In the middle of July, Hedy’s mother quietly told her that she had to go to Beregszasz to obtain documentation to prove that their families had lived in Hungary for several generations.

“Your father says this new law is directed at all the refugees who have been flooding into Hungary recently. The government says they are putting a great strain on the economy.” Hedy opened her mouth to speak, to ask the question that hung in the air between them, but her mother continued. “Now everyone has to provide proof of their residency. Even those, like us, who have lived here for generations. It will cause even a family like ours a lot of headaches.”

“How are we going to prove our residency?” Hedy asked. She wasn’t at all sure she understood what her mother was trying to tell her.

“When your father and I got married,” Terez continued, trying to keep the panic from rising to her throat, “we registered our marriage with the county clerk’s registrar, even though the ceremony took place in a synagogue. But your grandparents on your father’s side were only married in a synagogue; they never bothered to register with the clerk. That means we have to find some other way to prove where they lived and when they were married. Jewish records will not be accepted as proof of residency. We have to find official records in Beregszasz, where I grew up, and in Ronafalva, where your father was born.”

Hedy was listening to what her mother was saying, but all of it was a bit much to absorb all at once.

“And it won’t be easy,” Terez went on. “Your father remembers that one of his great uncles owned land in Ladmoc, in Zemplen County. If we can track down and find that record of land ownership, then our search to find proof of residency will be more or less solved. Landowners have been registered in this country for centuries.” Terez smiled bravely at her daughter. “I have to go right away and I need you to take care of Suti and Icuka while I am gone.”

“No,” Hedy blurted out. “Aliz is older. Can’t she look after the younger ones? Let me come with you. Let me help you.” She was suddenly pleading with her mother. “After all, I’m in second year of business college. My skills will be useful to you.”

Terez looked at her beautiful daughter. How lucky she was to have such a wonderful family. “Fine,” she finally agreed. “It would be useful to have you along.” She smiled. “And I could sorely use the company.”

AS THEY SAT ON the train, Hedy watched the yellow fields of rape seed and sunflowers rolling past them. How familiar this land was to her — fields she had seen her whole life. She closed her eyes and let the clickety clack of the train on the tracks soothe her. This journey to prove their identity was bizarre and it frightened her. Suddenly her friend’s words reverberated in her head. “It all began with the new laws.”

Their trip took longer than they anticipated and was exhausting. With the help of extended family, they had to make several trips to villages and towns where her forefathers and mothers had been born and raised. But Hedy and her mother eventually found the documentation they needed to satisfy the requirements of the new law. They came home successful, but far from reassured.

Hedy realized her family was among the fortunate ones. There were many Jewish families who had lived in Hungary for generations but had not bothered to acquire citizenship. They could not prove residency. In addition, the newly arrived refugee families could not prove any kind of residency and also found themselves in the same precarious situation. By July 1941, these unfortunate people were now being rounded up and driven to Poland to be handed over to authorities in German-occupied Galicia at the rate of around one thousand a day. Their fates were unknown.

In that summer of 1941, when the seemingly safe cocoon she felt they had lived in until then started to slowly unravel, Hedy’s carefree teenage years came to an abrupt end. In August, the third anti-Jewish law came into effect, prohibiting marriage between Jews and non-Jews. It also qualified sexual relations between them as a “defamation of race.” The new law required documents to prove that there was no such marriage or relationship in order to facilitate promotions, success in careers, and the ability to move forward in society. One’s very future seemed to hinge on that single official document.

Suddenly there were endless lines of people in front of the county clerk of Ugocsa — lines that wound their way around the building and snaked down Verboczy ut. Clutching original documents, individuals were desperate to obtain official papers that stated that, extending back to their grandparents, they were “of pure Christian background.” It was a pitiful sight to witness some people leaving the county clerk’s office clearly ecstatic at having obtained the necessary papers while others walked out in shock, devastated to discover that one of their parents or grandparents had been Jewish.

People watched and waited with trepidation. Then, the entire town was stunned when Lieutenant Jozsef Veress, an amazingly handsome officer stationed in Nagyszollos, committed suicide after learning that his grandmother had been Jewish. He had insisted on being the first at the front of the military lines when the Hungarian army reoccupied Nagyszollos in March of 1939.

One of Hedy’s classmates, Eva Sik, was engaged to the handsome young lieutenant. When news of her fiancé’s suicide became known, she quit school and left town. No one ever saw or heard of her again.

It seemed to Hedy that a fog had seeped into the very fabric of their little town — a fog that prevented people from seeing things clearly. She decided she had to stay focussed and obtain a higher education so she could pursue employment opportunities. She was grateful that she lived at a time when women were able to do just that.

After graduation, she would seek employment in an office and take her place as a productive member of society. It calmed her just knowing that she had a plan.