Escape to Freedom

CHAPTER ONE

The Revolution

“Anyuka! Anyuka!” My older brother’s voice sounded frightened as he came running into the house. “I was halfway down the mountain when out of nowhere, I saw three large objects flying through the air!” he gasped, his face was flushed and red. “What was it?” asked my second oldest brother. “They were artillery shells, I think. Someone is shooting guns. I was so scared!” he said breathlessly. Now, the whole family had crowded the room. My mother ran in. “Anyuka! Mother!” My brother flung himself into her arms. Before anyone could say another word, we all heard a terrible noise and ran outside where he had been tending the pigs a few minutes prior. We could see that a great chunk of the mountain had been blown away by artillery, scattering debris and killing the pigs. “Oh, what on earth is happening?” my mother cried. We all ran back into the house and peered out the windows for hours, but there were no more explosions that day. Since we had no radio, we found out what had happened the next day from our neighbors.

It was war! The Hungarian Revolution had begun. Since 1945, Hungary had been under rigid Communist control, but a brave group of men had formed an underground army. They harassed the Russian oppressors from time to time, but now they had launched an all-out attack, hoping to regain freedom and drive out the Russians. At first, the Russians seemed to withdraw as they were caught by surprise. But by October 30th, the brave Freedom Fighters had triumphed with their fierceness and determination. Hungarian politicians promised free elections and demanded that the Russians get out. The western nations were called upon to send help and even appealed to the United Nations. But to the shame of the world, no help came for Hungary. On November 4th, the Russian tanks surrounded the city and after a few days of heavy fighting, the Hungarian revolt was crushed. The Russians installed their own puppet ruler. Thousands of Hungarians fled and early in 1957, the Russians retaliated by executing and jailing thousands of people suspected of helping with the abortive revolution.

I was born in Hungary, close to Budapest. It is the largest township and farming area in the country and sits among five large mountains. I was the fifth child and second daughter among eleven children. I was twelve years old at that time of the Hungarian Revolution.

On October 23, 1956, the autumn leaves colored the earth with brilliant red and gold. The days were getting short and the nights cold. Work in our fruit orchard was at the end of the season. As one of twelve children, all I knew at the time was how it affected our family and our family life. We were paralyzed with fear. We blockaded ourselves in our homes, wondering what would happen next. Luckily, we had our own orchard, so we had lots of canned fruit stored away in case of an emergency. This came in handy for us, as the people in the cities were under siege for many days.

Most of the fighting took place in and around Budapest and we could hear the sound of the cannon fire. Our friends living near the main roads told us of the destruction they had caused. The city was in chaos as the battle for control of our land went on. Already, the Communists controlled the stores, factories and most businesses. During the brief days of fighting the workers struck, parlaying commerce. Under the Communist domination, heavy taxes took most of our money. My father and my two oldest siblings, aged 15 and 16, worked in the factories and pooled their earnings to support our large family. Each year, my mother had another child. Her load was heavy, but we never heard her complain. She used to sing when the going got rough, for God was very real to her. She would sing quite often in her beautiful soprano voice. On Sundays, we would always go to church in the city. We children enjoyed not having to do our chores and playing with other children, traveling back and forth on the bus. At age twelve, I was somewhat of a mother myself, as it was my responsibility to care for the younger children. There was Gabe, ten; Pete, nine; Sue, eight; Sara, six; Gus, four; and Elsie, two.

Though it seemed much longer, the battle for Hungarian freedom lasted only 10 days. Each night. My oldest brother Francis would tell us of the horrors that took place as the fighting raged. The Freedom Fighters ranged from teenagers to old men, fighting with anything, sometimes, even with their bare hands. They used whatever methods they could: burning pillows became missiles, hillsides were greased so steel tank treads would slip, overturned planes simulated mine fields, tank drivers were lured out and gunned down. Their vehicles were then confiscated by the Hungarians who would then use the Russian tanks against them. With such trickery and bravery, the Freedom Fighters seemed to have won a total victory in the beginning. However, death, misery, devastation, and destruction were the price of the fighting. Buildings were demolished, and bodies could be seen everywhere in the ruins.

Another one of my brothers, Andrew, worked in Budapest and he told us he could hardly recognize the city, “Everything is burned and shelled and bombed. It’s not beautiful anymore.” My mother mourned, “oh, our beautiful capital, so romantic with its gardens and buildings that were architectural masterpieces. Those things can never be replaced.” My father agreed, “and the taxes will just get higher and higher to pay for all this.” Andrew told us, “they told me the Russian tanks just ran right over some people in the streets.”

One day, Andrew came home shouting as he entered the yard. “We’ve won! The fighting is over! The Freedom Fighters are driving the tanks in a parade down the street with all the other fighters marching beside them with captured guns! Peace and liberty at last! As I was coming home on the bus, the bus stopped. In the square, the liberators pulled down a huge statue the Russians had put up. The people then hacked it up and carried away pieces as souvenirs! We all cheered and jumped up and down, but my father shook his head. “It’s too good to be true. It can’t last,” he said doubtfully. He was right.

That Sunday night, November 4th, we heard the Russian trucks once again. With fearful hearts, we could hear the terrible rumbling cannons, artillery, and bombs being fired in our village. The ground shook, and our windows rattled as the Russians mopped up the resistance in the surrounding territory. Just as my father had predicted, freedom was short lived. We were back under Communist rule again and the adults in our family knew that there would be retaliation.

One evening, my father was late coming home. All of us children were in bed when he finally got in, bringing a single loaf of bread. My sister Isla and I lay very still as we listened to him telling our mother what had happened as people waited in a long line at the food store. “All of the sudden, we saw Russian tanks heading straight for the line. Everyone began running for shelter and dove into the ditches as they began shooting. Many were killed and a lot wounded. I saw people’s arms and legs torn off. It was horrible.”