Pirozhki
Добавлено: 28 дек 2010, 16:39
Ah, how much fun it is to slop about in puddles in new gumboots, with the sun glinting off the ripples every which way. And in general, when you are only six years old, and the weather around you is so good, and your daddy walks behind you, you are in a good mood.
In the spring sunshine, we, my daughter and I, are walking down to the town. The snow has almost gone, and all one can see of it is the dirty-white patches lying under the bushes in the shade. It is almost a miracle that these bands of dirty snow are all that remain of the long and tiresome winter. The streets are full of spring pools, and in the air there is that smell of fresh ground and rotten vegetation that you only ever get in the spring. It’s at exactly this moment you know the winter will not return.
We make our slow way down a wide boulevard, the passers-by smiling at us, although my daughter does not notice. She is much more interested in looking down at her feet, at the great puddles and her new gumboots, which must be tested. One can edge towards the middle of a deep puddle. But then the water will tug dangerously at your legs, and you will want to turn and flee to dry ground. It’s much more fun to simply charge at the puddle and, then, jump at full speed into the middle of it. Then a thousand sunlit drops will explode. And daddy will definitely not swear. On such days, she has already noticed, he is quiet. It is okay to choose such days for pranks.
“Ira, Do not fool around!” I say though. But I too have some kind of happiness at the bottom of my heart, and want just to smile or to think of pleasant things. However, time has passed, the sun is overhead, and soon it will be dinner.
“Ira, we must go home. It is dinner time.”
We head towards a house where grandmother lives. That means, as always when we visit, something delicious will await us for dinner. Just the thought of that makes us feel terribly hungry, and we pick up our pace. At last, here is the house. Ira hastily throws off her jacket and gumboots and patters into the kitchen.
“Babushka,” she calls out, “I am so hungry. Give me something to eat. I will take the biggest plate.”
“What are you doing here!?”, I hear a voice exclaim.“Did you wash your hands? Well. Both of you march off into the bathroom!”
The table is already set for guests. In the centre stands a large dish with Babushka’s famous pirozhki stuffed with cabbage, buckwheat, with broiled eggs and rice, and with jam. To eat pirozhki and to wash them down with a glass of milk – what could be better than that?
We sit around the table, the kitchen warmed by the oven, while on the wall a radio purrs inaudibly – here is the long-awaited dinner.
Ira eats greedily.
“Ммм! This is so tasty! Granny, why don’t you eat?"
“Eat, eat, I have already eaten. It is necessary to taste. One pie to taste, a second to eat. So I am full.”
“Granny, did your mum bake pies for you when you were small like me?”
“Of course she did! Only when I was as small as you there was a war, and there was not so much flour and not so many eggs for baking pies. We very seldom ate them. But when we did, they always seemed so delicious.”
“Your pies are tasty too,” Ira says.
“Do not speak with your mouth full,” I say as I finally enter the conversation.
However, Ira is not deflected.
"Granny, tell me, how was everything then?"
"What should I tell you?"
"Well, how was everything when you were as small as I am. Did you play? Did you help your mum make dough?"
"Well, well, I shall tell you. Only you must eat while I do or my pies will grow cold. I will tell you how I tasted a pie for the first time. It was during the war. I may have eaten them before the war, but I was too small to remember. But that time I remember very well. It was the first winter during the war and it was New Year’s Eve. I was the same size as you are now. We lived near Moscow and in that first winter the Germans approached Moscow. But we were on the other side of the city and they did not reach our village, though some times they bombed us."
"Granny, granny," exclaims Ira, "Don’t tell the story like this!"
"And how should I tell it?"
"Like the fairy tale you tell me every night before I go to sleep, so that everything will be clear and interesting."
"Well, well, then."
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She lived with her mother and her little sister in a village not far from the big city called Moscow. It was a long time ago and there was a war. This girl remembered her daddy, how he had left the house and gone to war. Sometimes letters came from him, and mum read them aloud. The girl wanted to read the letters from her father too, but she was not yet able to, because she had started school only that year and didn't know all the letters yet.
The school was at the far end of the village, near the church. When the war began, a military aerodrome was built near the village, and after that a lot of military men arrived. They played garmoshka near the church and treated the children to chocolate. Once in the morning, in the fall, the village awoke to the roar of bombs as the Germans attacked the aerodrome. Later, the people said that not one of the planes had been able to take off and that all had been destroyed on the ground. One of the bombs hit the church, toppling the golden domes of the two towers, so that the church looked like the pictures of those other churches situated in Paris that the girl had seen in a book. The brick school building had been destroyed too, and school lessons had to be given in the big wooden house near the church that hadn’t been destroyed in the bombardment.
To get to the school at the other end of the village, the girl had to walk along a road that went through a wood, She was alone, since her little sister was too small for school and her mum took her with her to work. But the girl liked to go to school. There were many children there and the old teacher, Konrad Stepanych, who taught them how read to and to write, was very kind. And there was a great warm oven there!
"An oven?" Ira is surprised. "Can an oven be in a class?"
Yes, it can, because the school was in a simple village house. The walls were wooden and icons hung from them, covered by a curtain. In the room, there were wooden desks with special angled tops and places for pens carved in the wood, and for inkpots. The children wrote with iron nibs which were inserted into special wooden handles. During breaks, the children played "plumelets" with these nibs. There were no notebooks in those days and children practiced writing on newspapers or on the thick brown paper which they got sometimes from the blockhouse that had survived the bombing of the aerodrome.
Every morning, the girl took the same road through the wood to school. She wasn't afraid of anybody or anything. Classes ended early, and she came back before twilight. The road surface had been compacted by military lorries, so her legs didn't sink away in the snow. Sometimes lorries drove by, forcing her to leap aside into the deep snow. This was not so pleasant, as the snow fall in valenok. But sometimes, a lorry would stop and take the girl to school. The soldiers would give her a lump of sugar or slice of bread, and the girl would always ask them about her daddy, but no-one had ever seen or met him.
At the end of the year, the school decided to arrange a New Year’s Eve party. The soldiers agreed to give the children a treat for the New Year: although it was a secret, the children learned that the treat would be pirozhki - small pies with meat. The girl had never eaten pies before, but had heard they were very tasty. At this time, she was eating only potatoes or potato peelings, or sometimes porridge made from acorns. The children could only dream of pirozhki.
After learning this news, the girl ran home and joyfully told her mother of the forthcoming gift. Her mum merely sighed sadly, and the girl promised, “I will bring you a pie and one for my sister as well. And you both will try them”.
All New Year’s Eve, the girl thought of nothing but the gift, and she was not alone. The other children of the village could hardly contain their impatience. What will these pies be like? Will they be big? The pies, in fact, were very small, hardly bigger than the girl’s index finger, but they smelled oh so tasty and they were indeed filled with meat. Each child got two pies, and many ate them as soon as they had them in their hands. After that, they would go from one child to another begging for a further piece. But the girl told everyone: “I will not eat my pies right now. I promised to bring them to my mum and my sister.” And when she headed back homewards after the party along the usual road, she had wrapped her two pies in her handkerchief and put them deep in her bosom to keep them warm.
Her route took about an hour to walk, and the girl thought happily, when I get home, my mum will already be back from work and will have kindled the oven. And then I will come to her and tell her: “Here, mum as I promised – one pie for you, another for me.”
But why for me? the girl thought. The second pie should be her sister’s. That means, one pie for mum and the other pie I will divide in half, one half for me, the other for my little sister.
With the matter thus settled, the girl happily trudged on.
A few minutes later she entered the wood. In a wood it is always darker, she thought. In a wood the pines block the sun and there are more shadows. The girl hadn't realized till now that the party had lasted longer than simple lessons, and that it would soon get darken. Therefore, she should hurry.
And I will do it in this way, the girl thought to herself, one half for me and the other half for my little sister. And how big would this half be?
The girl stopped. She sat down near the road on a snowdrift and began to unwrap the handkerchief. One pie she put aside – this was for mum. The other she broke in half. This is my half, and this is for my little sister, she thought. A sweet tasty smell issued from the pie. It was the same aroma she had smelled once before near soldier's kitchen behind the church before it was destroyed.
What a mouthwatering smell, the girl thought. If this half is mine, I can eat it! She hardly noticed the half-pie in her mouth before she swallowed it, but it was so tasty. Then she quickly wrapped what remained in her handkerchief and went on.
I will come home, she told herself, and I will tell everyone: Here are my gifts. Eat to health. They are for you both. I have already eaten! She imagined how happy her mum and little sister would be. And how greedily her sister would eat her pie, and maybe she could tease her, “ I have a pie and you don't!”
But why does she need such a big half? the girl asked herself. She always teases me. And she broke my dolls’ house.
The girl remembered how in the evenings her mother sewed sheepskin coats for the soldiers, and how from the scraps of sheepskin she made mittens, giving the smallest scraps to the girl. The girl sewed the scraps together with thread, turning them into small dolls. The girl already had quite a collection. The tallest doll is a dad. He has a gun - a piece of wood - and he is a soldier. The second tallest doll is a mum. And she even has a small kerchief. And the smallest doll is me. And my sister destroyed the house for the dolls, she thought again and took out the handkerchief with the pies.
The second half of the pie was small, but was so tasty that the girl first bit off a little, then a little more, and then ate all the rest. But she still had one pie. I should bring it to my mum as I have promised, she thought and again began to walk on.
Meanwhile, it had grown darker. The pine branches turned from green to black, and the gloomy wood pressed in on the girl from all sides. The road was winding and seemed at every turn to end in yet another snowdrift. All was quiet, except for the crunch of snow underfoot, which grew louder with every footfall. The girl knew that there was only one road and she wasn't afraid of getting lost. Even so, she quickened her footsteps.
“The grey wolf will come and will bite your flank”, she remembered from a children’s song. No sooner did she think of this, than she became horrified.
"No. There are no wolves here. That`s what my mum told me, and I believe my mum."
"It is better to think of something pleasant", she said to herself, and she began to consider the pie, the last one she had. And soon she started to think about how delicious and tasty it would be, just like its brother. I will try only a little bit. I will not eat everything, she told herself.
She sat down on the edge of road once more and retrieved her handkerchief. She pinched off one small piece of the pie and began to chew slowly. I will bring half of this pie to my mum. Mum will be happy. I will even bring her the bigger half.
And she pulled out the last pie and then put a smaller piece in her mouth. The pie had already cooled, but seemed to have the same taste. She tied up the remainder in her handkerchief and put it deeply in her bosom. It was time to go.
The girl rose from the snowdrift, shook off the snow and suddenly realized that she did not know where to go. In all directions she was surrounded by trees. Two tracks could be seen through the snowdrifts, but they were now barely visible. Suddenly night fell. The girl was still very young and did not think logically. She knew where right and where left were but she could not recollect on what side of her the second track had lain.
I have to go home faster, she told herself, and almost began to run. The house should soon appear, I`ve been on this track so long. But the house did not appear. Beyond each turn there was nothing but more deep forest. So the girl grew very scared. The grey wolf will come and will bite my flank, she thought..
And I will give him a pie, and he will not touch me, will not eat me. Wolves are only in fairy tales, and usually they are good, she thought, by now running down the track, pressing her small hoard to her breast.
Soon the forest thinned. She came to the top of a hill and stopped. Beyond the dark silhouettes of village houses in the distance she saw the two towers of the church. The village was dark, for the windows were blacked-out because the people were afraid of bombardment, but the girl soon realized she had come back to the village, to the point she had left hours ago.
The girl turned back. The black gloomy forest confronted her, with the road disappearing into it. It would be terrible to take even one step into this deep darkness.
"I promised to bring mum a pie", she thought, "and I must".
She turned back and again entered the wood. She moved forward silently, listening carefully, but there was no sound, no noise.
Somebody strong and courageous can help me, she thought, Somebody like my father. But he is far, far away, in the war. Maybe, when I think of him, he is thinking of me?
"Papa, are you thinking about me right now?" asked the girl in her thoughts, and it seemed to her he answered: "Yes, my dear, I am thinking of you. I remember you always"
"Can you help me, papa?" the girl asked. "I am terrified and need your protection."
"I will protect you," her father said. "And you will reach your mother. You have your goal and you will reach it."
"And what is your goal, father?" the girl asked.
"My goal is to come back to you. To you, your sister and your mother."
"Why don't you come to us now?"
"Because I have another goal. I have to protect you all."
"But will you come back after?"
"I will, I promise you. Now don't be afraid. Go forward and come to your mother, she is waiting for you. Do you hear? She is looking for you."
The girl ran very fast, sometimes stumbling and falling into the snow, but never taking her hand from her breast where her treasure was hidden. The distant voice calling to her through the dense wood was so warm and dear to her.
"Mama!” she cried through her tears, “Mama, I am here!”
When her mother found her and pressed her to herself, the girl pulled out her handkerchief and offered it to her mother. “Here mum, here is your pie. Papa told me to bring it to you. Eat it, it is so good!”
Beyond the curtains, evening has fallen. There are still pies on the table. They are probably cool by now, but are carefully covered with a cloth and left for later.
My daughter is already in the living room, watching her crazy animated cartoon characters on TV.
“You have never told me this story, have you?” I say to my mother.
“It happened so long ago, I had forgotten about it. It just came back to me by accident,” she answers.
We sit together looking out the window. The last vestiges of the sunny day are dying, the last pedestrians hastening home, the last cars are leaving. The night approaches quickly. I do not know what mum is thinking right now, but it seems to me that we both see the same picture beyond the window pane: a little girl struggling home along the long road covered with deep snow pressing to her breast her treasure, a precious New Year's gift.
In the spring sunshine, we, my daughter and I, are walking down to the town. The snow has almost gone, and all one can see of it is the dirty-white patches lying under the bushes in the shade. It is almost a miracle that these bands of dirty snow are all that remain of the long and tiresome winter. The streets are full of spring pools, and in the air there is that smell of fresh ground and rotten vegetation that you only ever get in the spring. It’s at exactly this moment you know the winter will not return.
We make our slow way down a wide boulevard, the passers-by smiling at us, although my daughter does not notice. She is much more interested in looking down at her feet, at the great puddles and her new gumboots, which must be tested. One can edge towards the middle of a deep puddle. But then the water will tug dangerously at your legs, and you will want to turn and flee to dry ground. It’s much more fun to simply charge at the puddle and, then, jump at full speed into the middle of it. Then a thousand sunlit drops will explode. And daddy will definitely not swear. On such days, she has already noticed, he is quiet. It is okay to choose such days for pranks.
“Ira, Do not fool around!” I say though. But I too have some kind of happiness at the bottom of my heart, and want just to smile or to think of pleasant things. However, time has passed, the sun is overhead, and soon it will be dinner.
“Ira, we must go home. It is dinner time.”
We head towards a house where grandmother lives. That means, as always when we visit, something delicious will await us for dinner. Just the thought of that makes us feel terribly hungry, and we pick up our pace. At last, here is the house. Ira hastily throws off her jacket and gumboots and patters into the kitchen.
“Babushka,” she calls out, “I am so hungry. Give me something to eat. I will take the biggest plate.”
“What are you doing here!?”, I hear a voice exclaim.“Did you wash your hands? Well. Both of you march off into the bathroom!”
The table is already set for guests. In the centre stands a large dish with Babushka’s famous pirozhki stuffed with cabbage, buckwheat, with broiled eggs and rice, and with jam. To eat pirozhki and to wash them down with a glass of milk – what could be better than that?
We sit around the table, the kitchen warmed by the oven, while on the wall a radio purrs inaudibly – here is the long-awaited dinner.
Ira eats greedily.
“Ммм! This is so tasty! Granny, why don’t you eat?"
“Eat, eat, I have already eaten. It is necessary to taste. One pie to taste, a second to eat. So I am full.”
“Granny, did your mum bake pies for you when you were small like me?”
“Of course she did! Only when I was as small as you there was a war, and there was not so much flour and not so many eggs for baking pies. We very seldom ate them. But when we did, they always seemed so delicious.”
“Your pies are tasty too,” Ira says.
“Do not speak with your mouth full,” I say as I finally enter the conversation.
However, Ira is not deflected.
"Granny, tell me, how was everything then?"
"What should I tell you?"
"Well, how was everything when you were as small as I am. Did you play? Did you help your mum make dough?"
"Well, well, I shall tell you. Only you must eat while I do or my pies will grow cold. I will tell you how I tasted a pie for the first time. It was during the war. I may have eaten them before the war, but I was too small to remember. But that time I remember very well. It was the first winter during the war and it was New Year’s Eve. I was the same size as you are now. We lived near Moscow and in that first winter the Germans approached Moscow. But we were on the other side of the city and they did not reach our village, though some times they bombed us."
"Granny, granny," exclaims Ira, "Don’t tell the story like this!"
"And how should I tell it?"
"Like the fairy tale you tell me every night before I go to sleep, so that everything will be clear and interesting."
"Well, well, then."
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She lived with her mother and her little sister in a village not far from the big city called Moscow. It was a long time ago and there was a war. This girl remembered her daddy, how he had left the house and gone to war. Sometimes letters came from him, and mum read them aloud. The girl wanted to read the letters from her father too, but she was not yet able to, because she had started school only that year and didn't know all the letters yet.
The school was at the far end of the village, near the church. When the war began, a military aerodrome was built near the village, and after that a lot of military men arrived. They played garmoshka near the church and treated the children to chocolate. Once in the morning, in the fall, the village awoke to the roar of bombs as the Germans attacked the aerodrome. Later, the people said that not one of the planes had been able to take off and that all had been destroyed on the ground. One of the bombs hit the church, toppling the golden domes of the two towers, so that the church looked like the pictures of those other churches situated in Paris that the girl had seen in a book. The brick school building had been destroyed too, and school lessons had to be given in the big wooden house near the church that hadn’t been destroyed in the bombardment.
To get to the school at the other end of the village, the girl had to walk along a road that went through a wood, She was alone, since her little sister was too small for school and her mum took her with her to work. But the girl liked to go to school. There were many children there and the old teacher, Konrad Stepanych, who taught them how read to and to write, was very kind. And there was a great warm oven there!
"An oven?" Ira is surprised. "Can an oven be in a class?"
Yes, it can, because the school was in a simple village house. The walls were wooden and icons hung from them, covered by a curtain. In the room, there were wooden desks with special angled tops and places for pens carved in the wood, and for inkpots. The children wrote with iron nibs which were inserted into special wooden handles. During breaks, the children played "plumelets" with these nibs. There were no notebooks in those days and children practiced writing on newspapers or on the thick brown paper which they got sometimes from the blockhouse that had survived the bombing of the aerodrome.
Every morning, the girl took the same road through the wood to school. She wasn't afraid of anybody or anything. Classes ended early, and she came back before twilight. The road surface had been compacted by military lorries, so her legs didn't sink away in the snow. Sometimes lorries drove by, forcing her to leap aside into the deep snow. This was not so pleasant, as the snow fall in valenok. But sometimes, a lorry would stop and take the girl to school. The soldiers would give her a lump of sugar or slice of bread, and the girl would always ask them about her daddy, but no-one had ever seen or met him.
At the end of the year, the school decided to arrange a New Year’s Eve party. The soldiers agreed to give the children a treat for the New Year: although it was a secret, the children learned that the treat would be pirozhki - small pies with meat. The girl had never eaten pies before, but had heard they were very tasty. At this time, she was eating only potatoes or potato peelings, or sometimes porridge made from acorns. The children could only dream of pirozhki.
After learning this news, the girl ran home and joyfully told her mother of the forthcoming gift. Her mum merely sighed sadly, and the girl promised, “I will bring you a pie and one for my sister as well. And you both will try them”.
All New Year’s Eve, the girl thought of nothing but the gift, and she was not alone. The other children of the village could hardly contain their impatience. What will these pies be like? Will they be big? The pies, in fact, were very small, hardly bigger than the girl’s index finger, but they smelled oh so tasty and they were indeed filled with meat. Each child got two pies, and many ate them as soon as they had them in their hands. After that, they would go from one child to another begging for a further piece. But the girl told everyone: “I will not eat my pies right now. I promised to bring them to my mum and my sister.” And when she headed back homewards after the party along the usual road, she had wrapped her two pies in her handkerchief and put them deep in her bosom to keep them warm.
Her route took about an hour to walk, and the girl thought happily, when I get home, my mum will already be back from work and will have kindled the oven. And then I will come to her and tell her: “Here, mum as I promised – one pie for you, another for me.”
But why for me? the girl thought. The second pie should be her sister’s. That means, one pie for mum and the other pie I will divide in half, one half for me, the other for my little sister.
With the matter thus settled, the girl happily trudged on.
A few minutes later she entered the wood. In a wood it is always darker, she thought. In a wood the pines block the sun and there are more shadows. The girl hadn't realized till now that the party had lasted longer than simple lessons, and that it would soon get darken. Therefore, she should hurry.
And I will do it in this way, the girl thought to herself, one half for me and the other half for my little sister. And how big would this half be?
The girl stopped. She sat down near the road on a snowdrift and began to unwrap the handkerchief. One pie she put aside – this was for mum. The other she broke in half. This is my half, and this is for my little sister, she thought. A sweet tasty smell issued from the pie. It was the same aroma she had smelled once before near soldier's kitchen behind the church before it was destroyed.
What a mouthwatering smell, the girl thought. If this half is mine, I can eat it! She hardly noticed the half-pie in her mouth before she swallowed it, but it was so tasty. Then she quickly wrapped what remained in her handkerchief and went on.
I will come home, she told herself, and I will tell everyone: Here are my gifts. Eat to health. They are for you both. I have already eaten! She imagined how happy her mum and little sister would be. And how greedily her sister would eat her pie, and maybe she could tease her, “ I have a pie and you don't!”
But why does she need such a big half? the girl asked herself. She always teases me. And she broke my dolls’ house.
The girl remembered how in the evenings her mother sewed sheepskin coats for the soldiers, and how from the scraps of sheepskin she made mittens, giving the smallest scraps to the girl. The girl sewed the scraps together with thread, turning them into small dolls. The girl already had quite a collection. The tallest doll is a dad. He has a gun - a piece of wood - and he is a soldier. The second tallest doll is a mum. And she even has a small kerchief. And the smallest doll is me. And my sister destroyed the house for the dolls, she thought again and took out the handkerchief with the pies.
The second half of the pie was small, but was so tasty that the girl first bit off a little, then a little more, and then ate all the rest. But she still had one pie. I should bring it to my mum as I have promised, she thought and again began to walk on.
Meanwhile, it had grown darker. The pine branches turned from green to black, and the gloomy wood pressed in on the girl from all sides. The road was winding and seemed at every turn to end in yet another snowdrift. All was quiet, except for the crunch of snow underfoot, which grew louder with every footfall. The girl knew that there was only one road and she wasn't afraid of getting lost. Even so, she quickened her footsteps.
“The grey wolf will come and will bite your flank”, she remembered from a children’s song. No sooner did she think of this, than she became horrified.
"No. There are no wolves here. That`s what my mum told me, and I believe my mum."
"It is better to think of something pleasant", she said to herself, and she began to consider the pie, the last one she had. And soon she started to think about how delicious and tasty it would be, just like its brother. I will try only a little bit. I will not eat everything, she told herself.
She sat down on the edge of road once more and retrieved her handkerchief. She pinched off one small piece of the pie and began to chew slowly. I will bring half of this pie to my mum. Mum will be happy. I will even bring her the bigger half.
And she pulled out the last pie and then put a smaller piece in her mouth. The pie had already cooled, but seemed to have the same taste. She tied up the remainder in her handkerchief and put it deeply in her bosom. It was time to go.
The girl rose from the snowdrift, shook off the snow and suddenly realized that she did not know where to go. In all directions she was surrounded by trees. Two tracks could be seen through the snowdrifts, but they were now barely visible. Suddenly night fell. The girl was still very young and did not think logically. She knew where right and where left were but she could not recollect on what side of her the second track had lain.
I have to go home faster, she told herself, and almost began to run. The house should soon appear, I`ve been on this track so long. But the house did not appear. Beyond each turn there was nothing but more deep forest. So the girl grew very scared. The grey wolf will come and will bite my flank, she thought..
And I will give him a pie, and he will not touch me, will not eat me. Wolves are only in fairy tales, and usually they are good, she thought, by now running down the track, pressing her small hoard to her breast.
Soon the forest thinned. She came to the top of a hill and stopped. Beyond the dark silhouettes of village houses in the distance she saw the two towers of the church. The village was dark, for the windows were blacked-out because the people were afraid of bombardment, but the girl soon realized she had come back to the village, to the point she had left hours ago.
The girl turned back. The black gloomy forest confronted her, with the road disappearing into it. It would be terrible to take even one step into this deep darkness.
"I promised to bring mum a pie", she thought, "and I must".
She turned back and again entered the wood. She moved forward silently, listening carefully, but there was no sound, no noise.
Somebody strong and courageous can help me, she thought, Somebody like my father. But he is far, far away, in the war. Maybe, when I think of him, he is thinking of me?
"Papa, are you thinking about me right now?" asked the girl in her thoughts, and it seemed to her he answered: "Yes, my dear, I am thinking of you. I remember you always"
"Can you help me, papa?" the girl asked. "I am terrified and need your protection."
"I will protect you," her father said. "And you will reach your mother. You have your goal and you will reach it."
"And what is your goal, father?" the girl asked.
"My goal is to come back to you. To you, your sister and your mother."
"Why don't you come to us now?"
"Because I have another goal. I have to protect you all."
"But will you come back after?"
"I will, I promise you. Now don't be afraid. Go forward and come to your mother, she is waiting for you. Do you hear? She is looking for you."
The girl ran very fast, sometimes stumbling and falling into the snow, but never taking her hand from her breast where her treasure was hidden. The distant voice calling to her through the dense wood was so warm and dear to her.
"Mama!” she cried through her tears, “Mama, I am here!”
When her mother found her and pressed her to herself, the girl pulled out her handkerchief and offered it to her mother. “Here mum, here is your pie. Papa told me to bring it to you. Eat it, it is so good!”
Beyond the curtains, evening has fallen. There are still pies on the table. They are probably cool by now, but are carefully covered with a cloth and left for later.
My daughter is already in the living room, watching her crazy animated cartoon characters on TV.
“You have never told me this story, have you?” I say to my mother.
“It happened so long ago, I had forgotten about it. It just came back to me by accident,” she answers.
We sit together looking out the window. The last vestiges of the sunny day are dying, the last pedestrians hastening home, the last cars are leaving. The night approaches quickly. I do not know what mum is thinking right now, but it seems to me that we both see the same picture beyond the window pane: a little girl struggling home along the long road covered with deep snow pressing to her breast her treasure, a precious New Year's gift.