The sprint of his life
June 2003
Amanda MacKenzie
Zoltan Dragan, assistant engineer on the m.v. Budapest, jumped ship in 1969 with nothing but his seaman’s papers and a little money. Even as the alarm was going up, he was legging it up Marischal Street, dodging on to George Street, running north in the race of his life.
“New Scots?” Zoltan Dragan’s face is a picture of mirth and incredulity. “I’ve been living in Scotland for 34 years! That’s longer than some people who were born here,” he points out. Reassured that it is a working title only, better than Not-So-New Scots, say, or Well-Established Scots by Adoption, he pours the coffee.
Never Look Back: Zoltan and Rylla outside their Aberdeen restaurant.
Our meeting takes place in his restaurant, where the afternoon’s stragglers, an international-looking bunch (students, perhaps?) take their time over food and conversation, continental-fashion. The place is cosy with dark wood and green, white and red, the colours of Hungary’s flag. Overhead, a violin plays a rhapsody softly, and on the walls, strange names – Badacsonyi, Szuikebarat – conjure up paprika, wild horsemen, Bull’s Blood… It’s easy to forget we’re in the heart of Aberdeen and not east of the Danube.
It would be easy to take the surroundings for nostalgia, too, but it’s fair to say the restaurant’s Hungarian authenticity is what marketing people like to call its ‘unique selling point’. Truth is, Zoltan Dragan hasn’t really looked back since he arrived in Scotland in 1969.
And what an arrival. As the assistant engineer on the m.v. Budapest, his mind had been set on jumping ship as soon as it left Mersin, South Turkey. Until then, defection had been no more than a notion, a fantasy shared by most of the men on board. But rumours were flying and, with each western European port, security became tighter. Shore leave was obstructed with ‘silly billy excuses’, Zoltanremembers, and so his intention began to take shape. He spoke of it to no-one.
He remembers looking out at the two mobile cranes in Aberdeen harbour, and considering his future. “I was fairly well worked up inside. Every day I was thinking, will it be today, will it be tomorrow? You never know how long you’re going to be in port, how long you would have to do it.”
The night before his defection, he packed a bag of essentials. When the ship docked in Commercial Quay, he was ready to shut off the auxiliary power, creating the diversion that would buy him the time to escape.
Of course, it all went awry at the last minute. Forced to leave the bag behind in the engine room, he set off at a sprint with nothing but his seaman’s papers and a little money. Even as the alarm was going up, he was legging it up Marischal Street, dodging onto George Street, running north in the race of his life. In fact, he wouldn’t slow down until he reached Kittybrewster, where, breathless and exhilarated by the enormity of what he’d just done, he ducked into a working man’s bar and ordered a drink in a strange, new country.
I expected a story of Communist privation, but Zoltan soon set me straight. Thanks to so-called ‘goulash communism’, Hungary was well-off compared to most of its Communist neighbours. As a result, his childhood in Csongrad, in the east of the country, was strife-free and generally contented. The nearest he came to political unrest was getting to pull his sledge, as a nine- year-old, with parachute strings from a Russian plane shot down over the river from his home during the 1956 uprising. He has no fond memories of his compulsory military service, though; two years of hell which helped pave the way for his defection gamble later.
“I didn’t know what was waiting for me,” he explains, “but I said, it can’t be any worse than that.”
That first night, locals put him up in Kittybrewster. The next day, he presented himself at the police station, where he was given a cell for his own safety. An interpreter arrived, a fellow-Hungarian and a refugee from ‘56.
“I didn’t need an interpreter,” remembers Zoltan with a snort, “my English was as good as his, maybe better! (Hungarian grammar is famously complicated.) He was granted 12 months’ permission to stay and that was the routine until he was naturalised in 1976.
His first job was at the paper mill. From there, he applied for a job as a diesel fitter for fishing vessels, and got it. It was an important step for someone whose only proof of formal qualifications were held by officials in a land where he was now persona non grata.
It wasn’t plain sailing, even then. When colleagues went on strike in the Seventies, his strong independent streak prevented him from joining them; living under communism meant that he saw things in a different light. Later he moved to BP, where he was at last able to gain an HNC in engineering. In the meantime, several landmarks had succeeded each other: the purchase of his first flat; marriage to a local girl (they were to divorce subsequently); the birth of his first two children. Then, in 1991, came the bombshell of redundancy.
It was the catalyst he needed. I wondered if the adventurous step he’d taken in 1969 had prepared him in any way for the decision to set up his own business. “It was a milestone,” he agreed. “It was a 180 degree turn and it took courage, determination, hard work. I just thought, if no one offers me a job I will offer myself one.”
He opened the first restaurant up in Auchmacoy, calling it The Goulash Restaurant; nowadays, it’s located in Aberdeen on the Adelphi, a moment’s walk from Union Street. It is still, to his knowledge, Scotland’s only Hungarian restaurant. Regulars will be familiar with Zoltan and his wife, Rylla, also Hungarian, whom he met in the UK.
Speciality items, of course, have to be brought back from Hungary. The trips combine business and pleasure; the arduous drive allows for a few days’ work on the family’s summer home, and gives Zoltan a chance to catch up with the family he left behind.
Those home visits are especially valued. For years, officials refused to acknowledge his defection to his relatives. For years, his passport granted Her Majesty’s protection in any country in the world – with the exception of Hungary, where an eight-year prison sentence hung over his head. When at last he did return to see his mother, he was apprehensive enough to leave precise instructions with his solicitor in case he was not allowed to catch the flight home again.
“But by that time,” interjects Rylla, “he had a wife and children here. It would have been embarrassing to the authorities to keep him there.”
In many cases, it was all the Hungarian communist government could do to keep the lid on the stories of maritime defections. On one occasion, it was rumoured, a Hungarian vessel ‘lost’ almost its entire crew when it docked in Naples.
“I am proud of my nation,” says Zoltan, and he is quick to elaborate: “I am proud that we were the first country to rise up against Russia, against communism.”
What about the second generation, I wonder. How do his sons feel about their Hungarian heritage? “They like to go over there,” he tells me; “there’s so much for them to do. And they are chameleons – you know? They can change their colour. What they are depends on where they are. In Hungary, they are more popular with girls when they say they are from Scotland!”
Running a restaurant is demanding, and it’s not long before business is calling again. Rylla regrets the lack of food shopping in the centre of the city: Zoltan will have to drive to the supermarket to top up the evening’s provisions. Somewhere between sittings, he hopes to snatch some moments for study; he is learning to speak Spanish in his spare time. I leave them laying the green cloths and setting the tables in this little bit of almost-Hungary in the North-East.
Amanda MacKenzie has worked in government relations and teaching. A former Macallan Short Story Prize finalist, she and her husband live in Aberdeen and share a passion for travel.
This is an article from the June 2003 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, see our subscription details.