I was born in Budapest in 1933, and for the first twenty-three years of my life, Hungary was the center of everything I knew.

My father was a doctor and my mother was a librarian. My father died in World War II, leaving my mother to raise me as an only child. I grew up with my mother and grandmother, and because there were only a few of us, the relationships within our family were especially close.

My mother was a remarkable woman.

She eventually became responsible for the reference library at Nepszava, one of the three largest daily newspapers in Hungary. Through her work, she had access to Western newspapers and information that many ordinary Hungarians did not have. She followed events carefully and understood much more about what was happening in Hungary, Europe and the world than most people around us.

But what I remember most about her was not simply that she was well informed. She was wise.

Our relationship was unusually intellectual for a mother and son. We talked about ideas. We discussed politics and people. We could disagree and still understand each other. Some of my friends would even come to our home just to speak with her. They sometimes felt that my mother understood them better than their own mothers did.

Looking back, I realize how important that relationship was.

It certainly became important in the fall of 1956.