Erich Segal - The Class

Half an hour later, Gyorgy Kolozsdi staggered into the Austrian town of Neunkirchen. The villagers were celebrating some local festival. As soon as he appeared, they knew who he was. Or at least what he was. A plump, ruddy-faced man approached, pointing a finger at him.

“ Bist du ungarisch?” he asked.

Even in his state of shock, he knew they were asking him if he was Hungarian. And, more important, they were speaking German. He was safe.

Two men came up and helped him sit down on a bench. One had a flask of schnapps. George took a swig. Then suddenly he began to sob.

He felt guilty to be alive.

A small Austrian police van creaked to a halt about fifty feet from where George was sitting. A tall, slender, and totally expressionless officer came up to him.

“ Guten Abend ,” he said quietly. And then gesturing toward his vehicle added, “ mit mir, bitte .”

George breathed the sigh of a defeated man, rse obediently, and slowly followed his captor. When he climbed wearily inside, his worst fears were confirmed. There were ten or twelve other passengers, all Hungarians like himself.

“Welcome to the West,” said a short, wiry man with bushy sideburns, ensconced in a rear seat. George hastened to sit next to him.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked anxiously.

“The Austrians are rounding up strays like us. My name’s Sándor, Miklos, Call me Miki. And you —?”

“Kolozsdi, Gyorgy,” George replied. And then asked quickly, “Are they taking us back?”

“Don’t be silly. I am on my way to Chicago.”

“How do you know?”

“Because on this side of the border people are free to go where they want to. Isn’t that why you left?”

George thought for a moment and then replied softly, “Yes, I suppose so. But where are we going in this bus?”

“Well, after they pick up a few more fish that slipped through the Soviet nets, they’ll take us someplace to snooze. I know a bit of German and I’ve chatted up the captain.”

George was almost tempted to feel relief. But there had been so many disappointments, so many unexpected turns of the screw, that he dared not let his guard down.

As they drove through the night, many of the refugees dozed off. But George remained awake, gazing intently out the window to catch the names of towns and villages. He wanted to be absolutely certain there were no deviations from the path to freedom.

Just before daybreak they reached Eisenstadt. The van pulled into the crowded parking area of the railroad station — which was bristling with thousands of Hungarian refugees.

“What’s happening?” asked George as Miki trotted back from a lightning reconnaissance mission.

“They’re organizing trains,” he puffed, “to take us to some big abandoned army camp the Russians used during the war.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said George.

“Yes,” Miki agreed with a wink. “Anything Russian — even without Russians in it — is not for me. I’m going freelance.”

“Meaning what?”

“Look, sooner or later they’ll have to take these people to Vienna. But I prefer to go right now. Want to join me?”

“Sure. Do you have a map?”

“In here,” the little man answered, pointing to his head. “I memorized everything. All we have to do is head north and watch the signs. Okay, let’s separate and stroll nonchalantly toward the far exit. When you’re sure nobody’s looking, slip away and start walking along the main road. We’ll rendezvous at the first beerhouse on the right-hand side.”

They nodded and quickly parted company. George hurried as inconspicuously as possible to the edge of the station. Then, after whistling his way past the armed guards, he began to stride northward as quickly as he could.

The first tavern was a mere six hundred yards away. The older man was already there, leaning casually against a fading wooden sign that identified the establishment as “Der Wiener Keller.”

“It means the Vienna Wine Cellar,” explained Miki, pointing to the placard. “It’s a sort of weak pun on ‘Wein’ and ‘Wien.’ Not sophisticated enough for gentlemen like us. I suggest we move on.”

Without another word they set off.

“How’s your English?” asked Miki, as they marched briskly. “I don’t know a single word,” George replied.

“Oh yes, you’re one of those privileged party children who get to study all those years of Russian, Not very provident of you, was it?”

“No. But I’ll start learning English the minute I can buy a book.”

“You’re walking with one,” his fellow refugee replied. “If you pay attention, I will have you speaking good American before We reach Vienna.”

“Okay.” George smiled. “Start teaching.”

“First lesson. Repeat after me, ‘I am a cool cat. You are a cool cat. He is a cool cat. She is a — ’ ”

“What does that mean?” George asked.

“ ‘Cool cat’ is a nice compliment meaning ‘good person.’ Trust me, George, I’m up-to-date from studying all the newspapers. Now stop the questions and start repeating.”

After two hours, George was able to make a modicum of idiomatic small talk. He knew how to flatter his future countrymen. To tell them that life in Hungary was “a drag.” And that the United States was the hope for the future of all mankind. On the more pragmatic side, he was able to ask where the men’s room was.

They slowed somewhat as they crossed the Danube. For they both were acutely aware that, a few hundred kilometers to the east, this same river bisected their native city.

“Do you have family back in Budapest?” George asked. Miki hesitated. His expression seemed to alter slightly.

“Not anymore,” he answered enigmatically. “And you?”

Regretting that he had broached the subject, George responded with the same words: “Not anymore.”

And he once more fought to drive the thoughts of Aniko from his mind.

Miki explained that he was going to seek out the major American relief organizations and tell each one of them that he had a sister and brother-in-law in Illinois. He also had a profession. And besides, Charles Lancaster was willing to be his sponsor.

“Who the hell is Charles Lancaster?” asked George.

“My brother-in-law, of course.”

“ ‘Lancaster?’ ”

“Listen, Gyuri, if your name were Karoly Lukacs, wouldn’t you change it to something more familiar to the American ear?”

George agreed. And immediately applied the lesson to his own predicament. “But, Miki, what will they make of ‘Gyuri Kolozsdi’?”

“They will make a mess of it, my friend. An American needs an American name.”

“Well, what would you suggest?”

“ ‘Gyorgy’ is no problem,” answered Miki, clearly enjoying the opportunity to rebaptize an adult. “It simply becomes ‘George.’ But ‘Kolozsdi’ must be replaced by something clear and neat.”

George searched his mind. For some strange reason, his thoughts returned to that first tavern on the road to freedom — Der Wiener Keller. “How does ‘George Keller ’ sound?”

“Very dignified. Very dignified indeed.”

At this point they could have taken a tram, but George was loath to leave his new friend.

“Do you think they’ll want a simple student? I mean, I have no degree or anything,”

“Then you must find something that will make them want you.”

“I was studying Soviet law. What good is that in America?”

“Aha — there you have it. You have had a thorough party education. You know Russian almost as a mother tongue. Tell them you want to use this knowledge in the struggle against world communism. Tell them you want to go to university to help in this fight.”