Early in the morning my little son is wont
to lead me hither and then returns to the village, little mite as he is
the wife of the scrivener looks after him, and in the evening he comes
and fetches me home again. Whatever is given me by charitable wayfarers
I share with my poor hostess, who is poorer than any beggar. Yesterday
something happened. It was this. I was sitting outside there at the end
of the bridge and as I had not heard a human voice about me for a long
time and it was extremely hot, slumber weighed heavily upon me. I
struggled hard against it but it was too much for me. I was afraid that
if I fell across the road a cart might go over me. So I laid myself down
under the arch of the bridge. I knew the place well for I had often
sheltered there from the storm. Suddenly I was awakened by those
familiar footsteps. They passed across the bridge over my head. I will
take my oath that it was he. He stood still in the middle of the bridge.
Shortly afterwards I heard the sound of many more footsteps coming, some
from the left and some from the right. Men were coming in all directions
towards the bridge, and there in the middle of it they stood; I counted
them--there were four and twenty of them."
Szilard now began to listen attentively.
"Then he spoke. Oh, even if I had had the light of both my eyes, I could
not have seen him so plainly before me as I saw him in my blindness when
I heard him speak.
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