Hungarian Heritage Review, 1987 (16. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1987-02-01 / 2. szám
(The ^literature of Hungary “There used to be one in the drawer of the glass cupboard.” “Oh, my lamb, I’m glad you didn’t tell me before, it would surely no longer be there.” We stood up and went to the cupboard that had lost its glass pane ever so long ago; the penny was actually in the drawer I had suspected it to be in. I had been tempted to filch it for the past three days, but I never mustered enough courage to do so. Had I dared, I would have spent it on candy. “Now we have got four pennies. Don’t worry, sonny, that’s already the bigger half. All we need is three more. And if it has taken us an hour to find four, we shall find the rest before we have a snack. That will leave me plenty of time to do a batch of washing by nightfall. Come on, let us see, perhaps there are some more in the other drawers.” All would have been well, had each drawer contained one coin. That would have been more than we needed. For, in the prime of its life, the old cupboard had done service in a prosperous dwelling, where it had harboured many treasures. In our home, however, the poor thing contained little enough — weakchested, worm-eaten, gap-toothed as it was. Mother chided each drawer as she pulled it open. “This one used to be rich — once upon a time. This one never had a thing. This one here always lived on tick. As for you, you miserable beggar, you haven’t a farthing to your name. This one won’t ever have any, we keep our poverty in it. And you there, may you never have a single one: I ask you for a penny just this one, and even so you begrudge it me. This one is sure to be the richest, look!” she burst out laughing, as she jerked open the lowest drawer, which had not a splinter to its bottom. She hung it around my neck, and we both laughed so hard, we had to sit down on the floor. “Wait a minute,” she started, “I’ll get some money in a jiffy. There must be some in your father’s suit.” There were some nails in the wall upon which our clothes were hung. My mother delved into the topmost pocket of my father’s jacket, and, marvel of marvels, her fingers pulled out a penny. She could hardly believe her eyes. “Bless me,” she shouted, “here it is. How much does that make? Why, we can hardly manage to count them all up. One—twothree—four—five... Five! All we need is two more. Two pennies, that is nothing. Where there are five, there are bound to be two more.” She went about feverishly searching all my father’s pockets, but alas, to no avail. She couldn’t find another. Even the merriest jokes failed to lure forth two more pennies. My mother’s cheeks burned like two red roses with excitement and exertion. She was not supposed to work, for, whenever she did, she was taken ill. This was of course, a special kind of work, and you can’t forbid people to look for money. Snack-time came and went. Soon it would be getting dark. My father needed a clean shirt for the morning, and no washing could be done. Well-water alone was not enough to remove the greasy dirt. Suddenly, mother tapped her forehead: “How silly of me. I never thought of searching my own pocket! Now that I think of it, I shall have a look.” She did, and sure enough, there was a penny in it. The sixth one. A veritable fever took hold of us. Just one more penny was lacking. “Let me see your pockets, perhaps there is one in them.” Dear me, it was no good showing them. They were empty. It was turning dark, and there we were with our six pennies, we might as well have had none for all the use they were. The Jewish grocer granted no credit, and the neighbours were just as penniless as we. Besides, you just couldn’t go and ask for one penny! The best we could do was to have a good laugh over our own misery. We were in the very throes of it, when a beggar came by, wailing his sing-song prayer for alms. Mother almost swooned with laughter. “Stop it, my good man,” she said, “I have been idle all afternoon, for I am short of one penny to buy half a pound soap with.” The beggar, a kindly old man, stared at her. “You are short of one penny, you say?” “One penny, yes.” “I’ll give it you.” “A nice thing to take alms from a beggar!” “Never mind, my child, I can do without it. All I need is a hole in the ground and a shovelful of earth. That will make everything well for me.” He put the penny into my hand and shuffled along amidst our blessings. “Thank goodness,’’ my mother said. “Now run along... ” She stopped short, then burst into ringing laughter. “I can’t wash today in any case, but, just the same, it’s none too soon that we scraped together the money: it is getting dark, and I have no kerosene for the lamp.” She laughed so hard, it took her breath away. A fierce, murderous fit of coughing shook her body. She swayed on her feet and buried her face in her palms and, as I drew close to support her, I felt something warm trickling down on my hands. It was blood, her precious, hallowed blood. That of my mother, who could laugh so heartily as few people can, even among the poor. 20 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW FEBRUARY 1987
