This shortish novel was written a little before Péter Nádas’ A Book of Memories and shares with it a dearth of paragraphs, a sometimes confusing narrative structure, and some beautiful writing.

In the early part of the book we gradually work out that the narrator is a small boy, who enjoys acting out the various roles in the traditional nuclear family with the kids next door, to make up for his own lack of parents. His mother appears to be dead and his father is caught up in some mysterious job, probably undercover counter-intelligence work, from which he rarely returns home, and then only for a quick bath and an instant dry-clean of his evil-smelling clothes. The boy is living with his paternal grandparents, though their deaths will be referred to at intervals, as will his father’s being branded a traitor.

The initial confusion for the reader stems from the coexistence of past and present in this child’s eye view. It is simultaneously winter, with snow on the ground, and summer, with butterflies and blossoming trees. His dog is simultaneously dead from poisoning and alive, baring its teeth and wagging its tail. His grandfather is lying dead on the bed one minute, undisturbed by flies alighting on his eyelids, and the next minute busy telling the boy stories to divert him from the harsh realities of 1950s Hungary, a time of Stalinist repression, and to help him discover who he is.

We slowly piece together the details of the boy’s circumscribed life: the carp flopping about in the kitchen sink before being killed for supper; the secret door at the back of the bathroom cupboard; the mulberry tree in the garden, though his real and imagined worlds constantly seem to overlap. Grandmother offers him a few legends drawn from her rural girlhood. And Father, on one of his furtive visits, contributes an enigmatic story about a pair of boots. But the novel really takes off when, in the attic, out of earshot of Grandmother, Grandfather weaves a wondrous web of stories about their ancestors. A hypnotic roll call, related in lyrical, often biblical language, of the generations of Jewish forebears travelling from the Holy Land to Rome, ‘Hispania’ and, in due course, Budapest, transports the child (and the reader) into the world of mythology and folklore, which has been passed on from grandfather to grandson since the days of Aaron, brother of Moses. The tales are laced with comedy and told at a cracking pace that is spellbinding.

In the last few pages, after the death of his grandmother, the boy is put into an institution for the children of those deemed to have betrayed the State — as the author was sent to an orphanage after the death of his parents. A curious place that seems to offer a mixture of harshness — silent weekends and naked runs to physical training sessions — and unexpected gentleness, it becomes maybe some sort of distorted version of a family unit, or a symbol of the break-up of natural family allegiances under a totalitarian regime.

The next morning Rufus may again wear his fancy clothes. Today is the fifteenth of Nisan, that day. On the second day of Pesach let every man who harvests his own land bring a sheaf of first fruits for a temple offering! Rufus takes the sickle, Alexander brings the sheaf, and stepping smartly in front of them is their father, who is much shorter than they. Their land is outside the city, beyond the Northern Gate. Now they’re coming back. Simon is silent, his sons are not talking either. The descent is steep from the bald rocky hilltop which, for this reason, people call Golgotha. In the hazy light past the valley of Kidron the Mount of Olives is shimmering. They keep going in silence even when they notice that something is happening down there, near the gate. The over-heated morning light melts the bodies pouring out of the stone gate into one huge mass; the throng is flowing upward, the dark maw of the gate thrusting the waves of humanity into the light, into clouds of dust. Soldiers’ armour, tips of lances sparkle in the sun. Simon stops, his sons stop. They’re still far away, but they’re defenceless. Simon gestures and they move to the side of the road and wait, motionless. Simon glances at Rufus. He’s thinking about this road being the one on which his ancestors were led away into captivity. Simon does not love this son, even his reputedly ugly daughters he loves more, still he’d like to lighten Rufus’ fate. To be so beautiful is simply senseless and difficult. The secret reports have filled him with trepidation. When Rufus was born — the second one’s a boy too ! — Simon had laughed, he was so happy; it was a boy, his head covered with long red hair. That’s why they called him Rufus, which means ruddy-headed. But Rufus’ hair, as if rebelling even against its own name, has turned black. 116-7