CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sárvár, Hungary
November 4, 1956
Zoltán said, “I could have told you it would end like this.”
“We risked our lives trying to get you out of Budapest,” said Gray. “If you had any gratitude, you’d thank us.”
Countless hours spent in the pitch black, four of us sharing a two-man cell, and tempers were fraying. I couldn’t stop thinking about the piglets’ deaths. The casual cruelty of the act was somehow more upsetting than Magda’s cold-blooded murder of Frankie. Even József had been killed for a reason, whereas the Soviet officer had shot Princess and Karamazov for no reason whatsoever, simply because he could. And yet he’d chosen to be merciful toward György and Magda when he might just have easily shot them—and with justification. This is what it meant, I realized, to wi
