The enemy’s invincible, I hope you let it go. “Hope” by Vampire Weekend
Cowboy Carter played, I slid back and forth between the oven and my laptop resting on the marble island. I was roasting a chicken, sautéing spinach, and FaceTiming with my daughter in Los Angeles—attempting the whole “make this house a home” thing. I’d been in Budapest for weeks, hadn’t cooked unless cutting a hunk of perfectly crusty bread and slathering it with butter is cooking. Anyway, the moment was glorious—my daughter’s shining face on the screen, her sipping coffee, me wine, just the two of us catching up.
I heard a knock on my peephole-less door, looked at my daughter quizzically: who could it be at 8pm in a city I know basically no-one? Then a delicate, worried voice—female, Russian accented English—said urgently, “I’m your neighbor, can you please help me? There’s a loud beeping in my apartment, I don’t know what it is.”
I opened the door just wide enough to see a lanky, awkward, blonde, holding her phone, nervously shifting from side to side. “I don’t smell gas but I can’t figure out what it is, can you please come to my apartment, it’s just there.” She pointed across the courtyard to an open door. I mean, she was fucking SCARED, I could hear what sounded like a fire alarm.
“Sure, of course. One sec.”
I hung up with my daughter, grabbed my phone and keys, followed this stranger right into her apartment. You know how in every horror movie, the protagonist follows a stranger and we’re like “Noooooo! Don’t go in there!” Yeah, I know.
I’ve lived in Los Angeles for 32 years. If at anytime, a Russian woman—any stranger—knocked on my door, asked me to go into their house to investigate a weird sound, I can tell you exactly how many times I would have said yes: zero. Zero fucking times. That it happened in Hungary—next to Russia, government partial to Putin—and I forgot to be afraid is nuts. I don’t even know how to say help! in Hungarian.
We hurried to her place, she apologized for the mess, they just moved in a few weeks ago. The noise came from the kitchen, she said, so I followed her, the blaring louder the closer we got. I looked around, had no idea what was causing the horrendous shriek. I turned, paused. Oh my god. It was the panini press. I unplugged it and the unholy noise stopped. We laughed. Well, I laughed; fear rushed out of her like a swiftly deflating balloon.
I asked her if she was Ukrainian—many have migrated to Hungary since the war began—thinking that might explain things. No, she was Russian, she and her husband fled when the war started. We chatted a few minutes more before I remembered my chicken and hurried off.
That I should’ve been afraid, or at least cautious, only dawned on me when friends were like, you actually went into her apartment? A young woman needed help so I helped. The statistical likelihood that she had mal-intent is like nonexistent. And besides, doesn’t a book people like to quote tell us to help strangers?
After that, she and I chatted often in the way good neighbors do. She told me about life under Putin, how her parents can’t tell her younger brother they oppose the war because if he mentions it in school, police will take her parents away. She didn’t say to where, didn’t have to, we all know it’s not The Four Seasons.
***
I arrived in Moscow on April 27th, 1986—one of 36 high school seniors from suburban New York visiting the Soviet Union to—as Ronald Reagan said in his letter to our sister school, “know more about the Soviet Union, and to tell you of America’s desire for a true peace with freedom, and our efforts to ensure a safer future for all mankind.”
That a nuclear reactor 432 miles away had melted down the day before remained unknown to us and the world. We attended school with our Soviet counterparts, toured Moscow, marveled at St. Basil’s Cathedral, walked miles unaware invisible radiation particles sprinkled sidewalks and our clothes.
Days later, we arrived in Leningrad, viewed the Winter Palace from our bus window, excited to see it in person the following day. We checked into our hotel, put our belongings in our rooms, ate lunch in the dining room.
As we scarfed down butter stuffed chicken Kiev and cabbage, whispers floated. We have to leave. There was a nuclear accident. The State Department is evacuating us.
What? That’s ridiculous. When whispers grew to proclamations, we became indignant. American propaganda! We would know if there was a nuclear accident!
We asked our waiter if he’d heard about it. “There was something about it in the newspaper yesterday, it’s nothing! Silly Americans.”
Moments later, the adults in charge descended the imposing staircase, told us to gather our things, we were leaving. “We have no choice.” The US State Department was in fact, evacuating us.
1986. No cell phones, no internet, no CNN, no information at our fingertips. We protested, complained, whined about our parents falling victim to American government disinformation, bought cheap vodka in the gift shop then defiantly boarded our bus to a train en route to Finland.
When we arrived in Helsinki—May Day—a Finnish government minister hopped on the train, gave us instructions: you may not drink the milk or tap water, it contains radiation. His stately demeanor and firm tone worried us. Something had really happened. What had we been exposed to?
In the hotel we called our terrified parents, told them we were okay, they told us what they knew. Our indignation dissolved into shock, how was such a thing possible—an entire nation not told the danger they were in, an entire nation put at risk by their own government?
We couldn’t wait to get home. But first, we went to the bar and partied with some Finns.
After landing at JFK, official types led us to a special decontamination room where we were checked for radiation. Some of us handed over our sweatshirts due to high levels, some us only had “the level of a dental x-ray” on our shoes (me). We emerged—decontaminated—to a bevy of photographers and journalists. Our picture was on the cover of the New York Post.
Three years later, on a cold November night, I stood amongst thousands of Germans, young and old—stifling my generational trauma, forcing myself not to look at everyone wondering Where were you? What about your parents?—and watched the first car drive though the Berlin Wall.
I never again doubted the dangers of authoritarianism, the human need for freedom, or my responsibility to bear witness today (tomorrow is too late).
***
In Budapest, you can start at Aquincum, ancient Roman ruins in Buda, cross the Danube to Margaret Island, check out some Medieval ruins, continue to Pest, walk half a mile to the Museum of Terror (same building Hungarian Nazi’s and Stalinists tortured dissenters), go another half mile and stand within the Jewish ghetto where 10,000 Jews died from illness and starvation. Throughout the city, on the ground you’ll see randomly placed bronze plaques with the name of more people killed in the Holocaust.
The thing about us humans is, we don’t always learn history’s lessons even when they’re right before our eyes.
In 2021, Hungary passed an anti-LGBTQ law that, amongst other things,”banned sharing information with minors that are considered to be promoting homosexuality or gender reassignment and to restrict LGBT representation in the media by banning content depicting LGBT topics from daytime television and prohibiting companies from running campaigns in solidarity with the LGBT community. Violations of the law can be punished with fines or a prison sentence.”
While the law was rightfully condemned by every Western government and the European Union, it remains the law of the land. In 1930’s Germany, the LGBTQ community was the first group actively targeted by the Nazi’s, that’s why some of us are sounding the alarm about book banning and other Nazi pastimes.
A few days ago, cars were cleared from our street, a main artery, for some kind of parade, we had no idea what. It was Pride—we didn’t know Pride was permitted here. From our balcony we watched the parade begin. Thrilled, we ran downstairs to show our support, to be allies.
I’ve been in Budapest for almost four months and in four months, I have not seen one gay couple holding hands let alone kissing. But there on Andrassy Avenue, brave, joyful gay and trans Hungarians strutted loud and proud, draped in rainbow flags, and it was absolutely gorgeous.
“Look,” my husband said pointing up the street. I don’t know why, maybe being so far from home, but seeing Old Glory filled me with uncharacteristic pride. I ran towards it, a bunch of beefy secret service types stood around it—it took me a minute before my brain clocked what my eyes witnessed: The American ambassador to Hungary carried our flag, embassy staff held a huge banner announcing The United States Embassy.
I cried. I’m crying writing this. The United States was the only country with an official presence at the Hungarian Pride parade. We are so far short of our ideals, but my god, sometimes we get it right.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: nothing good comes from demonizing others or staying silent. People are not their governments, strangers are not the enemy, and the unknown is not an abyss. Help a stranger, talk to someone different, find a way to let fear go.
And maybe I’m also trying to say, we can only improve our democracy if we keep it. From where I stand, 9,000 miles from home, democracy sure looks worth saving.
Thank you for your stories x
Incredible stories - amazing life!