The bravery of this man. It's near impossible to comprehend how he was able to devote his life to the betterment of his beloved country and suffer such horrors as compensation. He didn't even make it to the camps, you know. He didn't need to in order to endure the worst of the atrocities that WWII had to offer to mankind. And then he was able to recount it in the most minute detail, but wasn't able to finish writing it. The irony of it all is sickening. People should be grateful that he went through such trials with his mind intact, as it is hard to think of a person more fitting for the task of descending into hell and coming out of it to tell the tale.

It never stopped, either. Months home from grave-digging in Ukraine, he's then thrust into prison, gets out and leaves the country, and then is barely recovered from his experiences when he makes the decision to go back to Hungary, and subsequently its ghettos. To put it simply, the guy could never catch a break. And yet he kept going, despite the failure of his country, despite the failure of his people, despite the failure of mankind to give him the life that his efforts should have brought him. And in the process he brought us this memoir that exemplifies the fact that reality is stranger than fiction, and even the most fantastical story pales in comparison to the truths of what humans are really capable of. Horrifically evil, infuriatingly neutral, altruistically beautiful. All are showcased in the author's recounting of the fate he suffered during one of the worst times of the history of the world.