But the daydreaming didn't last very long. We had to acquire the all-important gray card. The gray card was the identification card given out by the Austrian authorities to Hungarian refugees. We hardly needed identification, because Hungarian refugees were all distinguished by dirt-covered clothes from the border crossing. But the gray card entitled us to the most important privilege of all—free travel on the trams. And travel was a must.
I stood for five long hours in a long, slowly moving line of Hungarians—mainly young men, but also families with young children. They were all mud splattered and looked tired and confused. Everyone kept asking all the strangers around them for tips and advice.
I quickly found out that the key thing was to register at every relief organization that one could reasonably apply to for help. I registered with several, including the Joint, which was the nickname for a Jewish relief organization, and another one called the International Rescue Committee, which was referred to by its ini- tials, IRC. The offices were scattered all over Vienna, but by speaking a combination of English and a few words of German, I was able to ask directions, and the gray card allowed me to get from one place to another without too much trouble. There were lines everywhere.
Some of these relief organizations gave us food vouchers, others gave us little packages of toiletries and some secondhand clothes. And most important, some gave us vouchers for places to stay.
I got a voucher for a studentenheim —a youth hostel. It was in the outskirts of Vienna in a two-story private building converted for the purpose. We would be bunked twelve to a room with barely adequate toilet facilities, but I was very glad to get in. Lodging was so scarce, I heard, that some Hungarians were put up by kindly policemen in the city jail because there wasn't any other place for them. This was better.
The most crucial visit of all was to the United States consulate. Everybody wanted to go to America. The line for registering at the consulate stretched out to the chilly street. We stood for hours, stomping our feet to keep warm. I finally made my way inside. The Hungarian translator asked if I had any relatives in the United States. I gave the name of Manci's sister, Lenke, and her husband, Lajos, and their address in New York City. The officials told me they would let me know when they had any news for me and asked for an address to reach me at. The only address I had was the one for Viktor, my father's friend from Kiskoros, so I gave them that.
Standing in line, I often encountered Hungarians offering to change Hungarian money into Austrian currency. After some bargaining, I exchanged my leftover forints for Austrian schillings. I was very happy to have real money in my pocket, although a few days later, I realized that I had been taken to the cleaners.
Fortunately, since I was now equipped with vouchers for most of the necessities of life, I didn't need much money. I traveled for free, I had a roof over my head, and with the food vouchers I could have a decent meal in a restaurant chain for just a few schillings. But I needed money to send two very important telegrams.
The first telegram went to my parents, telling them that I had arrived and was safe. Then I started wording the telegram to Lenke, telling her I had made it out of Hungary and that I would like to come to America. For a moment, I felt strange about approaching people I'd never met with a request for help. But as I glanced back at the long line behind me in the telegraph office, the feeling disappeared. I couldn't afford luxuries like embarrassment. I sent the telegram, and I again gave Viktor's home as a return address.
I had arrived on a Thursday morning, and all of this was done by Friday afternoon. That evening I went to visit Viktor. I didn't have his telephone number, so I just showed up out of the blue and introduced myself as Gyurka's son. He had half expected me, he told me, just as he half expected a lot of people those days.
In complete contrast to my father's friend's business associate, Viktor and his wife were very kind to me. They first asked me where I was staying and were relieved that I had found a place because they were already putting up a refugee at their house and had no more room. They peppered me with questions about my parents and Manci and about the situation in Budapest. Then they fed me a fantastic meal.
It was a genuine Hungarian meal, the first that I'd had in weeks. What with sheltering in the cellar and the food shops having been closed or empty, I hadn't had a really good home-cooked meal since the revolution started. For dessert, Viktor's wife put out a bowl of oranges and bananas. To me, these were incredible delicacies. I had had oranges no more than two or three times in my life. I loved them! Bananas, on the other hand, I had never encountered. Viktor's wife had to show me how to peel them. I eyed them with some suspicion, but when I bit into them, I loved them, too. I was off to a good start in the West!
Viktor had a ten-year-old son, who stared at me with great curiosity. He spoke Hungarian pretty well, and we got into a big discussion about what he planned to be when he grew up. I told him that I was studying chemistry and explained what chemistry was about. Viktor overheard our conversation. He offered to write to a friend of his, who was associated with a university in England, to see if he could get me a scholarship. I was grateful for the offer, but when I thought of England, it struck me that it wasn't far enough. Now that I had escaped, I wanted to get as far away from Hungary and even from Europe as I could.
Afterward, I went back to the studentenheim and wrote a letter to my parents. I did not address the letter to them, however. I suspected that their mail might be watched, because I figured that by now it would be known that their son had escaped illegally. Instead, I addressed the letter to Manci and in a bit of a code language asked her to share my story with her nephew, meaning my father. I made sure that my letter was resolutely nonpolitical. I confined my comments strictly to describing my arrival and what I had done so far, my reception by the surly man who put me up at the pension, and my warm welcome from Viktor. I said I had contacted Lenke and was waiting for an answer, and that I would write again soon. Then I went out, bought a stamp at a corner store, and mailed the letter.
Over the next few weeks, I continued to spend most of my time standing in lines to see if my case had moved forward at either the refugee organizations or at the U.S. consulate. The lines became my daily occupation. They represented the hub of the Hungarian refugee social life. In these lines, I met Imre, Peter, Bubi, and several other acquaintances. Jancsi had gone his own way. He had contacted some relatives in the United States who were well-off. They sent him money and were expediting his affairs.
Once Jancsi and I split up, for the first time in my life I was completely on my own. Even though I ran into Imre or Bubi and other friends from back home, no two of us were following the same path. Each of us was making his own way and looking out for his own luck. We were like so many Ping-Pong balls bouncing around independently of each other.
When I wasn't standing in one line or another or visiting relief organizations, I took the opportunity to explore Vienna. Vienna was fabulous. Unlike Budapest, there were no signs of the war anymore. The streets were clean, people were well dressed and friendly. To my utter amazement, even the police were friendly, a stunning contrast to any expectations I had of someone in uniform. They greeted us Hungarians on the street with a smile and were ready to struggle with language barriers to give us directions when we were lost, which was often. In fact, one off-duty policeman walked about twenty minutes out of his way to make sure I got to my destination, then waited until he was sure I had found the right address.
Vienna dealt me only one disappointment. As the days went on, I discovered I could buy cheap standing-room tickets to the Vienna Staatsoper. I saw three operas: Fidelio, Don Carlo, and The Magic Flute. The performances were good, but I thought they were not as good as their Hungarian counterparts.
The other standees were intrigued by my presence. I suppose I was easy to spot as a refugee, since despite my best efforts, my clothes were still mud stained, even the pants I had worn underneath my corduroys. They were friendly, though, and we ma
naged to have a rudimentary conversation, in a mixture of German and English, interspersed with lots of pantomiming, comparing the opera here to the opera in Hungary. One of the people I chatted with was a cute girl. We walked out of the performance together, but then she said good-bye. I trudged back to the hostel a little sad.
I visited Viktor and his family often. Their house was like a home away from home to me. On one of my visits, he greeted me happily waving a telegram. It was from Lenke. Her answer couldn't have been warmer. She said that she and Lajos were looking forward to my becoming another son to them and added that their young son had put my framed picture on his desk in anticipation of his “brother's” arrival. I was greatly relieved. I had a place to go, if I could just get there.
One day, a notice was posted on the bulletin board at my hostel. Representatives from one of the refugee organizations where I had registered, the International Rescue Committee, were coming the next afternoon to interview refugees who wanted to go to the United States. I signed up and eagerly awaited their arrival.
The next day a group of young Americans arrived. I was surprised by how young they all were. They could easily have been fellow students of mine at the university.
They set up a long table in one of the rooms and began to interview the line of candidates who had signed up. Each candidate was interviewed by the whole group. When my turn came, they were surprised that I was able to conduct my interview in English, and to my happiness, I saw one of the interviewers jot on my file, “Good English.” Then the questions moved to my activities during the revolution. They asked me if I had fought. I said no, I had participated in some demonstrations, but I had not fought. They looked at each other and at me with surprise. Everyone else whom they talked with had fought, they said. Why hadn't I?
I didn't know what to reply. I had my doubts about the others' claims. A sarcastic thought came to mind: If all of those people had fought, we would have won and I wouldn't be here. I didn't say this, however, and I was reluctant to fabricate a story for the occasion. The interview soon ended, with a promise that the next day they would announce who had been selected. I was tense. I knew from my visit to the consulate that there was a quota for admission to the United States and that requests for admission were already way oversubscribed.
By the time I got back to the hostel the next day, after the usual stint of standing in lines, the representatives from the IRC had come and gone. They had read off a list of names. According to people who heard the list, I wasn't on it.
I felt as if someone had socked me in the stomach, then my heart started beating so hard that I could barely breathe. “Where are the IRC people now?” I asked. Someone said they were conducting another series of interviews at a school some distance away. I took off like a madman. I ran all the way through the cold, dark streets. My heavy shoes hurt my feet as I ran, but I didn't care.
Sweat was pouring down my face by the time I reached the school. There was a familiar long line of people waiting to be interviewed. I didn't wait. As the next person emerged from the interview room, I brushed past the person whose turn it was supposed to be and pushed in to stand in front of the table.
The IRC representatives were a different group of students than the ones who had interviewed me the day before. They stared up at me blankly. I didn't give them time to say anything. I swiped the sweat off my face with my hands and, still panting, started talking in English as fast as I could.
I explained that I had been interviewed yesterday, that I was not selected, but that I really, really wanted to go to the United States. One of the interviewers asked me why. I told him I had relatives in New York City who would take me in, that I was a chemistry student, that I thought I would become a good chemist, and that I belonged in the United States. The words poured out, not eloquently or coherently, but I talked and talked as if I could overwhelm their objections by the sheer volume of my words. I almost didn't dare to stop talking, but finally I ran out of things to say. I stood there, panting slightly and still sweating profusely. The students looked at each other and smiled, then one said, “Okay, you can go to the United States.”
I was speechless. I couldn't believe my good fortune. I wanted to hug every one of the young men sitting on the other side of the long table.
They gave me a voucher for lodging at another student hostel in the outskirts of Vienna, where the IRC-sponsored students were put up while waiting for the paperwork to go through. I stuttered my thanks and, clutching my precious voucher, backed out of the room and left. The cold air hit me on the face. I was still sweating, but now it was from relief.
The next day I moved to the new hostel. There were some eighty of us who had been accepted for sponsorship by the International Rescue Committee. A lot of us were students. As it turned out, moving to the hostel was an important step, but only one step in the process. We had to go to the U.S. consulate to fill out more forms, have a medical exam, get photographed, and fill out still more forms. Then we waited day after day for the papers to clear. When they finally did, we had to wait some more to find out when we were going to be flown to the United States.
I spent the days washing my clothes, getting my few belongings packed and ready, then unpacking them, then packing them up again. I dropped by Viktor's house whenever I could. I was still tense with anticipation, but I was immensely happy to have gotten this far. It occurred to me that my father's insistence ten years earlier that I study English was a critical ingredient in my good luck. In my next letter home, I made sure to thank him.
The notification finally came. We were going to leave the next day. However, instead of going by airplane, we would take a train to Germany that would take us to a ship that would then take us to the United States. I was disappointed. Everyone I knew who left for the United States had gone by plane. The process was going to take a whole lot longer than I had anticipated. Still, I was glad to get moving in the right direction.
I took the opportunity to change all my remaining money into American dollars. It came out to $20.
The next morning, a bus pulled up in front of the hostel and took us to the train station. We were joined by other busloads of Hungarians of all ages. We settled into the compartments. There were six plastic-covered bunk beds in each compartment, three on each side. I chose a middle bunk that was about the level of the window and spent the time looking out at the winter countryside going by.
The train moved fast, but it still took hours, and the hours went by excruciatingly slowly. At some point we stopped. It was the German border. Uniformed border guards went from car to car, looking at all of our papers. It was the first time I had seen a German officer since the war. Their caps were peaked, in much the same style as I remembered the caps of German officers from wartime. My mouth was dry. They took my papers, looked at them, saluted, then gave them back and went on. But I continued to feel tense.
The tension didn't leave me until we got to the first stop in Germany, the city of Passau. German students lined the platform, cheering us exuberantly and offering us hot chocolate, coffee, sweets, and cakes. They were kids like us, just better dressed. That broke the ice.
After Passau, the train went at a good clip. It was dark outside, so all I could see were occasional lights. I couldn't sleep. I was overwhelmed by the momentousness of what was happening to me. I was truly in the West. Every hour, I was farther from my birthplace, my family, my world, heading toward America.
The thought hit me: After all the years of pretending to believe things that I didn't, of acting the part of someone I wasn't, maybe I would never have to pretend again. The train went on, and I finally fell asleep.
As we neared land, the ship stopped heaving and gradually all the Hungarians regained their equilibrium and came up on deck. We stood in silence and just stared. I thought, These houses have never heard bombs or artillery, not ever. I marveled at this. (Louis Lanouette)
Chapter Fourteen
ABOARD SHIP
IWOKE UP when the
train stopped. It was dawn. We were at a port. Through the window, I could see a nondescript gray ship at the far end of the platform. The ship's name was General W. G. Haan. I looked at it with excitement. It was going to take me to America.
We were told to get off the train, and we slowly formed a long, snaking line to the gangplank leading to the ship. It was a cold, damp day, and everything—the ship, the port, and the sky—was shrouded in shades of gray.
There was a strange smell in the air. I realized it was salt water. It was the first time that I had ever seen the sea. It was not particularly beautiful. It, too, was a mass of gray. The smell, however, was mysterious, exciting, and wonderful.
Despite the early hour, a military band had assembled and was playing the Hungarian national anthem. But rather than playing it with the measured solemnity that we were used to, they played it like a military march. The brisk pace of the music contrasted with the slow movement of the line as we shuffled toward the gangplank.
Each of us had been given a little name tag with our name and a number on it. We were told to affix it with a string to a button on our overcoat. As we reached the bottom of the gangplank, one sailor looked at the tag and read the number out loud in English. Another sailor made a note of it in a ledger. Oddly, instead of reading the entire number as a single unit, the sailor read it digit by digit—one, seven, oh, seven, and so forth. I wondered if perhaps Americans didn't know their numbers and had to break them up into individual digits, and I wondered if “oh” was the same as zero.
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