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damned near got us all captured night before last。”
He turned out to be a pleasant looking young man with blonde hair。 When I
knocked； he was busy adjusting heavy duty combat boots。 He continued his tirade as we
faced each other。 “That American knew damned good and well that flashlights；
flashbulbs； even matches were forbidden。” He went on in rougher language than I’ll here
repeat to tell how an American with a camera broke his promise and popped off a
flashbulb while a raft load of refugees was in the middle of the canal； causing the
refugees and the rescuers on both sides of the canal to scatter。 That burst of light； of
course； let the Communists know exactly where the escape operation was taking place。
He described in valiant but not native English exactly how much ice would have to form
around the shell of hell before any other American reporter or any reporter of any kind
would ever be invited to join the operation again。
As he railed on； I noticed a Norwegian flag tacked to the wall behind him。 “Snakker
De norsk？” I asked （“Do you speak Norwegian？”）。
He stopped； said nothing for a few seconds。 Then； like a Hollywood comic of the
1940’s pulling an absurd reversal； he said； “You’ve got big feet； but there’s a pair of
boots on the other side of the bed that might fit you。 Try ‘em on！”
All night long we stood there waiting for the shadows to tell us that another group
of refugees had arrived on the far bank of the canal。 Then we’d push the raft into the
water and play out the rope as our two boatmen paddled across。 One would get out and
help four or five Hungarians into the raft。 When the raft was loaded； the boatman still in
the raft would tug on the rope and we’d pull it back over。 Then the lone boatman would
paddle over again and repeat the process until all the refugees were on the Austrian side。
The second boatman came back with the last load。
We had to wait at least an hour to an hour and a half between refugee clusters。 I was
the coldest I’d ever been in my life； and there was no place to huddle behind or curl up
inside。 All we could do was stand there and wait。 Light wasn’t the only thing prohibited。
So was talk。 Normal speech travels surprisingly far over frozen flatland； and it was
important not to betray our position to the Communist patrols。 We were only allowed to
whisper softly to the person immediately ahead of us on the rope and the person
immediately behind。
I tried to remember what day it was。 It was Thursday。 It had only been the previous
Saturday night when I’d taken a Norwegian girl； Meta Heiberg； from Woman’s College
to the Carolina Theatre in Greensboro； North Carolina； where we saw newsreels of
almost the very spot where I was now standing。 When the screen showed Hungarian
refugees pouring into Austria； Meta had said； “My sister Karen’s over there somewhere
helping those people。” That was all。
The next day I got the call inviting me to fly over with the air force。 On Monday I
flew。 And here I was； freezing and waiting and marvelling at the courage of the boatmen
who voluntarily put themselves into jeopardy every time they crossed to the other side of
the canal。
Eventually I decided to avail myself of whispering rights。 The figure in front of me
was so roundly bundled against the cold I couldn’t tell if it was male or female。 I leaned
forward and said； “My name is Barry Farber and I’m from America。”
A woman’s voice replied； “My name is Karen Heiberg and I’m from Norway。”
The cold； the power of the coincidence； and the tension of the border all combined
to keep me from maximising that opportunity。 All I managed to do was flatfootedly utter
the obvious： “I took your sister Meta to the Carolina Theatre in Greensboro； North
Carolina； five nights ago。”
The effect on Karen was powerful。 I can’t complain； but I wish I’d been quick
enough to add； “She sent me over here to find out why you never write Uncle Olaf！”
How I Married Hungarian
You don’t launch into the study of a new language casually； but it’s not quite as solemn a
decision as an American man proposing to his girlfriend after an evening of wine and
light jazz。 It is； however； something like an Ottoman sultan deciding to take on another
wife。 It really is like a marriage。 Something in you actually says； “I do！” and you decide
to give it time and commitment that would ordinarily be invested elsewhere。
My pledge never to try to learn Hungarian was shattered by Hungarian heroism；
Soviet tanks； and my agreeing to help Hungarian refugees resettle in Greensboro。 I
wasn’t the only journalist who stayed on that story long after history moved on。 Every
journalist I know who got involved in any part of the Hungarian Revolution became
attached to it。
I started in Munich in the transit refugee camp for those fleeing Hungarians who
were destined to go to America。 I buzzed from one refugee to another like a bee to
blossoms； drawing as many words and phrases as I could from each and writing them
down。
The U。S。 Air Force gave its Luitpol barracks over to the Hungarians； who promptly
plastered their own signs right on top of the English signs on all the doors。 The door that
once said “Doctor” suddenly said “Orvos。” The door that once said “Clothing” suddenly
said “Ruha。” And so on。 It was easy to tell who among the Americans and Germans at
Luitpol were genuine language lovers。 They were the ones who were not annoyed。
The Hungarian relabelling of everything at Luitpol actually gave me my most
explosive language learning thrill。 When I went searching for a men’s room； I found
myself for the first time in my life not knowing where to go。 You don’t need Charles
Berlitz to take you by the hand to the right one when the doors read “Mesdames” and
“Messieurs；” “Damen” and “Herren；” “Se。oras” and “Se。ores；” or even the rural
Norwegain “Kvinnor” and “Menn。”
No such luck prevailed at Luitpol。 The two doors were labelled “N。。k” and
“Férfiak。” I looked at those two words； trying not to let my language lover’s enthusiasm
distract from the pragmatic need to decipher which one was which relatively soon。
My thinking went like this。 The k at the end of both words probably just made them
plural。 That left N。。 and Férfia； or possibly Férfi。 Something came to me。 I remembered
reading that Hungarian was not originally a European language。 It had been in Asia。 The
Chinese word for “woman”； “lady”； or anything female was n。 – not no and not nu； but
that precise umlaut sound that two dots over anything foreign almost always represents。
（I lose patience with language textbooks that spend a page and a half telling you to purse
your lips as though you’re going to say oo as in “rude” and then tell you instead to say ee
as in “tree。” If you simply say the e sound in “nervous” or “Gertrude；” you’ll be close
enough。
Following that hunch I entered the door marked “F。rfiak。” The joy that came next
should arise in tabernacles； not men’s rooms。 To my satisfaction and relief I walked in
and found five or six other férfiak inside！
Back in America I went looking for some books and records （there were no cassette
tapes in those days） to help me in Hungarian。 There were none。 Communist rule has so
completely cut Hungary off from the West that when you went looking for a Hungarian
book； the shelves of even the biggest bookstores leapfrogged Hungarian； jumping right
from Hebrew to Indonesian。 There was one Hungarian…English phrase book published by
a New York Hungarian delicatessen and general store named Paprikas Weiss。 To
accommodate the wave of Hungarian immigrants who had come to America in the
1930’s； they had published their own little phrase book； which was distinguished by its
utter failure to offer a single phrase of any practical use whatsoever to those of us
working with the refugees。 It was loaded with sentences like Almomban egy bet。。r。。vel
viaskodtom；” which means； “In my dream I had a fight with a burglar”！
Finally； like supplies that lag far behind the need for them in wartime； some decent
English…Hungarian/Hungarian…English dictionaries arrived – no grammar books yet； just
dictionaries。 An explorer named Vilhjalmur Stefansson went to Greenland one time and
proved you could live for eighteen months on nothing but meat。 I proved it was possible；
with nothing but that dictionary； to resettle half a dozen Hungarian refugees who spoke
no English at all in Greensboro； North Carolina； to care for all their needs； and have a
good deal of fun without one single bit of grammar！
Hungarian has one of the most complex grammars in the world； but grammar is like
classical music and good table manners。 It’s perfectly possible to live without either if
you’re willing to shock strangers； scare children； and be viewed by the world as a
rampaging boor。 We had no choice。 Hungarians had to be talked to about homes； jobs；