The Class

  “All right, comrade,” said George, “I’ll be our ambassador.”

  After Geza removed his penultimate suit and buried the rest of his garments in a snowdrift, they started off toward the tanks.

  “Stoi! kto idyot?”

  A soldier asked them to identify themselves. George took a few steps forward and began to engage him in impeccable Russian.

  “We are three students from Eotvos Lorand University, visiting a friend who is ill with glandular fever. We would like to take the train back to Budapest. Do you wish to see our papers?”

  The soldier had a whispered conversation with one of his colleagues and then turned back to George.

  “That will not be necessary. Proiditye!” And he waved them on. They hurried into the village, toward the train station, their hearts pounding.

  “Damn,” said Geza, pointing to the station up ahead. “They have tanks there too.”

  “Ignore them,” George replied. “I don’t think these soldiers know what they’re supposed to do, anyway.”

  He was right. No one stopped them from getting onto the platform, where a very crowded train was about to leave. There was much noise and confusion. All three of them called desperately to various people, “Sopron? Going to Sopron?”

  There was shouting and waving from inside the train, which now began slowly to pull out. Geza leapt on board first. George helped Aniko and then clambered on himself. In an instant, they had left the station.

  There was not a single empty seat, so they stood in the corridor looking out the window. Each knew what the other two were thinking. In an hour and a half at most they’d be in Sopron. And then the border.

  There were startling new additions to the otherwise familiar Hungarian landscape. Russian tanks. Everywhere. All with their guns aimed straight at the train.

  They did not exchange a word in the next half-hour.

  Then came the shock.

  “George,” said Geza, sounding as if a noose were around his neck, “do you see where we are?”

  George looked beyond the Soviet armor. His heart nearly stopped.

  “We’re going in the wrong direction! The damn train isn’t going to Sopron—it’s going back to Budapest!” Aniko grabbed his arm in terror.

  The train suddenly halted with a jolt. Aniko fell against George, who kept his balance only because he was holding on to the window rail. The passengers glanced at one another in fear and confusion. George’s eyes were fixed on the Russian tanks outside the window.

  “You don’t think they’re going to shoot, do you?” Aniko whispered.

  “I wouldn’t bet against it,” he replied, biting his lip.

  Then, suddenly, at the far end of the car, a conductor in a faded blue-gray uniform appeared, trying to weave his way through the crowd. Questions were fired at him from every direction. He cupped his hands and announced:

  “We cannot enter Budapest. Repeat, we cannot enter Budapest. The Soviets have surrounded the city and there is fierce shelling.” And then the most startling piece of information: “We are turning back. We must go all the way to Sopron.”

  Geza, George, and Aniko looked at one another. There was jubilation in their eyes. In a few moments, the train started up slowly … away from the Soviet stranglehold on Budapest.

  The entire journey toward the border seemed to be through a corridor of tanks. When they finally arrived and stepped onto the Sopron station platform, hope permitted them to take one deep breath. So far, so good.

  It was now late afternoon.

  “Which way is the border?” George asked Geza.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed.

  “Well, what the hell do you expect us to do?” he snapped. “Ask some Russian soldier?”

  Then it occurred to Aniko. “Isn’t there a School of Forestry here? We could ask a student.”

  She didn’t have to finish her thought. In a split second, George had obtained directions from an elderly woman and they were off.

  The minute they entered the great hall, a young man in a beret asked, “Do you need ammo, comrade?”

  The atmosphere inside the school was actually festive. Dozens of patriots were arming to drive the Russian invaders from their homeland.

  They were each given a piece of bread, a cup of cocoa—and a handful of bullets scooped out from a large vat.

  “Where are the weapons?” George asked, his mouth stuffed with bread.

  “They will come, comrade, they will come.”

  The three of them went to sit down in a corner and plan their next move. One thing was certain. They had not come all this way to join a doomed rebellion.

  “These people are crazy,” said Geza, shifting a half-dozen bullets from hand to hand as if they were mixed nuts. “The shells are all of different calibers. I don’t see two alike. What are they going to do—spit them at the Russians?”

  And then he rose and walked off to seek out geographical orientation.

  George and Aniko looked at each other. This was the first time they had been alone in days.

  “How do you feel?” he asked her.

  “Scared. I hope we can make it.”

  She clasped his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied. And then after a few minutes inquired, “By the way, what did you tell your mother?”

  “I know you’ll laugh, but it’s the only thing she would’ve believed.” She smiled weakly. “I said we were going off to get married.”

  He grinned wearily and squeezed her hand.

  “Maybe it won’t be a lie, Aniko.”

  “Do you really mean it, George?”

  He hesitated for a split second and replied, “Why else did I bring you along?”

  Then they both leaned back, silent and exhausted.

  A few minutes later she said sadly, “I wonder how it’s going in Budapest.”

  “You must force yourself not to think of these things,” he replied.

  She nodded. But, unlike him, she could not so easily eradicate her memories.

  Geza reappeared. “Austria is a few kilometers’ walk through those woods back there. If we left now, we could still get there by nightfall.”

  George looked at Aniko. She stood up, saying nothing.

  It had begun to snow heavily again. Thick, silent chunks of white. All three of them were soon soaked and freezing. Their thin city shoes made it worse than walking barefoot.

  But they were not alone. Every few minutes a group or a family with children would pass. Some times they would merely nod. At others, they’d exchange what meager information they possessed. Yes, we think the frontier is in that direction. Yes, we did hear that most of the Border Patrol has deserted. No, we haven’t seen any Russian soldiers.

  Deep in the forest they would pass bunkers from which submachine guns protruded menacingly. These were Border Guard stations, apparently—hopefully—unoccupied. They just moved on, half-expecting a sudden burst of bullets in the back.

  The snow reflected an eerie light. In the distance, they heard a growling dog. They stopped in their tracks, paralyzed.

  “Is it the guards?” Geza whispered in a panic.

  “How the hell do I know?” George shot back. A second or two later, a man with a German shepherd crossed their path. But that was all he was—just a local peasant out for a stroll with his dog. They pressed forward again.

  Less than five minutes later, they were out of the woods. On a hill overlooking what had to be the Austrian border. They could see soldiers in overcoats stopping vehicles at a gate, talking, gesturing for documents, et cetera. Some cars were waved through, others turned away.

  “Well, we’re here,” Geza announced, a tinge of triumph in his exhausted voice.

  “Yeah,” George commented wryly, “now all we have to do is get past the guards. Anybody know how to fly?”

  The next words were spoken in a strange voice.

  “Halt—put your hands in the air!”

  They whirled and saw two men in uniform be
hind them. One was holding a machine gun.

  Damn—the Border Patrol!

  “You weren’t intending to go on a picnic in Austria, by some chance?”

  Neither George nor Geza nor Aniko answered. They were numb beyond despair. The second officer had a radio, with which he now began to contact headquarters.

  Knowing they had nothing to lose, George tried desperate diplomacy.

  “Listen, we’re all Hungarians. In a few hours, we’ll be Russian prisoners. And I mean you guys, too. Why don’t we all—”

  “Silence!” barked the man with the radio. “We have caught you illegally attempting to cross the frontier.”

  But the soldier with the gun seemed to be trying to catch George’s eye. Could he be hallucinating—or was the officer tilting his head slightly as if to say, “Run for it”?

  Actually, it didn’t matter. This was their last chance for freedom and they all instinctively knew it.

  He touched Aniko’s hand lightly. She understood. And at the same instant they both broke into a run. Geza, equally hungry for survival, dashed to the left as George and Aniko bolted to the right.

  They had taken two or three steps before the bullets began whistling through the air. Perhaps the gunner was not really aiming, but George didn’t want to find out. He tucked his head down and sprinted and sprinted and sprinted.

  George had no idea how long he had been running. He knew only that he still did not feel tired. He flailed on and on in the knee-deep snow until gradually he began to realize there was no more gunfire. In fact, there was no noise at all. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast, empty field of snow.

  He felt safe enough to slacken his pace. Only now did he sense that he was exhausted and near collapse. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He turned to look at Aniko.

  But he saw nothing. No one. Gradually, painfully, he began to comprehend that she was no longer with him. He had been too preoccupied with his own flight to think of her.

  Had she tripped and fallen? Lost her way in that blinding snow? Had one of the many bullets struck her?

  George started to retrace his steps, wondering if he should call her name. He opened his mouth, but no voice emerged. He was afraid. Afraid to attract attention. And if he kept heading back, the police might get him. As they might already have gotten her. Was there any point to committing suicide?

  No, Aniko would want him to go on and save himself. He turned again, trying not to think of the girl who loved him and left everything to be with him.

  Moments later, in the distance, he saw—or thought he saw—the outline of a tower against the evening sky. Then he recognized it as a steeple.

  They don’t have churches like that in Hungary, he realized. This has to be Austria. He set out toward the horizon.

  Half an hour later, Gyorgy Kolozsdi staggered into the Austrian town of Neunkirchen. The villagers were celebrating some local festival. As soon as he appeared, they knew who he was. Or at least what he was. A plump, ruddy-faced man approached, pointing a finger at him.

  “Bist du ungarisch?” he asked.

  Even in his state of shock, he knew they were asking him if he was Hungarian. And, more important, they were speaking German. He was safe.

  Two men came up and helped him sit down on a bench. One had a flask of schnapps. George took a swig. Then suddenly he began to sob.

  He felt guilty to be alive.

  • • •

  A small Austrian police van creaked to a halt about fifty feet from where George was sitting. A tall, slender, and totally expressionless officer came up to him.

  “Guten Abend,” he said quietly. And then gesturing toward his vehicle added, “mit mir, bitte.”

  George breathed the sigh of a defeated man, rose obediently, and slowly followed his captor. When he climbed wearily inside, his worst fears were confirmed. There were ten or twelve other passengers, all Hungarians like himself.

  “Welcome to the West,” said a short, wiry man with bushy sideburns, ensconced in a rear seat. George hastened to sit next to him.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked anxiously.

  “The Austrians are rounding up strays like us. My name’s Sándor, Miklos. Call me Miki. And you—?”

  “Kolozsdi, Gyorgy,” George replied. And then asked quickly, “Are they taking us back?”

  “Don’t be silly. I am on my way to Chicago.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because on this side of the border people are free to go where they want to. Isn’t that why you left?”

  George thought for a moment and then replied softly, “Yes, I suppose so. But where are we going in this bus?”

  “Well, after they pick up a few more fish that slipped through the Soviet nets, they’ll take us someplace to snooze. I know a bit of German and I’ve chatted up the captain.”

  George was almost tempted to feel relief. But there had been so many disappointments, so many unexpected turns of the screw, that he dared not let his guard down.

  As they drove through the night, many of the refugees dozed off. But George remained awake, gazing intently out the window to catch the names of towns and villages. He wanted to be absolutely certain there were no deviations from the path to freedom.

  Just before daybreak they reached Eisenstadt. The van pulled into the crowded parking area of the railroad station—which was bristling with thousands of Hungarian refugees.

  “What’s happening?” asked George as Miki trotted back from a lightning reconnaissance mission.

  “They’re organizing trains,” he puffed, “to take us to some big abandoned army camp the Russians used during the war.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said George.

  “Yes,” Miki agreed with a wink. “Anything Russian—even without Russians in it—is not for me. I’m going freelance.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Look, sooner or later they’ll have to take these people to Vienna. But I prefer to go right now. Want to join me?”

  “Sure. Do you have a map?”

  “In here,” the little man answered, pointing to his head. “I memorized everything. All we have to do is head north and watch the signs, Okay, let’s separate and stroll nonchalantly toward the far exit. When you’re sure nobody’s looking, slip away and start walking along the main road. We’ll rendezvous at the first beerhouse on the right-hand side.”

  They nodded and quickly parted company. George hurried as inconspicuously as possible to the edge of the station. Then, after whistling his way past the armed guards, he began to stride northward as quickly as he could.

  The first tavern was a mere six hundred yards away. The older man was already there, leaning casually against a fading wooden sign that identified the establishment as “Der Wiener Keller.”

  “It means the Vienna Wine Cellar,” explained Miki, pointing to the placard. “It’s a sort of weak pun on ‘Wein’ and ‘Wien.’ Not sophisticated enough for gentlemen like us. I suggest we move on.”

  Without another word they set off.

  “How’s your English?” asked Miki, as they marched briskly.

  “I don’t know a single word,” George replied.

  “Oh yes, you’re one of those privileged party children who get to study all those years of Russian. Not very provident of you, was it?”

  “No. But I’ll start learning English the minute I can buy a book.”

  “You’re walking with one,” his fellow refugee replied. “If you pay attention, I will have you speaking good American before we reach Vienna.”

  “Okay.” George smiled. “Start teaching.”

  “First lesson. Repeat after me, ‘I am a cool cat. You are a cool cat. He is a cool cat. She is a—’ ”

  “What does that mean?” George asked.

  “ ‘Cool cat’ is a nice compliment meaning ‘good person.’ Trust me, George, I’m up-to-date from studying all the newspapers. Now stop the questions and start repeating.”
br />   After two hours, George was able to make a modicum of idiomatic small talk. He knew how to flatter his future countrymen. To tell them that life in Hungary was “a drag.” And that the United States was the hope for the future of all mankind. On the more pragmatic side, he was able to ask where the men’s room was.

  They slowed somewhat as they crossed the Danube. For they both were acutely aware that, a few hundred kilometers to the east, this same river bisected their native city.

  “Do you have family back in Budapest?” George asked.

  Miki hesitated. His expression seemed to alter slightly.

  “Not anymore,” he answered enigmatically. “And you?”

  Regretting that he had broached the subject, George responded with the same words: “Not anymore.”

  And he once more fought to drive the thoughts of Aniko from his mind.

  Miki explained that he was going to seek out the major American relief organizations and tell each one of them that he had a sister and brother-in-law in Illinois. He also had a profession. And besides, Charles Lancaster was willing to be his sponsor.

  “Who the hell is Charles Lancaster?” asked George.

  “My brother-in-law, of course.”

  “ ‘Lancaster?’ ”

  “Listen, Gyuri, if your name were Karoly Lukacs, wouldn’t you change it to something more familiar to the American ear?”

  George agreed. And immediately applied the lesson to his own predicament. “But, Miki, what will they make of ‘Gyuri Kolozsdi’?”

  “They will make a mess of it, my friend. An American needs an American name.”

  “Well, what would you suggest?”

  “ ‘Gyorgy’ is no problem,” answered Miki, clearly enjoying the opportunity to rebaptize an adult. “It simply becomes ‘George.’ But ‘Kolozsdi’ must be replaced by something clear and neat.”

  George searched his mind. For some strange reason, his thoughts returned to that first tavern on the road to freedom—Der Wiener Keller. “How does ‘George Keller’ sound?”

  “Very dignified. Very dignified indeed.”

  At this point they could have taken a tram, but George was loath to leave his new friend.

  “Do you think they’ll want a simple student? I mean, I have no degree or anything.”