Magyar News, 2002. szeptember-2003. augusztus (13. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
2002-11-01 / 3. szám
because with good footwear they can walk considerable distances. Even more shocking, there is only one crude toilet for the hundreds of refugees in the reception center. In the shack at the back of the dancehall is a canteen, run by a team of elderly German and Italian Red Cross ladies, 12 hours on and 12 hours off. These old women hand out mugs of coffee and watery hot chocolate with black bread and cheese sandwiches. The refugees who are not too tired to eat, wolf down the sandwiches. Twenty yards to the rear of the reception center is an old schoolhouse that has been requisitioned by the Austrian government to provide slightly better facilities for the Hungarian women with babies and the expectant mothers. Canvas camp-cots line the walls of the small school room. Here a single British Red Cross nurse, Miss Hopkins, works tunelessly. Miss Hopkins is in her sixties and her deeply lined face betrays the arduous workload she carries. When asked, she told us that she had had only three hours sleep in the past three days. The reason was plain when we looked around the room. On the cots were babies and working over them were one or two Hungarian women. Almost all the babies are drugged by their parents or sympathetic doctors for the escape journey to prevent them from crying and giving their position away to the Russian and Hungarian police patrols. Often, the parents overestimate the dose required and under Miss Hopkins direction the mothers must work all night, rubbing the limbs and slapping the faces of the infants. They permit the babies only ten minutes sleep an hour, and once an hour, strip them and douse them with cold water. In this way, the drug is worked out of the system. At least one infant has failed to come around. It is a pathetic and moving sight to see these women, some on the verge of collapse themselves, slapping their babies whose only desire it to go to sleep. The escapees arrive at Andau from the canal bank in two old Volkswagen buses that shuttle back and forth over probably the world’s worst road. We were offered a ride down to the canal in one of the buses and it was one to remember. Operated by Swiss and Hungarian students, the buses have had the rear seats removed so that 17 refugees can be "sardined" in at a time. Going down the bus was empty and we jolted, dipped, careened our way along with heads thudding with the roof every few feet. The seven kilometer run takes a half-hour that seems like ten. Suddenly the headlights cut through the gloom and drizzle and danced over a narrow stretch of water. Silhouetted briefly on the other side, we saw a group of refugees waiting to come across. Here the bus turns around on the crest This little girl brought along her most precious possession, her doll. of the small hill overlooking the canal. We learned for the first time that at this point the Hungarian border arcs back about 75 feet inside the canal. The vehicles, sticking to the letter of the law, wait for the Hungarians at the brow of the hill. We, of course, went down to the canal bank. It was about 1 a.m. Low fog hung over the canal and a fine rain soon drenched us. We were warmly dressed in flying boots, sweaters and double layers of clothing, but we were cold. Across the canal, which at this point is only 100 feet across, we could dimly make out the darkish blob that was a refugee group, sheltered somewhat by high bushes. About 30 yards down their side of the bank was a tall lookout tower. A Swiss Red Cross worker who was with us spoke Hungarian and he called across the canal in a low, sheltered voice a question as to whether there were Hungarian guards in the tower. The whispered reply was obvious to us all. "Yah, there were soldats in the tower." We stood in a close knot for a few moments waiting for something to happen. After all, we were only observers. Then, it dawned on us that something was wrong. There was no movement across the canal. Our Swiss guide determined from the Hungarians that the boats had stopped operating some 15 minutes previous. We searched the bank for the boat and the Red Cross worker hacked down a tall sapling to probe the shoreline. A Hungarian youth who was with us tried wading out in an attempt to hook a raft that was stranded in mid-stream, but the water was too deep. Vainly seeking the boat, we had a feeling of utter frustration. There were the refugees a scant 30 yards away; we could hear the children whimpering, and occasionally a hastily muffled cry. And there we were - helpless to assist them. Although the canal is not too wide, it is deep. And on that particular night, it was bitter cold. Some refugees have tried swimming across but it is a risky business. We were told of one family that had made the attempt, with the father carrying their baby. The mother and father made it all right but the bay was drowned on the way across. Just as we were about to give up hope, two youths materialized out of the gloom. One was an American, who had temporarily given up his studied at a European University, and the other was a teen-aged Hungarian boy scout. They went immediately to a clump of bushes well behind us and dragged out a small two-man rubber dinghy. They had been operating the boat across the canal this night, just as they had on many nights before, but had left for a few moments to get warm. Within moments, we were helping them to get the dinghy into the water and playing out a long length of rope as the American paddled his way across the canal. The rope was twice the width of the canal and with it were able to operate a fairly fast shuttle. The first load was three children, one a baby. Slipping in the greasy mud of the canal bank, we reached down and pulled the baby on shore. It had been drugged, and, being well bundled, seemed peacefully oblivious to the human drama in which it was participating. The young children were covered in muck, their teeth clattering with the cold. We did our best to keep them warm under our coats. There were more children, then the women, some frantic with worry about their children. Many tears were shed as mothers were reunited with their youngsters. The refugees were a mixed bag as far as dress was concerned. Some were not too badly attired at all. A few of the women, knowing they couldn’t take much along, decided to wear their Sunday best, and it was an incongruous sight to see a middleaged woman squashing up the canal bank in a sequined, satin dress, with a mud and thorn covered bush jacket over it. Many refugees had rags tied around their shoes to help keep the water out, and some wore three or four layers of clothing for warmth and also to give them a little start when they started life anew in the free world. Few refugees had suitcases. The majority carried only sacks or string bags. One woman with three young children under the age of seven had nothing but a string bag tied to her wrist so that she could tend her brood. She had shepherded them all the way from Budapest and just as she was pulled from the dinghy, on free territory at last, the string bag broke, and all her worldly possessions cascaded into the mud. They consisted of a few black bread sandwiches, a couple of pairs of socks, a child’s shawl, a small religious statue and a Page 4
