It is only September, but here in Pennsylvania there is already a chill in the air and a cold north wind beats against our windows. The thin walls of our house do nothing to warm us, and our tiny iron stove cannot heat this almost empty room. I blow on my frozen fingers to warm them as I read my book while Mama kneads dough for kalács. Though we have little, Mama tries to make Papa’s favorite sweet bread for when he comes home from a particularly hard day at the mines.

All of a sudden, we feel the ground shake beneath us and the windows rattle for a moment. Six-year-old Kati had been huddled by the stove playing with her rag doll. She runs to Mama and buries her face in her skirts. These shudders happen often, for the miners are always deepening the mine, but Kati has not yet -grown used to them. I glance at Mama, who has stopped her kneading for a moment. Though the blasts are not unusual, always we fear for Papa.

“Do you think…”I start to ask Mama. She is staring out the window in the direction of the mine. Abruptly, she turns back to her dough and whacks it across the wooden counter.

“Papa is fine,” she says fiercely. “Kati, fetch me some more flour. Go back to your book, Enri.”

My sister and I hurry to obey. I try to focus back on my science book. Papa bought it from one of the foremen whose son had no more need for it. Papa has promised me that I will one day reach my dream and become a great doctor. Mama always shakes her head and sighs when he says that, but Papa just tells me, “Ne félj álmodni, a flam.” Never be afraid to dream, my son.” I trace my fingers over a picture of a human skeleton. Maybe one day my fingers will be fixing someone’s bones.

A while later, the smell of warm kalács fills the air and I have begun trying to memorize a passage on the muscles of the hand when we hear the clip-clopping of hooves coming down the street. I look over at Mama. Her lips tighten and she thumps the dough a little harder as if to block out the sound. Kati has come to stand next to me and her little hand creeps into mine. I’m holding my breath, praying that the hooves will pass by our house.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. They stop.

Mama rests the dough on the counter and slowly turns around. She smoothes her hands on her apron and walks to the door. Mama looks calm, but I can see her hands shaking at her sides. She opens the door and stands like a statue. Kati huddles beside me. The Black Maria has stopped outside our door, and we can see a man’s feet hanging out the back of the wagon.

“Mrs. Varga?” the driver asks. He pulls off his cap and I see his red cheeks. I remember that he played Santa Claus last Christmas and gave all of us children a stick of taffy. But he is not smiling now.

Mama looks at him with tears in her eyes. “József?” she whispers. The man just looks at the frozen ground. Mama runs to the back of the wagon.”József!” she cries. My heart feels like it has stopped beating. Papa can’t be gone! I let go of Kati and run to the wagon.

Papa is lying there, covered in dust and blood. I scramble into the wagon and kneel beside his head. His beard is no longer black but white. I run my fingers through his hair, watching the wind blow tiny clumps of dust away. Looking at him lying there, I feel empty inside. Papa cannot truly be gone! my mind is screaming. I reach out to touch his shoulder, but it feels odd, as if the bones are no longer there. I jerk my hand back and look at Mama, who’s crying softly and clutching Papa’s hand. The people  who’ve come out to see the wagon silently go back into their houses.”Mrs. Abramcyzk from next door is cradling Kati, who is sobbing in her arms.

The driver clears his throat with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Varga.” He shifts his feet, twisting his cap in his hands. “I’ll help you carry him in now.”

Mama wipes her eyes and straightens.”lgen, yes, of course.” She closes her eyes for a moment before beckoning me. “Enri, you must help us.”

Numbly, I obey and move to the end of the wagon. I feel guilty but grateful when the man moves to carry Papa’s shoulders. Together, Mama and I lift his feet and carry him to the table in  the kitchen.

“Take Kati upstairs,” Mama commands me. Mrs. Abramcyzk gently pushes Kati in my direction. She is still sobbing. All I can do is grab her hand and tug her upstairs. I do not want to be there when they clean Papa. Tonight the men and their wives will come and pay their respects. I look over at Kati who has quieted and is now staring at the wall.

“Did Papa die because of me?” Her voice is small and scared.

I look at her, startled. “What?”

She looks at me and begins to cry again. “I stole a piece of candy yesterday an’ I was a bad girl an’ now Papa’s dead!” she wails.

I watch her helplessly before going to sit beside her. “No, Kati,” I try to soothe her. “Papa didn’t die because of you. You are a good girl.” I hesitate before patting her arm. She hiccups and burrows her face into my arms. I wrap my arms around her and rock her gently, just as I have seen Papa do after she has a nightmare. Remembering makes my chest hurt and a small tear slides down my face into Kati’s hair. We sit there for a long time before she falls asleep. It is dark when Mama comes upstairs.

“Enri.” Her voice is soft and sad. She knows I do not want to go. Mama carefully tucks Kati into bed, not wanting to wake her. She strokes my sister’s golden curls before turning to me.  It is time.”

Together we go downstairs. Already many have come, their faces solemn. Many of the women are crying and hug my mother tightly. The men shake my hand.

“Your papa was a good man,” Mr. Bercik tells me. “He was proud of you.”

I can only nod mutely. I do not know many of the men here. They are big and tall, with thick, heavy beards like Papa, but none of them smile or seem friendly. I stare at Papa’s face, seeing the wrinkles around his eyes from smiling. Papa always smiled.

I wish that I could run upstairs to Kati. They have placed candles around the room and around Papa’s body, giving it an eerie glow. His face is shadowed and hollow-looking. I pull my knees up to my chest and try to recite the muscles that are in the hand, hoping to block out the sound of wailing. It is several hours before they all leave and only Mama and I are left with Papa.

I slump in my chair a few feet away from where Papa’s cold body lies. It doesn’t seem real. I keep wondering when I am going to wake up from this dream. Mama caresses Papa’s hand and gazes at his face.

“I remember when your papa first courted me…” Mama smiles sadly. “He was a farmer’s son and brought me pink flowers every Sunday when we went to Mass. We were lucky; both our parents approved our match. We married and all was good.” Her eyes grow distant. “And then the soil turned poor and there was no work. We left Hungary and came to America. We thought we were to have a better life.” Mama laughs tearfully as she strokes Papa’s face. “Oh Jószef, how wrong we were…” She pauses for a moment as her voice breaks. “But then we had you. Jószef was so happy to have a son. He called you ‘a fény és öröm az életemben – the light and joy of my life.'” She turns to me. “He loved you so much, Enri – you and Kati.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry as I remember. Papa patting my head and joking that I was either outgrowing him or he was shrinking, Papa winking at me just before he would give me a penny for candy, though we had little money to spare…the memories hurt.

“You know what you must do now, Enri,” she says without looking at me. I stare down at my hands, twisting my fingers together. I feel tears forming in my eyes and I angrily blink them away.

Mama sighs and turns toward me. “Your papa wanted the world for you. He wished you to become a great man, a doctor…to save the sick.” She pauses, but I cannot bring myself to look at her, to look at Papa. She comes over and kneels beside me and lifts my chin so that I look at her.

“You must become a different man now, a fiám.” I raise my eyes to hers and slowly nod. Papa has always taught me what my duty is and now I must do it. A tear falls from Mama’s eye and I catch it in my hand.

“I will, Mama.” I try to make my voice strong. “I will make Papa proud.”

****

It’s raining as I walk to the hut near the entrance of the coal mine. I stand inside as a short, fat man with glasses peers at me from behind his desk.

“Name?”

“Enri Varga.” I stare at the floor.

“Age?” He snaps impatiently.

“Twelve, Sir,” I mumble.

“You’ll work as a breaker boy.” He huffs his way to the door and sticks his head out. “Jacobek!” He yells. A tall thin boy a little older than me saunters over. “Show Varga what to do.” He slams the door shut.

The boy turns to me with a grin. “It’s really Jakubik. Izaak Jakubik.” He sticks out a cracked and scraped hand. I shake it hesitantly. “So you’re Varga.” His tone turns sober for a moment. “Sorry to hear about your father.”

I shrug, unsure of what to say. Izaak leads me to a large noisy room where maybe twenty boys are sorting coal and breaking it into pieces. Most of the boys are a couple of years older than me but there are a lot that I know are younger than I am, even though you’re supposed to be at least twelve to work. I’ve seen most of them around, but they were almost always in the mines and Papa made sure I never worked there. Now I see why, for the air is heavy with coal dust and I start coughing as it fills my lungs.

“You’ll get used to it!” Izaak shouts over the noise. He points me to an empty seat. “You’ll work here! All you have to do is this!” He shows me how to break and sort the coal. “Make sure you keep your fingers clear of the conveyor belt or you might not have any to worry about! See you at lunch!” Slapping me on the back, he heads off to his seat on the other side of the room.

I watch him leave, wishing that I could walk out the door and run home, but the glare of the foreman tells me I had best hurry and do my job. The coal tumbles past me in its trough, shouting at me to do my work. I grab a piece of coal and try to break it against the wooden frame. The sharp edges of the coal slice the tips of my fingers, and it takes several tries before the piece breaks into two. Squeezing my injured fingers, I gaze at the coal chutes that tower above. The coal flows down to us in a never­ending stream that shows no signs of stopping.

I watch the other boys as I pick up another piece of coal. They hunch over their benches, looking only at their work. I steal a glance at Izaak. Even his face has lost its liveliness and instead he looks like all the other boys-solemn and listless. A tap on my shoulder startles me and I look up to see the glaring foreman. Quickly, I begin my work again, sighing as another piece of coal takes the place of the one I’m breaking.

****     .

Hours pass and still there is the constant drone of coal running through the troughs. Breaking the coal is hard and I work much slower than the other boys. By lunch, my fingernails are already chipped and bleeding. I show them to Izaak but he only shrugs.

“You get used to it.” He shows me his own hands, scarred and rough. I sigh as we head back into the smoky room. I try to forget my dream to become a doctor. None of that matters now. Papa is gone and it is I who must take care of Mama and Kati. And so I continue, breaking and sorting those horrible black pieces of rock.

Finally, the machines stop. The sun is only just beginning to go down, but I can barely keep my head up, I’m so tired. “C’mon,” Izaak says to me. Together we stand in line with the men and boys to get our wages. Even though I am exhausted, I can’t help but feel excited to receive my first wage.

My turn comes and I hold out trembling fingers expectantly.

“10, 20, 30, 40…there ya go. Next!” The fat man shouts.

I turn away in disbelief. Forty cents? That was all? Tears blur my eyes for a moment. How could I be a man for Mama and Kati without Papa? A tear betrays me, trickling down my blackened face. I angrily swipe it away, ashamed, even as I weep in my heart for Papa, Mama, Kati and most of all me and far-off dreams that now will never come to be for sure.

I was staring at a firefly – Photinus Coleoptera, my brain supplied from my book – when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“You did good today, Varga,” Izaak says. “You’re one of us now.” He tugs on my father’s cap. He gives me funny two-fingered salute, then saunters away. I stare after him for a moment before gazing back down at my hands.

They are blackened and bloody, doctor’s hands no more. But they are a man’s hands now. And slowly, my fingers tighten over my forty cents.

 

Elizabeth Williams (1st Place in Short Story)