Page 19 of 267
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 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
It’s now been four full weeks after surgery, and I continue to gain strength. I drove yesterday for the first time, following the one-month guideline provided in my recovery instructions, and could feel the strain on my arms and chest. I can’t really use my arms and try to keep them tightly at my side as directed, imagining that they are enclosed in a protective tube. Even cranking the steering wheel proved to be painful.
I try to walk a little longer each day, but my thighs burn, something I rarely experienced while running. Then out of the mouth of babes, my five-year-old granddaughter suggested that my biceps were soft, poking the saggy skin hanging from my arm. She’s right – it’s remarkable how out of shape I’ve gotten. No running, no sit-ups, no push-ups for a month. “It should be expected,” they say. “You’re doing great,” they encourage. Last evening, I made it to the end of our street for the first time but was grateful that the wind was at my back on the return home.
This morning my shoulders are stiff and sore. In fact, I’m contemplating taking a muscle relaxant for the first time in a while. I am at least back to my normal sleep pattern, but this still involves a pee break every two hours or more. A night’s rest is still nothing more than a series of naps. Tally wakes me up at about 7:30a and I take my first steps of the day outside like clockwork, then gobble down a cup-full of pills. A new routine is gradually being established, as I move away from the addictive practice of running every day. Tally has her treat then begins to paw at my wife’s bedside, anxious to go to the dog park. Her substitute teaching the past two days have interfered with our dog’s favorite time of the day, when she is able to roam without a leash in the safe confines of the small dog section.
I’m supposed to start cardio-rehab this week, following my release from home care a few days ago. I also have a radiology requisition for a procedure to drain fluids from around my lungs. In both cases, I’m still finding a lack of cooperation from our regional hospital in accepting orders from my Tampa General Hospital surgeon. The excuse is that their systems apparently do not interconnect, so I have to make extra phone calls to get appointments arranged. In my mind, it’s the fact that they are uncooperative competition. It’s often become more painful than the actual surgery. I’ll be making more calls once I get back from my walk.
The walk at least took the focus off my tense shoulders and moved it to my feet and legs. For the first time, I returned to my standard running route, but only did a small section. My legs, like everything else, have weakened while my feet lack balance. At times, I feel a bit light-headed and unsteady. The beauty of walking over running is that I can actually stop and talk to people. I’m also not wearing my ear buds, so I can actually hear them. By next week, I should be able to make it a full mile, but now it’s just a matter of an extra block. There are no obligations today but a shower and shave. My wife has a tap class, haircut, and dental appointment. At some point, she and I will exchange Valentines.
Here is this year’s Valentine tribute to my wife, who has been so very supportive and loving this past month following my open-heart surgery. She stayed with me at the hospital, sleeping several nights in a chair and has been at my side throughout this ordeal. As is the tradition, I bought her a Limoges Box that unfortunately arrived broken. It’s a London Phone Booth, where we spent our last vacation. I tried to repair it but ended up just adding a Band-Aid strip. I’ll eventually buy her another one to replace it, but I think it’s fittingly appropriate with my broken self still on the mend.
Heart Felt
I’m on the mend,
The phone booth not.
My Valentine’s gift,
Is broken and shot.
It was a reminder,
Of better days.
Our London stop,
And Marriott stay.
No problems there,
Unlike your last.
As I continue,
To recover fast.
Fewer pills,
Goodbye Sky Walker.
My numerous scars,
Still quite the shocker.
I can’t drive,
Even Fifty-five.
In fact, I’m lucky,
To be alive.
The best I can do,
Is a longer walk.
Though breathing hard,
There’s time to talk.
For your loving care,
It can’t be ignored.
You should win,
A Daisy award.
Unlike Humpty Dumpty,
I’m back together.
A leaky valve,
My storm to weather.
I’ve been patched,
A brand new start.
This Valentines Day,
A stronger heart.
Thanks for being,
My special Valentine,
Lucky for me,
That you are mine.
My love for you,
Will get me through.
Heart felt gratitude,
For all you do.
Broken things,
Can be replaced.
And mars and cracks,
Can be erased.
Just add a Band-Aid,
And all is well.
What once was broken,
Can hardly tell.
Copyright 2024 johnstonwrites.com
Continued from Post #2476:
It was December 1957 just before Christmas, and the entire country was on Soviet lockdown following the riots and military strikes. I remember a final meal of Makos Teszta, poppy seed noodles and gravy, after just turning 4-years old. It would be the last that I would see my parents for many years. The day of reckoning finally arrived after careful planning. Nicholas Ambrus and his wife Maria Toth left me in the care of my grandmother, Nagy Mama, in the apartment they were about to abandon forever. My grandfather had passed away from TB years earlier at age 40. Kalmar Laszlo, my godfather, would play a role in my parentless care.
Grandmother was an entrepreneur, who once sold cooking supplies door-to-door. She would be my sole strength in the years to come, filling me with hope that someday we would all be back together as a family. I once had a pet chicken that quickly turned into dinner. We bought the staples of bread and noodles from the local vendors.
There would be no turning back for the six departing dissidents. My folks were joined by Bela and Emmi Nagy, their closest friends, and two other brave souls, prepared for a long journey to wherever destiny would take them. Bela worked for the company that owned a dump truck that he frequently drove from Budapest on the highways leading to the Austrian border. On this day, the plan was to abandon this about to be stolen truck and somehow bribe their way into Vienna. None of them knew really what to expect.
They left that fateful day with only the clothes on their back and a satchel-full of food. Perhaps the women hid in the bed of the truck under warm blankets while the men distracted the checkpoint guards. Bela was familiar with some of them because this was part of his regular route. He was the driving force of their escape plan, and they all trusted his convincing, story-telling skills.
My mother and father fell in love at a Danube River Club where they would kayak and swim. Niki, as many called him, worked odd jobs to include being a chauffeur, although he never owned a car. Soon he and Maria were married in Budapest where she did factory work. They lived in an apartment on the “Pest” side of town. It’s the eastern, mostly flat side of Budapest, comprising about two-thirds of the city’s territory. It was separated from Buda and Obuda, the two western sections of town, by the Danube River. Buda was definitely the classier, more residential side of the city of Budapest, population of 9,854,129 back in 1956. It was about to get six people smaller.
They loaded up the dump truck and hid what they could. There were several checkpoints along the way that Bela charmed his way through, telling tales and handing out food stuff. There were also reports of mine fields to stop any illegal border crossing, so this path to freedom was also filled with explosive danger. The final obstacle was the electric fence, search lights, and machine gun towers that marked the infamous Iron Curtain, separating East from West. This is where they abandoned the truck and walked into Austria. How they did it remains a mystery, but gregarious Bela had the gift of gab and continued to lead the way.
Even common mortals are capable of super-human feats regardless of their size or strength, like lifting a car off a accident victim. Nicholas stood a slender 5’8” and Maria was 2” shorter. She was a beautiful woman. I strongly feel that escaping from life-threatening circumstances falls into that category. Weighing those possibilities takes strength and cunning. Most children, like me at the time, couldn’t possibly envision their parents in that situation when adrenaline supersedes logic. Imagine the sleepless nights before and the guts it took to go through this together. Especially having to leave me and my grandmother behind for years. That must have been heart wrenching. This is why I’m particularly proud of my mother and father. Could I have done it myself? Could you?
Secretly discussing their plans with friends and relatives required nerves of steel, knowing they would need discretion and support. The Secret Police were undoubtedly a nasty concern, as well as fear of informants. Adverse conversations about leaving Hungary had to be kept on the hush-hush. After all, they were risking the rest of their young lives stuck in a filthy gulag, separated from everyone they loved. All those dreams of freedom could quickly turn into nightmares with the wrong words to these guards.
How could they be certain that life would be better outside their native land, so far from home? After all, none of them had ever been outside of Budapest. They might be on the run for years, homeless and scared, maybe a worse situation than prison. What if they got separated? Where would they get food and water? Plus, who could they trust after finally getting on foreign soil? Soviet propaganda had kept them in line their whole lives.
It’s also quite likely the secret police found the abandoned dump truck and went back to question Bela’s employers about their role in this escape. Torture might even have been applied for answers and fines imposed. They would have been shocked by his disappearance and disloyalty to both country and company. Or, they could have even secretly applauded his rebellious actions.
In this moment, they were six scared people joined in a common quest for freedom, about to face their destiny. Would everything go as planned? Butterflies were all that filled their stomachs since food was scarce and they would need what they had to appease the greedy guards with their hands out. At last, welcome to Austria. Now what?
To Be Continued
I’m writing this for a neighbor and friend, because it’s a story that needs to be recorded for posterity. In today’s world, there is so much hatred, disrespect, and misunderstanding when it comes to immigration. In the United States, most of this resentment stems from the Mexican border and a fear that jobs will be taken, safety compromised, diseases spread, classrooms crowded, natural resources strained, increased terrorism threats, illegal drugs distributed, and unwanted financial obligations absorbed. The Solution: Let’s Build a Wall!
Let’s face it, most of these are selfish concerns. There are already too many walls, and not enough doorways. We are a nation of immigrants, so it’s hypocritical to exclude “outsiders.” There are so many great benefits that have come from accepting people of different races, backgrounds, religions, and cultures. I just want to tell the story of one couple and how in the long run it has positively affected thousands. I’m writing it from the perspective of Peter Ambrus, whose parents were Hungarian immigrants but became Americans as a result of numerous twists of fate. Here is his story:
I was born in Hungary in 1951. As I grew up there, history reflects that the terms “hungry” and the country “Hungary” grew synonymous, under the ugly rule of Communism. Although obviously spelled differently, the two words are often pronounced the same. “Ehes vagyok – I’m hungry. En Peter vagyok – I’m Peter.” I think that it’s ironic that hunger actually helped my family flee from Hungary. But even more so, that they did it in a garbage truck and bribed hungry Soviet guards to cross the border.
Hungarians, like my parents, were poor, yet most of the food and industrial goods they produced during these turbulent decades were sent to Russia. As very patriotic people, this led them to resent the repressive Russian government They hated their censorship policies, and the strict Soviet control of what was taught in schools. They despised the vicious Soviet Secret Police known as the AVH (Allam vedelmi Hatosag), also called the State Protection Authority. These machine gun toting thugs ruled from 1945 to 1956, conceived as an external appendage of the KGB, in support of the Hungarian Working People’s Party, persecuting political criminals.
As a young child, I did not understand Hungarian politics, but I’ve since learned that following the defeat of Nazi Germany, Hungary became a satellite state of the Soviet Union under the leadership of Stalinist Matyas Raksosi. The fact that the words Nazi, Stalin, and Soviet Union appear in the same sentence, to me, says it all! My parents were right in wanting to get out of this hotbed of hate. They hungered for freedom.
Dictator Raksosi de facto ruled from 1949-1956 and established the AVH. In the long run, his heavy-handed style of communist government proved counter-productive to the interests of the USSR in Hungary. “His government’s policies of militarization, industrialization, collectivization, and war compensation led to a severe decline in living standards.” During his regime, according to various accounts, approximately 350,000 officials and intellectuals were imprisoned or executed by the AVH. Freethinkers, democrats, and dignitaries were secretly arrested and interned in domestic and foreign gulags. Some 600,000 Hungarians were deported to Soviet labor camps where at least 200,000 died. Hungarian citizens like my parents lived in fear.
As I now understand, following the death of Stalin in March of 1953, Imre Nagy, a moderate reformist, ascended to the premiership of Hungary while Raksosi was partially demoted by the Soviets to First Secretary. Nagy’s revolutionary government began to reign-in the AVH and ultimately dissolved the organization by 1956.
“Nagy promised market liberalization and political openness.” Hungary then joined the Warsaw Pact in May 1955, as societal dissatisfaction with the regime swelled. By early 1956, Rakosi managed to discredit Nagy who was replaced by the more hardline leade, Erno Gero with expectations that protests would decrease. However, by July, Rakosi was forced to resign while people began to further complain about the repressive nature of the government and low standards of living. Following the firing on peaceful demonstrations by Soviet soldiers and secret police, and rallies throughout the country on October 23rd, protesters took to the streets in Budapest, initiating The Revolution.
To add to the political confusion, in 1956 Imre Nagy became leader of the Hungarian Revolution against the Soviet-backed government, for which he was sentenced to death and executed two years later, following a failed attempt to flee to Yugoslavia. Approximately 3,000 Hungarians were killed, while 200,000 more fled abroad and became refugees.
On November 4, 1956, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest to crush, once and for all, the national uprising. Vicious street fighting broke out, but the Soviets’ great power was too much to overcome, and as a result Hungary remained a communist country. As time went on, the Soviet Union weakened by the end of the 1980s, the Eastern Bloc disintegrated, and the People’s Republic of Hungary eventually transitioned in 1989 to a peaceful, democratic system. By then, we were all living in New Jersey.
The country of Hungary was a mess in my childhood, as evidenced by these extreme shifts in leadership that spurred civil unrest. As a five-year old, I was naturally clueless as to what was going on around me.
Surrounded by all this political disruption, paranoia, and violence, my brave parents began to plot their escape with the Garbage Truck. This is their heroic story that needs to be heard. I’m sure they never thought of themselves as courageous, fearless, or especially heroic. They were simply desperate and with desperation comes inspiration. They wanted a better life for themselves and their family and were willing to accept any of the consequences, including imprisonment and death. Because of them and the risks they took, my life is better.
Hungry Soviet guards were easily bribed with food and in this manner the Ambrus family members escaped the country but never lost their pride in being Hungarian.
To Be Continued….
Now that I’ve spared no detail on the hospital stay and copied all the notes off my phone, it’s back to daily reports on my recovery. I met with the surgeon a few days ago and everything is progressing as normal. My blood tests were “perfect,” and he confirmed that the EKG showed no signs of the initial Afib (Atrial Fibrillation) concerns, they took me off the blood thinner Eliquist, and took some of the restrictions off about my salt-free diet. I am going to have to go in for another ultrasound because there is an area of my lungs that may be retaining some fluids from the pneumonia. They may have to drain it, meaning another night in the hospital, or it might go away naturally. I had my last Bay Care physical therapy session and now making arrangements for Cardio Rehab.
I still won’t be able to drive for another few weeks, so my patient wife continues to act as chauffeur, chef, nurse, and motivator. Her family is now back in Portland, with her sister due next week. I’ve gotten plenty of attention, including today’s lunch with some of the Borrego Boyz while our wives celebrate Valentine’s Day together. She insisted that there be someone here to keep an eye on me while she’s gone for a few hours. We continue to take two long walks a day together, traveling a little further each time, and I try to work with my breathing tools every hour as instructed. I can feel a burn in my legs that I haven’t experienced in a long time from being inactive these past few weeks. I’m not using a walker but still feel a bit unsteady on my feet.
Last night was “Date Night,” my second non-medical outing since I’ve been home. We went to the Red Grouper Tavern, so I enjoyed some more fried foods. We traveled to Tampa General two days ago, an odd way to celebrate our 25th “Eddiversary” together, marking the occasion of our first date. We stopped at Freddy’s on the way back so I could have a cheeseburger and chocolate shake. I’ve put on a couple pounds these past few days, so I’ll have to watch my salt intake. Weight control will be an important daily monitor, especially since I’m no longer running every day. TV is now my chief form of distraction with shows like True Detective, Death & Other Details, Masters of the Air, and Yellowstone Season 5. Old movies fill the gaps. I’m also slowly able to focus more on reading as I finish up Why We Love Baseball.
I have little pain, but sleeping is still an uncomfortable experience. Between the diuretics, burning sensations, prostrate issues, and tossing & turning, I’m up practically every hour. A rare two-straight hours of sleep is worth celebrating. I’m not looking forward to tonight’s I.U. basketball game at Purdue, although we have a Super Bowl Eve Party to attend. We booked a Disney weekend in Orlando to take my granddaughter to see Bluey in mid-June before we fly to Portland for my wife’s birthday. I also made arrangements to go to the Braves’ Spring Training Opener against the Red Sox in a few weeks, so slowly but surely, I’m adding activities to my relatively sedative, day-to-day, life on the mend.
W
I continue to emphasize the importance of getting to 60 points first in the game of college basketball. Due to surgery, I was unable to watch the next few games as three-straight I.U. opponents took advantage of “The Rule” and handed the Hoosiers a trio of BIG losses. The first was Purdue who led 60-51 with just about 13-minutes left on the fast track to an 87-66 victory at Assembly Hall. According to reports, Zach Edey The 7-foot-4 senior “drew fouls, made shots and even chased loose balls,” finishing with 33 points and 14 rebounds while leading the second-ranked Boilermakers to the 21-point rout. Trey Galloway scored 17 points and Mackenzie Mgbako had 15, but Indiana trailed for the final 37 minutes, most of that time by double digits, after falling into an early 25-13 hole and a 51-29 deficit at halftime.
Indiana has gone entire seasons without losing at Assembly Hall, including 1973, 1975, 1976, 1987, 1992, 1993, 1994, 2007, and 2016. This loss to the Boilermakers ranked fourth on the list. Here are the worst home losses in the modern era:
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February 25, 2010 – 32-point loss to Wisconsin
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February 25, 2009 – 22-point loss to Northwestern
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November 10, 2017 – 21-point loss to Indiana State
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January 16, 2024 21-point loss to Purdue
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January 27, 1977 – 19-point loss to Minnesota
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January 24, 1990 – 18-point loss to Michigan State
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March 6, 2004 – 18-point loss to Wisconsin
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December 31, 2010 – 18-point loss to Ohio State
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January 6, 1977 – 17-point loss to Purdue
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February 19, 2009 – 17-point loss to Wisconsin
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December 12, 2009 – 17-point loss to Kentucky
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February 10, 2010 – 17-point loss to Ohio State
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February 3, 2024 – 14-point loss to Penn State
