GEORGE KELLER

Something sinister in the tone

Told me my secret must be known:

Word I was in the house alone

Somehow must have gotten abroad,

Word I was in my life alone,

Word I had no one left but God.

ROBERT FROST

CLASS OF 1901

Budapest, October 1956

George’s childhood had been dominated by two monsters: Joseph Stalin — and his own father. The only difference between the two was that Stalin terrorized millions, and his father merely terrorized George.

True enough, “Istvan the Terrible,” as George often thought of him, had never actually killed or even imprisoned anybody. He was merely a minor official in the Hungarian People’s Working Party who used Marxist-Leninist jargon to castigate his son.

“Why does he flagellate me?” George would complain to his sister, Marika. “I’m a better socialist than he is. I mean, I believe in the theory, anyway. And even though I think the party stinks, I’ve joined for his sake. Why is he so fed up?”

Marika tried to mollify her brother. And comfort him. For, try as he did to deny it, George was genuinely upset by the old man’s disapproval.

“Well,” she said softly, “he’d like your hair a little shorter…”

“What? Does he want me to shave my skull? I mean, lots of my friends wear Elvis Presley ducktails.”

“He doesn’t like your friends either, Gyuri.”

“I don’t know why,” said George, shaking his head in consternation. “They’re all sons of party members. Some are big shots, too. And they’re a lot easier on their children than Father is.”

“He just wants you to stay home and study, Gyuri. Be honest, you’re out almost every evening.”

“You be honest, Marika. I graduated first in my gimnazium class. I’m studying Soviet law —”

At that very moment Istvan Kolozsdi entered the room and, immediately taking command, finished his son’s sentence.

“You are at the university because of my party status, yompetz , and don’t forget it. If you were merely a clever Catholic or Jew, it wouldn’t matter how high your grades were. You would be sweeping some provincial street. Be grateful you are the son of a party minister.”

“Assistant minister,” George corrected him, “in the Farm Collectivization Office.”

“You say it as if it were a disgrace, Gyuri.”

“Well, it’s hardly democratic for a government to force people to farm against their will —”

“We do not force —”

“Please, Father,” Gyuri answered with an exasperated sigh, “you’re not talking to some naive idiot.”

“No, I’m talking to a yompetz , a worthless hooligan. And as for that girlfriend of yours —”

“How can you criticize Aniko, Father? The party thinks she’s good enough to study pharmacy.”

“Still, it hurts my standing when you’re seen with her. Aniko’s a bad type. She malingers. She sits in cafés in Vaci Ucca listening to Western music.”

What really annoys you, George thought, is that I sit right next to her. Last Sunday in the Kedves we heard Cole Porter for nearly three hours.

“Father,” said George, hoping for reasonable debate instead of a brawl, “if socialist music is so great, why doesn’t the Stalin Cantata have any good tunes?”

Livid, the government official turned to his daughter. “I won’t talk to this yompetz anymore. He’s a disgrace to our entire family.”

“I’ll change my name,” George said facetiously.

“Please,” said the old man, “the sooner the better.” He stormed out and slammed the door.

George turned to his sister. “Now what the hell did I do?”

Marika shrugged. She had been the referee in these father-and-son combats for as long as she could remember. There seemed to have been conflict ever since their mother died — when George was five and she only two and a half.

The old man was never the same after that. And in his fits of bitterness he would vent his anger on his eldest child. While she tried to grow up as quickly as she could to be a mediating force — a mother to her brother and a wife to him.

“Try and understand, George, he’s had a very hard life.”

“That’s no excuse for giving me one. But in a way I understand. He feels trapped in his job. Yes, Marika, even socialist officials harbor ambitions. The Farm Program is an unmitigated disaster. His boss naturally blames him, so who can he let out his frustrations on? Sometimes I wish we had a dog so he could kick it instead of me.”

Marika realized that, despite George’s angry protestations, at a certain level he genuinely sympathized with his father’s disappointment. Yet, the old man had done well for someone who had begun life as an apprentice shoemaker in Kaposvar. Istvan Kolozsdi’s greatest misfortune was that he had sired a son whose brilliance would inevitably show how mediocre he really was.

Somewhere in their hearts, the two men knew it. And this made them afraid to love each other.

“I have tremendous news!” called Aniko as she dashed across Muzeum Boulevard to catch George between lectures at the Law Faculty.

“Don’t tell me,” he smiled, “the pregnancy test was negative.”

“That I won’t know till Friday,” she replied, “but listen to this — the Polish students are striking to support Gomulka — and we’re organizing a sympathy march.”

“Aniko, the Secret Police will never let you get away with it. Those AVO thugs will beat your brains in, Or else our friendly Russian ‘visitors’ will.”

“Gyuri Kolozsdi, not only will you march with me, but you will carry one of the posters I’ve spent all morning painting. Now, which one would you like — ‘Hail Polish youth’? ‘Russians get out’?”

George smiled. Wouldn’t the sight of him carrying such a placard warm his father’s heart? “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at “New Leadership for Hungary.”

They kissed.

March Fifteenth Square was electric with anticipation. Thousands of demonstrators had crowded onto its grassy turf, carrying posters and flags. There were delegations from factories, schools, and universities. A young actor from the National Theater clambered up the statue of Sándor Petofi and began to declaim the poet’s “National Hymn,” which had ignited Hungary’s 1848 Revolution.

The ever-increasing throng joined in with special vigor when they reached “Most vagy soha — now or never!”

For the first time, George began to feel that something important was happening. And he was a part of it.

At last the procession began, led by chanting demonstrators who carried a wreath of red carnations. They began to pour into the main city streets, blocking traffic as they passed. But there was no animosity. Many motorists simply locked their cars and joined the marchers, whose ranks had already been swelled by the shop owners and workers all along the way. Every window, every balcony was filled with families waving encouragement.

As if by magic, Budapest was transformed into a boundless field of red, white, and green. People everywhere had fashioned tricolors of ribbons, cloth — and even paper. When the students took their final turn into Jozsef Bem Square, they could see that the statue at the center was already draped with a huge Hungarian flag, the Soviet coat of arms torn out of its center.

Toward sunset, many students talked about going to dem onstrate in front of Parliament. Others proposed an attack on the great statue of Stalin that had for so many years stood in the center of the City Park looking down at Budapest with cast-iron mockery. George and Aniko held hands and let the mainstream carry them back across the river toward Parliament Square.

“What do you think the government will do?” George asked.

“Resign. They have to.”

The immensity of the crowd in Parliament Square was almost frightening. Hundreds of thousands — it seemed like millions — were laying siege to the venerable government edifice with its embroidered Gothic pinnacles. All were shouting for the return of the only leader they trusted, Imre Nagy, who had been removed from office by the Russians the year before.

Evening became night and the air grew bitingly cold. But many had made torches of the newspapers and pamphlets they held in their hands and continued to shout for Nagy.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a slight figure appeared on a balcony. From the front rows a ripple of voices began to echo and crescendo toward the back. “It’s Nagy, it’s Nagy!” Somewhat weakly, himself overcome by the emotion of the moment, the deposed leader raised his hand to plead for silence.

“Has he gone mad?” George wondered out loud, “He’s waving his hands like a lunatic.”

But in an instant all became clear. He was leading the massive throng in the singing of the national anthem. It was a stroke of genius!

After the song ended, Nagy disappeared as swiftly as he had materialized. The crowd — thrilled and elated now — began to break up. Instinctively, they knew no more would happen that night. At least not in Parliament Square.

George and Aniko were halfway back to the university when they heard gunfire. He took her hand and they began to run down toward Muzeum Boulevard. The cobblestone streets swarmed with people, excited, curious, frightened.

When they reached the Muzeum Garden, there were still traces of tear gas in the air. She took out a handkerchief and held it to her face. George’s eyes were beginning to burn. A hysterical young girl was shrieking that the Secret Police had massacred defenseless people.

“We’re going to kill every one of those bastards!” she sobbed.

“Fat chance,” George whispered to Aniko. “I’ll believe it when I see my first dead AVO man.”

He took her hand and they began to run again.

Less than a block later, they stopped in their tracks, horrified. Above them, strung up by his feet from a lamppost, were the bloody remains of a Secret Police officer. George felt sick.

“Gyuri,” said Aniko with a shudder, “we know what they did to their prisoners.”

On the next block they saw corpses of two more AVO agents.

“God,” Aniko pleaded, “I can’t bear this anymore.”

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Well, yompetz , I see they haven’t arrested you yet.”

It was nearly 5:00 A.M. Istvan Kolozsdi was seated close to the radio, exhausted, smoking nervously. Marika rushed to embrace her brother.

“Gyuri, we’ve been hearing such terrible rumors. I feared that something had happened to you.”

“Forget rumors, Marika,” the patriarch interrupted. “The truth has just been on the news.”

“Really?” George said softly. “And what is Radio Budapest’s version of tonight’s events?”

“There was a small Fascist insurrection, which the police have dealt with severely,” said Istvan Kolozsdi. “And where have you been all evening?”

George sat down in a chair opposite his father, leaned forward, and said with a smile, “Listening to Imre Nagy.”

“You are mad. Nagy is a nonperson.”

“Try telling that to the thousands who cheered him in Parliament Square. And we’re going to get him back as party leader.”

“And I’m getting my hair back on my head. You’re all a bunch of crazy idiots.”

“Spoken like a true socialist,” said George, as he headed out of the room. “I’m going to sleep. Even lunatics need rest.”

Scarcely three hours later, his sister was prodding him. “Wake up, Gyuri. Nagy is named premier! It’s just been on the news.”

George forced his weary body to get out of bed. He had to see his father’s face.

Still buttoning his shirt, he shuffled into the sitting room. The old man seemed welded to the spot beside the radio, surrounded by ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts.

As Marika handed George a cup of black coffee, he asked his father, “Well?”

The patriarch looked up and, without the slightest trace of irony, replied, “You have never heard me say a word against Imre Nagy. In any case, he must have the blessing of Moscow, because he has asked for help from the Soviet troops.”

“Now I think you’re the dreamer, Father.” And then, turning to his sister, he said, “When Aniko calls, tell her I’ve left for the university.”

He tossed a jacket over his shoulder and hurried from the house.

In the years that followed, George looked back at this moment and wondered why he had neglected to say more of a farewell. Not to his father. For he was angered by the old man’s shameless display of hypocrisy. But why had he not been more affectionate to Marika?

He was never able to console himself with the thought that, on that cold October morning in 1956, he could not have dreamed how far he was going.

The university was a tornado of rumors. After every radio broadcast, people would scurry around the hall like town criers. The exhausted students cheered upon hearing that President Eisenhower had said, “The heart of America goes out to the people of Hungary.” They sang to one another, “The whole world is watching!”

But the peak of euphoria came on Tuesday afternoon, when Premier Nagy announced that the evacuation of Soviet troops had begun. George must have knocked down six people as he dashed ecstatically across the room to embrace Aniko.

On the morning of November first, George was rudely awakened by Geza, a fellow law student.

“What the hell —”

And then he noticed something very odd. Scrawny Geza today looked like a circus fat man. George rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

“What the hell has happened to you?” he asked. “We’ve got to get out of here,”

Geza said. “I’m wearing all my clothes — at least everything I could squeeze on — and heading for Vienna.”

“Have you lost your mind? The Soviets are gone. Don’t you hear Radio Free Europe?”

“Yes, but I also hear my cousin in the village of Gyor. He rang about two hours ago and said there were hundreds of Russian tanks massing at the western border. They’re just regrouping to come back.”

“Is he sure?”

“Do you want to wait and find out?” George hesitated, but only for a split second. “Let me get Aniko,” he said.

“Okay, but make it snappy.”

She was reluctant.

“What makes you so sure the Soviets are coming back?”

“How many reasons do you want?” George answered impatiently. “Look, if Hungary goes independent, that will give the Poles and the Czechs big ideas. Then boom, the Russian empire tumbles like a house of cards.”

Her face grew pale. She was frightened by the magnitude of the decision being forced upon her.

“But what about my mother — she can’t manage without me.”

“She will have to,” George replied impassively. He put his arms around her. She was sobbing quietly.

“Let me at least call her,” she pleaded.

“Yes. But please be quick.”

They started walking. George and Aniko with just the clothing on their backs, Geza wearing his entire wardrobe. As they reached the outskirts of Buda, George saw a phone booth and suddenly thought of his sister.

“Anybody got some change?” he asked.

Aniko pressed a coin into his hand.

“Gyuri,” his sister said anxiously, “where are you? Even Father’s been concerned.”

“Listen,” he replied, “I’m in a hurry —”

Just then, Geza stuck his head into the booth and Whispered, “Tell her the Voice of America is passing code messages from refugees who make it across.”

George nodded.

“Please, Marika, don’t ask me any questions. Just listen to the Voice of America. If they say that —” He hesitated once again. “That ‘Karl Marx is dead’ — that’ll mean I’m all right.”

“Gyuri, I don’t understand. You sound scared.”

“I am,” he confessed, and then added, “so for God’s sake, pray that he does die.”

He hung up without another word.

“What about your father?” Aniko asked. “Won’t he get into trouble when they learn you’ve fled the country?”

“Listen, he’s a consummate politician, with a genius for self-preservation. He’ll be just fine, I assure you.”

And in his heart he thought, He turned his back on me during my whole childhood, why should I care what happens to him now?

They plodded on in silence. The only traffic on the road was the occasional ancient truck — nearly always heading toward the western border. Once in a while the trio would get a lift for a few dozen kilometers. The drivers never asked where they were going or why.

It was nearly nightfall when they reached the outskirts of Gyor.

“What do we do now?” George asked Geza. “It’s much too cold to sleep outside, and I’ve barely got a few forints in my pocket for food.”

“I don’t even have enough for a bowl of soup,” Aniko added.

Geza merely smiled. “Leave it to me. Do you have the strength to walk another hour?”

“Only if I knew we could get inside somewhere,” said George. Aniko nodded agreement.

“Tibor Kovacs’s parents live in Enese — about ten kilometers from here. He was going to leave with us. His parents would be expecting him.”

Aniko gasped. “Don’t they know he was shot two nights ago?”

“No,” Geza replied, “and there’s no point in telling them.”

And he began to lead them toward Enese.

In half an hour, they were trudging down an icy country road lit only by moonlight. They had been walking since early morning and were almost too tired to speak.

“Tomorrow would be a good day to try to make it across,” said Geza. “It’s All Souls’ Day. The roads will be filled. Everybody will be going to the cemeteries.”

The Kovacs family was glad to welcome friends of their son and did not seem concerned that he was not with them. He had been instructing various groups of the newly formed militia in the use of arms, so that George’s fabrication — that Tibor was needed for another few days in Budapest — seemed perfectly plausible.

Dinner was a dream. Unlike the capital city, the villages had plenty of food, and Mrs. Kovacs set before them a feast of chicken and vegetables. There was even a bottle of Tokay.

“I admire you.” Mr. Kovacs smiled broadly. “If I were a few years younger, I’d be going, too. For sure as snow will fall tomorrow, the Russians will be back. Everyone I speak to has seen the tanks. They are off the main road, but they are out there in the forests, waiting like hungry bears.”

Aniko was offered Tibor’s bed. Though inwardly horrified, she knew she had to accept. The two young men curled up by the fire in the main room.

The next morning it was snowing heavily.

Geza looked at George and Aniko. “In this weather, I think the best idea is to try to catch a train to Sopron. From there, we have a long and very sparse border with Austria. If we are lucky, we should be able to walk across tonight.”

At midday they thanked the Kovacses and started off, leaving all sorts of encouraging messages for Tibor.

At the outskirts of the village, they got their first shock. The Russian tanks were no longer hiding behind trees. Two of them were squatting right in the center of the road.

“Well?” George asked Geza.

“Don’t panic, Gyuri. It’s snowing like hell and they don’t seem to be paying very close attention. We’re not carrying any luggage, so why should they suspect us of anything?”

“You, Geza, look like a walking football in all those clothes,” said George. “If you intend to try to bluff your way past those tanks, you’d better strip down.”

A sudden look of anxiety crossed Geza’s face. He was loath to part with five-sixths of his worldly possessions.

“Let’s go around the town and see if we can reach the railroad from the other side,” he insisted nervously.

And so they set off.

But there were two more tanks at the farther entrance to the village. They had hiked for more than an hour in the snow to no purpose. George and Aniko stared at Geza. Without a word, he began to unbutton his top jacket. His fingers were trembling — and not merely from the cold.

“Who — who — who’ll do the talking?”

“Come on, Geza,” George replied, “we’ve all had at least six years of Russian. Let’s just be sure we tell the same story.”

“Your accent is the best, George,” Geza insisted. “It would be much better if you spoke for us. Besides, when it comes to inventing lies, you’re something of a genius.”

“All right, comrade,” said George, “I’ll be our ambassador.” After Geza removed his penultimate suit and buried the rest of his garments in a snowdrift, they started off toward the tanks.

“Stoi! Kto idyot?”

A soldier asked them to identify themselves. George took a few steps forward and began to engage him in impeccable Russian.

“We are three students from Eotvos Lorand University, visiting a friend who is ill with glandular fever. We would like to take the train back to Budapest. Do you wish to see our papers?”

The soldier had a whispered conversation with one of his colleagues and then turned back to George.

“That will not be necessary. Proiditye! ” And he waved them on. They hurried into the village, toward the train station, their hearts pounding.

“Damn,” said Geza, pointing to the station up ahead. “They have tanks there too.”

“Ignore them,” George replied. “I don’t think these soldiers know what they’re supposed to do, anyway.”

He was right. No one stopped them from getting onto the platform, where a very crowded train was about to leave. There was much noise and confusion. All three of them called desperately to various people, “Sopron? Going to Sopron?”

There was shouting and waving from inside the train, which now began slowly to pull out. Geza leapt on board first. George helped Aniko and then clambered on himself. In an instant, they had left the station.

There was not a single empty seat, so they stood in the corridor looking out the window. Each knew what the other two were thinking. In an hour and a half at most they’d be in Sopron. And then the border.

There were startling new additions to the otherwise familiar Hungarian landscape. Russian tanks. Everywhere. All with their guns aimed straight at the train.

They did not exchange a word in the next half-hour.

Then came the shock.

“George,” said Geza, sounding as if a noose were around his neck, “do you see where we are?”

George looked beyond the Soviet armor. His heart nearly stopped.

“We’re going in the wrong direction! The damn train isn’t going to Sopron — it’s going back to Budapest!” Aniko grabbed his arm in terror.

The train suddenly halted with a jolt. Aniko fell against George, who kept his balance only because he was holding on to the window rail. The passengers glanced at one another in fear and confusion. George’s eyes were fixed on the Russian tanks outside the window.

“You don’t think they’re going to shoot, do you?” Aniko whispered.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he replied, biting his lip.

Then, suddenly, at the far end of the car, a conductor in a faded blue-gray uniform appeared, trying to weave his way through the crowd. Questions were fired at him from every direction. He cupped his hands and announced:

“We cannot enter Budapest. Repeat, we cannot enter Budapest. The Soviets have surrounded the city and there is fierce shelling.” And then the most startling piece of information: “We are turning back. We must go all the way to Sopron.”

Geza, George, and Aniko looked at one another. There was jubilation in their eyes. In a few moments, the train started up slowly… away from the Soviet stranglehold on Budapest.

The entire journey toward the border seemed to be through a corridor of tanks. When they finally arrived and stepped onto the Sopron station platform, hope permitted them to take one deep breath. So far, so good.

It was now late afternoon.

“Which way is the border?” George asked Geza.

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

“Well, what the hell do you expect us to do?” he snapped. “Ask some Russian soldier?”

Then it occurred to Aniko. “Isn’t there a School of Forestry here? We could ask a student.”

She didn’t have to finish her thought. In a split second, George had obtained directions from an elderly woman and they were off.

The minute they entered the great hail, a young man in a beret asked, “Do you need ammo, comrade?”

The atmosphere inside the school was actually festive. Dozens of patriots were arming to drive the Russian invaders from their homeland.

They were each given a piece of bread, a cup of cocoa — and a handful of bullets scooped out from a large vat.

“Where are the weapons?” George asked, his mouth stuffed with bread.

“They will come, comrade, they will come.”

The three of them went to sit down in a corner and plan their next move. One thing was certain. They had not come all this way to join a doomed rebellion.

“These people are crazy,” said Ceza, shifting a half-dozen bullets from hand to hand as if they were mixed nuts. “The shells are all of different calibers. I don’t see two alike. What are they going to do — spit them at the Russians?”

And then he rose and walked off to seek out geographical orientation.

George and Aniko looked at each other. This was the first time they had been alone in days.

“How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Scared. I hope we can make it.”

She clasped his hand.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. And then after a few minutes inquired, “By the way, what did you tell your mother?”

“I know you’ll laugh, but it’s the only thing she would’ve believed.” She smiled weakly. “I said we were going off to get married.”

He grinned wearily and squeezed her hand.

“Maybe it won’t be a lie, Aniko.”

“Do you really mean it, George?”

He hesitated for a split second and replied, “Why else did I bring you along?”

Then they both leaned back, silent and exhausted.

A few minutes later she said sadly, “I wonder how it’s going in Budapest.”

“You must force yourself not to think of these things,” he replied.

She nodded. But, unlike him, she could not so easily eradicate her memories.

Geza reappeared. “Austria is a few kilometers’ walk through those woods back there. If we left now, we could still get there by nightfall.”

George looked at Aniko. She stood up, saying nothing.

It had begun to snow heavily again. Thick, silent chunks of white. All three of them were soon soaked and freezing. Their thin city shoes made it worse than walking barefoot.

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.

“Bist du ungarisch?” he asked.

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.

“Guten Abend ,” he said quietly. And then gesturing toward his vehicle added, “mit mir, bitte .”

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 Sándor, 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.”

“Meaning what?”

“Look, sooner or later they’ll have to take these people to Vienna. But I prefer to go right now. Want to join me?”

“Sure. Do you have a map?”

“In here,” the little man answered, pointing to his head. “I memorized everything. All we have to do is head north and watch the signs. Okay, let’s separate and stroll nonchalantly toward the far exit. When you’re sure nobody’s looking, slip away and start walking along the main road. We’ll rendezvous at the first beerhouse on the right-hand side.”

They nodded and quickly parted company. George hurried as inconspicuously as possible to the edge of the station. Then, after whistling his way past the armed guards, he began to stride northward as quickly as he could.

The first tavern was a mere six hundred yards away. The older man was already there, leaning casually against a fading wooden sign that identified the establishment as “Der Wiener Keller.”

“It means the Vienna Wine Cellar,” explained Miki, pointing to the placard. “It’s a sort of weak pun on ‘Wein’ and ‘Wien.’ Not sophisticated enough for gentlemen like us. I suggest we move on.”

Without another word they set off.

“How’s your English?” asked Miki, as they marched briskly. “I don’t know a single word,” George replied.

“Oh yes, you’re one of those privileged party children who get to study all those years of Russian, Not very provident of you, was it?”

“No. But I’ll start learning English the minute I can buy a book.”

“You’re walking with one,” his fellow refugee replied. “If you pay attention, I will have you speaking good American before We reach Vienna.”

“Okay.” George smiled. “Start teaching.”

“First lesson. Repeat after me, ‘I am a cool cat. You are a cool cat. He is a cool cat. She is a — ’ ”

“What does that mean?” George asked.

“ ‘Cool cat’ is a nice compliment meaning ‘good person.’ Trust me, George, I’m up-to-date from studying all the newspapers. Now stop the questions and start repeating.”

After two hours, George was able to make a modicum of idiomatic small talk. He knew how to flatter his future countrymen. To tell them that life in Hungary was “a drag.” And that the United States was the hope for the future of all mankind. On the more pragmatic side, he was able to ask where the men’s room was.

They slowed somewhat as they crossed the Danube. For they both were acutely aware that, a few hundred kilometers to the east, this same river bisected their native city.

“Do you have family back in Budapest?” George asked. Miki hesitated. His expression seemed to alter slightly.

“Not anymore,” he answered enigmatically. “And you?”

Regretting that he had broached the subject, George responded with the same words: “Not anymore.”

And he once more fought to drive the thoughts of Aniko from his mind.

Miki explained that he was going to seek out the major American relief organizations and tell each one of them that he had a sister and brother-in-law in Illinois. He also had a profession. And besides, Charles Lancaster was willing to be his sponsor.

“Who the hell is Charles Lancaster?” asked George.

“My brother-in-law, of course.”

“ ‘Lancaster?’ ”

“Listen, Gyuri, if your name were Karoly Lukacs, wouldn’t you change it to something more familiar to the American ear?”

George agreed. And immediately applied the lesson to his own predicament. “But, Miki, what will they make of ‘Gyuri Kolozsdi’?”

“They will make a mess of it, my friend. An American needs an American name.”

“Well, what would you suggest?”

“ ‘Gyorgy’ is no problem,” answered Miki, clearly enjoying the opportunity to rebaptize an adult. “It simply becomes ‘George.’ But ‘Kolozsdi’ must be replaced by something clear and neat.”

George searched his mind. For some strange reason, his thoughts returned to that first tavern on the road to freedom — Der Wiener Keller. “How does ‘George Keller ’ sound?”

“Very dignified. Very dignified indeed.”

At this point they could have taken a tram, but George was loath to leave his new friend.

“Do you think they’ll want a simple student? I mean, I have no degree or anything,”

“Then you must find something that will make them want you.”

“I was studying Soviet law. What good is that in America?”

“Aha — there you have it. You have had a thorough party education. You know Russian almost as a mother tongue. Tell them you want to use this knowledge in the struggle against world communism. Tell them you want to go to university to help in this fight.”

“Any university in particular?”

“In America, the two best are Harvard and Yale. But you’d better say you want to go to Harvard.”

“Why?”

Miki smiled. “Because for a Hungarian, ‘Yale’ is too hard to pronounce.”

They finally parted company on the Ringstrasse.

“Good luck, Georgie.”

“Miki, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

Several moments later George discovered an envelope in his pocket. It contained Miki’s future address in Highland Park, Illinois. And twenty-five U.S. dollars.

The American Red Cross committee seemed fairly impressed with George’s academic background. But instead of receiving an air ticket, he was assigned to barracks on the outskirts of town. This wouldn’t do.

George approached a fresh-faced official wearing a Red Cross tag that identified him as:

ALBERT BEDDING

English-Deutsch-Français

“Excuse me, Mr. Redding,” George said politely. “I would like to go to Harvard.”

“Who wouldn’t?” The young man laughed. “I got turned down flat. And I was third in my graduating class and editor of the paper. But don’t you worry, we’ve got lots of colleges. You’ll finish your studies, I’ll promise you that.”

But George had a trump card, one of the “key American phrases” Miki had taught him on their march from Eisenstadt to Vienna.

“Mr. Redding,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice, “I — I want to be in America… for Christmas.”

It worked! George could see from the expression on Redding’s face that he was moved by this lonely refugee’s yearning.

“You’re a good fella, you know that?” he said with genuine affection. “Look — give me your name and I’ll see what I can do.”

Gyorgy Kolozsdi spoke his freshly minted appellation for the first time. “It’s Keller. George Keller.”

“Well, George,” said Albert, “I can’t promise anything, but come back and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if there’s anything you need in the meantime —”

“There is,” George interrupted this gentle attempt to brush him off. “I understand it is possible to get messages on the Voice of America, yes?”

“Uh, sure. That’s not my department, but I could pass it on.” He withdrew a pad and pencil from his jacket pocket and George dictated.

“I would simply like it said please that… ‘Mr. Karl Marx has died.’”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, please.”

The young man looked up at George and inquired diffidently, “Say, don’t they know this behind the Iron Curtain?”

“It may shock some people,” George replied. “Anyway, thank you, mister. I will return tomorrow early.”

At seven-thirty the next morning, Albert Redding was in a state of shock.

“I dunno,” he muttered to George, waving a telegram in his left hand. “Maybe I should have been born Hungarian.”

“What is it?”

“I just do not believe this luck,” the young man repeated in dismay. “Listen to this: ‘To the Field Director, American Red Cross, Vienna — Harvard University has set up a committee to seek out and subsidize one or two qualified refugee students from Hungarian universities. We would appreciate complete details on any potential candidates. Please reply to me with fullest particulars. Signed, Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, Assistant Professor of Government.’ ”

Redding looked wide-eyed at George. “Do you believe that?”

“Who knows? But let us anyway quickly send this person a report about me.”

The response came within twenty-four hours. This young refugee was just the sort of candidate they were looking for. The rest was merely bureaucratic detail.

Eight days afterward, George Keller boarded a bus for Munich, where he was placed on an aircraft; twenty-six hours later, he alighted at Newark Airport, USA. He was not at all tired by the long journey. It had allowed him time to memorize more of his newest acquisition, a book called Thirty Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary .

Customs at the airport was perfunctory. It had to be. All George possessed were two books, three newspapers, and some clean underwear the Red Cross had given him. As he walked tentatively out of the Immigration area, a pale angular man with a crewcut held out his hand.

“George Keller?”

He nodded, still slightly unfamiliar with his new name.

“I’m Professor Brzezinski. Welcome to America. We’ve arranged for you to sleep tonight at the New York Harvard Club.”

***

Andrew first met George Keller after lunch in Master Finley’s office. Professor Brzezinski had just brought the young refugee over from South Station and made the introductions. He then gave Andrew two hundred dollars and asked him to take George around the Square and fit him out with all the basic clothes he’d need. They would have to be thorough, since the Hungarian didn’t even have pajamas. Lest Andrew get the wrong idea, Brzezinski cautioned, “We are on a tight budget, Mr. Eliot. So I think it wise you do most of your shopping at The Coop.”

As soon as they reached the Square, George began to read the billboards out loud, and then he eagerly asked, “Do I pronounce these words correctly, Andrew?”

He recited everything from slogans such as “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco” to “Eight Minutes to Park Street” (on the electric sign over the subway). And then he would immediately try to use this, verbiage in a sentence like, “What do you think, Andrew? Shall we buy some Lucky Strike? I’m told that it is fine tobacco and it is very good to smoke.” Or, “I hear the journey into Park Street, which is known to be the center of Boston city, is eight minutes only from this Harvard Square. Am I correct?”

He then listened with frenetic intensity to whatever nonsense Andrew replied, immediately asking for definitions of words he had not understood.

“Please, George,” Andrew begged at last, “I feel like a walking dictionary.”

Not that George wasn’t grateful. He kept effusively repeating things like, “Andrew, you’re a really cool cat.”

The preppie wondered where the refugee had picked up slang like that. But then concluded that it must be a translation from Hungarian.

Inside The Coop, George acted like a child in Santa’s storehouse. He had never seen such an array of merchandise in his whole life. What struck him most was the amazing brightness of the colors.

“Back in my home — my former home, I mean to say — all things were gray,” he commented. “Also a great big drag.”

Despite a gleam in his eyes that made Andrew think he wanted to buy everything in the place, when it came down to selecting the most trivial of items, George was enormously fastidious. They stood in the underwear department and engaged in a long dialectic as to whether the majority of Harvard men wore boxer shorts or “the most cool of them” preferred the jockey type (Every part of him had to be fashionably American.)

They ran the same investigative gamut when it came to socks and ties. Andrew steered him toward the reps, of course.

With notebooks and similar supplies, it was a good deal easier. George simply picked everything that had the college emblem on it (even the ballpoint pens, strictly a tourist item).

And yet he was a little leery when Andrew explained that Harvard types carried their stuff around in a green bookbag.

“Why green? Is not the official university color this winelike crimson?”

“Yeah,” Andrew sputtered, at a loss for words, “but —”

“Then what is the reason you make me buy green?”

“Hey, George, I honestly don’t know. It’s just an old tradition. I mean, all the cool people —”

“Oh, truthfully?”

“Even Dr. Pusey,” Andrew answered, hoping that the President of Harvard would not mind his invoking him in vain.

They spent an aeon in the textbook section. On the train, Brzezinski had helped George work out a schedule of courses that would suit someone with perfect Russian. Still, in addition to his class texts, he bought all sorts of English grammar books and dictionaries. Anything that would advance his crusade to conquer the language.

As they were lugging all their purchases back home to Eliot, George suddenly asked in an incongruous whisper, “We are alone now, Andrew, are we not?”

Dunster Street was empty, so the answer obviously was yes.

“Then we can speak the truth to one another?”

Andrew was totally confused. “I don’t understand you, George.”

“You can trust me to keep a secret, Andrew,” he continued, still half-whispering. “Are you the spy?”

“The what?”

“Please. I am not some naive newborn child. In every university the government has spies.”

“Not in America,” Andrew answered, trying to sound convincing. For, like someone in a Kafka story, he felt slightly guilty.

“George, do I look like a spy to you?”

“Of course not,” he said knowingly. “That is the biggest reason why I suspect you. Please — you won’t report this, yes?”

“Hey look,” Andrew protested, “I don’t report to anybody. I’m just a Harvard undergraduate.”

“Is your name really Andrew Eliot?”

“Of course. What do you find so strange in that?”

“Look here,” he reasoned, “the dwelling they assign me is called Eliot. You say that is your name also. Do you not find that curious coincidence?”

As patiently as possible, Andrew tried to explain how Harvard buildings got their names from notable alumni of a bygone age. And that his family had been pretty distinguished. Apparently that satisfied George for the moment. In fact, it seemed to lift, his mood.

“Then you are an aristocrat?”

“You might say so,” Andrew answered candidly. And was pleasantly surprised to find that for some unfathomable reason, this seemed to make George happy.

Then came the horror show.

They had left Eliot at about half past one. It was close to five when they returned.

Fortunately, Andrew was the first to walk into the suite. Something made him glance toward the bedroom, where he saw in panic what they’d interrupted.

The day’s events had made him totally forget! It took Andrew half a second to react. First he ordered George to wait in the hall, then he sprinted like a demon to the bedroom door and slammed it shut.

At last, he turned around to see the refugee staring at him, his suspicion now inflamed to paranoia.

“Eliot, what is happening?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Some friends of mine have just been … borrowing the place.”

As Andrew stood there like a sentry at the bedroom door, both men could hear frantic shuffling inside.

“I don’t believe you,” George stated angrily, a quaver in his voice. “And I wish to speak to your superiors immediately.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Keller, let me explain this, huh?”

He glanced at his brand-new Timex watch and, like a military officer, replied, “Okay, I give you five minutes. Then I phone Brzezinski to get me out of here.” He sat down and folded his arms.

Andrew didn’t know how to begin. “Look, George, there are these two friends of mine who —” At a loss for words, he stood there making futile gestures in the air.

“So far, no good,” Keller said disapprovingly. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Four minutes twenty and I call Brzezinski.”

Suddenly he looked up and his expression changed completely. He jumped to his feet and, with a broad smile, said, “Greetings, honey, I am George. What’s your name?”

Andrew whirled around and saw that Sara had emerged, a little red-faced.

“I’m Sara Harrison,” she said with as much friendly composure as she could muster under the circumstances. “Welcome to Harvard.”

George held out his hand. They shook. Then Ted appeared and introduced himself. George was miraculously transformed.

“And so we all are living here?” he asked with newfound optimism.

“Uh — not really,” Andrew stammered. “It’s just that Ted and Sara have no place to, you know —”

“Please,” George said gallantly, “there is no need to explain. We have these housing problems also in Hungary.”

“Hey,” Ted whispered to Andrew apologetically, “I’m sorry for this little mess-up. But you didn’t give us any warning.”

“No, no, you guys. It’s all my fault. I should have called you when I learned what train he would be coming on.”

“No sweat,” Ted reassured him. “But look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to walk Sara back and go to work. Thanks, Eliot, it was great while it lasted.”

As Sara kissed Andrew on the cheek and started out, he called, “Hey, you know nothing has to change. I mean, you’re welcome to continue … visiting.”

Sara stuck her head back in. “We’ll see.” She smiled. “But I think you’ve got your hands full.”

***

The Eliot House dining hall was the one selected to stay open through the Christmas holidays. To offer nourishment — a flattering term for Central Kitchen fare — to the poor souls who had to stay in Cambridge during the vacation.

These were not the usual men of the house, but rather a potpourri of undergraduates from all over the campus. Many were seniors (of the Class of ’57) feverishly working on their honors dissertations. Some were freshmen who lived too far from home and didn’t have the wherewithal even for bus fare.

Still, a few were genuine Eliot men, each of whom had a special reason for remaining in arctic Cambridge over Christmas.

Danny Rossi was one of them. He welcomed the liberation from his classwork to plunge fully into composing Arcadia . The place was quiet. Not a single raucous shout rose from the snowy courtyard to destroy his concentration. For, wanting to impress Maria, he’d rashly promised that he’d have the whole score done by New Year’s Eve.

He worked demonically from dawn to late at night. One theme came magically — the plaintive love song of the shepherds. It was a melody born of his longing for Maria. The rest took sweat to write but gradually the staves were filled.

It was, he thought, the best stuff he had ever done.

This dedication was convenient for another reason. His mother’s recent letters had been urging him to come home for the holidays and make peace. Yet, his important first commission gave him a legitimate excuse to continue to avoid facing his father.

Danny spent his Yuletide locked up, psychologically as well as physically. For his obsession with this new ballet helped him to shut out all emotion: the natural desire to spend Christmas with his family, especially his mother. And those feelings for Maria. So lovely. So desirable, So completely unattainable.

Hell, he tried to rationalize, I’ll put the pain down on the music paper. Passion can inspire art. But, in this case, his attempt to sublimate passion merely inspired more passion.

-*-

George Keller had also chosen to remain in Cambridge. Though Andrew Eliot had kindly invited him to his home, George preferred to stay on monastically and make his rapidly improving English even better.

On Christmas Eve, the dining hail came up with something tasting almost like roast turkey. George Keller did not notice. He sat at the far end of a rectangular table, devouring a vocabulary book. At the other end, his classmate Danny Rossi was intently reading over what he had composed that day.

They were too engrossed to notice each other. Or the fact that each of them was lonely.

Close to midnight, the subconscious child in Danny Rossi reemerged. He put away his score and for some atavistic reason began to improvise Christmas carols on the keyboard.

Since his window had been slightly open, the music floated gently out across the darkened courtyard where it could be heard by George Keller, who was, of course, still madly studying.

The refugee leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in Hungary, he had always been affected by the melody of “Silent Night.” Now, a million miles away, he harkened to it echoing faintly in the icy Cambridge air.

And for a moment he remembered things that he had hoped had been suppressed forever.