third person, the way that people do when they "cannot bear to speak of these things". You may find the heart of the story familiar, for it is very old.
Long ago, during
the war, a small
farm in Hungary
was overrun three
times by three differ-
ent armies. Toward
the end of the war,
in the winter just
three days before Christmas, yet another army came, and took nearly everyone who was left away to forced labor camps. The others they marched to the border and left them there stripped of shoes and coats. By a miracle one of the old women was able to hide in the forest. Frightened and dejected, she wandered through the wood for endless hours, trying to make herself as black as a tree trunk one moment, as white as the snow the next. All about her was the starry night and from time to time, the sound of snow falling from the trees.
In time, she came to a small shed of the kind that hunters use. Finding it empty, she entered and sank to the floor in relief. It was only moments before she realized that there with her in the hut, half in shadow, was another soul. It was a very old man whose eyes were filled with fear. But she knew right away that he was not her enemy. In a moment he realized that she was not his either. To tell you the truth, they were both more odd looking than frightening. She wore men's pants that were too short, a coat with one sleeve missing, and an apron wrapped around her head for a hat.
As for him, his ears stuck out like this, and his hair was just two white tufts. His pants were like balloons with his two little twig legs inside them. His belt was so big it wound around his waist twice.
There they sat, two strangers with nothing to their names, stripped of everything except their own heartbeats. There they were, two refugees listening hard for footsteps in the snow, two souls ready to flee at a moment's notice. And together they carried all this heartbreak on a most beautiful night during which, in normal times, people everywhere would he
celebrating in their own ways the high holiday season and the return of the blessed light to the world.
It was clear from the old man's way of speaking that he was far more learned than she. Even so, she was grateful when at last he said, "Let me tell a story to pass the night." Ah, a story, something familiar. In the times they lived, nothing, nothing, nothing made sense. But a simple story—that she could understand. This is the story he told... one that gave meaning to the question, "What is enough?" and made that night unlike any other before or since.
"Tonight we have nothing," began the old man. "But somewhere in the world, no doubt, there are people who may have much more than they need. What is enough? Let us consider this question."
Once upon a time a long time ago, during the times our blessed grandparents were still living, there was a poor but beautiful young woman who was married to an equally poor but handsome young man. It was nearing the holiday time of year when gifts were customarily exchanged. The young people were very hard pressed, for a war that had raged over the land for many years had only recently receded.
All the sheep had been slaughtered by the soldiers for food. So, there was no wool to make thread. And without thread, there was no spinning, and without spinning, there was no cloth, and therefore no warm clothes to replace threadbare ones. As they were able, people cut up two pairs of shoes to make one pitiful pair. Everyone wore all the ragged sweaters and vests they owned, so that they looked deceptively robust in the belly, yet gaunt above and below.
Then, as often happens when the worst of war is over, people began to creep hack to what was left of their homes. Like the dog that knows its own field, they came back to stay regardless of the poor conditions. Some of the farm women began to mend the plows, replacing the blades with shell casings they heated and shaped by hand. Others cut open and shook the dead plants
Long ago, during
the war, a small
farm in Hungary
was overrun three
times by three differ-
ent armies. Toward
the end of the war,
in the winter just
three days before Christmas, yet another army came, and took nearly everyone who was left away to forced labor camps. The others they marched to the border and left them there stripped of shoes and coats. By a miracle one of the old women was able to hide in the forest. Frightened and dejected, she wandered through the wood for endless hours, trying to make herself as black as a tree trunk one moment, as white as the snow the next. All about her was the starry night and from time to time, the sound of snow falling from the trees.
In time, she came to a small shed of the kind that hunters use. Finding it empty, she entered and sank to the floor in relief. It was only moments before she realized that there with her in the hut, half in shadow, was another soul. It was a very old man whose eyes were filled with fear. But she knew right away that he was not her enemy. In a moment he realized that she was not his either. To tell you the truth, they were both more odd looking than frightening. She wore men's pants that were too short, a coat with one sleeve missing, and an apron wrapped around her head for a hat.
As for him, his ears stuck out like this, and his hair was just two white tufts. His pants were like balloons with his two little twig legs inside them. His belt was so big it wound around his waist twice.
There they sat, two strangers with nothing to their names, stripped of everything except their own heartbeats. There they were, two refugees listening hard for footsteps in the snow, two souls ready to flee at a moment's notice. And together they carried all this heartbreak on a most beautiful night during which, in normal times, people everywhere would he
celebrating in their own ways the high holiday season and the return of the blessed light to the world.
It was clear from the old man's way of speaking that he was far more learned than she. Even so, she was grateful when at last he said, "Let me tell a story to pass the night." Ah, a story, something familiar. In the times they lived, nothing, nothing, nothing made sense. But a simple story—that she could understand. This is the story he told... one that gave meaning to the question, "What is enough?" and made that night unlike any other before or since.
"Tonight we have nothing," began the old man. "But somewhere in the world, no doubt, there are people who may have much more than they need. What is enough? Let us consider this question."
Once upon a time a long time ago, during the times our blessed grandparents were still living, there was a poor but beautiful young woman who was married to an equally poor but handsome young man. It was nearing the holiday time of year when gifts were customarily exchanged. The young people were very hard pressed, for a war that had raged over the land for many years had only recently receded.
All the sheep had been slaughtered by the soldiers for food. So, there was no wool to make thread. And without thread, there was no spinning, and without spinning, there was no cloth, and therefore no warm clothes to replace threadbare ones. As they were able, people cut up two pairs of shoes to make one pitiful pair. Everyone wore all the ragged sweaters and vests they owned, so that they looked deceptively robust in the belly, yet gaunt above and below.
Then, as often happens when the worst of war is over, people began to creep hack to what was left of their homes. Like the dog that knows its own field, they came back to stay regardless of the poor conditions. Some of the farm women began to mend the plows, replacing the blades with shell casings they heated and shaped by hand. Others cut open and shook the dead plants
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