 Ports of Call. Don blue horizons far at the world's end. Strange, fascinating lands back in us. Vittus revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call. Blowing past the Carpathian Mountains, on its winding seaward journey, the Danube River pours a blue flood over the broad plains of Hungary. For more than a thousand years, this strange low-lying kingdom has been the home of the Madhyars, a warlike race who migrated to Europe in eastern Asia. Sailing down the Danube, we see springs of long iron barges, chugging riverboats, all bearing the tri-colored flag of Hungary. Ahead of us, spanning the river with graceful arches, are the bridges of Budapest. Budapest is in reality two cities. Buda lies on the western hillside, a black outline of domes and lacy spires emblazoned upon the flaming curtain of sky. On the flat east bank is Pest, a curved river, windows gleaming like countless spangles in the golden twilight. As night lowers, glow-worm lights appear on both shores. The plaintive lilt of gypsy music floats over the drowsy river, and we are taken back to the days of long ago when good King Matthias ruled over Hungary. We find ourselves in a crowded tavern near the Royal Palace at Buda. It is the 15th century. Inkeeper! Inkeeper! More wine! One moment, sir. Who are you anyway? I am Holubar the Great. Holubar the Mighty. You are a German? Certainly, I am a German. Who are you? My name is John Corvinus. Corvinus? That means crow, does it not? John Crow. You look like a crow, my friend. I am the greatest boy in old Europe. You mean in old Germany, don't you? Have you never heard of King Matthias? Matthias? This Matthias is a weakling. Let me tell you. A few years ago, I visited him in his palace at Visigras. Yeah. I challenged him to break lances with me in a tournament. Oh. He trembled. He trembled and the crown shook off his head. He promised me gold. If only I would go back to Germany and leave him in peace. The king said that? But I did not take the gold. I strode out of the room, leaving him trembling. Matthias said that. There is nothing worse than a liar, Holobar. You call me a liar? I show you. Stand up, John Crow. What are you going to do? Break this chair over your cushion head. Holobar, a liar, eh? John Corvinus? That is my name. Stand up before me while I pronounce sentence. By magistrate, I am guilty of nothing. The tavern brawl was started by the German, that Holobar. Yet you let him go free. Silence, John Corvinus. I sentence you to six months. One moment. We are alone. There is something I wish to tell you. Well... I am a poor man, a tailor. My business would be ruined if I am imprisoned. However, I have saved a small amount of gold. How much? Thirty pieces. If I give you this gold, will you let me go? Thirty pieces. It is much, but... eh, you have it with you? Yes, in my pouch. Hmm. You are aware that you are bribing an officer of the king? Quite aware of it. But the king will never know. Eh, give me the gold. But remember, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll have you hanged. I will keep silent, my lord. Hmm, see that you do. Now get out. And if I ever set eyes on you again, it will cost you more than thirty gold pieces. Keep that in mind. I shall magistrate. I shall keep it well in mind. Great of Buddha, seat's audience with His Majesty, King Matthias I. Did the magistrate come forward? Your gracious Majesty, for the first time I am permitted to kneel at your feet. I summoned you to my palace for one reason, magistrate. I want to know how you are administering my laws. I am doing my best, Your Majesty. There have been rumors of bribery. Ah, bribery? A tailor called John Corvinus told me that he paid you thirty pieces of gold for his freedom. Corvinus? Oh yes, I remember him. A brawler in taverns. A sneaking man with an ugly look in his eye. Oh, but he paid me no money. I released him out of the goodness of my... Look up, magistrate. Look upon my face. Your Highness, Your Majesty, you are... Oh, have mercy. I implore you... I often go about the city in disguise searching for vermin such as you were. Oh, but I thought you were a tailor. All the more reason for you to be punished. You would rob the poor to satisfy your own greed. You enforcing my laws. The guard will escort you to prison. Oh, but Your Majesty, I meant no wrong. The audience is over. The German seeks audience with His Majesty King Marthius I. Greetings, Sir Holaba. My respects to Your Majesty. It is with pleasure that I... Go on. John Crow. Yes, but my real name is Marthius. And I am waiting for your challenge. My challenge? Do you recall what you told me in the tavern about challenging the king? I was only talking foolishness. My challenge? We can meet at once in the courtyard. And if you beat me, I will send you back loaded with gold. But if you lose... I would not lose. I hope not, Holaba, for your sake. Because if you lose, I shall have you executed. Executed? Yes. I want to be sure that you are really doing your best. Hmm. Why are you so pale, Holaba? I have conquered 17 men in one afternoon. Good. Good. Then it is agreed. I have two fine horses waiting in the courtyard. There is plenty of armor. And you may choose your own lance. Come, Sir Holaba. Come with me. Are you ready, Holaba? Charge at the sound of the horn. On guard. Holaba. You have won, Your Majesty. Your lance and the wallet. I hurt my arm in the broken. Then help him up. Carry him into the palace. To the palace? I have lost and said that I must die. No. In spite of your boasting, you are a brave and strong warrior. I shall send you back to Germany as I promised. No did with gold. Your Majesty, such kindness I will never forget. It is almost a pleasure to be humbled by such a man John Crow. The reign of Matthias Corvinus is remembered in Hungarian history as a period of culture, conquest and social justice. King Matthias built many ornate palaces and churches. He imported scholars and artists from other lands to make his court one of the most brilliant and magnificent in all Europe. The marauding Turks were driven back and Buddha became a center of advanced civilization. Then in the year 1490 when the 47-year-old king reached the end of his reign, these words were spoken over the length and breadth of Hungary. King Matthias is dead. Justice is fled. The passing of Matthias was a signal for the return of the Turks and Tartars. A story of those dark times is still told around the firesides. It is a tale handed down through centuries by the peasants of the plain. The scene is the city of Debreken, a huddled group of houses and barns surrounded by green pasturelands and a forest. It is late afternoon and standing in an open doorway is Stefan DeBose, son of the chief magistrate Eastbon. At his side is a young girl dressed in a costume of many colors. Her dark eyes sparkle as Stefan calls into the house. Father! Father! I'm coming, my son. These old legs will carry me. Oh, you have brought Margaret with you. Yes, father. She's consented. We're going to be married. You are to be my little daughter. Yes, and I'm so happy. Stefan says there is a band of gypsies near here. He's going to get them to play at our wedding. Gypsies? Stefan, where did you see the gypsies? To the east. I was riding across the plain yesterday and I saw a large encampment. Tents made of shining white cloth. It must be a great tribe. Did you approach them? No, but I saw the tents. I'm afraid you did not see gypsies, Stefan. I believe they are Tartars. Tartars? Yes, sir. I have heard that a band of savage Tartars is heading toward Deplican. It may be that... Stefan, look. Look over to the west. Yes, it's the delibab. Father Estvan, what is the delibab? No man knows. It appears suddenly in the sky. The clouds turn into deep green shadows. It looms on a horizon like a great lake. Surrounded by hills and trees. Yes. It does look like a lake, but I know there is no lake over to the west. The delibab is what men call a mirage. It's not real. Only a reflection. This is an omen. For today it seems more real than ever. It is an ill omen. Father, who is this coming down the road? What a beautiful white horse he rides. And covered with jewels and crepes. A Tartar. A Tartar. What could he want? There's nothing to fear. He comes alone. Where is the house of the magistrate? I am the magistrate. I bear a message from Olaf, Khan of the Tartars. The mighty Olaf demands that you give him 1,000 loaves of bread, 100 horses, 100 oxen, and five bags of gold. And if we refuse... He will kill every person in this village and take the booty himself. We have no weapons. No fortifications. There is nothing we can do but grant his request. I will take your reply to Olaf. There is another stipulation. Every young and beautiful woman in Debra Ken must be sent to the Tartar camp within three days. What was that? You heard? Olaf wants every young and beautiful woman. If you refuse, it will mean... Death! You're not presented as savage. And yet, if the women don't go... Father, where's my sword? Where did you put my sword? Stefan, come here. We shall give this Tartar the horses, food and the gold. He will take them in any case. But the women? What of them? To the north is a stronghold of Zolnok. We shall send our women there. They will be safe. We men will brave the wrath of the Tartar. We shall give Olaf our wealth, but we will never give him our women. And so the women of Debra Ken fled to the stronghold of Zolnok. Three days elapsed. Then the Tartar chieftain came to Debra Ken and took the loot he had demanded. Finding no women in the city, he agreed to depart and leave Debra Ken in peace. But Olaf the Tartar was crafting. They thought they could trick me by sending their women to Zolnok. I will left will show them. We shall ride to Marsha's north of Debra Ken. And there we will wait. Wait in the thick tall reeds. When they think we have gone, the women will return. And we will be waiting for them. Zolnok the Tartar really gone. Yes, he left last night with his men. So I have come to bring you and the rest of the women back to Debra Ken. Oh, the Lord is good, Stefan. And shall we be married as soon as we get back? Of course, my darling. Just as soon as we reach Debra Ken. The sky is red as blood. Do you see that dark angry cloud on the horizon? Yes, I am afraid there will be a storm before we reach the city. I don't care. My heart is too happy to mind a little thing like a storm. No, my eyes must be deceiving me. It couldn't be. Women of Debra Ken, stop where you are. We go no further. Stefan, what's wrong? What are you staring at? Up there in the sky. You see it, Margaret? Do you see it? It is a delibab. The Mirage. Yes, mirrored against the skies, the church steeple of Debra Ken, and to the north of the marshes. And hidden in those marshes, I see... A crowd of men. I see them now. Concealed behind the reeds. It is an army. And the Tartars have tricked us. For they are standing on a low hill. He's all out himself. He's looking in our direction. But we are looking at him in a Mirage. The delibab has warned us. We must turn back to the stronghold. Oh, the sky is growing darker. We are turning back. Back to the stronghold. Before it's too late! As the storm rose, the sky turned to a cloak of darkness. Thunder roared over the black plain, and long slivers of fire snapped against the wet earth. Then, as suddenly as it had began, the raging elements subsided, and a bright yellow moon rolled over the marshes of Debra Ken. Lying face down in the swamp was Olaf the Tartar, struck by a bolt of lightning. Seeing their leader slain, the Tartars fled, and the women of Debra Ken were saved. Even to this day, peasants gazed reverently at the cool blue lakes and marshes, which may appear at any time on the vast plains of Hungary. For no man knows when he may receive a warning from that mysterious Mirage, the delibab. As time went on, Hungary was wracked by war and rebellion. Once again, the Turks were driven out, and the country fell under the iron rule of Austria. Thus was born the empire of Austria-Hungary, a loosely built monarchy that threatened to fall apart with the slightest disturbance. The world war sent the empire toppling into a welter of chaos and despair. A Bolshevik government was set up at Budapest, but it failed due to the stubborn resistance of the Hungarian farmers. During this period, the nation was in the hands of a certain Béla Kuhn. One of Béla Kuhn's henchmen was Tibor Zamuelé, a foppish individual with a monocle clamped in one BDI. It was a common occurrence to see a bright red limousine in the Hungarian farmhouse. After carefully dusting his trousers, Tibor Zamuelé would emerge from the back seat, while five of his companions stood at his side. Where is the proprietor of this farm? I say, comrade. Oh, yes, sir. Is there something I can do? I'm looking for the farmer Andreas Palfee. Oh, that is my husband. He's down by the barn. Oh, no. No, here he comes now. You have some fine grain fields here, comrade. Yes. The wheat is ready for the market. But my husband is afraid he cannot sell it. Sell it? Of course he can sell it. The people of Budapest are crying for bread. Ah, but there is no money since the war. Good day, gentlemen. You are comrade Palfee. Yes. Your wife tells me that you wish to sell your wheat. That is true. I am comrade Zamuelé of the new Bolshevik government. Comrade Béla Kuhn has given me orders to buy your wheat. My price is... I did not ask the price. Comrade Béla Kuhn, give this man the money. Here, farmer, take the money. Money? What is this? This is but paper. The new money issued by the new government. No, pay me with silver or gold. This paper is worth nothing to me. What could I buy with it? You will take this money and be grateful, comrade. For why should I be grateful if I have worked hard to grow my crops? I will not give them away. I would rather die. I shall give you that choice. Comrades, the rope. Throw it over the limb of that tree. What? What are you going to do? Now, comrade Palfee, do you accept this money or must I put this rope around your neck? Andreas, Andreas, take the money. Take it. I will not take it. My grandfather lived on this land. My grandfather lived here. And for ten generations, my family has owned this soil, worked it, made it prosperous. And now you communists want to take it from me. Why, why should I give you this week to feed the starving people of Budapest? But next year, you will come here again and take another crop from me and then another. No, it is better to let the people of Budapest starve if you and your kind be driven from this land. You will give me the wheat. I would rather give you my life blood. Here's your decision. Hold him, comrade, while I slip the noose around his neck. No, you must not do this. The Lord will curse you. Oh, please, forgive my husband. He does not know what he's doing. I will retire to the automobile comrades for a smoke. You may handle the rest of the details. Right, comrade. There's nothing quite so swooning as a cigarette. For several months, T-Boar Zamuale traveled about the country in his red limousine, calmly robbing the farmers of their grain, murdering those who refused to take the newly printed Bolshevik currency. But in spite of these actions, the city of Budapest continued to starve for the peasants obstinately refused to do business with the followers of Lenin. Suddenly, like a bursting bubble, the short reign of terror came to an end. The Romanian army marched into Hungary, and the Bolsheviks were then scampering for their lives. Then, on a spring afternoon, a red limousine came wheeling up to the Austrian border. Your passport? Oh, yes, my passport, to be sure. Here it is. Carlos Gunther, Austrian citizen. Is Carlos Gunther your name? It is written on the passport. This passport was made out by the Bolshevik governor. It's quite an order, isn't it? Yes, except that there is no Bolshevik government. The national government has been re-established in Hungary. Really? I didn't know that. You see, I've been rather busy. Your passport does seem to be in order. Ah, God! Look at that man go! What's his name? His passport reads Carlos Gunther. Hmm, Carlos Gunther, eh? Why'd you get that red car? I bought it, of course. No business of yours. No? Well, my name's Pulfi. I'm the son of Hungary's Pulfi, a farmer over by Gaiaur. My father was killed by a man named Tibor Zanuele. He drove a great red automobile exactly like that. There are many red automobiles. They're past God. What kind of cigarettes do you smoke? Why do you ask that, Pulfi? While they hang my father to a tree, this murderer sat in the back of his car smoking his cigarette. I found the stub on the ground when I returned from the fields. Say, do you think this man might be a... I think he is Tibor Zanuele. Zanuele is wanted by the government for murder. I can very easily prove my identity. Have you a telephone? Yes. In the guardhouse. We'll call the Austrian consulate, Budapest. Wait here. I'll let you talk to him when I get him on the line. I gotta look around. Look, do you see this? On the floor of the car, a cigarette stub. The same kind that I found beside... There's no doubt about it. That man is Tibor Zanuele. What was that? A shot. It came from the guardhouse. Well, be careful. The man is cunning. Now open the door slowly. It might be some kind of a trick. He's lying on the floor with a gun in his hand. Lift him up. We'll have to get him to a... No, it's no use. I suppose it's best this way. He knew he was trapped. Then he was Tibor Zanuele. Yes, a rascal, a murderer. May there never be another of his kind to sorrow the name of Hungary. The epitaph of Tibor Zanuele was written in blue pencil on a flat stone. And it read, here perished a dog. The world war deprived Hungary of her sea coast, of nearly two-thirds of her territory and more than a half of her population. Only a small patch on the map remains to mark the land which was once one of the proudest kingdoms in all Europe. And Hungary, although it is still a kingdom, is forbidden by law to have a king. But the Danube river flows serenely on through the ages, calm and unchanged as the people who live by its broad banks. The twin city of Budapest lifts its somber tower skyward. And in leaving Hungary, we bear with us memories of a country where flags are always at half-mast and where sturdy magyars clink their glasses of shimmering white wine as they mutter the age-old saying, We never die. The Danube winds before us and a gypsy tune liltes over the dancing waters, telling of ageless beauty, of romance, of sorrow. Hungary is Hungary, a land heavy with the weight of years and young with the promise of the future. We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.