Sister Ágnes unfastened the canvas at the rear. She told us we were at a safe house. It was alright to get down.
We filed into a modest peasant house in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, Mustache knew the people here. An old man and his wife received us. The woman brought out some pogácsa, ham and a bottle of pálinka. The soldier who did not let my aunt smoke offered her a cigarette. She nodded gratefully.
We sat around a table, poring over a map of the border area. Sister Ágnes drew an x to indicate where we were now and how far we were from the border. Maybe twenty kilometers. On these roads it meant another half hour of driving. She’d let us out near no-man’s land, a stretch of about seven kilometers that was neither Hungary nor Austria. A canal on the map wound its way to the Austri
