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240 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2010
"Dear Nora, Dear Erzsébet, Dear Lili, Dear Zsuzsa, Dear Sára, Dear Seréna, Dear Ágnes, Dear Giza, Dear Baba, Dear Katalin, Dear Judit, Dear Gabriella… You are probably used to strangers chatting you up when you speak Hungarian, for no better reason than they are Hungarian too. We men can be so bad-mannered. For example, I addressed you by your first name on the pretext that we grew up in the same town. I don’t know whether you already know me from Debrecen."
"He couldn’t help himself. He took great joy in the process of writing; it helped him understand things, and he was genuinely curious about the lives of these girls."
My father, Miklós, sailed to Sweden on a rainy summer’s day three weeks after the Second World War ended. An angry north wind lashed the Baltic Sea into a three-metre swell, and he lay on the lower deck while the ship plunged and bucked. Around him, passengers clung desperately to their straw mattresses.
They had been at sea for less than an hour when Miklós was taken ill. He began to cough up bloody foam, and then he started to wheeze so badly that he almost drowned out the waves pounding the hull. He was one of the more serious cases, parked in the front row right next to the swing door. Two sailors picked up his skeletal body and carried him into a nearby cabin.
The doctor didn’t hesitate. There was no time for painkillers. Relying on luck to hit the right spot between two ribs, he stuck a large needle into my father’s chest. Half a litre of fluid drained from his lungs. When the aspirator arrived, the doctor swapped the needle for a plastic tube and siphoned off another litre and a half of mucus.
Miklós felt better. (p. 2)