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Morgan sat on the steps of the synagogue, watching as a team from the local community swept up the broken glass and picked up the piles of rubbish.
The Eröszak party was in disarray and the relic returned to the Basilica, so a tentative calm had descended on the city. A woman sang softly as she worked, a melody that Morgan recognized as a tune her father used to hum. It was a song of hope and resurrection that Jews had sung as they recovered from disaster in their long history. There was great pride in the woman’s cleaning, an attitude of prayer in her work, as if God saw her service.
Zoltan came out from the doors behind her, his body stiff and arm in a sling.
“Many Hungarian Jews have fled the country, but these people won’t leave,” he said. “This is their home and mine, despite i
