I had always wanted to get out of Hungary.

But for most of my life, wanting to leave had been very different from having a realistic opportunity to do it.

Hungary was surrounded almost entirely by Communist countries: Czechoslovakia to the north, Yugoslavia to the south, Russia to the east and Romania to the southeast. There was only a relatively small border with Austria, and that border had been mined.

For years, there had been no realistic way through.

Then, during the summer of 1956, the Hungarian army removed the mines as political tensions relaxed.

That single change made escape possible.

Not easy.

Not safe.

Possible.

A few days after Charles left, and just before my twenty-third birthday on November 13, I reached my decision.

I was going.

I called George and Szaby.

George agreed to come with me, although somewhat reluctantly.

Szaby would not leave his girlfriend.

I understood that decision because I had exactly the same problem.

I was in love with Vera.

I wanted to marry her.

She was beautiful, intelligent and very important to me.

But she did not want to leave.

The decision to go meant leaving her behind, and that affected me for a very long time afterward.

There were other reasons to stay.

I was only about four months from earning my university degree. If I left, I had no idea whether I would ever finish it.

More importantly, there was my mother.

My father had died in World War II. I was her only child.

Most of my family felt that I should remain because she would otherwise be alone.

My aunt Klari was also very unhappy about George leaving. She told me that if anything happened to him, she would hold me responsible.

Leaving was not simply a matter of packing a suitcase and walking out the door.

It meant accepting the possibility that I might never see Hungary again.

It meant possibly never seeing my family again.

It meant leaving the woman I loved.

It meant abandoning a university education only months before completing it.

And it meant walking toward a future about which I knew almost nothing.

My mother understood better than most.

Before I left, she asked what I planned to take with me.

I tried to make the situation a little easier with humor.

I told her:

“My school papers, a bathing suit and a deck of cards.”

I still have those cards.

At the time, they were simply playing cards.

Years later, they became something more.

They were among the few things I carried when one life ended and another began.