The snow had just started, the first of the year. Hazy light through the clouds outside the window of our third-floor Budapest apartment cast light shadows off of the slowly falling flakes. We moved here from Minnesota the year before, and the snow reminded me of home.
“Is the hot water on?” Mom asked from the kitchen.
I ran to the bathroom and climbed onto the side of the tub. The grill of blue flames popped on behind the water heater’s safety window. “Yes!” I yelled and ran back to my Matchbox cars.
A moment later she called, “Still on?”
I hopped up to check again, but when I reached the bathroom, I stopped. There was a strong smell of burning. Flakes of black, charred plastic dripped from the heater.
“Something’s wrong!” I shouted.
Her feet pounding down the hallway. Grabbing my arm and pulling me out. Firelight flickering on the hall wall.
We flew down the stairs to our neighbor’s apartment. Mom banged on his door. He opened it with a surprised look on his face.
Mom spoke no Hungarian yet, but her face communicated the urgency. She said to me, “Tell him we need help!”
“Bácsi, something happened. There is a flame in our toilet.”
He nodded and gestured for us to come in. We sat on his hard sofa while he talked on the phone, too quickly for me to understand. The firemen came. An elderly woman from the first floor brought us cheese biscuits to eat while we waited. I heard thumping from our flat upstairs and worried about my matchbox cars.
Finally, it was evening. Our neighbor came to us.
“Tell your mother the water heater must be replaced.”
I nodded.
She listened, and her face softened. “Tell him ‘thank you’,” she said.
“Thank you, bácsi, for liking to help us.”
Walking back into our apartment was like entering an unfamiliar world. Everything was drenched. The melted mass that had been our water heater sat in a shallow puddle in the bathtub.
Mom looked around and shook her head, “Dad will be back from his trip tomorrow. He’ll figure something out.”
We went to the neighborhood restaurant walking through the fresh snow. The snowfall had
stopped and the night sky was frozen and magnificent. After I ordered the bean soup that was my favorite, the violin player approached our table, offering a folk song for a small tip. Usually Mom waved him off, but tonight she nodded. He played and sang.
Mom listened. “What is he singing?”
I listened a moment and then translated the lyrics slowly,
“Dear mother, why did you birth me?
You ought instead to have thrown me
Into the river.
Then I’d not be a forgotten child.”
She smiled and shook her head, stroking my hand gently. “Eat your soup,” she said.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella, Words on the Page, out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection, To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction, out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete
