I attended a writers' conference organised by well-known Australian writer, John Marsden, in 2003. We were each to deliver a speech to promote an unpublished manuscript. Several publishers had their acquisition editors there.
For my contribution to the August, 2019 Rhobin's Round, I reproduced the opening of Anikó: The stranger who loved me. The response was so enthusiastic that I thought to reprint this ancient speech.
What's one of the worst things that can be done to a mother? Having her child taken away from her... by the man she loves.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this happened to my mother. I was that child.
She had risked death, and worse than death, to keep me alive during the terrible years of the Second World War. Later, when her marriage broke up, she'd risked social ostracism rather than lose custody. And now, I was torn from her.
My brother has said to me: "After you left, there never was a day that she didn't mention your name. She lavished a lot of love on me and Father, too much, all the love she wanted to give to you but couldn't."
This is one of the many episodes in Anikó: The stranger who loved me. The subtitle is apt: distance made us into strangers.
Here she is: [PHOTO]. She had this photo made for her 40th birthday. I want it as the basis of the book cover.
My mother was only five feet tall, but that never slowed her down. When she was 21, the foreman at her work tried to rape her. She escaped, covered in bruises, but gave as good as she got. This big, powerful fellow was as battered as his intended victim.
That was my mother. As for me, I am Bob Rich, the author of 11 published books. One has been in print for 17 years, another for 5. A third book has won an international award.
Having introduced my mother and myself, let me introduce the book by giving you the first page.
This page has won me a prize, in the New Zealand Writers' first page of a book contest, which had 281 entries.
The judge has said this about mine:
Vivid gripping prose that plays the emotional card very, very well indeed.
The images, which are delivered in so few carefully chosen words, fair leapt off the page.
It takes a lot to reach the heartstrings of this very cynical reader, but this author certainly did.
If the momentum of this first page can be maintained there is best-seller written all over Anikó: The stranger who loved me.
If the author hasn't yet got a contract, there should be one just around the corner.
Anikó had an incredible life, her story is well worth telling. I have already mentioned a couple of episodes.
The toughest period of her life, and the pinnacle of her courage, was of course the second world war. She survived when so many died, because she dared, and cared, and did things differently from others.
Then the Russians came.
They called it Liberation, but took huge numbers of people away to be slave workers. A Russian officer was about to capture Anikó. Her only weapons were her smile, and her quick thinking. She got away.
At last she realised a long-held ambition and set up a small business. When the communist regime forced all private businesses to form so-called cooperatives, she established one, managed to be elected its president in a patriarchal culture -- and then stayed annually re-elected until her retirement. This venture grew. It had over 2000 members when she left. Then, without her creative genius, it slowly withered.
A revolution exploded in Hungary in 1956. Until then, I had been fighting a very effective guerrilla war -- against my stepfather. I was the naughtiest kid in the world. That's why he used the opportunity the revolution presented. He managed to send me to the West -- then kept the rest of the family behind. I was only 13, spoke no language but Hungarian. All the same, this turned out to have been the best thing that could have happened to me, but it was the worst tragedy of Anikó's life.
But her greatest challenge was a thirty-one-year long deception. She loved her second husband more than life itself. He was brilliant, powerful, to her endlessly fascinating. And yet, already in 1968, he started to lose his abilities. Slowly, distressingly, he slid into imbecility. Anikó's mission became to protect his dignity, to hide his problem. She managed this, almost to the end.
She didn't want to live once he went, and in fact died less than a year after him.
Who will want to read this book? Who will enjoy the film?
Anyone who loved Schindler's List will love Anikó: The stranger who loved me. They cover similar subjects, have the same lesson for us, but are entirely different stories.
Anyone who bought Angela's Ashes will buy Anikó. The two books are completely different, but both are intensely personal biographies.
In April Fool's Day, Bryce Courtenay honoured a dying son. I write to honour a dying mother. The two books will appeal to the same people.
My mother was ahead of her time. Today, we'd call her a feminist. Over and over, she challenged the male-dominated establishment, and eventually she won. Anyone who admires this attitude will love and admire Anikó.
Let me complete my talk by repeating a device I used in the book. The story ends where it started, back full circle to Anikó's final days. So, now I would like to give you the last page. It's an entire little chapter.
She had never needed much sleep. For most of her life, the quiet times, the dark hours had been for thought. This was part of the secret of her success. She would lie in her bed, alone or beside the sleeping form of her husband, and think -- reviewing the past day and its lessons, re-running the action with possible changes the way a chess player examines the effects of various moves; or organising lists of things to do; or planning how to influence a particular person to fall in with her ideas.
The habits of a long life are not broken merely because there is no longer a need for them. So there she lay in the hospital bed like a little wooden statue, and thought. Hour after hour, day after endless day, through the never-quite quiet nights, she lay there and thought. Sometimes, she closed her eyes so the nurses or her visitors would think her to be asleep, but mostly she stared at nothing in front of her.
She thought of the past -- such a long past! So full of episodes Robi would love to hear. But although her mind raced, her mouth was set in glue, and speech was a major effort, and she knew he'd never hear those stories. During his daily visits, she could manage at most a few whispered words.
So she distracted herself from this frustration by concerning herself with the present. Had Józsi paid the car insurance? What could she ask her friend Mari to do, knowing that this good woman enjoyed nothing more than to help others? She made lists of friends who needed to be told of her illness, for what other lists were there left?
Not that any of this mattered. She was like the bored traveller who uses a pack of cards to lay out endless games of patience, not caring about the outcome, or the couch potato whose unseeing eyes are captured by the television. For much of her life, she had organised. What else could she do now, except to organise what little was left within her diminished world?
I wish I could die, she thought, often. My sweet God, please take me. But her strong heart continued to beat, and her chest continued to take in and expel air, and whenever anyone was around, she asked for some milk to wet her ever so dry mouth -- and hour after hour, day after endless day, she lay there and thought.
I've been back home for three weeks now. The jetlag has passed, and I am immersed in the tide of my daily activities, especially in my writing.
But all the time, a nightmare rides on my shoulders. Usually just below the surface of my consciousness, but emerging into full light now and then, I see that little frozen shape, a tiny old-woman-statue with nothing alive except the blazing vitality in the blue eyes. I see that face, which has become strangely beautiful once more, now that food deprivation has smoothed out the wrinkles of age. I hear the struggling whisper of her voice as she fights physical reality, trying to pass on her experiences.
My greatest fear, the horror haunting me, is that she will continue lying there, month after month, perhaps year after year, a worn out shell holding the racing engine of her mind.
It is the fourth of August. This day, I think to myself, I'll ring up Jóska tonight. And when I get home from work, my wife tells me that he had left a message on the answering service. It's in Hungarian of course, she doesn't understand what he was saying, but I know.
I ring up.
She has passed away.
And all the next day, I feel at peace. I feel good, and liberated, though not as liberated as she. The stranger who loved me so much is out of her prison.
Ladies and Gentlemen, when it is published, Anikó: The stranger who loved me will have a wide and varied audience. Publishers occasionally find a book that makes them a great deal of money. This book has the requirements: It is written from the heart. It deals with evergreen issues, in a setting that will be fascinatingly exotic to readers. And I am afraid, the horrors of war are topical once more.
I wrote this book because I had to, though it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I want it to be widely read. Help me to realise this dream, to our mutual benefit.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, how I LOVE this book! I started feeling so sad when I realized I was reaching the end of it, and when I did, I ended it in tears. I feel as though I've been on a long, beautiful and historic journey with you and your family and friends.
Bob, it's wonderful. Your characterization is so compelling, the way you did it, interspersing with your present tense POV is BRILLIANT, it works so well, please don't change that. One might think switching like that would be disconcerting, but it's not. It feels absolutely right, and I'm overcome with envy at your brilliance for thinking to do it that way. The whole thing, the history, the family relationships, the war years, the persecution of Jews.
Bob, I'll never forget reading this. It's such a wonderful picture of the real life of these very real people during some horrible times as well as the good times. The texture is superlative--there's just enough and not too much. All in all, this has got to be your proudest moment as an author, and I'm so overwhelmed that you'd allow me to go through it and add my comments. I thank you for that, because this book is a masterpiece.
Beth Anderson is a multi-published author of thrillers and mysteries. Her latest book Second Generation is doing very well. Her web site is a valuable resource for writers, with instruction on a variety of topics such as plotting and Point of View.
War is too important a matter to be left for generals. Let me paraphrase that: the past is too interesting to be left to historians. Bob Rich writes history as it should be written, making it as engrossing as any novel. Going a little further, those who write histories where they are involved often can't see the forest for the trees. Not so here. In Anikó, Bob Rich has used family documents, oral history and his own intimate knowledge to craft a truly mesmerizing story of a remarkable woman. It will make you happy, make you sad, make you laugh, cry and sometimes despair at some of the evil which still haunts mankind. But if you are human at all, you will thank your lucky stars at how comfortable, free and well fed you are after reading this book. Bob follows his mother's life from war time Hungary as a girl and woman on up until her dying words and there isn't a dull moment to be found anywhere in the story. All biographies should be so interesting. I give it my highest recommendation.
Darrell is the author of more than a dozen books in many genres, running the gamut from humour to mystery and science fiction to non-fiction and a few humorous works which are sort of fictional non-fiction, if that makes any sense. He has even written for children. His most recent works are The Sex Gates (in collaboration with Jeanine Berry), The Pet Plague and Life On Santa Claus Lane. His web site is DarrellBain.com.
This book exceeds ANGELA'S ASHES for its honest portrayal of an all-too-human woman who survived war, poverty and deep personal loss by sheer strength of will and determination, never hesitating to use any of her talents, skills or advantages. It is told without any attempt to hide her faults or exaggerate her virtues and is all the more compelling for that.
In 2003, Liz was the Senior Editor of Zumaya Publications and a successful fantasy writer in her own right.
This morning, I finished reading your book. Although a day has passed in which I gave it much thought, it may be too early to give you a full report of how I feel about it. The book has such density of emotion, colour and events (much more, I'd say, than the great ones I've read before) that it'll take some time before everything has sunken in. Never mind. I'll just write another letter then. I decided to write now, since I couldn't wait to tell you how impressed and moved I am.
I already told you IMHO this is by far the best book I ever read from you. I keep having this kaleidoscopic image of old and complex embroidery, patches of beautiful paintings, wall paper, flowers, street maps, bright and faded fabrics and much more, representing to me the structure of this new book. I see it primarily as a moving quest, in a highly intelligent but loving way presenting us readers with history, emotions, psychology, politics, wisdom, hope and so much more. You really created a world, and though at times that world seems dark and terrible, your wisdom and writing skills make us see there's light coming in through the cracks. So it's not only a monument for your Mother, but also a monument for mankind, struggling for a better world.
Thank you for giving us that -- it feels like a gift.
Martine is a Dutch writer and artist.
I spent all last night reading the book (till 5.20 am) and again today, I wouldn't have done this if it didn't grab me. The parts I found the most powerful were the interactions of the characters within history. Describing the external environment and how the characters survived or didn't was great. I think this adds a perspective we don't experience in our own lives. I now feel a lot more connected with my family history which has added a new dimension to how I see myself. I can also see aspects of you, your parents and brother in me and my sons. If nothing else is achieved with this book those changes alone have made your work worthwhile as far as I'm concerned.
Thank you for spending the time to research and write this story, the information has changed who I am. I will also encourage the kids to read the book to help them fill in the gaps. I think the biggest change is the feeling of coming from somewhere and being part of a lineage.
Robert is my son.
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