At no point was there likely ever a conversation between the six new refugees about going to the United States. They were convinced that they would settle somewhere near Hungary, likely Germany, and probably never return to the comforts of their homeland. Country, friends and family were reluctantly left behind by all of them, but only my parents were forced to abandon a precious child. This had to weigh heavily on my mother. Wherever they eventually landed, this tight group would always stick together, having already gone through so much trauma, already bonded for life. They were now probably “living,” if you could call it that, in a Viennese camp in the center of Traiskirchen, the former Artillery Cadet School built in 1900 and undoubtedly huddled together with other Hungarian castaways. Their names were at the very bottom of a long waiting list of those requesting to go to Germany.
Hungarians were typically loners in the European circles because they speak a tongue that is not associated with any other European nations. After all, their alphabet consisted of 44 letters. The Hungarian language belongs to the Uralic family, most notably Finnish and Estonian. Linguistically surrounded by alien nations, Hungarians always experienced a sense of isolation through much of their history, perhaps befitting their landlocked location, bordered by Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Austria, Ukraine, and Slovakia. Their homeland was one of nine countries behind the Iron Curtain that was built in 1949. Too often, older, more established immigrant groups treated Hungarians with disdain, ridiculing their dress and Old-World ways. It made them reluctant to speak their native tongue.
They were unique, these proud Magyars, with a history dating back to the Kingdom of Hungary, while sharing a common culture, history, ancestry, and language. They were part of a group of people who originated in the Urals and migrated westward to settle in what was now Hungary back in the 9th century. My parents were two such Magyars of the some 200,000 that relocated from Hungary to Austria in that era – nearly 2% of the population. Getting out of the country and away from Soviet control was becoming a popular activity. Where would all these Magyar refugees eventually settle?
For the stranded six, the answer soon swooped down from the sky. A large U.S. Army plane landed nearby, and the pilots asked for volunteers to fly to America. There was little time to decide, and my parent’s group was still at the bottom of the list, so they all climbed aboard. Was this the first time that living in the United States was even contemplated? Their welcome to the United States did not include the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island, but rather at least sixteen hours in a non-pressurized, crowded cabin and a rough landing at an out of the way New Jersey military base. Immigration officials met them there. Sadly, were so far from home, with no way to communicate with those left behind but grand opportunities awaited.
For Niki, Maria, Bela, and Emmi the U.S. became a permanent home. Years later, the other couple, who remain nameless, returned to Europe. The U.S. was not for everyone. They were all then transferred by bus to Camp Kilmer Barricks, Livingston, N.J., on now what is the Rutgers University campus in Piscataway. This would become meaningful to me because it’s where I ended up going to college.
What had moved so fast during that split-second decision to fly across the Atlantic suddenly stalled. U.S. Immigration laws required everyone to have a sponsor, and none of this group knew anyone or even spoke the language. Eventually, a total stranger named Dr. Chikes, who held a doctorate in theology, came to the rescue through his church. It was just another miraculous twist in this fateful plot.
The good Doctor would assume the responsibility of trying to find jobs and housing for the three dump truck couples. It seems like the church leader always comes to the rescue in these great stories of families being uprooted. Under his direction, the next stop was Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, 28-miles northwest of Philadelphia. I’m not sure of the religious affiliation of Dr. Csikes, but my mother was raised as a Roman Catholic, as was I. Dad was brought up Lutheran, but none of us have been particularly true to our faith. We do look to the heavens for our good fortunes in life.
Bela was the first of the group to get established in Phoenixville. The rest temporarily rode on his coat tails. He had a degree in Chemistry from his studies in Hungary and quickly found a good position with a local Rubber Company. My parents lived with him and Emmi for a few years. My dad worked for a nearby steel producer but quickly learned that back-breaking work was not his forte. He then took a job as a surveyor and staked out what years later would eventually become his dream home, while taking some computer classes at Ursinus College. This led to a computer position and move with Fidelity Bank to Philadelphia in 1959 where he perfected his technical and programming skills. After those first few years in Phoenixville, the original group of six was now down to four, but their close bond kept them all in touch despite the miles apart.
For four years, they desperately tried to get me out of Hungary through the Embassies, but it wasn’t until the Iron Curtain relaxed before I was finally cleared to leave in December of 1960 at age 8. Much to the relief of my parents, I was in the newspapers as one of the first children to be released by the Russians. Maybe I wasn’t such a “bad boy” after all.
In 1961, dad got a job with RCA in Cherry Hill, N.J. as a programmer, moved to Moorestown and rented a house at 106 West Central Avenue. It was the biggest place I had yet to live. I couldn’t wait for grandmother to join me.
To Be Continued
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