“I must say I have had enough of them for a while,” I answered. I wanted to smile at the same time but somehow the man’s facial expression made me change my mind about that.

“Okay… I tell you now. We are communists.”

“Well, we are euro-communists,” another one of the older men rushed to explain. “Not the same. We are members of the Red Brigade.”

Yet another man, about my age, joined in.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said. “We are peaceful people.” He stood up and extended his hand towards me. “My name is J…” he said after we shook hands. “I am half Hungarian by the way. My mother came from Hungary. This is my studio and you are my guest. Be at home here. Let me know how I can help you.”

“I will need to call some friends to ask them to send me money so that I can go back to America,” I answered.

“There is my telephone,” he said pointing at a small round table with the phone on top of it. “Call anyone anytime. It’s on me.”

“Thank you… Thank you very much.”

“If you feel like sleeping, take that rag next to the telephone. No one sleeps there.”

The room was large, lighting was poor. As I looked around, I saw blankets and mattresses next to the wall all around. Everything looked kind of ragged. The entire room was a big mess.

“I am tired after what’s behind me so I will just retire. I will probably try calling someone in New Jersey, it is daytime there now.”

“Just ask me if you need help,” J… said and returned to his group.

I sat down on the worn red blanket and tried to think. Since the room was full of the smoke, I had to be already affected by whatever the substance was. I could not decide whether I was in danger or not.

I found my address book in my knapsack and turned on the tiny night lamp on the round table. After I found the phone number of a Hungarian ex-girlfriend I had remained friends with even after we stopped dating at the end of 1974, I dialed her number. After several attempts, and finding the right way to dial, the phone at the other end rang.

“Hello, Terez,” she answered.

“It’s really you?” she said after recognizing my voice. “Wow! Calling from Hungary?”

“No, I am calling from Italy. I had to escape and now I am trying to get back to the USA.”

“See? I told you not to go back. You did not listen to me. Where in Italy are you?”

“I am in Trieste.”

“Starting it all over, huh? Are you in the refuge camp?”

“Am I in the refuge camp? No way. The second time they wouldn’t help. I wouldn’t have time for that anyway. My green card expires in December. I have to be in the USA before that happens.” I took a deep breath. “I thought,” I continued hesitantly, “I thought I would ask you to send me some money for a plane ticket.”

“You would ask me to send you some money, huh? Well, how much money?”

“I’m not sure. Three or four hundred dollars I guess.”

“And where will you stay after you come back?”

“I could stay with you for a few days… until I find a room for myself. That should be easy.”

“You don’t know. I now live together with someone. I am sure he won’t mind if it’s okay with you. By the way, you know him and he knows you. In fact, he likes you.”

“Well, then, problem solved.”

“Where can I send you the money?”

“That’s a good question,” I said with a sigh, “certainly not to the address where I am staying now.”

“I tell you what. I will talk with my boyfriend. He’s been in America for twenty years so he should know how to do this. Call me again in fifteen minutes?”

When I called Terez again, he told me to check at the Bank of America branch there in Trieste in about three days.

“We are sending you four hundred dollars. That should be enough for a one way ticket to New York. You’ll take the bus from JFK, I guess. Just ring the bell when you get here. One of us should be home.”

‘Just like that?’ I thought after hanging up. “Or am I only dreaming?’

I went back to my rag and fell asleep.

Later, loud music woke me up. First I had no idea of where I was. My mind was not clear even after I was fully awake. The air smelled like a flower garden. The music made me feel like I was floating on top of water.

When I looked at the small round table about a foot from my feet, I saw a totally naked girl sitting on top of it making a phone call. Not far from me a naked couple was making love. Before I could see the rest, I fell back into deep sleep.

When I woke up again, there was an eerie silence in the room. A young guy was sitting beside me on the floor with his legs crossed. He had long back hair and a very dark complexion typical of Malays. He had a huge machete in one hand and a piece of rag in the other. He kept wiping the shining blade with the rag.

“My friend!” he said in a suppressed voice. “Peace.”

He put the machete on the floor in front of him.

“Peace,” he repeated. “No fighting. We are friends. I am from Nepal… Can you see that blond girl in the middle of the room, the one drinking the wine?”

I nodded. My brain was totally numb.

“She is my girlfriend,” the Nepalese continued. “She is the daughter of the German Ambassador. She just did not like the way of life their parents had so she teamed up with me. What do you think?”

I could not really think anything.

Since I did not answer, he picked up his machete and stood up. I saw him walking to the opposite wall, putting his machete onto a small shelf and then stretching out on a mattress under the shelf.

I fell asleep again.

When I woke up in the morning, I saw no one in the room. I sat up and tried to sort my thoughts. One of the windows was open so the smoke was gone from the room. It seemed like I was able to use my brain again. Still, I was not sure how much of what happened during the night was reality. I sure had some weird dreams.

I had to go to the restroom. What I saw there was disgusting. A yellowish liquid covered the tiled floor about two inches deep.

When some of the youngsters came back later and saw that I cleaned up the restroom they frowned at me.

Later, when they fried eggs in an unwashed skillet and invited me to join them, I had to say I was not hungry. Of course, I was not telling the truth. I was hungry like a lion.

The Nepalese returned with his blond girlfriend, carrying a bundle of papyrus.

“Icons,” he explained when I looked at the bundle which he leaned against the wall in a corner. “They are religious icons from Nepal. We sell them here at the market place. We make good money.”

“If you have to go, feel free to go,” the girl said. Indeed, her accent sounded that of a German. “There is always someone in here so we don’t lock the door. You can always come back in here.”

Down on the street, finally I could take deep breaths. I bought some bread rolls and half a pound of ham. Trying to find a place to eat I ended up on top of the castle hill. I made sandwiches and ate everything I bought.

Later, I sat in a swing wondering what the future would bring.

‘What if Terez won’t send the money or if she sends it but it never gets to me?’

The thought scared me. I quickly decided to go back to the studio and make another phone call.

I called my friend in Germany, the one that helped me buy the car on my way back to Hungary, the musician.

“I knew you would not stay,” he said laughing. “When I read your letters about all those rainy days and dark skies I knew it was only a question of time before you would find a way out. I am glad you made it. What’s your plan and how can I help?”

“Back to becoming a US citizen before anything else, and, yes, I could use some help. I need some money to fly back.”

“I’ll send you six hundred German Marks. That should be enough. Do you have an address where I can send it to? I will send it by post.”

I gave him the address of ‘Studio R’ and assured him that I would go to the post office every morning to see if the money arrived.

The days that followed were very hard on me. Whatever money I had I needed to buy food so I had to spend my nights in ‘Studio R’. Those nights were not what I would want to experience again. They were pretty much carbon copies of my very first night there.

I could not find the card the owner of the Ferrari gave me so I had to forget about him.

After three days, I went to the local branch of ‘Banco di America’ to ask if any money had arrived for me from the USA. I was told it would take more than three days for any money to arrive.

After I found the post office that delivered to the address where ‘Studio R’ was, and I asked about money in my name coming from Germany, the little fat woman sitting behind the cashier window advised me to wait at least a week.

Every day felt like an eternity.

October began. The weather was still nice. I often walked down to the waterfront and remembered the nice days I had there four years earlier. I walked all the way to Miramare one day but I could not enjoy the sight like I did in 1973.

I showed up at the bank every day. The cashier remembered me.

“No money yet,” he said without me asking the question.

It was the same at the post office. I explained to the little fat lady that I desperately needed the money so I wanted to catch the postman before he attempts delivery when I may not be at the address.

“We’ll just keep it here then,” she said with a sly smile. “If you come here every morning anyway, no need for the postman to deliver it.”

I agreed.

After about a week, I still had no money from either friend. I began to wonder whether I had just dreamed the whole thing while under the influence of whatever the gang kept smoking in the studio.

When I called my friends on my eleventh day of being the resident of ‘Studio R’, they assured me that the money had been sent.

The following day, when I entered the bank lobby, the cashier was shouting at me from his cage.

“Hey, Signor, your dough is here!”

I received a lot of Italian Liras. I did not even count the money. I just stuffed it into my pockets.

I rushed back to the studio. There was no one home so I just grabbed my knapsack and left for the train station. I wanted to be on the next train to Rome so I almost ran.

Since it was not a too big of a detour, I stopped at the post office.

“You lucky boy,” the woman greeted me. “Your money has arrived.”

A ‘wow’ was all I could say.

About an hour later, I was standing at the window of the train watching the blue waters of the Adriatic Sea as we left Trieste behind.

“Good-bye Trieste,” I whispered to myself while being taken over by emotions.

I arrived in Rome the next morning.

I found the American Embassy but at the entrance I was told to telephone if I wanted to have an appointment.

“I came to Europe,” I told whoever answered the phone, “and I lost my re-entry permit. I need to go back to the USA as soon as possible. How can I get a new re-entry permit?”

“So, you are not a citizen yet… Have you lost your green card, too?”

“No, I have my green card.”

“Well, then you don’t need your travel document. A new immigration law was introduced earlier this year that allows green card holders to return to the USA without a re-entry permit. It could take up to two weeks to get a copy of your re-entry permit from the State Department. You might as well just go to the nearest airport. If the Italians let you out, you’ll have no problem re-entering the USA showing your green card.”

“If the Italians let me out you said?”

“Just tell them exactly what happened. You lost your re-entry permit and can’t wait two more weeks to leave Italy.”

“Thanks.”

I found the bus to the airport and when I arrived I ran straight to the check-in at Alitalia, the Italian airline.

“Is there a flight to New York anytime soon?” I asked.

“A flight to New York?” one of the pretty ladies repeated my question. “You are about to miss it.”

“Where can I buy a ticket?”

“Right over there.”

I ran to the ticket window and asked for a cheap one way to New York.

“For the flight that leaves in a few minutes?” the ticket agent asked in surprise.

“Yes!”

“Are you paying with cash?”

“Right here,” I said and emptied my pockets in a hurry.

The agent counted my money, gave me back about two hundred thousand Liras and then he issued the ticket.

“Hurry! Hurry!” someone shouted at me. “This way!”

I showed my green card but no one seemed to care to look.

When I arrived at JFK, I exchanged my Liras for a little more than a hundred dollars, took the subway to the Port Authority where I caught the next bus to Princeton, New Jersey. There was a bus stop at the corner of French and Louis Streets in New Brunswick, that’s where I got off. Terez lived in the third house from the corner and she happened to be home with her boyfriend when I rang the bell.

It was the eleventh of October in 1977.

           I was back in the Free World where a set of brand new adventures and miracles was waiting for me. 

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