I'm not a folk hero
He merely performed a peculiar redistribution of the wealth that differed from the elites only in its method
"Too bad I won't be able to clink glasses with anyone," Attila Ambrus wistfully told a visiting journalist on the occasion of his 38th birthday. "But I'm not a folk hero." Modesty aside, such labels are ultimately not self-selected – nor, for that matter, are they self-rejected. Six years into a 17-year sentence, the legend was at its apex. A year prior, an English language book was published. In another 12, a Hungarian production house would release an action film based on his exploits. Over the years, at least a half-dozen songs have been composed in this honor.
Public reactions were mixed. Some contemporary editorials were happy to paint the man as a kind of colorful modern Robin Hood. “He didn't rob banks," a local paper proclaimed with confidence a few years prior. "He merely performed a peculiar redistribution of the wealth that differed from the elites only in its method.”
Ambrus arrived in Hungary on the underside of a cargo train a few days after his 21st birthday. The promise of marriage having recently fallen through, he grew determined to flee his small, Eastern Transylvanian village. After two nights of sleep in a nearby field, he leapt onto the moving train, climbing below before it ground to a halt at the border check. He entered the country with his back roughly six inches away from the whizzing train tracks below. His overalls and skin were covered in oil, but he was alive. Plenty who’d attempted the passing hurling themselves into the river, running through fields or stuffing their bodies into luggage could not say the same.
Shortly after arrival, the nation’s dying embers of Communism found Ambrus quickly assigned a small factotum of miserable work, starting as an overnight electrical assistant at a glass factory. Certainly the dream of playing professional ice hockey was significantly more appealing than any of the work he’d found previously, be it grave digging or pelt smuggling. He posted himself up at a pay phone and dialed the number of the Újpesti Torna Egylet training facility, asking for the team’s general manager.
UTE was a source of national pride, dominating its division over the decades. Ambrus, once again a man with little to lose, believed some teenage dabbling in the sport six years prior warranted a try out. “Hello, Comrade,” he began confidently, invoking an honorific that had fallen out of fashion in the lead up to Communism’s exit. “I’m Attila Ambrus from Transylvania. I’m a goalie and I’d like a tryout.” The voice on the other side paused, before answering, “we actually do need another goalie.”
Lacing up skates three sizes too large, Ambrus soon surprised team, proving himself to be even worse than they’d suspected. “Whatever this guy is doing,” the team’s captain told the manager, “it has nothing to do with hockey.” The strange, small Romanian transplant possessed intense passion and zero skill. The team voted him in unanimously. But even as Ambrus found additional income as the team janitor, the newly christened “Panther from Csík" still struggled to make ends meet.
Five years after smuggling himself into the country, Ambrus was desperate. The wheels had come off a deal that left him down $1,300 and without the corresponding fast track to Hungarian citizenship he’d been promised. He sketched a map of his local post office, where citizens stored cash and paid bills. It wasn’t a bank, but for most intents and purposes, it was close enough. He purchased a wig and fake gun from a Chinese flea market around the block, standing in front of his bedroom mirror practicing the moment of truth. A pair of too-large shoes would further mask his identity, should the local police employ Cinderella-like tactics in pursuit of the suspect. He stayed up light the night before, drinking glass after glass of whiskey to calm his nerves, finally waking up at 3:30PM, a mere 30 minutes before closing.
Ambrus arrived as an employee was closing for the day, asking in a panic whether she’d let him in to mail a letter to his girlfriend. When she refused, he jammed his foot in front of the door and entered the building, shouting “freeze!” as he’d done in the mirror the night before. He pulled out a Camel Cigarette duffel bag that was soon filled the equivalent of nearly $6,000 USD. Flushed with cash and the taste of success, he would execute an additional 27 robberies, primarily targeting banks, travel agents and more post offices.
He never injured anyone and was known to send flowers to tellers and wine bottles to the police. The ridiculous disguises remained a constant, and so, too, did the whiskey. Ambrus frequented bars prior to robberies in a continued bid to quell his nerves. And so, the legend of the Whiskey Robber grew, fueled, in part, by an ever-widening gambling addiction.
Gábor ç was the first to go down. Ambrus had recruited his teammate and son of legendary UTE coach George Gábor Orbán to assist with 13 robberies. Both men never showed up for the game that evening. As Ambrus sped toward the stadium, Orbán was in custody, having been nabbed fleeing the crime. A sports journalist listening to the radio at the top of the seats yelled out “Attila Ambrus is the Whiskey Robber!” as the first period drew to a close.
Ambrus escaped from prison one year later, fashioning a rope from electrical cords, shoelaces and bed sheets. He continued his robbery spree for the next three months, until police managed to track him down a second time. The remainder of Ambrus’ second stint was largely uneventful. He picked up pottery in prison, selling his creations in the years following his release.
The stadium would fly a flag in the folk hero’s honor long after his arrest.
Sources:
The Whiskey Robber by Julian Rubinstein
The Whiskey Robber talks! https://www.salon.com/2005/12/23/robber/
Whiskey Robber Attila Ambrus released from prison in Hungary after 12 years https://thehockeynews.com/news/whiskey-robber-attila-ambrus-released-from-prison-in-hungary-after-12-years