Clackety-clack--clackety-c-l-a-c-k... The cattle train in which I'm riding through the Bavarian countryside suddenly slows down. I wonder where we are, exactly, and why we're stopping here. I'm halfway dead from hunger. It's been that way for months: over a year, really. I'm 14 years old by now, I think. My given name is Istvan (Hungarian for "Stephen"). But everyone calls me by my nickname, Pista.

"wrrrmm..." One of the fighter planes makes a low pass.

I hug the floor as bullets trip through the wooden roof of our boxcar, cascading onto our helpless bodies like heavy, lethal raindrops.

Someone lying on top of me starts bleeding profusely. I feel warm blood dripping onto my jacket and the skin beneath my threadbare prison uniform. Next, I feel a sharp sting, and find myself frantically groping for my kneecap. I've just been hit right in the knee, and it hurts fiercely! I want to reach for and clutch at my damaged knee, thinking that it might east the pain. But I can't even move. I lie trapped beneath the weight of numerous others, lots of them probably dead by now.

I close my eyes again, drifting in and out of consciousness. My handsome older brother Andris smiles at me from heaven. I'd like to join him now. "No, Pista," Andris insists, silently. Firmly, my brother sends me away from him again. I'm sad. I want to be with Andris. I miss him so...

Asleep awake asleep awake...finally, I slip into a genuine slumber. As I drift off, my diary drops from my hand. I'll retrieve it later, I tell myself. I'm too sleepy to find it now amongst all the bodies. Besides, I can hardly move.

Opening my eyes, I squint hard against the light. A burning pain has installed itself firmly inside my eyelids. Somehow, I'm in a bright white room. White-clad women bustle around. Angels! Ah, I'm in heaven! But where are the wings of all these beautiful angels?

Now a doctor with a stethoscope snaked around his neck bends over me, peering, with blue-green eyes, into my stinging brown ones. My tired lids snap shut in protest. The doctor pries them back open.

"Hello, son." I recognize an American accent, speaking German.

"Where am I?"

"You're in Seeshaupt, Germany, outside Munich. This is an American hospital. I am Dr. Popper."

"Is the war over?"

"As of a few days ago."

"Who won?"

"The Allies."

"I'm free?"

"You're free, yes, but you're extremely weak and very sick. What's your name?"

"Istvan Nasser. I'm called Pista."

"How old are you, Pista?"

"Fourteen, I think."

"When were you born?"

"February 17, 1931."

"Yes, you are fourteen. This is May 13, 1945. Where are you from?"

"Budapest, Hungary."

"You've been talking in your sleep to Andris. Who is Andris?"

"My brother."

"Where is he?"

"In heaven. I saw him."

"When did you see him?"