Far Rockaway High School - Dolphin Yearbook (Far Rockaway, NY)

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The Escape -Doris Farkas EDITORQS NOTE: The author's last contribution to the DOLPHIN was a new version of a mythological story. Now, her source is very different. The following is her account of incidents which occurred to her father. In the year 1917, Paul Janosek joined the Hungarian army. A few months later, he was working in the lumber yards of Petrograd, a prisoner of the Russians. He and some other prisoners, taking advantage of an opportunity resulting from disorders during the Revolution, escaped and purchased clothes and train tickets to the Hungarian border. uWe'H get off at a station during the night. If everything works out all right, we can cross the border without being seen. Be as inconspicuous as possible, and since I know the language, let me do the talking, Paul ordered. They decided to cross the tracks at night instead of leaving the station in the usual manner. They were almost across when suddenly they heard a shout, Halt! The men whirled around and saw two Russian soldiers staring at them. Someone's suspicions had been aroused, and the soldiers on guard at the station had been informed. The prisoners were locked up, and the next morning they were sent back to camp. . Paul determined to escape again, and decided, 'This time I'll go alone. He planned to take the same train to the same station, hoping to have better luck than before. As he was waiting for the train, he was approached by an old man who had befriended him while he was working in Petrograd. Paul confided to him the details of his escape from the camp. The old gentleman looked about nervously and then beckoned to Paul to follow him. I'll help you get away, he whispered. I can get you a passport. Paul looked astonished. How can you do that? My son, who was sent here from Poland, has been given a passport to return there. But he has decided to remain in Russia, and I will give you his passport. In a few hours Paul was on the train, speeding toward the border. This time he got oil' in the daytime and mingled with the crowd. His nervousness increased when he learned that he had to present the passport to the guard at the station. I hope I don't look as sick as I feel, he thought as he handed the- paper to the stern-looking soldier, and breathed a sigh of relief as it was handed back to him without a word. He felt more and more tense as freedom came closer and closer to being a reality. As Paul stood on the street deciding what his next move would be, he noticed a coachman staring at him, and soon discovered why. The man had recognized Paul as an escaped war prisoner, and offered to make a deal with him. In return for a large sum of money, he would escort Paul over the border, which was only a short distance away. You don't leave me much choice, muttered Paul. Let's go. After traveling through many muddy side streets, the carriage suddenly stopped. It was stuck in the mud and refused to budge. Paul stepped down and started to walk. He had gone only a short distance when to his dismay he saw in front of him a group of soldiers with their guns pointed at him. Paul saw no way out of his predicament. He slowly approached the soldiers and found to his amazement that they were Hungarians, and that he was over the border.

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Candidate., Pursued -Arthur Palmer He had received a letter warning him not to run for mayor. Perhaps it was written by some crank, perhaps not. Nonetheless, now of all times, why should he sacrifice a promising career and yield to a piece of stationery? After all, was it not inevitable that he would be Bethwood Falls' next mayor? For weeks, he had been signing legal documents, preparing and presenting long, eloquently worded speeches. One night he would get away from all this. That night had finally arrived. He left his home unseen, through the rear entrance, and headed toward Main Street, consuming great quantities of the cool, clear air as he walked. He sought serenity, but soon found that Main Street was f ar from serene. There was electioneering everywhere. Massive banners, bearing his name and picture, were dangling from the roof-tops as far distant as his eyes could penetrate, but strangely enough, he was not recognized amidst these throngs of voters. Then he tumed about and walked in the direction of the East Side-the factory district. Surely, few persons would be there at this hour. There he would find the peace, the quiet, the tranquillity, for which he had starved so long. Most of the way, he heard footsteps behind him. His sus- picions were aroused, he hastened his pace, and his speed changed gradually from a walk to a trot, and then to a desperate canter. Down alleys and around corners he dodged, hoping with every turn and step to elude his pursuers. Hopping over a backyard fence, his eyes met with a welcome sight, a candy store-a place of refuge. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps they have a telephone. They did. As he darted into the doorway he stumbled over the jamb, but sprang to his feet immediately, entered a phone booth and deposited a quarter, for which there was no time to ask for change. When his fingers came in contact with the dial, a small, tin out-of-order sign dropped to the Hoor, -causing a sickening, metallic ring. And simultaneously his quarter dropped into the return coin slot with a similar sound. Metaphorically, as these objects fell, his heart accompanied them. No sooner had he left the phone, than the proprietor was at his side, ushering him out of the door, with the explanation that it was past closing time. He heard the door slam behind him, and the latch snap into place. He stood motionless for a moment, looking in all directions. THEY . . . whoever they might be, were not in sight but he felt their presence. Across the street, two ape-like figures stepped silently out of the shadows and moved towards him. Well, what do you guys want? he demanded, although he wanted to make a break for it. One of them spoke up. You're Floyd Hall, aren't you? Your campaign manager hired us. Why were you trying to give us the slip all night? We're your bodyguardsf'

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The Lost Figure L f f rs 1 v e H ff! , f I ' At, .. . ,ji-Barbara Novak Only those beings who have craved something chronically, who have resisted temptation and ultimately submitted to it, will understand my feeling of irre- pressible joy upon finding myself alone in the house for an entire week end- forty-eight hours in which to avail myself of every opportunity to indulge every vagary, to satisfy my heretofore suppressed longing for food. Those bleak, barren days of dieting seemed long ago and far away, in a land as far removed from my kitchen as the sun from the earth. Of course there had been moments, brief and stolen, in which I had appeased those persistent pangs of hunger, but no longer needed I to skulk in corners munching candy furtively, ravenously, waiting for Mother's inevitable remark, 'Remember your figure, darling. That candy contains 250 calories. I had tried to break myself of the habit of eating between meals, but always there had been that little impish voice in the back of my mind, coaxing, per- suading, Just one little chocolate can't possibly hurt. And always I had vielded. Then there were those horrible nightmares, dreams in which I fancied fat women looming out of the walls, coming toward me, bearing countless delicacies, cauldrons of chocolate pudding, and Jello in all its six delicious flavors. Those women had one thing in common-my face. On the first night of my solitude, I felt myself drawing closer and closer to the refrigerator-closer to inevitable destruction, for I knew that once I had utterly satisfied my craving, I would never again be the same. My will- power collapsed. I gorged myself far into the night. The next day was spent in a similar manner. That evening, however, I had a date. I tried on the dress I had intended to wear. It wouldn't close. Frantically I tried others. The floor was strewn with dresses, suits, skirts. Not one fit me. .The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of my escort. I just let it ring- Dolphin Contribution T his is a task of torture and pain, H urting my fingers and racking my brain, E nding in something that won't be too good. D on't laugh now, but my head's made of wood. O h! For those old and simple times, Little thought I of writing rhymes. Perhaps some day I may do better, H eaven knows when I'll get my letter. If you are bored with reading this, N ever you mind, I'll call it fin-is. -Arthur Hofmann