A Short Story : A Story?

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1952 - Transylvanian village of Tasani,
Mezőség Lowlands of Northern Hungary Sometime after midnight, Ava’s father stood up reeling from the vodka. He clutched the old farmer's dining table, lit by candlelight in the middle of the house, and steadied himself. But the hand-made trestle table and its colorful Balkan tulip motif began to spin.
All at once, the wooden table and benches blended with everything else. All of it turned gray -- the folk art on the embroidered privacy curtains, dividing the house; the family members sleeping in beds along the outer walls; the cupboards at the ends of the beds; and even the picture of Christ that hung near the ceiling. The lights seemed to sway and the world became as gray as a ghost as he keeled over and collapsed on the floor.
Now standing over him, Ava peered down at her father’s swarthy face and his bushy eyebrows filled with pity. Like the beak of a crane, his nose was long and thin and his lips, almost too full. Dark circles beneath his lower eyelids and the sallow tone to his skin from all of his hard work, was taking its toll on him.
Even at sixteen, she knew he was a man who had never been accustomed to drinking. Németh Dózsa, the man with the harsh interpretation of Hebrew scripture, had always lived his life with a stern sense of puritanical discipline. But lately, he had been as frantic as a caged dog. Pouring his heart out to the Magyar, telling him about the Gypsies who had castigated his family to
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