The Cold War

We have only seen a few reminders of how things were here in Hungary fifty-five years ago.  Buildings the length of city blocks that look like my old high school, formed from cement, with no frills or imagination, built to blend in with the masses. And just a few stories of how everyone had the same jeans, the same cars, the same toys, the only selection being which one of three or four colors you might want. 

Things have changed so much now that I am sure Louis Vidokovits wouldn't know his own homeland. He fled Hungary in 1956 to escape from the communist regime. As fate unwound, I became one of the lucky ones fortunate enough to be a part of his new life in America. Sadly, I never knew anything else about him, and was too uninterested to ask. He organized and motivated, whipping a dozen kids into a fairly decent soccer team, and playing hero to me and about twelve of my friends as our coach, starting in about 1965. 

I know what has come of a few of those buddies. Some I have lost track of, and some have died. Roy, Skip, Phil, Mike, Geoff, where have you gone? But most of all I wonder about Louis. I remember hearing that he fled Hungary in 1956, along with 200,000 other refuges, when the Politburo sent Soviet troops in to suppress a revolution. Most were students, and he would have been about 25 at the time. I never asked about the details. 

These days, with crowds of parents pleading and coaching from the sidelines, it's hard to remember how easy it was to make out Louis' deep voice from the sideline. "Pass und go!" Shuud it!" "Get der first!" "You vill be fine!" "Show dem how guud you are!"

We came across the Hungarian border from Slovakia, without even a passport check. The only excitement was when Laura fell down a side hill as she tried to stop for a turn. We are now in Gyor, an old town at the junction of three rivers. Using Florints for currency, at an exchange rate of 187 to one. Hard to count change when the clerk fills your hand with coins. Last night a big storm came through, knocking out all power in our little "pension" called the Buda.

The Hungarians have been very patient with our language problems, trying their best to use English. They apologize when trying to find a word, and I try to say I am the one who doesn't know the language, not them! Anyway I think about Louis while I am here, finding it hard to imagine him as an 80 year old man. But heroes never die, as long as they still exist in someone's mind.