By Kenneth Munson
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We were expecting you at lunch. ” We set off. ” The dining room had changed. All the usual convivial noise, larking about, and tittering had ceased. The guests had gathered at separate tables according to their nationalities. Groups which had previously spread themselves around now clustered together. Sereghy and his wife had come over to join us. Czechs, Serbs, Croats, Germans—all sat apart. People leaned in together over the tables and discussed events with animated gestures and low voices. As we entered, I was met with searching looks from the members of our group.
Write every day. The post office has issued new field postcards; they give them out free. We want to know where you are every single day. ” I promised to do everything they asked. Then I started to pack. I picked up objects that were familiar to me, to which I had grown accustomed, but I scarcely looked at them now. I had had enough of goodbyes. But as I lay in my bed, the terror that this might be my last night of home flooded over me. The next day, I rose so that we would have no more than a half hour together before I had to leave.
My mother inclined her head and was solemn. Right, time I got going. The street was full of hurrying people. I walked down Dohány Street; my studio was in the Lajos Ernst building at the corner of Miksa Street. With the studio was a sitting room, hall, bathroom and kitchen, but I used only the studio.  I didn’t want to see any of them. They didn’t even need to know that I had been called up. I sat down at the drawing table, where I had done so many illustrations for Dörmögő Dömötör and all kinds of other things.