The Days We Die – First & Last Goodbyes:  Leaving Banffy Castle Behind (An Invitation To A Vanished Past – Part Seven)

I always feel a deep sadness when leaving a place I have finally been able to visit. With my goal attained the question of “Now what?” consumes me. The feeling I have during these moments is reminiscent of how I used to feel on Christmas morning after opening all the gifts. An empty malaise, when hope and expectation are gone. The nothing that comes next would leave a void. When this happens with travel, the feeling can only be replaced by another seemingly impossible trip.

The sadness that consumed me as l walked away from Banffy Castle was much greater than what I had previously felt on other occasions. Perhaps that had to do with middle age and the realization that time was running out on me. There was little chance I would ever come back here. I have too many other places I want to visit. A return trip seems highly improbable. And yet Transylvania is a place that never really leaves you, even after you leave it. The mesmerizing beauty of its landscapes, its diverse blend of peoples, folk culture that infuses its art and architecture with a unique rusticity, all serve to create a sense of magical wonder that lingers in the memory.

A lasting impression - Banffy Castle

A lasting impression – Banffy Castle

To Live & To Leave – The End Of A Dream
After walking out the arched entrance way, I turned around on several occasions to catch a last glimpse of Banffy Castle. I was saying goodbye to a dream from which I was now just beginning to awaken. I only spent a couple of hours at the castle and had come to feel attached. Miklos Banffy had spent a large part of his life there. I wondered how Banffy must have felt the last time he saw his beloved home. It would have been a depressing site after the ravages of warfare. Perhaps he imagined trying to salvage what was left, to rebuild or reconstruct. Or perhaps he knew that all was lost. At that time the castle was as much rubble as ruin.  At least I had a choice whether or not to come back, Banffy ended up leaving Transylvania in 1949 for Budapest to be with his wife and daughter, knowing full well that he would not be able or willing to return. It had taken him several years just to get permission to cross the border from Romania into Hungary. A return would have been too difficult, especially for an old man whose health was on the verge of failing.

And would Banffy really have wanted to return? The castle was a smoldering pile on property that was no longer under his ownership. The communists were in the process of completely transforming Transylvania. At the same time, Hungarian aristocrats were branded enemies of the state. Banffy was lucky to be allowed to live and leave. He could just as easily have been arrested or even worse, shot.  A deep, penetrating sense of loss must have engulfed Banffy in the period between the end of World War II and when he finally left Transylvania four years later. There was no place in the Stalinist world for a man like Banffy. Humanist diplomats from ancient aristocratic families were persona non gratas. While toe the party line ideologues were in demand. This was a world that had been entirely rearranged by the war. Romanticism and sentimentality were out, brutalism and collectivization now held the region in an iron grip.

One last look - Miklos Banffy in his later years

One last look – Miklos Banffy in his later years

The Wicked Irony – A Spiritual Death
Cluj, the city where Banffy stayed during his final years in Transylvania, most have felt like a wicked irony. He had successfully negotiated it as an open city in 1944, sparing it the bullets and bombs of the Red Army. The man who had helped save a city full of treasures, had his own destroyed or in the case of his palace in Cluj, stolen from him. As a man of the theater he understood drama and tragedy all too well, but this was theater of the absurd on a whole new level with continuous acts of unreality. This included the fact that there was no time left for him to say goodbye. Maybe not being able to say goodbye was for the best, after all there was nothing left but memories to mourn. Sometimes goodbye means turning a cold shoulder to the truth, not so much in contempt as indifference. Banffy was a man of great passion I doubt he could have done this. It would have killed him. Then again maybe it did kill him. His life ended in Budapest only in a physical sense. Spiritually he died the day he left Transylvania for the last time.

I was leaving Transylvania, but unlike Banffy it would not be for the last time. Nothing stood in my way of returning other than work and money. Yet I would never be able to return here for the first time. I could not replicate my own experience. Coming back to the castle again and again would only be a futile attempt at recapturing a highly personalized piece of the past. It would be like an alcoholic or drug addict always chasing their first high. All returns are diminished. Innocence can only be lost one time. The thought of this engulfed me with sadness. I knew as I walked away, this goodbye was forever. And once again I was left with the question of “Now what?” My answer was a thumbs up and out, an attempt to flee faster than I had arrived. This meant hitchhiking, something that I had hardly ever done before.

A final glimpse - Banffy Castle

A final glimpse – Banffy Castle

Acts Of Rural Kindness – The Only Way To Say Goodbye
Here I was in a foreign land, unable to speak the mother tongue, with my red hair and southern accent I stuck out like a sore thumb. It was not long before a delivery van stopped to pick me up. In my experience, acts of rural kindness are universal and global, Transylvania was no different. The driver could not speak a word of English, but I knew the Romanian word for train station, “Gara.” He nodded in understanding. The ride was short and uneventful, retracing my earlier footsteps in a matter of minutes. This was the only way I could say goodbye to Banffy Castle and Bontida, to get away as fast as I could.

Everything In Its Path – The Train To Transylvania (An Invitation To A Vanished World: Part Two)

A journey to Transylvania sounds mysterious, adventurous and a bit scary. This has much to do with the Dracula effect. One imagines being set upon by superstitious villagers and ominous aristocrats living in drafty manor houses. At every rail siding there is a false expectation that passengers will be greeted by howling wolves leaping out of some dark, dingy forest. At least that was what happened to Jonathan Harker. My experience was quite different. After all I was chasing ghosts courtesy of Miklos Banffy, not a vampire from Bram Stoker’s imagination.

My journey started far away from Transylvania in the heart of Budapest, the city in which Banffy died in 1950, far away from his beloved castle which was now in ruin. I found myself in the half light of dawn boarding a train at Keleti (Eastern) station. The greatest danger to me did not come from suspicious peasants, but that I might board the wrong train, since I was still half asleep. I did not have any problem finding the train, boarding it with time to spare. The train was uncrowded, spacious and comfortable. I settled in for what I thought was going to be a relaxing eight hour trip to Cluj. I could not have been more wrong.

Train preparing to leave Keleti (Eastern) station in Budapest

Train preparing to leave Keleti (Eastern) station in Budapest

Border Crossing – An Outsider On Board
There was ongoing work on the railroad line close to the Hungary-Romania border. We would have to get off the train in eastern Hungary at the town of Puspokladany, then cross the border by bus into Romania, before boarding another train at Bors. I would have to purchase another train ticket once I got to Romania. The bus ride went from an interruption to an irritation to a major annoyance. We first traveled along a series of bumpy secondary roads. After being jolted back and forth for almost an hour it was a relief to arrive at the border crossing into Romania. For over half of Banffy’s life there was no border crossing here, this area had been part of Greater Hungary. World War I had changed the situation and from a traveler’s standpoint not for the better. Even though Romania and Hungary were both members of the European Union (EU), a hard border crossing still existed. It was here that the adventure began for me.

It turned out that I was the only one onboard who was not a citizen of an EU nation. While everyone’s passport or identification card was returned to them within a matter of minutes, I was left waiting. After a while the silence of the bus was broken by idle chatter that became increasingly agitated. One man on the bus looked in my direction and said “it’s the American.” He was inferring that I was the reason for the delay. I sank lower in my seat as the wait continued. Never has an extra twenty minutes seemed so long. The passengers were restless for a reason, if we did not get through passport control in time, we would miss the train from Bors to Cluj. No one wanted to wait in a dreary village station for another train.

Border crossing at Bors Romania

Border crossing at Bors Romania

Desperate Pleas – The Ticket To Cluj
Finally a border guard showed up and handed my passport back to the bus driver who then gave it to me. I felt a sense of relief, while several of my fellow passengers let out sighs of exasperation. We were free to go, but the question was whether we could still make the train on time. When we arrived at the Episcopia Bihor station I ran inside to find a ramshackle interior, which turned out to be a nightmare of dreary carelessness. The waiting room/ticketing area looked dirty and felt even dirtier. It gave the unwelcoming impression of hell with a roof on it. To my surprise the attendant informed me that she did not take credit cards. Nor would she accept Hungarian forints. Desperately I tried to shove some dollars at her. Perhaps a bribe might work. She would have none of this. I had to pay with Romanian lei. My desperate pleas for help elicited a half intelligible response that directed me to a nearby establishment.

I ran out of the station to a bar/restaurant. The man behind the counter offered to change lei for dollars. I pulled out a wad of twenty dollar bills and received nearly everything that was in the register. When he tried to hand me a few dollars back, I signaled for him to keep it. I ran back to the station where the train had already arrived. With my heart pounding, I rushed back to the ticket window where the attendant dutifully sold me a ticket to Cluj. I burst out the station doors, climbed aboard the train and found a car half filled with passengers from my bus ride. Several of them smiled kindly at me, a reversal from half an hour earlier. Soon we were on our way.

Episcopia Bihor Train Station

Episcopia Bihor Train Station

The World Turned Dizzy – Change For The Worse

Miklos Banffy made this same journey by train many times during his life while traveling between Bontida and Budapest. He carried out a large part of his professional life in the Hungarian capital. At the age of 28 he was elected to the Hungarian Parliament. After World War I he was Hungary’s Foreign Minister for a couple of years.  He also served as the Director of the Hungarian State Theaters for five years. As the train rolled eastward out of Bors toward the city of Oradea (Nagyvarad in Hungarian) I wondered what Banffy had seen in his time along this same stretch of railway. I imagined that it was highly pastoral, with peasants toiling in the lush, pancake flat fields.

The current scene could not have been more different. The train passed by a wretched industrial landscape. An ugly, towering factory that looked like a nightmare conjured up by the Romanian dictator Ceaucescu scarred the skyline. The ground was pockmarked with the residue of heavy industry. The sight was ghastly in the extreme, quite a welcome for newcomers from the west.  I was not going to find anything of Miklos Banffy in this landscape. Then again he had written about a fading way of life that was on the cusp of major change. And the change had come, transforming everything in its path.

An invitation to a vanished world

An invitation to a vanished world

Click here for: Beyond All Recognition – Huedin Now & Banffyhunyad Then (An Invitation To A Vanished World: Part Three)