he seven young Hungarians boarded the DC-3 first, just as planned. They glanced furtively about, scanning the cramped passenger cabin and the faces of the nine other passengers, most of whom were Communist government officials. Near the rear of the cabin, luggage was haphazardly stowed behind linen netting. Mail bags and crates loaded with cargo—motorcycle and automobile pistons—obstructed the aisle. Single seats lined the aisle on one side; pairs lined the other. The routine domestic flight carried 21 people—16 passengers, four crew members, and a plainclothes secret policeman. The group, led by George Polyak, pretended to be strangers and sat apart.

It was a hot, dry Friday in July 1956. The flight was scheduled to depart from Budapest, the national capital, and fly to Szombathely, a provincial capital near the Austrian border. Few flights ventured beyond Hungary’s borders in 1956 because only Communist officials with special permits were allowed outside the country. Polyak, an idealistic 25-year-old, wasn’t going to let that stop their escape. But first he had to get the right seat: the front row, on the right. He shoved past another passenger who was headed for the coveted seat and sat down. So far, so good.

He checked to see if everyone was in the right place. They were. The other conspirators had positioned themselves throughout the cabin. Nineteen-year-old Enese Iszak sat with her husband, Ferenc, at the back of the plane.

She was hoping to die quickly.

For the next 30 years, the young conspirators’ desperate flight to the West would inspire escapes, protests, and demonstrations by other youths in communist-controlled countries. But their story, concealed behind the Iron Curtain, has been forgotten.