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
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