2. Since World War II

After the short-lived Hungarian rule in Northern Transylvania (1940-4), the whole territory was returned to Romania at the end of World War II when the advancing Soviet army occupied it. The so-called ‘Trianon frontiers’ were ratified anew by the Allies at the Paris Peace Treaties in 1947. The Hungarian intelligentsia and the civil service were once more dispersed, and as in 1920, after World War I, those who were actively involved in the Hungarian administration fled to Hungary proper. After an initial period of anti-Hungarian riots and semi-official persecution, the nationality question seemed to have been satisfactorily resolved by the establishment of a ‘Magyar Autonomous Region’ in 1952, which largely overlapped with the Székelyföld; and the guaranteeing of minority rights (e.g. the alternative use of the language in education and in official transactions) meant that facilities were provided for cultural institutions. After the Hungarian revolution of 1956, on the pretext of social unrest, and particularly after Soviet troops had been withdrawn in 1958, the treatment of nationalities became less liberal. (The Bolyai*Named after János Bolyai (1802-60), a Hungarian mathematician whose theory of parallels (1831) was epoch-making in non-Euclidian geometry. University of Kolozsvár, the only Hungarian university in the country, was drastically reorganized in 1959; its autonomy was revoked, and the language of instruction became Romanian in most of its faculties.) Since the mid-1960s, minority rights for the Hungarians have been gradually curtailed; the ‘Magyar Autonomous Region’ was merged with other administrative units in 1967.

Literary life revived immediately after the war, in spite of harsh conditions. Significantly, one of the early manifestations of the new literature was a declaration of loyalty: writers no longer talked and wrote about ‘Transylvanian-Hungarian literature’, but about ‘Hungarian literature in Romania’. This subtle but definite difference at first indicated only an emblematic oath of allegiance of the Hungarian intellectuals; the renunciation of the ‘bourgeois’ ideology of Transylvanism. Today one can no longer speak of ‘Transylvanian’ literature, mainly as a result of official cultural policy (some of the Hungarian cultural establishments were transferred to Bucharest, and now numerous writers are also resident in the Romanian capital).

Since the new regime was Communist, it was the socialist writers who became the leaders of the intellectual life. None of the old institutions (e.g. Transylvanian Literary Guild) were revived; the new organ of the writers, Our Way (1946- ), was edited by Gábor Gaál, the former editor of Our Age, the traditions of which he set out to maintain in the new, modest circumstances. In the bleak years of Stalinism, however, dogmatic intolerance was practised on a large scale, and literature, in whatever language, ceased to be artistic creation; its function was solely to popularize Communist doctrines and fight remnants of ‘bourgeois’ ideology. Writers with a respectable socialist past, like Gábor Gaál himself, were ‘unmasked’ as enemies of the people, and if they failed to conform to the ‘official’ line were removed from their posts. The Association of Hungarian Writers in Romania was incorporated in the Writers’ Union of Romania in 1949. The process of Stalinization in literary life was ruthlessly completed in a relatively short time, by the early 1950s. Signs of ‘the thaw’ appeared slowly in the late 1950s, with the introduction of more liberal policies. At the same time new literary periodicals were established. True Word (1953- ), in the heart of the Székelyföld. originally aimed at popularizing the common past of the Hungarian and Romanian ‘people’, with special emphasis on ‘progressive traditions’ (i.e. the common class struggle against feudalistic oppression by the Hungarian overlords of Transylvania). The periodical has devoted special attention to features of Romanian cultural life, one of its purposes being to open a window in Hungarian on the Romanian cultural scene. Our Age (1957- ) has also been re-established as a periodical of varied content. In addition, a weekly literary review (The Week, 1970- ) has been founded in Bucharest, reviewing books, the theatre, art exhibitions, and other cultural events.

The above periodical publications are the main forums of Hungarian letters today; of course there are several other newspapers and specialized periodicals in Hungarian, but the literary significance of these is negligible. The quality of literary work greatly improved in the 1970s, not only because more tolerant policies now guided literary life in general, allowing scope for experiment in both fiction and poetry, but mainly because a new generation of talented writers emerged whose conscience was not burdened with memories of the recent past. In addition, book-publishing in the last fifteen years has also shown a marked improvement; besides original works by modern authors, numerous volumes drawing on the rich literary heritage of Transylvania are being published by Kriterion (the state publishing house in Bucharest specializing in the literatures of national minorities in Romania), and by Dacia in Kolozsvár – and there are other publishing houses with a Hungarian section.

It would be too early to write about the history of Hungarian literature in Romania in the past thirty-odd years with any pretension to scholarly detachment, although some of the leading figures of the period have already died. No doubt much of what was written before the 1960s is only of ephemeral or historical significance, yet a few sketches of authors may serve as examples of the themes and quality of literary efforts.

Of the socialist writers who established their reputations before World War II, and whose careers continued in the new era without major setbacks, István Nagy (1904-77) should be mentioned first. Of working class origin, he joined the Communist movement at an early age; this was a decisive factor in his literary activity. Most of his novels and short stories describe working-class poverty and the struggle to improve social conditions; he was able to create situations with authentic details based on his rich experiences. His novels are documents of the inter-war period; their intrinsic value is, however, doubtful, since Nagy freely mixed gloom, naturalism, and romantic pathos, and he was never able to achieve that artistic unity and moving poetry which characterize the best proletarian writers. After 1945, with the advent of the ‘new social order’, Nagy wrote much that proved only his gullibility – shapeless masses of fiction in the service of ‘socialist transformation of society’. In his last years he wrote an autobiographical novel, in which his best qualities as a writer are united with honest soul-searching.

Another socialist writer whose heavy realism subsisted on bitter experience was István Asztalos (1909-60). His ideals were Zsigmond Móricz and Maxim Gorki, and he found his own voice after much struggle with his material. He first attracted attention with János Tells (1939), which is written in a plain, unadorned style; the narrative is straightforward, and its effect rests solely on the selection of events narrated. Unfortunately, this technique largely failed when Asztalos, like so many of his contemporaries, attempted to write about subjects whose treatment needed special care in the years of Stalinism – not only were the conflicts described in these later novels false or ill-conceived, but commitment to the cause of socialism seemed to be insufficient for artistic plausibility. Asztalos himself became aware of the unconvincing denouements of his novels, and fell silent in the mid-1950s. Regrettably he died before he was able to extricate himself from his crisis of conscience.

The damage caused by Stalinism on the literary scene can also be measured by its impact on poetry. The leading poets of the 1950s, Ferenc Szemlér (1906-78), József Méliusz (1909-95), László Szabédi (1907-59), and many others of their generation, gave up their artistic integrity in the service of a cause the righteousness of which might have raised much doubt. Of the three poets perhaps Szabédi possessed the most promising signs of talent. His first volume, Creative Poverty (1939), witnesses the self-torment of a lost soul who is hopelessly alien in the world, and is in constant search of himself. The resulting poetry is attractive particularly on account of its musicality. After World War II Szabédi was appointed professor of aesthetics at the University of Kolozsvár, and seems to have found his bearings in the new society. Yet when the University was taken away from the Hungarian minority, he committed suicide as a gesture of protest. Szemlér made his debut with free verse containing powerful images; his attraction to Proletkult made him later an easy target for accusations of leftist deviation. After a period of faithful dogmatism which completely destroyed his poetry, Szemlér was able to renew his verse in the 1960s, showing genuine repentance for his Stalinist past: ‘I did not sing my own tune. Others called the tune.’ Of these three poets, Méliusz made a spectacular public career; for a long time he was in charge of literary affairs, and in 1968 he was elected vice-president of The Writers’ Union of Romania. In the 1950s he persecuted non-socialist literature with sectarian intolerance (e.g. his article about Dsida: ‘Attention! False Angel’, 1956); in the 1970s, however, he realized that faith is not possible without doubt, and his latest poems display a profound search for truth, which helped him both to renew his poetic resources and to arrive at a personal catharsis.

Needless to say the acute infection of literature with dogmatic narrow-mindedness was not confined to Hungarian literature in Romania; all East European literatures suffered from the effects of Stalinism. Some fared better than others, but everywhere the generation which made its debut in the wake of World War II had to pay the heaviest price; many gifted writers never fully recovered from the after-effects of their own gullibility, and today, although political commitment is no longer obligatory in literature, native critics still find it too painful to write about the shameful years of the recent past.

Meanwhile a new generation grew up, with the sins of their fathers prominently before their eyes; the best representatives of this generation drew on pre-war traditions and contemporary European trends. There are numerous talented writers, some of whom have created memorable works. In fiction the first name to remember is András Sütő (1927- ), whose My Mother Promises Light Sleep (Bucharest, 1970) received deserved praise from critics in both Romania and Hungary. Sütő’s literary career started with short stories in the 1950s; his realism was influenced by Móricz, his style by Tamási. After a long silence, he reappeared with a highly original work, a composite novel, which he subtitled ‘notes in a diary’. My Mothers Promises … contains apparently unrelated entries in a diary, consisting of sociological reportage, anecdotes, well-observed character-sketches, documents, and lyrical confessions; all these ingredients are, however, superbly united through the dramatic intensity of Sütő’s intention to face up to the controversial past: ‘I still feel guilty of something I have never committed. Collective guilt was hammered into us.’ Sütő’s rediscovery that truth is beauty is not a romantic notion, but a lesson drawn from recent history. His latest work is a play (Star at the Stake, 1975), about Michael Servetus who was burnt at the stake as a heretic.

Another novelist, Tibor Bálint (1932-2002), whose early short stories (Quiet Street, Bucharest, 1963) served as a suitable target for disapproval by literary apparatchiks, has written one major novel (Sobbing Monkey, Bucharest, 1969). Its title is taken from a suburban innkeeper who, when drunk, ‘sobbed like a monkey’. No hero emerges in the novel, but Bálint manipulates dozens of figures with an expert hand. History is always on the periphery, for Bálint’s creatures are an assorted lot living in the slums of a Transylvanian city. They have little understanding of what happens; their comments and attitudes, however, which are often a mixture of cheap sentimentalism, grotesque humour, and sudden manifestations of unassuming decency, add up to the best portrayal yet of life and society in the last thirty years in Transylvania. Bálint’s remarkable psychological insight is responsible for the minute characterization of the host of characters who belong to different age groups and thus represent different attitudes to the events by which their lives are governed. Bálint is of working-class origin; he managed to create working-class fiction without the pretentious ideas of the preceding generation, which proved to be self-deception at best, and intellectual dishonesty at worst. The youngest authors, who are around thirty, have completely broken the fetters of history; for them history is often only paraphernalia for surrealistic or neo-avant-garde experimentation, involving the problems of the self (e.g. Attila Vári, 1944- ). What the prospects of this experimenting generation are it is too early to say.

The same is largely true of the new poets. Innovation is the keyword-innovation of poetic devices, the destruction of traditional poetic forms, penetration into the deep structures of the language, collage and montage techniques are all part of a defiant rebellion against the traditional meaning of words whose message proved to be false. There remain few ideals and even fewer idols whose image did not become tarnished in the 1950s-Attila József is one of the survivors. József’s impact is universal; Hungarian poets, wherever they live, come under his influence, for he is a symbol of intellectual honesty; the new generation of Hungarian poets in Romania has also looked to him for inspiration and for a poetic attitude. In addition, these poets discovered all the contemporary trends in European poetry from which they were barred in the 1950s.

Sándor Kányádi (1929- ) started to write enthusiastic lines about the new social order, but soon became disillusioned; his poetry now reflects a commitment, only to his roots. In the volume Relaxation (Bucharest, 1966) Kányádi experimented with different forms and techniques, and his poetry has now been accepted as an authentic voice from Transylvania. Many critics would agree that an outstanding member of his generation is Géza Páskándi (1933-95). Páskándi, who moved to Hungary in 1974, set out in the footsteps of József (Red Bird, Bucharest, 1957) to discover the world for himself, and has remained a restless explorer (Moonboomerang, Bucharest, 1966). The high frequency of his intellectual excitement is his main asset, and he is not afraid of linguistic absurdities. His mastery of language enables him to develop a playful idea into a truly great poem, and he is always ready to break out from the prison of conventions. Páskándi’s special contribution to Hungarian poetry is his ‘transcendental grammar’, in which the existing world is only a framework for associative references. His latest poems, frequently devoid of conventional semantic content, verge on unintelligibility, yet their effect is undeniable. Another distinctly new voice is that of Aladár Lászlóffy (1937- ), whose first poems showed him as an ‘enfant terrible’, revolting not only against down-to-earth realism but against everything with which he believed his generation was burdened. By the 1970s his voice had become steadier; humanist responsibility, scepticism, and self-examination are now the main motifs of his poetry. Although Domokos Szilágyi’s (1938-76) poetry developed along different lines from that of Lászlóffy and though he was a much more accomplished craftsman in rhyme and rhythm, he also started his career under the influence of József. For him, everything that takes place in the chaotic outside world is relevant only as far as it affects inner harmony and order. Later, in Farewell to the Tropics (Bucharest, 1969), he sets out to free himself from similes, metaphors, and other poetic devices, and to confront himself with the essence of existence and the relativity of values.

Finally, poets born in the 1940s are non-conformists in every respect; they write casually about topics which were taboo in the 1950s and needed moral courage to mention in the 1960s. They busy themselves exclusively with their private world, although they are fully aware of the realities of living as a minority. They are pragmatic about their obligation to society, and also about the consequences of living in a socialist country. Of the dozen or so poets who appeared in the 1970s, there are many fascinating new talents (e.g. Géza Szőcs (1953- ), Béla Cselényi (1955- ) and others in the Echinox Circle), and the continuity of a separate Transylvanian spirit, which has survived so many trials and tribulations, particularly in this century, depends upon them.