In another brilliant photo essay, Lorna May delves into Budapest’s illegal train graveyard; secrets hidden by decaying steel.

(4 mins read time)

Some of these iron giants may have dark secrets, possibly ferrying Jews to their deaths in WWII – one-way tickets for far too many.

On an unbearably sunny day, I found myself scheming to break into the elusive Istvántelek Train Graveyard in Budapest’s outskirts – a walled-off, impossible-to-enter relic of decay. Armed with nothing but a Leica and a reckless spirit, I roamed the deserted station, fishing for intel from the few townies I encountered.

The guy at the local bar? Full of laughs. “You think you’re getting in there?” he snorted, sizing up my dress. “Not with that little thing you’re not.”

As I was ready to wave the white flag, fate gave me a wink – Sari, a local young woman appeared. I asked her about the yard, but she gave me a blank look. She knew nothing about the place, but her dad worked there. Without missing a beat, she swung open a massive, rusty door.

I was in.

Born in the early 1900’s, the Istvántelek Train Graveyard was once a titan in Hungary’s railway game – a vital repair hub for MÁV (Hungarian State Railways) that fueled the nation’s industrial boom well into the 20th century.

Now? It’s more ghost story than glory, a chilling tableau of rusting locomotives and decaying train cars, with Soviet-era monstrosities looming large. Some of these iron giants may have dark secrets, possibly ferrying Jews to their deaths in WWII – one-way tickets for far too many.

Today, the yard wears neglect like a badge of honour. Engines sit frozen in time, swallowed by weeds. While a few parts still see action with Hungarian rail authorities (limited workshops and maintenance units), most of this graveyard is off-limits, too hazardous to explore.

While there’s no concrete evidence linking specific trains in the yard to Holocaust deportations, the chilling possibility looms large. The Deutsche Reichsbahn and the rail networks of occupied territories, including Hungary, were tools of the Nazis in their mass transport of victims.

Istvántelek is filled with vintage locomotives and carriages, and given Hungary’s dark wartime history, it’s all too plausible that some of these trains once played a role in the nation’s most harrowing chapter. In 1944, under Nazi command, around 437,000 Hungarian Jews were deported – mostly to Auschwitz – in a horrific two-month blitz, crammed into squalid cattle cars.

Unlike other nations, Hungary hasn’t widely preserved trains or transport vehicles as Holocaust memorials, leaving the remnants at Istvántelek to decay. 

As I roamed the graveyard, a guy in a helmet charged at me, shouting like a banshee. I quickly explained that Sari had let me in and why I was snooping around. After a tense minute, he cooled down and, to my surprise, invited me for tea in one of the shabby maintenance units.

He’d been on the job for years and was genuinely curious about what a naive-looking woman in a ridiculously impractical dress was doing amidst rusting trains and toxic fumes. We stumbled through a conversation using Google Translate.

When I asked about the “Red Star” train from the Soviet era I had read about in urbex blogs, he chuckled. Apparently, “unsolicited visitors” had been a problem until security tightened two years back. A fire – likely sparked by careless smokers – had destroyed the Red Star train, leaving a few unfortunate explorers seriously injured. He also mentioned shady websites offering bogus “private tours” that took cash and vanished without a trace.

The area’s officially off-limits, especially after the fire. Before I left, he gave me a nod of respect – whether for my bravery, the little dress, or sheer recklessness, I couldn’t tell – and sent me on my way.

The train yard is a goldmine for urban explorers, drawn to the eerie mix of rusting locomotives and creeping vines. It’s like nature and industry locked in a slow-motion battle, and the decay is part of the charm. Officially, the place is off-limits, but that hasn’t stopped adventurers – or graffiti artists – from slipping in and leaving their mark. The locomotives are covered in bold, chaotic tags, transforming the forgotten relics into a gritty street art gallery. 

Trains have always had a magnetic allure – part steel, part spirit. They symbolize freedom and progress, yet they also carry the weight of human stories, both mundane and tragic.

Trains have always had a magnetic allure – part steel, part spirit. They symbolize freedom and progress, yet they also carry the weight of human stories, both mundane and tragic. At Istvántelek Train Graveyard, this fascination turns darker. Rusting locomotives loom like forgotten giants, haunted by history’s ghosts.

Ultimately, we’re fascinated because trains, like us, wear their scars. Built to move, they now sit in silent decay, daring us to sift through the grime and uncover the weight of what they once carried – freedom, fear, and everything in between.

We’re drawn to these machines not just for their journeys, but for what they traversed – the heart of empires, the soul of wars, and the bloodlines of oppression. Once vibrant, the trains here ferried passengers toward new beginnings – or, in the bleakest moments, to their final destinations. They embody both hope and horror, and it’s hard not to feel the sting of their past: Nazi deportations, Soviet propaganda, lives swallowed by steel.

What captivates us is this raw juxtaposition. These rusted relics were once the stuff of dreams, but now they rot in the middle of nowhere. Every creak of iron whispers forgotten truths about power, movement, and our obsession with control.

Ultimately, we’re fascinated because trains, like us, wear their scars. Built to move, they now sit in silent decay, daring us to sift through the grime and uncover the weight of what they once carried – freedom, fear, and everything in between.

On my way back, my little dress a bit torn and dirty, I swung by the local bar to show that macho jerk who laughed at me proof of my illegal ballad. He fell silent, disbelief washing over his face, and slid me a tequila shot – no questions asked.