Hey, history buffs and travel enthusiasts! If you’ve ever strolled down Budapest’s Rottenbiller Street, licking a cone of creamy gelato, you might’ve walked past a tale so wild it sounds like a movie script. Meet Francesco Tirelli—an Italian fencing master turned ice cream maestro who risked it all to save Jewish families during World War II, right here in Hungary’s capital. His life was a rollercoaster of bravado, botched scandals, and a bittersweet end, and it’s even been immortalized in a children’s book. Curious? Let’s dig into this unsung hero’s saga and see why his legacy’s finally getting its due in 2025!
From Italian Swords to Budapest Scoops
Born in 1898 in Campagnola Emilia, a sleepy town in northern Italy, Francesco Tirelli was a firecracker from the start. He grew up swinging swords, not spoons, and by his 20s, he was a seasoned fencer. After marrying in Venice in 1921 and fathering three kids, he left his family behind to chase his passion, landing in Budapest in 1926. He wasn’t alone—he rolled in with Mario Siniscalco, a fencing coach tied to Naples’ fascist scene. But here’s where it gets juicy: instead of sticking with the fascist crowd, Tirelli joined the Jewish-leaning MTK fencing circle under Károly Fodor, then moved to Italo Santelli’s academy on Erzsébet körút. He trained alongside legends like Endre Kabos and Attila Petschauer—Olympic stars whose tragic fates later echoed through Hungarian history.
Tirelli wasn’t just a fencer; he was a character. His fiery Italian temper made waves—sometimes too many. By the late 1920s, his antics got him sidelined from competitive fencing, though he kept coaching. A 1931 article in 8 Órai Ujság paints a vivid picture: during an Italian-Hungarian athletics meet, he stormed the field, tussled with officials, and got hauled off shouting, “I’m Francesco Tirelli, fencing master!” The paper sneered, calling him a “fagylaltárus” (ice cream vendor) instead—little did they know that jab would soon become his badge of honor.
When fencing gigs dried up, Tirelli pivoted to a sweeter trade: gelato. Budapest was in the grip of an Italian ice cream craze in the 1930s, with nearly 700 vendors dishing out scoops. He opened his flagship shop on Rottenbiller Street 66 and expanded to Debrecen, Nyíregyháza, and Esztergom. Starting out wasn’t easy—he even landed on a tax debtors’ list once—but his hustle paid off. By the 1940s, his parlors were local staples, though wartime shortages pushed him into shadier dealings, like hoarding sugar in Debrecen. That grit would soon fuel something far nobler.
The Ice Cream Hideout: A Wartime Sanctuary
Fast forward to April 1943. With the Holocaust tightening its grip on Hungary, Tirelli opened his Rottenbiller Street shop—not just for gelato, but as a lifeline. As Nazi persecution ramped up after their 1944 invasion, he turned the basement into a secret refuge for Jewish families. Among them was young Péter Mayer (later Itzhak Meir), who’d grown up to be an Israeli chemistry professor. For four months, Tirelli hid over a dozen people, smuggling food and swapping out waste buckets under the noses of the Nyilas (Hungarian Arrow Cross) thugs. In a gutsy jab at Mussolini, he’d dump those buckets on what was then Mussolini Square (now Oktogon)—a silent “up yours” to his fascist roots.
Jewish quarter. Christians are not allowed to enter.
Source: Fortepan.
Tirelli didn’t stop at sheltering. He scored fake papers to keep his charges safe, earning him whispers as the “zsidó fagyis” (Jewish ice cream man) among locals—a label he wore with defiance. Once, in Debrecen, when someone yelled “Jew!” at him, he fired back with a newspaper ad offering 1,000 pengő to anyone proving he wasn’t a Catholic Italian, cheekily citing a priest from Carpi as his alibi. That’s Tirelli in a nutshell—bold, brash, and unbowed.
A Life of Highs and a Tragic Low
Post-war, Tirelli stuck around Budapest, opening a new shop on Bartók Béla Road in 1946 and adding coffee to the menu by ‘47. But by 1950, he’d had enough—selling everything, he bounced to Italy, then settled in Switzerland. That’s where the story takes a dark turn. In 1954, at 56, he got nabbed for smuggling watches—a far cry from his wartime heroics. Locked in a Swiss jail, he was found the next day with a busted skull, blood pooling around him. Four days later, he died in a hospital, officially of heart failure. The cops claimed he’d bashed his head against the cell wall in a fit—a grim end that’s tough to square with his larger-than-life spirit. Suspicious? Maybe. But the truth’s murky, and it left a bitter aftertaste on an otherwise sweet legacy.
From Obscurity to Storybook Fame
Tirelli’s name faded in Hungary and Italy after his death, but not in Israel. Thanks to Itzhak Meir’s push, Yad Vashem honored him as Righteous Among the Nations in 2008. His tale got a new scoop of life when Meir’s daughter-in-law, Tamar Meir, penned Francesco Tirelli’s Ice Cream Shop, a children’s book published in Hebrew, then translated to English and Hungarian. It’s a gentle spin on a brutal time—Peter (Itzhak) and his family hiding in the gelato haven, lighting Hanukkah candles amid the darkness. The book won awards like the Yad Vashem Prize, making Tirelli a quiet hero for kids worldwide.
In 2022, Budapest unveiled a plaque at Rottenbiller Street 66, followed by one in Campagnola Emilia in 2023, where the library now boasts a Tirelli Room. Scholars like Angiolino Catellani (2014) and Dombi Gábor (2020) have dug into his life, piecing together a man who was equal parts swashbuckler, savior, and scoundrel.
Why Visit His Legacy in 2025?
For travelers, Tirelli’s story adds a rich layer to Budapest’s tapestry. Swing by Rottenbiller Street—grab a gelato nearby (sadly, his shop’s long gone) and imagine the courage that once churned beneath. Pair it with a trip to the Dohány Street Synagogue or the Holocaust Memorial Center to feel the weight of his era. His plaque’s a humble marker, but it whispers a tale of defiance and decency that’s pure Budapest—gritty, gutsy, and unexpectedly sweet.
Francesco Tirelli wasn’t perfect. He was loud, messy, and danced with trouble. But when it counted, he turned his ice cream empire into a lifeline, proving heroes don’t need capes—just a scoop of guts and a heart that won’t quit. What’s your take on this wild ride? Let me know—I’m all ears!