PROLOGUE
HE stood on the upper deck of a steamer which was leaving Hungary's only seaport. The houses on the hillsides, the buildings along the strand, were growing smaller and smaller; the sunlight lit them cheerfully as though to cast a memory of comfort. Gulls fluttered between the ship and the waiting specks of men and women on the dock. He saw one of the crew below waving a greasy dish towel from a porthole to the group of children seated on the edge of the dock. Officers of the ship were hurrying about in the first energy of accomplished departure.
The deck steward brought him the mid-afternoon lunch, but he refused it, for he was watching the steerage passengers, who stood unmoved, with their eyes on the shores of Hungary. They were massed in silence and made no sound as the picture grew more and more blurred. He knew what was in their hearts, for it was in his. They might have, however, the fear of never seeing Hungary again; he had the fear that he might. Not one sound came up from the hundreds standing there to show whether it was the courage of adventure or a reckless despair which had brought them to the great ship sailing for an unknown land. There was not a sound to indicate whether hope or desperation was in their hearts. It was too late now to turn back. Without volition they were being carried into their future.
3
