At the end of January, in preparation for the team championship, the chess team had to participate in the city tournament. I played well and finished first.

In the meantime, I renewed an old relationship. The girl that used to live at her parents’ home in Gyongyos before I escaped now studied at the University of Eger, so we had no problem seeing each other. Although, I dated her only briefly before I left Hungary, the relationship deepened quickly and we started talking about engagement. I happened to mention to her that if I can save enough money to have my car repaired, we could drive somewhere on our honeymoon.

“What? You have a car and not even telling me about it?” she said surprised. “Since when is money for car repair a problem? How much do you need? My parents have plenty of money. My mother will surely help us. We don’t even have to pay it back.”

So, I arranged for a tow truck to pull my wreck all the way from Ozd to Budapest to the only Volkswagen service in Hungary. It took about a month before I received the telegram:

“Car is ready. Bring 23,000 Forints to pick it up.”

My fiancée came along. She had the money.

Our affair started deteriorating only weeks later over ideological differences. Being the secretary of the communist youth movement at the university, my fiancée, as I realized it more and more, genuinely believed in the communist doctrines. She was convinced that what I thought were lies and deception was in fact leading society in the right direction. Finally, I concluded that she, probably as a result of her parents’ status, believed in the system because she was a part of it and, as such, profited from it.

I had a real headache: I wanted to break up the relationship but I had no money to pay back what she gave me for the car repair. I did not want to end up with her accusing me of being a ‘can man’. The communist system was full of cheating, full of can men especially at higher levels. I did not want to appear being one like them.

Quite unbelievable, even as I think about this today, a miracle rushed to my aid: I won just enough money on the state-run Lottery.

I had seen my co-workers buying tickets but I had never been interested. Out of desperation over my debt to my fiancée, I had an idea. I suggested in the office that we pool our money and play a combination that required over four hundred tickets. Not everyone participated so I had to pay for two parts. I asked one of the secretaries, a very shy girl, to pick the numbers for us. As we were playing half of the ninety numbers that could be drawn, our chance for serious winning was minimal. If all five numbers drawn coincided with five of the forty-five numbers we combined, the way we combined them, the guaranteed winning would have been hardly enough to cover the cost of the tickets and our chance for the jackpot was less than a hundredth of one percent. Well, the five numbers drawn did coincide with our numbers and no one hit the jackpot. With our half percent of chance, we hit the next level on the top. I collected two parts of the winning, just a few Forints short of what I owed to my fiancée.

When I showed up with the money, my fiancée and her parents did not even want to hear about me returning it to them but I was very adamant about it so finally they accepted it.

About a week later, I ended the relationship.

Mentally, I was suffering a great deal from the way the system functioned and how everybody succumbed to it. After experiencing almost three years of freedom in America, I could not accept that people behaved like sheep: if they were told the milk was black, they all agreed.

After more than thirty years of conditioning by the ruling elite, those that ran the country, there was hardly anyone able or willing to openly question the absurdity of the system. There was peace because everyone had been forced to compromise. There was hardly any crime because we lived in a police state. There was a general feeling of security but a very low level of living standard. There was no racism or discrimination because these can not exist under Martial law. The regime kept preaching about justice and equality for all. Of course, as in Orwell’s novel, those that belonged with the ruling elite were more equal and they were right all the time. They kept preaching that the factory belongs to the workers and that the land belongs to those who cultivate it. At the same time, the workers and the peasants in the co-operatives received meagerly low wages. In addition to keeping all the profits, the rulers pocketed most of the foreign aids as well.

‘These artificially – and forcefully – created conditions have nothing to do with real life,’ I concluded over and over again. ‘The system is disgustingly corrupt.’

It took a couple of months for my packages to arrive from New York. I only received a letter – it was sent to my parents’ address – informing me that the packages are at the customs office in Budapest. The customs duty I had to pay for the packages was actually higher than the real value of my belongings. After I paid the duty and picked up my packages – not before I was sent to three different locations in Budapest -, I decided to sell most of what my colleagues would buy. Fortunately, the Rolling Stones records were very popular, people were willing to pay decent prices even for used ones.

There were two things I guarded very carefully. One was my American green card which I had glued inside my valet so the border investigation on my return could not find it. They would have surely confiscated it – just as they confiscated my ‘US Re-entry Permit’ - had I not hidden it. The other one was a one-hundred German Mark bill I still had when I arrived at my parents’ house at the time of my return.

When I wrote letters to my friend in Germany, I always told him how bad the weather was ever since I crossed the border at Hegyeshalom.

“Wipe your ass with the Human Rights Decleration”

By the end of spring I could clearly see that nothing had changed: the Helsinki Agreement was just another piece of worthless document, and basic human rights were just as non-existent as before the 1975 Helsinki Conference. This became even more evident after I finally had the courage to go to the police department to apply for a passport. The two-passport system – blue to the west and red within the Warsaw pact countries – was still in effect. I applied for a blue one.

The officer that I handed my application to, briefly glanced at the document, then he started laughing. He then went into another office, still laughing, and told others about my application. When he returned, two other officers came with him. As if after a good joke, they just could not stop laughing. Finally, the one that I initially dealt with tossed my application in front of me.

“You have just returned from America, right?” he said.

“That’s right,” I said trying to maintain a firm voice in spite of the knot I felt in my throat.

“Well, then you will have to wait five years before you can even hand in an application. Two years if you apply for a red passport.”

“The Hungarian government signed the Helsinki Agreement in 1975 guaranteeing freedom of movement to everyone in Hungary,” I said almost apologetically. “I was pardoned by the amnesty, that’s why I returned. Now I think I should have my basic rights.”

The officers started laughing again and I felt totally humiliated.

“Enough!” The officer said after they finally stopped laughing. “Take your application and wipe your ass with it. And don’t come back! Just remember before you beg for your human rights again, five years for the blue passport, two for the red one. Now, get out before I arrest you.”

I was mad at myself. ‘What a huge mistake it was to leave the free world!’

I was determined to find a way out.

At the beginning of summer, I drove to Budapest with the idea of visiting the American Consulate to see if I could receive some help there. After all, I was already a lawful permanent resident of the USA and I had the green card to prove it. After I parked my car, I found a public telephone and dialed the number of the embassy. I tried many times but I could not get through. Finally, I conquered my fear and decided to go to the consulate on Szabadsag Square.

The uniformed American guard outside the door politely told me to report to the receptionist in the lobby.

“I would like to have an appointment with the US Consul or someone in that department,” I told the middle-aged female receptionist in English.

The woman briefly looked at me before responding in Hungarian.

“No need to use a foreign language here,” she said almost sarcastically. “We are in Hungary where Hungarians speak Hungarian.”

“All right,” I switched to Hungarian. “I would like to see the Consul.”

“Can I see your ID book?”

She was asking for my Hungarian ID but I gave her my US green card.

After writing down my name on a sheet of paper, the woman picked up the phone and dialed an extension.

“Is the Consul in?” she asked in English after a few seconds.

“Sorry,” she turned back to me after hanging up. “The Consul is not here today. Here is your ID. Is there anything else?”

“I would like to go inside and talk to someone representing the USA.”

“That will not be possible unless you telephone and set up an appointment.”

“I tried to telephone several times but I could not get through.”

“Don’t give up! Keep trying! Good-bye.”

During the week after I returned from Budapest, I tried calling the US Consulate several times a day without any success. Often the phone just kept ringing without anyone picking it up or it got disconnected immediately after someone answered and I asked for an appointment. I was very frustrated. I decided to try in person again.

I was glad to see that the same guard was on duty.

“You are back,” he said with a smile. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I tried the telephone many times to set up an appointment,” I told him.

“The Consul has just returned if he is the one you want to see.” He opened the door and pointed towards the receptionist.

It was the same woman sitting behind the reception desk.

“I am here again because my attempts at setting an appointment over the phone have failed,” I told her in Hungarian after I greeted her.

She had a mean look on her face.

“So you came because you want to see the Consul if I am not mistaken,” she said in a very dry voice, “or someone in that department?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head.

“How unlucky you can get. The Consul is not here and no one else is available to see you today. I’m afraid you will have to come back another time. Frankly, if I were you I’d be more patient and try the telephone. Besides…”

I did not want to hear the rest. I saw that in the meantime the guard came inside and he was curious about our conversation so I turned to him.

“You probably have not understood much of what we have said here in Hungarian.”

The guard smiled.

“You are right,” he said, “I did not. But I wish I did.”

“Well, I can tell you that it seems like an ordinary Hungarian like me has no chance getting in for an appointment. She is telling me that the Consul is not in and…”

At this point the receptionist started shouting in our direction.

“I have just been notified that the Consul is here and can see you now. Please, go upstairs right now!”

I ignored her and continued my conversation with the guard.

“Yeah, I’ve heard about similar situations,” he said.

“Here, this is my American ID.” I showed him my green card. “Why do I have to be turned away from the US Consulate by a Hungarian receptionist? Is she working for your Consulate or for the Hungarian police?”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Come with me.”

He took me to an office on the ground floor where he introduced me to a fairly young man dressed in a nice dark suit.

“No problem,” the civilian said after I outlined my complaint. “Follow me.”

Passing the receptionist (who was busy talking Hungarian on the phone), we walked upstairs. The young man told me to wait in a small room and then he left. A few minutes later, I was called into an office.

“I am the Consul,” the man behind his desk told me. “What can I do for you?”

I briefly told him about how I went to America, how and why I returned to Hungary, and that I felt cheated and trapped. I told him about my encounter at the Eger police station attempting to apply for a passport.

“Nothing has changed here,” I said passionately. “It’s the same old dictatorial system where average citizens are property of the state. No human rights. I want to go back to the United States. Please, help me if you can.”

The man sighed and shook his head.

“I wish I could help,” he said sympathetically. “Unfortunately, you are not a citizen of the USA. Therefore, there is nothing we can do for you diplomatically as long as you are within the borders of Hungary. If you were at a Consulate in another country, let’s say in Germany that would make a huge difference.”

Seeing how sad his words made me, he rushed to add:

“Of course, there is hope for you. You can always apply for an exit permit. It’s like applying for an emigrant status. You can buy the application form at the IBUSz travel agency. I would also like to inform you that your green card will expire after one year of being absent from the USA. You came back to Hungary in last December, right? In December of this year you will lose your American permanent resident status. After that, you will not be able to return unless you start the process over and receive a new immigrant visa which might pose a real challenge for you.”

“I wish you luck,” he said as I was leaving his office.

Downstairs, the receptionist grinned at me.

“Remember! December!” she said in English.

What the devil! I rushed out of the building wondering how she would know. Was she listening in on my conversation with the Consul?

Out in the street, I started walking aimlessly, my mind occupied with the thought that my situation was totally hopeless. ‘What good would an exit visa application do for me? I would be treated the same way as I had been when I tried to apply for a regular passport.’

I noticed that a police car was slowly following me as I walked around on the square. ‘I just have to ignore it!’ I told myself. ‘They are surely not watching me, anyway… I must not become paranoid!’

Finally, I concluded that trying the exit visa was the only thing I could do legally so I found an IBUSz office. I was told that such application was not readily available but it could be ordered and I could pick it up in a week. Of course, I had to pay for it in advance.

Back in Eger, I continued going to work every morning. The first morning after my interview with the US Consul, I saw a police car parking in front of the building where I rented my furnished room. The blue-white car followed me all the way to the Tobacco Factory. As the police escort did not stop the following mornings, it was making me more and more nervous. One morning I decided to run a red light, wanting to get stopped by the police. I just wanted to see what sort of policemen kept an eye on me. Well, I was not stopped but the car was not there the next morning.

After I picked up the exit visa application form from the IBUSz in Budapest, whatever hope I had left disappeared as I was reading through the four pages of the form. I saw that it was designed to make exit visas for ordinary citizens impossible. The first page was for the personal data. The second page was for the employer to justify why the employee should be let go when there was such a severe shortage of employees nationwide. [This was one of the biggest open lies. Everyone knew that the situation was exactly the opposite, that internal unemployment was the real problem.] On the third page the military had to give its approval while the last page was for the local police to add their two cents worth.

Nevertheless, I thought I would give it a try so I started writing the lengthy, detailed biography that had to be attached to the first page.

In the meantime, the captain of the chess team sent me a letter of invitation to attend the City Championship. The letter informed me of the site of the tournament that lasted for two weeks with one round each day. Two weeks of sport vacation had already been arranged for me. However, when I showed up for the opening ceremony, the head of the County Chess Association, whom everyone referred to as a parasitic communist, informed me that he had decided not to allow me to participate.

“And don’t even think about missing days from your workplace because you are not on sport vacation,” he shouted after me as I was leaving the site.

After I finished writing my biography, I knocked on my boss’ door.

“I don’t even know how to start what I am here for,” I said after he offered a seat in his office. “You know that I like to work for you…”

“All right, I’ll make it easier for you,” he said smiling. “I think what you have there in your hand is an emigrant visa application and you need me to give my approval.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Well, they think I am on their side.” He paused. “As you might have suspected, I know more than the average citizen. Frankly, I don’t blame you for trying to leave. I can understand you one hundred percent. Although, I am expected to write that you are indispensable in this office, I am not going to do that. I will state that I am not against your return to America. They might wonder how I dare but that’s their problem.”

He wished me luck with the rest of the application.

Next, I had to visit the Command Station of the military of our county. The officer, an elderly man, first asked me to show my ID book after I told him what I wanted.

“And now, let me see your military ID book,” he said after paging through the civilian ID.

“I am sorry,” I replied, “but I don’t have my military ID book. I left it in the apartment in Matrafured at the time I first left Hungary in 1973. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“At the time you first left Hungary in 1973,” the man repeated in a sarcastic voice. “What makes you think you’ll leave a second time?”

I did not know what to answer so he went on.

“You are a Hungarian citizen. You are subject to the laws of this country just like everyone else. The military law says that a Hungarian citizen, as long as he is considered obligated for active duty, must be able to present his military ID book to any officers upon request. The law also provides severe penalties, up to long imprisonment, for anyone losing a military ID book and not reporting it within weeks.”

“As you know I was not here to report.”

“That’s beside the point. You have been back for half a year and you still have not reported.”

“I admit I have not even thought of my military book since my return.”

“That’s bad. That’s too bad, indeed. Anyway, without your military ID, I have no way of identifying you and your military ID number. I have no way of approving or even disapproving your application. Go find that book! Don’t come back until you have it!”

I quickly tried to recollect my memories of my escape in 1973. ‘My military ID book had to be in the top drawer of the small night table I had next to my bed. I left it there, for sure, because it was against the law to take it out of the country… When my boss received the postcard from Italy, on which I informed him that I would not be returning to Hungary, he had to notify the police. The police then raided my apartment and took everything that was mine. They must have sent the military ID book back to the Command Station.’

Walking in the rain

After my visit to the military office, it appeared to me that there was no legal way out of the country. Reading articles in the communist daily paper, Nepszabadsag, about how efficiently the military was guarding the Yugoslav border, I started thinking of the unthinkable: illegal escape through Yugoslavia. The articles praised the border guards and their guard dogs. ‘Of course, crossing the Iron Curtain into Austria still seems impossible,’ I thought, ‘but how many guard dogs would be needed to cover the entire length of the Hungarian-Yugoslav border?’ Once again, I concluded that the regime was defending the border on the pages of the newspaper, using intimidation tactics, trying to create the border in the minds of the people.

In August, I started counting the months left until December when my US permanent resident status was due to expire. Time was running out and I was getting more and more desperate.

I studied the map of Hungary and saw that there was a major road running parallel with the Yugoslav border. It ran west from Szeged, a large city less than five miles from the border. A highway that connected Budapest with Yugoslav cities ran through Szeged, crossing into Yugoslavia at the Roszke checkpoint.

‘The Szeged area must be well guarded,’ I thought.

I bought an inexpensive knapsack.

One Saturday morning I packed some basic essentials, got into my car and drove down south. From Szeged, I took the road running by the Yugoslav border. Traffic was very light. According to the map, at about half the distance between the Tisza and the Danube rivers, the road was about six or seven miles from the border. First I drove all the way to the Danube just to check out the area.

Twice, I saw a border guard with a guard dog walking along the road.

‘Wow! The dogs are not even at the border,’ I thought. ‘They are showing them to people where there are people: on the roads.’

On the way back from the Danube, about half way to Szeged, when I saw no vehicles coming from either direction, I turned off the road onto a narrow dirt road that cut into a vast corn field. I drove less than one hundred feet when I saw a narrow, empty parcel between the rows of corn. I turned off the dirt road and stopped. This way my car was not visible from the main road. The sun was already down and I did not have to wait long until it got dark.

I locked my car, put the knapsack on my back, crossed the road and started walking south on the grassy field.

There was no moon so the night quickly became very dark. The temperature was pleasantly cool; walking briskly did not make me sweat. I figured if I kept going south, eventually I would cross the border and arrive in Yugoslavia.

I saw some kind of light moving slowly ahead of me in the distance. When I got closer to it, I began to hear the sound of an engine. ‘It must be a tractor plowing the soil,’ I figured.

The light was moving around in large circles. I changed direction to avoid the area, walking around it in a huge semi-circle, and then I continued south. Well, at least I thought I was still heading south. Unfortunately, after a while I started getting confused in the dark. When I looked back, I could not relate well to the position of the tractor.

I had been walking on plowed, dry, very uneven soil. It was very hard on my ankles. I slipped and fell many times. ‘It’s only a question of time before my ankle or my knee gets dislocated,’ I kept thinking.

Finally, I was walking on grass again. Looking back, I could hardly see the light of the tractor anymore mainly because there was an elevation in the ground.

Looking ahead in any direction I saw nothing but total darkness.

I estimated that the road where I left my car was already a couple of miles behind me. The problem was that I could not decide whether I was really south of the tractor because it was going around and around. ‘If I continue walking, I might be walking parallel with the border and never cross it,’ I thought. ‘I’d better turn around before I completely lose sight of the tractor light,’ I thought.

... 

Click PART 11