to the linguistic ties between the Turkic and South Slavic peoples. I worked beside István Kniezsa from 1958 till 1963. Over the years, I never felt that he was my “boss”. He did not regard me as a subordinate but as a colleague whom he was pleased to introduce to his academic community of Slavists. What he—in a tacit way—expected me to do was to take part in his kruzhok (circle), which I was more than pleased to do. These friendly gatherings and his birthdays were unforgettably won253

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derful meetings. I felt at home at the Department of Slavistics where I shared a huge room that connected directly to István Kniezsa’s office with Feri Gregor (1926–). One might ask what a Turkologist could learn at István Kniezsa’s Institute of Slavistics? For me, the most important message was coming to understand human nature and Kniezsa’s love for truth. He was ready to help anyone and nothing made him fly into a temper as much as deceptions, half-truths and lies. He always reacted to such things in a fierce way. He would stand up for truth in any circumstance. It gave me a valuable lesson for the years to come. Allow me to mention two examples that offer an insight into his character. After the publication of my first long paper in Studia Slavica, I was surprised to find that the publishers had given an unusually high fee to me. When I mentioned this to him, his answer was: “Son, it is only natural that I should pay my colleagues the maximum.” To tell you the truth, the Orientalists had not been pampered to such an extent. Lajos Ligeti would make us feel his power in this respect as well. He was the only one who was entitled to the highest honorarium, and all other compensations were subject to his “discretion”. I have already told you about the other case. When I submitted my doctorate dissertation, one of the leaders of the Academy—allied with Lajos Ligeti—tried to blacken my name with István Kniezsa, claiming that my character was intolerable. After my stay in Bulgaria, my storm-lashed boat found safe haven at his department in 1959. I spent only a few years there. By 1962, I was already preparing for my work in Berlin. István Kniezsa was an expert in my field of research—the South SlavicTurkic ties—and I could always rely on his useful advice. But the most valuable lessons I learned from him were in a different field: ethics in academia. I confided my plan to submit my dissertation for a doctorate only with him. In this way, I was able to get his approval of the 254

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subject matter and the methods. Unfortunately, he did not live to see the defense of my dissertation. He died young. I learned the news of his passing in Berlin from a Hungarian daily news brief. Wolfgang Steinitz (1905–1967)

In Berlin, I was given insight into Wolfgang Steinitz’s scholarly workshop. This remarkable academic achieved lasting results in all fields that he was active in—Finno-Ugric Studies, ethnography and folklore. I have already told you that I owed him for my invitation to Berlin. But his help did not stop there. He considered it his task to continue taking care of me. In addition, his work provided us with many opportunities for contact. Thanks to this collaboration, I was able to glimpse into how he was running his research group at the Academy, which was working on an important project: namely, a dictionary of the Khanty (an Ugric indigenous people) language. Steinitz was as strict as possible with his own working time, and demanded the same discipline from his associates who were anything, but nice temporary geniuses spending their working time doing nothing. Steinitz would assign his people concrete tasks about which they reported to him on a continuous basis. This work discipline bore fruit—the volumes of his dictionary were published on a regular schedule. As far as discipline was concerned, I can recall the following case. One morning, I was in Steinitz’s office at the department where his research group was also working. During our discussion, the Head of the research group, Dr. Gerd Sauer, reported to Steinitz that the new secretary had arrived. After clarifying a few details, Steinitz said: “At the moment, there is nothing urgent for her to type. But it wouldn’t be nice if the new secretary thought that this was something typical. Please have her type some old material so that she appreciates the importance of a good work ethic.” 255

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Steinitz was an extremely busy person. Besides heading the department and the research group, and serving as Vice President of the German Academy of Sciences, he was also in charge of the Academy’s Institute of Folklore. Up to the moment that he dared to criticize Walter Ulbricht, he was also member of the Central Committee of the Party—the Socialist Unity Party of East Germany (SED). I remember how he would always arrive at the institute with several briefcases brimming with papers. “You know, I have introduced a system in which each of my workplaces has its own bag. In this way, the papers will never get mixed up.” One event is etched in my memory. On his 60th birthday, a nice album was presented to him at the Academy. In his reply to the laudations, two of his remarks caused—as we learned later—the attending Party luminaries to become reproachful. One of these was that he expressed his thanks for the successes in his life only to his wife, and did not utter a word about the Party. The other was that he brought up his “second emigration”, the one that led him from the Soviet Union to Sweden. After Hitler came to power, Wolfgang Steinitz—as a communist —emigrated to the Soviet Union. When the Stalinist terror had reached the émigrés of the “sister parties”, he was one of the few who managed to leave the Soviet Union. Recalling this “technicality”—an “embarrassing” piece of history—was not appreciated by his comrades. It was in Sweden that Wolfgang Steinitz made contact with the Hungarian linguist János Lotz (1913–1973) and through him with the Prague School of linguistic thought and analysis, which had a tremendous impact on his work. He and János Lotz became friends for life. During my years in Berlin, Lotz would often visit Steinitz. Thanks to that, I also had the opportunity to meet him, and later to become friends. Wolfgang Steinitz’s commitment to research also included a moral imperative. At the Academy in Berlin, of which he was the spiritual and organizational leader and not simply the Vice 256

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President, he worked to give space and resources to everything that had an intellectual value. Among these, he gave preferential treatment to the fields that he acquainted himself with at the Academy in Berlin after the First World War. At that time, he witnessed the birth of the school of Turkish linguistics that organized itself around research of the Turfan texts. That was the reason why his academic program included the reorganization of the charting of the Turfan texts. And this was what I owed my invitation to Berlin to. His initiatives in the research of ethnography and folklore also contributed to a widening of international cooperation in this field. The German translations of foreign works were important milestones of this activity. In the implementation of this work, Gyula Ortutay—one of his close friends—cooperated as an excellent partner. The basis of the Turkish Pertev volume was the collection of tales by the excellent folklorist Pertev Naili Boratav (1907–1998), who was living in emigration in Paris. He also included me in this work. I was proud of this because I had a good relationship with Pertev Bey. And the project brought him to Berlin twice. His visits were always important to me because meeting this remarkable Turkologist—with his great knowledge—was always an unforgettable experience. There is another initiative by Wolfgang Steinitz that I have to tell you about. This was the establishment of the generativetransformative school of general linguistics in Berlin. Since his time in Sweden, Steinitz kept a close eye on research of general linguistics. In Finno-Ugric Studies, he was among the first to apply the achievements of the Prague School. Noam Chomsky’s (1928–) findings gave him the idea to try to introduce this research of general linguistics at the Academy in Berlin. In the given political atmosphere, he had to move carefully. In leftleaning East Germany that rejected the West on ideological grounds, it was not easy to embrace an intellectual school of thought from the United States. But Wolfgang Steinitz was not intimidated. As he later told me, he first turned to János Lotz 257

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who was positive about the idea. Lotz reassured him that what we were talking about was not simply an intellectual trend but a school in linguistics with promising and serious possibilities. That was how the Berlin research group of generative-transformative linguistics emerged. The group soon found itself to be the focus of interest of international linguistics. The Austrian Alexander Issatschenko (1901–1978)—well-known in general linguistics—was appointed to head the group. The young linguists around Manfred Bierwisch (1930–) concentrated their attention on applying the new theory to the field of German grammar. Their papers dedicated to this goal were published one after another in a new series created for them. The courageous and pioneering initiative of the Academy in Berlin reaped unequivocal international success. Opponents could not do anything but shut their mouth. The authorities still had some problems with the group. Its members, primarily Manfred Bierwisch, received numerous invitations to various international conferences. However, they were not able to accept them for a long time. Those at the top did not really relish the “negative limelight”. Manfred Bierwisch and I had long discussions about this when he delivered lectures at the University of Cyprus at my invitation. He recognized that Wolfgang Steinitz as a researcher, human being and intellectual force should receive special attention after the Wende since the Academy in Berlin was indebted to his courageous initiatives. Unfortunately, Wolfgang Steinitz did not stay among us for long. He passed away in April 1967. I can remember that the sad news was waiting for me when I returned home from my first visit to Paris. Soon after, the Academy—founded on his moral ideas—underwent a radical change. Perhaps, it was better that he did not live to see these mournful times.

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My Friends from around the World Andreas Tietze (1914–2003)

In Turkology, I had the closest ties with Andreas Tietze. The obituary that I wrote about him (Archivum Ottomanicum 22, 2004) is but a modest summary of what connected the two of us, and the substance of our joint work and efforts. I am quoting the following lines—in a somewhat shortened form—from what I wrote: We first met at the 8th Congress of Turkish Linguistics in Ankara in 1957. For many years, our contact was limited to extremely regular correspondence and his visits to Europe in the summer. We shared the same opinion about world affairs and the perspectives of Turkology. At the end of the 1980s at some international event he was asked: “How long have you known each other?” His reply was: “For several decades but the point is that during these years nothing ever disturbed our friendship.” I must confess that I was proud of his answer.

Andreas Tietze and György Hazai

When he visited Budapest in the summer of 1962, I asked him: “What name shall I use when I address you?” He replied: “Adnan Saygun always called me Bandi. Use the same name too.” Adnan Saygun was a 259

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prominent Turkish composer, but his wife was Hungarian. She created Tietze’s nickname “Bandi” and I considered it an honour to call him this. On the last day of November 2003, I made an unscheduled visit to Vienna, and saw Bandi for a few minutes in his “workshop” in Türkenschanzgasse: a library where he worked every day. When I left, he walked me to a tram stop not far away. He had never done this before. It was as if he felt that this was the last time we saw see each other. A few weeks later, I stood in front of his coffin in the cemetery. At the request of his family, I delivered the eulogy for this unforgettable person, scholar, and my friend. *** I always recall with love the succession of students and colleagues who worked with me during my career: especially during my tranquil decades in Berlin. Since I left Berlin in 1982, there was never a year—not even during my time in Cyprus— that I did not visit them at least once. Their kind attention culminated around my 80th birthday celebration. On this occasion, a symposium was organized under the aegis of the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften. The Academy made sure that several German and foreign—among them two Hungarian—scholars were able to participate. The Vice President of the Academy took part in the session, and Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft and Humboldt University were also represented. The reception after the lectures took place on the terrace of the central building in Jägerstrasse —in glorious weather. I had been to this building a hundred times before, but I had never been to the roof, which boasted a splendid view in all directions. It was an unforgettable experience for me to look on this reunited city, which had played such an important role in Europe in the 20th century and—as a gift of fate—in my life. 260

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György Hazai with his daughters at the 80th birthday on the terrace of the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, May, 2012

Gerd Winkelhane hands over the Festschrift prepared for the 80th birthday on the terrace of the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, May, 2012 261

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My daughters also surprised me by unexpectedly showing up at the symposium. They brought from Budapest a selection of delicious salty pastries—baked by our beloved friend Ibolya. All of it was devoured by our guests on the roof terrace. When I returned to Berlin a few weeks later, I reciprocated the kindness shown by my friends and colleagues by inviting them to dinner. We gathered in a nice restaurant not far from the Freie Universität Berlin in Dahlem and recalled our common experiences again. Peter Zieme (1942–)

My dearest and most successful student in Berlin was Peter Zieme who is rightly considered by our Orientalists to be an honorary Hungarian. He made contact with the Hungarian language through a fortunate accident. One day during my early stay in Berlin, Professor Béla Szentiványi gave me a call. He was the “jack-of-alltrades” at the Department of Finno-Ugric Studies, headed by Wolfgang Steinitz at Humboldt University. He made a point of developing cultural-scholarly ties with Hungary. “Georgie, I have received a host of scholarships for students who wish to study Hungarian in your country. Do you have anyone whom you could nominate?” Peter Zieme undertook this “adventure” and as a result, he learned Hungarian. Over the years, he improved and enriched his command of the language. As a young Turkologist, he made contact with Gyula Németh and Lajos Ligeti who highly appreciated the work of this extremely modest and gifted person. He was my most talented and hard-working student. Today international Turkology regards him as one of its greatest scholars. In 2009, our Academy elected him an honorary member, which was widely welcomed in academic circles in Hungary. He belongs to the very few of our generation who never “moved house” during their careers—never changing country or workplace. He remained attached to Berlin and the Turfan Collection during his productive years. But as fate would 262

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have it, today as a pensioner—because of his wife’s work—he lives in Tokyo. I was very pleased to see him again in Budapest when he made a trip back to Europe in 2014. Barbara Kellner-Heinkele (1942–)

I met Barbara Kellner-Heinkele at the jubilee of the International Congress of Oriental Studies in Paris in 1973. It turned out very quickly that both of us had an interest in the same fields and subjects of Turkology: in short, the basic sources of research of the history of the language. And besides that, we were committed to bibliographical work—the fundamental task to preserve researched knowledge, and introduce it to the flow of information throughout the academic world. That was how Barbara became one of the first associates and later co-editor of the Turkologischer Anzeiger/Turkology Annual, which Andreas Tietze and I had launched together (21.1995). Our bibliographical work, published under the title Bibliographisches Handbuch der Turkologie in 1986, testifies to the fact that we had recognized our common interests. Over the years and decades, we have been fortunate enough to meet on numerous occasions. During her time in Frankfurt, the Buchmesse (Book-fair) provided these opportunities. And in Cyprus, Barbara was a regular guest lecturer in our department, and at symposiums organized there. The contact between Barbara and my French wife, Marie-Claude, was facilitated by her excellent command of French. The outings we made together were unforgettable. After our return to Budapest, our relationship only grew stronger: my daughters, for whom their native language is German, regarded Barbara as one of their best friends. Over the decades, we have been in daily contact on the topical issues of Turkology, especially over questions that concern the two of us. One of the unforgettable events in our friendship was the Festschrift that she published in my honor in 1997, and then the symposium held on the occasion of my 80th birthday 263

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in Berlin in 2012. The materials of the latter were published in a volume in 2015. Barbara’s friendship has enriched my life. I owe her a debt of gratitude. My French Friends My contact with my French friends began at the start of my career. And then life arranged it in a way—because this was not really planned at all—that these relationships continued to determine so much of my life, in fact, my whole career in one way or another. Within Oriental Studies in France, Turkology has always been strong, but after the Second World War, it simply flourished. In this era—due to circumstances and coincidences—almost all the branches of Turkology were represented by excellent professors. In addition to the two outstanding students of the great master, Jean Deny, Louis Bazin and Irène Mélikoff, Robert Mantran—who had started his career in Arabic Studies— became the leading figures of Turkology in France. In the Turkish Departments at universities in Paris, Strasbourg and Aix-enProvence, research units were formed and connected to CNRS (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique). These excellent four scholars, were joined by prominent specialists from abroad who were brought by the various political winds to Paris. These scholars included James Russell Hamilton (1921–2003), Pertev Naili Boratav, Nicoară Beldiceanu (1920–1994) and his wife Irène Beldicianu-Steinherr (1928–). Naturally, I have to mention Alexandre Bennigsen (1913– 1988) and Claude Cahen (1909–1991) too. Although they were not Turkologists in the strict sense of the word, their fields of research made the whole of Turkology more comprehensive. As time passed, more mature students also appeared on the stage. Their work enriched the entire discipline. Turkology in France had its own institutions headed by ex264

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cellent and ambitious scholars. And these Turkology research centers were functioning dynamically and independently. The leading role played by France’s Orientalists in European research was indisputable. There was another factor that contributed to this. After the Second World War, their potential rival—Turkology in West Germany—was unable to wriggle out of the organizational framework of Islamkunde (Islamic Studies) for a long time. It was not able to achieve the maneuvering space that was the pre-condition of its inner development and— at the same time—play an active role in the international arena. The first time I made contact with French Turkologists was at the International Congresses of Orientalists (Munich, 1957, Moscow, 1960 and New Delhi, 1964). I had already been working in Berlin when in 1967, Louis Bazin invited me to Paris to lecture there. My stay was scheduled for May and I have vivid memories of my French colleagues and my explorations of the city. After this, cultivating a close relationship with France became most natural. The dividend of this was: when organizing research from the East in the international arena, the French counted on me in the first place. But I will tell you about this in more detail at another point. Louis Bazin (1920–2011)

My first meetings with Louis Bazin at various congresses were only cordial contacts. I started getting to know him better when at his invitation, I paid my first visit to Paris in 1967. We had a long discussion of the subject of my two lectures, and during our daily contacts I received insight into his charismatic personality. At that time, he was already considered to be the master of French Turkology. Rightly so, since all the important education and research institutions of the profession in Paris worked under his leadership. Research and personnel decisions within the research unit at the CNRS were also made by him. 265

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He was obviously very interested in the issue of research of the Turfan Collection since it was very close to his own field. It was no accident that he sent his close associates, James Russell Hamilton and Jean-Paul Roux (1925–2009) on a study trip to us in Berlin. The truly close relationship started at the beginning of the 1970s when a significant part of the international organizational matters found their way to his desk. At that time, he was already the Secretary General of the Union Internationale des Orientalistes. As far as I can remember, it was in Strasbourg in 1970 that Louis asked me whether I wanted to become the Secretary of the Union and work with him. If I said yes, this issue would be settled during the General Assembly of the International Congress of Orientalists in Paris in 1973. I said yes. I had no inkling at that time what implications or rather proliferations might entail later. The congress in Paris in the summer of 1973 had the character of a centenary. The first International Congress of Orientalists was convened in Paris at the initiative of French scholars in 1873. This remarkable forum of international research of the Orient was preparing for its 100th birthday. For me, this was already my fourth congress, but the first one where I moved into the area of organization. At the initiative of Louis Bazin, I became a member of the only official organ of the Congress, the Consultative Committee. Simultaneously I received invitations to all receptions. After the congress in Paris, being present at an international forum became natural for me. During these years, my cooperation with Louis was an extraordinary experience. His jovial personality, his great humor, and his extraordinary love of life lent a unique atmosphere to the times we spent together. We would meet frequently: at international congresses, the various sessions of the Union, and once at a conference in Dushanbe, which was held at the suggestion of UNESCO and 266

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where the czar of Oriental Studies in the Soviet Union, Bobodžan Gafurov was the host. But it was in Paris where we would meet most often. If I turned up in France in the summer and he had already moved to his countryhouse in Normandy, we would meet there. This was memorable since his “residence” on the seaside lay just a few kilometers away from the great historical event—the scene of the invasion by the Allies in June 1944. Our meetings, almost without exception, would always be accompanied by some special culinary delights. When we had a “working” lunch in St. Maur, or later in his apartment in Place d’Italie in Paris, his wife would always take care of this. He also always knew which exciting restaurant in Paris he should invite me to. Louis was a true bon vivant who sought out and enjoyed new tastes which—as the French put it—he liked to “water” a little bit.

From left: Jean-Louis Baque-Grammont, Irène Mélikoff, György Hazai, unidentified, Farouz/Mexico 1967

Allow me to give you two examples here. We took part in the International Conference of Orientalists in Mexico in 1976. 267

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Irène Mélikoff waited for us at the airport. After the long and exhausting flight, Louis’s first words were: “Irène, I hope you have already discovered a good restaurant.” The other memory was connected with the CIEPO session in Cuenca in 1981. As far as hosting the event, the Spanish organizers really “overperformed”. Excellent wines and cognacs awaited the participants during the morning session recess. “Let’s have a glass of cognac”, he said. I declined the suggestion by saying that I could not have such a “serious” drink in the morning because after that my mind would not work properly. “You know”, he said, “in my case, it’s just the opposite.” Unfortunately, I was able to reciprocate as a host only twice —in 1993 when I organized the conference of CIPSH in Cyprus, and then in Budapest in 1997 during the ICANAS. On both occasions, Louis brought his wife with him. At the end of the 1990s, poor Michline passed away with shocking suddenness. Louis pulled himself together and notified me of this sad event on the phone. As far as research and organizing this work were concerned, I learned much from him. In drafting letters and other documents in French, he was unmatched. As a true normalien (alumnus of the famous École Normale Supérieure), he constantly edited himself while speaking. He would constantly look for better and more suitable expressions. You just could not get him to “patch up” a piece of writing in a few minutes. It was, in fact, Louis who launched me in the field of organizing research and the diplomacy of academia in the international arena. My Italian Friends Alessio Bombaci (1914–1979)

I begin with Alessio Bombaci to whom I am grateful for my professional and friendly ties with the Italian world. This started with some correspondence. He responded immediatley to the off-prints that I had sent him, not only with 268

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kind words, but by sending me some of his articles. The subject matter of our respective research were very close to each other —both of us were trying to find clues to the exciting questions of the history of the Ottoman language. We finally met in person during the PIAC meeting that was held in Oosterbeek near Arnhem in August 1964. There, we talked a great deal. Our common language was Turkish of which he had an excellent command. Somehow, we did not feel the need for French. At this time, we both felt that a promising friendship was born. He made the initiative to meet again. “Come and see me in Naples next year. Make your trip in the spring when everything is more pleasant.” That was how it happened. At that time, an official invitation was required, which arrived in due time. Alessio Bombaci was the Rector of the Istituto Orientale di Napoli, an institution with the rank of a university. It was in this capacity that he invited me to deliver two lectures in May 1965. In Naples, I had some unforgettable experiences. Getting to know the mentality of the South of Italy meant quite a lot to me. The surprises began on the first day. I arrived in the city in the afternoon and called Alessio’s apartment right away. There, I was politely asked to phone him after six o’clock because the professor was having a siesta until five in the afternoon. I learned only later that the “institution” of the siesta was sacred to him. He himself told me that when he drove to the Alps to ski, he always left the freeway at siesta time and rested in a small hotel. “Let’s meet in the institute at seven.” That was where Alessio asked me the surprising question. “Could you give one of your lectures tonight?” “Sure”, I answered. But I thought that this was impossible since no one knew when I would be arriving. How could there be an audience? The next surprise came at nine o’clock when a “full house” met me at the institute to listen to my lecture. All the Arabist, 269

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Iranist and Slavist professors were there with all their associates. That was where I met Roberto Rubinacci (1915–1992), Alessandro Bausani (1921–1988), Leone Pacini (1907–1990) and Nullo Minissi (1921–) with whom I established very warm and friendly ties. (Especially with Nullo Minissi who later, at the beginning of the 1970s, invited me to deliver another lecture in Naples on South Slavic-Turkish relations.) Turkology was represented there by young Aldo Gallotta (1941–1997) (later Alessio Bombaci’s successor) and Elizabeth Zachariadou (who was in Naples on a scholarship in the framework of a longer study trip). The friendships I made there with my Italian colleagues lasted for years. The lecture late in the evening was followed by dinner in the early hours of the summer night where all the above people were present. What followed took place in the same order. During the day, I was a tourist and in the evenings I participated in a pleasant exchange of views with my colleagues. However, the duration of my stay was limited by my visa. Alessio Bombaci urged me to stay longer. I fancied the idea, but my answer could only be that the visa was a serious obstacle to that. “Let’s have it extended”, replied my host. It soon turned out that the issue was within the competence of the chief of the police. In order to make sure that we were successful—and to settle the issue— Alessio called the police chief in his capacity as Rector of the Istituto. As he told me later, during the cordial exchange, he asked the chief of the police: “Why is it necessary to handle this procedure at such a high level?” The answer was that the guest had arrived from a communist country. The always nice Alessio, with his great sense of humor, replied: “Here in Italy, we already have a few million communists. What does it matter if there is one more?” Fortunately, I was able to meet with him on various other occasions. He hosted me again at the PIAC meeting in Ravello in 1966. And then he was my guest in Berlin in 1969 and in 270

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Hungary in 1971. He wholeheartedly joined the initiative to establish the International Organization of Ottoman Studies. In 1973, he too participated in the founding session in Bursa. At my invitation, he hosted the first gathering of CIEPO in Naples in 1974. I remember this visit very well. We were planning to escape after the closing reception. He wanted to discuss my book published in 1973 in which I analyzed a lengthy Ottoman text written in Latin script. We started looking at his notes about my book at about midnight. It must have been around two o’clock when his wife arrived home from a dinner. Since we had met before, she greeted me warmly, but retired to bed so that we could get on with our work. It must have been three in the morning when we had completed the job. Alessio offered me a lift to my place. But it turned out that Alessio’s son had taken his car and there was no gas in the other one. “He always does that”, he said and smiled. It was the smile that everyone knew well from photos of him. “It doesn’t matter”, he added, “there’s a taxi stand just a few steps away. At night, you can always find a car there.” And that was how it happened. Alessio had earlier told me that he would be delighted to invite me to Naples for a few semesters. “When you are here, I would surely return to the history of the Turkish language, to the texts that have been transcribed. There are plenty of materials left that we could work on together.” At that time, he was immersed in the questions of the early history of the Turkic people. I said yes in principle, but was, in fact, doubtful whether this nice opportunity would ever materialize. My ties to Berlin were very strong and it would not have been easy to loosen them. In January 1979, I was devastated by the telegram from Aldo Gallotta which notified me of Alessio’s death. All the unforgettable memories that I just told you rushed back into my mind. Fate arranged it that my ties with Alessio and his rich legacy appeared at several points in my life. 271

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Reception after the handing-over of the Festschrift in Berlin—Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, Cecilia Hazai, Kinga Hazai, György Hazai, Prof. Dr. Günter Gobrecht, the Dean of the Faculty of Philosophy and Social Sciences of Freie Universität Berlin

I contributed an Ottoman text in Latin script to the Festschrift that was published as a tribute to him. And his wife sent me the very copy of my book in which Alessio had entered his notes, the ones that were the subject of our memorable discussion that night. Today, this copy is still one of the most valuable items in my library. In 1997, at the initiative of my colleagues and friends in Berlin, a Festschrift was published in my honor (Studia Ottomanica, Festgabe für György Hazai zum 65. Geburtstag, herausgegeben von Barbara Kellner-Heinkele und Peter Zieme, 1997). The greatest surprise was that—many years after his death— the name of Alessio Bombaci was also included in it. Here is what Aldo Gallotta—his successor and co-author—said: I am sure that Prof. G. Hazai will appreciate the present elaboration of certain unpublished notes of Prof. Bombaci who would certainly have participated enthusiastically in this Festschrift in honor of one of his most esteemed colleague and friend. 272

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One of my nicest experiences in Naples was that I was always able to stay in the guest room of the Capodimonte Museum. The Director was a friend of Géza Fehér Jr., and Géza had commended me to him. The museum—the former royal palace —stands in a beautiful park on the top of the mountain overlooking Vesuvius. The view, especially on a moon-lit night, is exceptional. After our intimate dinners, Alessio Bombaci would always drive me home to the museum. He said he had not seen this view at night before. *** My relationship with Alessio Bombaci and Naples, and with the people that I met there enriched my life. Aldo Gallotta and I became good friends. We were always pleased when we ran into each other at various conferences. Once, at the beginning of the 1990s, I was flying to Tunis via Rome. I managed to schedule the trip in a way that I could get to Naples too for a day. Aldo and I were more than pleased to reminisce about the master, our friends from the university and our common experiences. It was in January 1991 at a symposium on Crete that I saw him the last time. In 1997, I expected him to come to Budapest for the ICANAS. He was enthusiastically getting ready for the trip. However, a short time before the congress, he passed away. I met Nullo Minissi, the remarkable Slavist and general linguist, also through Alessio Bombaci. In 1970, I was his visiting lecturer in Naples. I have a nice memory connected with that. I was flying via Prague, and on the return flight, the plane was leaving Rome quite early. You had to calculate that factor when organizing an itinerary. We came up with the idea that we would have a very late dinner in Sorrento. And then my host would take me to the railway station to catch a train to Rome. That was how it all happened. On a fine early morning in the summer, I arrived at Termini when the “Eternal City” was just waking up. I made my way to the Trevi Fountain. The water 273

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had already been drained to pick up the oboluses of the tourists. And I even had some time left to take a passing look at other familiar places in the neighborhood. In 1981, Nullo Minissi took part in the conference that Norbert Reiter and I organized in the Institute of Balkan Studies of the Freie Universität in West Berlin. We managed to shape the program in a way that he was able to hop to East Berlin for the sake of a nice dinner. I can remember that he and I—and some others—spent a pleasant evening in Ganymed—next to the Brecht Theater Berliner Ensemble—where I was a regular. In the 1980s and 1990s—when I was busy with the publishing house and Cyprus—I unfortunately lost contact with Nullo Minissi. In 2004, at the invitation of Società Europea di Cultura I gave a lecture on relations between Europe and Turkey, which was held on the island of San Servolo near Venice. I was delighted to run into Nullo there. Even if long years had passed in between, we hugged each other with feelings of old friendship.

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I

received my BA in 1954. Six decades have passed since then. During this time, not counting the seven years at the Academy's Publishing House (1984–1990), I have devoted my career to Turkology (i.e. I have taught and conducted research). Although I retired officially in 2002, this date did not bring any changes to my day-to-day life. I continued to do the same work in my modest research unit. In other words, these years are filled with the same important work as the previous ones. In any review of one’s own life, it is an author's obvious moral duty to measure his productivity, especially when life has provided one with such unique opportunities. Between 1954 and 2000, I had taught Turkish Studies for thirty years in total: in Sofia, Berlin and Nicosia. In all three places, this work was coupled with the necessity of introducing and establishing Turkology as a new university major. In Berlin where Turkish Studies was well established, it was possible to base my work on tradition, but in Sofia, and especially in Cyprus, I had to lay the foundations. As for the number of students in these programs, I had nothing to complain about. In Sofia, where I delivered my lectures in Turkish to Turkish-speaking students, I had more than a hundred students. Their careers led them—eventually—to high schools where the language of teaching was Bulgarian. The government had abandoned the plan to establish parallel Turkish-language high schools, so they were not given the chance of pursuing a career in Turkology after all. In Berlin, I had few students, but they proved to be hardworking and reliable partners and colleagues for the course of my whole life. We have been attached by strong ties of friendship up to the present day. During my eight years in Cyprus, I had twenty local students each year. A few students from Greece joined them but 275

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they were not included in the quota of the major. As it could be expected, the overall performance of this group proved to be very mixed. However, among them there were also a number of gifted students with excellent accomplishments. Later, as they worked towards their PhDs at various foreign universities, I received glowing feedback about them from Athens, Salonika, Crete, London, Birmingham and Toronto. *** In Turkology, I published my first scholarly work already as a senior at the university. As the subject matter of my dissertation, I was given the task of providing linguistic analysis of a set of Ottoman documents from the 15th century. The job combined two disciplines—paleography and the history of language —the basics of which I had to learn well enough to stand on my own two feet. Since the dissertation was completed early, it was possible to submit it for a competition at the university. My work won the first prize, which was presented to me by Dean László Bóka. This was our first contact that grew over the years into a warm relationship. I could always count on his understanding and support. As far as the activity of publishing in general is concerned, this is the point where I have to tell you about a specific feature of Oriental Studies in Hungary. This is something that distinguished it—as my experiences testified later—from similar research workshops in other countries. The difference was Hungary’s strict focus on publishing. It was planted in us very early that the results of our work must be published and this must take place in foreign languages. Our masters regarded competition in the international arena as something of utmost importance. Researchers who were publishing their work only in Hungarian were considered by Gyula Németh as people belonging to the second category of academic life. The verdict of Lajos Ligeti was the same. He took an even stricter stand on this re276

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quirement. I remember well during his seminars how publishing, as well as the process of preparing a manuscript for the press, were given the same emphasis as gaining knowldge. The motivation behind this was that he—as the editor of the prestigious journal Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica and a series of volumes on Oriental Studies in Hungary—had to constantly keep an eye on alimenting these periodicals. I feel grateful when I think of this initiation. I have remained faithful to these principles all my life. However, when I am tallying my balance sheet, and I am comparing my output mainly with foreign workshops, I feel that this strong “obligation to publish” was to the detriment of other things.

Receiving the Diploma of Candidate of Sciences, 1960

As a result of his research in Turkology and the Balkans, Gyula Németh threw me into the “deep water” of the same field. During my stay in Bulgaria, I collected no small amount of materials on local Turkish dialects. During my work in the library, I came across Turkish texts in Cyrillic script that were worth analyzing. These studies, as well as my analysis of Turkish loan words in the South Slavic languages, made up the subject mat277

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ter of my dissertation—defended in 1959—for the academic degree of candidate of sciences. Because of the varied implications of this subject, this work was published not in a single volume, but in several studies. At the International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow in 1960, I delivered a lecture on how the Ottoman language changed throughout different periods of Ottoman history. While I was preparing for this, a new methodology developed in my mind. I wanted to establish the weight of a given phenomenon in the linguistic system more precisely, with the help of the numerical handling of the data. I wished to replace the subjective qualifications of “rare, extremely rare, frequent, extremely frequent” with unambiguous, numerical qualifications. But which text should I choose so that I could demonstrate my method? Fate assisted me. For many years, I had been hunting for old Ottoman texts, and documents published in the Latin script. As a result, I searched the collections and bibliographies of the libraries. This was my goal in the library in Prague in 1959 when I finally found the corpus that I needed with the help of an unprinted bibliography by Tibor Halasi-Kun. It was a Turkish textbook written by Jakab Harsányi-Nagy (1615–1676), a scholar from Transylvania, who worked at the Court of Brandenburg, published under the title Colloquia Familiaria TurcicoLatina in Neukölln, Berlin in 1672. It was a precious anthology: the longest example of the Ottoman language in Latin script, and one of the most invaluable ones. I defended my academic doctorate thesis in 1966, and it was published in 1973 as a joint volume of the Publishing House of the Academy and Mouton. I do not really know how but this book, displayed on the stand of Mouton during the centennial Congress of Orientalists in Paris in the same year, became somewhat of a bestseller—at least fifty copies were displayed on a stall side by side. Its “dumbfounding” cover forced everyone to take notice of it. But what was even more important was the fact that the leading periodicals of Oriental Studies and linguis278

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tics carried several appreciative reviews of the volume by the most prominent experts in the field. The role I played in resuming research of the Turfan texts in Berlin carried the moral obligation that I should be publishing in this field too. The first piece, the extensive Uyghur text that Peter Zieme and I published together, appeared in Berliner Turfan-Texte, the series that I launched. After this, I published two more significant reprint volumes. The smaller publications were connected to different occasions. After submitting my thesis for the degree of candidate of sciences, I shifted my interest toward structural linguistics. In general linguistics I was much less informed—this was not a requirement in Oriental Studies, but I felt and knew that I should become versed in this discipline. During my first steps in this, I received a great deal of assistance from the representatives of the “avantgarde linguists”—László Antal (1930–1993), István Fodor (1920–2012), Ferenc Papp (1930–2001), and György Szépe (1931–2012). It was during my readings that the idea came to me that I would compile the critical balance of all research of the past and present of the Turkish language. The literature representing new trends in American linguistics also figured in this work. The project moved toward publication during the session of the Societas Linguistica Europaea in Brussels, if I remember correctly, in 1967. That was where I met Peter de Ridder, the manager of Mouton in Holland, the most active publisher of linguistic works at that time. My name was, thanks to Tibor Halasi-Kun, familiar to Peter de Ridder. At that time, he happened to be working on a new series in which such a critical summary would have fitted superbly. He introduced me to the future editor of the series, Professor Werner Winter (1923–2010) from Kiel, who welcomed the project. We launched the work, which did not get far at Mouton. We reached the stage where—with the assistance and skillful editing of Winter’s secretary—an important part of the volume, the chapter on bibliography, was 279

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completed. Ultimately, our project at Mouton foundered because the company had gone bankrupt. But I kept working hard on the text, as well as on the bibliography. The fact that in 1973, I had the opportunity to do research in American libraries—in Bloomington, Seattle, UCLA and Columbia in New York—helped greatly in making the American material more complete. The volume found a new publisher soon. Harrassowitz Verlag in Wiesbaden was pleased to oblige. I enjoyed a good relationship with the publishing house’s manager, Dr. Helmut Petzolt (1925–2016). His business affairs required that he should pay visits to Berlin on a regular basis. He would see me on these occasions. Some evenings I invited him in East Berlin to the Ganymed, the favorite restaurant of Bertold Brecht, and on other evenings he hosted me in West Berlin. The work on publishing the volume jointly with the Academy’s Publishing House in Budapest just added to the number of topics we could discuss. Helmut loved editing, affectionately tending to the book’s birth. It was in 1978 that the book was finally published under the title Kurze Einführung in das Studium der Türkischen Sprache. Many reviews written by renowned professionals indicated the positive reception of the work. This was later confirmed by the librarians of the departments of Oriental Studies and Turkology in Germany. The handbook was very popular with students of Turkology, and became an important compass in the first stage of their orientation. As far as chronology is concerned, I am forced to take a leap at this point. I will tell you about the publishing of the book in Turkey in another chapter. But now I have reached the subject of my book Handbuch der türkischen Sprachwissenschaft which appeared in 1990. This break in chronology is justified by the book’s contents. It was after publishing Kurze Einführung in das Studium der türkischen Sprache that I thought of approaching the cluster of research problems that had surfaced by dividing the work 280

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among an international team, and presenting a more detailed description and a more complete bibliography. This idea was also implemented in cooperation with the above mentioned publishers. The success of the volume was guaranteed by the fact that I managed to enlist the best specialists to write each and every chapter (linguistic documents, historical and synchronic grammar, dialects, the etymology of the vocabulary, etc.). A handbook with an extremely wide focus was created that offered a serious depth of analysis. Its success was again underscored by appreciative reviews. As a recommendation for the future, I would make a remark here that a similar compilation should be made every ten years. *** Perhaps this is the point—since I have already introduced a break in the chronology—where I should tell you about Bibliographisches Handbuch der Turkologie published together with Barbara Kellner-Heinkele in 1986. I believe, however, that it would be more appropriate if I presented this book in a wider framework. In other words—here I will reveal to you how my publishing activity related to bibliographies came about. I was still a student when I became aware of the problem of how difficult it was to keep pace with the publications on Turkology because of the inefficient way they were registered. The decisive momentum that pushed my boat into these waters came from Gyula Németh who had undertaken to compile a bibliography of the linguistics of Turkology in the Soviet Union, and present it to the international audience of Turkology. In this work, although I was still a student at the university, he counted on me from the very first minute. As fate would have it, the entire project fell on my shoulders—it was my duty to pilot the book to a safe haven. The book—in its proofs—was first presented at the International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow in 1960 and was published a few months later. 281

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Its reception was very favorable: reviewers warmly welcomed the volume, and scholars in the Soviet Union seemed to suggest between the lines that Soviet researchers should have done the project themselves. The rhythm and flow of information and the problem of losing acquired knowledge continued to preoccupy me. It was common knowledge already at that time that the results of new research were very slow in finding their way into academic circulation and, consequently, was not reaching experts in the field in a timely manner. The problem of the scattering of scholarly publications was first examined in the relevant mathematical methods of Samuel C. Bradford (1878–1948). It is thanks to him that we now possess the law of scattering. The point of his law is that while trying to register the literature of a given professional field in its entirety, you have to reckon with the fact that the number of items that you have to take into account will be multiplying exponentially. I attempted to apply Bradford’s law to publications in Turkology. My paper was carried in 1964 by Ural-altaische Jahrbücher (35.D.1963.403.4/6). It was, to a certain extent, a distress signal. It sent the message that something must be done. Otherwise, our profession—as far as the flow of information was concerned —would be facing more and more difficulties. The most conspicuous finding of this study was that the people who wished to take a look at the entirety of the publications by five prominent representatives of linguistics in Turkology—Ahmet Caferoğlu (1899–1975), Jean Deny, Tadeusz Jan Kowalski (1889–1948), Sergey Yefremovich Malov (1880–1957), and Gyula Németh—would have to pick up, besides the monographs of these authors, 171 journals and 97 collective works, altogether. It was obvious that something had to be done in order to avoid facing more and more problems and difficulties in the sphere of being well informed in our profession. 282

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I make the casual remark here that in 1958, I even submitted a proposal to the Committee of Oriental Studies of our Academy. I suggested that with the help of a modest tied loan, we should launch the registration of scholarly publications in our field, and lay the foundations of a current bibliography. The proposal was, naturally, rejected by the “vassals” loyal to those in power. While trying to reach my goal, I found a trusted ally in Andreas Tietze, who was well aware of the problem and was ready to take action. We tried obtaining American funds for compiling a current bibliography of Turkology already while he was teaching at UCLA. However, we failed. Andreas believed that it was because we had been asking for too little. He might have been right. Later, when he returned from the US and became Head of the Institute of Oriental Studies at the University of Vienna, Andreas and I started talking about the project again. We devoted several discussions to working out the model for this bibliography of Turkology. The venue of our meetings was most frequently the Hotel Fenyves in Sopron where we would spend two or three days going over details. These steps led to the launch of our up-to-date bibliography—Turkologischer Anzeiger/Turkology Annual—in 1975. The first two volumes included 1,739 and 1,418 titles respectively. They were published as supplements to the prestigious journal Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes of the Institute of Oriental Studies of the University of Vienna. Beginning from the third volume with its 2,244 titles, the bibliography became independent. That was when it received the title Turkology Annual (TA) next to the German one. The publication of the bibliography was enthusiastically received by international Turkology. Several reviewers welcomed it. How successful has TA been so far? Between 1975 and 2014, 29 volumes were published altogether. These included more 283

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than 66,000 items: the titles of books, articles, reviews or informative communiqués. With our agreement, our colleagues in Heidelberg prepared the on-line accumulation of the first 26 volumes. During the 35 years of TA, by the nature of things, we have had to face an untold number of problems, most of them involving finances or personnel. We always sorted them out. Today, in the age of the internet, Turkology Annual is still an acknowledged tool in international Turkology. At the same time, we have had and still have to admit quite painfully that there is a problem—despite our numerous attempts and efforts—we have been unable to solve. Our intentions and hopes had namely been that in Turkey, TA would be the “daily bread” of those working in Turkology—researchers, teachers and students. Well, we missed that target. Everyone agrees—in Turkey too—that at least one copy of TA should be present at each university and research institute. However, the fact remains that TA has about ten subscribers in the country, and some of these are foreign research institutes. Andreas Tietze and I have done what we can to accelerate the flow of information. The sorting out of the problems left will be the task of the next generation: the children of the internet. New conditions force us to try and find new ways of sharing bibliographical information. That was the direction in which we moved during an international meeting in Budapest in 2014. *** At the end of the first decade of the 21st century to my great surprise, the issue of publishing Kurze Einführung in das Studium der türkischen Sprache in Turkey was again put on the agenda. The book was released in 1978 in Budapest and Wiesbaden as a joint publication of the Publishing House of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Harrassowitz Verlag. The Turkish translation of the volume goes back to the mid-1990s. During one of my trips to Ankara, the Chairman of Türk Dil 284

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Kurumu, Ahmet Bican Ercilasun (1943–), received me with an exciting piece of news. A Turkish student, who had returned home after completing his studies in Turkology in Germany, approached him with the suggestion that he would be ready to translate my handbook—introducing readers to the various problems of Turkish linguistics—into Turkish. What he requested was that Türk Dil Kurumu should have it published. He said that when he had been a student, the volume was a useful guide. The proposal took me of guard. I had known about the favorable reception of the book internationally and primarily in Germany, and also how it was being used as a textbook by students interested in the linguistic aspects of Turkology. There was no doubt that the book would have been able to send a message in Turkey too and offer something new with its innovative approaches. However, I had never come up with such a proposition. Ahmet Bican Ercilasun and I examined the former student’s test translation that he sent to us. Our opinion was that the text would require the expertise of a more accomplished translator. The Chairman expected me to make a suggestion. I thought of Tevfik Turan (1954–), Turkish reader at the University of Hamburg, an excellent man of letters and a translator with much experience. I recommended him without hesitation. From my time in Cyprus, I had known this colleague of ours well. We had often invited him there to conduct the intensive language course that was part of our program. He had an excellent command of both German and Turkish and had a primary interest in literature. He was pleased to accept the offer by Ankara and did the job with German precision and respect for the deadline. Both Ahmet Bey and I were satisfied with the translation, but agreed that we would take a look at it together. Since I was often visiting Ankara during my years in Cyprus, we decided that the main task of my next visit should be the joint proofreading. We did the work in one of the rooms of the Turkish 285

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Language Society. Ahmet Bey had “escaped” from his Chairman’s office so that we could withdraw into a quiet room in the large office building. We made good progress with the job and— as far as I can remember—completed it over two mornings of work. The issue seemed to be getting closer to a happy end. However, fate intervened. Ahmet Bey had clashed—not over linguistics—over grand politics and for this reason, he resigned as Chairman of the Turkish Language Society. In this way, the book was removed from the current agenda of the Turkish Language Society. In my life, eventful years followed in Budapest, and I did not keep an eye on how this project was evolving. I too put aside the manuscripts of this volume. Again to my great surprise, the project awoke from its Sleeping Beauty dream. The Chairman of the Turkish Language Society at that time, Şükrü Halûk Akalın, informed me in a letter that they were considering the publication of the volume. However, since two of their proof-readers, who spoke German too, had not found the translation satisfactory, they proposed that it should not be printed. At first, I was at a loss to comprehend this news since both the former Chairman, Ahmet Bican Ercilasun, and I had thoroughly scrutinized the translation. What might have happened to the text after this? What might have led the new proof-readers to reach their position? The riddle was soon solved. The working copy, which included Ahmet Bey’s hand-written corrections, had been immediately xeroxed on the spot in Ankara, but was somehow misplaced. Fortunately, I kept the original copy. (I have kept it up to the present day!) Şükrü Halûk Bey was quite surprised when a short time after the exchange of our letters, I showed it to him during one of his trips to Budapest. What is more, I had a new photocopy made for him. The project continued smoothly. I soon received green light in the form of a contract. Proof-reading and printing began, and was completed in August 2012. The German edition had been 286

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justly criticized for its title. I confess that at that time I had relied on Harrassowitz’s suggestion. In light of this criticism, the Ankara edition received the following title: Türkçenin Dünü ve Bugünü (The Past and Present of the Turkish Language). The whole enterprise yielded a peculiar dividend which originated from the idea of refreshing the bibliography, printed in the book. We did this work by processing the materials of the current bibliographies (Turkologischer Anzeiger, Bibliographie Linguistique, Index Islamicus, etc.), and those of others. We compiled a colossal bibliographical document. And as the years passed, it became more and more obvious that this material, amounting to thousands of titles, would not be able to make its way into this handbook. I settled the dilemma of “refreshing” the material by compiling a bibliography of the bibliographies, handbooks and more important monographs published after 1978. This chapter (Türkiye Türkçesinin Dünü ve Bugünü. Türk Dili Araştırmalarına Kısa bir Giriş. Ankara 2012, pp. 177–211), which included about 300 items, offers an overview of the handbooks: the most important sources for orientation from the past 30 years (1978–2011). The harvest of all the bibliographical work connected to the Turkish edition of the Kurze Einführung amounts to several thousand items. It was a logical thought that we should have this material published as an independent volume. My research unit is still working on this publication in which questions are being raised about individual items. *** The theoretical starting point of my research of the history of the Turkish language in Turkey had been the problem of its periodization. I had already outlined the basic framework at the International Congress of Orientalists in Moscow in 1960, and later in papers. While researching the subject, I planned to move forward by numerically analyzing the data of several representative historical texts. 287

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During my work, I had come across three Ottoman texts in the subjects of literature and history. They were all remarkable linguistic corpuses. The vocalization in these extensive prose texts was important from the point of view of diachronic analysis. In addition, they originated from three different ages. I am talking about the following works: the translation of Farīduddīn Aṭṭār’s Taẕkaratu’l-awliyā (Memoranda of Saints) from Persian into Turkish from the 14th century, the translation of a Persian version of Ferec ba’d eș-șidde (From Gloom to Bliss), a collection of tales or short stories by an unknown author from the 15th century, and a work by Tercümān Mahmūd, Tārῑḫ-i Ungurusḫ-i Ungurus (History of Hungary) from the second half of the 16th century. Fortunately, the manuscripts of all three works can be found in the Oriental Collection of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest. Already as a student, I had dealt with the chronicle Tārῑḫ-i Ungurusḫ-i Ungurus, a text that is regarded as a rarity in Ottoman historical literature. I prepared its transcription in 1962 during an “enclosure” at Lake Balaton. Sometime at the end of my stay in Berlin, I reached the stage of finalizing this transcription. It was the millennium celebrations in Hungary in 1996 that offered the opportunity to have this work translated into Hungarian, which previous research had confirmed as a source of the early history of Hungary. I took advantage of this opportunity and the work was published in 1996. Moreover, it was republished in 2009. The manuscript of the Turkish translation of Farīduddīn Aṭṭār’s work is, without a doubt, one of the most valued items in the Oriental Collection of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. József Thúry and, in his footsteps, Mehmet Fuat Köprülü had already drawn the attention of international Turkology to it in the early 20th century. Several Turkologists in Hungary had been dealing with the idea of publishing the manuscript only to abandon it for various reasons. I ventured into this mainly because this work might have constituted the 288

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first step of my examination of the chronology in the history of the Turkish language. I started the philological work on the text at the same time as working on Ferec ba’d eș-şidde in Cyprus. After my return from Cyprus, reaping the benefits of my long and productive years on the island, these three extensive texts were almost ready to be printed. But in order to reach this stage, I had to establish new conditions for publishing.

György Hazai with Gerd Winkelhane at Barbara Kellner-Heinkele’s apartment in Berlin, Spring of 2010

Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica had long been the designated series of Oriental Studies in Hungary. It had been established back in 1928 by Lajos Ligeti who “nursed” it up until his death. As I have already told you, after the death of Lajos Ligeti in 1987, I inherited the editor’s position and, because of the well-known difficulties of publishing in Hungary, gradually relocated it to Klaus Schwarz Verlag in Berlin. The publisher’s manager and my good friend, Gerd Winkelhane, was keen on further monographs. My publications in the field of the history of the Turkish language appeared in the 289

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Klaus Schwarz Verlag’s series Studien zur Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur der Türkvölker (SSGKT): Ferec in 2006 (Volume 5), the work by Aṭṭār in 2008 (Volume 6) and Tārῑḫ-i Ungurusḫ-i Ungurus in 2009 (Volume 8). In the series itself, more than 21 volumes have already been published. *** Over the years, fate has assigned me jobs in publishing that I had not counted on at all. My first introduction to publishing was through my beloved professor, Lajos Fekete, and his work on the paleography of Persian historical documents (Einführung in die persische Paläographie. 101 persische Urkunden). I was forced to play a role in this matter when Lajos Ligeti—and I am trying to use an acceptable word here—“toyed” with Uncle Lajos and refused to publish his book that he, because of his position, could have published without any difficulties. Just like a “dictator”, Ligeti was always delighted when he made others taste his power. (For this reason, one of his students, Lajos Bese (1926–1988), who unfortunately died young, had given him the nickname “the Sadist”.) When Lajos Fekete complained to me, I promised that I would try and find a partner publishing house in the West. I surmized that a co-publishing contract with the Academy’s Publishing House would settle the problem. My negotiations with Walter de Gruyter Publishers in West-Berlin seemed promising. That was the good news that I wanted to share with him when I called during a visit to Budapest in May 1969. His wife told me that Uncle Lajos had passed away. I do not know how the collaboration between the two publishers worked out. György Bernát, Director General of the Academy’s Publishing House, handled this. Several weeks later, however, he called and indicated that the book could not be published in a foreign co-edition, but in a different form. He asked me to handle the manuscript. I had never expected such a job to come my way, 290

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but the memory of my beloved professor obliged me to say yes. I knew that this would entail a lot of work. What I had to do was nothing less than refresh my command of Persian, which had grown rusty since my years at the university. At this point, however, I found pillars of support in my colleagues in Berlin, Dr. Bozorg Alavi (1904–1997), Dr. Manfred Lorenz (1929–2017) and Dr. Werner Sundermann who were professors of Iranian Studies. At that time, we had already nice relations going back several years. The bulky volume had its own subtle technical production problems. At that time, we were still in the age of hot lead typesetting. The set of Arabic characters at the Academy’s printing house, which they acquired in the 1950s to typeset another book by Lajos Fekete, was not sufficient to produce the full text of the new volume. For that reason, they completed the typesetting in parts. After one block was set and the plate made, it was possible to take the block apart and re-use the characters for typesetting the next block. György Bernát went to great lengths in the printing of this book. He was aware that his team of typesetters were in line for the Kossuth Award in recognition of the great job they had done. The typesetters had to learn the structure of Arabic script without having the command of the language and then, based of this knowledge alone, produce the text. The book was finally published in 1977. And the team of the typesetters went on to win the Kossuth Award. The other publishing job that life dropped in my lap was the completion of the third volume of Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta. The editing of this representative publication of Turkology, subsidized by important international academic organizations and sponsors, was handled by Hans Robert Roemer, Professor of Islamic and Iranian Studies at Freiburg University, Germany. As a young researcher, he had worked alongside Helmut Scheel (1895–1967) in Mainz, and was present as an assistant when the great enterprise of Philologiae Turcicae Funda291

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menta was launched in 1952. He remained faithful to this project for the rest of his life. The Union Internationale des Orientalistes also played a role in the launch of the project. Hans Robert Roemer was the Vice President and Louis Bazin the Secretary General of the Union at that time (I was the Secretary of the organization.) Although over the years Fundamenta became completely independent, having no administrative or financial ties with the Union, the issue of the series was always on the agenda during our meetings in Paris and Freiburg. The problem was the structure of the Fundamenta volume covering the history of the Turkic world. The founders of Fundamenta had only hazy ideas about this, or rather ideas that were not possible to implement. It was clear that this volume would come out only after the books on language and literature had been published. The volume would cover the early history of the Turkic peoples, their movement beyond Inner Asia to the Near and Middle East and the history of their migrations. These chapters would be followed by a description of their state formation in the Middle East, in the steppe belt and in Siberia. The first part, the volume on early history, was put together through the participation of a team of excellent specialists in the field. This was well managed by Hans Robert Roemer. During a discussion between the three of us in Freiburg, Roemer suddenly turned to me and said: “Do you know, Herr Hazai, what Helmut Scheel would have done in this situation?” (Helmut Scheel, the outstanding Turkologist and research organizer, was one of the project’s founding fathers and a driving force behind Fundamenta.) “He would have convened a meeting in order to work out a new concept.” “Herr Roemer, this is something I can do too”, I replied, and the meeting took place in Freiburg soon after. I mobilized the outstanding figures of our field to take part in the session. It was there that we decided that under the title Fundamenta, handbooks should be published that systematically communicate topical information. These 292

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volumes would be connected only when necessary. In other words, they could be published irrespective of one another, or in any chronological order. During the discussion, we did not exclude the possibility that bibliographies and compilations of documents might find their way into the series. As a result of the meeting in Freiburg under the chairmanship of Hans Robert Roemer, Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta received a new “gown” —or to put it more precisely, a new title. The new title—Philologiae et Historiae Turcicae Fundamenta—made its character unambiguous, and clearly separated the disciplines. It was an important decision that the volumes could be published in any order. In other words, when the text of a volume was ready, it could go to print no matter the publication schedule. In the case of the volume edited by Hans Robert Roemer, it was only when the proofs were ready for printing that the “Great Old Man” needed some assistance. The book was already prepared by electronic typesetting, therefore only the actual production needed to be paid for. But the publishers of the previous two volumes wanted to calculate the costs based on the earlier volumes. This would have enabled them to pocket a large sum of money in return for simply sending the manuscript to one of the printing houses. Although it proved to be difficult, I managed to convince Hans Robert Roemer that the book could be produced for a fraction of the sum demanded by the original publishers. He finally gave in, and a handsome amount of money was saved for the next volume in the series. It was Erik-Jan Zürcher of Leiden University, Netherlands who undertook the job of preparing the first volume of the renewed series, which would detail the history of Turkey in the 20th century. The editing work started during my time in Cyprus. As editor, Professor Erik-Jan Zürcher was very competent in this exciting subject and was also familiar with the specialists working in this field. He soon outlined his working plan and set up his team of authors that included the very best specialists. At the end of the 1990s, the first papers were handed 293

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in. At this stage, I still had fairly little work to do with the volume. Essentially, all I had to do was organize the proof-reading. Naturally, I was in permanent contact with the editor so that we could solve problems as they emerged. People who have organized and edited such a collective volume are well aware of what that means. One must maintain contact with dozens of authors, keep tabs on the progress of papers, make sure that no gaps open in the planned structure, and rush to the assistance of authors when they seem to have difficulties. As a result of our work, the manuscript was prepared within a few years so that layout could begin. But as fate would have it, Hans Robert Roemer did not live to see the volume go to print. Consequently, I had to finish this work alone. I felt greatly honored to receive this responsibility. Thanks to one of the excellent member of my technical staff, we made good progress and the volume found its way to the Hungarian Akaprint printing house, which always did an outstanding job. The volume was published in 2008 under the title Turkey in the Twentieth Century. Louis Bazin and I wrote the volume’s foreword in which we announced to our fellow Turkologists Fundamenta’s rebirth. The subjects selected by Erik-Jan Zürcher were well received by our scholarly community. So this was how Hans Robert Roemer passed the baton of Fundamenta to me and Louis Bazin. Towards the end of my Cyprus years, Elizabeth Zachariadou joined the Department of Turkology as a visiting professor for one semester. She told me then, as her retirement was approaching, that she felt remorse she had not found a way nor the time during her years in Crete to put the work on the Kadı Sicil Defter collection in the Vikelaia Library in Heraklion—a unique treasure—in motion. Couldn’t we perhaps do something about this? To give you an idea of the enormity of the task, I must tell you a few words about this collection. At the end of the 17th century, Crete fell to the Ottomans under peculiar circum294

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stances. The long siege of the castle of Candia (Heraklion) was still going on when the island was already under actual Ottoman rule, and the setting up of the new power structure was dynamically progressing. A key element of this was the creation of the offices of the kadı—the local Ottoman administration.

Signing of the agreement for the Kadı Defterler work at György Hazai’s appartment in Cyprus

It is important to know that the kadı acted not only as judges but as notaries public as well. In their offices, every aspect of daily life was registered, whether ordered by law or by a citizen. Murders, land sales, inheritance and disputes over it were all adjudicated by the kadı and were registered in a defter (register). And during the entirety of the island’s Ottoman period—essentially without a gap in time—168 large registers were created and were later preserved in the library of Heraklion. This was an incredible treasure trove for Turkologists! It offered historians subject matters and detailed information on a silver plate and enabled them to research everyday life according to the system set out by the famous French historian of the An295

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nales School, Fernand Braudel (1902–1985). The only grave and seemingly unsolvable problem was that these defterler had all been written in the not quite legible ductus of Arabic script used by the clerks of the Ottoman chancellery. The “decoding” of the contents of the documents required thorough proficiency in Turkish paleography and great perseverance because of the time needed to go into the material. During my discussion with Elizabeth the idea arose that we should try to launch a project to publish the defterler. We planned to base ourselves on the Lajos Fekete created school of Ottoman paleography in Budapest. I managed to find a young scholar of Ottoman Studies in Budapest, Miklós Fóti who possessed excellent skills in the field of linguistics and paleography, and was pleased to assume the job. Besides this, I also trusted that I would be able to support his work with my own skills where necessary. We soon formed a model on how the work would be done. The transcription of the texts—received in copies—was done in Budapest. Our colleagues on Crete checked these, first from the point of view of the Greek names of places and people. Then they made regestas for them in Greek. Naturally, indexes on various subjects were made based on the texts. The first such collection—a bulky volume—was published in 2003, the second one in 2008, the third one in 2010 and the fourth in 2014. The release of these volumes was always regarded as an important event in the capital of Crete. The ceremonial hall of the library was full to the brim of people both young and old who were interested in the history of their island, and were driven by patriotism. You could only feel envious of this attitude. The project had already reached the stage where we were able to meet the urging of international Turkology to publish the Turkish texts that had undergone philological scrutiny. In this way, the material became accessible to those who could not use the Greek translation. A longer paper presenting the material appeared in Archivum Ottomanicum vol. 26 (2009) and vol 296

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27 (2010). The publishing of Turkish sources in book form will have to be done by the next generation of scholars. I have already told you about the compilation of the catalog of the Turkish manuscripts kept in the library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. I mention the catalog here only for the sake of presenting a complete list. The Turkish-language volume was published in 2006. Its presentation, together with the English version published in Budapest in 2008, took place in Ankara. TÜBA and the Hungarian Embassy in Ankara hosted the event and the reception that followed. *** During the course of their careers, Turkologists who regularly publish papers form contacts with journals. Sooner or later, they are invited to work for the periodicals. This relationship is usually recorded with the name of the cooperating academic appearing—in one capacity or another—on the journal’s cover. I confess I had never sought this kind of “success”. However, I have always believed that actual cooperation, contributing substantially to the work of a journal, is important. For my part, such contributions have taken place on two occasions. One of the journals was Orientalistische Literaturzeitung, a prestigious periodical focused on international research of the Orient. Soon after my arrival to Berlin, I became the “Spartenredakteur”—the head of the journal’s Turkological section. I did this work between 1964 and 82: all the years I spent in Berlin. I was able to work with the editor-in-chief, the inimitable Fritz Hintze, perfectly. When he was away in the winter months on excavations in Egypt, I would edit the journal and submit it to print. The other journal was Zeitschrift für Balkanologie where I was expected to contribute the Turkological material. It was published by Harrassowitz Verlag, but its editing was done by the Department of Balkan Studies of the Freie Universität in 297

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Berlin, or more precisely, by my colleague and good friend, Norbert Reiter. Later, the journal’s editing was taken over by Reiter’s student, Professor Gabriella Schubert, who wants me to participate in the work of the editorial board even today. On the occasion of my 80th birthday, my humble role in their work was acknowledged in the pages of the journal. *** I have never aspired to have a journal of my own. The role of editor-in-chief has never been one of my ambitions in academia. Nevertheless, fate arranged it that in 1994 I became the master of Archivum Ottomanicum, the first international journal of Turkology established after the Second World War. This journal was established by my friend, Tibor Halasi-Kun, in 1973. Upon his request, I contributed a paper in the very first edition. Whenever we met, Tibor and I would always talk about the journal. Our discussions usually began by my asking—just as all our other colleagues would ask—when the next edition would come out. In 1974, when I visited New York as a guest lecturer of Columbia University, I asked him this question in his apartment. His reply was: “Come, I’ll show it to you.” He led me into another room where the manuscripts of the upcoming volumes were carefully piled up on a sofa. “You see, here are the next editions.” Unfortunately, Tibor failed to understand that the life-giving element of a journal—as shown also by its name—is continuity. He was unable to grasp that. In his defense, he did not possess the continuous and solid financial backing necessary to publish the editions on a regular basis. In order to survive, he prayed and begged for support from one place or another. However, his hopes did not always materialize, or if they did, only with great difficulty and, as a rule, belatedly. Compounding this precarious situation was the fact that Tibor would try and “super edit” the material. He would carefully read all the papers, and 298

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then would have them read by colleagues. After this, he would inject remarks and proposals into the papers. In other words, he had become a super proof-reader, which took a tremendous amount of work and, particularly, time. This was why the journal foundered, and why it was constantly late. In 1991, Tibor passed away. His widow, Éva, for whom Turkology and the journal were also matters of life and death, suggested my name to the publishers. The manager of Harrassowitz Verlag, Helmut Petzolt, knew me well. Our friendship dated back to my time in Berlin, and he had published several of my books which kept us in constant exchange of ideas. During my years at the Academy’s Publishing House, our professional relationship grew even stronger. It is enough for me to indicate here that the volumes of Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica were also published by Harrassowitz Verlag. Every time Helmut came to Berlin or Budapest, we would find an opportunity for longer discussions. When Helmut Petzolt learned about Éva’s suggestion, his reply was unambiguously and enthusiastically positive. However, first the debts of the journal had to be settled. Because an anticipated donation by a sponsor had failed to be provided, Tibor had a debt of USD 3,000 in Wiesbaden. Understanding the situation, Helmut Petzolt decided that Archivum Ottomanicum should start with a clean slate. So he waived the above sum. At the same time, he asked me to work out a model for the finances of the journal, which would be acceptable to them. The financial model I elaborated constitutes the foundations of the journal up to the present day. Éva and I agreed that the forthcoming number 13 (1993– 1994) would be dedicated to the memory of Tibor, and that we would compile it together. But it would be my duty to take care of the subsequent ones. That was how it happened. Within a short time, the Archivum was back on its feet and was published continuously in the expected annual rhythm. Later, the manager responsible for 299

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distribution at Harrassowitz said to me: “Herr Hazai, we have never had a case in the history of this journal that three editions have been published within two years.” The first edition of the Archivum compiled by me and the new editorial board (No. 14) was published in 1996. *** I am somewhat reluctant to explain why my name—as a consultant—appeared on the cover of some of the volumes of Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae in Budapest. But I feel I must do so. I would like to tell you in advance that after my return from Berlin in 1982 (at that time, I was already a corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences), unlike others I was not interested in “positions in Hungarian Turkology” even for a minute. I can remember how Ferenc Tőkei turned to me one day, saying that we should discuss some issue before or after the session of the Committee of Oriental Studies that afternoon. “Feri”, I replied, “I am not going to be there because I am not a member of the Committee.” He was shocked. He just could not believe it. “Feri, why on earth should I be a member? Decades have passed and I have never felt the need for it.” Later, the situation changed. What is more, at some point, membership in the committees of their respective fields became a requirement for Academy members. My nomination for the editorial board of Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae took place in a similar way. A change occurred in the mid-1990s and András Róna-Tas, who had always had an appetite for this position, became the editorin-chief of the journal. It was at the emphatic request of Zsigmond Ritoók, the Chairman of our department, that my name should appear on the cover of the journal. I was right to be reluctant. It was already during the first session of the board that the new editor-in-chief raised the question whether the journal needed any consultants at all. Fortunately, my name appears 300

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only on a few volumes. I would like to underline here that I had nothing to do with the journal when it reached its nadir under the management of András Róna-Tas. *** Besides the mongoraphs and works listed above, I wrote dozens of other papers and introductions to books during my career in Turkology. Some of these were smaller editions that contained observations on old documents. I will discuss only some of them here. My connection with the Turfan research group in Berlin brought me in contact with Old Turkish inscriptions from the 8th century. One of Gyula Németh’s excellent lectures at the university had introduced me to this subject. At university, I was always pleased to place one of these texts on my desk and analyze them with keen interest. Before the PIAC meeting in Berlin in 1967 one point in the inscriptions caught my attention. I didn’t agree with the previous readings of it and felt that I could offer a better explanation. That went on to become the topic of my lecture at the PIAC meeting in Berlin. I was very pleased when János Harmatta agreed with my interpretation. At the session of the Hungarian Linguistic Society on the occasion of my 70th birthday, when describing the milestones of my career, János listed this article among my major accomplishments. He emphasized how I had contributed to the interpretation of one of the Orhon inscriptions, that are considered the most important texts in the history of the Turkish language. Halcyon Days on Crete always presented a challenge to me. During the closing sessions of these symposiums, Elizabeth Zachariadou would always propose exciting subjects for our next meeting. Naturally, these topics were always related to history. I was pleased that I always had something substantial to add to each from the point of view of the history of the language or my knowledge of the sources. This opened the door for me to publish in prestigious volumes and encyclopediae. 301

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The first two papers of this kind were carried by the book series Current Trends in Linguistics. I had returned from Japan in the first days of October 1968. In my mailbox there was a letter from Thomas Sebeok (1920–2001), the editor of Current Trends in Linguistics, asking me to contribute two studies to the next volume. As he said, someone had left him in the lurch (I can no longer remember who it had been). In this way, the deadline was very tight too. He was asking me for help. Tom and I were old friends. He would come over from Indiana University in Bloomington to Europe each year and we would meet either in Budapest or Berlin. Naturally, I could not say no. My papers were received well. Quite a few years later, Joshua Aaron Fishman (1926–2015), the nestor of language policy research, asked for my permission to include one of the two papers in a collection of studies edited by him. In 1974, Encyclopaedia Britannica—the most prestigious lexicon in the world—honored me with an invitation to write the article for Altaic Languages. Included in the main entry were sections on individual Altay languages. I must have satisfied the requirements of the editors since these articles enjoyed a stable status in the further editions. Over the years, the The Encyclopaedia of Islam asked me several times to write some articles. As the time approached to write an entry for Turks, my friend, Emeri Johannes van Donzel (1925–2017), the encyclopaedia’s editor, asked me to propose the structure and possible authors for this important article. I was honored that the series of entries was published in 2000 on the basis of my concept. I contributed with the title II. Languages to this extensive entry. *** I have had a close relationship with the Hungarian Academy of Sciences since I was a student at ELTE. Without a doubt, I can thank Gyula Németh for that. For decades, and especially after 1945, he played an important role in the inner circles of the 302

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Academy. It is enough to say that he was Chairman of the Department of Linguistics for many years, and the Director of the Institute of Linguistics for several decades. Because of this, a significant part of what was happening at the Academy was also known at the Institute of Turkology at ELTE. At the same time, Gyula Németh also launched many initiatives at the Academy. Some concerned me directly, such as my becoming an aspirant or my study trip to Bulgaria. The highlight of my years as a young researcher was the moment when I was able to continue my research work at the Academy. Here, I am adding that after this I have never had any other workplace in Hungary than the Academy, and my work contract with the institution did not cease even when I was abroad. I have always remained on the Academy’s staff, or more precisely, on that of the Institute of Linguistics, and from there I retired in 2002. I was elected corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences by the Department of Philology in 1982 and full member in 1995.

Cecilia, György, and Kinga Hazai at the party following the granting of the Academy membership 303

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It is obvious that over the decades, besides numerous working contacts, I have forged many emotional ties with the Academy. During the decades that had glided by, I cultivated friendly and constructive relationships with leading officials, presidents and secretaries general. I cite here the names of János Szentágothai, Domokos Kosáry, Elek Szilveszter Vizi, and István Láng. Hardly anyone knows that the nomination of Domokos Kosáry for the post of President of the Academy was my initiative. I am proud to mention this. The extraordinary General Assembly of 1990 took place in the spirit of political reform. György Spira, who represented the Democratic Trade Union of People Working in academia, stressed that the future of the “Stalinist Academy of Sciences” was in peril. However, his trade union, which was a participant in the roundtable conference setting out the new political structure of the country, would be willing—with certain conditions— to say a few good words in the interests of the Academy. After this, Domokos Kosáry took the floor, and referring to his own career, most resolutely rejected the qualification “Stalinist”. That was when the idea struck me that the General Assembly in the spring should nominate Domokos Kosáry for the post of President. In the evening, I gave him a call and asked his opinion about this suggestion. If he said yes, I would submit the proposal to the committee in writing. There is no doubt that Domokos Kosáry’s two terms as President greatly contributed to stabilizing the political situation of the Academy. Among the presidents who followed, I had very constructive and friendly relationship with Elek Szilveszter Vizi. Unfortunately, I cannot claim the same about József Pálinkás with whom even maintaining contact caused no small difficulties. I am not at all the type who would bother the leaders of the Academy for no reason. However, personal meetings are sometimes important. Well, in his case, I had to learn very quickly that I had better abandon such attempts from the start. I was familiar with his aloof style—criticism of which reached the 304

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daily newspapers too—from his tenure as Minister of Education (2001–2002). At that time, as the Founding Rector of Andrássy University, I had working relationship with him. Fortunately, not for a long time. His fulminations and the way he issued orders was reminiscent of the style of sergeants in the French Foreign Legion, as described in pulp fiction. Many people inside and outside the Academy believed that this behavior was not worthy the prestigious institution that he lead for six years. During these six years, the people working in the administration counted the days until his presidency was over. The head of his secretariat felt the same way.

From left: Gábor Krakovits, Veronika Ádám, Anna Kádár, Szilveszter Vizi Elek, Zoltán Papp, László Muszbek, Norbert Kroó, György Hazai, MarieClaude Hazai at the Academy ball, February 2005

A Summary of My Career as a Teacher A career as a professor, by the nature of things, consists of several parts. Its value, however, should not be judged by me, but by others—outsiders and public opinion. In order to do that, all the “requisites” are available—the stages of one’s career, how obligations were met, and the publishing achievements of one’s 305

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research work. The bibliography of this is available to anyone. The other element to take into account is students. In my own case, where my career was connected with several countries, this is, however, not an easy task for people to sort out. This is the reason why I am undertaking this enterprise myself. In Hungary, because of the status of Oriental Studies and the perspectives offered, a professor could usually count on a very narrow circle of students. But then, among the students visiting the lectures and the seminars, you could always find one or two who—on the basis of the inspiration received there— fell in love with the field and, undertaking no small risk for the future, established roots in this discipline. During my career as a teacher, I had two extraordinary experiences—in Sofia and Nicosia where a peculiar model determined my activities. The Turkology major was launched in Sofia in the second half of the 1950s with very clear cultural objectives. The idea of the government at that time was to set up high schools for the Turkish minority. It was mainly students with Turkish as their mother tongue who enrolled in the new major. They would become the future teachers at these Turkish high schools. They were my students in Sofia. When I started teaching at the State University of Sofia (today called Kliment Ohridsky University) in the early spring of 1956, I worked with a small group of seniors (about twenty students) for one semester. But the real job was to teach Turkology to freshmen. Their number was close to a hundred, and there were only two Bulgarians among them. One of them, Svoboda Petrova, was born in Istanbul and had a mother-tongue command of Turkish. (As fate would have it, my relationship with Svoboda continued in Berlin too, since she married there. I managed to find her a job as a reader at the Humboldt University. Decades later, she retired from that position.) The other student was a young man from a family of intellectuals in Bulgaria. He had learned the language during his father’s official stay in Turkey. 306

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The lives of these students did not work out as planned originally. A few years later—when I was no longer in Sofia—the government changed its education policy. It abandoned the idea of setting up high schools for the Turkish minority. After graduating, my students were posted to Bulgarian high schools. Only few of them maintained contact with Turkology, either at the university or in the field of publishing in Turkish in Bulgaria. Unfortunately, I lost contact with most of them. However, from time to time life arranged a few pleasant meetings, such as at the Conference on Balkan-Turkish Linguistics in Kosovo in 2010. There, I was pleased to learn from one of my former Turkish students that some members of the junior-class group of 1956 were still in contact with each other. I was invited to take part in one of their reunions. In Berlin, the situation was totally different. There, the students were able to enroll in Turkology in modest quotas. On four occasions I had four-member groups. The members of these were, without exception, hard-working students who performed well in their studies. After graduating, they found opportunities in life without difficulties. Naturally, I was closest to the students who were interested in academic careers. Over the past twenty years, four students have remained in Turkology: Peter Zieme, Heidi Stein (1944–), Ingrid Warnke (1941–), and Simone-Christiane Raschmann (1958–). The first three did their doctorates with me, and Simone acquired this degree after I had left. As far as his academic achievements are concerned, Peter Zieme enjoyed a glorious career. After graduating, he worked at the Academy in Berlin. Over the years, he did his doctorate and habilitation with me, and today he is one of the leading researchers of the Turfan studies and neighbouring fields. He has published countless papers. It was a great pleasure for me that the Hungarian Academy of Sciences—at my initiative—elected him honorary member in 2009. Ingrid Warnke also continued her research in the Turfan Collection at the Academy in Berlin 307

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Werner Sundermann, Gabriele Zieme, Simone-Christiane Raschmann, Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, György Hazai, Peter Zieme at a reception on the occasion of Peter Zieme’s 60th birthday, April 2002

and did her doctorate under my guidance. Heidi Stein found a career in Ottoman Studies and launched her scholarly work in a field that I had advised het to pursue. Later, she worked at the University of Leipzig, and then, after the reunification of Germany, at the University of Mainz—with great achievements. Simone-Christiane Raschmann also started her studies in Turkology with me. She was attracted to research of the Turfan Collection, and was introduced to it by Peter Zieme. During my last years in Berlin, Simone was already a part-time teacher of this subject at Humboldt University, just as I had proposed. But it was not only my own students of Turkology who did their doctorates with me. Sigrid Kleinmichel, a student of Andrei Nikolajevich Kononov (1906–1986) in Leningrad, also did her doctorate under my guidance. Among the doctorate students who were not my own students, I must mention Helmut Nowka (1935–2011) and Tatjana Möckel (1953–), who were assistant professors at our institute. 308

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Simone-Christiane Raschmann und Heidi Stein

One of my most talented aspirants from abroad was Valeriy Stojanov (1951–) who wrote an excellent dissertation on the history of Ottoman paleography and documents. This work was immediateley published by my friend, Klaus Schwarz, in his series Islamkundliche Untersuchungen. Today, Valeriy is a fellow at the Institute of History of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, and was its Deputy Director for many years. As a result of his hard work, he has published large volumes, which I have been honored to receive from him. I have to tell you separately about the doctorate students who came to Berlin from Central Asia. Two fine aspirants with an excellent command of German—Sayora Khasankhanova and Natalya Shakirova—arrived from Tashkent. Of the two, Sayora was especially dear to our hearts. In 1980, we were pleased to accept the kind invitation of her family to Tashkent. When my two daughters and I visited Moscow and Leningrad in 1981, Sayora surprised our hosts—Professor Akhnef Akhmetovich Yuldashev (1920–1988) and his wife—with a huge delivery of food so that we would not suffer any shortages. It was common knowledge that the provisions in the capital were miser309

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able. Being aware of that, Sayora arrived in Moscow with a load of vegetables and fruits from Tashkent. That was her contribution to the otherwise rich dining table of the Yuldashev family. After completing her time as an aspirant, she married. A few years ago, one of her sons, who was already a university student, made a trip to Prague. His mother had given him strict orders to fly via Budapest and bring Sayora’s embroided caftan in the György Hazai Library back news of us to Tashkent. A short while after my 80th birthday, Sayora paid a visit to me in Budapest. Her gift was an amazing embroided caftan. This is the point at which I have to mention the name of Hans-Ulrich Ihm (1957–) who became my colleague at Humboldt University during the last two years of my stay in Berlin. He had been studying Turkology in Leningrad. Knowing that I was already leaving Berlin, I entrusted the selection of the subject matter of his doctorates to my successors. However, later Hans-Ulrich Ihm left Humboldt University and after the reunification of Germany, he joined the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Germany and went on to serve at various German Embassies in Central Asia. To my great surprise, he turned up in Budapest in 2012. He confessed to me that he wished to greet me on my 80th birthday and express his thanks for the skills and inspiration gained during the two years that he had spent as my student. I was touched by this kindness. I learned from him that he had left the German Embassy in Ashgabat a short time before and was hoping to play a leading role in the international pro310

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ject set up to revitalize Lake Aral. Hans-Ulrich Ihm has faithfully been in contact with me ever since. I am pleased to learn that things worked out the way he had wanted. In Cyprus, just as in Berlin, students arrived at the department as we anticipated. Our quota made it possible for twenty of them to enroll in the Turkish/Turkology major. The students who applied from Greece were not part of this quota—their numbers were not limited in principle. However, we could count on only one or two such “guests” and what is more, not every year. Among the students from Cyprus, young women made up the majority and tended to be the opinion leaders. These nice young people, immature for university studies, were driven by the hope—just as many others who were majoring in other subjects—that their university degrees would assist them in landing a good job in the state administration. In our case, these hopes were nourished especially by the fact that they themselves—or their parents—strongly believed in the possible reunification of the island. Or, at least, in rational and peaceful co-existence, which would dramatically increase the need for Turkish speakers on the Greek side. However, this did not really inspire them to study enthusiastically or perform better. Support from their families provided them with carefree and happy student years. They were active in political events. And they also enjoyed the numerous other opportunities offered by the university. But I must not be unfair. Among the twenty students, you could always find a few mature young minds. They did have an inkling of, and what is more, felt the importance of a univeristy experience, and were able to gear up for hard work. And these students achieved more than you would have thought at that time. Unfortunately, I have no real idea how their lives worked out. But there are a few examples of how, by their diligence and hard work, these talented young people managed to moor their boots. 311

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First of all, I must tell you about one of the juniors, Penelope Erotokritou (1974–). This young woman was an extraordinary phenomenon not only because of her beauty, but because of her hard work. She took all lectures and subjects very seriously, and during exams, only a top grade would satisfy her. She deserved top honors in all her studies. So it was natural when the university nominated her for the prestigious Prize of the President of the Republic. The award was CP 10,000 (more than USD 20,000 at that time) and each year only one student was awarded it. Obviously, the faculties outside philology did not want the Prize to go, especially for the first time, to a student of Turkology. They argued that their system of requirements was much more serious and strict, and, consequently, the performance of the students were not the same. However, the university required that during their studies, each student must enroll

György Hazai, Kyriaki Pieri, Penelope Erotokritou in Cyprus

in a lecture in the curriculum of another faculty. And here, Penelope also achieved top grades without exception. The teachers of these faculties—and they must be complimented for doing so—took a stand for her, reminding others of her per312

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formance in their programs. Penelope’s receipt of the Presidential Prize was an enormous success for the Department of Turkology. She wanted to work for the Foreign Ministry where you could be admitted only after passing a very difficult entrance exam. Here, it was generally not what you knew but your family and political connections that played the main role. However, Penelope managed to clear this obstacle too. What is more, without any supporters. It was said that during her exam, she impressed the committee with her knowledge. The opinion was that “this woman knows everything and she’s got no supporters”. She was posted abroad very soon—first with her country’s UN Delegation and then as Consul General in Toronto. Finally, it became time to start a family. She excelled in this field too—she gave birth to triplets. The people who knew her from university commented on this piece of news by saying—you could not expect anything less from Penelope. One of my students, the hard-working and clever Marios Hadjianastasis (1973–), went to work under the wings of my friend Rhoads Murphey (1949–) in Birmingham in one of the strongholds of Turkology. Christos Grigoriadis (1974–), who was interested in the history of Turkish art, worked beside Eleazar Birnbaum (1929–) in Toronto. When his professor and I met during ICANAS in Montreal, Birnbaum praised him, highly appreciating his command of Turkish. In the end, Christos became a celebrated movie star. During the eight years that I spent at the University of Cyprus, I made contact with about 170 students, including the ones from Greece. Only a few of them stayed in Turkology and worked towards their doctorates. Most of them found jobs in the state administration. The decrease in tension between the Greek and Turkish sides of the island, and then the partial opening of the border resulted in stronger ties between the peoples. And this created new opportunities for jobs for our Turkish speaking students. As I end my overview of my stu313

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dents in Cyprus, I must tell you about the ones who started working for their PhDs in our department. First of all, I have to mention Kostas Sasmatzoglou (1971–). He completed his MA studies in Canada just about the time our department was inaugurated. His wife was a Greek Cypriot so it was obvious to him that he should obtain his PhD in our department. He was not only intelligent, but a hard-working person as well. He made headway in his studies and completed his dissertation. But the administration at the university—chiefly out of stupid jealousy—tried to sabotage his graduation. Kostas, however, was not in any danger because he had a good relationship with Jannis Valinakis, a prominent rightwing politician in Greece, who was then serving as Deputy Foreign Minister. Kostas began working for Valinakis. The latest news is that he was posted to Greece’s EU Delegation in Brussels. Eftyhios Gavriel (1965–), who completed his Turkish studies in Sofia, was a member of our department from the beginning. His excellent command of Turkish qualified him for a position as one of our Turkish readers. He announced right away that, besides his job, he also wished to earn his PhD. As a topic I selected him a Karamanlı Turkish document to analyse. His dissertation was ultimately overseen by my successor, Matthias Kappler. Eftihios Gavriel defended his dissertation with great success on November 2010. The university asked me to serve as one of the members of the PhD committee. I was pleased to make the trip because it offered me a golden opportunity to visit my favorite island in the sunny fall. Michalis Michael (1971–) was among my first students who dealt with the Turkish period of Cypriot history. After graduating, he went to Crete and became a PhD student under Elizabeth Zachariadou. *** So these were my students. And I am proud and content of their talents and accomplishments. Most of all, I am satisfied with the fact that with the students that I have managed to maintain 314

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contact with, I have had friendly ties until the present day. We all recall our common past with pleasure.

About the Tree of Benefits in Budapest In the garden of the imaginary palace of the imaginary empire of the Great Mogul grew a tree of considerable dimension. It was the Tree of Benefits. The number of Benefits was not small. Although their value depended on the fate of the empire and the world around it, courtiers—especially two of them— coveted the “fruits” of the Tree of Benefits. For this reason, they watched each other jealously, lest the other should somehow acquire some undesirable advantages at the time of the anticipated future inheritance. At one point in his life the Great Mogul was forced to divide his empire. In the end, he conferred privileges on his courtier who he was fond of because his scholarly work was appreciated by the public. This courtier he loved almost like a son. He received almost all the Benefits. The other courtier, who was not liked by many people and in fact was liked by no one, made do with nothing. In this way, the once great empire was in for hard times. The battle between the rivals—a war between the capital and the provinces—became a grave danger. The Great Mogul of Oriental Studies in Hungary, after realizing that he had asked for too little for his service from grand politics, made attempts to catch up with what he had missed. Not without success, since as a result of his efforts, further fruits appeared on the Tree of Benefits. As far as the overall yield was concerned, the character of these Benefits and their value were very different. There were functional ones that required constant work, and there were others that had a rather decorative character. The writer of these reminiscences stops here because he does not want to become the chronicler of the history of Oriental Studies in Hungary. Let that be the job of others. But he has to say a few words about the Tree of Benefits, and his rela315

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tionship with its vital fruits. He has to act like this even if he has had nothing to do with them during his life. The pillars of the empire were the Departments of Oriental Studies at the universities. But two of these belonged originally to the provinces of the Great Mogul. And after the Head of the Department of Turkology had retired, the Great Mogul managed to deal the cards in a way that this one too fell under his rule. Over the years, the empire was extended by an important new unit: an independent research group which promised serious perspectives of development for both Mongolian Studies and Turkology. In the academic sphere of Lajos Ligeti’s empire of Oriental Studies, the most important element of “exercising power” was the Committee of Oriental Studies that officially belonged to the Department of Philology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. This was the forum where important issues of Oriental Studies were discussed, especially the ones that were—in some way—connected with the Academy. These issues included study trips, participation in conferences and the requests to publish books. The members of the Committee could be defined as people sitting close to the fire. True, they had to pay heed to the Chairman’s line or they were in danger to burn themselves. Among the periodicals that belonged to the empire, the editing of the prestigious Acta Orientalia Scientiarum Hungaricae required serious work. The two series of books, The Small Library of Kőrösi Csoma and Bibliotheca Orientalis Hungarica (BOH), were not so time-consuming. It is strange that Lajos Ligeti failed to fully recognize the potential for expanding BOH, and did not take advantage of it. Perhaps the reason for this was that Orientalists in Hungary were not bombarding him with their suggestions, and also because he treated foreign authors with mistrust. It seemed that he wanted to align himself with the judgement formed abroad of the official Hungarian reality and preferred to keep the journal as it was. What was my relationship with the Tree of Benefits? Thank 316

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God, I had none. It was out of the question that I might—after obtaining my degree as candidate of sciences—become a member of the Committee of Oriental Studies. This situation changed and later, the character of the Committee’s membership also underwent a change—Academicians automatically became members of the committees overseeing their own fields. My rise to Chairman of the Kőrösi Csoma Society was not by my initiative. In the second half of my difficult seven years at the head of the Academy’s Publishing House, the Society had to elect a new Chairman. My younger colleagues approached me and asked me to come forward. It would never have occurred to me to apply for this position. “Guys, you know all too well that I have millions of jobs to look after. I can hardly breathe.” However, their reply—and their request—was convincing. “You know very well that the candidate who nominates himself would ruin the Society.” I had to yield to the logic of this argument and I could not turn down their kind “pressure”. From among the other positions, I was interested only in the editorship of BOH that fell vacant after the death of Lajos Ligeti. I felt that in this job I could serve our profession well. Over the years, I managed to have 17 volumes published. All in all, I can summarize the story in this way: I distanced myself from the Tree of Benefits of the Great Mogul very early in my life. The fruits of the tree never attracted me, and after my several stays abroad, they started to repel me outright. I did not care much for the benefits abroad either. However, for one reason or another, life presented me with several prestigious positions in Oriental Studies. I was the Secretary and then the Secretary General Union internationale des études orientales et asiatiques (1975–1990), operating under the aegis of UNESCO and Conseil international de la philosophie et des sciences humaines. At the moment, I am its Chairman. Since 1993 I have had the responsibility of organizing the grand international Congress of Orientalists. To put it more precisely, I have had the job of ensuring its continuity. In 1997, I managed to bring 317

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this congress to Budapest. Furthermore, Irène Mélikoff and I established together one of the most significant forums of Ottoman Studies—Comité International des Études Pré-Ottomanes et Ottomanes (CIEPO)—and I served as its Vice-Chairman for a long time. Life arranged it in a way that after I had won these positions abroad, I was honored by a prestigious post in Hungary too, a post that required tremendous work. After several decades, when one or two of my colleagues expressed concern that I might begin work at the Department of Turkology at ELTE— what is more, that I might become its Head—the Prime Minister gave me the mandate to implement an important international project: founding the German-language Gyula Andrássy University in Budapest (2000–2002). I would not call these positions benefits. All required hard work and dedication. And I was proud to rise to these challenges. I hasten to add that when a particular job was over, I always left without regrets. New challengers always awaited me. In conclusion, I can say that it is a great feeling even today that by the grace of fate, I managed to stay away from the Tree of Benefits of Oriental Studies in Budapest.

A Few Words about the Working Morals in Hungary My longer stays abroad and my subsequent returns to Budapest gave me unique views on life. Over the years, I was able to form a clear picture about a host of different things. This picture was multi-dimensional since it was formed after comparing the realities of life in Germany and in Cyprus. By way of an introduction, let me make the statement here that between 1945 and 1956, the administration in Hungary worked well: a natural inheritance from its previous era. The move in the wrong direction began when during the consolidation of power at the beginning of the 1960s, the regime—for fear of another 1956 revolution—made turning a blind 318

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eye to idleness and wasting of time systemic. I noticed this change when I visited Budapest during my first years in Berlin. Totally different circumstances prevailed in East Germany. When I returned from Berlin in the summer of 1982, and especially after January 1984, I perceived this attitude acutely at the Academy’s Publishing House. Daily absenteeism, the loathing of work and performing tasks below the required level were general practices. There was one more thing that was added to all that. This was something that I experienced only in Hungary, and this was the skillful avoidance of work. The dominant attitude was the following: best if we do not do something, but if it still has to be done, let someone else do it. During my time at the publishing house, the most shocking experience was connected with the Hungarian Larousse Encyclopedia. The Head of the exports department, a highly educated man with the command of several foreign languages, took the liberty to claim in a lengthy “working paper” that the best option was not to publish the encyclopedia at all. I have to add that no one had asked him to write this memo. The project was not an export issue but a copyright purchase—an import issue. In other words, he would have had nothing to do with this issue ex officio. I had a similar “eye-opener” in the mid-1990s while I was organizing ICANAS. When I informed the assembly of the Kőrösi Csoma Society that at the Congress in Hong Kong (1993), we had been granted the right to organize the next congress, the first reaction was the following question: What happens if we decline? During my years in Cyprus, my experience with work ethics was greatly enriched. Everyone held his job in high esteem, especially those who won coveted jobs in the state administration. They would obviously observe working hours, perform tasks at a high level and always meet deadlines. Upon my return home again in 2000, I was confronted in differences in work habits during my time at Andrássy Univer319

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sity. These examples concerned people at the higher levels: the professors. Unfortunately, their expectation to receive fees in Euros could not be met. As a consequence, many of the professors worked hardest at trying to find “substitutes”. In practice, it meant that they wanted to secure a lecturer who would do their job. There was even one Hungarian professor who wanted to conduct lectures in the form of video recordings. This was his attempt to reach a minimum level of performance.

The Political Backdrop at My Places of Work As fate would have it the political backdrop of the two places abroad where I worked for a long period of time—Berlin and Nicosia—was identical in many ways. Both of them were “divided” cities of the 20th century. The Berlin Wall divided the East from the West, the barricade in Nicosia, the North from the South. The function of both was the separation of the people living there: the prevention of contacts and the people coming close to each other. The only difference was that in Berlin this division was the political will of a superpower while in Nicosia, the local people did support the division and nobody wanted to live on the other side of the border. For me, however, the same reality was behind the divisions in both places. And this determined the framework of my work in many respects. While I had to wrestle with ideological division and all its consequences in Berlin, in Nicosia I faced the folly of nationalism. At various points in my life, I had to confront, in one way or another, the issues and problems of the Turkish minority. This was the case in Bulgaria, and even more so in Cyprus. A typical episode of these divisions took place in Turkey. The leader of an extremist group criticized me—naturally, not in my presence—for having taken a job at a university on the Greek side of Cyprus. “By doing so, he has betrayed us”, he said. Turkish diplomacy took a different view. At a reception on the occasion of a congress in Ankara, the Foreign Minister at 320

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Ambassador Arat is handing over the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs Decoration on the occasion of György Hazai’s 70th birthday

the time congratulated me on my work. “In such a good cause, it is only a Turkologist from Hungary that can serve best”, he said. The outstanding Turkish diplomat, Ümit Pamir, who has been an Ambassador all around the world, put it in the following way: “Don’t pay attention to these criticisms, not even for a minute. It is easy to sing under the banner of the commander. It is not there but on the battlefield of everyday life that you have to stand your ground.” I had known Ümit Bey—the brother-in-law of my good friend the writer Haldun Taner—from Budapest where he had served as Counselor at the Embassy. This meeting took place on Crete when he visited the island in his capacity as Ambassador of his country to Athens. This point of view was supported by Ender Arat who was the Turkish Ambassador to Budapest between 1998 and 2002. When he introduced me to his fellow Ambassadors in Budapest, he would almost always mention my activities in Cyprus. This “official position” found its way back to the circle of schemers and silenced them quickly. 321

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The Places I Have Visited in the World In my book of fate, it was written that my life and a significant part of my work would be connected with foreign countries. Without rounding off the numbers much, I spent two years in Sofia, 20 in Berlin and eight in Nicosia. If I take the number of years spent working abroad and at home, it is the former that is larger: the proportion is 32:21. I have taken into my heart all three countries and returning to them is always a great experience for me. Unfortunately, in the case of Sofia and Nicosia, these return visits have not been so frequent. The years I have spent abroad shaped me into a cosmopolitan from Hungary. When my colleagues in Berlin honored me with a Festschrift in 1997, they wrote the following lines in it: György Hazai is a Hungarian and at the same time in the true sense of the word a cosmopolitan of European character. Thanks to the role I played in international institutes of research of the Orient, as well as my participation in the rich Turkology programs in various countries, I have made an untold number of exciting trips. Australia is the only continent on the globe that I have not visited. But I have had the opportunity to visit wonderful places on all the other continents. I did not keep a diary during my trips, so it is my memory and the programs and working papers connected with the trips that help me browse my recollections and recall details. The framework of this modest volume does not allow me to mention everything. When I reached this point in writing my memoirs, I became a little perplexed. Where shall I begin this account, and what should be the order of things in it? Over the years, I have been to all countries in Europe but Asia has also played a prominent role in my travels. Finally, I have decided on a structure that allows me to exclude sentiment: I will discuss my travels in chronological order. That is what I have selected as the guide in this diverse account. 322

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My first trip to Turkey, as mentioned earlier, took place in the summer of 1957. Türk Dil Kurumu invited me to take part in their 8th congress. This congress had been created by Atatürk himself in 1932 when the reform of the language became—upon his initiative—the most important social issue of life in Turkey. I completed my activities at the University of Sofia in the summer of 1957 and wanted to leave for Turkey—as it had been scheduled previously—straight from there. I possessed the required travel document, a passport that was valid for the whole of Europe. I acquired the entry visa at the Turkish Embassy in Sofia. However, the trip by train, that had seemed so simple, proved to be quite complicated. I confess that I was also to be blamed for that. I knew that the international express train to the border at Svilengrad took a little more than four hours. As far as the rest of the journey was concerned, instead of taking a look at the timetable, I simply estimated the distance. I thought that I would need about six hours for the next stretch, so the train that had left Sofia at seven in the evening would reach Istanbul in the early hours of the morning. Everything was perfect until we reached the Bulgarian border. After that, however, I was taken by quite a lot of surprises. The train crossed the border which was part of the Iron Curtain and reached—to my great surprise—Greek territory. Greek soldiers boarded the train and checked it. They greeted me—the only passenger on the train—politely but did not ask to see my passport. A few civilians—obviously Greek citizens—boarded the last car of the train. We were allowed to continue our journey. So, my first trip to Turkey began on Greek soil. The train started to move only to stop again within a short time where Turkish soldiers boarded and did exactly the same thing as their Greek counterparts. They inspected only the train but not the passengers. After this, passengers from Turkey got on and the train continued its journey. The next stop was again on Greek soil and the same procedure was repeated. The only difference is that Greek passengers who had boarded the train before now 323

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got off. The train moved on and finally arrived at the official border station of Uzunköprü, Turkey. This was a station with a normal flow of traffic. It was here that the passport and customs control took place. The fact that we had finally reached the territory of Turkey was confirmed by the minarets of the masterpiece of the architect Mimar Sinan in Edirne, the famous Selimiye Mosque, that came into view even before the train reached the station. In the meantime, the night—with its various “entertainments”—passed. It must have been around nine o’clock in the morning when the train left for Istanbul. We would cover this short distance in no time, I thought. But the train was moving 20 to 30 kilometers an hour, and we arrived in Istanbul at about four in the afternoon. It was during this trip that I learned that travelling by train in this part of the world has not changed since the First World War. What happened after this abundantly made up for the tiring journey. The town was still far away from its metropolitan size today. Istanbul was a pleasant place where you could live a normal life. In the center, streetcars jingled their bells, but the main means of transportation was dolmuș, cabs that went to designated directions. My journey further on to Ankara was also a great experience. The first bridge over the Bosporus was built only in 1974, so we crossed to the Asian side by ferry. From the port of Üsküdar, already in Asia, I took a cab to Haydarpașa where the trains for Anatolia were leaving. Our hosts in Ankara—the Turkish Language Society—really did their best. The reception, the congress and meetings with other Turkologists have all been imprinted on my mind as unforgettable experiences. What is more, during the return trip, I enjoyed a few more days in Istanbul. I was able to visit the historic sights of the city, make a trip to the islands and, of course, explore bookshops. This journey not only enhanced what I knew about Turkey, but deepened my love for my profession as well. 324

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My first trip abroad from Berlin took me on a memorable journey to India. This opportunity was provided by the International Congress of Orientalists holding a session in New Delhi at the beginning of January 1964. My career abroad, in Berlin, carried a certain weight that could not simply be ignored in Hungary. Therefore, I became a member of the delegation of five that participated in this prestigious event. The Ministry delegated Károly Czeglédy and János Harmatta, the Academy sent Endre Galla (1926–2008) and György Kara, and I was sent by the Institute of Cultural Relations. The reason was that immediately after the congress, I was to travel to Istanbul to set up an exhibition that my friend Géza Fehér Jr. and I had arranged. Géza’s job was to open the exhibition in Ankara that took place later. For those organizing the trip to India, these arrangements presented a problem only in my case. While the other members of the delegation could pick up their per diem allowances in cash already in Budapest, this amount of money intended for me was transferred to a bank. The Indian bureaucracy did its best, but the money, miraculously, only arrived at the end of my stay. So I had to weather these days on the modest sum of hard currency that I had put into my pocket on leaving Budapest. (By having done so, I had violated the regulations on foreign currency export.) I survived the congress by eating bananas that cost just a few pence. It was my generous colleague, Omeljan Pritsak (1919–2006) who helped me out with a loan in this emergency. The transfer of my allowance arrived right at the last minute, and I managed to repay him while still in New Delhi. As a consequence of being forced to save, once the congress was over, I had a considerable amount of money left for shopping. I spent it all since it would not have made sense to take the rupees—with their minimal purchasing power—out of the country, not to mention the fact that this was strictly forbidden. So I spent my unexpected “wealth” in India in a shopping mall of New Delhi, which at that time still had a fine selection of goods. 325

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My own field enjoyed only modest coverage at the congress. However, some leading Turkologists took part in its work: Louis Bazin, Karl Heinrich Menges, Omeljan Pritsak, Zeki Velidi Togan (1890–1970), and others. Thanks to our Embassy, we made—in very elegant circumstances—a trip to visit the Taj Mahal in Agra. During our journey, we made a stopover at the National Historical and Archaeological Reserve in Madara, and another one at Fatehpur Sikri, the famous dead city from the Middle Ages. In those days, these places, which are today crowded tourist traps, were still very tranquil. At the Taj Mahal, our group was almost alone with the mongooses that scurried about their residence. One scene has remained unforgettable for me. The Embassy had prepared some lunchboxes for us so that we would not have to go to a restaurant in Agra. Our Sikh driver stopped the car at a clearing in the forest. We opened the packages and ate. Soon, we noticed that we were not alone. On one side, there were five or six virtually naked children; on the other, at least twice as many monkeys standing in line. They were all waiting for us to finish our snacks that were to them a feast. We wanted the plentiful leftovers to go to the children. With the help of our driver, we managed to achieve that. A soon as we had set off, the children occupied the territory with incredible speed. They managed to outrun the monkeys and divided the food only among themselves. Later, my colleagues and I were confronted by similar heartbreaking spectacles of destitution. The unparalleled experiences gained in this wonderful country were always overshadowed by the fact that there, the future of mankind really seemed to be hopeless. Much later, life arranged for me to travel to India four more times in the 1980s. The most memorable trip was in the spring of 1984—on the occasion of the memorial year of Sándor Kőrösi Csoma (1784–1842) (Alexander Csoma de Kőrös). As a member of the state delegation from Hungary, I was able to pay my respects in front of the grave in Darjeeling of this great Hun326

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garian researcher of the Orient. The government plane arrived in New Delhi via Tbilisi and Tashkent. On the return flight, it flew from Calcutta to Karachi in Pakistan, and then on to Tbilisi and Tashkent before arriving in Budapest. We flew over Afghan airspace, which at that time was a theater of war. However, we received information that settled any misgivings. I can remember also the meal served by the flight attendants. It was pacal, a Hungarian specialty made of beef tripe, and was served during the last stretch of the flight. It may seem ridiculous today but at that time, the head flight attendant announced this meal as a colossal delicacy. During this trip, I found my way back to the Taj Mahal. Life had changed enormously for this wonderful masterpiece of Mughal architecture! In January 1964, silence and calm had prevailed in the park of the mausoleum. Besides the swift and seemingly purposeful running about of the mongooses, there was no sign of life. During the twenty years after that, international tourism invaded Agra. It is easy to imagine the negative consequences of that. We also made our way to Khajuraho, which was about a ninety-minute flight from Agra. Our excellent representative, Zsigmond Kázmér—who had served as Ambassador in several countries—urged us to make this detour and visit the local temples with their famous erotic sculptures. They are gorgeous works of Indian art that are regarded as one of the wonders of the world. Our route to Darjeeling—lying at the Southern foothills of the Himalayas—led to Calcutta where we paid a visit to the headquarters of the local scientific society, Asiatic Society of Bengal, the place where Sándor Kőrösi Csoma had labored on the books that laid the foundations of Tibetan Studies. Our destination was Darjeeling where our delegation was able to pay their respects at the grave of the great Hungarian scholar and traveler. The towering mountains, their slopes covered by endless tea gardens, lent a wonderful background to 327

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this unassuming cemetery where the most unselfish servant of Hungarian scholarship sleeps peacefully forever. In the second half of the 1980s, I made three more trips to India. It was the Institute of Cultural Relations that sent me abroad. They secured me a spot—as the representative of the Academy’s Publishing House—at the International Book Fair that was always held in New Delhi in the first month of the year. While there, I read a few lectures in a Muslim research center not far from the capital, as well as at the prestigious Aligarh Muslim University (AMU). My most vivid memory of this place was my duels with the local mosquitoes. These aggressive blood-sucking insects hung in clusters on the net above my bed, waiting to attack if I crept out during the night. It is with great pleasure that I recall my short visit to Trivandrum. In this town, lying far to the South in Kerala, I sought out a well functioning library, which housed a central collection of encyclopediae. Unfortunately, this visit was cut short significantly because unexpected fog completely paralyzed air traffic in New Delhi. In the well-tended streets of Trivandrum, the spectacle of banana trees—promising a plentiful yield—fascinated visitors. I remember how I was hemmed in by a host of loosely dressed young people in the street. They were extremely dark skinned, kind and friendly. You could see that they were happy to meet a European visitor. They would have liked to talk, but due to the lack of a common language, there was no possibility for that. They had to make do with expressing themselves in different ways. My stay in Berlin informally opened opportunities to visit other countries. In the beginning, my passport, due to my trips to Turkey and India, was valid for Europe and Asia. Later, after my trip to the US, it was extended to the whole world. The Department of International Relations of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences had a liberal attitude about my requests for trips abroad. If I wanted to participate in a congress in a Western country, I simply had to tell them. They even took care of ac328

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quiring the necessary entry visa. This was of great help because getting a visa in West Berlin was quite a hassle and given its implications, worth mentioning in more detail. East Germany lived in international isolation for a long time. It was recognized only by a few developing countries. The countries in the West, primarily NATO members, rigidly refused to do so due to their position on settling the German question. Since they did not have an Embassy in Berlin, it was very difficult for East German citizens—if good fortune made it possible for them to travel to the West at all—to acquire a visa. The path to a visa lead through an office established by the three Allies in West Berlin—the so-called Travel Board. And this path was quite a thorny one. It is no accident that I am using the word “path”, which I use to indicate that this was not a simple opportunity, available to everyone. East Germany made sure that it used this institution for its own purposes. Take, for example, the field of science. If an ordinary mortal received an invitation to the West (e.g. to a conference), his own institution would reject his request by saying that the procedure involved the Travel Board, and because East Germany regarded it as discriminatory, its citizens were not allowed to use the Board’s services. By doing so, they contributed to the country’s struggle for international diplomatic recognition. However, the actual practice was different. Trusted comrades were allowed to use the services of the Travel Board while other people were not. This is the point where I must tell you the story of the first trip to Turkey of my favorite student, Peter Zieme. At my initiative, he received an invitation to the Congress of Türk Dil Kurumu organized in Ankara in 1966. I took my request to the deputy director of our institute, and told her about the invitation as she was also responsible for study trips. Peter Zieme, a young researcher, enjoyed a good reputation so there were no concerns about him personally. This was also confirmed by Frau Prof. Sellnow, who said she would support the request, but 329

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there was the problem of the Travel Board! She reiterated that this institution—as dictated by the interests of East Germany— should be avoided. “How about Peter Zieme picking up his visa at the Turkish Embassy in Budapest”, I asked Frau Sellnow. You could not say “no” to such a proposition. But her “yes” carried no risk, or so she thought, as this approach would never work out. I was, however, certain of our success, because I counted on the kind help of Mária Simonyi, the secretary at the Embassy. And she—at the optimal moment—put Zieme’s dossier in front of the consul responsible for visas. The first paper there was the invitation to the Congress of the Turkish Language Society. The consul, who may not have seen an East German passport in his life, stamped the Turkish visa into the passport without asking any questions. We won! As for me, I turned to the Travel Board very rarely. I did so exclusively when—for lack of time—I could not manage to go to Budapest to make the necessary arrangements. I believe that I acquired a transit visa at the Board only on one or two occasions. As I recall, the people working there were extremely unfriendly. With looks of suspicion, they inspected my East German permanent residence permit and the documents certifying my activities at Humboldt University. But they did not reject my application for a visa. However, as with all applicants, my transit had to take place within 24 hours, it could not be interrupted and I was not allowed to purchase anything during my travels. I remember when I showed the application form to Dr. W. Voigt whom I met in West Berlin after 1970, he could not believe his eyes. Later, in the second half of the 1970s when East Germany had been widely recognized diplomatically and embassies of Western countries appeared in East Berlin, life—in this respect —became significantly simpler. *** 330

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In 1967, the ICANAS took place in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The organizers must have collected an enormous sum of money because they provided the participants from abroad with USD 70. This sum included lodging and outings organized by the hosts. The journey took us to Washington, D.C. and New York where we visited Columbia University and met with the Orientalists of the university. From Hungary, Lajos Bese, András Bodrogligeti, György Kara and András Róna-Tas participated in the congress. I joined them in my capacity as a visiting lecturer from Berlin. At the congress, we all did what we were supposed to do. I would like to record only one event in Washington. And I am doing that only because of György Kara. His name does not— quite understandably—crop up in this book although he often played an important role in “shaping” Oriental Studies in Hungary. He was close to Lajos Ligeti and he loved to make other people feel the significance of his role as the key assistant to the Big Boss. For this reason, he was not very much liked. The program in Washington was relaxed because the organizers allowed the participants a lot of free time. A dispute broke out among us on how to spend it. I was pleased to inform my four colleagues that János Lotz—a professor of linguistics— had called me on the phone and invited us to his home for dinner. I can no longer remember the exact details, but this invitation—for some technical reason—did not make it possible to participate in other events on the same day. We were all pleased about the invitation with the exception of György Kara. His proposal was that we should visit the Hungarian Embassy in Washington since we were in the US as an official delegation. At the same time, he indicated that he was making this proposal in his official capacity since Lajos Ligeti had informed the congress Chairman in a letter that he was the Head of the Hungarian “delegation”. He suggested that we had some official obligation to do this. My colleagues accepted all this without objections. But they knew that I was not going to keep silent. That is exactly what happened. 331

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I said to Kara: “Back in Budapest, no one ever told me that we would be taking part in the congress as a ‘delegation’. Is there a copy of this letter? If no, talk to Ann Arbor and ask them for a copy so that we can all be officially informed. Actually, this does not concern me at all since at the moment I am working in Berlin. So I will accept the invitation of János Lotz. You go to the Embassy and register our presence in Washington as you see it fit.” Those present did not say a word. But they were pleased to hear György Kara, who always loved making other people feel that he was the confidant of the Big Boss, being told off in this matter. János Lotz and I spent a wonderful evening together. At one point, my host asked me to retire with him for a moment and said: “Georgie, there is something I would like to talk to you about. I would like to give you USD 100 that has been saved from the funds of a project. Please share it with the others. I need your signature that you have accepted this sum as a fee for some consultations.” We completed the formalities, and back at the hotel, I handed over USD 20 to everyone. They were pleased to receive the money. No one raised the proposal again that we should have registered with our Embassy in Washington. Deep in their hearts, they were all pleased that I had swept the Ligeti-Kara initiative off the table in the appropriate way. In other words, someone—finally—dared to say no to the Great Mogul.

My Cities In the course of my life, due to my longer stays abroad, I established an intimate relationship with several cities: in chronological order with Sofia, Berlin and Nicosia. These cities have found a special place in my heart. It is demonstrated by the fact that they would often appear in my dreams. Let me add here that when I sleep at night, I almost always have dreams. They are never unpleasant, but are usually funny combinations, 332

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which make me smile when I awake. My return to these cities belongs to these dreams. As far as the framework of my dreams is concerned, it corresponds to the realities of that time. So in my dreams, I drive a car only in East Berlin and Nicosia. It is as if I wanted to test how well I remember the streets or whether I would have any problems with making my way to a place I often visited before. There are two more cities that I will regularly visit in my dreams: Paris and Istanbul. During these fantastic encounters at night, the numerous experiences that I have accumulated over the decades will always come back in a unique combination. On the other hand, I have never been able to get close to London although between 1984 and 1990, I visited there every single year. I have always felt that I am in Europe only in the geographical sense. For me, an advertisement summed up these feelings very neatly. In those days, telephone companies around the world conducted a huge campaign with posters encouraging people abroad for a greater or lesser period of time to call home and stay in contact with families and friends. „Ruf mal an“—was the advice in Germany. The same advertisement existed in Great Britain, but it was very instructive that the cities recommended belonged, without exception, to the “Anglo-Saxon world”: New York, Toronto, Sydney, etc. Not a single city from the European continent.

At Home and Away: Offers of Professorship In Hungary I have never been employed by any of the Hungarian universities that had a Faculty of Humanities. And it has never happened that they would ask me to deliver a lecture or teach a course although ELTE awarded me with the rank of a titular professor. It did not happen at the initiative of the Orientalists. During my time in Berlin, I received several requests and in333

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vitations. In chronological order: the Universities of Michigan, Chicago and Seattle would have liked to have me among their professors. Chicago asked twice. First, it was Eric Pratt Hamp (1920–2019), the outstanding linguist of Balkan languages who wanted to have me at his excellent institute where his team was short a Turkologist-linguist. Later, when Halil İnalcık (1916– 2016), the number one researcher of Ottoman history was given the job of establishing Turkology in Chicago, he wanted me to teach Turkish linguistics and literature for him. (Although we have never talked about it, I believe that Tibor Halasi-Kun must have played a role in this initiative. Tibor and Halil Bey were friends since their time in Ankara.) The University of Washington in Seattle offered me a professorship when they were looking for a successor to Ilse Cirtautas (1926–) who had retired. Seattle is a great place, but it is at the end of the world. To tell you the truth, I was not really attracted by positions in the USA. I can say, inspired by the lines of the great Hungarian poet Sándor Petőfi, that I, perhaps, admire the USA but do not love it. I have always felt that I was a citizen of Europe who found the American way of life alien. What I have always admired with envy was America’s libraries: the palaces that preserved human knowledge, and dazzled both teachers and researchers. In the final stage of my stay in Berlin, the excellent professor of Mongolian Studies, Walther Heissig, offered me a professorship at the University of Bonn where he had established a department and a research institute for Central Asian Studies, both of significant importance. His capable team was formed mostly of scholars of Mongolian Studies but they did not have a Turkologist. At this time, however, I was already preparing to return from Berlin. No matter how honored I felt by his invitation, I had to decline. My other European invitation came from Vienna. This arrived soon after I had returned from Berlin in the late fall of 1983. The proposal was initiated by Andreas Tietze who had 334

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just retired. Under the regulations of the University of Vienna, a retiring professor had the right to nominate a successor who would be considered an official applicant. I received a letter from the university informing me about this matter, asking me at the same time to submit my application. I confess that I said no with a heavy heart. The history and present of Turkology in Vienna, as well as its vicinity to Budapest, would have urged me to say “yes”. But I was well aware of my personal circumstances in 1982–1983. (My divorce was in process, and I had to consider my daughters who under the ruling stayed with me after all). Furthermore, there was my pledge just a few weeks before to the Secretary General of the Academy to take over the management of the publishing house. All this made it impossible to accept the Vienna offer. A sheer accident led me to the University of Cyprus. And I am very grateful to fate for having done so. My contacts with Budapest and Turkology in Hungary—as I have already mentioned in the present memoirs—were preserved during my very pleasant and exciting years on the island. Subsequently, I managed to keep my scholarly work on the old tracks, both during my absence and after my return. It was much later, or perhaps already during my years in Cyprus, that I started pondering these questions: the impact of my home and my travels on my life. Life has indulged me with great opportunities: opportunities that I failed to take advantage of. The explanation for this—I believe—must be found in the fact that I always wanted to work at home. My real ambition has been to continue and cultivate the traditions of Turkology in Budapest. On the other hand, I was not interested in the institutional part of the department in Budapest at all. I wanted to continue the research work of my teachers. What I saw as my task was to integrate this activity into the international arena, the dimensions of which had changed a lot. Essentially, this job has been done even if its form has been unconventional and its order of magnitude modest. 335

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Among others, this is the reason why during my two decades at Humboldt University, I insisted on retaining the status of a visiting lecturer. Maintaining this status in a formal way was based on an exchange of letters every two years between the Ministry in Berlin and the Academy in Budapest. The background to maintaining this temporary status was well understood by the Ministry in Berlin. The chinovniks there were aware of the fact that my Hungarian status provided me with a level of freedom in my activities and movement that their own people at the university did not enjoy. They expressed their displeasure when my promotion to become a professor was put on the agenda. They made it very clear that the precondition to that was assuming East German citizenship. And they knew very well that it was out of the question for me. In this way, I had to be content with the title of extraordinary professor that carried a more modest salary.

Publications that did not materialize When I started out in Turkology, I was always pleased when my papers achieved success. I received more and more commissions, and when I proposed one of my studies for publication, the response was always positive. During my career, there have been few cases when a paper of mine was not published or I failed to complete the research. Although few, these cases are worth mentioning. In 1955, Európa Publishers planned a new edition of Franz Werfel’s The Forty Days of Musa Dagh. Ferenc Pákozdi, one of the outstanding editors at the publishing house, asked if I would write the afterword for the volume. (He and I worked well together in publishing the works of Nâzım Hikmet.) I said yes, knowing that I would have to work myself into the topic thoroughly since I was familiar only with the basics of the historical context of the novel. I prepared the afterword and sent it to the publishers ahead of deadline. In the summer of 1957, they 336

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informed me that it was not going to be published, but the fee would be transferred anyway. Uncle Ferenc Pákozdi explained to me the background of this strange case. “You know, after October 1956, this issue had to be put aside. We are living in times when we are not supposed to recall atrocities.” Another aborted enterprise was the issue of the Lexicon of the Ancient History of Hungary. This story is instructive because the personal scheming that causes so much damage in our scholarly life was evident here as well. Soon after I had been appointed Director General of the Academy’s Publishing House, I received an invitation to a session of the Committee on Ancient History, operating under the aegis of Hungarian Academy of Sciences. I had very little to do with this field. Although under the guidance of Gyula Németh and Károly Czeglédy at the university, I familiarized myself with problems there, I had never been attracted to this field. Only one of my papers—the publication of a source—had ever covered this field. The well-attended session got excited by an initiative by György Győrffy (1917–2000). The doyen of research of the ancient history of Hungary had proposed that a lexicon should be published on this topic. The Committee adopted this proposal with great enthusiasm. But a long debate ensued about who would be its editor-in-chief. The point here was that everyone warmly supported the idea, but no one was ready to undertake the job. György Győrffy had announced already when he was making the proposal that he was willing to contribute to the volume, but would not assume the role of editor-in-chief. The discussion ended with my name brought up. Naturally, there was another factor in play here, which they did not want to conceal at all. The enterprise would fall under the aegis of the Academy’s Publishing House from its inception, which would provide serious guarantees for its publication. I tried to fight this assignment as best I could since I had plenty of work at the publishing house. My objection that this was not really my field of specialty was dismissed with strict kindness. Loránd Benkő— 337

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I think he was Committee Chairman—was unable to run out of counter-arguments. I left the session with the job of editor-inchief of the Lexicon, a volume that was never published. “It’s now only the money that we need to find for the trip”, says the words of an old song. And this was also true in the case of the Lexicon. Still, a glimmer of hope appeared when the Academy announced that it was going to call a tender for a sizeable amount of funds in order to finance various projects. It was obvious that we had to take steps because this source might provide us with the possibility to launch the project. And that was when the ordeal began. The forces of ancient history in Szeged did everything they could so that the funds should—in their entirety—go to the Lexicon of the Middle Ages edited by Gyula Kristó (1939–2004). One of the important arguments of their lobbying—conducted with their usual aggressiveness—was that, in fact, there was no real need for a Lexicon of the Ancient History of Hungary because their own enterprise would perfectly cover that area. They argued that they would be able to kill two birds with one stone. They might have received all the funds earmarked for this sector, and at the same time slain their academic rival. The outcome was that they received HUF 4 million and we HUF 1.2 million. We managed to get that much because Kálmán Kulcsár provided this sum from some kind of reserve fund. Hic Rhodus, hic salta! It was obvious that the above sum was not sufficient to implement our project. After discussing the problem, Loránd Benkő, György Győrffy, János Harmatta and I —the good souls supporting this good cause—decided to launch the project anyway. We will get as far as we can and will somehow get the money to continue the work. The real perspective here was offered by OTKA (National Scientific Research Fund) that was an important new source at that time. The panel reviewing our application consisted of Loránd Benkő, János Harmatta and Péter Hajdu (1923–2002). I can recall their opinions only from my memory because—under the rules of procedure—I 338

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was not allowed to see them. However, Mrs. Márta Ferenc, who was in charge of OTKA issues, briefed me on the details, and what is more, gave me the reviews. I was quite familiar with the views of Loránd Benkő and János Harmatta. Both recommended providing the maximum possible funding. While Péter Hajdu, one of the matador schemers in our field, was meditating in a Pharisee-like tone whether a project to publish a lexicon should be considered basic research, and was thus entitled to receive OTKA funding at all? His duplicity—in fact, his unambiguous philosophizing—resulted in the rejection of our application. This position was later reinforced by a young matador of ancient history from Szeged. I cannot remember the name of this remarkable critic any more. His job was to beat the project to pulp. He claimed that the proposed authors failed to guarantee the high standards of the Lexicon. In order to prove the absurdity of this claim, it is enough for me mention the names of Loránd Benkő, György Győrffy, János Harmatta and Lajos Vargyas (1914–2007). But it was clear to all of us that we were unable to cope with the deluge of sewage coming from Szeged. So we, basically, abandoned the project.

A Few Closing Remarks Upon closing my memoirs, allow me please to add a few words to all of the above. You might call it an afterword but I would rather dispense with the established formulas. My daughters, close friends and colleagues who knew about this work of mine, and what is more were encouraging me vehemently, were using the elegant word “memoirs” when we were discussing this enterprise. This is, perhaps, a very ambitious term which could rightly demand as its source that the author should have been keeping a diary on a regular basis. Unfortunately, I cannot meet this requirement because I have never kept a diary. But the overwhelming majority of the events in my life have been recorded in my mind. And they are 339

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supported by an untold number of documents, letters, etc. that I still possess. My correspondence with the various institutions have survived and they have lent me a helping hand in refreshing my memory or making it more precise. The protagonist of these memoirs is me—by the very nature of this genre, it cannot be otherwise. However, this is not the point. This volume is about the fortunes of a field of research during the six decades that have glided by: more than half a century that has brought so much change both in the world and in our field. My message is intended for future researchers of the Orient: the new generation. Taking a look back and forward, I believe that they may have an easier job. But if we take into consideration the need to provide for survival and progress, they will have to tackle difficulties that are at least as serious as the ones we have faced. They will also have to stand their ground in heavy headwinds and also find the quiet lee side.

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Afterword Just as an œuvre is never fully completed, no memoirs can ever be exhaustive. Any autobiography is able to present only a smaller or larger slice of a life. At the encouragement of my sister Kinga and me, in 2009 our father started setting to paper the large number of experiences that he had acquired in Hungary and abroad. Experiences that were plentiful but, unfortunately, not always pleasant. He concentrated his narrative on his rich scholarly activities. The implications of his private life appear in the memoirs—very consciously—only in a few passages. The individual chapters were not written in a chronological order. It was Katalin Fejes who helped with the typing of the handwritten and episode-like materials. Already since the 1980s she had been a loyal assistant to him and was familiar with my father’s handwriting. We owe her thanks and gratitude. I joined the work of editing the volume in the fall of 2013. In January 2015, we changed our method and work accelerated. We compared the typewritten materials with the ones still waiting to be set to paper on a weekly basis. We spent the weekends together working hard. This was a beautiful and productive time. I did the cooking, my father wrote and we edited together. We talked a lot and laughed, and sure enough, we sometimes cried. These last wonderful six months have been enriching and I am very grateful for that. In the fall of 2015, my father's illness put an end to this joint work. And his passing on January 7, 2016 left me alone with the honor to complete this task. The last proofs that I handed over on June 22, 2015 were checked by my father, and he even added a few episodes written by hand. However, it was already my duty to decide where exactly to insert them into the memoirs. Working without him was painful. There were so many questions I would have liked to ask as I was confronted with a huge number of dilemmas. On academic and research issues my father’s colleagues and friends 341

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gave me a helping hand. I owe words of thanks to Barbara Kellner-Heinkele, Peter Zieme, Simone-Christiane Raschmann, Pál Fodor, János Hóvári and Michalis Michael. We reached a decision together that the publishing of certain chapters in the memoirs would be postponed for now. They would be made available to the wider public only in ten years’ time. We express our thanks to Klaus Schwarz Verlag and Gerd Winkelhane who took to heart the publishing of the work. My father greatly appreciated Gerd both as a friend and colleague. It is our deep sadness that Gerd passed away before seeing the finished book. The special ties with Klaus Schwarz Verlag are revealed when reading this book. Lastly, I would like to thank András M. Deák for his translation work, John Nadler and Barbara Kellner-Heinkele for their proofing work. Their invaluable contribution is deeply appreciated. It is with true love that we recommend this volume to the attention of those who are interested in the history of Turkology in Hungary and abroad. We are offering them an insight into the tough decades of the second half of the 20th century. The time when it was not easy for a scholar from Hungary to live for academia and remain human. As my dear father put it: “You’ve got to stand your ground in heavy headwinds and also find the quiet lee side.” Cecilia Hazai, March 2019

For further information on the György Hazai Foundation for Oriental Studies please visit: www.hazaigyorgy.com 342

The List of Hungarian Abbreviations AgitProp Committee The Department of Agitation and Propaganda of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party ÁVH

State Security Authority

BSZKRT

The Joint Stock Transport Company of Budapest Capital

BTK

The Faculty of Humanities

ELTE

Eötvös Loránd University of Sciences, Budapest

FIDESZ

The Alliance of Young Democrats

IBUSZ

Tourism, Procurement, Travelling, Shipping Joint Stock Company

KGST

Council of Mutual Economic Assistance

KISZ

The League of Young Communists

MALÉV

Hungarian Airways Company

MÁV

Hungarian State Railways

Munkásőrség

The Workers’ Guards, a paramilitary organization in Hungary in 1956-89

OTKA

National Scientific Research Fund

The Party

The Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party

The People’s Front

The Patriotic People’s Front, a social organization in Hungary between 1954 and 1990

The Trefort

The State Teacher Training High School in Trefort Street, Budapest

The White House

The nickname for the Headquarters of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party in Budapest

TDK

The Scientific Circle of Students

TÜBA

The Turkish Academy of Sciences

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Index Acar, Ahmet Cevat 219, 223 Aczél, Görgy 101, 117-18 Akalın, Şükrü Halûk 210, 286 Alavi, Bozorg 291 Alder, Lory 215 Anday, Melih Cevdet 48 Antal, László 279 Antall, József 129, 142 Apor, Éva 172 Arat, Ayşe 188 Arat, Ender 188, 189, 190, 321 Assistant Number 1 64-67 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 194, 323 Aṭṭār, Farīduddīn 184, 288, 290 Attila (second husband of Gün Benderli) 251 Azimov, Pigam Azimovich 105-6 B. Fahmi, Sahla 113 Bajk, Éva 66-67 Balivet, Michel 160 Baque-Grammont, Jean-Louis 267 Bárczi, Géza 230 Baskakov, Nikolai Aleksandrovich 81 Bausani, Alessandro 270 Bazin, Louis 93, 159, 161, 166-68, 26468, 292, 294, 326 Behrendt, Fritz 22-23 Békei, Comrade 29 Beldiceanou, Nicoară 264 Beldicianu-Steinherr, Irène 264 Benderli, Gün 38, 50, 222, 251-52 Benkő, Lóránd 97-98, 337-39 Bennigsen, Alexandre 264 Berend, Tibor Iván 122, 134 Berényi, Mari 115 Beria, Lavrentiy Pavlovich 95 Bermek, Engin 191, 194, 195 Bernát, György 117-8, 122, 130, 238, 290-91 Bernáth, Margó 63 Berzsák, Comrade 29 Bese, Lajos 290, 331 Bierwisch, Manfred 258

Birnbaum, Eleazar 313 Blaskovics, József 99 Bodrogligeti, András 185, 241, 331 Bóka, László 62-63, 253, 276 Bombaci, Alessio 79, 268-73 Boratav, Pertev Naili 257, 264 Borzsák, István 101 Bradford, Samuel C. 282 Brandt, Willy 89 Braudel, Fernand 296 Brecht, Bertold 48, 280 Brockelmann, Carl 40, 161 Bródy, Wanda (mother of Iván Solt) 70-71 Caferoğlu, Ahmet 282 Cahen, Claude 264 Camponella, Mrs. 21 Capelletti, Vincenzo 21 Carsten, Mr. 95 Cem, İsmail 189 Cheng, Mr. 170 Chevenement, Jean-Pierre 249 Chomsky, Noam 257 Cicero 7 Cirtautas, Ilse 334 Csomó, István 118, 122, 124-26, 133-34, 136-37 Cvetkova, Bistra 51 Czeglédy, Károly 32, 64, 72-73, 100, 242, 325, 337 Dağlarca, Fazil Hüsnü 48 Dalby, Richard 215 Dávid, Géza 198 Deák, András M. 342 Deny, Jean 93, 264, 282 Deveaux, Hubert 129-30 Dévényi, Kinga 172 Dimitrov, Strasimir 51 Diószegi, István 114-5 Donzel, Emeri Johannes van 302 Dormen, Haldun 50 Dorogi, Ilona 112 Duridanov, Ivan 253 Eckmann, János 42, 59, 60, 241 Ecsedy, Ildikó 207 Ercilasun, Ahmet Bican 285-86 Eren, Hasan 50, 59, 60, 187, 188, 241

344

Index Eren, İsmail 209 Erotokritou, Penelope 312, 313 Fakılı, Şakir 223-24 Fehér, Géza 245 Fehér, Géza, Jr. 37-38, 96, 139, 244-45, 273, 325 Fehér, Gézuka 245 Fehérvári, Géza 8 Fejes, Katalin 125, 341 Fekete, Lajos 9, 27, 30, 32-36, 60, 22829, 242-44, 290-91, 296 Ferenc, Márta, Mrs 339 Ferenczy, József 134 Fishman, Joshua Aaron 302 Flemming, Barbara 86 Fodor, István (Director General of the National Museum) 225, 244 Fodor, István (linguist) 279 Fodor, Pál 112-3, 147, 198, 217, 224, 24546, 342 Fodor, Sándor 172 Fogarasi, Béla 43 Fóti, Miklós 192, 296 Frederik II (the Great) 222 Freier, László 186 Fujieda Akira 167 Gabain, Annemarie von 61, 79, 214 Gafurov, Bobodžan Gafurovič 66, 82, 267 Gál, András Levente 196-97 Galla, Endre 325 Gallotta, Aldo 270-73 Gavriel, Eftyhios 314 Gecsényi, Lajos 198 Geist, Lucie 78 Georgiev, Vladimir Ivanov 52-53, 252-53 Gerics, József 26, 29 Germanusz, Gyula 37 Gerő, András 199 Gide, André 28 Gobrecht, Günter 272 Gombocz, Zoltán 229-30, 241 Göncz, Árpád 175-76, 177 Gorkhmaz, Ramazan 222 Görner, Franz 86-87 Gregor, Feri 254

Grigoriadis, Christos 313 Gubcsi, Lajos 117-18 Güntekin, Reşat Nuri 35, 229 Gür, Kemal 196 Güvener, Halit 141 Gyóni, Mátyás 27 Győrffy, György 337-39 Habbibeyli, Isa 222 Hadjianastasis, Marios 313 Hagen, Gottfried 181 Hager, Kurt 250 Hajdu, Péter 338-39 Hajós, Katalin 195 Halasi-Kun, Tibor 36, 42, 59-61, 93, 162, 241, 278-79, 298-99, 334 Halasi-Kun, Tiborné 61, 299 Halman, Talât Sait 93 Hamilton, James Russel 264, 266 Hammerstein, Judit 217 Hamp, Eric Pratt 334 Harmatta, János 169-70, 176, 246-47, 301, 325, 338-39 Harsányi-Nagy, Jakab 278 Hartmann, Richard 61 Hasanov, Hasan 213-14 Hassan bin Talal (Prince of Jordan) 173, 174 Hazai, Cecilia (daughter of G. Hazai) 180, 181, 219-20, 222, 261, 272, 303, 341-42 Hazai, Kinga (daughter of G. Hazai) 180, 190, 223, 261, 272, 303, 341 Hazay, Tibor 202 Heissig, Walther 79, 91-92, 334 Hencsey, Gusztáv 175, 177 Henry IV 63 Herman, József 101, 137 Hikmet, Nâzım 38, 46, 47, 49, 57, 61, 68, 336 Hiller, István 200 Hintze, Fritz 78, 297 Hitler, Adolf 13, 86, 193, 256 Hodossy, Gyula 215, 216 Hollai, István 29 Hóman, Bálint 25 Honecker, Erich 84, 94, 250 Hoppál, Mihály 198, 213

345

Index Horváth, Anna 248 Hóvári, János 113, 139, 198, 219, 223, 225, 245-46, 342 Huber, Kurt 91 Ibolya 262 Ihm, Hans-Ulrich 310-11 İhsanoğlu, Ekmeleddin 224, 225 İnalcık, Halil 334 Inokuchi Taijun 80 Inönü, Erdal 194 Inönü, Ismet 194 Issatchenko, Alexander 258 Iványi, Tamás 172 Jáborcsik, Erzsébet (wife of Pál Fodor) 147 Jamaji Masanori 172 Johanson, Lars 161 Junker, Heinrich Franz Josef 76 Kakuk, Zsuzsa 33, 41, 45, 63, 98, 103, 241 Káldy-Nagy, Gyula 36 Kanpolat, Yücel 196 Kappler, Matthias 182, 314 Kara, György 202, 325, 331-32 Karamanlis, Konstantinos 152 Kâtib Çelebi 182 Kaya, Fahri 208-9 Kázmér, Zsigmond 327 Kékes, Comrade 29, 31, 72 Kellner-Heinkele, Barbara 189, 190, 221, 225, 263-64, 272, 281, 289, 308, 342 Kemal, Orhan 48 Kemal, Yaşar 48 Khalidov, Anas 225 Khasankhanova, Sayora 92, 309, 310 Kleinmichel, Sigrid 161, 308 Kniezsa, István 63-64, 98, 253-54 Koestler, Arthur 28 Kononov, Andrei Nikolajevich 308 Kónya, Sándor 122, 133-34, 136 Köpeczi, Béla 10, 101, 103, 121, 129, 202-3, 247-51 Köprülü, Mehmet Fuat 39, 184, 288 Kormányos, Jóska 251 Kőrösi Csoma, Sándor 207, 316, 326-27 Kosáry, Domonkos 170, 304 Kossuth, Lajos 186

Kosztolányi, Dezső 26 Kovács, László 173 Kowalski, Tadeusz Jan 282 Kristó, Gyula 338 Kulcsár, Kálmán 116-18, 124, 338 Kumorovitz, Lajos Bernát 27 Kúnos, Ignác 73 Kussbach, Erich 197 Lama, Dalla 168-69 Láng, István 126, 137, 304 Lang, Jacques 249 László, Ferenc 241 Leblanc, Charles 161, 210-11 Léderer, Emma 27 Lengyel, György 50 Lenin 102 Lewis, Bernard 194 Ligeti, Lajos 9-10, 32, 39, 42-45, 58, 6065, 72-73, 93, 98-103, 161, 202, 234-44, 247, 254, 262, 276, 289-90, 316-17, 331-2 Lorenz, Manfred 291 Lotz, János 256-58, 331-32 Lovász, György 135 Lukács, György 43, 233 Madách, Imre 49, 252 Mahmūd, Tercümān 185, 288 Malov, Sergey Yefremovich 282 Mantran, Robert 160, 264 Marie-Claude (second wife of G. Hazai) 263 Markos, György 24 Matuz, Josef 88 Mátyás, Gyóni 27 Mátyásy, Gyuri 153 Mélikoff, Irène 92-93, 201, 264, 267, 268, 318 Menges, Karl Heinrich 89, 326 Meskó, Attila 190-91, 195 Mészáros, Tamás 118 Michael, Michalis 314, 342 Michline (wife of Louis Bazin) 268 Minissi, Nullo 270, 273-74 Möckel, Tatjana 308 Molnár, Ferenc 218 Molnár, Magda 125 Moszczenska, Marta 210 Muhammedova, Zılıha Bakıyevna 82

346

Index Müller, Frau 77 Müller, Frida 89 Murayama Shichirō 79-80 Murphey, Rhoads 313 Mutafchieva, Vera 7, 51 Nádasdi, József 30 Nadler, John 342 Nagy, Tamás 24 Necil (first husband of Gün Benderli) 251 Nedim (poet) 47 Nedkov, Boris 52 Németh, G. Béla 101 Németh, Gyula 9, 26, 30-37, 39-45, 47, 50, 52-53, 56-63, 72-73, 97-100, 182, 184-85, 187, 214, 227-34, 236-38, 24042, 253, 262, 276-277, 281-82, 301-303, 337 Nowka, Helmut 308 Oikonomides, Nikos (husband of E. Zachariadou) 138, 146, 147, 211 Oláh, József 97 Orbán, Viktor 198 Ormos, István 225 Ortutay, Gyula 81-82, 100-101, 215, 239, 257 Orwell, George 28 Ōtani Kozni 80 Özerdim, Sami N. 46 Pach, Zsigmond Pál 24 Pacini, Leone 270 Pákozdi Ferenc 46-47, 336-37 Pál, Lénárd 116-18 Pálinkás, József 217, 304 Palotás, Emil 114 Pamir, Ümit 321 Papp, Ferenc 279 Parlatır, Ismail 187, 188, 189, 190 Paul, Hermann 229, 241 Pertrova, Swoboda 92, 306 Petőfi, Sándor 334 Petráček, Karel 66 Petrosyan, Yuri A. 82 Petzolt, Helmut 280, 299 Pieri, Kyriaki 312 Pozsgay, Imre 140 Pritsak, Omeljan 325-26

Rabin, Yitzhak 173 Raible, Wolfgang 143 Rajk, László 23, 28, 69 Rákóczi, Ferenc 247 Rákosi, Mátyás 23, 25, 69 Raschmann, Simone-Christiane 307, 308, 309, 342 Rásonyi, László 184-85 Rátkai, Ferenc 128 Rau, Johannes 75-76, 200 Reiter, Norbert 89, 162, 274, 298 Rényi, Péter 121-22 Révai, József 43 Ridder, Peter de 36, 279 Riesenhuber, Heinz 142 Ritoók, Zsigmond 177, 300 Roemer, Hans Robert 88, 162, 291-94 Romics, László 195 Róna-Tas, András 202, 300-301, 331 Róth, Edith 118 Rottler, Ferenc 116 Roux, Jean-Paul 266 Rózsika, Aunt (wife of Lajos Fekete) 243 Ruben, Walter 77-78 Rubinacci, Roberto 270 Rubovszky, Éva 140, 172 Rusznyák, István 43 Sári, Aunt (half-sister of G. Hazai) 16 Sasmatzoglou, Kostas 314 Sauer, Gerd 255 Saussure, Ferdinand de 230 Savvakis, Mr. 165 Saygun, Adnan 259 Scharoun, Hans B. 85 Scheel, Helmut 291-92 Scheel, Walter 87 Scheiber, Sándor 71-73 Schmidt, Helmut 250 Schubert, Gabriella 162, 298 Schwarz, Klaus 88, 142, 181, 309 Sebeok, Thomas 302 Sellnow, Frau 329-30 Sezgin, Bey 190 Shakirova, Natalya 92, 309 Shiraliyev, Mammadagha 104 Simon, Heinrich 72-73, 76, 78

347

Index Simonyi, Mária 330 Sinan, Mimar 324 Sinkovics, István 97 Sinor, Denis 79, 80, 82-83, 92-93, 169, 178, 211 Sohrweide, Hanna 86 Solt, Iván 70-71, 244 Solt, Nándor 71 Solti, György 29 Soós, Tamás 245-46 Spira, György 304 Stalin 38-39, 220 Stein, Heidi 307, 309 Steinitz, Wolfgang 41, 58, 61, 72-73, 7778, 82, 100, 255-58, 262 Stoiber, Edmund 196 Stojanov, Valeriy 309 Straub, Brunó F. 140 Sundermann, Werner 247, 291, 308 Svolopoulos, Kostas 151-52 Szabó, Lőrinc 47 Szabó, Árpád 26 Szabó, Dénes 235 Szabó, Mihály, Uncle 21 Szabolcsi, Miklós 101-2 Szávai, János 131 Szekfű, Gyula 25 Szemerényi, Oswald 26 Szentágothai, János 101, 116, 122, 304 Szentiványi, Béla 262 Szépe, György 279 Szilágyi, Dániel 186-87 Szilágyi, Lóránd 27 Takács, Géza 130 Taner, Haldun 47-49, 321 Tarján, Imre 21 Tasnádi, Edit 49, 188 Taube, Erika 91-92 Telegdi, Zsigmond 32, 99 Thököly, Imre 247 Thúry, József 184, 288 Tibor (nephew of G. Hazai) 143 Tietze, Andreas 68, 89, 110, 148, 161, 182-84, 194, 259, 260, 263, 283-84, 334 Tito, Josip Broz 208-9

Todorov, Nikolay 51 Togan, Zeki Velidi 326 Togay, Can (son of Gün Benderli) 222, 251 Tőkei, Ferenc 10, 101, 169-70, 202, 2045, 207, 300 Tolnai, Gábor 99 Tóth, Tibor F. 198 Tóth, József 193 Tóth, Vilmos 136 Trencsényi-Waldapfel, Imre 243 Tsouyopoulos, Nelly 148, 150-51, 199 Turan, Tevfik 285 Ulbricht, Walter 256 Vakis, Nikos 152 Valinakis, Jannis 314 Vámbéry, Ármin 73, 182, 186, 214-19, 236 Vargyas, Lajos 339 Vas, István 46 Vasiliu, Georgios 146, 148 Vas-Zoltán, Péter 66, 67 Veinstein, Gilles 192 Vietze, Peter 91-92 Vizi, Elek Szilveszter 194-96, 304 Voigt, Wolfgang 85-87, 92, 166, 330 Warnke, Ingrid 307 Werfel, Franz 336 Wickerhauser, Moritz 36, 229 Winkelhane, Gerd 88, 185, 261, 289, 290, 342 Winter, Werner 279 Wundt, Wilhelm 229, 241 Yahalom, Joseph 161 Yamamoto Tatsuro 166-67 Yuldashev, Akhnef Akhmetovich 309 Zachariadou, Elizabeth 138, 146, 147, 160, 163-65, 193, 211, 270, 294, 296, 301, 314 Zekeriya, Necati 208-9 Zieme, Gabriele 308 Zieme, Peter 76, 84, 91-92, 161, 262, 272, 279, 307, 308, 329-30, 342 Zöld, Ferenc 132 Zürcher, Erik-Jan 162, 293-94

348