Here in Budapest we found relative safety, but our lives hung on the thread of maintaining our gentile facade
Hunger devours us from the inside out, shriveling our intestines. Cold brutalizes our weak bones, attacking us like the Russians swarming into the city.
Russians are better than Germans and Hungarian Nazis, aren’t they? This is what we’ve been dreaming of for so long, waiting and waiting for the Russians to come. But they vent their fury on resistant Nazi Budapest by preventing any food or coal from entering the city.
The windows have blown out from the aerial bombing.
It is January.
We cover the windows with bedsheets and nail them down. The sheets billow as the wind screams. We wear all we can and huddle together for warmth. We cannot cook the meager food we have, for there is no fire.
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