In Lazlo’s Revenge, Max sets out on an adventure throughout Europe to uncover her parents’ pasts and see the very places where they survived on their odyssey to escape danger and death. Stories of romance, war, and traumas are unearthed as she traces their footsteps back to the major sites of World Wars I and II.
During her journey, Max becomes fascinated by the people who influenced her parents' lives. She follows the life and times of Lazlo Floznik, the man who saved her parents and helped them escape catastrophe in Europe by seeking out refuge beyond the reach of the security forces that sought to imprison them. The years leading up to World War I, the time between the wars, and the experiences of World War II reveal their secrets as Max explores her family roots, in this deeply emotional story tied together by Lazlo’s intense story of love, and that of his father, Miklos, before him.
Summary
Excerpt – Chapter 1: Bukovina
August
1914
Czernovitz,
Bukovina
Austro-Hungarian
Empire
Miklos
Floznik
I approached the first houses, gasping for
breath, horrified to see the destruction being wrought by round upon round of
artillery fusillades. There was no cover to be found. Dazed, I continued
running, desperately trying to save myself. I passed perhaps a dozen or more
homes laid nearly flat. Mutilated bodies lying all about and the wounded
wailing like nothing I had ever heard. As I neared the outskirts of the city,
the shelling began again as suddenly as it had stopped. Cannonade pounded in
the distance. The earth trembled ferociously at my feet. Turning a corner
behind what still stood of the only remaining wall of a large stone building,
another round of explosions pounded the city as I leaped down into a
now-exposed basement filled with debris from the collapsed upper floors—only
one wall and half another standing. Hope drained from me. Each deafening blast
shook my senses, sending shards of glass and cracking timbers high into the air
with a sickening burst.
Darkness fell quickly in the gloomy gray of dark
as I slipped over a broken wall of stones and fell into the pit of the
decimated structure. I pushed tightly into a corner of what was once someone’s
home, protected from the drenching rain by a small portion of what remained of
a badly damaged wall hanging precariously overhead—a welcome but uncertain
shelter in the midst of chaos. I pushed tightly back against the cold stone
walls on either side, finding as much safety as possible against a new round of
explosions that pounded above and around. Each blast shook the skeletal rubble
of the house, wrenching stone and wood from tenuous perches and sending more
flying debris into the desolate hole that would be their final resting place .
. . and perhaps mine as well. I was trapped—I couldn’t move for fear of being
crushed in that dreadful place or being shelled to death outside. I pulled my
knees to my chin…all I could think to do was pray…and as I prayed…tears came
but did not assuage my fear.
Mercifully, with the darkness, silence also
descended—even warriors need their rest. Only screams of the wounded and
desperate pleas of survivors who searched frantically through the rubble for
lost loved ones pierced the cold, wet, bleak night. Soon, darkness also
shrouded them in silence, all but the
woeful cries of the dying calling out miserably in their hopeless plight—my
hopelessness too, I thought. In my corner hideaway, I could see nothing but the
black of night illuminated only by the flickering dance of fires burning what
remained. I knew without seeing that only rubble lay before me, and there was
no hope to be found.
Bombardment of the trenches and the city paved
the way for the Russian ground troops, armored cars pulling cannons, and the
dreaded Cossack horsemen. I knew they would come—surely, by morning they would
come. Everything in their path would be destroyed, everyone who resisted would
be killed, and all others would be taken prisoner. There was no doubt. It was
their way— what Colonel Eduard Fischer and the Hungarian Army had come to
Bukovina to prevent, what I bravely thought we could accomplish was lost. I had
not even seen a Russian, but I knew there was no hope of saving anyone. The
Kingdom of Bukovina was doomed, and surely none of Austria-Hungary would be
safe. With the Hungarian Army defeated and the stronghold city of Czernovitz
overrun, no one remained to save us. Even Colonel Fischer might be dead,
leaving no leader to stand boldly and hold the remnant together.
In the barren darkness, my youthful excitement as
a proud Hungarian soldier on a mission to save the Kingdom of Bukovina, and
ultimately the empire, suddenly struck me as a foolish notion. Wearing my
uniform once made me very proud, but now I was only frightened and angry. My
comrades and I were assured that victory would quickly prevail, but war and
death tragically became very real, fearful, foreboding, and final. I questioned
myself: Was I a coward to run? Do I
really know what bravery is? Do I really know what all these good people are
dying for? Do I know what this war is all about? Do I even care about Jews?
After all, these people in Bukovina are Jews, many of them. Are they worth the
death of so many fresh, hopeful young Hungarian and Austrian men? Are they
worth my life?
My head swirled with doubts. My heart ached for
answers I didn’t have. Life became too real, too fast. My tortured mind flashed
back to the wretched face of the too-young boy, dead in the trench, and the
unknown soldier whose bloated corpse had lifted my escape. I sat in my wretched
corner and questioned why I had come to such a place—why anyone would engage in
such brutality.
Was
this worth it…for them…for us…for anyone?
After being drenched for nearly all of three
days, the rain finally stopped. The choking smell of charred remains of
buildings, gunpowder, and the rotting dead hung heavily in the air. I wished
for the rain again, to dilute the ghastly stench. Time slipped slowly by. The
dying must have passed through death’s mercy in the eerie silence and the
wounded attended to, for as I listened—no sound. Strange, I thought, that in
the midst of all this evil, there should be silence. I knew it could not last.
Fear grabbed my throat again. My impulse was to get up and go, take action, do
something, anything, but my mind held me back—there was nowhere to go, no
escape, no hope. The Russian Cossacks would be here by morning—nothing to do
but hide and wait, then fight to my death, to salvage whatever honor there
might be in resisting.
Below the woeful mute of night, I crouched and
cowered. Shivering in fear, my mind drifted back to happier days in Budapest
when, as a young boy, I…
Just
then!
Something fell on the far side of the rubble,
sounding as if it came from behind the largest pile of debris—perhaps another
dislodged stone. I leaned forward to hear and peered vainly into the darkness
as my heart leaped in my chest and immense fear gripped me. The worst of my
thoughts seized me—the Russians were
coming in the night and rooting out survivors! Desperate, I slowly reached
to my side, and silently drew out my pistol. Another sound. Someone was moving, and not more than ten meters
from me.
I raised my pistol and aimed in the direction of
the sounds, I was prepared to shoot anything on sight, at any slight
movement—my hands trembled against the trigger. A faint light appeared,
flickering behind the rubble, like the light of a small candle casting a very
large, daunting shadow around me, barely visible as it slowly danced in the
eerie candlelight, nearly scaring the life out of me as my finger tightened on
the cold trigger.
Crying—quiet, sorrowful weeping—as if the person
hidden by the pile of debris knew she had to be very quiet but could not help
herself…clearly a woman, perhaps a very
young woman, maybe just a girl. I was still…very still…and listened for
perhaps fifteen or even twenty minutes, until the light wavered and died. The
soft whimpering continued for a long, long time in the fearful dark that kept
me huddled closely against the walls of my corner as though I wished to
disappear in its grasp. I would wait. By the dim light of morning, I would see
who my companion in that hellacious hole might be. Though I resisted, sometime
later I dozed, exhausted, dreamily wishing for the safety of my home in
Budapest.
I woke to the constant patter of a dreary rain as
the breaking dawn cast a ghastly glow over the destruction strewn around and
about me. My eyes fixed toward the sound and the light of a few hours earlier;
I listened but…only quiet and stillness…no sound but the steady falling rain.
Posts
Sounds like an interesting account of the wars.
Meredith -- meredithfl at gmail dot com