From the outside, the building didn’t look any worse for wear. The inside was another story. The lobby looked like it was bombed. A huge piece of the ceiling was gone so you could see the floor above it, and a fancy crystal chandelier dangle by a wire. We climbed over knee-high rubble to get to Dr. Leocky.
Her husband Attila was with her. “Cheetah’s here,” I heard the doctor tell Michelangelo as we came near. The giant cement rafter seemed to cut Michelangelo in half. He was buried from the waist down and drenched in sweat. He spoke with great difficulty. He had something urgent he wanted to tell me. I held his hand as he groped for words. “I don’t have anyone,” he said. “My family. My mother and father. They died in the camps. My sister survived. She lives in Miami. In America. She write
