My arrival in Gander, New Foundland, deserves a story of its own.

The temperature was forty-three below zero.

There were approximately six feet of snow.

The Salvation Army was playing music for refugees arriving at the airport.

After everything that had happened in Hungary, this was my introduction to North America.

Then I went inside the airport.

Professional wrestling was playing on television.

Four men appeared to be killing each other.

I watched this scene and thought:

“Jesus, what a place we came to!”

There were agencies helping process the refugees. People asked where we wanted to go and helped arrange visas and transportation.

I had relatives throughout the world, including the United States, Australia, South America and Sweden.

But I deliberately decided to go somewhere where I did not know anybody.

I went to Montreal.

At first, I hated it.

Looking back later, I realized that Montreal was actually not such a bad place at all.

There were approximately seventy thousand Hungarians there, and the city had become an important Hungarian center.

But I was lonely.

That was the real problem.

I missed Vera.

I missed Hungary.

I missed knowing where I belonged.

And I knew almost no English.

I had begun learning some English in Paris, but I still could hardly speak it.

Nevertheless, I found a job.

The salary was not bad.

I rented a room in one of the best parts of the city.

That followed what I liked to call the Hungarian philosophy:

Live in the cheapest room in the best hotel.

Slowly, I began building a life.

After several months, however, I knew Montreal was not where I wanted to remain.

I wanted to return to school.