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.
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.
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