There was a bridge at Andau, and if a Hungarian could reach that bridge, he was nearly free.
It wasn’t much, as bridges go: not wide enough for a car nor sturdy enough to bear a motorcycle. It was a footbridge made of rickety boards with a handrailing which little children could not quite reach.
It wasn’t actually in Andau, nor even near it, yet it was known throughout Hungary as “the bridge of Andau”
There is great unexpected irony throughout the book with the biggest example being outlined here. The title bridge isn’t located where the title itself indicates. That would be enough if the bridge itself were some fantastic example of architectural construction that practically defined it as being worthy of possession during battle. But it turns out that is not the case, either. And then there is the irony that this quote seems almost certain to be the opening lines of the book. Or, at least, very near the opening lines. Or, at least, on the opening pages. Or, at least, definitely somewhere in the opening chapter. And yet the place the reader is when these lines are finally reached is the opening of Chapter 9. Considering that this is not one of Michener’s famous epic books with a weight that features larger numbers than its price, this means that these lines—which absolutely have the feeling of introductory text—do not appear until almost the end of the book.
In this book I propose to tell the story of a terror so complete as to be deadening to the senses. I shall have to relate the details of a planned bestiality that is revolting to the human mind, but I do so in order to remind myself and free men everywhere that there is no hope for any nation or group that allows itself to be swept into the orbit of international communism. There can be only one outcome: terror and the loss of every freedom.
One of the most startling quotes from the book occurs before the storytelling technically even begins. In his Foreword to the book, Michener steps outside the conventional role of narrator which he adopts for the narrative itself to present a portrait of what is coming. From the language it is clear enough to tell that Michener was moved very deeply on an emotional level in reporting this story. In cultivating his delineation of intent and purpose for this book, Michener masterfully constructs expectations with dramatic foreshadowing. While there is certainly a huge chunk of reading public out there that never even bothers reading prefatory material such as this, those who make a habit of it as part of their perusal process would have a hard time walking away from this Foreword without the urge to, well, plow forward.
On Tuesday evening, October 23, 1956—a day which the world will be slow to forget—a boy of eighteen interrupted his work on the early-evening shift and entered the foreman’s office in the locomotive factory on Kobanyai Street in the Hungarian capital of Budapest.
And here, finally, we get to the actually opening line of the narrative. It is a long way from that description of the bridge lying in wait at the opening of Chapter 9. Narratively speaking, it is a smart move. Bridges are fascinating and become even more fascinating through dramatic events, but at the heart of every story that people really want to read are other people. The teenage boy described here is being held to account for not being attentive enough when it comes to showing up at meetings of the communist study group.
The chapter title indicates this young man is named Josef Toth and over the course of the rest of this opening chapter he is the central character in a harrowing drama that by itself would be enough to make a compelling feature film. But the introduction to Josef Toth is just that: mere introductory material that will eventually prove essential in creating the path that gets to the reader to the significance of the title bridge waiting in Chapter 9. Criticism of Michener as a writer can be targeted on a variety of levels, but the construction of this book is really all the proof one needs to understand why some rank him among the greatest storytellers of the 20th century.
