When I was young and even more foolish than I am now, myself and a friend hitchhiked around Europe. We had done this kind of thing before, but on this occasion I got it wedged into my head that we should have an adventure. I wanted to cross the Iron Curtain.
My friend agreed with this idea; until we found ourselves on an empty bus headed for Italy in the company of the driver and two young women. He wanted to stay on the bus, but I insisted. Over the following 48 hours, my friend repeatedly reminded me that our trip could have had a completely different outcome. Decades later, he still occasionally mentions it.
So, we got off the bus and hitchhiked from Austria into Hungary. More precisely, we hitchhiked to the frontier and walked over, past acres of barbed wire fences and gun emplacements. We quickly learned that in the Soviet-controlled state, there was no culture of giving lifts. We stuck out our thumbs and people would wave back.
Our adventure quickly became a disaster. We were threatened by soldiers, then forced to take grotty buses through grim towns to Budapest train station. Our 24-hour visas were about to run out, so we had no option but to take the next train back to Vienna.
Except it didn’t go to Vienna. It halted at a Hungarian station named Hegyeshalom near the border. The other passengers disembarked, and then seemed to melt away. There was a timetable, indicating what time the next train would arrive at. But it never came. We asked a soldier about it. He shrugged.
We spent an anxious night there, watching noisy mosquitos whizz around the ceiling. My friend wondered what the weather was like in Italy, and what those two girls were doing.
The following morning, people reappeared, and we learned that we were expected to surrender our passports to waiting soldiers.
Finally, a train arrived. But we weren’t allowed to get on. First, we had to line up on the platform while half a dozen troops marched in front of us and came to a halt. Their commanding officer was straight from central casting. He wore an over-decorated uniform with a coat thrown over his shoulders. He oozed arrogance.
In his hands was the pile of passports. One by one, he read out the names. That person would then be allowed to get their passport back and get on the train. But even before he had finished announcing that day’s lucky winners, it became obvious that not everyone would get to leave: he held another stack of passports under his arm. There were wails of complaint, tears and then shrieks as people were dragged off by the soldiers.
It is astonishing to think that in my lifetime, people were risking their lives to escape countries that are now part of the European Union
We got on the train.
When we sat down, a man across from us grinned knowingly, then spoke to us in an American accent. He had, he told us, dual US-Romanian citizenship, but he was interrupted when another man dashed into our carriage. The man sat down, muttered urgently to the American-Romanian, waited until some soldiers walked past in the outside corridor, then left again, scurrying in the opposite direction.
Finally, the train moved off. We did eventually ask our fellow passenger about the man who had run in and out, but he waved our question away; and we felt a bit foolish for asking.
It is astonishing to think that in my lifetime, people were risking their lives to escape countries that are now part of the European Union. So much has changed, while so much has remained the same. Russia is still regarded as a foe. There’s a lot of talk about the need for improved defence, accusations of warmongering and big-picture analysis: superpowers, jockeying for resources. Russian imperialism. An ancient need on Europe’s part to neuter Russia’s power. It all seems depressingly familiar. If there’s one thing we learn from history, it’s that we learn nothing from history.