CHAPTER 6
Opening the garage door with the remote, driving into my own garage and seeing the mess in there I promised to clear out some years ago were all part of the joy of coming home. I looked forward to a long soak in my bathtub, maybe my wife scrubbing my back and scalp, a rubdown, a strong cappuccino, a stiff cognac, my favourite terrycloth housecoat, a fire in the fireplace and just silence among the people who love me.
My plan was to re-establish my usual routine, ASAP. I wanted to go about my days as I always had, to forget, if possible, the nightmare of the last visit to the place where I was born, to reconnect with my family, students, with my laboratory, with my library, with my books, music, swimming, research. Most important was to debrief and discuss what happened and record as much as possible, as accurately as possible, in minute detail, to the best of my recollection. I needed to be brought up-to-date on how my relatives reacted to my disappearance. How did the Canadian authorities attempt to locate me, if at all, or, were they even aware of my plight? Did my wife call them for help about my disappearance? Was her call acted upon?
As it turned out, she called the Department of Foreign Affairs several times. Each time she was told that everything was being done to locate me. She was told not to alert the newspapers. She told me that her patience was exhausted and she was going to contact a reporter the day I called from the Consulate. She also called some of my friends in Budapest, none of whom managed to find out anything about me.
What exactly was done by the authorities to locate me? Was a diplomatic note passed to the Hungarian ambassador? Was the Canadian Ambassador recalled as an indication of the outrage the Canadian Government felt? Collecting information would take time and energy and would, no doubt, take some of my sleep away as I would be reliving the terror I felt. Don’t believe the soothing words that time heals. Time was passing but I only needed to close my eyes to start sweating, to expect the next kick or blow, to feel the pain, the humiliation, the feeling of helplessness, to hear the gleeful laughter.
I needed to rest and almost started crying when after a hot bath I was to sleep in my own bed. Even the squeak of the mattress made me happy as did the realization that as soon as I removed my hearing aids, the squeaking would stop.
Before anything else, I needed to get a medical examination. I was tortured and beaten and I wanted proof that this left permanent and non-permanent damage. I had scars, broken teeth, burn marks in addition to some psychological damage which couldn’t be seen as easily. I called my physician and asked for an exam and tests but I also asked him to have another witness there, preferably another doctor and, of course, I had to explain the reasons. My doctor had been looking after my health for a couple of decades already and I was pleased to hear his agreement. He understood the need for promptness and I was off to see him directly. A complete examination, written and photographic documentation and witnessing the resulting reports by the two doctors and the lawyer took almost three hours but, while I didn’t have a clear plan for how I would use these to exact my revenge, I felt that the documentation was necessary.
I needed to see my students, to talk to them, to ask what happened in my absence, what new knowledge was discovered, if anything broke down in my lab. The usual case when I was away was that nothing happened and on my return I would be subjected to the endless horror stories of why no work was performed, the debriefing event being dubbed the “story hour.” Also, I was anxious to get back on track with my lectures and publications.
It took a few months but I reestablished the usual flow of things. I realized the comfort in routine. I had my teeth rebuilt, and while I was sad not to be able to be proud of my perfect teeth at my age - I never had a cavity in my life - the new teeth looked superbly white, regular and I regained my movie-star smile, lost when my teeth were damaged during the interrogations.
I started my weight training again, my swim sessions with the Masters’ swim group, and slowly re-established my fairly good endurance and shape. I lowered my heartbeat. It was a bit of a shock to realize how much strength I lost in a few days of misery. The loss must have been caused by the absence of workouts to some extent, but much more due to the arrest and subsequent events.
I was pleased by simple things that I disliked before. I became much more patient. I was reading students’ reports closely, I read other professors’ and scientists’ research, thought about their results, and got on with my own studies.
I have always thoroughly enjoyed my job, which includes my research and the lectures of course, but also laboratory exercises, examinations, special presentations and discussions with students on academic and private matters. There was a hierarchy of my likes and dislikes of these activities with the pride of place taken by the personal, face-to-face conversations with my students. My joy at the moment when their faces lit up and the exclamation, “Now I get it,” is indescribable, understood only by those who experience it and I was always thankful for the chance to see the success of an explanation.
As a professor of engineering I spent a considerable amount of time studying the details of steel processing. I studied and researched how steel is made. I investigated how the structure of steel affects its properties, its strength, its toughness.
The word “steel” refers to an extremely large family of metals. There are only two common attributes to all. The first is that they all contain some iron and some carbon. The second is that the steel-making process always includes melting the combination of ingredients at very high temperatures and letting the melt cool and solidify to room temperatures. Various ingredients play most significant roles in determining the properties of the final, cooled and solidified product. The manner of cooling and the post-cooling processes, such as hot and cold forming, also contribute to the strength, shape and toughness of the steel.
Steel’s structure is revealed when examined under a microscope, using large magnification. The structure is observed to be made up of small particles, called “grains,” measuring a few thousandths of millimeters. It is the size of these grains as well as their structure that are affected by all these processes and they in turn control most of the properties the steel possesses.
The technical literature contains a massive amount of information about the development of the grains during the melting, cooling and subsequent forming processes. Many of these publications attempt to predict the size of the grains and are based on detailed, careful experiments, conducted in laboratories and in the research departments of the steel industry.
However, nobody has ever seen, in real life, in real time, a grain of steel develop, evolve, solidify and grow. Of course, there are methods to examine them, called metallography, but they are used after the fact. The steel is made, its chemical composition is carefully prepared, it is then cast, formed, rolled, machined and at each step it is possible to section, mount, polish and etch pieces with acids and to look at the result under some magnification, using optical microscopy, scanning or transmission electron microscopy. The boundaries of the grains will be clearly recognizable. Nobody has ever seen the actual evolution, in real-time, without magnification or etching, however. I have always been curious if a real eyewitness account could ever be possible and often imagined what the actual process would look like.
A dream, most likely caused by my constant preoccupation with the steel’s structure, was so realistic, so possible, that on waking, I had to convince myself that it was, in fact, a dream.
In the dream I was visiting one of the local steel companies. I approached the edge of a container in which the boiling, bubbling cauldron of steel was clearly visible. I was about six feet above the surface on the cat-walk and I felt that it was time to leave, fast, because the fumes were making me dizzy. As I turned, I saw my guide running toward me, yelling, “Get away from there.” He was slipping, he bumped into me and I was falling, head first, into the churning, hot hell below.
It’s not that it wasn’t hot there, yes, it was. It was very hot, hot as hell must be, dry, but still hot. There was a very strange sensation as well, as if my skin was being caressed, as you may imagine slaves cooling their owner with palm leaves, moving them slowly back and forth. There was also a very low sound, whisper like, and it was audible only on my left side. Without offering any proof, believe me that it was my guardian angel telling me that I might get out of this batch of molten steel, maybe with a little less hair, little more red in the face but alive, and that I might end up knowing a little more about the metallurgical structure of the steel then I knew before I fell - or was I thrown? - into the hot mess. And, yes, I actually saw the grains and how they were developing.
My wife was shaking me. When I woke I was soaked in sweat, my skin was cherry red, and my body was covered in blisters. I was dazed and didn’t recall immediately what I just went through. In fact, the details of falling into the molten steel had been hidden deep in my subconscious for a long time, I couldn’t tell how long. I didn’t actually recall how and when I was able to recount the full details for the first time. The blisters and the redness disappeared after a long soak and my head cleared sufficiently to get out of bed and after more rest and calisthenics, I went for a long walk. I felt almost new again. But the thought of my dream and the fall into the hot metal are with me still and after a few glasses of wine I always wonder what the actual reality was.
Next day I delivered my lecture, well prepared but without notes, feeling somewhat sorry for my students, who assured me that I caused no damage to their education. Also, no qualitative change in my delivery was noted.
A few days after getting home I felt well enough to contact the federal bureaucracy, the office of the Minister that deals with traveling Canadians and their problems abroad. It was the Department of Foreign Affairs and to get through to the Hungarian desk needed several calls and the usual “press one if you…,” process, none of which I wanted. There was no special button to be pressed for the case when you were arrested abroad and tortured and accused of committing major crimes. Help had to be found and through my local member of Parliament, I finally got through to the official in charge, a Dr. Howther. He sounded young, helpful and interested and I told him, very briefly, why I was calling. His whole demeanor changed on hearing that we were dealing with a potentially embarrassing international incident. He became guarded, and he was trying to get me off the line. He didn’t succeed because I was determined to be heard and I didn’t hang up on him when he indicated total disbelief. I persevered and finally got invited to his office to tell the full story. I had to tell him though that the choice was his. Hear me out or I go to one the national papers, and presto, the invitation was issued.
I arrived in his office on time. The place was impressive. It was large, bright, modern and tastefully furnished. Sofas, arm chairs, low tables and plants were artfully arranged, designed for comfortable, pleasant conversation. Large windows and subdued lights created a relaxed, low keyed atmosphere. His secretary was expecting me and greeted me with a smile. The mineral water I asked for appeared fast. A conference table, seating 20, was arranged in the middle of the room.
A few of Dr. Howther’s colleagues were there also, waiting, and after the usual introductions and pleasantries and ignoring the sceptical looks, I told my story. There was a video recorder, turned on already, to which I had no objection. In fact I wanted everything to be recorded. It took the whole morning to describe, in minute detail, what happened, how I was treated, what I was accused of, how I managed to get out of Hungary, how the lady at the Consulate helped and used their aircraft to fly me home. I was pleased to have held the attention of my audience. Nobody moved, nobody yawned, nobody interrupted. I needed a full bottle of water to finish and my voice was hoarse at the end.
Incredulous faces surrounded me, speechless, white, strained. It was quite easy to notice that the young people had never heard a story such as this, except maybe on TV or in the movies. I found it hard to tell if they believed it at all, but why shouldn’t they? Why would I try to fool them?
After the shocked silence, the questions began, and at first I had to dispel their doubts.
“Do you mean that you were arrested, tortured, jailed, hypnotized and sprung out jail during your last visit?” asked one of the youngsters. My patience had never been too great and it was especially short after my lengthy monologue.
“Are you somewhat hard of hearing, or did you have a little snooze?” and he turned pink and silent but the next questions were noticeably less stupid. What I wanted to hear was whether my adventures were known to anyone in this group, and I asked and was astonished to hear the response, “No, we had absolutely no idea that a Canadian citizen was in trouble. Nobody advised us. Maybe some further checking should be done.”
“Have you heard of Christina Sackam, chief assistant to the Canadian Consul in Budapest? She seemed to know who I was and she said that they were worried about me so at least at the Consulate they knew about my experiences,” I said.
Dr. Howther piped up, “Yes, I know her, a very capable, highly qualified lady. I am anticipating your next question, Sir, and the answer is, we received no communication from her or from the Consul.”
I found this hard to believe but I chose not to question the efficiency of the local crew, at least not just yet. Who handled my wife’s calls for information? I was still reasonably certain that a memo or an e-mail would be found in somebody’s in-tray, not acted on or not even read, as yet. The scenario I was making up, admittedly with no facts, was the potential existence of a mole in the Department of Foreign Affairs, co-operating covertly with Colonel Hegedus and her gang. I made a mental note for this to be followed up when time permitted.
I asked, “What is the process other countries are expected to follow in a case such as mine?” and the answer described the internationally agreed protocol. In each consulate or embassy there is a designated person whose job it is to follow the adventures and the whereabouts of their citizens. While theoretically one should register with one’s consulate on arrival, tourists in friendly countries seldom do this.
“Should I have been allowed to call the Canadian Consulate as soon as I was detained?” I asked and I knew the answer was yes, of course, and this was confirmed. Not only should I have been given the opportunity to call, an official of the Border Control should have called the Consulate or the embassy within 30 minutes of my arrest.
Dr. Howther, still pale and obviously shaken, said, “Dr. Lederer, I must inform my superior of what you just told us. This wasn’t only highly irregular, it reminds me of the times when we were looking for our citizens who vanished during the Communist regime and we found the most effective stonewalling, imaginable.” He asked for a few minutes, left the office to make the call and was back soon. “The Minister of Foreign Affairs will join us momentarily. She is concerned and wants to hear your story again, so please be patient and repeat it. We are talking about a potentially major international incident and she must be careful to handle it properly.”
When the Minister arrived and I told my story again, she said, “Dr. Lederer, your story is the first I hear of any of our citizens being mistreated in Hungary in recent times. There were a few instances before but we were always informed and the calls to the Consulate were always allowed and even encouraged. Please stay in town. My ministry will cover your expenses. It is too late to call now but I will call my opposite number in Budapest tomorrow, first thing, and I would like you to be present when I call. Meanwhile please communicate about this to nobody, especially not to the newspapers. Of course, you may call home that you are staying over.”
I was taken to the Chateau Laurier, and was given an executive suite. The suite had a separate living room and bedroom, two bathrooms, terrycloth bathrobes in each, Jacuzzi in one. The rooms were furnished using genuine antique pieces the origins and ages of which I would have liked to identify but couldn’t. The view was toward the parliament buildings. A large screen TV, an independent stereo system, a very well stocked minibar and a basket of fresh fruit were there, waiting for me. I checked the minibar contents and found cognac, Napoleon version, champagne, not sparkling wine, even spring water. Within minutes of checking in, a chambermaid appeared to bring me shaving things, a toothbrush and to take my clothes to be cleaned and pressed. There was a minor consternation since all my clothes were on me and were to be given to the lady but since there was a bathrobe, the need for a public striptease was removed. My clothes come back within an hour. My shoes were polished. The light supper served in the hotel’s dining room was excellent and I felt good about the experience and looked forward to the phone call the next day and maybe an explanation of what happened. I slept well. I felt that I was being taken seriously and this was a good feeling.
The next day, rested, cleaned, freshly pressed, and after a couple of excellent croissants and a cafe crème, I returned to the Department of Foreign Affairs. I was shown straight into the Minister’s office. Following the necessary polite inquiries into my health, the Minister dialed her opposite number in Budapest whom she had met several times and worked with on several international committees. She put the call on her speakerphone and indicated that if I wished I might make notes of the conversation. The talk was to be recorded in any case and I was to be given a certified copy.
I was most impressed by the Hungarian Minister’s ability to speak grammatically perfect and practically accentless English, much like the Scandinavian people whose language skills are unmatched in my limited experience. Partial proof of this occurred when in Stockholm I was accosted by a beggar, asking for change in a language which I assumed was Swedish. On hearing my excuse in English that I didn’t understand, he repeated the request in excellent English. I was so impressed, I gave him enough money for a simple supper. Back to business, however. The conversation between the Ministers started and I wanted to listen very carefully.
My Minister began. “My friend, lets get to the purpose of my call. I have Professor Lederer in my office and I trust that you recognize the name. He told me his hard-to-believe story and I would appreciate hearing your response. I also hope that you are familiar with what I am talking about and that maybe you even expected my call.”
The response was most interesting and the tone of voice implied that the speaker was telling the truth. “I am afraid I don’t have a clue what you are talking about. Who is the good Professor and what is his story?”
My story was repeated, not at the length I took the day before, but still the telling took over 20 minutes. During this time there was complete silence from the other end, and maybe I just imagined hearing the incredulity and the astonishment of the Hungarian minister. When the story was over, the comment came, quietly and in a shocked voice, “My dear friend and colleague, what you have just told me is totally outrageous. I understand that you wouldn’t have called if these events had not been checked out thoroughly. At this point I am lost for words. Allow me to check with my people here. Please stay in your office, I will call you back in 30 minutes.”
We chatted while we waited for the call which came as promised. The voice of the Hungarian Minister indicated major distress. She said, “My friend, you mentioned several names of officials. You mentioned the name of Colonel Hegedus. No person of this name is in any of our Ministries. Nobody at the airport recalls the arrest of the Professor. I was told that the interrogation room hasn’t been used for the last six months. There is a Dr. Brucotti, and as the story said, she had been seconded to us from Italy. She is, in fact, a consultant to the Minister of Internal Security and she is a clinical psychiatrist and an expert in hypnosis. I asked her personally and she said, and I believe her, that she had nothing to do with the professor and knew nothing about Colonel Hegedus. She just came back from her holidays yesterday. She was in Milan during the last week. Here is my dilemma: maybe I am naïve but I believe the people who work for me, and the contradiction is that I also believe you. I have a request. Please allow me more time to investigate. If the allegations are based on facts, and I don’t doubt that they are, there will be clues or evidence and I will find them, I promise you. While I investigate, please don’t call the media in either country, as this may become an international incident. I will call again in 48 hours.”
I told the Minister that I was disappointed in the result and I didn’t really care what her colleague would say in a couple of days. This was slight exaggeration because I was vitally interested. Also, I wanted to go home. I told her that I would appreciate being informed of the gist of what would eventually transpire and she promised to call me and debrief. We parted company and I thanked her for the support but as I walked out of the room after many handshakes, it was still unclear why I was subjected to the misery which nobody in Hungary or in Canada seemed to know anything about.
A few days later, in a short, curt call from the assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I was told that there was no evidence whatsoever in Hungary that corroborated my description of events. There were no clues in the interrogation room. There were no bloodstains on the carpet. There was no sign that anyone vomited there. There was nobody who recalled my arrest, questioning, beating or the subsequent transportation to jail. Nobody in any of the Hungarian jails recalled the professor who had been giving English lessons. No taxi driver had been located who admitted to picking up anyone in a blue jumpsuit who claimed to have been in jail. A person of my description checked into a local hotel, stayed there for six days, and paid cash on departure. There was nothing to corroborate my story. Oh, but there was something else in the message, transmitted from the Minister to me. “Don’t call us again. When you wish to travel, please don’t invent stories. Just face the facts. You have a lively imagination. Be happy that you won’t be charged with mischief, that your passport isn’t cancelled and that you can travel again. We hope that this is the end of your alleged affair. We want to hear nothing further from you.”
I noted the missing links in this story and wondered why there was no mention of the Canadian Consulate, Ms. Sackam, my two calls to my family, the plane-ride home in the executive jet, and the landing at Breslau airport. How come these didn’t indicate that I wasn’t lying? Did the Hungarian Minister check with the Canadian Consulate? Did she check with the airport to see if there was a flight plan for my return home? If not, why not? I couldn’t believe my ears. I was taken to be a liar.
I should have shown the Minister the scars and the medical report I received a day after my arrival home, but if I did this now, I would be accused of harassing the officials and it wouldn’t further my cause. Which now got substantially broader. Now I needed not just to find the perps and exact revenge but also to prove to my doubters that my story was true to the last word. My options at this point, none palatable, were to call a newspaper; hire a private investigator and return to Hungary; or forget about it all.
I wanted to give the official some more information, so I said fast, “Please don’t hang up. Just mark my words for the record. What I told you, what was on the tapes and the transcript, were the absolute truth. I don’t consider this to be the end.”
“As you wish, Professor,” said the assistant, annoyed at me for not accepting defeat. “Just consider that maybe your imagination was playing tricks. Remember that you are not so young any more.” It was this last statement that shouldn’t have been said. I was guessing the assistant’s age at 26, not more, and raised with the mouth around a silver spoon, sheltered, not questioning the availability of air-conditioning and running hot water at all times, or not finding sufficient food in the refrigerator. So I told him now, rather sharply, “I will get to the bottom of this, fear not. I predict that you and your Minister will eat your words, will be apologizing in public, and I may or may not accept your apology. I am going back to Hungary. I will be in touch, you may be sure,” and I hung up before any more wisdom that I didn’t want to hear was uttered by the young jerk.
Next morning I called the national newspaper. I managed to reach one of the often-read, well-known journalists and she agreed to listen to my story. I related essentially the same story I told the Minister. I described the visit to the ministry, the calls between the two ministers, the complete dismissal of my veracity and the admonishment to take my next fantasy elsewhere. The lady recorded my tale, listened carefully while I was talking, appeared to take it all in, with absolutely no reaction. When finished, in about 90 minutes, she said, “If this story can be corroborated, it would be a major news item, an international scandal, worthy of publication. Before anything like that is to happen though, corroboration is necessary. Absolutely necessary.”
I agreed, of course.
“Please hold on to my story and have the date certified. I will attempt to get the proof you need. I am going back to Budapest,” I said. “Please give me an e-mail address and I’ll contact you when further information is available.”
“No e-mail, Professor, those are now quite in the public domain, easily read by anyone dedicated enough. I suggest the following. We buy digital cell phones, give our numbers only to each other, agree to call only at certain times, ring once, hang up, repeat the call in exactly 60 seconds, and use the encryption mode in all calls. We will replace the phones every two weeks. Each time I get a new phone, I will send you my new number.”
“OK,” I said, “will do.”
We got the phones, tested them, asked a friendly expert to break into one of our conversations, which he couldn’t do, so we felt safe enough to transmit even rumors on the secure line.
At this time, however, I needed a break. No more Communists, no more conspiracy, just my regular life with all its happy, boring routines. The proof, clearing my name, maybe even finding the people who made my life miserable, my sweet revenge would have to wait a bit. I needed to regenerate, to rejuvenate, to regain my self-confidence, my ego, which, while still sky-high, took some bruising lately. I decided to go on with the usual routine, study, lecture, swim, eat and drink. Being merry wasn’t an option just yet.