This is a translated and edited version of the original article published on kepmas.hu.
The 97-year-old László Papp lives in a care home in Connecticut, remarkably fit both physically and mentally. He spoke vividly about his difficult and adventurous childhood and youth, his involvement in the 1956 revolution, his escape from Hungary, his professional achievements in Hungary and the U.S., and the background to erecting the 1956 memorial in New York.
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Tell us about your difficult childhood and an even harder youth.
I was born in Debrecen in 1929. My father returned from WWI as an officer and later found clerical work with the city. I had a sister three years older than me. My mother died when I was two. Two years later, my father remarried. We had to call her ‘mother’— even today it feels like being stabbed in the heart…
During my first year at primary school, I contracted scarlet fever and was isolated from the outside world for weeks. At year’s end, my teacher sent me my school reports together with Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. My father only had time for a page or two after work, while I desperately wanted to know what happened next… The story of people escaping slavery particularly fascinated me, and eventually I taught myself to read. Afterward I went to the city library every day and kept reading constantly: in the street, at home and even under my desk at school… My early reading experiences were connected less with Hungarian history than with American history, especially through the works of J.F. Cooper.
I attended the local Reformed College for four years. When I discovered that I might be able to attend a military cadet school, I wanted to join—not because I was militaristic, but because it offered a way out from home: my stepmother and I genuinely hated each other. After my first year, towards the end of WWII in 1944, the Soviet front was getting closer to Debrecen, and the school moved to Transdanubia, where we continued our studies. Later we moved again to a large camp on the North Sea coast in Germany. When we heard that the Russians were only an hour away, we moved again and continued our studies in the Sudetenland. When the war ended, the officers running the school told us that if we left that night, we’d reach a Bavarian village under American occupation. If we stayed, we’d be under Soviet occupation, so we left.
How did you get home after the war?
We were taken to an enormous camp. It couldn’t be called a prisoner-of-war camp—there was no way the Geneva Convention could realistically be applied to two million prisoners… We were kept in barbed-wire compounds and given only enough food for one meal a day. Everything became wet and muddy in the rain, and we were so weak from hunger that we became dizzy when we stood up. My ear infection returned, so eventually I was taken to a military hospital in Bad Nauheim. I remained there for several months. I received treatment, lived much better than those in the camp, and learned German.
In early 1946, Americans were gradually closing the camps and sending prisoners home. I arrived at Debrecen railway station one evening in February. I was about to walk out to my relatives when someone warned me that if I went into the streets at night, I’d arrive home naked, so I waited until the morning and went to my uncle. The next day my mother’s family welcomed me warmly. My father had fled to the West with my sister and our stepmother’s relatives.
I returned to my previous high school where I was allowed to take individual exams covering three years of subjects. I completed my final year with excellent results, alongside those with whom I had started school eight years earlier. Afterward, I wanted to attend university, but shortly before my final exams I was summoned by the Military Political Department, the organization that later became the ÁVH (the brutal communist secret police force). Because of my discharge papers from the American Special Forces, they threatened me and demanded that I report on a schoolmate. I told them I’d do so after finishing school. However, the day after my graduation I fled Debrecen, and I set off westbound across Hungary and Austria—on foot, by train, lorry and freight train. Eventually I found my father, later my sister, who married an American soldier. I spent summer traveling around Germany and France—I didn’t want to live with my stepmother. Ultimately, I decided to walk back to Hungary…
Weren’t you afraid that you would be approached again by the authorities?
Not really, but I decided to disappear in Budapest rather than return to Debrecen. At that time, Hungary had not yet become completely communist; there were still elections held, and there was a coalition government. I approached several student organizations for help and was eventually admitted to a college of the Farmers’ Party. Then I enrolled in architecture at the Budapest University of Technology, and progressed well until my final semester, when during a boring chemistry lecture, my friend roasted a piece of cork with a match and drew a Stalin mustache on my face. It turned into a political incident. The entire architecture faculty was assembled, and a motion was brought forward declaring me a dangerous element who should be expelled. I asked everyone not to show their disagreement—I didn’t want anyone else to get into trouble. Thus the motion passed, and I found myself in my final year without a degree… Then I received my call-up papers for two years of military service. When I showed my university record, they saw that I had one semester left and sent me back to finish it first. I’ve been ‘reporting for duty’ ever since… (laughs) Had I graduated, I might have been sent to some remote industrial project ‘building communism’ with political prisoners as a ‘politically unreliable’ character…
I visited one architectural office after another until someone finally hired me. At one office, the director was warned by the university that I was a ‘dangerous person’ who should be watched. He replied: ‘Fine, then I’ll watch him,’ and hired me, as there was a huge shortage of educated people. (laughs) That’s how my architectural career began. I designed five schools and supervised their construction. A sixth was on my drawing board when the revolution started…
Tell us something about your private life.
I married Judit Lipták, a cousin of Béla Lipták. She was a chemical engineer and two years below me at our university. I lived in a room with my friend. The owner invited us to lunch one day. When I announced that I was going to get married, she offered her family-owned tiny one-room summer house for us to use on Gugger Hill. It was extremely basic, yet was an enormous privilege at the time. We agreed that we wouldn’t pay rent if I repaired and improved it gradually. We didn’t have hot water for years; we went to the Gellért Baths instead…
Later, my office supported my request to complete my university degree. I received permission, but the university—the same people who expelled me—required me to pass eight examinations in 20 days. I worked during the day and studied at night. I finally completed my degree shortly before 1956.
What are your memories of the revolution?
In 1956, workers’ councils were formed everywhere. I was elected chairman at our company. On Friday, 2 November, we decided that we’d begin restoring the city’s damaged buildings next Monday. On Sunday, Russians invaded Budapest.
‘There is a train going West from Kelenföld station tomorrow at ten. Be there’
My brother-in-law, Dodó, was a very close friend. We had sailed together on Lake Balaton and had even become Hungarian champions in Star class sailing. We agreed with our wives that, whatever happened, we’d stay. The following week, however, a close friend phoned: ‘There is a train going West from Kelenföld station tomorrow at ten. Be there.’ He had a relative in Vienna. My wife was pregnant and unwell, so we ultimately decided to leave. We had only one bag containing some underwear and our documents. When the train stopped before the bridge at Andau, nearly 300 people got off and began crossing the marshes—as did ten thousand others in those days. A soldier was guarding the bridge. The crowd surrounded him and shouted: ‘What are you doing here?’ He replied, ‘I’m guarding the bridge,’ then suddenly threw his rifle and joined us…
What did you find beyond the border, and what happened in the U.S.?
Judit was exhausted, so we stayed at the school rather than going to the refugee camp. Our friend’s uncle from Austria welcomed all of us and found us rooms in his office building. He also found us work. During the six weeks in Vienna, we wondered whether we’d stay there, but Uncle Conrad encouraged us to take the opportunity to immigrate to America while we were young.
We flew from Vienna to Ireland, then to the Azores and finally to Camp Kilmer, NJ. During the first flight, Judit miscarried. My sister became our sponsor. They lived in Pittsburgh, PA; we moved there. Hungarians were welcomed with extraordinary warmth. I was immediately taken to a local architectural firm. I couldn’t speak English, so my salary was modest. Judit was also offered work as a chemical engineer at a much higher salary since she could speak English.
How did you become the first president of the Student Association?
Hungarian university students were offered English-language courses at two different colleges, one in New York and one in Vermont. The teachers had different political views; thus, the two groups developed different attitudes, and tensions grew between them. In the meantime, I was offered a scholarship at the Bratt Institute in New York, which I accepted—I became a student again.
Around that time, Béla Lipták approached me. He was a leading figure among the students at the New York college and was worried that the two groups would split permanently. A Hungarian student meeting was organized in Chicago, IL. I was invited there to help bring the two groups together. In my introductory speech, I asked them to think about those who had stayed behind in Hungary and suffered through the revolution and its aftermath: what would they think about the way we were behaving? The atmosphere immediately changed; by the end, it was impossible to tell which student belonged to which college.
The Hungarian American Student Association was founded; I was elected its first president. Its two main purposes were to help Hungarian students find suitable universities and to preserve and promote the ideals of the Hungarian revolution. We established an office in New York and built links with other Hungarian American organizations. Remarkably, the unity we had achieved at the beginning lasted until the association dissolved after 12 years.
What happened to you professionally?
I contacted the New York Architects’ Association and was introduced to an architect who knew some other Hungarian architect and hired me immediately. Later I joined the prestigious practice led by Wallace K. Harrison, whose projects included the Metropolitan Opera in NYC. Then I looked for a new job again. In White Plains, NY, a very dynamic and well-situated city north of NYC, I joined an existing architectural practice and, after a year and a half, became the owner. I hired two exceptionally talented young architects from a university, who later took over the practice but kept my name: Papp Architect.
Several architectural committees in the town were in serious conflict. At the suggestion of my friends, the mayor asked me to resolve the situation. I told him that most of the committee was Republican while I was a Democrat, so they might not accept me. He agreed and asked me to become unaffiliated. I was accepted. When I met the opposing committee chair, we solved the problem in two hours. I’ve always believed in the round-table principle—it worked there as well.
Your ability to resolve conflicts proved useful also with the New York 1956 memorial…
The New York 1956 committee and local community had been divided for years. For the 60th anniversary, a new memorial committee was established. Its two main tasks were raising money and finding a location. When the committee first approached the city parks department, they laughed: New York contained 173 nationalities, so they couldn’t give everyone a monument. The situation changed when Governor George Pataki introduced me, the chairman, to them. Because of my professional standing in the architectural community—I was a former president of the New York State Architectural Association and, by virtue of that position, a former vice-president of the American Institute of Architects—they took me seriously. We eventually agreed that there is no need for a new place: the memorial should stand in Riverside Park, next to the Kossuth statue.
In 2012, we launched an international competition. The winning design, by architect Tamás Nagy, consists of two elements: a seven-meter-long stone block containing a bench and an inscription, and a circular granite block bearing a projection of the constellation visible above Budapest on the evening of 23 October 1956. New York required us to secure $250,000 for construction and another $250,000 for future maintenance before granting the building approval. István Gulyás, a Hungarian engineer, made the first and largest donation of $50,000. The rest was raised largely through smaller donations over two and a half years. The city parks department oversaw construction. The memorial was formally inaugurated one year later than planned, in October 2017.
What other Hungarian-related buildings did you design?
I gave advice on the façade of the Hungarian House in Wallingford, CT; I designed the private house used by Balázs Somogyi and his community for Hungarian gatherings in Cheshire, CT; and I helped transform a factory into the Hungarian Museum in New Brunswick, NJ. I told Professor Ágoston Molnár that I’d not design it for free, but whatever he paid me, I’d donate back to the fund supporting the museum’s operation.
Before the political changes in Hungary in 1990, I also organized a program allowing young Hungarian architects to work in the U.S. within the framework of the New York State Architectural Association. Hungarian colleagues collected portfolios, which I presented to American architects I knew. It ran for several years, enabling several Hungarian architects to work in the U.S. for two years.
What became of your family?
Two years after the miscarriage, our son was born with hydrocephalus. He was placed in an institution and died at 16. Our daughter graduated from Harvard with honors and had a successful career as a lawyer. She is now retired and visits me from time to time. My wife died after nearly 50 years of marriage. Afterward, I met Enikő, and we’ve been together for 20 years. I have two successful grandchildren, each with two sons. My daughter speaks fluent Hungarian, but her husband is American, and unfortunately, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren no longer speak the language.
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