Memories, Places, Objects: Memory Transmission in Monica Csango’s Fortielser (2017)

Abstract

Materiality has emerged as a significant theme in Holocaust literature as well as in Holocaust studies scholarship, highlighting the pivotal role of physical objects. This materiality has been conceptualized in various ways in recent scholarship, including «testimonial objects», «objects of return», and «artifacts of memory». Building on this conceptual framework, the article analyzes the ways in which transgenerational memory transmission is thematized in Monica Csango’s memoir Fortielser. Min jødiske familiehistorie («Concealments. My Jewish Family History», 2017), investigating what memorial functions material places and objects—in particular inherited objects—serve in the transmission and representation of memory within the narrative. The central question the article addresses is: Which places and objects are central to the narrative’s representation of memory, and in what ways do they mediate memory and trauma? The article suggests that postmemory transforms physical objects and places spaces into sites of remembering and mourning, enabling transgenerational continuity and memory transmission in Fortielser. These findings underscore the central role of material and spatial mediums in sustaining intergenerational remembrance, suggesting that inherited artifacts and projected spaces constitute vital modes of memory transmission, or «acts of transfer», within parts of Jewish Norwegian second- and third-generation literature.

1. Introduction

Over the past two decades, a substantial body of literature has been published on Norwegian Jewry, the majority of which is devoted to the Holocaust. Among these works are texts authored by descendants of Holocaust survivors, commonly characterized as second- and third-generation literature (see for instance Weissman 2016, pp. 162–63). This type of literature may be defined as texts with an autobiographical component, written by individuals who are descendants of at least one Holocaust survivor, and which, in some manner, engage with the Holocaust. Through complex memory-cultural processes, this body of literature has helped to establish the Holocaust as a decisive element of collective memory in an international context (Assmann 2016, p. 4). Yet despite extensive scholarly attention to works written by descendants of Holocaust survivors (cf. Grimwood 2007; Hirsch 2008, 2012b; Kacandes 2012; Lang 2017, pp. 58–116), only two academic studies have thus far examined Norwegian contributions to the genre. One of them is my article «Minnekultur og minneoverføring i Mona Levins Mors historie (2015) og Irene Levins Vi snakket ikke om Holocaust (2020)», in which I examine the depiction of memory transmission and communicative memory in Mona Levin’s Mors historie («Mothers History», 2015) and Irene Levin’s Vi snakket ikke om Holocaust (2020; English edition: Everyday Silence and the Holocaust, 2024). The other can be found in Unni Langås’s book Krigsminner i samtidslitteraturen («War Memories in Contemporary Literature», 2023). In the chapter titled «Jødiske krigserfaringer» («Jewish War Experiences»), she analyzes four books, one of which is Monica Csango’s third-generation memoir Fortielser. Min jødiske familiehistorie («Concealments. My Jewish Family History», 2017). The memoir is read in light of Marianne Hirsch’s concept of postmemory, with a focus on the thematic elements of the Holocaust, family dynamics, and the transmission of memory. Langås offers an insightful analysis of several significant aspects of the book. Nevertheless, the analysis is rather concise due to her study’s substantial corpus, and Fortielser exemplifies a compelling Norwegian instance of third-generation literature, offering numerous potential approaches for examination. This article will take a different approach, focusing on places and objects as mediators of memory in Csango’s memoir Fortielser (2017).

Materiality has emerged as a significant theme in Holocaust literature as well as in Holocaust studies scholarship (cf. Bilsky and Kenaan Vered 2022; Hirsch 2012a, 2012b; Hirsch and Spitzer 2006), highlighting the pivotal role of physical objects, as exemplified by works such as Daniel Mendelsohn’s The Lost (2006) and Edmund de Waal’s The Hare with Amber Eyes (2010). This materiality has been conceptualized in various ways in recent scholarship, including «testimonial objects» (Hirsch and Spitzer 2006), «objects of return» (Hirsch 2012b), and «artifacts of memory» (Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 86). Victoria Aarons and Alan Berger observe that «such artifacts come to represent a physical relationship to memory» (Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 89). In this sense, they function as a kind of «material memories», indicating that physical objects and material traces from the past can «trigger affect shared across generations» (Hirsch 2012a, p. 200). Building on this conceptual framework, the article will analyze the ways in which transgenerational memory transmission is thematized in Csango’s Fortielser, investigating what memorial functions material places and objects—in particular inherited objects—serve in the transmission and representation of memory in the narrative. The central question this article addresses is: Which places and objects are central to the narrative’s representation of memory, and in what ways do they mediate memory and trauma? These objects are consequently examined not merely as narrative devices, but as agents in the construction and mediation of memory across generations. Accordingly, the analysis also draws on Hirsch’s (2008, 2012b) theory of postmemory, which engages with memory culture studies. These conceptual frameworks will be further elaborated in the following section.

2. Theoretical Approach

In recent decades, growing interest in the Holocaust has intensified scholarly attention to both individual remembrance and collective memory (Hirsch and Spitzer 2009, p. 151; Assmann 2016, p. 4), the latter a concept which was first introduced by sociologist Maurice Halbwachs in the 1920s, laying the groundwork for later theoretical developments (p. 16). The term memory culture refers to the complex ways in which societies remember and engage with the past through various media (Erll and Rigney 2006), and, accordingly, theoretical perspectives from memory culture studies are foundational to much of the research on second- and third-generation literature (cf. Hirsch 2008, 2012a; Grimwood 2007; Lang 2017; Aarons and Berger 2017).1 Among the most influential concepts in such literary studies are Marianne Hirsch’s notion of postmemory.2 She defines postmemory as the relationship that descendants of Holocaust survivors have to «powerful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were nevertheless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their own right» (Hirsch 2008, p. 103, emphasis in original). Postmemory operates through «the stories, images, and behaviors among which they [the descendants] grew up», leaving the descendants marked by the experiences of previous generations (2008, pp. 106–7). In this sense, postmemory refers not to «a movement, method, or idea», but to «a consequence of traumatic recall—but (unlike posttraumatic stress disorder) at a generational remove» (p. 106, emphasis in original). In this way postmemory emphasizes the ramifications of the past into the present (p. 107).

Communication is a process in which people verbally or non-verbally share information, the latter defined as silent exchanges that transmit meaning without speech (Phutela 2015, p. 43). The memory transmission (a form of communication) between survivors and their descendants may, accordingly, occur through explicit verbal communication or through unconscious and non-verbal actions (Danieli 1998, p. 2). Material objects are also important in transgenerational memory transmission and postmemory work (Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355). They are silent communicators, telling, or rather indicating, fragments of stories about the past through their bare material existence and «body language». Often, however, it is in combination with verbal communication—in the form of anecdotes or other information about their origin, their former owners etc.—that such material objects gain their status as (non-verbal) communicators, or mediators, of memory. In an article co-authored with historian Leo Spitzer, Hirsch argues that personal and familial remnants from the past can serve as «testimonial objects». The concept implies that such items can function as «points of memory», indicating intersections between past and present, memory and postmemory, personal and cultural recollection (p. 353). These objects, therefore, do not merely represent the past but actively participate in shaping its interpretation in the present. Through the nature of their communication forms, i.e., by being, testimonial objects «embody» the very process of memory transmission. Increasing reliance is placed on the testimonies and representations of the second- and third-generation with the passing of the (first) generation of witnesses (p. 355, emphasis in original). This generational shift, according to Hirsch and Spitzer, demands a closer examination of the modes of memory transmission, or «acts of transfer», as termed by Paul Connerton. These include narrative accounts, commemorative ceremonies, and bodily practices (Connerton 1989, pp. 39–40 referenced in Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355). Hirsch and Spitzer expand Connerton’s framework by incorporating «personal possessions» and their attributed meanings into the list of transfer acts. Accordingly, they argue that material remnants, when subjected to informed analysis, «can serve as testimonial objects enabling us to focus crucial questions both about the past itself and about how the past comes down to us in the present» (Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355).

In response to Hirsch and Spitzer’s call for a closer examination of mediators of memory transmission—including personal possessions and their attributed meanings—following the passing of Holocaust witnesses, this article investigates the thematization of transgenerational memory through an analysis of inherited objects and places in Csango’s memoir Fortielser: Which places and objects are central to the narrative’s representation of memory? In what ways do they mediate inherited trauma and contribute to transgenerational remembrance? What memorial functions do they serve?

3. Monica Csango’s Fortielser (2017)

Monica Csango (b. 1969) is a Jewish Hungarian Norwegian journalist, filmmaker, television host, social commentator, and author. Her memoir Fortielser. Min jødiske familiehistorie was published by Kagge publishing house in 2017.3 The book addresses the history of the author’s paternal Jewish Hungarian family, and the narrative’s central conflict is rooted in the family’s experiences and losses during the Holocaust—especially the disappearance of Monica Csango’s grandfather Ferenc in 1943 (Csango 2017, p. 30),4 her grandmother Magda’s (née Herczeg) enduring grief, and the subsequent impact of these events on the lives of Monica Csango and her father Péter. The book also thematizes post-war Communist Hungary, Péter’s escape from it, and the subsequent ten-year ban on him visiting Hungary, which affected the Csango family after the war (cf. Csango 2017, p. 72).5

The story is communicated entirely through verbal text and devoid of visual elements other than two paratextual photographs, in which the most significant one is a black-and-white photograph featured on the book cover, depicting a young couple dressed in elegant fashion typical of the 1930s and 1940s. The photograph appears as documentation of the authenticity of the story the book conveys. In addition to this photograph, the layout of the book cover features barbed wire. The latter reflects a common visual trope in Holocaust literature, where such imagery functions as a symbolic marker of the text’s thematic engagement with the Holocaust, and as such, the visual design of the book connotes the Holocaust. A few examples of book covers employing this visual trope include Art Spiegelman’s Maus II: A Survivor’s Tale—And Here My Troubles Began (1991) as well as various editions of international bestsellers such as John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (2006), Roxane von Iperen’s The Sisters of Auschwitz (2018), Heather Morris’ The Tattooist of Auschwitz (2018), and Antonio Iturbe’s The Librarian of Auschwitz (2012). The motif also appears on the 2005 edition of Norwegian Holocaust survivor Herman Sachnowitz’s Det angår også deg («It Also Concerns You»), originally published in 1976. The other paratextual photograph is an author portrait of Csango, which appears on the front dust jacket flap. The author portrait combined with the author presentation, also placed on the front dust jacket flap, and parts of the back cover convey the author’s ethos. Both of these photographs exemplify the ways in which Csango employs the paratext to communicate the authenticity of the book’s narrative. This feature is commonly observed in Holocaust family memoirs (Kacandes 2012, p. 186).

The title Fortielser («Concealments») is a less neutral term than silence and, by extension, implies an active prevention of disclosure or recognition of «that which ought to be revealed» and thus «improper secrecy» (Merriam Webster, s.v. «concealment» 2025, December 13). The book’s exposition indicates that the narrative is concerned with the suppression of painful memories connected to the loss of family members: «In my family, the people who disappeared were worshiped as (if they were) alive. […] Words were exchanged between people, yet meaning resided in all that remained unspoken. No one liked to talk about what had happened; my family preferred to stay silent»6 (p. 9). In light of the interplay between the back-cover text and the image of barbed wire on the book cover, the exposition indicates that both the losses and the silence are connected to the Holocaust. There is an apparent tension between the implications of the title and textual signals such as the example from the exposition and the family’s—especially Magda’s and Péter’s—recurrent practice of speaking about lost family members throughout the narrative. More importantly, however, the significance of the title is reframed by the turning point of the narrative towards the end of the book, in which Monica Csango discloses that Ferenc may not actually have perished in the Holocaust but instead might have survived and emigrated to India (2017, pp. 151–54). In 1978, both Magda and Péter learned of the existence of a shop in India called Csango, which bore a striking resemblance to the shop that Ferenc—and later Magda—had operated in Budapest. Magda and Péter discovered that the owners had purchased the shop in the late 1940s by a gentleman named Csango. Twenty-five years later, Monica Csango decided to pursue the matter further by making a documentary film. The film is called Evig din (2005) and traces her investigation. It suggests that the shop may once have belonged to Ferenc, although no definitive conclusion could be reached. When confronted with the possibility of her husband’s survival and subsequent immigration to India, Magda even acknowledges her awareness of it. She recalls that Ferenc, in a letter written prior to the war, stated that if anything were to happen to him, he would not return, as he did not want her to witness him in such a state (Csango 2017, p. 153). In other words, she has actually actively prevented disclosure of «that which ought to be revealed» (Merriam Webster, s.v. «concealment» 2025, December 13)! The title—as well as Magda’s behavior, not in the least her «eternal hope that her beloved had survived»7 (Csango 2017, p. 61)—thus takes on a whole new meaning. By the narrative’s conclusion, Magda is revealed not simply as difficult or narcissistic but as a manipulative liar, driven not only by grief but» by a desire to preserve her own ego. As stated by Monica Csango: «Because there is clearly a difference between being abandoned and someone dying from you. She has performed the role of the grieving widow very well, structuring her entire life around it».8

Fortielser is structured in three parts, each marked by the metaphorical titles «Family Album» (Csango 2017, p. 7), «The Apartment in Budapest» (p. 67), and «A Silver Star of David» (p. 113).9 In addition to being the author of the text, Csango occupies the dual roles of narrator and main character within the narrative. She assumes the latter role alongside Magda. This is particularly evident in the first part of the book, which centers on Magda and Ferenc’s story, the persecution of Jews in wartime Hungary, and Magda’s and Ferenc’s respective trajectories during the Holocaust (cf. Csango 2017, pp. 7–65). In narratological terms, Fortielser conforms to Philippe Lejeune’s concept of the autobiographical pact, wherein the reader is invited to accept the identity of author, narrator, and protagonist as one and the same (Lejeune 1989, p. 5). In accordance with his genealogy, Fortielser might be referred to as a memoir rather than as an autobiography, as it meets most of the autobiography’s requirements but not all. The definition of autobiography brings into play conditions belonging to four categories: «[f]orm of language», «[s]ubject treated», «[s]ituation of the author», and «[p]osition of the narrator» (p. 4). While Fortielser fulfills most of these requirements—specifically «[f]orm of language», as it is a narrative written in prose, «[s]ituation of the author», since the author name (Monica Csango) refers to a real person and since the author and the narrator are identical, and «[p]osition of the narrator», because the narrator (Csango) and the principal character are identical and because the narrative has a retrospective point of view—it does not, however, meet the requirement of «[s]ubject treated», which in an autobiography is «individual life, story of a personality» (p. 4). When a text fulfills all conditions but the latter, it is, according to Lejeune’s genealogy, a memoir. Instead of focusing on «individual life, story of a personality», Fortielser focuses on familial memory and the interconnections between family history and personal identity. Given this focus, Fortielser should be classified as a family memoir, even if the search for family history is not a central theme (Popkin 2015, p. 131). Jeremy D. Popkin notes that «family memoirs straddle the boundaries between history, biography, and autobiography» (p. 127), offering a hybrid form that challenges traditional genre classifications. Further refining this classification, Irene Kacandes’ term Holocaust family memoir may be usefully applied to Fortielser, as the narrative is mainly shaped by the mediated memories of the Csango family’s Holocaust trauma (Kacandes 2012, p. 179).

4. Mediators of Memory

The theme of transgenerational memory transmission is explored through the relationships between Magda and Monica Csango, and between Magda and her son Péter, but also in the relationships between Péter and Monica Csango, and between Monica Csango and her own son. Moreover, the narrative’s thematization of memory transmission primarily revolves around Magda’s husband Ferenc and (the trauma connected to) his disappearance following his conscription into forced labor in 1942. Although the memoir mostly foregrounds the author as the primary subject of the narrative, Magda emerges as the primary verbal (and human) mediator of transgenerational memory within the narrative and thus plays a crucial role in shaping the author’s understanding of the Csango family history—as well as of her personal identity. For instance, Magda recounted (to Monica) numerous stories about her life with Ferenc before and during the war: stories about how beautiful she was (Csango 2017, pp. 12, 15, 37), how they met (pp. 14–15, 21–22), what she was wearing (pp. 12, 15, 37), and how he indulged her with various gifts (for instance p. 36). She made a point of noting that «[w]hat I’m telling you now, Monica, is a great treasure. Take care of it as best you can»10 (p. 16). But more importantly, through the way she acted and lived, the way she related to her home, and the care with which she preserved Ferenc’s gifts and letters, she demonstrated to her granddaughter how significant Ferenc was: «Grandmother’s apartment was almost a sacrificial place for Grandfather. She guarded every letter, gift and photograph of him. […] I disturbed the sacred burial ground she had created for him in there»11 (p. 133). These stories and actions, which emphasize the adventurous love affair between Magda and Ferenc, Ferenc’s admirable qualities, and the profound loss Magda suffered with his disappearance, instill in Monica Csango a fixation on her grandfather. But it was not until she reached adulthood the author understood the extent of Magda’s impact on her: «What she lost is my loss too. […] I had to grow up to understand […] that I have brought my grandmother’s feelings into my life»12 (p. 40).

Scattered biographical details suggest that Magda was born around 1914 in Budapest,13 where she spent most of her life, and that she died in 2014 (pp. 73, 111, 162). Her death—and the family’s ensuing access to her apartment and personal belongings—appears to have prompted Csango’s book project, although this connection is never acknowledged in the narrative (see for instance pp. 95, 104). Magda is portrayed as a complex and emotionally intense figure. While not depicted as particularly sympathetic or likable, she exerts a compelling influence over Csango (Langås 2023, p. 140). The following might exemplify this:

«Grandmother had a unique ability to unsettle me. But not only me. It was difficult to be near her without being affected by her. When she was in a good mood, it could spread to an entire room. And where I have a loud and roaring laugh, grandmother’s was trilling and elegant. Naturally, one fell for her.

On the other hand, it was best to stay out of her way when her mood was bad. She could be in a terrible mood, struck by a rage and despair that were all-consuming, yet carried elements of performance.»14

(Csango 2017, p. 17)

Throughout the memoir, Magda is characterized by a pronounced narcissism and persistent self-pity. Mediated through these personality traits, she conveys both her memories and her grief—at times implicitly, often explicitly—to her granddaughter. Csango learns not only the stories of her grandmother’s past but also inherits the emotional burden they carry: «Her grief became over seventy years old. It filled her entire adult life. We, her descendants, have inherited her rituals and her loss, without having asked for it. Szegény Ferikém» (p. 31, emphasis in original).15 Magda thus plays a central role in shaping Monica Csango’s personal understanding of identity and heritage. However, she lived in Budapest, whereas the author was raised in Norway by her father—and apparently her mother, about whom the book says very little. Magda imprinted the importance of familial memory, transgenerational memory transmission, and remembrance in Péter from a young age, as exemplified in this passage:

«Grandmother has spent all her waking time talking about Grandfather, mourning him. Organizing the things he left behind. Labeling the gifts she received from him. And not least: reminding Dad of the responsibility he bears as his son. That he is obliged, both as his father’s son, but also out of respect for her, to keep him alive in our consciousness.»16

(p. 163)

Péter consequently emerges as another mediator of transgenerational memory transmission both within the family and the narrative, not least because he is described as consumed by genealogy and the search for unknown family members the past 40 years (pp. 94, 119–20). Csango even claims that he talks about his father Ferenc «every single day»17 (p. 30). In the process of writing her family history after Magda’s passing, Monica Csango therefore involves him. Several chapters describe conversations—about the family’s Jewishness (pp. 115–18, 120–21) and family members such as Ferenc and his brother Bandi (cf. for instance pp. 134–37), Magda’s personal archive of old photographs and letters (pp. 95, 104), and the book project (pp. 93–95)—between the two of them. Nevertheless, despite the considerable geographical and ideological distance between postwar Social-Democratic Norway and Communist Hungary, Magda, her trauma, and her grief occupied an immense space in the Norwegian part of the Csango family. Her narrative accounts, commemorative, and bodily practices as well as many of her personal possessions, including her apartment, shaped both Péter’s and Monica Csango’s perception of the past growing up. But as Csango grew older, many of Magda’s personal possessions in the form of Ferenc’s former possessions—that Magda had carefully preserved before passing them on to Csango—appears to have become the primary medium of memory transmission, alongside a few places where Csango seems particularly inclined to affectively engage with the past.

4.1. Memorial Objects and Their Functions

In Fortielser, memories are often mediated through seemingly ordinary objects. Among them are a range of personal items—photographs, letters, articles of clothing, ashtrays, and a particular cigarette case containing a single cigarette—that once belonged to relatives who perished in the Holocaust or that were gifted by them to members of the Csango family who came to survive. Although these relatives are referred to in plural (cf. Csango 2017, p. 9), only Ferenc is explicitly identified as the former owner or giver of these objects.18 Hirsch argues that objects such as «photographs, domestic interiors, household objects, items of clothing»—in other words objects such as the ones related to Ferenc—«can embody memory and thus trigger affect shared across generations» (Hirsch 2012a, p. 200). As previously mentioned, she has suggested the concepts «objects of return» (Hirsch 2012a, 2012b) and «testimonial objects» (Hirsch and Spitzer, 2006) to describe them, while Aarons and Berger employ the term «artifacts of memory» in a similar way (2017, p. 86). These items may, in another, perhaps clearer, term be understood as memorial objects, as they—albeit in different ways—mediate memory transmission and remembrance in Fortielser. For as Aarons and Berger poignantly observe: «Such artifacts […] have a life in their thingness, […] while those who might have once owned them do not» (2017, p. 89). In the following sections, I will explore what memorial functions these objects perform and the affective responses they evoke in the memoir.

The book’s exposition, in which the author states the following, establishes the importance of memorial objects within the Csango family:

«In my family, the people who disappeared were cherished as if they were still alive. Food was bought for relatives who no longer lived. During meals, chairs were set out for people who would never return. And every last belonging they left behind was tenderly wrapped in tissue paper. Sometimes they were brought out. Smelled.

We were never, ever allowed to forget them. They were to remain with us until we drew our final breath.»19

(Csango 2017, p. 9)

The passage conveys the deep emotional value invested in «every last belonging» left behind by relatives who perished in the Holocaust, reflected in the family’s meticulous preservation and wrapping of each item «in tissue paper» (p. 9). The affective significance is amplified through the ritualized handling of these objects through the occasional unwrapping and smelling of them. These actions seemingly sustain a sensory connection to the past, in which the Csango family is trying to catch a lingering smell of a lost someone—since they cannot smell the person in mention. As such, these «tenderly wrapped» and smelled belongings become material stand-ins or placeholders for their former owners, symbolizing the individuals who used to own them. The passage also gestures toward a memorial practice that remains otherwise unexplored: the family’s habit of setting out food and empty chairs for the dead. Building on this, this passage provides a clear example of the book’s impressionistic style, marked by anecdotal narration and significant gaps that are left to the reader’s interpretation. It appears that these acts of remembrance are undertaken exclusively by the Csango family in Hungary, rather than forming part of a sustained memorial practice maintained by Péter or by (the adult) Monica Csango in Norway. However, this ultimately remains unclear. The same applies to Monica Csango’s inherited objects from Ferenc: it remains largely unclear where, when, and under what circumstances she acquired them. The absence of further commentary on these actions thus leaves the reader to interpret their significance within the broader narrative. Should Magda ultimately be understood as the only person who sustains this memorial practice? Should Csango’s account be interpreted literally or metaphorically? If food and chairs are indeed placed for the deceased, what do these gestures aim to accomplish? Do they reflect a genuine belief in the possibility of return, or do they perhaps signify hope beyond hope?

The commemorative practice of setting out food and empty chairs must be understood in light of Ferenc’s unconfirmed death and Magda’s subsequent inability—or maybe unwillingness—to move on after the war (cf. p. 30). Csango notes that her grandmother never ceased searching for Ferenc; and though she had suitors over the years, she never remarried (pp. 64–65). The passage takes on heightened narrative significance when read alongside what emerges as a pivotal turning point in the memoir. As previously mentioned, Csango reveals that Ferenc may have survived the Holocaust and emigrated to India (2017, pp. 151–54). This revelation situates the family’s preparations for the return of lost relatives not simply as acts of remembrance—and denial—but rather as a rational yet profoundly emotional engagement with the enduring uncertainty and unresolved grief surrounding Ferenc’ fate. In this sense, the acts of including lost family members in familial gatherings seemingly become a means of sustaining connection across temporal and generational divides (cf. Hirsch 2012a, p. 200), and appear as a sort of commemorative ceremony (cf. Connerton 1989, pp. 39–40 referenced in Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355) that is repeatedly performed, although merely once portrayed in the narrative. In this way, these gestures can be read as symbolic acts of remembrance. The material commemorative practices of wrapping and smelling the personal possessions of lost relatives function as symbolic placeholders for the deceased and the missing, as previously mentioned. The act of putting out chairs and food is similarly a way of visually and materially marking their absence, reminding everyone present—as well as the reader—who is not. As such, these specific material commemoration practices play a crucial role in facilitating transgenerational memory transmission between the Holocaust generation and Monica Csango in the narrative. They ensure that she is made aware of her vanished family members, thereby enabling the continued remembrance and preservation of their memory.

As previously mentioned, the specific personal items described in the narrative once belonged to, or were acquired by, Csango’s grandfather. Throughout the book he is portrayed as a noticeably vain figure, his memory enveloped in an aura of exclusivity and associated with a number of refined and elegant objects:

«The stories about him flowed like a smooth, natural stream in our conversations. I know that he liked to drink red wine with soda at dinner. From a slightly thick crystal glass. That he was very vain. He had all his clothes tailored by a tailor he had hand-picked. When I look at pictures of him, I see that not a single garment is random: a freshly ironed and starched shirt. Beautifully cut trousers in linen or wool depending on the season. A vest. A gold watch chain attached to his vest pocket. Gloves made of bison leather.»20

(Csango 2017, pp. 145–46)

Within the narrative this image is constructed through a layered act of representation that draws on interwoven mediators of memory: references to family photographs, the objects Ferenc left behind, oral family narratives, Csango’s imaginative reconstructions, and the aforementioned book cover photograph—an image the reader comes to interpret as depicting Magda and Ferenc prior to his disappearance. Photographs and films of Ferenc seem crucial to Csango’s vivid fantasies about him, too. She explains that she has «films and photographs of him, and in that way I [she] can easily make him materialize before my [her] eyes»21 (p. 138). The photographic images provide insights into his physical appearance, movement, and style, allowing for her to imaginatively make him «materialize». In Hirsch’s terms, Csango’s version of Ferenc depicted in Fortielser is the result of imaginative engagement with the past and fragmentary memories transmitted to her through «the stories, images, and behaviors among which they [she] grew up» (Hirsch 2008, pp. 106–7). Csango explains that

«[t]he stories about my grandfather have been so many that, slowly but surely, I could no longer tell them apart. Every story I’ve heard about my grandfather has been woven together with fantasies in my family. Dreams have been elevated to truth. The stories were so real, he might as well have been in the room with us.»22

(Csango 2017, p. 149)

This imaginative engagement appears to be a characteristic feature of third-generation families and their literary representations in general, as observed by Aarons and Berger in their study of third-generation Holocaust literature: «Post-Holocaust generations are mostly guided by stories told by parents and grandparents […]. Thus stories told become inevitably mixed with stories imagined, taking on the defining weight of anxious projection and the uncanny» (Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 22). The many family stories about Ferenc, often mixed with fantasies, are central to Csango’s image of her grandfather. Along with the objects he left behind, these stories inevitably lead to new fantasies—which might eventually become stories—about him, and hence contribute to the overall Csango family memory culture.

Monica Csango’s sense of closeness to Ferenc becomes tangible through the objects she has inherited, which serve not merely as keepsakes, but as triggers for memory, fantasy, and emotional connection, bridging the gap between the past in which Ferenc lived and the present in which only she does (cf. Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 86). Among them is «a gold-colored cigarette case»,23 containing «an unlit cigarette of the brand Lord & Masters»,24 which Csango keeps in her kitchen drawer. She explains that the case was given to her by Magda, «with the message that the cigarette had been there since 1942. Since grandfather disappeared. I haven’t bothered to check if it’s true. The cigarette is his»25 (Csango 2017, p. 138). Despite—or because of—the object’s commemorative weight, she remarks: «More than anything, I want to smoke it, even though I don’t smoke»26 (p. 138). This paradoxical desire signals the tension between her need for preservation on one side and her need for intimacy on the other. The object’s long custodianship—first by Magda, who preserved it for decades, and later by Monica Csango herself—underscores its temporal depth and emotional resonance. In this context, the cigarette and its case operate as embodied forms of memory, physically connecting Csango to her grandfather:

«I sometimes sit with the case in my hands and try to sense what he was like. I have films and photographs of him, and in that way, I can easily make him materialize before my eyes: my beautiful grandfather. […]»27

(p. 138)

Csango try to «sense what he was like» through her own hands while holding onto something he once held in his hands. The significance of the material is further reinforced by the explicit use of the word «materialize» (p. 138, my emphasis)—meaning «to assume bodily form» or «to come into existence» (Merriam Webster, s.v. «materialize» 2025, October 31)—signaling that she is trying to make him appear, and simultaneously indicating an intense longing for the ability to resurrect him, to make him come alive, by the material power of his old cigarette case combined with wishful thinking and imagining; or rather, by this object’s ability to travel in time, to bring a part of the past, a part of Ferenc, into the present.

Aarons and Berger claim that «it is not the object itself, the container, that holds value, but rather the fantasized narrative it contains in the memoirist’s imaginative appropriation of it» (2017, p. 90). That is, of course, to a certain extent true for Csango’s relationship with her grandfather’s cigarette case as well, and even more so for her relationship with four ashtrays she has inherited. Although specific emotions are not described, the text hints to a particular affective closeness between Csango and these items:

«He liked to play poker. I have received four small ashtrays shaped like a diamond, a spade, a club, and a heart. I have kept them with me for more than half a lifetime, and I always think about how he sat and played cards and smoked through the night with friends. I have buried my nose in each one of those ashtrays, convinced I could still catch a faint whiff of old tobacco ash.»28

(Csango 2017, p. 146)

«[T]he fantasized narrative» these ashtrays contain in Csango’s «imaginative appropriation» of them (cf. Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 90) is textualized in the phrases «I always think about how he sat and played cards and smoked through the night with friends»29 and «convinced I could still catch a faint whiff of old tobacco ash»30 (Csango 2017, p. 146). The text implies that this «fantasized narrative» arises partly as a result of Csango’s possession of them, as indicated by the phrase «I have kept them with me for more than half a lifetime»,31 partly through her sensory interaction with them, as indicated by the phrase «I have buried my nose in each one of those ashtrays»;32 but the «fantasized narrative» must also be seen as partially influenced by the previously mentioned family stories about Ferenc, which are many (cf. pp. 30, 149, 150). I must, however, also challenge Aarons and Berger’s claim in relation to Csango’s narration of her relationship with Ferenc’ old cigarette case, because the case does seem to hold a certain value in and of itself. Of course, this value is dependent on the person who used to own it but, more importantly, it holds a value as an object, as a relic, because Ferenc used to hold it. I believe this physical closeness to the object, the fact that Ferenc used to touch this cigarette case, keep it in his pocket, on his body, is very important to Csango and her use of it to try to make him «materialize» before her. That contributes to making it so special to her. However, Aarons and Berger are poignantly observing that «[s]uch objects—pieces of and from past lives —» can function as «stand-ins for those who are absent» (Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 84), which is the memorial function the cigarette case assumes in the narrative. Through textual passages like this, the text stages a nuanced interplay between material culture, memory, and loss in which the inherited cigarette and its case at the one hand bear witness to Ferenc’ existence and on the other create improvised possibilities of memorialization of him in which Monica Csango gets to fantasize about him, the life he lived, and the future he was not able to experience.

4.2. Memories and Places and Their Functions

Certain places—all of them situated in Budapest—play a significant role in Fortielser. Not only do central parts of the narrative unfold in these places, which together constitute the physical and cultural environment of the story, but they also assume a particular importance in the book’s thematization of the transmission of memory. Among the most prominent sites are the Jewish cemetery, the banks of the river Danube—which separates the districts of Buda and Pest, and where many of Hungary’s Jews were executed, Magda’s apartment, and the New York Café. Each of these places holds particular significance for Csango and is, in its own way, densely charged with meaning within the narrative.

The most central places, however, are the latter two: Magda’s apartment and the New York Café. The importance of the apartment is underscored by the title of the book’s second part, «The Apartment in Budapest»33 (Csango 2017, p. 67). As the author notes, «[t]here was always something magical about my grandmother’s apartment in Budapest. I can still, with my eyes closed, conjure up the scents from every room»34 (p. 76). Magda frequently spoke about the building in which the apartment was located, which was designed by the Hungarian architect Emil Vidor and completed in 1911 (pp. 83, 85). Monica Csango refers to it simply as «the apartment», as it was originally a single, large residence that was later, under the communist regime, divided into two units in order to prevent the family from having tenants—or, worse: from being deprived of the apartment on political grounds (p. 83). Within the narrative, the apartment emerges as a place of refuge for Magda: a space to which she repeatedly withdrew and where she spent an increasing amount of time. While her sister and brother-in-law lived in one of the units (p. 86), Magda occupied the other (p. 87). Both apartments carry particular significance for Monica Csango and for the narrative as a whole. However, whereas her sister’s apartment appears as the apartment of the family collectively, Magda’s is represented as distinctly her own and, above all, as a site of remembrance for Ferenc—marked by mourning and, perhaps, by the anticipation of his return. As Csango explains:

«Grandmother’s apartment was almost a sacrificial place for Grandfather. She guarded every letter, gift and photograph of him. I think that’s why I was sometimes not allowed into the apartment. I disturbed the structures and shook the sacred burial ground she had created for him inside.»35

(p. 133)

She describes it as something akin to «a sacrificial place» and as a sacred burial place for Ferenc. In other words, it is here that Magda performs most of her acts of remembrance and what may best be described as ritual practices. These are rituals with which Monica Csango grows up and which leave an indelible impression on her, instilling in her a longing for her grandfather. This longing constitutes a recurring motif in the narrative—«I am haunted by a longing that really belongs to someone else»36 (p. 9); «I [have] felt a nagging longing for all those I did not get to know»37 (p. 30); «We have been crazy with longing. We have tried to bring him [Ferenc] back to life. I think we have sometimes succeeded»38 (p. 149)—and is evident not least in the fact that Csango has produced both a documentary film and a memoir devoted to the family’s longing, including her own, for Ferenc.

Much more could be said about Magda’s apartment and the mythical aura that surrounds it, shrouded in layers of past worship, childhood memory, and Magda’s own cultic devotion to Ferenc. In what follows, however, I turn to a close reading of the book’s other central place, the New York Café, and of Monica Csango’s affective relationship to it, in order to analyze its memorial function within the narrative. While Magda’s apartment occupies a central place in the book’s thematization of transgenerational memory culture, it reveals, in my opinion, more about Magda’s role in memory transmission (to her granddaughter) than about the function of objects and places in the broader process of memory transfer—as opposed to the New York Café.

As mentioned in the previous chapter, the stories about Csango’s grandfather were «so many that, slowly but surely»39 she lost the ability to separate them, and they became intertwined with fantasies in her family (p. 149). Monica Csango is quite actively partaking in the fantasizing about Ferenc, which is mostly activated through encounters with inherited objects—as we have seen in the previous chapter—but also with certain places that mediate a sense of affective proximity to the grandfather she never knew and the world he once inhabited. Of particular importance is Csango’s recounts of numerous visits to one of Ferenc’s favorite places in Budapest—the New York Café—and her stays at the adjacent hotel. She is drawn to this café, and yet she finds no peace there. She explains that she has «tried sitting in every single corner of the café. In the back. On the balcony. Downstairs. But I [she] can’t find peace. I [she] can’t come to terms with the thought that I [she] can sit there, stir a coffee, and breathe freely» (p. 141).40 The rhythm of the prose, the short sentences, highlighting the different places she has tried to sit, conveys a sense of restlessness and a search for something she terms as «peace», a word that in a different syntaxial context might be better translated from the Norwegian «ro» to «calmness». It is the underlying sensation of injustice and an implied contrast between her freedom—especially conveyed through the phrase «breathe freely»41—and Ferenc’ containment, after which he (seemingly) never could breathe freely. Despite the discomfort, she, however, continues to return. Notably, she expresses a possessive reluctance to see others enjoy the café, which is reputed to be among the most beautiful of its kind: «I think the reason is that I don’t think anyone deserves to go there. Grandfather can’t. Then no one else should either. […] Protection comes in many forms. This is one of mine» (p. 141).42 In this way, the café becomes more than a physical location; it serves as a symbolic bridge between Ferenc’ past and Csango’s present, embodying the ways in which Csango’s life remains intimately intertwined with that of her grandfather. Such symbolic convergence is a recurrent feature in third-generation Holocaust narratives, where places and objects mediate the lingering presence of those lost or never known (Aarons and Berger 2017, pp. 84, 86). Even though no one in Csango’s immediate family ever met Ferenc, and all she knows is based on «what others have told [her]», she nonetheless affirms that he is «present in [her] life every single day» (Csango 2017, pp. 30, 150).43

In the previous chapter of Fortielser Csango describes a fictionalized scene in which her grandfather is depicted sitting in the same café, drinking coffee with his brother Bandi. The narrative signals its imagined status through reflexive expressions such as «I imagine», «But what do I know?», and «Maybe he thinks that» (p. 139),44 framing the scene as a «projected place» in Barbara Piatti’s sense (2017). In Csango’s narrative this projected place is a mental and affective spatial construction rooted in familial narrative and memory combined with imaginative projection.45 Piatti explains that such places «are constructed in the minds and imaginations of fictional characters, mostly via a triggering element such as another place, a picture, a scent, an object, a word or sentence etc.» (Piatti 2017, p. 185). The theory is primarily concerned with projected places in fiction, but I do not see any reason why it could not also be transferred to nonfiction literature such as Fortielser. Though grounded in an accessible, locatable place (cf. Piatti 2017, p. 184), the narrator imagines the New York Café in another time in this narrative sequence. Piatti explains that «a setting can change its function and become a projected place and vice versa» during the course of the plot, and that «projected place and setting are even spatially congruent/interlocking» in some cases. She illustrates how this might work in the case of «when a character visits places of his/her childhood and experiences the past and the present in a double perspective» (Piatti 2017, p. 185). Similar to this example Csango seems to experience the New York Café in «the past and the present in a double perspective», although in Csango’s case, she imagines a past prior to her own lifetime. The spatially congruent or interlocking character of the café as a setting and a projected place is reflected in the opening sentence of the chapter: «I imagine my grandfather sitting somewhat distracted in a conversation with Bandi at New York Café, his brother’s favorite café, located in one of the finest hotels in the city, on Ersébet Boulevard, one of the grand boulevards in the center of Budapest» (Csango 2017, p. 139).46 The combination of imagination, expressed through the phrase «I imagine that»,47 and the establishment of the café as a decidedly real and locatable place through references to its actual location reflects its interlocking status in this chapter—unlike in the following chapter (described above), in which the New York Café merely functions as a setting, defined as «where the action takes place (i.e., a house, a village)» (Piatti et al. 2009, p. 183) or a place of action where the characters are «present and acting» (Reuschel et al. 2013, p. 144).

The transformation of the function of the New York Café is triggered by the interaction between multiple elements (cf. Piatti 2017, p. 184): stories about Ferenc—such as the detail that the New York Café was his brother’s favorite venue; photographic images of Ferenc, whose particular gaze prompts the author’s imaginative projection of him observing women at the café; and the author’s embodied experience of the café as a tangible, material space—its interior design, scents, and flavors—acquired through repeated visits made possible by the café’s continued physical existence in her lifetime. This, in turn, illustrates the intricate interplay between Piatti’s concept of projected places and Hirsch’s theory of postmemory as it manifests in Csango’s narrative. Central to this process is «the characteristic Holocaust trope of prosopopoeia»—the figurative reanimation of Ferenc and his brother Bandi—which enables Csango, like Daniel Mendelsohn in The Lost (2006), to «conjure imagined, fantasized worlds» that are rooted in, yet extend beyond, the material remnants of the past (cf. Aarons and Berger 2017, p. 86). As shown above, the representations of the New York Café assume a memorial function, illustrating how Csango’s physical proximity to a recurring site from her grandfather’s life enables affective recall, imagination, and remembrance. Thus, the New York Café becomes a site of memory, which foregrounds the role of place in mediating personal and intergenerational remembrance.

5. Conclusions

In After Testimony. The Ethics and Aesthetics of Holocaust Narrative for the Future, Jakob Lothe, Susan Suleiman, and James Phelan ask: «Will the Holocaust become, perhaps for the first time, truly ‘past history’» once the last witnesses have disappeared (Lothe et al. 2012, p. 1)? They also ask how future «writers and filmmakers who may have no personal connection to the event» will engage with the Holocaust, what stories they will tell, and if they will succeed in their effort to keep the public memory of the event from being lost (p. 1). More than a decade has passed since then. While most witnesses have passed away, including Magda, who died in 2014, fictional and nonfictional narratives about the Holocaust and World War II are more prevalent than ever in a Norwegian context. This is evident in the numerous publications by Norwegian Jewish authors (and authors of Jewish descent), most of which can be classified as second- or third-generation literature. Between 1983 and 2024, approximately twenty books can be considered Norwegian second- and third-generation literature (Brovold 2024, p. 74).48 It should be noted that, given the small general population and the even smaller Jewish population in Norway, this is a considerable number of books. It is noteworthy that these publications have become significantly more prevalent since 2015, with eleven titles having been published thus far, indicating a marked increase in this genre over the past decade. There are undoubtedly many reasons for this increase, including the passing of the witness generation (Kacandes 2012, p. 179; Lothe et al. 2012, p. 1) and the fact that, since the 2010s, the Holocaust has become part of the national collective memory. Additionally, there has been a general increase in counternarratives and -memories, including critical historical narratives about the persecution of the Jews and the passivity of the Norwegian majority population during the war (Brovold 2024, p. 74). Returning to the question posed by Lothe, Suleiman, and Phelan, there is little indication that the Holocaust will soon become «past history». Norwegian Jews seem more determined than ever to prevent the public memory of the Holocaust and its aftereffects from fading. Many writers of Norwegian second- and third-generation literature appear to be driven by the belief that their family history is relevant to others, with the hope that memory culture and their accounts of history and memory can serve as examples for future generations (Langås 2023, p. 133).

Csango, too, has written Fortielser based on her conviction that she is obligated to Ferenc to tell his story—«I know that he wanted me to tell what happened to him and the family»49 (Csango 2017, p. 95)—and that she must keep history alive so that no one forgets (p. 127). Fortielser thematizes memory transmission through both verbal and non-verbal acts of transfer (cf. Connerton 1989, pp. 39–40 referenced in Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355)—through Magda and Péter on the one hand, and through material and spatial mediators on the other. This article has demonstrated that material objects and projected places function as central memorial agents in Csango’s adult life, shaping her engagement with familial memory. The narrative’s exploration of memory transmission emerges through the interplay of objects and places, preserved photographs and letters, family stories, and imagination. These items operate as memorial objects, enabling the transmission of memories within the Csango family. The objects’ physical qualities transform them into material mediators of remembrance, performing commemorative functions such as witnessing, embodying absence, and sustaining emotional continuity across generations. Similarly, the New York Café in Budapest is depicted as a projected place (Piatti 2017) in the memoir, where memory and imagination intersect and become a physical and imagined site that bridges distance between Csango and the grandfather she never knew, between the past and the narrative present.

Initially I stated that the article would investigate which places and objects that are central to the narrative’s representation of memory, and in what ways they mediate memory and trauma. The article concludes that Fortielser exemplifies how second- and third-generation Holocaust literature might negotiate absence and loss through embodied engagement with material traces from the past. By foregrounding the interplay of material objects, particularly inherited objects, place, and narrative imagination, Csango’s memoir demonstrates that postmemory is not merely representational but also performative because it is enacted through affective relationships with material items and places. These objects, most of them inherited from Ferenc, serve multiple memorial functions within the narrative. Specifically, they 1. document the Holocaust and bear witness to lives once lived; 2. they act as placeholders for the deceased, they function as surrogates for absent graves, and they create improvised sites of memorialization and mourning; 3. they facilitate transgenerational and intergenerational memory transmission; and, finally, 4. these objects enable Csango to reflect on her deceased relatives and the(ir) futures that were never realized. Fortielser thus reveals how postmemory operates through affective engagement with material traces, transforming physical artifacts and projected places into situations and sites of remembering and mourning, enabling transgenerational continuity and memory transmission. These findings underscore the central role of material and spatial mediums in sustaining intergenerational remembrance, suggesting that inherited artifacts and projected spaces constitute vital modes of memory transmission, or «acts of transfer» (Connerton 1989, pp. 39–40 referenced in Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355), within Norwegian second- and third-generation literature. Moreover, they indicate the theoretical importance of Hirsch and Spitzer’s incorporation of personal possessions and their attributed meanings into Connerton’s list of transfer acts (cf. Hirsch and Spitzer 2006, p. 355).