The Iron Curtain's Shadow: A Tale of Escape and Freedom

The story of my father's escape from communist Hungary.

This is the true story of my father’s escape from communist Hungary. I originally published this 10 years ago today on my old site. This is an updated and revised version.

In 1956, as Soviet tanks rumbled into a small Hungarian village, a six-year-old boy's life changed forever. This boy was my father, and his story is one of survival, courage, and the relentless pursuit of freedom.

The Hungarian Revolution had erupted, a desperate cry for liberty against Soviet oppression. What began as a student demonstration in Budapest quickly escalated into a nationwide revolt. The streets ran red with the blood of over 2,500 Hungarians and 700 Soviet troops before the uprising was brutally crushed. In the aftermath, 200,000 Hungarians fled their homeland, leaving behind everything they knew.

My father's village, like the rest of Hungary, fell under the iron grip of Soviet control. The communist regime, in a mockery of benevolence, allowed my grandparents to keep a small, unproductive plot of land outside town. "See how nice we are?" they sneered. "We didn't take everything." But in reality, they had taken almost everything that mattered.

Life under communist rule was a daily struggle against poverty and oppression. The state controlled all means of production, even family farms. My father's family was permitted to butcher just one pig per year to feed five children. Communist officials regularly inspected their livestock, ensuring they hadn't taken "more than their fair share." The rest was seized by the so-called "security" forces.

From a young age, my father shouldered the responsibility of maintaining much of the farm while my grandfather toiled from dawn to dusk in a distant village. Eventually, my father found his way into a trade school for masons, learning to work with concrete and stucco. But even this small measure of progress was overshadowed by the constant threat of violence.

On his daily walks to and from work, soldiers would stop him at checkpoints. With the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, another soldier would scrutinize his papers. Living near the Austrian border meant enduring these nerve-wracking encounters routinely, a stark reminder that in the eyes of the state, people were just another form of property.

In 1969, at the age of 19, my father's life took a dramatic turn. What began as a simple desire to attend a soccer game in a neighboring village became the catalyst for a daring escape from communist Hungary.

On a seemingly ordinary Sunday, my father and his friend were denied the travel papers required to cross village boundaries for the match. To us, it might seem trivial, but imagine being denied permission to travel to the next town over for no apparent reason. This wasn't just disappointing - it was a stark reminder of their lack of freedom, a final straw that broke their tolerance for oppression.

Frustrated and angry, they found themselves in a local pub, their conversation turning from soccer to salvation. As the hours passed and their resolve strengthened, a plan began to form. They would attempt the unthinkable: escape to Austria the following Sunday.

The gravity of their decision was immense. Discovery meant certain arrest and likely execution. The need for absolute secrecy was paramount - my father couldn't even bid farewell to his family. His mother would only realize something was amiss when he failed to show up for work the day after his escape.

When the fateful Sunday arrived, they set off on bicycles, riding to the edge of the border zone where they concealed their bikes in a ditch. What lay ahead was a gauntlet of deadly obstacles designed to trap or kill those seeking freedom.

The first challenge was a stretch of land mined with trip flares. One false move would light up the night sky, alerting border patrols authorized to shoot escapees on sight. With painstaking care, my father rolled up his sleeves and used his bare arms to feel for the nearly invisible tripwires, his heart pounding with each step.

Next came an even deadlier obstacle: a field of explosive mines. Years of observing the security forces had given my father crucial knowledge. He knew the mines were laid in a checkerboard pattern and that weather had exposed many of the mine tops. In the darkness, he felt his way forward, using this deadly game of connect-the-dots to plot a safe path. All the while, the threat of roving border patrols loomed.

After the minefield came a forbidding barbed wire fence, its top shaped into a vicious "V". My father threw his jacket over the barbs and climbed, his clothes shredding as he went. On the other side lay a raked sandpit - a simple but effective alarm system designed to capture footprints. In a clever ruse, they traversed it backwards, hoping to fool patrols into thinking someone was smuggling goods into Hungary rather than escaping.

The final obstacles were a river marking the Austrian-Hungarian border and one last barbed wire fence on the Austrian side. Exhausted but driven by the promise of freedom, they swam across the cold waters and scaled the fence.

Soaked, torn, and exhausted, they staggered to a farmhouse on the Austrian side. There, they found temporary shelter until authorities arrived to transport them to a refugee camp. They had done it - against all odds, they had crossed the Iron Curtain into the free world.

This harrowing eight-hour journey across just one mile of fortified borderland was more than an escape - it was a rebirth. Every step, every breath, every moment of terror was a step towards a new life of freedom, a freedom my father had only dared to dream of until that moment.

My father's journey didn't end there. After nine months in a refugee camp, he seized an opportunity to come to America, sponsored by an aunt in Wisconsin. Within a year of arriving, he volunteered to join the U.S. Army, serving during the Vietnam War era. The U.S. Army at the time was offering a path to citizenship for foreigners who agreed to join. In an ironic twist, the country he had fled from in search of freedom now accelerated his path to American citizenship through his military service.

Life in America brought its own challenges, but also love. Shortly after completing his service, my father met my mother through mutual friends, building a new life and family in the land of opportunity.

In 1985, just before the fall of the Iron Curtain, my father made a poignant journey back to Hungary. I was young, but the gravity of this trip is etched in my memory. It was a bittersweet homecoming; his father had passed away that April, forever closing the door on a reunion. Though he missed saying goodbye to his father, he was able to embrace the rest of his family one last time. Tragically, his mother would follow his father to the grave that December, as if the year was determined to close a chapter of his life.

The years had taken their toll on my father's siblings as well. His oldest sister, still living, raised three daughters. His next oldest brother had succumbed to a massive heart attack at just 47, leaving behind a widow and two sons. My father, the middle child, had built a life in America with my mother, raising three boys - myself included. His younger brother was still alive, though shadowed by the loss of his wife to breast cancer, left to raise their daughter and two sons alone. The youngest brother had lost his battle with diabetes - a condition my father also grapples with - leaving behind an ex-wife and two children.

The decision to return to Hungary was fraught with anxiety. My parents worried about potential repercussions for my father's illegal departure years ago, despite his American citizenship. After careful inquiries assured them of his safety, they devised a cautious plan. He flew into Austria and rented a car, approaching the Hungarian border by land. This strategy provided an escape route if things went awry - at least he'd be on the free side of the border.

At the checkpoint, a tense moment unfolded. The soldiers, scrutinizing his visa, asked the loaded question: "How did you manage to escape?" With a mix of audacity and dark humor, my father gestured to the imposing border fence. "See that fence over there?" he said, a glint in his eye. "I climbed over it." His brazen honesty, or perhaps the absurdity of the situation, seemed to disarm the guards. They waved him through without further incident.

My father crossed that threshold not just as a returning son, but as the embodiment of the "rich American" - a stark contrast to the poverty-stricken youth who had fled years before. The economic disparity was staggering. Hungarian currency exchanged at 52 to 1 U.S. dollar, a legacy of the hyperinflation that had ravaged the country during World War II. To put this in perspective, in 1946, it took a mind-boggling 400,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 pengő to equal 1 forint. This economic chaos had cast a long shadow over my father's childhood.

With a fistful of dollars that seemed like a fortune in Hungary, my father experienced a surreal moment of joy and sorrow. He was able to treat his entire family to a lavish dinner for a mere $32 - an unimaginable luxury in his youth. This simple act of generosity symbolized how far he had come, yet also highlighted the stark realities his family still faced under communist rule.

As my father reconnected with his roots, my mother watched history unfold from afar. Later that year, she witnessed on television the momentous dismantling of the border fences - the very barriers my father had risked his life to cross. It was a powerful symbol of change, marking the end of an era and vindicating my father's desperate bid for freedom all those years ago.

My mother provides an additional anecdote concerning the oppression he faced:

When dad escaped the government knew he had left when he didn’t show up for work.  The soldiers immediately went to his parents and sister’s home to question them. He did not tell them he was leaving he never said good bye ( as a mother, I know your grandma must have been worried sick) this was intentional as he knew that the police would lock anyone up who may have tried to help him.

As it was the police for many weeks would come in the middle of the night drag your grandfather and uncles down to the police station and questioned them. They were harassed for a long time.  The letters your dad wrote were opened and sentences blacked out that the communist government did not want the people to know about (such as the good things about the US).  Your dad said the government would tell everyone that the US was poor and the Americans only had bread to eat.

Also dad sent money home with every letter so his mother would have postage money to write a letter back to him.  Sometimes the money would be missing but most of the time there was a note inside the letter that only gave a few days to turn in the money at the bank.  The US money was more valuable on the back market so on occasion the letter would get through without being opened and your grandma would hide the US dollars so she could send the money with others who would go to another country and shop. I remember one time she wrote that she got new curtains for the house.

My father's story is a testament to the indomitable human spirit and the precious value of freedom. From a young boy witnessing tanks roll into his village to a man who risked everything for a chance at a better life, his journey embodies the struggles and triumphs of countless others who dared to dream of liberty in the face of oppression.