When I reached my room I breathed more freely. The lamp was alight, so at least I was spared the addition of more darkness to that already in my heart. From the covered lamp a ray like that of a thief’s lantern fell on the table. I sat down in front of it and rested my head in my hands, a dull weariness behind my brow. It was some time before I overcame this lassitude, and then four words formed themselves on my lips: ‘The Russians are coming....’ The past was stirred, and I remembered the day when I had first heard those words.... Hungary did not want war. When it came she faced it honourably, as she had always done for a thousand years.... In their black Sunday best peasants went through the town. The heels of their high boots resounded sharply on the pavement.... Young women in bright petticoats, with tears in their eyes, walked hand in hand with their sweethearts, from whom they were about to be parted; old women in shawls, with their handsome sons. Then—the Russians are coming!... That was all that was said. But those four words foretold an immense upheaval, coming from the North. The greater half of Europe, part of mysterious dark Asia, moved from their ancient abodes and with a sea of guns and rifles rushed on towards the Carpathians to devour Europe. They poured like an avalanche over the mountain passes, while Humanity held its breath. Such a battle of peoples had never been before. Years went by. On the Russian fields and swamps, along the Volga and the Don, from the Urals to the Caucasus, on the endless plains of Asia, the nations that had risen in arms were bleeding to death. The empire of the White Czar had bled to death, and that which was left of it became Red, dyed in its own blood.... Summer had come many times since the tragic summer of 1914 when the first boys went who never came back again. Dear features now still in death, playmates of my childhood, dead friends of my youth. At the foot of Lublin, on the fields of Sanatova, in the Dukla Pass, among the Polish swamps, in Serbian land, at the Asiago, everywhere flowed blood which was akin to mine. Dead shoots of my ancestral tree! And as you went, so did others too, from year to year, without reprieve. Then the call came to the school-rooms and to the sunny corridors where the aged basked, resting before the eternal rest, from the labours of life. There was practically not a man nor a youth left in the villages. The black soil was tilled by women, and women gathered the harvest.