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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 forty 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.
(I did a litle research on Google and discovered that the Canadian government contracted Maritime Central Airways, at the time the third largest airline in Canada, to haul the Hungarian refugees from Europe to Canada during the period 1957-1960. We probably looked like the group in this picture. The aircraft was a C-54 with the registration CF-MCB or CF-MCF. MCF crashed a month later near Quebec City enroute to Toronto from London. Click here for details.)
9:00 pm We finally take off into the sunset, flying low over the spectacular lights of Vienna, then 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 Prestwick, Scotland, where we arrive late at night.
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 Keflavik, Iceland. We deplane and eat breakfast at the airport.
Thursday, July 4, 1957
Mid-morning 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 into the cockpit.
As
the sun peers 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
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 about 2 pm local time. The crossing took over twenty hours, including the stops; par for the course for 1957.
After being processed again, we are aboard a train by nightfall, heading to Toronto. Changing trains in Montreal the next morning, we finally arrive in Toronto the afternoon of July 5, 1957. The train ride takes longer than the flight, but at least it's 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 mortgage, living in a small southern city, busily employed in the aerospace industry.
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