CHAPTER ONENo-man’s Land: 1956
“Remember,” Attila’s father said, “when the big torch in the sky lights up, you fall down, hit the ground. Everybody falls down. A pocket full of posy, we all fall down. Stay down until you’re told to get up. This is no joking matter. You must lie still, very still until you’re told to get up.” Árpád Nagy finished smearing black shoe polish all over his son’s cheeks, nose, chin, ears, behind the ears, everywhere except the eyes.
Attila could barely see in the dark of the tarpaulin covered truck. His father was a black smudge. The boy’s pocket bulged not with posy but with a toy horn he insisted on taking along so he wouldn’t whimper. He was not used to being on a truck, not for this long, not at these neck-breaking speeds, and not at these hours, way past a
