“That’s it for now,” he added before returning to his room.

A couple of days later I was summoned to the Personnel Office.

 “I have some bad news for you,” one of the women working there told me. “We have just realized that when you came back from the military, you did not return to do the vulcanizing job you held before. As you probably know, IBUSZ-rooms are given only to laborers who are willing to come from the country. As you are now working as a Quality Controller, you are not entitled to receive help with accommodation. Therefore, at the end of this month, exactly two weeks from today, you must vacate your IBUSZ-room. That’s it.”

The following weekend, I took the bus to Gyongyos and went to see Comrade Jozsa, the man who invited me to join his chess team. Comrade Jozsa was glad to see me. He told me to look at the classified ads in the local paper, and find myself a furnished room to rent. The job is not a problem, he said, he can arrange it as soon as I moved from Budapest.

Renting a room was very easy. It was cheap, too, as I had to share the room I found with another person who already lived there. In Budapest, I picked up my last pay, and then I packed my luggage and quietly moved out of my fancy IBUSZ-room.

Comrade Jozsa sent me to another organizer of the team who happened to be the chief engineer at an ore mine. The mine was at the foot of the Matra Mountains, only a few miles from Gyongyos. There were regularly scheduled buses to take the workers there. The morning I arrived at the plant that processed the ore was full of sunshine. The chief engineer was in a good mood and hired me without asking any questions.

“Your job, when you are here, is to do some quality control,” he said. “Don’t overdo it; things are usually going well here. Later, I will show you around and introduce you to the system operators. Right now, I’ll take you to your office.”

Frankly, I did not expect to get my own office. Well, I did not really get one. The room we entered had not been occupied for who knows how long. The entire furnishing consisted of an old table, a chair and an empty bookshelf. Everything was covered with thick dust, including the rough concrete floor.

The chief engineer looked around and smiled as he said:

“It’s all yours, make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything.”

He gave me the rusty key to the door, and then he left in a hurry.

First, I thought this was some kind of a joke. 

I found some rags in another small room and wiped off the dust from the table and the chair. I sat down and tried to figure out what I should do next. I could not help but remember Comrade Bodrogi and his Quality Control department in the Cordatic Rubber Factory. ‘At least here nobody sees when I am doing nothing,’ I thought smiling.

As it turned out, I was not expected to perform any useful work. I was put on the payroll but my primary duty was to play chess for the team. I did not have to report to anyone during working hours. In fact, I did not even have to show up at the company every day. The chief engineer once said with a mischievous smile on his face:

“Just make sure you show up on paydays.”

This was not at all unusual during those years of socialism in Hungary. The regime wanted to demonstrate to the western world that unemployment did not exist in the socialist system. Therefore, all sorts of unproductive positions were created. The ‘sport jobs’ were the best of all since in most of the cases the employee had to do absolutely nothing on the job, especially if he or she was one of the best in the sport. For example, soccer players of the top teams never saw their employers. (I probably do not have to mention that all enterprises were state-owned.) Of course, players of the top teams in any sport were also paid very well, often better than party chiefs.

By law, every capable male citizen of the state had to have a job. Not being employed for over thirty days was punishable by imprisonment. The women, if they had a job, could stay home for years with full pay after giving birth to a child. Offices were full of secretaries, often two or three for one full time position. As they had very little work to do, they spent most of their time chatting, reading the papers, drinking coffee, or leaving the workplace to do shopping.

Of course, the average citizen earned very little, just enough for basic necessities.

My salary at the ore mine was about the same as it had been at the rubber factory, enough to pay the rent, to buy some clothes and to feed myself.

Whenever I was in the plant, the workers from the neighboring villages who operated the systems greeted me with much (probably false) respect and addressed me Comrade Engineer which really embarrassed me.

The plant was built into a hill side. On top of the hill, where the ore came in from the mine on a narrow track of rails, a couple of nice girls operated the ‘dumper’ that emptied the bogies into a mill. They were about my age, and they seemed to be very happy whenever I showed up to say hello to them. They also called me Comrade Engineer, and they usually giggled whenever they said something.

One day, one of the girls asked me whether I had already tasted the delicious cherries that were now ripe in an orchard nearby.

“No, I don’t know about any orchard nearby,” I answered. I was telling the truth as it had never even occurred to me that I should explore the area around the plant.

“Susan will show you where it is,” said the girl laughing, pointing at her co-worker.

Susan was laughing, too, but I could see her face turning red.

“Okay, I am ready to go,” I said. “Let’s go, Susan. Let’s eat some cherry.”

After some hesitation, Susan began to lead me through a small forest. Out of the woods, we saw vineyards.

“Where is the orchard?” I asked.

“It’s not really an orchard…” Susan replied. “It’s just cherry trees here and there in the vineyards… There is one!”

I must admit, I was not really looking at the tree she pointed at. My eyes were on her legs and on her hips. And who knows what else we would have ended up doing besides eating cherries if an angry voice that must have belonged to the man who guarded the vineyards did not make us suddenly turn around and run back to the plant.

All in all, it was an enjoyable summer. However, by the time fall arrived with colder temperatures and lots of rain, I lost interest in ‘working’ at the ore processing plant. As I had pretty good results playing for the chess team, I felt confidant when I approached Comrade Jozsa. I asked him if it would be possible to have a job somewhere within the city limits. Next day, he took me to a childhood friend of his who happened to be the director of operations at the hospital and all health institutions in the city.

“Well, I might have an opening here very soon,” said Comrade Director. “I’m just wondering whether this young man can handle twenty-nine big-mouthed women.” He looked at me laughing before turning back to Comrade Jozsa. He continued in a more serious tone: “The current manager is retiring so your timing is not bad… but I was hoping to find a replacement with some supervisory experience… I see he has a degree in Chemistry, so he does have the qualification… but he is so young.”

Comrade Jozsa finally convinced the director and I got the job.

Being the leader of the textile cleaning plant was a totally new experience for me. I realized on day one that this job demanded a serious attitude adjustment on my part. I knew this was not really a ‘sport job’ where I can goof off. I actually appreciated the opportunity, and made a commitment to myself to do my best.

I had one serious challenge from the very beginning: my assistant. She had worked in the plant for twenty years, had been the assistant manager for the past five years, and she had been waiting patiently for the position to become vacant. The wife of a union secretary, she would not have thought for a second that someone else might get the job. In the beginning, she did whatever she could to make it difficult for me to assume my role as the real leader. I surprised her by allowing her to perform more and more of my duties and not showing any disappointment. Soon, she realized that I was not as dumb as she had thought and stopped trying to drive me out.

As it was part of my job description, I checked the washing solution in the machines several times a day. I had to make sure that the concentration of the detergent as well as the temperature of the solution was at the required level. The machines were not only cleaning the textiles that came down from the hospital rooms, they also had to destroy whatever pathogens might have come along.

I was enrolled in a class that once again made me travel to Budapest for the first three working days of every month. The training was held at one of the big hospitals. This training was serious. It was about how the ‘wash-master’ – as we were referred to in the class – can come up with new ways to make textile cleaning more effective and more economical… In addition to free accommodation at the tourist hotel on top of Gellert Hill, and all expenses paid, I received a certain extra amount of money for every day I had to spend in Budapest.

After about six months on the job, my boss, Comrade Director, summoned me to his office one day.

“I am very pleased with your performance,” he began after I sat down. “I am very glad Comrade Jozsa brought you to us. So far you have exceeded all my expectations. As a way to show my appreciation, I am giving you a pay raise. Your monthly base is now going to be 2,800 Forints. I am sure you know this is pretty good pay for a young man like yourself. Physicians start with not much more.” He paused. “There is another thing I wanted to talk to you about… Our safety inspector has just retired. I thought you would be quite capable of taking over his duties on a part time basis. Frankly, there is not a whole lot to do as safety inspector, I am sure you can do the whole thing during your normal working hours. However, I will pay you a fixed extra amount on top of your 2,800 base. I will pay you an extra 400 Forints every month. You’ll have to train newly hired employees about the safety rules of our institution which you can do in your office. After the training, you’ll test them and if they pass, you sign off on their hire sheet. This workload is minimal as we have only one new employee per week on average. You will also investigate work related accidents and injuries, prepare a report and establish responsibility. Don’t worry, this only sounds difficult. After you do this once, you’ll see how easy it is. Besides, there are weeks, even months, without any event. About once a month, you will have to inspect all buildings, including the doctors’ offices outside the hospital. You’ll report any discrepancies to me. I’ll take it from there… So, what do you think? Will you do it?”

“Gladly,” I responded.

The extra workload just made the days go faster.

I enjoyed working at the hospital. The women I managed respected me. Everyone in the offices was friendly. Food in the cafeteria was great and dirt cheap; that’s where most of the nurses and doctors also ate. I always pre-paid for breakfast, lunch and dinner a week at a time. The cook was a pretty woman, and she made fresh home-made dishes for every meal.

During my safety inspections I befriended doctors. Some of them challenged me to a game of chess. A young urologist who had just moved down from Budapest invited me to play tennis regularly. He had paid for the membership at the tennis club; I played free as his guest.

My on-and-off relationship with one of the nurses came to an end in the middle of the summer when a friend of mine introduced me to a very pretty girl at the public pool. She was only eighteen, just finished high school, and she looked like a photo model. She was especially attractive in her tiny red bikini. It was love at first sight on my part, and for the first time in my life I was thinking of marriage. I started dating her. We usually met at the pool on weekends. She was an excellent swimmer so we often had friendly races in the pool. When there was a good show, I took her to the movie theater. I often bought dinner for her at the only first class hotel-restaurant in town, and after dinner we danced. Then came September, and she was out of my life: she started university in Budapest. We met once more in October when she came home to visit her parents. At that time she told me she was not able to continue our relationship.

I was sad for a while but then I forgot her completely.

The year 1972 was over.

January of 1973 started with yet another promotion for me at the hospital. Comrade Director summoned me to his office and said:

“Due to new regulations, we have to create a position, and hire someone into that position, to deal with the education of all personnel about what to do in case of a nuclear war. Since you run the textile cleaning plant, and your plant needs to be designated as the station to decontaminate everyone, I thought of you for this new position. You would have to do some research and prepare a lecture you would give to the roughly five hundred employees of our institution, including doctors, fifty people at a time. That would take about a total of eighty hours of your time. The lectures don’t need to be longer than four hours each. You could schedule one or two lectures per week.

This position does not pay a salary but you receive a set amount for each lecture. I thought I would pay 250 Forints per lecture. What do you think?”

I accepted the assignment and started spending time in the library to put together a presentation that would not bore even the doctors. I speculated that including the topic of re-infection in health institutions might make the session interesting for the doctors as well.

At the end of January, I learned that the institution had some apartments for doctors at the small resort town of Matrafured, a couple of miles from the city at the foot of the Matra mountains accessible by a local narrow-gauge train that ran about every thirty minutes in the morning and in the evening. The train also ran on weekends to take people on outings closer to the mountains. I also learned that one of the apartments happened to be vacant. I approached the Assistant Director, an easy-going older man we just called Uncle Zoli, who I thought liked me. I told him I heard of the vacancy.

“You know, I am tired of living in a rented room that I have to share with another man,” I said. “Is there a way you can let me move into that apartment?”

“Sure, I’ll let you take it but only temporarily… If we get a new doctor applying from Budapest, and he or she has no accommodation here, you must move out on short notice.” He leaned closer and whispered into my ear: “Frankly, I don’t foresee any new applicants for quite some time. You might be able to stay there the full year.”

The apartment was furnished but not too fancy. The bedroom was small and cozy, heated by an oil-burning stove. The kitchen, and even the bathroom, had to be shared with another tenant, and both opened from the outside. Taking a bath on a cold winter night meant I had to wrap myself in a blanket to walk the three-yard distance outside between the doors of the bathroom and my bedroom. In the morning, I only washed my face. Anytime I wanted hot water, I had to make fire under the boiler. The wood for the oven was stacked up by the wall behind the building. All work around the buildings and on the grounds was performed by mental patients who were permanent ‘tenants’ at the psychiatric department. (Later, some of the doctors got in trouble for this.)

After having breakfast at the institution, I usually took a shower in our plant, so keeping clean was not a problem.

I do not know what prompted the Communist Party Secretary of our institution but one day he called me on the phone and asked me to visit him in his office. He was very friendly and polite when I showed up. He asked me a few questions about my chess games before getting to the point:

“Comrade Bartok, have you ever thought of becoming a member in the Party?” he asked me in a soft tone. Of course, he was referring to the Communist Party, the only party permitted by the regime.

“I must admit I have not,” I responded bluntly.

“You surely have been active in the Communist Youth Movement, right?”

“During my years in the elementary school, I had to be.”

“Sure… Of course, at that time the whole idea of socialism probably did not mean a whole lot to you, right?”

“True.”

“Well, now that you are in a responsible position, in a leadership position to be more exact, you surely understand the significance of showing the right example, of being the kind of leader people can follow.”

He went on trying to convince me that it was time for me to join the party. After he had nothing new to say, and just kept repeating the same slogans over and over again, I stood up and said:

“Comrade Secretary, thank you for considering me for membership. I need more time before I can join. I need more time to develop my socialist consciousness. I can not get myself to join until I fully understand the principles of socialism, and until I can identify myself with the mission. Please, give me some more time.”

“All right, Comrade, you know where to find me… Remember, it is not a disadvantage to belong with the party.” He raised his pointing finger and added: “Not belonging might be.”

I felt threatened only for a moment. Once I left his office, I quickly got him out of my mind. Joining the party was the last thing I would have wanted to do.

At the beginning of every month, I continued taking the trips to Budapest for my three days of training. While accommodated on top of Gellert Hill in the Citadel Tourist Hotel for my April stay, I befriended a young American about my age when I was checking out one morning. He was behind me in the line and I heard him talking to the clerk in very poor, broken Hungarian before switching to English. I followed him outside when he finished and I told him I wanted to speak with him. He seemed to be glad he could practice Hungarian so we had a long conversation.

He told me he was from the USA, son of Hungarian parents who had to flee Hungary in 1944 to avoid deportation to Siberia by the communists.

“You know,” he said, “they were intellectuals. The communists would have taken them to labor camps. My father had been an engineer, my mother the daughter of one of Horthy’s ministers. They had no choice but to leave. They now live in the state of New Jersey, not far from New York City.”

Later he told me that he was a university student in one of the states far away from home.

Finally, he jotted down his phone number and handed it to me.

“Here, give me a call if you happen to be in the neighborhood,” he said casually.

‘Yeah, just like that,’ I thought.

“You know what? Give me your address, too” I told him. “I will write you a letter.”

“Great idea,” he replied. “Write in Hungarian.”

“Since I don’t know any English, I’d have to write in Hungarian anyway.”

He said good-bye and left. Later he played an important role in my life. Was meeting him a mere coincidence? I don’t think so.

Tricking police, risking prison, obtaining a passport

I finished my research and had my presentation ready by May. The lecture I gave to the first group turned out to be a great success. At least that was what I heard from the Comrade Director when he called me into his office the following day. By the time I got to the third group, I did not even need to use my notes. I planned one lecture per week but there were delays due to other, apparently more important events the doctors and nurses had to attend.

In the meantime, I was getting to the point where I thought time had arrived to start thinking about obtaining a passport and then leaving the country. I was hoping that working as a leader would make the regime forget about my childish attempt to cross the border illegally and that the sentence I received for it would have been wiped off my record by then. As there were two types of passports, the blue one for travel to the west and the red one for travel within the soviet bloc nations, I had to be thinking of applying for the one that would enable me to enter Austria or Italy.

By law, every Hungarian had to register both the permanent and the temporary residence with the police. My permanent address had to be at my parents’ home as I had no home of my own. This meant being registered with the police station of the city of Ozd where my parents lived. My temporary address had to be registered at the apartment I got from the hospital, with the police station in the city of Gyongyos. Matrafured had no police station of its own. These addresses, after filling out the necessary forms and submitting them at the appropriate police station, were recorded, written, stamped and undersigned by the clerk at the police in one’s Personal Identification book. This book was of many pages, different sections for recording employer’s names and addresses, recording permanent and temporary address changes, personal data, etc. This book had to be carried at all times and presented anywhere, anytime when a policeman so demanded. The information in it had to be up to date. Changes had to be reported and recorded in the ID book usually within ten days.

Passport applications had to be submitted to the police station where one’s permanent address was registered. In my case, this meant submitting it at the police station of Ozd.

I purchased the Passport Application Form at the local office of IBUSz, the National Travel Agency. While filling out the several pages, I had difficulty with the page that had the question ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime of any kind?’ I thought if I write ‘Yes’ and then also answer the question ‘If yes, explain’, I probably get an automatic decline. Besides, I never considered my foolish action a crime, so I answered ‘No’.

One of the pages asked for the employer’s recommendation, explaining in detail why the applicant should be considered to be eligible to have a passport. Uncle Zoli wrote a pretty nice recommendation for me and signed it, too.

I took a day off, got on the train and delivered the application to the Ozd police station as the law required it, in person. This was, if I remember well, at the end of June. In about two weeks, I received a letter from the Ozd police. It read:

“You lied on your application. Therefore, your request for a passport is declined. Furthermore, because you did not tell the truth, you are banned from submitting another passport application of any kind for the next five years.”

That letter blew my fuse. I had had it with the police state.

The idea of what to do next got conceived in my mind in no time, as if receiving an inspiration or a revelation from somewhere above.

I took off another day, got on the train again and traveled to Ozd with the form necessary to un-register my permanent address from my parents’ residence. My father had to sign the form and he did without even asking why I was un-registering. At the police station, the clerk stamped the form and then he recorded the un-registration in my ID book, stamped it and signed it.

Back in Gyongyos, the next day I filled out a ‘registration of permanent address form’, using the apartment address in Matrafured, and then I went to see Uncle Zoli and asked him to sign the form. First, he raised his eyebrows.

“You know very well, that this apartment is a temporary solution for you. The buildings are owned by the hospital, not even doctors who live there for years can use the address as their permanent residence.”

“Please, Uncle Zoli, I need this for a very special reason.”

He shook his head, and said:

“Boy, you’ll get me in trouble.”

At the same time he took the form from my hand and signed it.

Good old Uncle Zoli, I hope he did not get in trouble for helping me.

My next stop was the police station. When I left the station, I was officially a permanent resident of Matrafured/Gyongyos, and of the county of Heves.

One of the twenty-nine women working in my plant was the wife of a police captain. Of course, I remembered very well that once she had asked me if had ever been abroad. I had told her that I had no passport. She said her husband might be able to speed up getting one in case I decided to travel. Had she known of my past record, she would have probably thought twice before making such an offer.

Anyway, now that I could legally apply for a passport right there in Gyongyos, I intended to use her in my plan. My plan in a nutshell was as follow:

Before the police station of Gyongyos writes to the police station of Ozd, requesting my police record to be transferred from the jurisdiction of my old permanent residency to the jurisdiction of my new permanent residency, I apply for a red passport with the intent to travel to Bulgaria. The transfer could take two to three weeks, I estimated. I might somehow get lucky in the meantime, I thought. What I was about to do was very risky as I was banned from applying for five years.

I purchased the passport application form for the red passport and filled it out. On the page where it asked about being convicted for any crimes, once again I answered ‘No’. To the question ‘Permanent resident addresses in the last two years’, I wrote in only the address of the apartment in Matrafured. And Uncle Zoli signed the employer’s recommendation page once again without remembering that he had signed another application for me not much earlier. (Or perhaps he remembered, I don’t really know.)

I did not even think of what might happen to me if I get caught violating the ban and knowingly providing false information the second time. I went to the police captain’s wife and asked her if she thought her husband might be able to help me with my passport application.

“Oh, of course,” she said with a big smile. “If I can use the phone in your office, I’ll call him right now.”

After she hung up, she told me to go to see her husband.

“He is there now, if you can go, he is waiting for you at the station.”

Of course, I went immediately.

The man took me to an office and introduced me to a middle aged woman.

“He would need a passport. Can you help him?” he asked the woman.

“Of course, please sit down,” she offered me a seat.

“She’ll take care of you,” said the man and left the office.

“I see you have the necessary form completed,” the woman said.

“Yes,” I said, “and here are my photos as well.”

She looked at every detail and made check marks on the right side of the form without asking for my ID book to verify that the information I provided was accurate. Had she asked for my ID book, she would have immediately seen that my permanent address was not two years old. That would have surely prompted her to order an investigation.

After she finished with my form, she told me to return a day later.

The next day, the woman handed me a red passport. I could not believe it.

“Oh, I forgot something,” she said and took the passport back from my hand.

I remember I started to sweat.

“I need to stamp your visas in here,” she said laughing. “Now, I understand you are going to Bulgaria. Do you want to go through Romania or Yugoslavia?”

This was actually the question I was hoping for. I knew that if I could get into Yugoslavia, I would have a chance of escaping to Italy.

“Which way is shorter?” I asked. Of course, I knew the answer.

“If you want, I can give you a 24-hour transit visa for Yugoslavia. That’s the shorter way.”

“Thank you, please do.”

Yugoslavia was not a member of the Soviet bloc; that was the reason why the normal ‘red’ visa was not valid there. The Yugoslav visa, even the 24-hour transit visa was almost as difficult to get as visas to western countries, mainly because the Yugoslav regime did not guard the western border like the Hungarian or the Polish regimes did.

My stomach was one big knot as I walked out of the police station with the passport in my hand, the passport that turned out to be the key to my future.

Swimming to freedom

After the biggest gamble of my life resulted in obtaining a Yugoslav transit visa from the police – described later in the book – I immediately asked for a week vacation at work and the next day I was on the train going south. I had packed my most essentials into a knapsack. There was a limit on how much Hungarian currency I could exchange for Yugoslav Dinars. Of course, I was not planning to stay in Yugoslavia for more than it was absolutely necessary so I thought the money should be enough.

As I had studied the maps in the library, I had a pretty good idea of how I would get to the Italian border. I did not dare to have notes or small drawings about the border area because I was expecting the Hungarian border police to search my knapsack as well as my pockets. Of course, I had not shared my plan with anybody because I wanted to be sure that no one could report it to the police.

I was dressed well, as usual: a pair of nice, gray slacks, a light blue shirt and a fairly new gray leather jacket. In addition to the comfortable dressing shoes I wore, I had a pair of tennis shoes in my knapsack. I also had an extra pair of pants, another shirt, and a couple of extra underwear. I packed a brand new, durable plastic shopping bag and a couple of thin, smaller plastic bags, a thin rope several yards long, and swimming trunks. I was planning to make my escape by swimming from Yugoslavia to Italy during the night. The map showed that the border between the two countries cut a bay of the Adriatic Sea in half, and I had heard rumors that it was an area where people had made their escapes in the past.

I took the Budapest – Zagreb night train that ran in the western half of Hungary. This actually could have gotten me in trouble if border control questioned why I was not taking the shorter route in the east going through Beograd when traveling to Bulgaria. Fortunately, there was hardly any control when the train reached the Yugoslav border.

As I had no idea of what to expect, I was very nervous and I had a hard time hiding my anxiety when the patrol asked for my passport. One of the policemen yawned as he looked on while the other one quickly put a stamp in my passport and then they left. I leaned out the window and later saw the patrol leaving the train. Finally, when the train started moving again and it crossed the border, I had a big sigh of relief.

I continued sticking my head out the window as the train was speeding up, enjoying the fresh air of the night. I began to feel a new sensation. I began to feel a little bit of freedom.

There were only a few passengers in the car. In my compartment I was alone. I slept a couple of hours before daybreak and felt fairly rested when the train pulled into the station in Zagreb. As I remember, not knowing the Croatian language was no problem. I ate a sandwich somewhere and then I found the bus terminal where I bought a one-way ticket to the city of Rijeka on the Dalmatian coast.

Well, Rijeka was not really where I was heading. The city I needed to reach was Koper, a few miles from Lazaret Blok, the border crossing to Italy at the tip of the bay I was planning to swim across. After living the first twenty-three and a half years of my life in the Hungarian communist system, I was conditioned to be afraid and not to trust anyone or any situations. Especially since Yugoslavia was also a communist country, I thought it was possible that I was watched. For this reason, I wanted to take a detour and not rush straight to border area.

I had to change bus in Ljubjana where I spent the night in a quaint little room at a tourist hotel close to the university. The following day, I was riding in a modern and comfortable bus. The scenery was beautiful and a violent thunderstorm that caught us in the mountains made the trip quite an adventure. Finally, for the first time in my life, I saw the sea. The bus was still running high up in the mountains when after a sharp curve the bright blue waters of the Adriatic appeared deep down in the distance. It was a breathtaking sight.

We arrived in Rijeka by mid-afternoon.

I had some sausage with cooked cabbage at the station buffet and then I walked along the coast for a while. I saw some real palm trees which was another first for me.

When I arrived back at the bus terminal, I saw passengers boarding a bus. I got in line to find out where the bus was heading.

“Koper?” I asked the driver when it was my turn.

The driver nodded and urged me to get on because others were still lining up behind me. As I hesitated, the driver shouted at me: “Split-Rijeka-Koper-Trieste.”

“Koper,” I said quickly and handed him a large enough Dinar bill to cover the price of the ticket.

By late in the afternoon, I was in Koper. There were plenty of signs on the walls in the bus terminal advertising rooms in inexpensive motels, so I had no problem finding one a short distance away.

I left my knapsack in the room and went back to the bus station to study the schedule. Soon I knew that shortly after dark there was a bus to Trieste, the city on the Italian side of the border. Its last stop before the border was Ankaran, a small resort on the beach about a mile from the checkpoint at Lazaret Blok.

I bought a sandwich at a buffet and walked around while eating it. I had about an hour until the arrival of the bus.

Back in my motel room, I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes. I tried not to think of anything. As my desire to make it over to the other side was much stronger than my fear of getting caught, I was not a bit hesitant about going forward with my plan.

I remember I was very excited. I looked at my watch probably every minute.

Finally, it was time to get going.

I put on my swimming trunk, my gray pair of slacks, my white shirt, and my pair of light dressing shoes. I put an under-wear, the rope and the two small plastic bags as well as all of my documents and whatever money I still had left – which was not much – into the large shopping bag. Leaving my expensive leather jacket and everything else I had in the knapsack behind in the motel room, I walked over to the bus station. The bus had already arrived. The passengers were using the stopover to eat something at the station buffet and to use the restrooms.

I can not say I was calm when I stepped inside the bus and handed a bill to the driver who was sitting comfortably in his seat waiting for all his passengers to return.

“Ankaran,” I said trying to sound relaxed.

The driver issued the ticket, and gave me some change back.

I stepped off the bus and waited until all the passengers returned. When the driver signaled that he was closing the door, I quickly got back on and then stood close to the door. I expected the trip to my station to be short.

Someone got off at the next stop.

While the bus was running, I kept looking out the window. I absolutely did not want to miss getting off at Ankaran. Riding another stop further, to the checkpoint at Lazaret Blok, could have ended my quest. I was sure that without the proper passport, and a visa to Italy, the border patrol would have arrested me. That eventually could have landed me in jail in Hungary.

Soon the bus pulled off the road again and came to a stop. When the door opened, I looked out but saw no signs of any kind. There was no building there, not even any lights. I looked at the passengers to see if someone was getting off but nobody moved.

“Ankaran,” the driver said when I finally looked at him.

“Ankaran?” I asked in surprise.

“Ankaran,” the driver repeated and pointed out the door into the darkness.

...