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；