An Unexpected Experience

(L-R) Marilyn Schutz ’68, Maryann Schulten ’68, Mimi Morgan Brodsky ’68 at their 50th reunion

In 1967, four LEC juniors were in different study centers overseas for spring semester abroad. At the end of their term of study they had the choice of several tours to take through different European cities before reuniting to take the ship home. Marilyn Schutz ’68, Maryann Schulten ’68, Mimi Morgan Brodsky ’68 and Dee Nield Langevin ’68 found themselves on the same tour to Budapest. Shulten shares the details of their adventurous experience below:

Budapest 1967: It seemed like a good idea at the time. There’s a reason that old saw is still in vogue. At age 20 it did seem like a good idea—a splendid idea! An exciting adventure! Not very long after the adventure began, it became clear that this was not such a good idea.

We were traveling on our individual tours after leaving our respective European study centers and my group was in Vienna at the time. I don’t remember whose idea it was, but I’m quite certain it had to be that of my still very dear friend, Marilyn Schutz, or mine. Why the other two more sensible, innocent bystander friends decided to throw their lot in with ours is a puzzlement. After the Lipizzaner Stallions and the Opera House, we decided that we had seen enough of Vienna and were off in search of an adventure. We looked at a map and decided that we could take a day trip to Prague or Budapest. Budapest was only an inch or so away on the map. Close and doable! So we took a streetcar to the edge of Vienna and hitchhiked to the border. We secured 24-hour visas and crossed the two miles of “No man’s Land.” We then caught a ride into Budapest with a salesman and found a place to have lunch. Goulash was the only thing we could decipher from the menu with any degree of familiarity. Dressed in our colorful Villager skirts and sweaters, we noticed that we drew the attention of all the onlookers who were dully and somberly dressed in grey or black. Before exploring any further, we thought it prudent to secure our transportation back to Vienna, in order to meet up with our group before we were missed that night.

without any problem and proceeded to the train station. There we were told that the train only ran three days a week, and today was not one of those days. Since our visas were only for 24 hours, not to mention that we were AWOL and no one knew where we were, our only option was to splurge and fly back to Vienna. When we attempted to book a flight we were told that there was only one flight a week and again, today was not that day. Now shades of panic began to set in. What to do? So as my friend, Marilyn, says, we decided to take the route that we had seen in so many Hollywood movies—go to the American Embassy. When we arrived at the Embassy we were told that there were only 12 Americans living in Budapest. One must remember that this was in 1967, only 10 years after the Hungarian revolution against the Marxist-Leninist government of the Hungarian People’s Republic and its Soviet-imposed policies ended. Over 2,500 Hungarians and 700 Soviet troops were killed in the conflict, and 200,000 Hungarians fled as refugees. One of those 12 Americans living in Budapest was Colonel Peterson, the US military attaché. Fortunately, he was able to be reached and we were taken to his house while he began conferences with the government for strategies to get us out of Hungary.

His home was magnificent. It was a big stone house that appeared to us to be a converted castle. What struck me about the exterior were the large holes in the stone from mortar fire and bullets. Inside, there were chandeliers hanging from high ceilings and luxurious draperies covering the tall windows. A maid served us gin and tonics and a candlelight dinner. Apart from our perilous situation, life was good! I think we felt some modicum of safety being under the purview of the US government. We were having an animated conversation with Col. Peterson and his wife when the conversation turned to Hungarian politics. One of us had noted that in a conversation with one of the Hungarians, it was stressed to us how the Hungarians hated the Russians and being under their control. When we asked about this, we were immediately hushed and Col. Peterson’s wife pointed to the ceiling and mouthed the word “Bugs.”

The next day, our 24-hour visas having expired, negotiations were underway to establish a plan to get us out of there. While that was taking place behind the scenes, Col. Peterson took us on a tour of Budapest. No sooner had we ventured out than he announced that he had to return to the house to get his briefcase. He said that he was watched and that he had to always leave the house in the same fashion so as not to arouse suspicion and that he never knew when he might need the contents of the briefcase. Eventually, arrangements were made with the government to allow us to leave the country. We were put on a train to Salzburg, where we would meet up with our group who had moved on without us. Neither Marilyn nor I remember how the College (the administration of which was not at all pleased by our recklessness) or the tour guide was informed of our whereabouts. We boarded the train to our escape and breathed our own personal sighs of relief and rolled our thoughts around in our heads as we rode silently to the border, observing the grey countryside, the grey farmers, the women dressed in long grey dresses and babushkas. When we arrived at the Hungarian border all the passengers were told to disembark the train. We did as we were instructed and watched while guards boarded the train and checked under the seats, in the overhead compartments, and moved large flat mirrors under the length of the train to check for stowaways. Suddenly one of the guards came from the guardhouse, looked at me and with a thick, heavy accent said, “You, come with me.” I followed him into a small room where an official with several insignias on his uniform was seated at a rough wooden desk. He gestured to a chair across the desk and I sat down. I was interrogated as to my intentions in traveling to Budapest, why I had overstayed my visa, how I knew Col. Peterson, and other questions which I have long since forgotten. As I watched the other passengers, including my friends, reboard the train to freedom, the ball in my stomach dropped and I had a vision of an old peasant woman in a long grey dress, wearing a grey babushka. And her face was my face.

Finally, as my mind was frantically yet quietly trying to wrap itself around the possibility of that becoming my lot in life, and what my parents would be told, I was instructed to go and get on the train. I do not remember anything further of that trip to Salzburg. I do remember how much trouble we were in upon our return. We later learned that college students were being used as spies in Prague and that several had been arrested. I imagine they thought that perhaps we were spies being infiltrated into Budapest. Now, 50 years later, some of the details of that experience are fuzzy, but the stark realizations and emotions surrounding it are as clear as they were in the days that followed.