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Józsi, because when my father died our grandfather Divék — Mother's father — made him go and live with him. He spent more time in Csabadul than with us in Nádori. My mother's remaining family live there to this day.
    "When they took me out of school the headmaster made a terrible fuss. He said it was a dreadful shame, an utter waste. Stepfather told him that anyone who stuck his nose into another family's business was a troublemaker, and he'd better not try to turn me against the idea or he'd bash his head in. He'd married a widow with four children, and he might be called up at any moment: the woman couldn't cope with the work on her own. Did he think he was pleased that I'd also have to work? What was he supposed to do? He had no-one to help in the workshop, or, for that matter, on the land. There was a constant demand for farm produce, but now there wasn't even enough for the animals. Well, he said his piece to the headmaster and set me to work. He wasn't evil — you mustn't think that — just frightened. You must have seen what people are like, what they're capable of when they're afraid. I don't bear him any grudges, though he beat me often enough, because at first I wasn't much good. We had some land, but until then it had never been any concern of mine. I'd gone out to play, not to work. All the time, my stepfather was shaking and swearing, because call-up letters were flying around like birds.
    "One evening, after I'd put the twins to bed and the house was at last quiet — Józsi was no longer at home but with my grandfather — Mother told him not to keep speaking of his fears because it would make them come true. In his terror he gabbled away: he feared the worst because he'd dreamed that if he was called up he would never see us again. And he didn't. He was the first conscript from Nádori to be killed.
    "Mother had no idea where to begin with the workshop. There was a ban on the sale of wood, so there was no building going on and the men had disappeared. But in the early days she thought we'd be able to get by without a man — she was a farmer's daughter, she understood the land, somehow she would manage on her own. You should have seen how she struggled. I did all I possibly could to help — I wasn't a stupid child — but we were going nowhere. At nine years old I cooked for everyone and looked after the twins. When the news came of my stepfather's death I realised she truly had loved him. Now she was in mourning for two men, my father and my stepfather, though my stepfather didn't even have a grave. She started to find life unbearable. Don't think it's only your sort who have feelings.
    "She was weak, helpless, and very young. One day, when the little ones were being particularly difficult, something got into me too. I mean, I was still a child myself. She had hit me because I had spent my time playing instead of doing the chores she had given me, and I thought, 'I'll run away. I'll go and be with Józsi in Csabadul. Grandfather always looks after him so well. Even if he does give him things to do, it's not very much.' And I would take the twins with me. Mother could do what she liked, but we were clearing off. I could get there on foot, I thought. I knew which way it was; it was only the next village, after all.
    "So off we went, early one fine morning, all three of us, me with a blond child on either hand. But we'd got only as far as the threshing yard when the twins wanted to sit down and eat, and then they demanded water. So I ran to the farmyard well with the tin mug I always wore on a string round my neck. I had found that small children are always wanting to drink, and I never went out without the mug, and certainly not if it was any distance. The well was close by, but not that close: what does a child know about near and far? Just as I got there a storm began. I'd never seen one break so quickly; we'd never had such thunder, or such a hurricane, in our part of the country. In seconds the sky