Tom and Jutta

In the months after the ceasefire, when Tom and his mother were getting established in their apartment, they had to make do with what they could scavenge from the rubble.

Utilities were defunct. Electricity was not reliable or non-existent. Light from candles would have sufficed, but they were scarce. However, we did have cooking oil which could be the basis for a lamp. I filled a small glass jar with oil, braided pieces of string for a wick, and pulled it through a small hole punched into a three-pronged star cut from a discarded can. Three small pieces of cork pushed onto the prongs of the star kept it afloat. We lit the lamp with a splinter of wood from the fire in the stove. Its glow provided us with light and a cozy atmosphere. When the oil got low, we would pour water into the jar, which lifted the layer of oil. The water would get replaced with oil whenever we were able to obtain more of it. 

Tom was in his final year of university when the Hungarian soccer team played the English team.

As in all European countries, soccer was the most popular sport. It was the first thing a boy played once he learned to walk. No outing was imaginable without taking along a soccer ball or at least a tennis ball to kick around. My father and I even practiced at home when my mother was not home, watching carefully to not leave any trace of damage betraying our misbehavior.

In high school, we could hardly wait for the bell to ring at ten minutes before the hour. Within seconds we invaded the courtyard to kick the tennis ball around. Only rain or extreme cold kept us inside the school building.

After he graduated from the Technical University of Budapest in 1954, Tom got a job with Ganz Wagon Works. He worked there until he fled the country after the Hungarian Revolution in 1956.

After I verified the train was assembled according to the engineering plans, there came the trial runs and testing by the (usually foreign) inspector who either gave his stamp of approval or handed me a list of required corrections. These were elegantly streamlined trains with top speeds of 80 mph – lot of fun to ride on.

The Austrians were gracious and hospitable to Tom and his friend John as they waited to begin their trip to Canada.

Christmas 

We were fortunate to be in Vienna at Christmas time. Beautiful decorations, gift packed shop windows, Yuletide music, the smell of grilled Wuerstchen(sausages) were enriched by the aroma of Gluehwein (“glow wine” – hot cider with wine), roasted chestnuts and almonds all colored by the rosy cheeks of people radiating anticipation and festivity.

Our highlight was the Messiah concert in Stefanskirche, the famous, historic cathedral in the center of the city, just a few blocks from our hotel. It was awesome in every sense. We attended it with our landlady and her daughter. They topped it off with an invitation for John and me to join them for a delicious Christmas dinner in their home. What an experience, what hospitality! The Austrians were wonderful to us.

After the trip to Mt. Semmering, Tom and John moved to a refugee camp about fifteen miles outside of Vienna.

Following a few more days in lovely Vienna, we had to report at the refugee camp in Wiener Neustadt. The camp was run by Canadian volunteers who prepared us for Canada and provided us with food and shelter.

Most Hungarians stayed in the camp spending the days chatting, reading, writing, and playing cards and chess. It seemed to John and me that killing time in a refugee camp was a very poor way to use precious time. We would gulp down our breakfast and hitchhike to Vienna every morning and hitchhike back at night.

While it was relatively easy to get a ride into the city in daytime, it was considerably harder to get a ride back at night. Often, we did not get to the streetcar terminal at the outskirts of the city before 10 p.m., and noting our increasingly shabby apparel, motorists did not grab the opportunity to have us share their company. It was not unusual that we had to walk an hour with our thumbs up before someone stopped and gave us a lift – often already halfway to the camp. John usually started back earlier than I and was already asleep when I found my way to the bunk bed in the dark room.

Since Tom knew both Hungarian and English, he helped the ship’s crew by accompanying the doctor on his rounds as well as translating the menus. 

On the last night of the journey, the staff of the Purser’s Office arranged a little, private party in recognition of my services. It was a good-natured event held in one of their rooms, and supplemented by cases of Canadian beer that were stocked under their beds.

The Assistant Purser proudly showed me the English-Hungarian dictionary he had produced from my translations of the menu. This meant that “roasted” had been translated into Hungarian as “inedible” and “eggplant” had become “cooked green sawdust.” I decided I should not be the source of embarrassment on future trips. I confessed to my prank and promised I would revise his work.

They asked if I had any special wish before we arrived in Halifax. I had always wanted to see the machine room with its monstrous engines.

After escaping from Hungary and waiting for two months in Vienna, Austria, Tom boarded the RMS Saxonia to cross the Atlantic from Liverpool, UK, to Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

As we approached waters about two days from Newfoundland, near where the Titanic sank, the sea got so rough that the ship had to stop for a day. Gales were whipping the ocean and miniature icebergs were floating all around us. The motion was so violent that all entertainment was stopped. Out of 800 passengers, we seldom saw more than eighty at meals.

As large as the ship had appeared at the dockside in Liverpool, it seemed to be small and fragile now that we were surrounded by 40 to 50-foot waves and roaring winds.

My babysitting career was short. Good friends – a hardworking couple from Hungary – never seemed to have time together, away from the home, work, and their four-year-old son, Peter. I offered my services to stay with Peter for an evening so they could go out.

Susan and Imre left, all dressed up.  Peter and I had a little discussion about our plans for the evening. There was little to do at home besides watching television or reading stories. There was no backyard. I longed for fresh air and some action.

After arriving from Europe, Tom was able to use his mechanical engineering degree to get a job with Canadian General Electric. After a year in various plants in Ontario, he settled in Montreal.

 Tales of Blue Beauty

The blue and white 1952 Pontiac that I bought in Peterborough provided me with a lot of fun and terminated any chance of putting money aside. It took me to many places and new experiences in Ontario, Quebec, New York, and New England.

She was a great used car in immaculate shape. After biking home from playing tennis at night in Peterborough, I would climb into the driver’s seat of the parked car and turn on the radio for five or ten minutes just to savor the feeling of ownership. I felt rich as I slipped into bed, closed my eyes, and thought about all the wonderful things that had happened to me in such a short time.

In preparation for his mother’s arrival from Budapest, Tom found a two-bedroom apartment in the Côte des Neiges neighborhood of Montreal.

My First Apartment

Because it would be two months between moving into the apartment and Mother’s arrival, I looked for someone interested in a temporary place. My Hungarian friends knew of an assistant professor at McGill University who needed a two-month rental. They thought Tom and I would be a good match, if I was able to accept some interesting behavior wrapped around a good spirit.

I called Tom and told him about the place and the price, which resulted in this rapid exchange:

“I’ll take it! Can you help me move?”

“Don’t you want to see it first and meet me?”

“I can decide most things by feel. When can we get it done?”

I got a bit cautious.

In 1960, Tom traded Blue Beauty for a ’57 Chevrolet convertible.

Car Theft

Two days before vacation, I came downstairs from my apartment and discovered that my car was gone. I reported the case to the police and hoped for the slim chance of finding the car within forty-eight hours. That night, I had supper with the Swiss family in the apartment below ours. The man of the family said he heard that teenagers take a car for a night and then drive it back to near where they had stolen it. He offered me his VW Beetle to zig-zag through the streets in the neighborhood in the hopes of finding my car.

It was early the next morning when I started out, and to my delight, I found the car a few blocks from my home. The top was slashed above the inner door handle.  It was parked under the balcony of the home of an elderly couple who were sitting in the sun sipping their morning coffee. I asked them to call the police if someone began to get into the car. I drove to the police station to report the good news.