Ferenc Nuszbaum begins his life behind the wheel in a white Škoda pick-up. In the deep south of Hungary, at half past one in the morning, on a January day in 1998. He is supposed to drive goat’s milk up to Budapest. His father got him the job. The new boss is coming with us. First day at work, brand new car, you never know. Nuszbaum completed his military service just as dutifully as he completed his vocational school training as a salesman. Now, at 21, he is where he dreamed of being as a child: behind the wheel, one foot on the accelerator, one hand on the gearshift and his eyes stubbornly straight ahead.
After an hour and a half of driving, two bright spots flash at him in a long curve. The deer holds the gaze, Nuszbaum holds the steering wheel. Both of them are probably shaking inside. No occupant is injured, but the Škoda is a total loss. And for Nuszbaum, one thing seems as inevitable as this impact: the impending termination. But his boss says: “The car is replaceable. It’s not our life.”
Ferenc Nuszbaum has not forgotten this sentence to this day.
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