When I crossed from Zemun to Belgrade in February 1942, it was Uncle Laslo, a Hungarian, who took me across. He had an Ausweis — a German pass — because he worked for the Germans in Belgrade. We crossed beneath the demolished bridge. The Sava was frozen. The winter of 1942 was so severe that, they said, the ice was as much as a metre thick. Vehicles drove across it.
When we had crossed the river, he said to me: “You know where to go now,” and left for work.
But I didn’t know. I stood there, poorly dressed, in knee-high socks, freezing in the cold in a short jacket, staring at the Sava — but at a frozen Sava, because I couldn’t even see the water. And then, standing there, I remembered and began to make a connection...
