by Sándor Kardos
Originally written for the current exhibition of the Horus Archives—on view at 2B Galéria in Budapest until 20 June 2025—the following essay, reflecting on the decalog by founder Sándor Kardos, is now shared with English readers for the first time accompanied by a selection of vernacular photographs from the archive.
1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me
Young man! The more you want to know, the further back you must go.
Ancient Greek literature. My first exam at the Faculty of Humanities. Terror and excitement. I went to my father's friend, Mr. Tótisz, at the antiquarian bookstore on Lenin Boulevard, and asked where to find this era. I started browsing. The sentence was spoken behind me. In the Bible, several prophets hear the command from behind their backs, Ezekiel, for example. According to the Kabbalah, nothingness can represent the Lord, and evoking nothingness can be achieved by concentrating on what we see behind our heads. I turned around—the one who spoke had just stepped out of the door. Grey hair sticking out from under a crumpled hat, a genuinely shabby grey trench coat, worn-down heels. The way messengers look.
2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image
Lick and enjoy!
A red-haired, freckled child is always perfect for this kind of job. We had to shoot an ice cream commercial. At the time, pre-made ice creams on stick were just breaking into our country. The factory wasn’t yet able to produce them, but the ad campaign had to be ready, so they commissioned a well-known visual artist to create a realistic wooden replica of the ice cream. However, the sensitive, freckled child found no joy in licking a piece of wood. His tongue was full of splinters, his mouth curled into a sob, while the director was still yelling at him: “Lick and enjoy!”
3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain
Comrade Kádár blew me a kiss
From the diary of my friend’s mother:
“May Day parade. The square was covered in flags, balloons—the atmosphere of the workers’ movement. And as we marched in that great crowd, I clearly saw in the square that General Secretary Kádár blew me a kiss. When we had to spell out “Long Live the Party” (Éljen a párt!) in the square, I was the dot above the letter j, even though I had a torn tendon at the time. I was proud that I could still run to my place—where the dot, that is, I, belonged. The rules of Hungarian spelling.
4. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy
They put the corpse out on the street.
My father’s friends played chess every weekend for two days straight. None of them were actual chess players—more like poets, writers, photographers, and completely ordinary people. Still, I had to be quiet, while they could talk utter nonsense for two days in a kind of trance. Once, a Kossuth Prize-winning writer repeated for forty-eight hours straight: “They put the corpse out on the street.”
In my head, I always corrected him: not on the street, in the courtyard. Two days is a long time. Meanwhile, he would sometimes win, sometimes lose. Everyone had some kind of phrase they kept repeating. And I had to shut up, because I was disturbing them.
My parents forced me to read one of the famous writer’s books. To become cultured, to polish my mind, they said. Between two chess games, they brought me before the great man. He suddenly asked me a test question: “What’s the name of the protagonist?” I thought he’d be curious about the story’s brilliant twists—whether I understood them. Under the terrible weight of the moment, something dreadful popped out of my head: Gacsaj Pesta! I can’t even imagine where my brain dug that up from. I knew it was nonsense—but had no idea how much. The great man slowly lifted his gaze from me and looked painfully into the distance: “You are uneducated, my son,” he said, and walked away.
In my humiliation, I spent decades spreading the rumor that I knew him as a kid and that he didn’t even write that novel—he stole it from someone. Once, another great writer set me straight. He had no sense of humor, of course, but said: “That book is good because, you see, he hated everyone.”
5. Honour thy father and thy mother
Why won’t you eat the broth?
My father yells at me, puts me in the corner, I wet myself. Next to me stands a huge felt pilot boot. No one in the family was ever a pilot, I don’t know where it came from, but it stood there for many years. My father had a quick temper, but he’d forget things just as quickly. Once they had a big argument, and we didn’t go to the park together. My mother still took me—she sat with me by the fountain and, as she often did, read novels aloud to me. I loved the circus wagons traveling the world, Jules Verne’s Two Years' Vacation, when they ride a giant tortoise, and Victor Hugo’s The Man Who Laughs. I felt completely calm inside when I saw a familiar figure in the distance. So he’d softened, came after us—he even brought the Kodak Retina camera.
6. Thou shalt not kill
What would you say if we shot you dead right now, together with your child?
This question was asked by the commander of a Arrow Cross unit to my mother, who was breastfeeding me in the ghetto at the time. The question came after they had surrounded us and cocked their rifles. My mother’s bare breast in my mouth. Perhaps I even felt it tense up.
Over my long life, I’ve often thought about what one could possibly answer to that. If I were in that situation! There are many things I admire my mother for, but for this, most of all. She found the right answer: “Brother Béla! You are a much better man than to do something like that.” They lowered their weapons and left. Brother and better man.
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery
Otherwise, he was a charming man!
One of my mother’s stories—she was a globe-trotting dancer. When new girls arrived at the nightclub in Alexandria, the owner—who was famously well-endowed—would pull the tip of it up over his belt, then extend a hand and introduce himself. Seeing my look of genuine shock, my mother quickly added: Otherwise, he was a charming man.
8. Thou shalt not steal
Mr. Kardos, the boy stole firewood
After the war, my father tried to make a living trading firewood. He rented a lumberyard by the Vizafogó railway station. There was a small office beside it, and outside, a vast heap of chopped logs stood like a mountain. I was a small child then—it seemed to me as tall as Gellért Hill. I spent my days playing on the stumps, scaling summits, scanning the horizon from a deserted island for a ship that might come and rescue me.
The policeman would come. A different one each day. The commander must have rotated the officers so that all would learn the lay of the district. He was a striking figure—handsome in his finely pressed grey uniform, his helmet crowned with a raised aluminum ridge so he couldn’t be struck down so easily. To be taken prisoner by him was almost a delight. I knew I’d be released soon enough. He’d take me by the ear and lead me into the office. “Mr. Kardos, the boy stole firewood.” The matter was quickly resolved—my father handed over a bit of money and thanked him for keeping watch over the lumber. Perhaps the policemen passed the story on to each other—because it happened every single day. The words, the gesture,—exactly the same. There was something strangely beautiful in being captured and released—as if the offence itself had been quietly erased, made null. Like in my dreams, when we, the kuruc rebels, were already losing, the labanc troops had us surrounded, no way out— I flung my sword and cried: Time out!
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour
That’s a tenner
Late at night. “Listen, in a case like this, the law accepts two police officers as witnesses. You crossed the solid line, we’re two of us, so that’s a tenner. Identification.” “And I’m Lieutenant Colonel Kunkovács—so since you’re two, that makes it twenty. And we never met.”
10. You shall not covet anything that belongs to your neighbour
We committed an unlawful act within our own jurisdiction
I stood behind the closed door, axe in hand, and rehearsed the movement—how I would crush the policeman’s skull the moment he stepped through the opening door. We had just come through three and a half years of legal torture. We had exhausted every legal avenue—and lost at every turn.
In the apartment where I had been born—back when it was part of the ghetto—I had, in good faith, become a man without rights. It had once been the landlord’s apartment—windows on two streets, a balcony, spacious and bright. By the time all the elderly Jewish ladies and gentlemen had passed away, the flat was deemed too large for our legal entitlement. Even though I had a newborn child.Someone took a liking to that apartment. I don’t know who it was. But the police eviction date had already been set. It must have shown on my face. My teacher at the Film Academy, János Herskó, asked me what was wrong. At a November 7th reception, he approached Comrade Sarlós, the head of the Budapest Council, and said: “Here’s a young, talented cinematographer—don’t screw him over like that!” Then the letter arrived. We hereby acknowledge that we, the District VII Council, committed an unlawful act within our own jurisdiction. Somewhere, someone must have been very upset. But you promised! And they didn’t say: Imagine this poor bastard, born in the ghetto, and now we’re evicting him. Comrade Sarlós decided otherwise.
The Horus Archives, Kossuth Prize recipient cinematographer Sándor Kardos’s collection of vernacular photography, is the largest private collection in Hungary in terms of size, comprising close to one million images.
To know more about the archive visit their website: horusarchives.com
