Fever at dawn a a novel

My father, Miklós, sailed to Sweden on a rainy summer's day three weeks after the Second World War ended. He was twenty-five years old. An angry north wind lashed the Baltic Sea into a three-metre swell. He was lying on the lower deck while the ship plunged and bucked. Around him passengers clung desperately to their straw mattresses.

They had been at sea for less than an hour when Miklós was taken ill. He began to cough up bloody foam, and then he started to wheeze so loudly that he almost drowned out the waves pounding the hull. He was one of the more serious cases, parked in the first row right next to the swing door. Two sailors picked up his skeletal body and carried him into a nearby cabin.

The doctor didn't hesitate. There was no time for painkillers. Relying on luck to hit the right spot between two ribs, he stuck a large needle into my father's chest. Half a litre of fluid drained from his lungs. When the aspirator arrived, the doctor swapped the needle for a plastic tube and siphoned off another litre and a half of mucus.

Miklós felt better.

When the captain learnt that the doctor had saved a passenger's life, he granted the sick man a special favour: he had him wrapped in a thick blanket and taken out to sit on deck. Heavy clouds were gathering over the granite water. The captain, impeccable in his uniform, stood beside Miklós's deckchair.

"Do you speak German?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Congratulations on your survival."

In different circumstances, this conversation might have led somewhere. But Miklós was in no state to chat. It was all he could do to acknowledge the situation.

"I'm alive."

Excerpted from Fever at Dawn by Péter Gárdos All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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