Poetic, lyrical historical fantasy with seamlessly interwoven diverse representation, set amidst the 1956 Hungarian Revolution.
The main characters:
Csilla (star in Hungarian, chee-lah) is Jewish, Tamás is a university student revolutionary, Azriel is an angel of death.
The story revolves around Csilla’s and Azriel’s perspectives and is told in third person. It’s captivating, infused with hope, and beautifully haunting. The author’s writing is magical and gorgeous in its quiet beauty.
Rep: Jewish main character, queer (gay, poly)
This was the truth of Budapest, the river turned silver, the girl with the moon in her hair, the boy with the city in his eyes, the boy with death in his hands.
This river was their pillar of fire, their way through the wilderness. their cloud by day and light by night. She went to the edge and lay down on her stomach, reaching out with her hand.
Ehyeh asher ehveh, she thought to the river. I will return to you.
I will return to you.
I will return to you.
And the river opened to her.
Water has a long memory, and though the river was there before the street and will be there long after, the river holds stories in its silt, carries them far away from where they began.
Before the unsettling quiet blanketed this part of the city, she was just a girl, skipping like a little brook. Her mother, who called for her to walk like a lady. Her father, who chastised her mother for calling for her to walk like a lady. He indulged the girl. The mother curbed her. She needed both. Like a river herself, the girl needed both the rains of her father to nourish her and the banks of her mother to guide her.
It is a river. That is what rivers do. They give.
But the people must remember that they give.
Forgetting. That is what people do.
And remembering.
Well. That's what rivers do.
This is how you build a golem. You believe, you know, you hope, you despair, you determine, you learn, you create. You play God. You build a myth of a person
from the instructions that a myth of a person left for you.
You let go.
There is a river that cuts through the heart of Budapest. It is a street for the magic. But here, they are the magic in the streets. They are the defiance and the rebellion, the hope and the dream, the future and the past, the Party and the People, the forgiveness and the apology. They are all the mistakes this country's ever made and all the potential it's ever had. They are the loved and the hated. The believers and unbelievers. They are the survivors and the victims.
There is a city, and through the middle of the city, there is a river, and running parallel to the river, there is a street. It's crooked like a bent elbow, an outstretched arm. Water has a long memory, and though the river was there before the street, and will be there long after, the river loves the stories the street carries to it, cradles the stories in its silt, and ferries them far away from where they began. The river is a historian, a keeper of stories. This is a story in its silt. Sometimes, though it is very rare, the river runs over its banks twice in a lifetime.