The Name I Embrace

You won't get far in life with this Jewish surname - said the boss. "Find a more Hungarian-sounding one and if you work hard, you will achieve, get ahead. Look, you are a good and reliable employee, I don't want to lose you. But people talk and I am constantly being accused of employing a Jew. I will even cover the costs of your name change, just get over with it. If you won't, I'll have to fire you and wish you the best of luck with finding a new job and starting a family with this Jewish surname of yours."  

It was 1947, two years after the end of World War II. My grandfather was 27, and the unhealed trauma of the Holocaust and the loss of several family members was still fresh and aching. He had just started courting my grandmother, the love of his life. Their hope of starting their own family was something to hold on to. So, he agreed and changed his name to Hegyi, a rough translation of his birth surname, Spitzer.  

Name Hungarianization was not forced, but strongly encouraged by the Hungarian authorities after the war. Many of Jewish origin believed that this would help them blend in. "Blend in" – this sounds like a joke, especially in a small town. As if no one knew who you or your family members were. And who they had been. However, I strongly believe that we must not forget our past, but we must not live in the shadow of tragic events, either.  

The boss was right: my grandfather succeeded. He worked and studied hard, and step by step, he became the CEO of the company he had been working for decades. I never knew him. He passed away eleven months before my birth. He had two sons, so, as the first (and only) girl in the family, I was named after his most beloved cousin.  

The rest of the family held on to their surname and lived their lives without suffering any form of discrimination. Undeterred by the name change nearly eight decades ago, we, the "Hegyis," are still referred to as Spitzers. "You have your (grand)father's Spitzer eyes," I often hear this compliment in the family and from old family acquaintances, too.  

I was around fourteen when I decided I wanted to change my surname back to Spitzer. Thirty years had passed, and every time the thought occurred, I pushed it away. I didn't want to deal with the fuss of changing documents, credit cards, and service providers. But the thought and feeling had never left me. I am a Spitzer.  

This March, I took a deep breath and asked myself, as I saw the famous quote from Rabbi Hillel for the thousandth time: "If not now, when?" What am I waiting for? I consulted my mother first, a sweet, darling soul who was supportive, as she always has been. And so would my late father be, I'm sure. He had always been proud of his ancestry and family background. My cousin, who has been like a brother to me ever since he was born, was my biggest supporter. "Go for it," he said, smiling at me encouragingly. "Spitzer goes together with Eszter like the moon and the stars."  

Some of my friends worried and asked whether the timing was right due to the recent events and circumstances in Israel and the growing tension around the world. The timing is never perfect, and yet, it was in my case. When one issues a claim for a name change in Hungary, an explanation must be attached to the file. Mine was simple: I wanted to embrace my Jewish heritage and bear the name of my ancestors. The registrar read it with a heartwarming compliment, expressing that she believed the process would go smoothly. While signing the papers, we were chatting, and I mentioned to her that I was in the middle of family tree research and wanted to add the generation of my great-great-great grandparents to it, but I had gotten stuck at some point.  

Before 1895, no official state registry existed, only religious registers. But speaking of the Jewish ones, most of them were destroyed or lost. Meaning, that one can find in the state registry only those who were born or died after 1895. The place and date of birth or death, occupation, and parents' names were recorded in most cases. Plenty of records have been uploaded to online databases, which can be of great help, but most records have not been digitalized yet and are only available at the local registry office.  

She asked me whether I knew my great-great grandfather's name and the year of his death. I said yes, I even have a photo of his grave. She left the room and came back with a registry book a minute later. And there he was, his name on yellowish paper, written in old, stringy letters in black ink. His parents' names, even their place of origin, and all the missing data were all there. I could not control my tears. Nor could the lady, who had known nothing about me twenty minutes earlier when I knocked on the door of her office. 

The generation chart of my great-great-great grandparents is complete in my family tree. Whoever I find in the future will be a special gift from the past. Going to the registry office exactly that day and meeting a helpful officer was perfect timing at a challenging time. Looking for treasures by the roots of my family tree has never been so exciting, and the search will never stop: every time a piece of information comes to light, I dig like a terrier, deeper with every move, carried away by passion.  

I haven't seen a photo of anyone older than my great-grandparents. Still, sometimes I try to imagine what they looked like, how they spoke, and who that old cilantro-phobe in the family was, who passed on to me a variation of olfactory-receptor genes causing my deep disgust of coriander.  

My Spitzer family members are all grandmothers now and they did not pass on the name to any of their children. I do not have kids yet, but if I will one day, I want to pass on my surname to them. May I be able to honor my family and ancestors, bringing new honor to the Spitzer name. May this rekindled little spark brighten the future and the lives of many generations who come after us. Am Yisrael chai!