1979, Hungary
By Zary Fekete
The snow had just started, the first of the year. Hazy light through the clouds outside the window of our third-floor apartment cast light shadows off of the slowly falling flakes.
“Is the hot water on?” Mom said from the kitchen.
I ran to the bathroom, climbed onto the side of the tub, and looked through the safety window on the water heater. The grill of blue flames popped on. “Yes!” I yelled and ran back to my Matchbox cars.
“Still on?” she called a moment later.
I ran back into the bathroom. 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. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out. Firelight flickered on the hall wall.
Mom yanked open the front door and pushed me ahead of her down the stairs. She banged on our downstairs neighbor’s door. He opened it with a surprised look on his face.
(“Tell him we need help!”)
“Uncle, 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 and complicatedly for me to understand. The firemen came. It was evening before we could return to our flat.
“Tell your mother the water heater must be replaced,” he said.
I nodded.
(“Tell him ‘thank you’.”)
“Thank you, uncle, for liking to help us.”
Our apartment was drenched.
“Dad will be back from his trip tomorrow. He’ll figure something out.”
We went to the neighborhood restaurant for dinner walking through the fresh snow from earlier in the day. 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 to him. He played and sang. Mom listened.
“What is he singing?”
I listened a moment and then translated,
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.
“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 Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social
