As I stumble in front of the blank screen for minutes, I notice myself as if waiting for a phone call. To a strict, disgraceful, grumpy editorial voice, “What, old man, when are you sending that material?” We close, the page is just waiting for you! “But that’s not the way it is, Emil!” I growl back. – I have to write an obituary about a good friend. This can’t just be smeared… Wait for the paper, wait for the press! … Leave it alone!
But my phone doesn’t ring. I have no one to argue with. Editor Ludwig Emil can no longer create it. He called for the heavenly lock.
I worked with this lovable strange person for almost two decades. Sometime in the mid-nineties, we met at a Horn press conference. It wasn’t hard for us to “run into each other.” In addition to the dozens of pro-government journalists, the two of us created the other side – Emil as the editor-in-chief of the Hungarian Forum, I as the editor-in-chief of New Hungary at the time. Two black lambs…
According to legend, Emil was discovered by poor equestrian Pista as the “good writer” correspondent of Pesti Hírlap. He recommended it to István Csurka, who, as in the fairy tale, soon made him the editor-in-chief of his weekly newspaper. From here he came to us, then to the Hungarian Nation after the merger. All three are already there. I mean, up there…
He was a colleague and a friend at the same time. His material knowledge was surpassed only by his love for humanity. I can’t count how many times he pulled me out of the slump. The reader knew Emil Ludwig primarily through his series of Hiding Hungary, written for decades. I do not think that there is a monumental church, monastery or castle in historical Hungary that has not been mentioned at least in the series of thousands of articles. He also hosted exciting talk shows on Chain Bridge Radio for years. His latest writings – slowly three years ago – appeared in Magyar Hírlap.
When I was still a “touring” journalist, we were baked and cooked together for years. Not only in the editorial office, but also outside in the field, at rural reporting trips, at Csurka rallies, at lectures in Harkány, at trials of salted press liters, sir sorry, sometimes in the wine bar next to the editorial office…
He proudly showed his house in Taliándörögd, whose carpentry and furniture (he had an exceptional hand for wood) he himself made. The Balaton Uplands were his love, he roamed every path and corner of Badacsony.
He left on Good Saturday morning. He is mourned by his wife, two children and three grandchildren.
I’m still waiting for your call.
Source: Magyar Nemzet by magyarnemzet.hu.
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