Isaac hadn’t read any of the five novels that his wife, Sarah, had written during the course of their marriage. He hadn’t read the two that preceded it, either.
Sarah didn’t mind at all. She was a celebrated novelist who had been shortlisted for prestigious awards and Isaac had told her since the beginning that he only read to learn.
It occurred to Sarah that she might try to write something for Isaac; something edifying to put on his bedside table, beside Arendt, Adorno and Hobsbawm.
She thought it might begin in Hungary, in 1956, on the eve of revolution….