Researching and Writing a Family History
I did not intend to write a book. I set out to learn the truth about my family, a family I never knew I had, hidden by my father’s secrets.
My Catholic Hungarian parents survived WWII and came to the US to build a better life. I was 27 years old when I learned that most of what I knew about my family was a lie. My father was Jewish. But it took 30 years to have the time and courage to excavate the truth.
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In 2011, a box was miraculously rescued from my parents’ house fire. Its contents—documents, letters, a handwritten family tree book with unfamiliar names, and photographs—were the catalyst that launched my journey of discovery. Through a friend of a friend, I was introduced to András Gyekiczki, a Hungarian sociologist and brilliant sleuth who played a pivotal role in unraveling the story of my family’s past.
Starting with names and dates on gravestones, András traced birth, death, and marriage records, most handwritten in ancient registers. He uncovered centuries-old donation books and tablets, tax ledgers, land certificates, election registers, school reports, phone books, newspaper advertisements, articles written by or about a relative, a name mentioned in a book, or a book written by a relative. Many of his discoveries emerged from the most unexpected places.
Two books, written by my late relatives, were particularly instrumental in discovering my past. Our Family History, written by my great-great-great-great uncle, Zsigmond Politzer (1842-1920) told the stories of family members starting in the 1700s. The second was written by my father’s cousin about his experiences from 1943 to 1945 during the Holocaust.
I soon realized that simply finding my family was not enough. I needed to grasp the zeitgeist of the time and place they inhabited. To truly understand them, I had to understand history. I immersed myself in history books, articles, biographies, and memoirs, seeking depth and context. Exploring the political, social, and economic conditions of their era gave me a clearer perspective of their experiences, motivations, and decisions.
Zsigmond’s account of his growing up in Hungary highlights how historical context shapes and deepens our understanding of individual experiences. After his father’s sudden death when he was 12, Zsigmond struggled in school and faced further challenges when his mother refused to support his higher education. He went to work for several older brothers in a series of jobs, each one grueling manual labor under thankless conditions. Eventually gaining independence, Zsigmond seized an opportunity to prove himself. An Austrian army officer asked Zsigmond to source supplies for a large cavalry troop that was arriving unexpectedly to be stationed in nearby towns. Zsigmond singlehandedly negotiated a mutually beneficial contract with local farmers and the military. He not only fulfilled the contract, but did so with remarkable profitably, showcasing his resourcefulness and determination.
At first, Zsigmond’s actions baffled me. It was 1860, just 11 years after the Hungarian Revolution of 1848, when Hungary’s brave fight for independence was crushed by Austrian forces, aided by the Russians. Zsigmond’s family had endured the brutal aftermath of Austria’s reign of terror. So why would he, of all people, serve the enemy by feeding Austrian troops? Was it greed? Ambition? As I delved deeper, a more complex story emerged. I learned that Emperor Franz-Joseph had begun easing his iron grip and decided to restore Hungary’s legislative body. Elections were set for the following spring. The army’s presence was not one of occupation, but of safeguarding this new chapter. Understanding this nuance transformed my view of Zsigmond. His actions were not betrayal, but a testament to hope. He had acted not out of selfishness, but with a vision for a peaceful, united future. This new perspective reminded me of the intricate layers that shape our ancestors’ choices.
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While András cast a wide net in his research, following every lead and exploring multiple threads, I chose a more focused approach, honing in on one family member at a time. Each discovery, layered with historical context, was carefully documented on my computer. I printed these pages and organized them by individual, enabling me to trace timelines, unravel relationships, and pinpoint pivotal events. My childhood love of puzzles served me well.
Next, I set out to write their stories—one family member at a time—immersing myself in their lives. My intent was to fully capture the intricate tapestry of their experiences with accuracy and respect. I resisted the urge to fill in any gaps with speculation, staying firmly rooted in the facts we had uncovered. Where details were missing, I acknowledged the uncertainty. Through writing, I sought to breathe life into my Jewish ancestors, giving voice to their stories without distorting the truth.
Over seven years I devoted myself to researching and writing. Tracing back eight generations was both overwhelming and deeply rewarding. My forbears were remarkable individuals: doctors and lawyers, entrepreneurs and industrialists, writers and musicians, artists and art collectors, and philanthropists. András once wrote “I hardly know any non-fiction sagas to better exemplify Hungarian Jewish fate of the past 300 years as this Politzer, Misner, Ambrus story …. All that fantastic talent, diligence, and readiness to act for the birth of modern Hungary. All those sufferings, torture, and misery they went through ….”
When the Hungarian Jewish Museum and Archives decided to create a permanent exhibit based on my family’s stories, I knew that I had to compile my writings into a book. Encouragement from early readers further motivated me to pursue this. I decided to collaborate with an editor.
My editor embraced the stories with enthusiasm, providing round after round of insightful feedback—a weak section removed here, a reordering there, fuller explanations where needed, a reworking to emphasize key points. She suggested breaking out some of the historical explanations into sidebars I called “Learning More.” This approach helped maintain the story’s arc and keep the reader engaged.
A designer and artist helped to integrate the prose with 150 images, including the photos I had found in the box, family trees, and maps. No longer unfamiliar names, these visual elements helped to further bring my relatives to life, allowing their stories to be felt as well as read.
I set out to uncover the truth about my family, my Jewish family. With each story, a window into their world opened, revealing the grace with which they navigated unimaginable hardships. As I wrote I felt a profound connection—not just to the events of their lives, but to the unwavering strength that sustained them. They became real, woven into my very being. In that connection, I began to understand my roots and the legacy they passed down. By bringing their stories to light, I was able to honor their memories in a deeply meaningful way and truly grasp the essence behind the Jewish expression of condolence, “May their memory be for a blessing.”
Check out Linda Ambrus Broenniman’s The Politzer Saga here:
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