 Suspense and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robson. A man's got to have a good reason to renounce his native land forever. A reason to say like death or worse, life under tyranny. For this reason, thousands of men and women and children who love freedom more than fatherland have made their way across the frontier to the west in the past two months. Of the more than 20,000 who have arrived in the United States, only eight have been sent back. This might have been the story of one of these. Listen then to freedom this way, starring Mr. Hans Conway. Look all the right side of the plane that you are there to stay. You will see the light of your life. But you cannot see them very clearly because your eyes are filled with tears. Look down there on the water. Yes, it is the statue of liberty. The statue of liberty. Mama, is that maybe heaven down there? Yes, my dear. Maybe it is. A midwire repellent there, everybody. New Jersey back. No, it is telling you we are landing at the midwire airport in New Jersey in America. Stay in the seat, he says, until your name is called. And that is all right. You can wait a little longer now that you are safe. You can sit and wait and listen to the men outside welcoming you with the music that reminds you of home. Hello, Harjo. You don't hear the officers. The feds are there. You lean back in their feet, wrapped in the warm mantle of security. Hello, Harjo. Oh, yes, sir. You, hello, Harjo. Yes, sir. Come with me. Hello. You understand English, don't you? Yes, sir. I said come with me. Hello. Sit down. Thank you very much, sir. Before you left Vienna, you filled out certain forms, did you not? Yes, sir. And signed them? Yes, sir. Is this one of the forms you filled out? Yes. And this is your signature? Bella Harjo's? Yes, sir. But it's not your name. Is it? Is it? No. Your real name is Bartar, isn't it? Yes, sir. Do you know that the penalty for giving false information to the United States immigration authorities is immediate deportation to the country of your origin? No, sir. No, I can't go back. You should have thought of that when you falsified your entry papers. I couldn't help it, sir. I had to. Why did you have to? You'll believe me if I tell you this. I'll try to. People are welcome here. We wouldn't have brought you here. But you've got to play the game according to the rules. I know. I know, sir. It was wrong of me, I suppose. But there was nothing else I could do. It was difficult to explain. How shall I put it? We were free, you see. For five days we were free. It was one of the ones who took over Radio Budapest on 23rd October. We renamed it Radio Free Budapest and we broadcast truth instead of lies. But not for long. Two days after the Russians returned, while the Hungarian freedom fighters were selling each three corner with their lives, I made the last drone. And I want to say to what's the radio? I'll give it to you. But as long as you're here now, you haven't got enough guns or enough ammunition. But we will hold on to the last drop of blood. Don't talk like this. Goodbye, friends. God save us all. Thank you, sir. The studio took a direct shelter and that was the end of Radio Free Budapest. Those of us who were not killed were herded into Koparoshihau, headwaters in prison of the dreaded and hated A.B.H., the Security Police. When my eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the cell, I discovered that I was not alone. Another man was lying motionless on the bunk, opposite mine. He was not sleeping, his eyes were open, but he did not seem to see me. He seemed to look straight through me. I smiled, but his face remained motionless. All distant. Hello. Hello, I'm talking to you. Don't you hear me? What's the matter with you? Answer me. Answer me! At first I thought he remained silent because he feared I was informant. And then, as the long night dragged by and the dirty gray light through the grilled window announced another day, I became convinced that it was he who worked for them. I was now convinced he was part of the psychological breakdown. He was the first modest step in a process that would end with my voluntary confession to a dozen crimes that I had never committed implicating a hundred persons I scattered. And he sat there and stared through that long day and the next. And then, sometime during the night, the guards came. Dear Reverend, follow me. Who? Me? Not you, the other one. We are not ready for you yet, but we will be. You, leader, come. Oh, why don't you stop this comedy? You know this man is one of you, a secret police. We do not shoot our own. And him we are going to shoot. It is true, my friend. You can talk. Of course, and here too. At first I thought you were an informant. Me? No, I thought now I know. So I wish you better luck than I had. His eyes were dry, his chin was firm, and he shook my hand. And then he turned and walked through the door. After the barred door had clunked sharp and was doubly locked and the footfalls had died away in the corridor, I unclenched my right fist. When he had shaken my hand, the condemned man had pressed into my palms and pitted for his small, steel file. I crawled around to the window. Yes, the center bars had been filed, almost through. It must have taken weeks of the utmost patience, a labor that my presence had interrupted, a project now devolving upon me. I failed to work with the will, but it was work, tedious work. The fingers aching as they sought to grip the tiny file, the arms bone-reary from the short, small strokes, but work that went ahead, all through the rest of that night and the next, until all was in readiness. I plied the bars apart and started out the window and got stuck halfway through. I struggled and turned, tearing by clothes, tearing by flesh and finally breaking loose from the iron vise. I lost my balance and tumbled into the yard below, full in the blinding circles of the prison staff line. Here, drink this slowly. Thank you. As I drank the chalky fluid, my eyes slowly came into focus and my ears into tune. I was in a bed in a hospital ward. My heart lived and then sank for the sun which streamed through the window fell upon the floor in the pattern of bars. I turned through the young nurse standing over me, impersonal, impervious. My eyes must have expressed the question as she replied impassively. You did not get far. You are still in Koporoshi House. I was not lucky enough to be shot. You will be when you have recovered. Why? Why did they not...? You must be quiet. The doctor will be here in a minute. She nodded toward the door and as I looked in that direction, the doctor entered. My heart stopped for an instant and then raced. I knew him. He was one of us. Or had been back in 1944 in the days when the underground was pushing the Nazis out of Budapest. This is a new patient, doctor. Attempt at escape. Oh, yes. I was told about this one. Doctor. Doctor. One of the freedom fighters, eh? Seems you have lost your freedom and there is no fight left in you. Am I a little man? Doctor. Aren't you, Fakute Damo? Don't you remember me? Don't you remember how we held the market ticket against the Nazis in 1944 when we were both students? Obviously, delirious nurse. Increased sedation. Fakute Damo, what are you doing here? In Koporoshi House. Have you forgotten the word the first of his chandos? Our father shouted them in 1919. We shouted them in 44. Our those kids shouted them last week. Mergers, rise! Your country calls you. Meet this hour, what air before you. Yes, obviously delirious. Better move into a private room where you can't disturb the others. Yes, of course. Now then, it's this. It was not long before I learned why the renegade of the circuit had moved me to a private room. Late that evening, when the hospital was most quiet, he paid me a visit. Well, how's the little freedom fighters tonight? I don't need your care nor your insults, Dr. Pernk, old secretary. I was quite assured you put her in the walk in the afternoon, gave her bar talk, but scarcely the time nor the place. Oh, you did remember me then, eh? You voiced down. You didn't expect me to recognize you in that crowded ward, did you? No. No, of course not. It was foolish of me, but to find you, you working for them, I know. No, why? Dr. Fakete, why? Are you a merit-giver? No. Revolutionary cannot afford the luxury of family life. And a family man cannot afford the luxury of revolution. Oh, you excuse yourself with sentimental rubbish. You will think differently when you become a husband and a father, which is as likely as my ever-escaping from Kapurashi House as I have all with my assistance. Oh, Doctor, forgive me. I did not realize. There are more ways of serving than shouting patriotic verses at the top of your lungs. Yes, yes, of course there are. Now, first of all, we must make you ill. Make me ill? Listen, I feel bad enough as it is. Yes, but your brains and confusions aren't enough to keep you in the hospital more than a few days. And we may need more time than that. Four, boss. How will you get me? I'm having the slightest idea at the moment. In matters of this thought, we improvise as we go along. Doctor Fekete was true to his word. The following morning, the nurse Anna gave me an injection. And by that afternoon, I was sicker than I ever remembered. Time stopped. Days and nights ran together in the mercy of the Miriam, marked only by the periodic hypodermic injection. At last came the day when the injection did not throw me into wretched convulsions. Instead, my head seemed to be clearer. I was dimly aware of being wheeled along the corridor by nurse Anna. And then I found myself in a small operating room. Doctor Fekete was there and the nurse and a steel form on the operating table. A form with a sheet drawn over its head. And vaguely I hear Doctor Fekete saying... Make out the gesture of physics at this way, nurse. Name? Bartoguesa. Cause of death? Internal injuries sustained while attempting escape? Doctor. Doctor. Yes, Guesa? Just like quietly. Since you are now quite dead. You can fill in the rest of it down at the most. There is no more room in the most, doctor. They are stacking the bodies in the courtyard now. Good. In that case, there is mostly the corpse of Guesa Bartoguesa. But it's that Guesa Bartoguesa lying there and he says, Who am I? You are now Bela Haydor. And you have a great deal to learn while you're convalescing from your emergency up and back to me. It seemed too good to be true. There must be a flaw somewhere. I worried about it. I wondered about it as the nurse reared me back to a new room. Two. Bela Haydor's room. When the doctor came by that night, my head was buzzing with a dozen unanswered questions. But doctor, if I couldn't hope to get out of Koproshaus, how can you be so sure that Bela Haydor's will be released? Bela Haydor's was picked up along with a hundred other suspects two days before the rebellion began. Security police could prove nothing against him. Then why wasn't he freed and we took over the city? He was in the prison hospital with acute appendicitis. Too sick to be moved. He was still there when the Russians returned. Certain proof that he had nothing to do with the rebellious. He will be released as soon as his... you're up at deck to me. To assure, I guarantee it. Now take this and learn it tonight. What is it? The facts about Bela Haydor. The answers to the question you will be asked before they release you. You must be able to answer everything on the stage instantly. A single slip will mean death for you. And for me too. But why are you doing this, doctor? Call it patriotism or guilty conscience? In any case, it's the least I can do for a man like you. I spent the rest of the night reading and rereading about the man I had become. Concentrating fiercely to absorb every tiny detail. Then, a few moments before the nurse arrived on her morning ground, I followed the doctor's orders, tore the piece of paper into a hundred pieces and swallowed them. And that night, Dr. Sekati began rehearsing me. Names? Hios Bela. Date of birth? 7 July 19th. Place of birth? Modirova. Military service? And the Lieutenant 14th was ours. Boomed at twice. The war was trying to... Over and over again, hour after hour, night after night. Mother's name? Viterana. Father's name? Janos. Very good. I would say you're ready to be released from the hospital at last. What about my identity paper? Your personal effects were taken from you when you were arrested. The paper will be returned to you when you are released. Passport? It's a lot of Hios pictures in it. And so it has. Your pictures. But how do you think we are not thorough? At least as thorough as the security police? Yes, but how could you make... Geyser Bartok was photographed when he was arrested. Was he not? Yes. A photograph of Geyser Bartok is now fixed to Bela Hios Passport. I don't see how you could manage. If he survives, a slave sometimes has to excel the master at his own game. Be prepared to leave the hospital in the morning. When I appeared next morning before the interrogating officer, all hope left me. He was not of the Hungarian security police. He was a Russian, a captain in the Soviet intelligence service. Apparently, the Russians were taking no chances on another slip-up in this satellite. On the desk before him was spread the doctrine of Bela Hios. And the play for which Dr. Serkipi had so well rehearsed me began. Name? Hios Bela. Born when? 7 July 1920. Where? Modirova. Mother's name? Zita Radna. Mother's name? Arm and arm, question after question and answer after right arm. Finally, the captain seemed satisfied and tore open a brown manila envelope dumping its contents on the desk before me. A few coins, a wallet. Wait. What is this? A passport. Yes, sir. Where are your other papers? Identity card, Russian card. They came for me in the middle of the night. I did not have time. No time? No time to find anything but a passport? Because a passport is what you need to get over the border. Why did you want to leave the country? I didn't want to leave the country. You needed a passport to cross the Danube from Budapest? No, but the passport has always been sufficient. You wanted to leave the country? Why? Why? Why? But I didn't. You lie. All Hungarians are liars. I forced back the compulsion to stick into the face of this tiny slab. And then he pushed the passport and the wallet told me indicating that having insulted me the interview was over. As I picked up the wallet, something fell out of it and fluttered to the desk. A picture of a woman. A woman who was a complete stranger to me. Before I could retrieve it, the captain snatched it out. Who's picture is this? My wife. You do not seem sure. Of course I'm sure. It's my wife. Name? Margie. Age? 25. You love her? Yeah. She loves you? Of course. Then why is she not here to take you home? She didn't know about being released today. Why didn't you inform her? Do you think anyone from here would have taken her the message? Her? Yes. I would have. Not bad. Not bad at all. Undoubtedly one of the heroic women of Budapest. Those great patriots who brave our tanks with bare breath to lay reaps upon their hero's grave. Why is she here to meet you? I wanted to surprise her. It is a scene I must witness. The surprise of your hero wife. You do not mind if I accompany you home? No. Of course not. I knew the game was off, but I was determined to play it through to the last move. I sat beside this distrustful sadist in the back of this tough car and just picked our way through the rubble of Budapest. I thought time had turned back twelve years to the war. Lime-covered bodies still lay decomposing in the state. Smashed and burned tanks blocked the intersection. In a hole blown from the third floor of an apartment house, a bathtub teetered ridiculously. There was no traffic. Budapest seems uninhabited. For that day, all Hungary had gone on a general strike of process. At last our silent journey ended at 19 Molnarschild, my home. I mean, Bela Hoyo's home. What are you waiting for? I'm afraid. Of what? My wife, when she sees you in that uniform, I'm afraid she will be frightened. A Hungarian woman frightened? I thought nothing frightened, a Hungarian woman. Get out. Please, let me go in alone. Just for time to explain. Go explaining. I will explain. Who's there? It's I, Bela. Bela? My addition, darling. I'm back home, back home. You didn't expect me, I know. Darling, so good to hold you in my arms again. Happy. She does not seem so happy to see you. I told you she'd be frightened by your presence, but she is happy, aren't you, darling? Of course I am, I am happy. It is just I am very lost for words. There, you see, Captain? Would not any of us be happy when her husband returned, even if he does forget to kiss him. Oh, my love, forgive me. Mama, mama, can I go out and play? I am busy here. Oh, a lucky... What? Now run along or he will take you away with him. This is your child? Yes. I asked him, yes, it is your child. I suppose she has a name? Certainly. I asked him, what is her name? Wait, it's... It's her, it's her. Shut up. But that is my name. Of course it is, darling. And now she will excuse us, Captain. My husband and I have a lot to talk about, privately. And thank you so much for driving him home. Did you all... I owe you an explanation. No, no, you do not. My old cutie, my thanks for not giving me away. Cutie's father taught her not to ask questions in front of strangers. Then did my husband die? A week ago. I knew he wouldn't be back. It's time I knew he wouldn't be back. You must be hungry. May I get you something to eat? No, please don't bother. It is never a bother to see the hungry man. Great-grand-husband dead. There was nothing to keep Margit in Budapest any longer. And certainly it was no safe place for me. And so Bella Hayosh, his wife and daughter, made the long difficult journey across the frontier to Vienna. Well, that's quite a story, Mr. Hayosh. There's one point that beats me. What is that, please, sir? Once you were safely in Vienna, why did you go on impersonating Bella Hayosh? Why didn't you tell the authorities the truth? Because of Cutie, mostly. During that long trip across the border, hiding in the forest, wading through swamps, walking in the cold rain, she clung to me and called the Papa until it almost seemed as though I really were a Papa. Yes, until it seemed I was really Margit's husband. I was all the head, you see. They needed me. And so you entered the United States as man and wife. That's right, sir. But you're not married. There was no time. That's another section of the immigration law you've broken, Mr. Hayosh. It comes under the heading of moral trepidation. Yes, Mama. You used Papa talking to the man. You must be sure you're not Cutie. You can see if you do. Who was the man, Mama? I thought you said Cutie had been trained not to ask questions in front of strangers. Why? I told her it would not be necessary in America. I told her in America it was safe to talk to anyone. What's your name? Call me Uncle Sam. Are you a good uncle? I try to be. Oh, one last question, Mr. Hayosh. Yes, sir? How much money do you have with you? I'm afraid not very much. I'm too pangor and I'm often shillings. No American money? Oh, no sir, but I hope to find a job quick. I'm sure you will. In the meantime, here's two dollars. But why? Take them. You'll need them. What for? The marriage license. Juan Connery starred in Freedom This Way, produced and directed by William M. Robeson and written by Erno Valabes, Max Colpey, and Mr. Robeson. Heard in the cast were Margie List, Melita Milo, Norma Jean Nielsen, Charles Ravillac, Joda Santos, Jack Krushen, and Fritz Feld.