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evicted during the night within an hour and were transported to
            remote  places of the  country  to  live  in  barns  and stables  and
            such.
                   On  top  of  that,  my  father  started  to  broaden  our  nice
            house  with  his  own  bare  hands,  using  the  rubble  from  the
            vicinity.  That  is,  Pista  joined  in,  a  half-Gipsy,  half-Tót  man,
            maybe partially Palóc, who refused to work for the new system,
            and  when  my  father  gave  him  shelter,  he  helped  in  the
            renovation.  When  he  was  not  drunk  that  is.  When  he  was
            actually  drunk, he even went up against  my father, but  being
            weaker  build,  Pista  had  quite  vague  chances  against  him.
            Nevertheless, he played a vital role in my life in the years to
            come, since he was a warm-hearted fellow eventually. He was
            the  one  to  teach  the  family  how  to  make  strapacky  (sheep
            cheese  potato  dumplings),  the  national  meal  of  the  Palóc
            community  (The  Palóc  are  a  subgroup  of  Hungarians  in
            Northern  Hungary),  a  meal  that  was  unknown  to  many  in
            BudaPest  at  that  time,  and  remained  so  for  a  long  time.  He
            made  ramas  (painted  frames  made  of  glass  to  put  photos  in
            them) in his free time. He sold them either in Palócland or in
            Slovakia if he managed to sneak over the border, and returned
            with  a  lot  of  food,  it  was  of  high  merit  in the  times  of  need
            during and after the War.
                   The  new  side  wing  of  the  house  was  built  up
            beautifully, which connected to the old house on three levels,
            and since the hole made by the Germans was still there, they
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            made  a  door  in  place  of  it,  which  eventually  led  to  a  45  m
            study and library, and on the uppermost level a large laundry
            was disposed temporarily. There was a garage and some small
            rooms downstairs, to where my father let a Franciscan monk in
            to live there, after the communists made his order disappear. He
            remained living there until the 1960s, when he managed to flee
            to  West-Germany  with  one  of  the  first  passports,  and  after
            saying goodbye to my father in a letter; he entered a monastery,
            so that he could leave the conflicts of civil life behind. He had



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