This is a strange book to read. I am a great fan of Sandor Marai, but this is unlike other works of his I have read.It is perplexing because it is a work of fiction (the narrator is a woman in her mid twenties and therefore not Marai), but it has the testimonial weight of a memoir or a documentary (and therefore it is not very fictional). It is also highly poetical and subtle and delicate in its observations, and so cannot then be a documentary. And yet, as a vignette of a bloody episode in European history (a few hours during the liberation of Budapest by the Red Army from its Nazi occupants) it has the impact and value of a testimony. The plot is simple and other reviewers have left some summaries (albeit in Italian and Portuguese), and so there is no point in providing another one.I have withheld the fifth star because I wanted more.