memories of my childhood - a nice winter day

 There were many pleasant winter days during my early childhood in 1960s Hungary.

Yet one particular day stands out in my memory, rich with small, vivid details.

It was January, snowy and bright. One evening, my mother prepared a delicious fish jelly. She carefully poured the clear soup into small dishes and placed them near the window to cool.

I was absolutely thrilled. I waited patiently for the liquid to turn solid, checking the dishes every ten minutes. My excitement amused my mother.

“Not today, my friend,” she smiled. “Tomorrow’s lunch will be a surprise — jelly.”

I went to bed earlier than usual. Before I knew it, I was jolted awake by the sound of guests arriving. From the other room came the cheerful, animated voices of adults. It was late at night, and the air buzzed with excitement.

“Guess what?” my father burst into my room. “Your mom’s friend and her husband just had a new baby! Time to wake up and greet the newcomer!”

I was not in the mood. My father gently picked me up and carried me to the living room — and suddenly, I had a terrible tantrum. I kicked and screamed, demanding to be taken back to bed.

Everyone was shocked. So was I. I didn’t understand my own reaction.

The next morning, I expected some kind of punishment.
Instead, my mother said quietly, with a hint of sadness, “You made my friend very sad. You were tired and not quite yourself.”

Then she added, “Get dressed. We’re going to visit her and the baby. No kindergarten today — but you will have to apologize.”

I was secretly happy to stay home with my mother and my six-month-old brother. It was cozy and warm inside. But going out was even better.

Our compound was near a forest, a calm and peaceful place. That morning was bright and clear. Snow and sunshine combined with crisp, fresh air — it felt majestic.

My apology was accepted. I was given biscuits and a hot drink. The adults talked about grown-up things while I played with the babies. We placed them side by side in the crib. They were fascinated by each other, happily “talking” in their baby language.

Every now and then, my mother would say, “Imagine — they were born just days apart!”

I didn’t think much about it then. I was only four and a half years old.
I only remember feeling happy for my little brother. He was just six months old, and he already had a friend — a lovely, cheerful baby girl.

Afterwards, we walked home through the snowy wonderland.
For lunch, we finally had the jelly.

The day was gentle and unhurried. I still remember its small nuances, and they warm my heart even now.

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Prologue

The babies grew up and became close friends — but not forever. When they were four, my father got a new job, and we had to move far away. The friendship slowly dissolved.

As an adult, I learned more about that night when the baby was brought home. It had been an adoption from a foster home. The process was meant to be long and complicated, but while the director was on vacation, the deputy director approved everything quickly.

That winter night carried more meaning than I ever knew.

The mystery of a January Day - stories from my childhood

It was a scintillating, vibrant winter day. Mom said that I do not have to go to school.

We would have been visiting her friend who got a baby girl. I remember that day clearly and in many details.

We were baking cookies; I was allowed to help. I had my own corner in the kitchen with my small rolling pin.

As I was cutting the cookies, I would watch the jellies in the plates near the windows.

It reminded me of a story of my big brother. He used to be afraid from the wobbling jelly when he was a toddler.

I smiled.

Afterwards, we left for auntie Lizi who was the best friend of my mom at that time.

The night before they arrived at our home, when I was already in bed, they said "We got the baby!"

It sounded as if everybody was very cheerful. Eventually, my father entered my bedroom to tell me about the good news; I was not in a cheerful mood. I was screaming " Leave me alone! " My father did not listen to me. He lifted me from my bed and wanted to carry me to the other room so I can have a look at the newcomer, but I was in a tantrum and was kicking my father all over. He was forced to put me back in bed. I spoiled the evening. Nobody understood why I was behaving like that; I could not understand myself either.

The baby was lovely: smiling with big brown eyes. It was a nice visit. My mom and her friends were talking about how difficult it was to get her out of the hospital. I apologized for my behavior the night before.  The apology was accepted.

This baby girl brought much cheer into her own parents and our life. My baby brother and this newcomer were growing together. Nearly every day we met and they became good friends. They got on very well with each other. "No wonder," the moms would often say  "they were born on the same day!"



My brother was born in the summer. Something did not add up. But there were so many things like that in life. I did not care much about this small issue.

Then we moved to another part of the country, and we grew up not seeing each other for a long time.

After twenty years, something surprising happened. We were reunited for a  Sunday lunch. Auntie Lizi was crying while telling her daughter's story to my mom.

"She was always a lovely, obedient child. Then when she was 18 she left us suddenly."

 Her daughter was very disappointed when she had to learn from the neighbors that she was an adopted child. Her parents wanted to keep it secret.

Only then I understood many things about that January night. The baby was already a half year old. Just like my brother. And auntie Lizi did not have a big tummy before the baby. Because of the bureaucracy, it was very difficult to get the baby they chose.

It was then I understood many things about that January day.

And the story we heard at lunch was not  uplifting.

The secrecy of her adoption made her feel inferior. Terribly. She grew into a beautiful and smart young lady, but she would not go to college. There were lots of decent men of their circles who wanted to marry her, but she had a strong feeling of being less than them. She is an adopted one. She married a worker from the factory.

God knows how many times she was told by her peers "You are an adopted child!" How long she was carrying the burden of this secrecy! How many times she tried to ask her parents about it! But she was never brave enough until she became 18.

Keeping an adoption secret is a terrible mistake! I  saw with my  own eyes how  it   kept a lovely young person from living her life up to full potential .