|
|
|
V.
Canada
Wednesday, July 3, 1957
Late
Afternoon: "Our bags are packed, we're ready to
go, . . . " as the song goes. Only we are not leaving on a
jet plane, just a prop; still, it beats traveling by ship.
Each passenger is processed at the airport in the order we
appear on the list. We are first (since we were on the
waiting list for the previous flight a few days earlier); as
is customary, my mother is late and seventy odd people are
nervously awaiting our appearance.
I am first. I have to stand with my bag on a weigh scale
with a large dial and a man in a pilot's uniform notes the
weight on his clipboard. The others follow suit. As it is
later explained, the long overwater flight requires careful
management of fuel and consequently the aircrew requires the
exact weight of the aircraft.
We finally complete formalities and board the waiting
aircraft. I was naturally nervous, this being my first ever
trip on an airplane. My mother was showing off her superior,
but limited knowledge of English; she is the only one in our
group who could communicate with the Canadian cabin crew and
thus becomes the official interpreter for the crossing.
According to my research on the "Air Bridge to Canada" (ABC) flights that were implemented to transport Hungarians from Vienna to Canada, and my fairly extensive knowledge of commercial and
military aircraft, my best guess is that we flew on a Douglas C-54 (DC-4) aircraft chartered by the Canadian government from Maritime Central Airways, similar to the one pictured here.
7:00 pm We finally take off toward the setting sun,
flying low by today's standards.
proceeding westward over other brightly lit cities. Unlike
today's jets, these venerable old planes flew
low and slow, allowing ample time and opportunity
to view the countryside in great detail. Our first fuel
stop is Glasgow (Prestwick Airport), Scotland, where we arrive about five and a half hours later.
After Midnight We take off once more into the
darkness. The cities and highways of the first leg are
replaced by nothing but blackness, both above and below us.
We press on for several hours until, around sunrise, we make
our second fuel stop in Reykjavik (Keflavik Airport), Iceland. We deplane and
eat breakfast at the airport.
Thursday, July 4, 1957
Daybreak We are airborne again, this time
the black giving way to grey. The sky above us is grey
as are the land and sea below us. Shortly after
take-off, people sitting over the wing summon my mother to
tell the cabin crew that fuel is leaking from a hole on top
of the wing. A short-lived panic ensues, until a pilot comes
back to look; he smiles, says it's OK, and disappears past
his partition.
As
the morning sun appears through the now broken clouds, the
passage gets rougher. The plane bounces violently,
relentlessly for what seems like hours on end. My breakfast
soon leaves me in a few violent heaves. What was the object
of curiosity and endless jokes the night before is now
my trusted companion. Today it is known as a "comfort bag"
but a barf bag by any other name is still a barf bag! I
swear to all that, if I ever survive this trip, I will never
see Europe again because I will never cross the ocean
again.
As you can guess, we arrive safely in Moncton, New
Bruswick sometime in the afternoon, local time, over eleven hours flying from Iceland. The crossing from Vienna took
over twenty-four hours, including the stops; par for the course
for 1957.
After being processed again, we spend the night at what I believe was then the RCAF base in Moncton, and board a train the next afternoon for Montreal.
Checking the 1957 CNR schedule, it is probably Train 59 - The Scotian (Halifax - Montreal). I recall stopping at daybreak at Levis, Quebec, where we get a magnificent view of the Chateau Frontenac across the river. Changing trains in Montreal - Central Station later that morning, I clearly recall the concourse with the stairways leading down to the tracks. It's still like that today. We now board Train 5 or 7, and
finally arrive in Toronto sometime during the afternoon
of July 6, 1957. The train ride takes longer than the
flight, but at least it's all on terra firma.
My mother's friend meets us at Union Station.
1957 to Present
The following years are typical for an immigrant family.
My mother marries another Hungarian refugee whom we met
in Vienna and we move to Montreal. In 1959, my sister,
Shirley, is born. Typically, she learns Hungarian at home
and enrols in nursery school at the age of four without
speaking a word of English. Within a month, she can converse
with her new friends.
My parents struggle at first, weathering layoffs and
homesickness. but we soon reach a standard of living
that would be unimaginable in communist Hungary, even after
a lifetime of labor. I graduate from McGill University
in 1971 with a degree in Engineering and move to
British Columbia. There, I obtain a master's degree in
Engineering from UBC and, in 1979, I move south to the
USA. In 1984, I pick up another master's degree, this time
in Business Administration, from a small liberal arts
college in my new hometown.
Today, I live the life of a typical American: a wife, 2
children and a paid-off mortgage, living in a small southern city,
semi-retired, still working part time in the aerospace industry.
|