The Objects of Remembrance project is set out to restore family histories in context by “interviewing” such inanimate objects and capture the memories they convey to survivors, descendents and even historians.

Objects that travel through decades and sometimes centuries in families become containers of emotion, identity and historic reflection. The changing nature of wealth, loss, taste and ambition over time are wondrously revealed by choices of objects around us from generation to generation. Lindenfeld Partners is established to help telling these stories.

Numerus clausus laws stopped Bela L to study in Hungary – hence, like many more would-be Jewish physicians, he enrolled at the Medical School of Bologna University. After graduation, he remained in Italy to start his medical practice.

By the time of the outbreak of WW2 he already had his official invitation to the Dermatology Clinic of Sidney – along with the work-permit issued by the British Embassy.

Before embarking for Australia, Bela went home to Hungary to say farewell to his family. He was not allowed to leave the country again: as a suspected communist and a Jew, he was taken to a special penal company of forced labor and driven to the Russian front already in 1940. Many escapes, extreme deprivation and the freezing cold aside, he always kept to the Hippocratic Oath. He was constantly attending to those in need, making the most of makeshift emergency rooms, lack of basic hyginic conditions or medical equipment. Many lives were saved by his commitment and courage both during his years in forced labor and later the many months as POW in a Russian camp.

 This pipe carved from wood was in gratitude for Bela by a fellow prisoner of war somewhere in Siberia in the final months of the war.

He virtually had no personal memories of his father – this is probably the only one. A barely visited grave in the cemetery with a small marble plate in gold print: Dad. He was not yet five when his father died. 

He was already a father himself when he started to look through the old photographs and yellowing documents: few memories of a life without extraordinary qualities. His parents lived the life of well-off bourgeoisie, his father a merchant. They lived in a fine apartment and they had their own car, a dark blue Opel Olimpia.  He knew from his mother that Dad was addicted to playing cards, a small fortune was claimed by chemin de fer. Dad followed religion, he was a major contributor and alderman of the Csaky Synagogue. 

With the emerging Jewish legislation, opportunities became scarce. A loyal aryan employee registered Dad as a sales agent in his own shop. Stricter regulations still forced him to leave here too. Forced labor, escape and hiding followed. His health deteriorated – history did not serve well his weakened heart. Then, after the war, a few free years, all too short. Then communist nationalization: they took everything he had. Some odd jobs of grace, blue-collar work, deprivation, end-game. It was around this time that he was walking with Dad on the street one winter and someone came up to them asking for change to buy food. Dad gave him some money and when the stranger moved on, he told his son: “you see, he had a better coat than mine.”

A few months later the first warm sunshine of spring took them to Margitsziget with Mom, Dad and Granny. It was there that Dad collapsed and died in a second – today he only remembers the crying and screaming at the scene.