CHAPTER THIRTEEN
György lived in one of the decaying mansions along Mád’s main street. We’d passed by it on our way through town, but the bulk of the property was concealed behind a fortress-like wall constructed of limestone blocks and I’d only gotten a peek through the metal gate. During the war, the house had been occupied by the German army, and then by the Russians. The downstairs rooms had evidently been used as barracks and in the cold winter of ’44, nearly everything had been burned: furniture, drapes, doors. The wainscoting had been ripped from the walls, floor boards pried up, window molding stripped away, and twelve years later the rooms remained in this ravaged condition. Only the kitchen had come through unscathed. In return for keeping the soldiers fed, the family’s cook had
