Amerikai Magyar Hírlap, 1990 (2. évfolyam, 49. szám)

1990-12-21 / 49. szám

AMERICAN

Hungarian Journal

r

Susan Jancso

The Finest Gift

Once upon a time, there was a young couple living in a small attic' room in Paris. His name was Pierre, hers Paulette. They loved each other dearly, but they lived in dire poverty. There was nothing they could do about it, though they were not afraid of working, but times were hard and they could barely make enough money to earn their meager meals.

Pierre was an artist. His deepset, feverishly burning eyes were always searching the great mysteries of life, his eager soul absorbed everything that was sad and touching or magnificent and uplifting in the world around him, and he transformed it Jill into beautiful music. His slender white hands, his long, sensitive musician’s fingers could evoke the most wonderful sounds from his only possession, the old violin. He was a truly great artist; the only thing he could never learn was the art of making money. Thus he ended up playing in a sleazy nightclub, wasting his God-given talent on the rough, noisy patrons of the rlub, in whose heads there was nothing but the vapors of wine. He could no. even bold on to that job, because people didn’t like his spaced-out look, his ragged clothes, and they did not find his solemn, soaring tunes entertaining enough. Pierre was fired, and from then on he only played his violin at home, among the four walls. Even there the lament of his violin was heard less and less, for winter had set in and his fingers, numbed by the cold, could no longer sound the beloved instrument as they used to.

Paulette was sewing fine clothes for rich ladies in order to earn a few extra sous for the household, and all the flowers of her garden of dreams came alive in the colorful embroideries with which she embellished those garments. Paulette was so beautiful that Pierre felt a twinge of pain in his heart as he looked at her. Her dark eyes radiated tenderness and trust, the glow of her glance warmed his frozen limbs, and her pale Madonna-face filled the cold, dark room with light. But best of all he loved her hair, her shiny, black tresses that reached down to her waist. During the day, Paulette wore her hair tamed into a single, tight braid held together by a threadbare string, but at night, when she untied it, the rich cascade of hair covered her shoulders like a royal mantle, and one could bury his face in it and forget about everything else.

On Christmas Eve the first snow fell and covered the gray roofs of Paris with a soft, white blanket. The north wind rattled the windows of the small attic room, and the desperate lovers hugged each other, their stomachs empty, their teeth chattering from the cold, because they no longer had money to buy food and firewood. What hurt them even more than their miserable state was the thought that they would not be able to give each other a Christmas present. All of a sudden Pierre jumped up, grabbed his violin and went out, murmuring only that he was going to look for work.

Paulette felt even sadder after he left. As she was sitting alone in the dreary room, trying to think of a way to get a present for Pierre after all, she was absentmindedly curling an unruly tress of hair around her finger. And all at once she knew what she was going to do! She let her hair down, she combed it carefully and braided it neatly. There was a strange smile on her face as she gave a last glance to her reflection in the mirror. Then she took the big scissors from the drawer and cut into the heavy braid. More than once the scissors stood still in her hand, for in her heart vanity fought a losing battle with love, but the mere thought of how happy she would make Pierre was enough to make her finish what she had started. She wrapped the braid in paper, put a cap on her head and left hurriedly, walking through the snow-covered streets with the small package under her arm.

The hairdresser was more than happy to buy the splendid braid; in his mind’s eye he could already see the magnificent wig he would make out of it. He paid her without much ado, and he even forgot to bargain. Paulette was happy, and as she stared at the glittering shopwindows with her eyes wide open, she knew already what she was going to give Pierre. A nice warm pair of gloves, a fine pair of soft woolen gloves that would stop his hands from freezing, that would bring the life back into his fingers. He will surely feel better if at least he can pour his soul out into the music.

In the meantime, Pierre was trying in vain to find work, though he had been to almost all of the restaurants in the Quartier Latin. Nobody needed a violinist, they did not even need a dishwasher, for, to tell the truth, he would have taken any job rather than to go home emptyhanded. He looked at the rich, ornate shopwindows, the bright Christmas trees with growing bitterness in his heart. How was he going to get a present for Paulette? It cannot be that on this Holy

Night he should not be able to give something to the one he loved more than anything else in the world! Even more than his violin, his oldest and most faithful friend throughout the years... Yes, the violin! That’s it! If it comes to the worst, he’ll sell the violin! And he will buy her this pretty red ribbon interwoven withhold. Oh how much Paulette is going to like it! And how beautiful she will look, when she braids it into her long black hair...

Paulette got home a few minutes earlier than Pierre. She could hardly wait to hand him the present, wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a fine box, just waiting to be opened. Her only problem was what to do with her hair so he won’t notice the change right away. Maybe if she left her cap on... it was pretty cold in the room, after all... She could hear already Pierre’s footsteps in the corridor, in a moment she heard the door open and there he stood with an elegant box in his hand, complete with ribbon and bow...

When they opened their presents and realized the utter futility of their sacrifice, they laughed so hard that the tears ran down their cheeks. They could not utter a word, they just stood there hugging each other, and there was really no need for words: they realized that a love like this is the finest gift one human being can give another.

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Jöjjön és ünnepeljen velünk:

KÜLÖNLEGES MAGYAR HAL-BÜFÉ

1990. december 28-án, pénteken délután 5-től este 11 óráig Helyfoglalás: (213) 739-9913 3750 Wilshire Boulevard, LA 90010 A zamatos magyar ízekért szavatol: Bíró Sándor tbszakács

Sándor Márai

Angel From Heaven

I

Angel from Heaven To you descended,

O Shepherds,

O Shepherds,

So you may see Him Promptly going to Bethlehem,

, Bethlehem.

Hungarian Christmas Carol

Angel from Heaven, double your steps,

Go to the frozen, charred Budapest.

Go where the church bells no longer toll,

Amid Russian tanks silent they fall.

Go where Christmas has no festive luster,

No golden nuggets hung in a cluster;

There’s nothing but hunger and bone-chilling cold. Tell them clearly what needs to be told.

Raise your voice to them out of the night:

Angel, give them the good tidings fast.

They dipped hands in the bowl together; j He wanted thirty coins of silver,

(And while abusing Him with words and deeds, Drank His blood and on His flesh did feast. Now the multitude stops and stares,

But to address Him nobody dares.

Of the miracle the world sings praises,

And preachers preach about great courage, The statesman bemoans the uprising.

And the Holy Pope gives his blessing;

All sorts and ranks of people wonder How could this thing come to happen?

Why did they not die as requested,

Waiting quietly for their sad end?

Why did the heavens split apart When a people said: "That’s enough!"

People stare without comprehension,

What tide is rising like the ocean?

Why were so shaken the world orders?

A people cried out. Then the silence.

But now many would know what happened, Of flesh and bones who made new tablets? And many more ask, stupefied,

For they can’t get it in their mind,- Those who inherited it as such: - Does Freedom really mean so much?...

Angel, spread the word from the skies That blood will always breed new lives.

It’s not the first time they have met- the child, the donkey, the shepherd - On the fresh straw, next to the manger, When Life has born a living Wonder;

They watch over it once again.

With their breaths they shelter the flame, For it’s daybreak, a Star is bom,- Angel from Heaven, tell them all.

Translated by Susan Jancso

1990. december 21. ■ MmMM 27

—-PW—

Neither does He speak or accuse,

Just looks down like Christ from the cross. This Christmas tree gets ever stranger - Brought by a devil or an Angel?

And those who draw lots for His clothing, They just don’t know what they are doing. Maybe they sniff and whine and sight The secret of this winter night;

A strange Christmas this is indeed:

A nation’s hanging from the trees.

One after the other, they walk past:

The soldier who had pierced his heart,

And the Pharisee who had sold Him,

The one who three times had disowned Him.

Clap your wings, make speed, swish as you fly, They have been waiting for such a long time.

Don’t tell them stories of candlelit rooms,

Of a world immersed in a Christmasy mood,

Of richly set tables in well-heated homes.

Of soft-spoken priests bringing peace to the souls, The rustle of tissue as presents are opened,

Where intent is wise and words are well pondered, Sparklers are shining, the trees are laden:

Of the Miracle thell them, O Angel!

Tell them, for this is the ultimate wonder:

A poor people’s Christmas tree starts to smolder, Across the silent night burningly glows - And many are making the sign of the cross.

Whole continents look on flabbergasted,

Some understand and some don’t understand. They shake their heads, they can take it no more, Some pray, others are gripped by horror.

For it is not candy that hangs on the tree:

It is the Christ of peoples, Hungary.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

to all our readers!