Continued from Post #2487

Mom and dad moved to North Fort Myers in 2000 where they purchased a new house in a gated community (Herons Glen). They loved the Clubhouse, and my dad was especially fond of the heated pool. That dump truck must have seemed like a bad dream, considering all the luxuries they enjoyed in life. 

Mom had also purchased a house near Jill and I in New Jersey, a retirement community, where they would fly up for the summers, so we’d see them quite often. 

Dad was getting itchy to do business again, after 10-years of retirement and ended up buying 8 properties on intercoastal canals in Florida after the housing market collapse. He established a company and worked with a builder over the years to construct 3 homes that he sold for a profit. He also sold the rest of his property investments in later years. 

At some point dad convinced Emmi to move down to Florida. She settled about a half-hour north of us in Port Charlotte. They were both long time loyalists to the Smirnoff brand of vodka. Manci, Miki and Emmi visited each other during the course each week. They enjoyed each other’s company and had “kicsi (a little vodka), and bor (wine) here and there” when they got together to reminisce. 

Jill and I would also fly down to Florida and visit them as often as we could, Mom would always be extremely happy and in her element cooking up a storm of al the great Hungarian dishes for us. They liked to eat early, by 4pm, and if we were on the road and got back late she would be upset at us. 

I was honored to celebrate their lives with friends and family on April 14, 2018. My son Adam, at age 36, had prepared a video, pictures set to music, of their lives. It brought back many memories of my parents, their flight to freedom, and the opportunities that they gave me. These were my closing remarks:

“Mom and dad had a wonderful and full life always appreciating the freedom and opportunities this country offered. While not without hardship, they always managed to come out stronger and move forward. We miss them both very much. Special thanks go to two very special people, particularly during the last five years of dad’s life.” 

“Inna Piper was my dad’s caregiver ever since he moved back to the house in the fall of 2013. Inna provided excellent care for a ‘tough cookie,’ like my dad. She learned how to cook many Hungarian dishes from the “Master Chief,” and faithfully escorted him to the pool, doctor appointments, and, of course, to monthly visits with the German butcher. AND…” 

“To Jill, my wonderful wife, for all her help, support and patience throughout. Most importantly, for putting up with a ‘hot headed’ Hungarian husband, at times.” 

Rest in Peace, 

MOM 3/15/2013 – 87 Years old 

DAD 7/31/2017 – 89 Years old

To Be Continued

Continued from Post #2483

Dad left RCA in 1968 for a VP job in NYC with a man named Norman who owned a small publishing company. I can’t remember his last name. We moved to West Windsor (15 Darvel Dr.) and dad would take the train from Princeton Junction to NYC. 

On several occasions my mom would get a call to pick my dad up in Trenton because he missed his stop. I wonder why? Could it have been the bar car or the taverns in Trenton? 

Mom through the years became a “wire woman”, who soldered components onto computer circuit boards. She took a job with Base Ten in the Trenton area and really enjoyed working there. She also helped my dad’s company solder the AW computer boards in the later years. 

I attended Princeton High School for four years, where I ran the 400-yard and 800-yard dashes and played basketball. I tried to live up to my “Speedy” nickname, but I was but an average athlete. My two sons, Adam and Neil, became great medium and distance runners thanks to their Hungarian genes and desire to escape from anyone that was chasing them. 

We continued going to Phoenixville as often as possible, especially when there were events at the Hungarian Club. The club always remained the main connection between their past and current lives. It allowed them to bond with other Hungarians, and probably was a safe place to practice their English and talk about what was going on in their native land. There were affordable meals served and a friendly bar. It was always the center of their lives. 

After graduating from high school in 1971, I went back to Hungary for the second time and visited with my godfather and other relatives, including my mom’s divorced middle sister Kati and her two sons, Tibi and Lazsi that never left Hungary. Tibi’s two sons, Peter and Gabi, now live together in London. Judzsi, the youngest sister, and her husband Miki Sr. escaped from Hungary to Toronto, Canada and raised a son, Kis Miki. 

The trip back to Budapest was a graduation gift from my parents and was planned for eight weeks so I could also see some of Europe. My best friend from high school, Bob Woodside, planned to join me on this adventure, but did not expect to find me in a Budapest hospital having my appendix removed. I was once again fortunate to have Kalmar Laszlo’s godfatherly guidance, who somehow found an English-speaking surgeon to perform my operation. He was always more like a second father to me, stepping in as the primary male figurehead, particularly when I was separated from my real father for those four long years. His first wife has passed away since I left Budapest for America, but he remarried to a woman named Elizabeth and became a stepfather to her two daughters. They were planning a trip to Dubrovnik and wondered if we wanted to join them. Regardless, he was once again there in a time of need to rescue me from a difficult situation. 

My parents of course were worried back in The States, so my father made the long flight to faithfully be by my side in recovery. He had also decided, even before this emergency, to have us share a car with his cousin, Edith, in Munich. We agreed to split the $2,000 cost of purchasing a used, red VW Beetle, so we would have a vehicle to tour Europe. The car would then stay with her when we returned home. I flew into Munich and picked up the car keys from Edith. Part of the deal was that I would come back to Munich and pick up her son, Rudy, for the last two weeks of the trip. I started to make my way to Budapest. However, on the fast-moving Autobahn, the 4-cylinder engine suddenly became three. 

After my time in Hungary, I returned with Bob, and picked up Rudy as we headed towards Venice, Italy for starters. Rudy wanted to make too many stops for food and museums, so he quickly became a hinderance. After several arguments, we gladly dropped him off at the Venice train station, never to be seen again by the two of us. Bob and I caught a ferry to Split, before driving the winding roads to Dubrovnik in search of my godfather and his wife. 

The two of us wandered from campground to youth hostel on our limited budget. We never did find my godfather. The car limped its way over the mountainous pass, and we soon realized that another slow-moving passenger car, an older Fiat, was giving us hand signals to assist in navigating our way through the truck traffic on the twisty, single-lane, highway along the coast. They were a newly-wed couple and turned out to be very friendly, so we stopped and had lunch with them in Split– their treat – a step up from the usual bread, salami, and cheese diet that provided our inexpensive, daily nutrition. We were no longer Hungry in Hungary – or in this case, Yugoslavia. 

We somehow got the VW back to the ferry stop in Venice and then back to Munich. My father’s cousin was disappointed in us for both abandoning her son Rudy and damaging the car’s engine. We flew out of Munich for home. I would be next headed to Air Defense Artillery School in El Paso, where I would train for 3-months on handheld, heat-seeking rockets. It was good to see Jill again after all this time apart. Our relationship was getting more serious. She was about to graduate from Montclair State in New Jersey with a Physical Education degree. 

I joined Army ROTC during my sophomore year at Rutgers. Junior year I spent at least six weeks at Ft. Bragg for basic training, then six more in El Paso. They tried to send me to both Turkey and Germany as an Air Defense Munitions Officer, but Jill refused to go with me. Finally, my superiors agreed to Wilkes-Barre, North Carolina. In all, I spent two years in the Service and four years in the Reserves. 

Around 1974 my dad and Chuck Welch, who I call “the technical genius,” started AW Computer Systems (Ambrus and Welch) with the help of Louis Nemeth, Sr. getting them their first project with Basco. My dad had met Chuck when they both worked at RCA in Cherry Hill, while Mr. Nemeth knew the head of Basco, a fellow Hungarian, and went so far as to arrange for AW to use the available space above their jewelry store at 818 Chestnut Street in Philadelphia for the initial offices. The Basco Showrooms thus became the market for AW’s primary product, a computer system that allowed clerks to tell a customer instantly whether the wanted item was in stock, complete the sales transaction, and send an electronic packing slip to a bank of printers in the warehouse. 

In 1975, Mom and Dad bought their dream house in Wayne, Pennsylvania. Dad always said that someday he wanted to purchase a house in this neighborhood that, if you’ll remember, was part of his surveying job when he first moved to Phoenixville. It was the perfect home for all of us, including the “In-law House” for Granny who was ready for some privacy and personal space. She particularly enjoyed the peaceful surroundings where she could do yard work and garden. The famous Valley Forge National Memorial Arch was within walking distance. Early the next year, I went on active duty with the Army, and soon moved to Wilkes-Barre, North Carolina. 

To start my computer career, I went to work part time at AW as an overnight programmer with plans to settle down. Jill Laabs and I got married on July 9, 1977. We first met at Great Gorge Mountain Ski Resort that is currently known as Mountain Creek Resort. It’s the largest ski area in New Jersey. I was in the bar with two buddies and offered to buy her a Whiskey Sour, not realizing that her boyfriend was still out on the mountain. She told me where she went to school and that she resided in Bone Hall but didn’t give me her last name. I looked up several Jills at Montclair State before I found her. Soon after, we went on a double date to a Rutgers basketball game and out for pizza. 

Within a year or two after founding AW, my dad was finding unprecedented success. He and mom had the pool and landscaping added with a heated Jacuzzi. Dad always loved the water and liked to swim. Mom liked to get her toes wet and sunbathe. I was officially released from active duty, while Jill and I rented a place in Sherwood Village, Eastampton, New Jersey. I also accepted a night Computer Operator job with Basco, my dad’s AW client, who then hired me as a programmer in 1979.

With a steady job, Jill and I bought our first house at 22 Stonegate Drive in Eastampton and began to plan a family. A son, Adam Ambrus, was born on September 5,1982, but just a year later, in the Spring of 1983, our family moved to Wembley, England, so I could assist, train, and learn from our AW client, MFI Furniture Centres, Ltd. Their School of Advanced Programming issued this report (SERIOUSLY): 

THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT P. AMBRUS HAS COMPLETED HIS INITIAL TRAINING PERIOD AND HAS PASSED WITH MERIT IN THE FOLLOWING: 

USE OF ENGLISH: GRADE B (WOULD HAVE BEEN GRADE A BUT INSISTED ON CALLING PAVEMENTS SIDEWALKS. 

DRIVING: GRADE C (WOULD HAVE BEEN GRADE A BUT PERSISTED ON DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SIDEWALK).

DRINKING: GRADE B (WOULD HAVE BEEN GRADE A BUT INSISTED ON PUTTING ICE IN HIS BEER).

PROGRAMMING: UNABLE TO JUDGE – NEVER SAW ANY CODE.

MAKING FRIENDS: GRADE A+ (COULDN’T BE BETTER, WILL BE MISSED BY ALL HIS FRIENDS AT MFI).

PROF. C. MILLER

PRINCIPAL LETCHERER 

As the “Report Card” indicates, Hungarians like me are very friendly and gregarious. To know us is to love us! 

Jill, Adam, and I returned to Eastampton in the Spring of 1984. Actually, since Jill was pregnant, there were really four of us on the flight back. At last, on U.S. soil, I was able to drive on the RIGHT side, just like they do in Hungary. Neil Ambrus, our second son, was born on October 11, 1984. Another U.S. citizen! 

1982 was a tough year for AW Computer Systems. A major change in the industry had dried up business while prospects grew limited. My dad was quoted in The News stating, “For six months we didn’t make a sale to anyone. We almost couldn’t get anyone on the phone. It was a real futility around here.” The event that nearly put them out of business was the sale of the Basco chain to Best Products, Inc. However, my dad had faced adversity all his life and within a few years secured a contract with Montgomery Ward and had negotiations underway with H.H. Macy & Co and the Marshall’s Inc. division of Melville, Corp. He had once again made a great escape. 

By the mid 80’s, AW had established itself in the Point of Sale (POS) retail industry as a vendor and had grown this operation to more than 40 employees. Best Products ended up buying Basco and 36 percent of AW. Most of my dad’s time was spent growing the AW customer base as well as our product base. He retired at age 62 in 1990. 

In the late 1980s, mom and dad also bought a place in South Beach, Miami, on the 16^th floor of a high rise and used it for 10 years. They enjoyed it for the great beaches, restaurants and of course the Florida weather, but it became very expensive when AW started to again have troubles. Our family of four moved to 7 Princeton Drive, Shamong, New Jersey. 

With dad’s retirement, the company was having difficulty adapting to the changes in the retail industry. Without Nicholas to “keep Chuck in check,” the company put too much focus on vision technology. In fact, experts were hired from the University of Pennsylvania. Chuck Welch’s vision was to build a self-serve check-out system, like what we see today in major retail outlets, but the idea was a few years premature. He began to experiment with the Winn-Dixie chain of 1200 stores. However, identifying products and avoiding substitution tricks by using color cameras to scan rather than weigh items to be purchased put costs out of line. In retrospect, less expensive black & white cameras would have sufficed. It’s complicated but not quite as difficult as trying to escape from Communist-occupied Hungary! 

At that time, AW was located at 9000A Commerce Parkway in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey. A brochure, identifying IBM and Microsoft as “partners” detailed what the company called “Vision Technology.” The cover page stated the following:

“The Checker Productivity Analyzer System (CPA) is a real time security system that protects supermarkets against losses due to theft and accuracy at checkout. It is designed to be in constant communication with the POS system, “listening to” register transactions as they are sent over the register loop. Scan or keyed item information is used to obtain product descriptions known to the system. Visual images of products are captured by cameras at the check stand and converted to a form that enables comparison. When the system determines there is a mismatch between the camera data and data base representations of the product descriptions, an event is alarmed.” 

Chuck was all about technology and didn’t have the business sense of my father, so AW eventually terminated operations on March 10th, 1998. Sadly, it also severed their friendship. 

Without a connection to AW, I began to seek other opportunities. In January of 1998, I became System Manager for Pep Boys. The boys were in their teens, so Jill began a career in Special Education. In 2004, I began to consult as a project manager, made management stops at Bearing Point, AC Moore, and finally landed at WAWA as IT QA Lab Coordinator. As you can see, It was a steady climb up the ladder of success from AW to WAWA! I retired ten years later, with plans to continue consulting for a few more years. In 2022, we moved to the resort community, Islandwalk, in Venice, FL, while keeping our “second home on wheels” in a R,V. storage facility. 

With the help of a neighbor, I finally got around to telling this incredible story, seven years after my father passed away. It’s interesting to recount how we followed in their footsteps from Budapest to New Jersey, the surrounding states, and ultimately Florida.

To Be Continued

Continued from Post #2480

I’ve often tried to imagine what these six close friends and refugees, including my parents, went through in preparing for this escape. Many secretive discussions were undoubtedly held regarding the plan and what to take along. It’s difficult to envision giving up everything you own and the family that you love. These were life and death decisions that very few of us ever face. I’m sure that my mother pleaded with the others to take me along, but the risks were too great. The other two couples did not have children, but they too would leave beloved family members behind. Wills and other paperwork were hastily prepared so that apartments and possessions could be passed along to those who stayed to face the consequences of Communism. 

I will never know what they packed in the bed of that dump truck that fateful day, but it couldn’t have been much. We’ve all packed for vacations, weekend getaways, and camping trips where stew for weeks about what to take. They would be leaving essentially everything they had worked for behind. Maybe they packed an extra set of clothes, certainly food for a couple of days, and a few photos. It seems silly, but did they even bring along a toothbrush? Was cash and jewelry sewn into their clothing, as we often hear about with refugees? Maybe coats and blankets gathered? How can you possibly walk away from all your possessions in life, but as they say in death, “you can’t take it with you, unless you’re an Egyptian King.”

This was indeed similar to preparing for a suicide mission, departing with nothing but thoughts and prayers. I do not know how religious my parent’s companions were, but I’m certain that all of them sought guidance from above. This was certainly not an impromptu decision, so the stress and strain of preparation had to be gut-wrenching. My parents tried their best to stay strong in front of me, but even at age four I could feel their pain. My grandmother was my rock through this entire ordeal, but I’m sure she spent many dark nights in tears.

Couples go through separation in times of war. There is a constant sense of worry and fear, regarding each other’s welfare. Communication is limited to letters that take weeks to arrive. They may not have even had the money for a postage stamp. I find this all very unsettling when I think about their plight.

We would not be reunited for four years. I can’t recall if there was ever word that they were still alive, or if my grandmother and I discussed it. Once I finished that last meal with them, they disappeared into the night, and I was left with nothing but memories.

Christmas that year was just grandmother and I, wondering if mom and dad were safe or even alive. We tried to act like everything was normal, but it wasn’t. We were still Hungry in Hungary, while they were, at best, hungry somewhere else.

Now, here we were back together and living in an actual house, my first, in Moorestown, N.J., 4,423 miles away. There would be no more apartment living for our family. To get to the U.S., I had flown on my first airplane, stayed overnight by myself in a youth hostel in Amsterdam, got carsick on the ride to my new home because I’d never actually ridden in an automobile before, and now it seemed like every Friday, as a family, we would pack up our very own car, another first for me, and head to Phoenixville to see Bela and Emmi, along with my parents’ other close friends. Without all these modern conveniences, in a way it was just like being in Budapest, but I was now missing Granny.

My first Christmas in America was very special, and I was spoiled with many gifts under the tree, including a Lionel Train set that I remember most. Also, under the tree was a big toy tank that shot plastic projectiles from the rotating gun turret. Cats beware! We had missed the past three holidays together, so my parents were making up for lost time. On too many occasions in life, I would get gifts that were for both Christmas and my birthday since it was just 11-days later. However, this year, both were major family events. Bela and Emmi, of course, joined us for the two celebrations.

It was difficult to be an eight-year-old in a strange land where only a few spoke my language. While living in Phoenixville, I would often get dropped off with the DiSandri’s or Nemeth’s, so I could play with their kids while mom and dad would go partying with the Phoenixville gang. Lots of great times, food, dancing and of course drinking. Mr. Anthony DiSandri had a son named Tony that knew of all the area pick-up games of sport that we could join. Mr. Louis Nemeth’s two sons, Lou and Nick, were less athletic, so we would watch TV and play board games. Their father, Louis Sr., was a computer programmer and worked for the Water Company in Philadelphia. He brought the Basco chain of catalog showrooms business to my dad’s company, giving them their first computer system project and me an eventual job. His wife, Elizabeth was also an Engineer. All my parent’s friends were professionals, like the majority of Hungarians who immigrated to the U.S. at that time. They all contributed their great skills to the American economy. 

The following year, 1962, dad was transferred for one year to Indianapolis, Indiana by RCA. Grandmother finally arrived from Hungary that year and joined us there, after two years of separation from me, and what was surely a lonely life back in Budapest. She was always a loner but took good care of me. At last, we were all back together after four long years of separation.

I particularly remember living in Indianapolis because I got to go to the 1962 Indy 500. My fascination with cars and racing began here. Parnelli Jones, breaking the 150-mph barrier, held the pole but Rodger Ward won the race. The pace car was the Studebaker Lark Daytona Convertible. My favorite, Jackie Stewart, did not race at Indy until 1966 and 1967. When I returned to the track in 1976 while serving in the Army, Polesitter Johnny Rutherford drank the milk in the Winner’s Circle. He was declared the winner when rain halted the race on lap 102. The pace car was the Buick Century. 

Cars and speed were always passions of mine. My high school friend, Bob, who lived in Princeton proper, drove a used Mustang with three-on-the-floor, while his good buddy’s dad owned a modified Corvair with a mid-engine V8. My parent’s first car was a used, white, Oldsmobile convertible with a red interior from the mid-1950s. My dad’s first new car was a 1962 blue Chrysler Newport with a white top and three-on-the-floor. It was also 1962 when we moved to West Windsor, NJ. This is where I learned to drive that stick that proved handy when my dad gifted mom a shiny blue 1970 Chevy Vega, also with a manual shift. It became my job to teach her how to work the clutch. However, she would unconsciously take her eyes off the road when shifting and consequently bumped into another car in the parking lot of the grocery store. Dad then wised up and bought her an automatic 1970 Barracuda that she loved. 

I had my sole auto accident in the Newport on the way to Princeton High basketball practice, but obviously learned my lesson about safe driving. My dad, of course, was very upset that I banged up his baby. Normally I would take the bus to school, but the exception came when I had after-school activities. 

In 1963, my folks bought their first home (713 Devon Rd.) in Moorestown where we lived for 5 years, while I graduated from Baker Elementary’s 9th grade. The house had a creek out back that occupied my after-school time. I had a dog named Prince and a Siamese cat to replace the pet chickens of my childhood. 

We came a long way to get from Budapest to the northeast United States, but other than that year in Indianapolis, we really didn’t go far once we settled in the U.S. The cities of Phoenixville, Philadelphia, Moorestown, West Windsor, Princeton, and Wayne, although they may appear as distant moves, were all in the same vicinity, despite being in two different states. The beauty of living in that area was the ease of accessibility to major cities like Philly, Washington D.C. and even NYC.  Eventually, we would all move to Florida, where everything seemed so far apart. 

In 1965, at 12-years old, I got my first opportunity to return to Budapest. Four years had passed since my exodus. Another of my dad’s good friends in Phoenixville, John Knezits, who also happened to be Treasurer of the Hungarian Club, bought a new VW 1600 fastback, a two-door, four-passenger model that he would pick up at the factory in Munich, Germany. He invited my dad and I to accompany him and his daughter, Sue, on this adventure. His wife, Rose, and my mother stayed home, while the four of us jumped on a plane, picked up the car, and headed for Budapest. 

We visited several relatives along the way, all joyous reunions involving Hungarian food, conversation, and drink. I couldn’t get over the new car smell and was relieved that I didn’t get car sick again, as Sue shared the back seat with me. It was great to see my godfather again, as well as the cousins I had left behind. When the reacquainting was over, we drove the car to an awaiting ship and flew home. It was strange how home was now another place across the ocean. 

It’s also unbelievable to think about how my parents gave up everything in Budapest and just seven years later owned a home in the United States of America. It truly is the “Land of Opportunity.” There’s also a lot more to their Hungarian fairy tale story.

To Be Continued

Continued from Post 2477:

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 9^th 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