The moon was fullish, which wasn’t very encouraging. But, probably because of the cold, they could see the huge light of fires where shadowy sentinels of unknown nationality were gathered, beacons which drew them away. Gyuri and Kurucz moved very unhurriedly, very carefully, but still tripped up and stumbled a lot on a surprisingly uneven border. They were especially circumspect when they reached an open strip which was presumably the former minefield. Although his feet had become very uncommunicative, somehow Gyuri suddenly felt there was something unfield-like under his right foot. He seized up completely.

Eventually, in a tiptoeing whisper, Kurucz, anxiety and anger split fifty-fifty, asked ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I think I just trod on a mine.’ Gyuri had deduced by the thin light that he was standing on what resembled an unearthed mine, finally, he walked on, surmising that if the mine was going to explode it would have already done so. Soviet rubbish.

They found a barn. It was no warmer than outside, but it at least gave them the possibility of believing it was. Gyuri spent a few hours in attempted sleep, quivering with cold and misery. As soon as there was a suspicion of dawn, he went out to piss. He could hardly find his dick, it had been so reduced by the cold.

‘Right. Let’s find somewhere warm,’ said Kurucz as soon as there was enough light to navigate by. Looking back, Gyuri could see that they were out, because of a faraway row of guard-towers behind them. He was out. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he started to cry. He walked half backwards, as best he could, so that Kurucz wouldn’t see.

Tears, in teams, abseiled down his face.

Tibor Fischer