I peeked in at the baby, bundled up in a snowsuit beneath a pink crocheted blanket. “Hello, Erzsébet,” I whispered. She turned her head and regarded me with serious interest, her small round face a study in concentration.
“Her first American,” said Villi, smiling fondly at his wife. The love in his soft brown eyes, the hopefulness in his voice as he imagined a future in which his daughter would grow up to meet more Americans, made me ashamed. Villi and Ilona assumed we’d come to share their country’s jubilation at having thrown off the Soviet yoke, and here we were, me in my expensive coat, gawking like tourists at the frenzied activity on the square while making plans to get out of Hungary as soon as possible. I wanted to urge the couple to leave too; America would do nothing to save the
