Uncle Arthúr smiled. All of my father’s predictions had been wrong over the years.
“I am first a Christian, then a Hungarian!” my father declared. “And that’s how I’m raising my boys.” He squinted toward me and my brother. I didn’t know about my brother but I had pretty good eye contact with my shoes.
“Then they’re in trouble,” I heard my uncle reply. I looked up. My uncle was stabbing his own chest with his thumb: “I’m a man first and foremost.” He punctuated his last sentence by weighing his balls.
There was a loud knock on the door.
We looked at one another without saying a word. It was so quiet we could hear the silk sound of the running tape.
The door opened.
It was Endre Szabó. He was s**t-faced drunk. “Merry f*****g Christmas.”
All through Christmas break, I punched in like c
