“The Martians” in America

In the mid-1930s, as totalitarian regimes tightened their grip on the European continent, a remarkable wave of intellectual migration occurred. Some of Europe’s finest minds sought refuge in America, taking up positions at universities across the country. Among these intellectuals, one group stood out – a close-knit circle of mathematicians and physicists whose extraordinary intellectual abilities seemed almost otherworldly. They could memorise entire books with ease and perform intricate mathematical operations in their heads. They tackled mathematical problems so advanced that others struggled even to articulate them, while casually solving long-standing unsolved puzzles along the way. Their linguistic talents were equally astonishing – they seemed fluent in all the world’s languages, including Latin and Ancient Greek. Yet, when conversing amongst themselves, they used a peculiar language that no one else could understand. When they spoke English, it was with a distinct “Dracula-esque” accent. It was almost as if they weren’t of this world. So, when someone jokingly referred to them as Martians, there was a kernel of truth to the jest, and they themselves embraced this unexpected honour with delight.

But these so-called Martians were, in fact, Hungarians. Born in Budapest around the turn of the 20th century, they grew up in close proximity to each other. The Hungarian language, which baffled their new colleagues, has Siberian roots and almost no connection to the Indo-European family. It is marked by a distinctive accent that is hard to shed, an accent that Bela Lugosi popularized in America with his portrayal of Count Dracula.

While the explanation for their unique language was straightforward, their seemingly otherworldly intellectual abilities were another matter entirely. To unravel this mystery, we must delve into the school where they were shaped.

The Lutheran Gymnasium in Budapest

There is no doubt that Városligeti Fasor Avenue is one of Budapest’s most distinguished streets. This broad avenue, flanked by elegant rows of trees, is surprisingly free from heavy traffic. Since the last third of 19th century, it has been lined with luxurious family villas of the city’s elite and graceful public buildings. The street has retained its prestigious character to this day, with the once-opulent mansions of the wealthy now housing foreign embassies or cultural institutions.

However, the most striking landmark on the avenue is a Neo-Gothic complex consisting of a Lutheran church and an adjoining school building. In 1904, shortly after its construction, the already well-known Lutheran Gymnasium relocated here from its cramped former premises. Although established by the Evangelical Church, the school had a decidedly humanistic ethos and was open to pupils from all religious backgrounds. It was particularly popular among members of the Jewish bourgeoisie. Thanks to this inclusive approach, the school attracted significant financial support from private benefactors and the Hungarian government. This funding enabled the construction of the grand building on Városligeti Fasor Avenue. From that moment, the school’s facilities were second to none, and it became the institution of choice for the children of Budapest’s intellectual elite and wealthiest families.

The surroundings of the school, some of the houses on Városligeti Fasor Avenue

Yet, all this would have meant little had the school not been home to exceptional professors, many of whom held doctorates, with some even being academicians. Foremost among them was the renowned mathematics professor and headmaster, László Rátz. The move to the magnificent new building coincided with the most creative period of professor Rátz’s career, ushering in a golden era for his grammar school and Hungarian education as a whole.

Rátz not only devised a ground-breaking method for nurturing the most talented students in his school but also used his influence to drive a significant reform of the Hungarian educational system. This reform focused on the identification of gifted pupils, who were provided with specialised pedagogical attention. His students were educated in the finest traditions of Western civilisation, with two essential pillars: moral character and independent thinking. It wasn’t just mathematics and physics that mattered to Rátz. He paid close attention to the physical fitness of his most promising students, as well as their mastery of foreign and classical languages. Ancient Greek spoken with a Hungarian accent? Who knows if we’ll ever hear such a thing again?

Mathematical talent, however, was Professor Rátz’s primary focus. As editor of the Mathematics and Physics Journal, he crafted an ingenious recruitment strategy. The journal published unconventional problems that required deep understanding and creative thinking to solve. Solving these problems became a badge of honour among Hungarian secondary school students, and the most successful problem-solvers were invited to the Lutheran Gymnasium to study mathematics under professor Rátz himself.

For a gifted, intellectually curious student, secondary school can often be an exercise in frustration. To avoid being labelled a weirdo, one might feel compelled to partake in silly pranks, pretend to cheer for a football club, or even memorise the names of a few players just to blend into casual conversations.

But does everyone really have to endure this ordeal?

Perhaps not. In the first two decades of the 20th century, the Lutheran Gymnasium in Budapest transformed into a haven of intellectual elitism. It offered even the most exceptional prodigies a school life that was not only bearable but genuinely engaging. At the peak of this unique atmosphere, even as the Great War raged around them, the students of this school remained undisturbed in their ivory tower, calmly seeking elegant solutions to complex mathematical problems. None of them realised it at the time, but in those years, this was the best school in the world.

The next world war found the top students of the Lutheran Gymnasium, by then famously nicknamed the “Martians,” in America, under profoundly different circumstances. The problems they tackled there would go on to reshape the world. Among them were physicists Edward Teller (originally Teller Ede) and Eugene Wigner (Wigner Jenő), alongside mathematician John von Neumann (Neumann János). They were later joined by peers from other Budapest grammar schools, including mathematician Paul Erdős (Erdős Pál) and physicist Leo Szilard, who had spent his childhood on Városligeti Fasor Avenue. These remarkable minds played decisive roles in the Manhattan Project, the creation of the first computers, and the ensuing Cold War. One particularly intriguing “Martian” was the eccentric genius and Einstein’s protégé Paul Nemenyi, an expert in continuum mechanics. Nemenyi’s son, Bobby – born out of wedlock and bearing his mother’s surname, Fischer – rose to fame by dismantling the myth of Soviet chess supremacy during the height of the Cold War, only to later descend into profound eccentricity. The father and son kept their relationship a secret throughout their lives, with the truth emerging only posthumously. The last “Martian” to reach America was John Harsanyi (Harsányi János), also a former student of the Lutheran Gymnasium. His survival was nothing short of miraculous, narrowly escaping first the Nazis and later Stalin’s ideological enforcers. These extraordinary individuals all hailed from Budapest’s Jewish families that unquestionably represented the apex of the global intellectual elite of their era.

Architect Samu Pecz – Designer of the Complex

At the time when the Lutheran church and school complex was to be built, Hungarian Secession was in full bloom. However, the financiers of the project sought no such innovations and turned to Samu Pecz, an architect of more conservative views, to design the project.

Born into a renowned family of prominent architects, Samu Pecz received comprehensive education in Austria and Germany, followed by practical experience in the best architectural firms in Pest. At the age of 34, he had become the dean of the Faculty of Architecture, a position he held until his death. As a designer, Pecz gained recognition for his classically shaped buildings in the Neo-Gothic style. His esteemed reputation enabled him to secure commissions for some of the most impressive structures in Budapest, including significant city landmarks such as the Great Market Hall and the Hungarian National Archives. He was particularly distinguished for his design of Protestant churches, which bore his personal touch. The most notable among them is the Reformed Church on Szilágyi Dezső Square on the Buda side of the Danube.

When Art Nouveau, known as Secession in Hungary, emerged and was enthusiastically embraced by both professionals and the public, Samu Pecz continued to design projects in historical architectural styles, particularly Romanesque and Gothic, which he had come to embody and creatively enrich with his architectural solutions, ignoring the new trends. Visitors to Budapest should especially take the time to appreciate the refined masonry details crafted from his designs, such as those found on the Hungarian National Archives building, the Technical University Library, and even the Lutheran Gymnasium.

As a designer, Mr Pecz insisted on the use of the highest quality, durable materials, and he often recommended Zsolnay ceramics for roofing, a choice that aligned him with the leading Secessionists in that regard. This was precisely what the financiers of the Lutheran church and school complex on Varosligeti Fasor Avenue wanted to emphasize: classicism, tradition, stability, and reliability.

And Mr Pecz delivered precisely what was expected. He did everything within his power to highlight the high standards of the school through architectural means. For the façade of the Gymnasium, he selected a combination of façade bricks and smooth plaster in several shades of ochre, a traditional choice for buildings of great social significance in Central Europe. The interior of the school, with its soaring Gothic arches in the corridors, instilled a sense of dignity in both the teachers and students, further motivating them. The library, in particular, was expansive, and the specialized classrooms were designed to accommodate thousands of mineral and rock samples, as well as a collection of several thousand butterflies and other insects.

Later History of the School

After the Great War, the Hungarian educational system continued to function, albeit by inertia, for some time, but the political troubles the country faced eventually impacted the intellectual climate. The Mathematics and Physics Journal continued to be published, but the competition grew weaker, and the standards steadily declined. László Rátz passed away in 1930, and by the end of the decade, all of his favourite students had already left the country for America.

The hardest days for the Gymnasium arrived after World War II. As soon as the communist regime in Hungary had solidified its power, the Gymnasium was shut down. Its most renowned former students, now American citizens, were ideological adversaries, at the forefront of the Cold War, rendering open admiration of them politically unacceptable. The Hungarian authorities hoped that, with time, the legend of the world’s best school would gradually fade into obscurity.

However, the legend endured. Quite the opposite occurred: as soon as Hungary’s political system underwent another transformation, the celebrated Gymnasium was swiftly revived, emerging as one of the first symbols of the renewed hope in the country.

Sometime later, the educational authorities sought to highlight the school’s rich heritage, and a modest commemorative plaque was mounted on the façade, bearing the names of four of its most esteemed professors and only three of its students. Those honoured were Wigner, who won the Nobel Prize in Physics, Harsányi, who received the Nobel in Economics, the school’s greatest pride, its best student, John von Neumann, who would have received both Nobel Prizes had he not died prematurely.

The fierce competition for space on the plaque left little room for others from the school’s remarkable pantheon of luminaries such as Theodor Herzl, Petőfi Sándor, György Lukács, Edward Teller, and, why not, architect Samu Pecz, also a former student of the school.

Darko Veselinović, November 2021