Sergeant and arrow-cross-man

Once there has been a plan to escape from Hungary on a Russian military truck till Vienna. The truck-drivers were Hungarians working for the occupation army. We had been seating already on the truck under the textile cover in the yard of a barrack. It was already midnight. Suddenly a baby cried and my mother and I got off again. For her it was too risky. She wrote to my father to Vienna , she would rather stay here; it would be too dangerous.

But in april 1950,  again a smuggler came in and said, he has a plan, which is absolutely safe; she just had to do what he is now saying to her.

Then came the day before may first and herewith my communist youthful folly.

We went downtown and have seen everywhere huge posters: Long live Stalin, long live Rakosi.

I could not yet write , but back home, I took a white carton and a red pencil and wrote just from memory : ELJEN STALIN. The meaning is long live Stalin.

My mother lauded me because I had written it so nice..

Four days later we left the idyll at beautiful Pasarét.

My mother packed a little suitcase from black leather with lingery for change, pyjamas and beauty products. She said to me, if somebody will ask us, I should say : we are going to the lake Balaton over the weekend, and will be back on monday.

But nobody asked. We took the tramway, at South-station we took a fast train to Szombathely, changed there to a slow train to Körmend. The engine  spat, steamed and whistled. The landscape of Pannonia passed by. I did not know, that I would never see again the sunflower street.