Remembering Maria,1978–2017

On a cold night in June 1979, I stood with my husband Anton on the corner of George and Market streets in Sydney, waiting to cross the road. We were on our way to the State Theatre for a session of the Sydney Film Festival. Right up against the edge of the footpath, huddled up against a gentleman of clearly European appearance, there was my new colleague Maria Márkus. A pleasant surprise! We said ‘Hello’ and effected the necessary introductions. Walking to the theatre, we chatted briefly and parted company in the foyer: Maria and her husband made for the mezzanine and Anton and I went downstairs to the stalls.

Years later, Maria told me on several occasions that our meeting had meant a great deal to her because it was the first time in Sydney when she chanced upon someone she knew. I understood, I said. Belgrade – where I lived till 1951 – was in many ways like Budapest. Both were cities where the bourgeoisie (including the intelligentsia) was relatively closely knit and highly sociable, using the city as common living space. This applied also to many of the aspirational operators under the communist rule (the middle class is like water – it spreads opportunistically into every nook and cranny where it can make its presence felt). In both cities, street life was a vital part of urban existence.

In 1979 Maria was not long out of Budapest and would have sorely missed its enveloping social environment. In Sydney, her mind-set was that of an émigré and while she established a psychological homeland for herself in the international (as well as local) academic community, the need for informal contact in the quotidian was difficult to still.

Sociology did not bring Maria and me together though we taught the subject in the same school. Not in the same school of thought, however; the differences in stance (insofar as I had one) were stark. It was on the basis of both our common experience of early life in an Eastern European country and of communism (before the death of Stalin) that we became friends. I had been in Australia a lot longer than Maria, yet in my heart of hearts I remained a stranger. In contrast to Maria, I no longer had a ‘home’ anywhere, while for Maria Europe was still home. She spoke of the occasional family trips back to Budapest as a respite from living with the barbarians and as a return – all too brief, alas – to a state of grace. For me, there was no escape and in due course I accepted the inevitable. Maria, I feel, never did.

Life in the Márkus household was resolutely European. The main meal of the day was always around midday – the proverbial Hungarian spread of ‘one vegetable and three meats’, but in reality, more like the Aussie ‘steak and cake’ fare. Coffee appeared frequently and presented short, strong, black and sweet. Bathed in the endemic tobacco fumes, hospitality was overwhelming, falling just short of force-feeding the hapless visitor (it was the same in Belgrade, as I recall – no doubt the Ottoman influence was at play here just as it must have been in Budapest). Maria walked in and out of the kitchen, bringing ever more offerings to the capacious coffee table in the sitting room while George (as Anton and I called him) sat smiling indulgently, with a cigarette almost always in hand. The room contained a glass-fronted display cabinet that housed the best china and some family silver. It reminded me of my family’s flat in Belgrade and made me feel at home. Shelves stuffed with books and records, on the other hand, resembled our place in Sydney. Altogether I felt comfortable and happy to be part, however temporarily, of this family’s happy domestic life.

There was a time when the Markus family had a dog – or rather Maria did. Oskar (I have a vague memory of a kelpie cross) was devoted to Maria (and vice versa), sleeping by her bedside and insisting on being with her at all times. Jealousy was his main characteristic; Oskar was so intolerant of visitors and of Maria’s attention to them that he had to be locked in the laundry, scratching at the door and barking. Unfortunately, this attitude was eventually extended to George. One day, when George moved to give Maria a hug, Oskar sank his teeth into George’s arm. Medical assistance had to be sought and consequently Oskar was put down – a tragic event for Maria.

Afterwards, there were cats, much indulged and well looked after in sickness and in health and causing much grief when they died. Maria was a caring person and managed to nurture most of the plants in her large garden. She looked after the inanimate objects around the place as well, fixing rickety chairs and bookshelves. One day, as we talked about this, I asked ‘What about George? What does he do?’ Not much, it turned out. Maria smiled at my raised eyebrow and replied ‘I follow the Marxist principle – he who can, does’. Praxis could have been her middle name.

Maria was a prodigious shopper. At Woolworth’s, where oftentimes we went together, her trolley would be filled to the brim. Featuring prominently were ‘those boxes’ which George and the boys liked – pre-prepared frozen dishes, soy-honey chicken drumsticks being favourites. Other than fresh food and the usual staples, the trolley would contain purchases to be at the ready for visitors – lots of smoked salmon, fish roe, salami, cheese, biscuits and chocolates.

At some point Maria bought a car and learned to drive (George, of course, did not). This was useful though it would lead to some anxiety as Maria at times could not find it straightaway in the parking area – and frequently her car keys would be misplaced in one of the two large bags she always carried to accommodate a mysterious selection of objects and papers she considered essential for her daily activities. She and George took to driving off into the vastness of the countryside which Maria came to appreciate and love, enjoying enormously, as she told me, the freedom of the road and the surprise of the unexpected. In this respect at least, Australia came up to scratch for her.

Maria’s irrepressible zest for life was channelled, needs must, into resistance to despair and endurance of devoted toil after her older son Gyuri suffered a comprehensive cerebral haemorrhage during a soccer practice in 1986. Gyuri was in a deep coma (and was not expected to survive) for some weeks and during all that time there was always at least one family member at his bedside at Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney. Much of the time this was Maria. I saw both her and George there a number of times; it was my impression that George was more obviously overcome by the turn of events than Maria who buried herself in activity, tending to her son in various ways, the nursing at the hospital never being quite good enough for the necessary level of Gyuri’s comfort.

Maria never accepted the view that Gyuri was truly unconscious and so she talked and sang to him while she combed his hair, adjusted his pillows, straightened his blankets and ensured that his catheter was in place. During one of our visit to the hospital I told Maria and George a little joke; I cannot remember its content – but the remarkable thing here was, as I was later told, that Gyuri had heard and remembered it and mentioned it after he came out of the coma – as was the case for much of what went around him while he was supposedly unreceptive to external stimuli. Perhaps Maria had an inkling of his active presence, so to speak, while purportedly unconscious, and so she kept up a semblance of normal communication around him – as George and brother Andras did too.

It was a privilege for me to be with such people who bore misfortune with dignity and expressed devotion and love in every glance and gesture; a truly uplifting experience. Therefore, it was shocking to hear Maria telling me about the social worker at the hospital who had described hers and George’s ‘obsessive behaviour’ at the bedside as evidence that they were not moving properly through the appropriate stages of grieving (a la Kůbler-Ross, whose work had many adherents at the time), and that there could be untoward consequence from these lapses. It was to Maria’s credit that she thought these comments to be funny (if not downright stupid), but I was furious. My misgivings about the helping professions (especially social workers) and their hubris were confirmed. Maria and I shared this attitude and I could well understand her scepticism and mistrust of much of the ‘professional’ advice and interventions about Gyuri’s condition over the years that followed.

Maria believed that Hungarian rehabilitation practices were better suited to helping Gyuri. This was probably partly because he seemed happier in Budapest during an occasional family holiday there, enjoying many visits from old friends and having his mother tongue all around him, even on TV. He found it more congenial, according to Maria, to communicate, in his own limited way, using the Hungarian language – routinely employed at home but not generally heard when back in Sydney. Maria, too, found it easier to accept advice offered in a familiar language that was less ‘cool’ than the professional English that was thrust at her in Sydney, the return to which was invariably experienced as an anti-climax.

Maria’s life was profoundly changed by Gyuri’s accident. Quite apart from demands on her time and restrictions of her movements, including attendance at university for both formal and informal occasions and gatherings, the heaviest burden was that of continuous concern with Gyuri’s condition and the consequent need to organise the practicalities of life with it. Maria was an energetic and capable person and it was my impression that most of the thinking and doing in relation to Gyuri’s needs fell to her. Uncomplaining, she simply rolled up her sleeves and got on with it, but I knew that her mind was filled with anxiety and her heart heavy with pain.

Gyuri’s brother, kind friends, and some community workers came to keep Gyuri company, play cards and other games with him (he loved ‘Five Hundred’), but the daily grind was still Maria’s. Gyuri depended on his meals to help him structure his day and he always looked forward to these, becoming somewhat agitated when lunch was not forthcoming on time. There were few pleasures in his life and eating was one of them.

When Maria had to spend a day at the university, she would prepare food early in the morning and in her absence, George attended to Gyuri. She often stayed in her office late in the day so that she could consult with her Honours and post-graduate students of which she had many, most of them devoted to her. Indeed, Maia had a following and was regarded as a kind of guru; not just a teacher but a practitioner of a good ethical life and one who could explain what this involved.

Gyuri had multiple problems – lateral paralysis, total blindness in one eye and only a small percentage in the other, spasticity, pain, depression and cognitive deficits. A shunt helped prevent accumulation of fluid in the brain. All these infirmities deteriorated over time. And Gyuri was now a large and heavy man, due to confinement to his wheelchair. Caring for him became too difficult for one person. George grew gradually too weak to pitch in (and distressed because of this). Maria was truly overburdened. Some help was available from the community sector but there were the usual administrative difficulties which upset her and made things difficult for her. Almost every day there was a crisis of some kind – and the situation became worse as various illnesses beset Gyuri (cancer, chronic infection) requiring surgery and hospital stays.

There was no relief for Maria. She was never certain whether Gyuri was receiving appropriate and sufficient care when in hospital and she tried to spend a lot of time there tending to him and negotiating with doctors and nurses. Meanwhile George was increasingly bedridden at home, crying out for his Marisha because it was only her presence that could comfort him. Maria was always rushing from hospital to home and back again and I doubted that she ever allowed herself time for a proper meal during these episodes. During this most difficult time, Andras was a steadfast support for Maria, calling most evenings and on weekends.

For a few weeks before George died she slept in a sheepskin-lined armchair by his bedside (by this time, she suffered much back-pain and consequent restriction of movement, even in her arms). When I raised objections saying that she needed proper rest, in a true Maria way she made me lie back in the chair so that I could be convinced of its adequacy for a good night’s sleep. During this exercise, George was unaware of my presence despite Maria’s urging; it was unbearable to see him so reduced – and impossible to contemplate Maria’s feelings about the situation. And yet, stoically she persevered, shuffling between her two invalids, the tip-tapping of her walking sticks punctuating her slow steps.

Gyuri died on New Year’s Eve 2016, just a short while after George’s death in October of 2016. He grieved for his father and his condition deteriorated even further from this point. Maria’s life for the 30 years between 1986 and those two deaths was one of dedicated heroism; there are no other words for it. She tended selflessly to her husband and son both of whom were in conditions of severe decline, when her own health was clearly at risk. For example, she had a lung condition that needed to be followed up for a definitive diagnosis and there were problems with her vision. And, of course, her signature cough was ever present and worsening.

Perhaps more help from external agencies could have been requested and organised, but George was very ill and most demanding and the intricacies of looking after Gyuri were such that Maria did not believe anyone else to be capable of understanding their needs. And so she carried on, stubbornly and, I daresay, with some pride while barely able to walk herself during the last few weeks of Gyuri’s life.

Maria was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and put up bravely with increasing shortness of breath and extreme fatigue. Fortunately, she was not in pain – a small mercy under the circumstances. Towards the end she needed continuous attention. Hospital was not an option for Maria. Andras understood this very well and, with his partner Judy and aided by community nurses, cared for Maria full time in the same devoted way as she had tended to his father and brother.

Maria’s interest in, and concern for, other people never waned, and whenever I saw her during those last weeks of her life, she always inquired about my family and shared with me any news she had of people we both knew in our sociology network.

The lung cancer was a new primary and not, as some of us initially thought, a secondary development of the breast cancer she had had some years before. The breast cancer was relatively containable and its treatment not too odious. Maria was keen to discuss her condition with me since she knew that I had breast cancer in 1976 when the radiation treatment was much more intense than in recent times. Nonetheless she did want to know how it had affected me and how I felt afterwards. In any case, for Maria soon the whole episode lost significance as she was much more concerned with the way events were unfolding for George and Gyuri. Maria’s cancer was not giving her any trouble, nor did she suffer any ill effects of the treatment; only slight concern about her body image remained.

When I turned 70 (in 2002), Maria organised a birthday party for me, inviting our friends in common (at that stage our School was divided both administratively and ideologically, and Maria and I were in the same camp.) There was a great deal of sumptuous food and much merriment. It was always thus when Maria hosted events. To Maria’s regret, however, no carp featured on the menu. She was keen to have this delicacy on the table for the occasion as a symbol of our friendship, the only two persons in our sociology department who had lived for some time on the banks of the Danube (the fact that the great river was no longer blue – had not been so for decades – did not detract from its significance in our lives).

Carp was one of the ‘leit-motifs’ of our frequent conversations about food and the aromas and tastes of our youth that could not be recreated in Sydney. Maria and I also exchanged thoughts about the place of cooking in our current lives as both of us prepared meals almost every day. Again, our Eastern European upbringing predisposed us to accept preoccupation with food as normal for a female person.

One day she rushed into my office to tell me, with considerable excitement, that she was able to buy a carp at the fish markets. ‘I shall cook him’, she said gleefully, ‘with paprika and sour cream’. I hoped that the dish turned out as tasty as her memories of it. But I think that Heraclitus’ saying applies here inexorably, as well as elsewhere, especially about people like Maria and I: you can never step into the same river twice.

Maria grew up in Poland. I don’t know much about her early years. She was a few years younger than I and would not have remembered the Second World War in the same way as I did. But she did tell me that from the time she was eight years old (from 1944, that is) she had to fend for herself (for reasons not revealed to me) – which may account for her spirit of fierce independence and capacity to accept – indeed, seek out, responsibility for others. She must have done very well at school and would have been a member of a youth communist organisation in order to be sent to the Lomonosov University in Moscow to study philosophy. At that time this would have been Marxism-Leninism – a compulsory subject at high school in countries of the Soviet bloc, including Yugoslavia (where I was fortunate to have an excellent teacher, a retired lecturer at Belgrade University who took it upon himself to tell us about Marxism in the broader context of the history of philosophy more generally).

Barely out of their teens, Maria and George married in Moscow. Evidently childbirth in Moscow was no picnic but Maria was young and strong and withstood the challenges and trials of the situation. In Budapest from 1957, she, George and the two little boys lived in George’s mother’s flat together with George’s sister. The flat was small; the young Márkus family had but one room where, as Maria put it, the four of them started growing up together. Luckily soon an apartment was made available for the pair of valued ‘cultural workers’ – a situation which, as we know, did not last.

At first, however, it was my impression that Maria had led a charmed life in the company of intellectually exciting and like-minded people. She and George enjoyed privileged status being able, for example, to attend international progressive-Left conferences (at least two on the Yugoslav Adriatic coast the beauty of which charmed Maria and added considerably to the pleasures and rewards of those meetings). Years later, the relative geographic isolation of Australia weighed her down, as subsequently did her family responsibilities. She was painfully aware of the restrictions in her life and was never quite reconciled to them. Before Gyuri’s accident, the (early) retirement plan for herself and George, as I was told, was to settle somewhere in Tuscany (or perhaps elsewhere in Europe) where the two of them could think and work and be within easy reach of their international connections. It was not to be…In Sydney for good, Maria did continue with her work. It was a miracle that she was able to produce anything at all under the circumstances of her life after 1986.

Maria and I often discussed the condition of being a woman in modern society, most particularly from our individual perspectives. Theoretically, Maria was refreshingly free of the usual feminist take on the subject – and personally she did not keep tabs on ‘who does what’ and ‘how much, comparatively’ which many married women did at the time (often leading to resentment and strife). Maria thought of ‘woman’ as an existential condition – and a concept – that transcended the inequalities imposed by the hegemony of patriarchy, and it is a pity that she had neither time nor energy to develop such ideas further. In these issues at least we were in agreement.

I miss Maria. There is now no one approaching her place in my life who understands me as a creature of my background and circumstances – and who would regard carp as a delicacy. I miss her as my best buddy – but I also miss her for herself because she was unique, a person in her prime during all the time that I knew her. She made a difference and her presence could not be ignored. My memories of Maria will never fade.