But they were not alone. Every few minutes a group or a family with children would pass. Some times they would merely nod. At others, they’d exchange what meager information they possessed. Yes, we think the frontier is in that direction. Yes, we did hear that most of the Border Patrol has deserted. No, we haven’t seen any Russian soldiers.
Deep in the forest they would pass bunkers from which submachine guns protruded menacingly. These were Border Guard stations, apparently — hopefully — unoccupied. They just moved on, half-expecting a sudden burst of bullets in the back.
The snow reflected an eerie light. In the distance, they heard a growling dog. They stopped in their tracks, paralyzed.
“Is it the guards?” Geza whispered in a panic.
“How the hell do I know?” George shot back. A second or two later, a man with a German shepherd crossed their path. But that was all he was — just a local peasant out for a stroll with his dog. They pressed forward again.
Less than five minutes later, they were out of the woods. On a hill overlooking what had to be the Austrian border. They could see soldiers in overcoats stopping vehicles at a gate, talking, gesturing for documents, et cetera. Some cars were waved through, others turned away.
“Well, we’re here,” Geza announced, a tinge of triumph in his exhausted voice.
“Yeah,” George commented wryly, “now all we have to do is get past the guards. Anybody know how to fly?”
The next words were spoken in a strange voice.
“Halt — put your hands in the air!”
They whirled and saw two men in uniform behind them. One was holding a machine gun.
Damn — the Border Patrol!
“You weren’t intending to go on a picnic in Austria, by some chance?”
Neither George nor Geza nor Aniko answered. They were numb beyond despair. The second officer had a radio, with which he now began to contact headquarters.
Knowing they had nothing to lose, George tried desperate diplomacy.
“Listen, we’re all Hungarians. In a few hours, we’ll be Russian prisoners. And I mean you guys, too. Why don’t we all —”
“Silence!” barked the man with the radio. “We have caught you illegally attempting to cross the frontier.”
But the soldier with the gun seemed to be trying to catch George’s eye. Could he be hallucinating — or was the officer tilting his head slightly as if to say, “Run for it”?
Actually, it didn’t matter. This was their last chance for freedom and they all instinctively knew it.
He touched Aniko’s hand lightly. She understood. And at the same instant they both broke into a run. Geza, equally hungry for survival, dashed to the left as George and Aniko bolted to the right.
They had taken two or three steps before the bullets began whistling through the air. Perhaps the gunner was not really aiming, but George didn’t want to find out. He tucked his head down and sprinted and sprinted and sprinted.
George had no idea how long he had been running. He knew only that he still did not feel tired. He flailed on and on in the knee-deep snow until gradually he began to realize there was no more gunfire. In fact, there was no noise at all. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast, empty field of snow.
He felt safe enough to slacken his pace. Only now did he sense that he was exhausted and near collapse. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He turned to look at Aniko.
But he saw nothing. No one. Gradually, painfully, he began to comprehend that she was no longer with him. He had been too preoccupied with his own flight to think of her.
Had she tripped and fallen? Lost her way in that blinding snow? Had one of the many bullets struck her?
George started to retrace his steps, wondering if he should call her name. He opened his mouth, but no voice emerged. He was afraid. Afraid to attract attention. And if he kept heading back, the police might get him. As they might already have gotten her. Was there any point to committing suicide?
No, Aniko would want him to go on and save himself. He turned again, trying not to think of the girl who loved him and left everything to be with him.
Moments later, in the distance, he saw — or thought he saw — the outline of a tower against the evening sky. Then he recognized it as a steeple.
They don’t have churches like that in Hungary, he realized. This has to be Austria. He set out toward the horizon.
Half an hour later, Gyorgy Kolozsdi staggered into the Austrian town of Neunkirchen. The villagers were celebrating some local festival. As soon as he appeared, they knew who he was. Or at least what he was. A plump, ruddy-faced man approached, pointing a finger at him.
“
Even in his state of shock, he knew they were asking him if he was Hungarian. And, more important, they were speaking German. He was safe.
Two men came up and helped him sit down on a bench. One had a flask of schnapps. George took a swig. Then suddenly he began to sob.
He felt guilty to be alive.
A small Austrian police van creaked to a halt about fifty feet from where George was sitting. A tall, slender, and totally expressionless officer came up to him.
“
George breathed the sigh of a defeated man, rse obediently, and slowly followed his captor. When he climbed wearily inside, his worst fears were confirmed. There were ten or twelve other passengers, all Hungarians like himself.
“Welcome to the West,” said a short, wiry man with bushy sideburns, ensconced in a rear seat. George hastened to sit next to him.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked anxiously.
“The Austrians are rounding up strays like us. My name’s Sandor, Miklos, Call me Miki. And you —?”
“Kolozsdi, Gyorgy,” George replied. And then asked quickly, “Are they taking us back?”
“Don’t be silly. I am on my way to Chicago.”
“How do you know?”
“Because on this side of the border people are free to go where they want to. Isn’t that why you left?”
George thought for a moment and then replied softly, “Yes, I suppose so. But where are we going in this bus?”
“Well, after they pick up a few more fish that slipped through the Soviet nets, they’ll take us someplace to snooze. I know a bit of German and I’ve chatted up the captain.”
George was almost tempted to feel relief. But there had been so many disappointments, so many unexpected turns of the screw, that he dared not let his guard down.
As they drove through the night, many of the refugees dozed off. But George remained awake, gazing intently out the window to catch the names of towns and villages. He wanted to be absolutely certain there were no deviations from the path to freedom.
Just before daybreak they reached Eisenstadt. The van pulled into the crowded parking area of the railroad station — which was bristling with thousands of Hungarian refugees.
“What’s happening?” asked George as Miki trotted back from a lightning reconnaissance mission.
“They’re organizing trains,” he puffed, “to take us to some big abandoned army camp the Russians used during the war.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said George.
“Yes,” Miki agreed with a wink. “Anything Russian — even without Russians in it — is not for me. I’m going freelance.”
