There
was a bridge at Andau, and if a Hungarian could reach that bridge, he was
nearly free.
It
wasn’t much, as bridges go: not wide enough for a car nor sturdy enough to bear
a motorcycle. It was a footbridge made
of rickety boards with a handrailing which little children could not quite
reach.
It
wasn’t actually in Andau, nor even near it, yet it was known throughout Hungary
as “the bridge of Andau,” and many thousands of refugees, coming from all parts
of Hungary, headed for it. Fleeing the
Russians, with only a paper bag, or with nothing, they headed for this
insignificant bridge and for freedom.
(from The Bridge
at Andau by James A. Michener)
.
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