The Eighth Hungarian Tribe, 1983 (10. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1983-03-01 / 3. szám
March, 1983 THE EIGHTH HUNGARIAN TRIBE Pag« 5 ELISSA CHISSAR: FLIGHT TO FREEDOM Shots rang out around him and he felt like a criminal escaping from prison in the dead of night. Bone tired, Árpád A. Dómján, noted sculptor and former Superintendent of Historical Monuments of Hungary, trudged through the blizzard, loaded with his most prized sculptures and all the luggage he could carry. His family beside him, Dómján was hurrying to the Budapest railroad yards, leaving his life in Hungary forever. His mind dwelled on tihe horrors of the past weeks; he had seen battles in the streets, soldiers stepping over the dead, and children crushed under Russian tanks. Many works of art lay in ruins throughougt the battle-scared city. It had all started at Polish General Joseph Bern’s statue. University students, proclaiming their solidarity with the Polish people, were reciting patriotic poems of liberty and justice. They marched to Radio Budapest. The police opened fire. Domján’s steps faltered: the memories dazed him. His wife’s steadying arm and the children’s frightened whimperings brought him back to reality that was the exodus of the 1956 uprising. He was one of 200,00 Hungarians headed for the Austrian border and freedom! “I had no alternative,” Árpád Dómján declared. “I had to get out.” His pleasant face clouded with sadness. “In 1950, after the communists tightened their grip on the country, my 20-year career as archeological restorer of Hungary’s art treasures was suddenly over. I was forced out of my position; retired at age 45. Much denigration and public abuse preceded my dismissal.” He stopped, unable to go on. His wife, Emma, picked up the story. “His refusal to join the Communist Party, or participate in political activities marked him as disloyal to the government, unfit to have charge of the country’s historical excavations.” Composing himself, the sculptor went on. “The bitter realization hit me with a devastating blow. The District Attorney who informed me of my dismissal, quietly suggested that a doctor friend might mercyfully diagnose my extreme state of depression as a nervous breakdown, thus saving my meager pension.” Hurt and humiliation were evident in his voice. During the ensuing six years, prior to the revolt, his attempts to get involved in private creative projects, along with other similarly ousted artists was watched and impeded, or totally disrupted — in a subtle manner. “We were being stifled and destroyed by the ‘system’,” Dómján declared sadly. “Our son, Árpád Dómján Jr. had been an athlete with the winning Hungarian Water Polo team participating in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. After the games, his team and other winners were on an American tour. He and his fiancee, Kate Szőke, the gold medal swimmer, defected and remained in in the United States,” Mrs. Dómján explained. “Fearing for our safety, he wrote and begged us to leave Hungary and join him and his wife in California,” the sculptor stated. The whole family was fired up with the thought of escape, and with mixed feelings, started quiet but frenzied preparations to leave their homeland. “We packed and carried every precious item, we could, strapped to our backs, and began our journey on this extremely cold night after Christmas,” Emma related. At the railroad yard, they arranged for a truck driver to transport them, for a large fee, outside the Hungarian border. “Sitting on cold cement blocks in the back of a big truck, we rode, huddled together, — my wife, our 12 and 13 year old daughters, Emma’s sister and 70 year old mother and I.” As they neared the neutral zone, the driver dropped them off. He was afraid to get close to the border guards. Many people were shot if caught escaping. “He gave us general directions for the safest place to cross the border and mentioned a woman who might help us along the way,” Emma said. “Scared, but determined, we started walking. We didn’t look back!” Dómján exclaimed. The snow was ankle deep as they plodded through the dark unfamiliar countryside, trying not to think of all they had left behind. They could hear fellow refugees in whisper around them in the fields, urging each other onward. “Some were crying for the loved ones lost in the fighting; fully aware of their own fate if caught,” Emma explained. No one knew when they would be confronted by an armed patrol. They often heard shots in the distance. “We walked on for about 25 kilometers, resting whereever possible. It was daylight when we reached the peasant house described by the truck driver —
