A Single Suitcase

We left before they told us to evacuate. I saw the smoke over the hills, knew the ferocity of the Santa Ana winds, and figured it wouldn’t be long before the fire would reach us. I packed a small suitcase. A change of clothes for my husband and me and two for each child. Bathing suits, in case we decided to go to the beach. The essential toiletries. A flat iron. The dog’s harness and leash. I packed without much thought, as if detached from the experience. We loaded that small suitcase into the car and told the girls we were going to have dinner in Santa Monica. It was a treat, a special outing. Then, we thought, if things were OK, we would drive back home. And if not, we’d drive south and stay in a hotel on the beach. A little vacation, we told the kids. Don’t worry about school.

Correspondence

Parnaz Foroutan’s story of how she escaped the Iran-Iraq War [“A Single Suitcase,” July 2019] brought back memories of my own family’s escape from communist Hungary in 1956.

We, too, hurriedly packed one suitcase and slipped out of our house at dawn. I was twelve and my sister was eight. We were walking — and silently crying — in the forest between Hungary and Austria with a group of strangers when we heard shouting and gunshots. The Russians were following us.

We left the suitcase on the forest floor and ran, in our one pair of shoes and our three layers of clothes, to what we hoped would be safety. We were lost in the dense forest when we saw an old lady gathering firewood in her apron. She motioned for us to follow her.

After we arrived at a small Austrian town, she vanished. No one knew who she was. My mother was convinced she was an angel sent to lead us out of oppression.

Three months later we landed in New York and began new lives.

Susan Kalev New York, New York

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July 2019