In an over-crowded hospital ward in the sweltering summer of July 1945, Miklos is propped up against a pillow. He is writing a letter of hope. It doesn’t matter that Miklos is bruised and battered, that his skin shares the same colour as a greying pile of ash, or that the doctor told him "You have six months to live". Because, now, for the first time since the war, he feels truly alive. Miklos is thinking of things far more important than his health. He is thinking that he would like to find a wife...He