Suspense.
And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure,
William N. Robeson.
A man's got to have a good reason to renounce his native land forever.
A reason to say, like death, or worse, life under tyranny.
For this reason, thousands of men and women and children who loved freedom more than fatherland
have made their way across the frontier to the west in the past two months.
Of the more than 20,000 who have arrived in the United States, only eight have been sent back.
This might have been the story of one of these.
Listen then to Freedom This Way, starring Mr. Hans Connery.
Look on the right side of the plane, the stewardess is there.
You will see the lights of Europe and Europe, but you cannot see them very clearly,
because your eyes are filled with tears.
Look down there on the water.
Yes, it is the Statue of Liberty.
The Statue of Liberty.
Oh, Mama, it's got to be heavy down there.
Yes, yes, my dear, maybe it is.
North of the Southern River you are landing at the McGuire Airport in New Jersey, in America.
Stay in your seat, she says, until your name is called.
And that is all right.
You can wait a little longer, now that you are safe, you can sit and wait and listen to the men outside
welcoming you with the music that reminds you of home.
Hello, Hotchers.
You don't hear the officer the first time you lean back in that seat, wrapped in the warm mantle of security.
Hello, Hotchers.
Oh, yes, sir.
Are you the Hotchers?
Yes, sir.
Oh, good day.
Alone.
Oh, but, sir, I...
You understand English, don't you?
Yes, sir.
I said come with me.
Alone.
Sit down.
Thank you very much, sir.
Before you left Vienna, you filled out certain forms, did you not?
Yes, sir.
And signed them?
Yes, sir.
Is this one of the forms you filled out?
Yes.
And this is your signature?
Melahadjoz?
Yes, sir.
But it's not your name.
Is it?
Is it?
No.
Your real name is Bartok, isn't it?
Yes, sir.
Okay, that Bartok.
Do you know that the penalty for giving false information to the United States immigration authorities
is immediate deportation as the country of your origin?
No, sir, no, I can't go back.
You should have thought of that when you falsified your entry paper.
I couldn't help it, sir. I had to.
Why did you have to?
Will you believe me if I tell you, sir?
I'll try to.
You people are welcome here, or we wouldn't have brought you here,
but you've got to play the game according to the rules.
I know. I know, sir.
It was wrong of me, I suppose, but there was nothing else I could do.
It's difficult to explain.
How shall I put it?
We were free, you see.
For five days we were free.
The
It was one of the ones who took over Radio Budapest on 23rd October.
We re-ended Radio Free Budapest, and we broadcast truth instead of lies, but not for long.
Two days after the Russians returned, while the Hungarian freedom fighters were selling each three-corner with their lives, I made the last draw.
As I move ahead, look what's on Radio.
The Red Army says I advance in gravity now.
We haven't got enough guns or enough ammunition,
but we will hold out to the last drop of blood.
Good-bye, friend.
God save our souls.
Gratis, our friends.
The studio took a direct shell hit, and that was the end of Radio Free Budapest.
Those of us who were not killed were herded into Koporoschihau,
the headquartered in prison of the dreaded and hated ABH, the security police.
When my eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the cell, I discovered that I was not alone.
Another man was lying motionless on the bunk opposite mine.
He was not sleeping.
His eyes were open, but he did not seem to see me.
He seemed to look straight through me.
I smiled, but his face remained motionless.
Oh, this man.
Hello.
Hello, I'm talking to you.
Don't you hear me?
What's the matter with you?
Answer me.
Answer me!
Answer me!
At first I thought he remained silent because he feared I was informant.
And then as the long night dragged by and the dirty gray light through the grilled window announced another day,
I became convinced that it was he who worked for them.
I was now convinced he was part of the psychological breakdown.
He was the first modest step in a process that would end with my voluntary confession to a dozen crimes that I had never committed,
implicating a hundred persons I scared to death.
And he sat there and stared through that long day and the next.
And then sometime during the night, the guards came.
Dear Yverm, follow me.
Who? Me?
Not you, the other one. We are not ready for you yet, but we will be.
You. Lida, come.
Oh, why don't you stop this comedy? You know this man is one of you, a secret police.
We do not shoot our own.
And him we are going to shoot.
It is true, my friend.
You can talk?
Of course, and here too.
At first I thought you were an informer.
Me?
No, I thought that. Now I know.
So I wish you better luck than I had.
The guys were dry. His chin was firm and he shook my hand.
And then he turned and walked through the door.
After the bar door had clunked shut and was doubly locked and the footfalls had died away in the corridor,
I unclenched my right fist.
When he had shaken my hand, the condemned man had pressed into my palm a pitifully small steel file.
I whirled around through the window.
Yes, the center bars had been filed. Almost through.
It must have taken weeks of the utmost patience, a labor that my presence had interrupted,
a project now evolving upon me.
I failed to work with the will, but it was work, tedious work.
The fingers aching as they sought to grip the tiny file, the arms bone weary from the short, small strokes,
but work that went ahead, all through the rest of that night and the next until all was in readiness.
I pried the bars apart and started out the window and got stuck halfway through.
I struggled and turned, tearing my clothes, tearing my flesh, and finally breaking loose from the iron vice.
I lost my balance and tumbled into the yard below, falling the blinding circles of the prison fast line.
Turn it! Turn it!
Here, drink this slowly.
Thank you.
As I drank the chalky fluid, my eyes slowly came into focus and my ears into tune.
I was in a bed in a hospital ward.
My heart leaped and then sank, for the sun which streamed through the windows fell upon the floor in the pattern of bars.
I turned to the young nurse standing over me, impersonal, impervious.
My eyes must have expressed the question, as she replied impassively.
You did not get far. You are still in Kopurofi house.
I was not lucky enough to be shot.
You will be when you have recovered.
Why? Why did they not...
Quietly. You must be quiet. The doctor will be here in a minute.
She nodded toward the door and as I looked in that direction, the doctor entered.
My heart stopped for an instant and then raced.
It was circuitous, Amo. I knew him. He was one of us.
Or had been, back in 1944, in the days when the underground was pushing the Nazis out of Budapest.
This is a new case, doctor. Attempted escape.
Oh, yes. I was told about this one.
Doctor. Doctor.
One of the freedom fighters, eh?
Since you have lost your freedom, there is no fight left in you.
Hey, my little man.
Doctor. Doctor. Aren't you Fecete Damo?
Don't you remember me, Botocheza?
Don't you remember how we held the Margatis against the Nazis in 1944 when we were both students?
Obviously delirious, no? Increased sedation. Let me please, Amo. What are you doing here?
In Koproši house. Have you forgotten the words of Persefis Csandor?
Our father shouted them in 1919. We shouted them in 1944.
Father's kids shouted them last week.
Margers rise! Your country calls you!
Meet is our, what air we call you.
Yes, obviously delirious. Better move into a private room where you can't disturb the others.
Yes, of course.
Now, isn't it? Yes.
It was not long before I learned why the renegade, Dr. Fecete, had moved me to a private room.
Late that evening, when the hospital was most quiet, he paid me a visit.
Well, how's the little freedom fighter today?
I don't need your care nor your insult, Dr. Pern called Fecete.
I was quite sure you put her on the walk this afternoon, Geza Bartok, but scarcely the time nor the place.
No, you did remember me then, huh?
Keep your voice down. You didn't expect me to recognize you in that crowded ward, did you?
No. No, of course not. It was foolish of me, but to find you, you working for them, I know.
Why, Dr. Fecete, why? Are you married, Geza?
No, a revolutionary cannot afford the luxury of family life.
And a family man cannot afford the luxury of revolution.
Oh, you excuse yourself with sentimental rubbish.
You will think differently when you become a husband and a father, which is as likely as my ever escaping from Koproshy house.
Others have, oh, with my assistance.
Oh, doctor, forgive me. I did not realize.
There are more ways of serving than shouting patriotic verses at the top of your lungs.
Yes, yes, of course there are.
Now, first of all, we must make you ill.
Make me ill? Listen, I feel bad enough as it is.
Yes, but your sprains and confusions aren't enough to keep you in the hospital more than a few days, and we may need more time than that.
For what? How will you get me out?
I have the slightest idea at the moment. In matters of this thought, we improvise as we go along.
Dr. Fecete was true to his word.
The following morning, the nurse gave me an injection, and by that afternoon, I was sicker than I ever remembered.
Time stopped. Days and nights ran together in the nasty of delirium, marked only by the periodic hypodermic injection.
At last came the day when the injection did not throw me into wretched convulsions.
Instead, my head seemed to be clearer.
I was dimly aware of being wheeled along the corridor by Nurse Anna, and then I found myself in a small operating room.
Dr. Fecete was there, and the nurse, and a steel form on the operating table, a form with a sheet drawn over its head.
And vaguely I heard Dr. Fecete say,
Make out the death certificate this way, nurse. Name?
Bartogeser. Cause of death? Internal injuries sustained while attempting escape.
Doctor.
Yes, Geser?
Just lie quietly, since you are now quite dead. You can fill in the rest of it down at the morgue.
There is no more room in the morgue, Doctor. They are stacking the bodies in the courtyard now.
Good. In that case, they may easily slay the corpse of Geser Bartogeser.
But if that's Geser Bartogeser lying there, and he says, Who am I?
You are now Bela Hayot, and you have a great deal to learn while you're convalescing from your emergency appendectomy.
It seems too good to be true. There must be a flaw somewhere.
I worried about it. I wondered about it as the nurse veered me back to a new room, to Bela Hayot's room.
When the doctor came by that night, my head was buzzing with a dozen unanswered questions.
But Doctor, if I couldn't hope to get out of Koprosch House, how can you be so sure that Bela Hayot will be released?
Bela Hayot was picked up along with a hundred other suspects two days before the rebellion began.
Security police could prove nothing against him. Then why wasn't he freed when we took over the city?
He was in the prison hospital with acute appendicitis, too sick to be moved.
He was still there when the Russians returned. Certain proof that he had nothing to do with the rebellion.
He will be released as soon as his, your appendectomy is healed.
You are sure?
I guarantee it. Now take this and learn it tonight.
Forticious. The facts about Bela Hayot. The answers to the questions, you will be asked before they release you.
You must be able to answer everything on this page instantly.
A single slip will mean death for you and for me, too.
Why are you doing this, Doctor? Call it patriotism or guilty conscience?
In any case, it's the least I can do for a man like you.
I spent the rest of the night reading and rereading about the man I had become.
Concentrating fiercely to absorb every tiny detail.
Then, a few moments before the nurse arrived on her morning ground, I followed the doctor's orders.
Tore the piece of paper into a hundred pieces and swallowed them.
And that night, Dr. Security began rehearsing me.
Name?
Hayot Bela.
Date of birth?
7 July 1920.
Place of birth?
Modurova.
Military service?
Under Lieutenant 14200, wounded twice, the war was time for...
Over and over again, hour after hour, night after night.
Mother's name?
Zita Radna.
Father's name?
Janos.
Very good. Very good, Bela Hayot.
I would say you are ready to be released from the hospital at last.
What about my identity paper?
Your personal effects were taken from you when you were arrested.
Your passport will be returned to you when you are released.
Passport?
It's a lot of Hayot's pictures in it.
And so it has. Your pictures.
But how... how do you think we are not thorough?
At least as thorough as a security police?
Yes, but how could you make it?
Geza Bartok was photographed when he was arrested. Was he not?
Yes.
A photograph of Geza Bartok is now affixed to Bela Hayot's passport.
I don't see how you could manage to survive.
A slave sometimes has to excel the master at his own game.
Be prepared to leave the hospital in the morning.
When I appeared next morning before the interrogating officer, all hope left me.
He was not of the Hungarian security police.
He was a Russian, a captain in the Soviet intelligence service.
Apparently the Russians were taking no chances on another slip-up in this satellite.
On the desk before him was spread the dossier of Bela Hayot.
And the play for which Dr. Schrecketti had so well rehearsed me began.
Name?
Hayot Bela.
Born when?
7 July 1920.
Where?
Modirova.
Mother's name?
Tzvita Radna.
Mother's name?
Bela Bela.
On and on, question after question and answer after right answer.
Finally the captain seemed satisfied and tore open a brown manila envelope,
dumping its contents on the desk before me.
A few coins, a wallet.
Wait.
What is this?
The passport.
Yes, sir.
Where are your other papers?
Identity card, ration card. They came for me in the middle of the night. I did not have time.
No time to find anything but a passport.
Because a passport is what you need to get over the border.
Why did you want to leave the country?
I didn't want to leave the country.
You need a passport to cross the Danube from Buda to Pesh?
No, but the passport has always been sufficient.
You wanted to leave the country? Why? Why? Why?
But I didn't!
You lied!
All Hungarians are liars!
I fought back the compulsion to stick into the face of this swineish lout.
And then he pushed the passport and the wallet toward me, indicating that having insulted me, the interview was over.
As I picked up the wallet, something fell out of it and fluttered at the desk.
A picture of a woman.
A woman who was a complete stranger to me.
Before I could retrieve it, the captain snatched it out.
Whose picture is it?
My wife.
You do not seem sure.
Of course I'm sure it's my wife.
Name?
Margie.
Age? 25.
You love her?
Yeah.
She loves you?
Of course.
Then why is she not here to take you home?
She didn't know I was being released today.
Why didn't you inform her?
Do you think anyone from here would have taken her the message?
Her?
Yes, I would have.
Hmm.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
Undoubtedly one of the heroic women of Budapest.
Those great patriots who brave our tanks with bare breath to lay wreaths upon their heroes grave.
Why isn't she here to meet you?
I, uh, I wanted to surprise her.
It is a sin I must witness.
The surprise of your hero wife.
You do not mind if I accompany you home?
No.
No, of course not.
I knew the game was over, but I was determined to play it through to the last move.
I sat beside this distrustful sadist in the back of the Z-Star car and as he kicked our way through the rubble of Budapest,
I thought time had turned back twelve years to the war.
Lime-covered bodies still lay decomposing in the street, smashed and burned tanks blocked the intersection.
In a hole blown from the third floor of an apartment house, a bathtub teetered ridiculously.
There was no traffic. Budapest seems uninhabited.
For that day all Hungary had gone on a general strike of protest.
At last our silent journey ended at 19 Monarchud, my home.
I mean Bela Holyoschkow.
What are you waiting for?
I'm afraid.
Of what?
My wife, when she sees you in that uniform, I'm afraid she will be frightened.
A Hungarian woman frightened? I thought nothing frightened a Hungarian woman.
Get out.
Please, let me go in alone.
Yes, but just for time to explain.
Yes, go explaining. I will explain.
Ivona? Who is there?
Inward of. It's I, Bela.
Bela?
My edition, darling. I'm back home. Back home.
You didn't expect me, I know. Darling, darling, so good to hold you in my arms again.
Oh, I'm so happy. Happy.
She does not seem so happy to see you.
I told you she'd be frightened by your presence, but she is happy, aren't you, darling?
Of course I am. I am happy. It is just I am very lost for words.
There, you see, Captain?
Would not any wife be happy when her husband returns, even if he does forget to kiss her?
Oh, my love, forgive me.
Mama, mama, can I go out and play?
Mama is busy here.
Oh, a ruckus.
What?
Now run along or he will take you away with him.
This is your child?
Yes.
I asked him.
Yes, it is our child. I suppose she has a name?
Certainly.
I asked him what is her name.
It's, it's...
It's Tati. That part of his name is Tati.
Shut up.
But that is my name.
Of course it is, darling. And now if you will excuse us, Captain, my husband and I have a lot to talk about privately.
And thank you so much for driving him home.
It's your...
I owe you an explanation.
No, no, you do not.
My old Cuddy, my thanks for not giving me away.
Cuddy's father taught her not to ask questions in front of strangers.
When did my husband die?
A week ago.
I knew he wouldn't be back.
This time I knew he wouldn't be back.
You must be hungry. May I get you something to eat?
No, please don't bother.
It is never a bother to feed a hungry man.
The
The
We had husband then.
There was nothing to keep Margaret in Budapest any longer.
And certainly it was no safe place for me.
And so Bela Hajos, his wife and daughter, made the long difficult journey across the frontier to Vienna.
Well, that's quite a story, Mr. Hajos.
There's one point that beats me.
What is that, please, sir?
Once you were safely in Vienna, why did you go on impersonating Bela Hajos?
Why didn't you tell the authorities the truth?
Because of Cuddy, mostly.
During that long trip across the border, hiding in the forest, wading through swamps, walking in the cold rain,
she clung to me and called me Papa.
Until it almost seemed as though I really were a Papa.
Yes, until it seemed I was really Margaret's husband.
I was all they had, you see. They needed me.
Uh-huh.
And so you entered the United States as man and wife.
That's right, sir.
But you're not married.
There was no time.
That's another section of the immigration law you've broken, Mr. Hajos.
Comes under the heading of moral turpitude.
Excuse me, Mama.
You used Papa talking to the man.
You're not a certain democracy. You can see it through.
Who was the man, Mama?
I thought you said Cuddy had been trained not to ask questions in front of strangers.
Oh, I told her it would not be necessary in America.
I told her in America it was safe to talk to anyone.
What's your name?
Call me Uncle Sam.
Are you a good uncle?
I try to be.
Oh, one last question, Mr. Hajos.
Yes, sir?
How much money do you have with you?
I'm afraid not very much.
A few pangerins and some offering shillings.
No American money?
Oh, no, sir, but I hope to find a job quick.
I'm sure you will. In the meantime, here's two dollars.
But why?
Take them. You'll need them.
What for?
The marriage license.
The Marriage License
Juan Conrida starred in Freedom This Way,
produced and directed by William N. Robeson
and written by Ernesto Varebes, Max Coltay, and Mr. Robeson.
Heard in the cast were Margie List, Melissa Milo, Norma Jean-Milton,
Charles Ravillac, Joe DeSantis, Jack Crouchon, and Fritz Feld.