Tom Moving to a Refugee Camp Near Vienna, Austria — January 1957

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.

One night, the situation was made worse by a mixture of snow and rain. No one in his or her right mind wanted to let soaking lumps of poorly dressed men get into their car. John was fortunate – he was picked up by a friendly group with one spare seat. To avoid walking in the puddles, I just stood with my thumb out for what seemed eternity.

Preparing for the possibility of not being picked up by anybody, I finally started walking and turned around only when the road brightened by approaching headlights. I kept raising my thumb and my hopes, but to no avail, for a distance of at least four miles, while about half a gallon of liquid heavenly blessing gradually soaked into my clothing.

As I continued to turn around to see if one of the cars would stop, I finally saw a nice BMW pull to the curb about 50 yards ahead of me. I wondered why the driver chose to park that far ahead, but I considered it a likely offer and ran in the joyful hope that this was the end of the ordeal.

I always went to the front window at the driver’s side to thank the motorist for stopping. As I peered through the closed window, I saw the driver in a hot embrace with his lady, while she looked up at me in astonishment and obvious anger. Nothing had been more remote from their plans than to pick up a third party. It just so happened that they sought romance at the spot where I had sought both cover and transportation.

I found the situation so hilariously tragic that I walked away laughing aloud as the rain pelted down on me and the dark, deserted highway.

My saving angel came in the person of a middle-aged tulip saleslady from Holland. She stopped and with a bright, but cautious smile invited me to get in out of the wet. As we rode along, I hastened to create the impression that I was a not a risk. Finally, I could not help but ask her how she had the courage to pick up a shabby-looking character like me, in the middle of the night, all by herself.

“You know, God has never let me down when I tried to help somebody,” she said.

We had a good conversation until we got to the gates of my camp. When I waved goodbye, I was grateful to her and to the Master she dared to serve with the compassion of the good Samaritan.