Christmas Cats: A Literary Companion

Renie Burghardt

My family lived in Hungary during World War II. When my nineteen-year-old mother died two weeks after giving birth to me, I inherited her cat, Paprika. He was a gentle giant with deep-orange stripes and yellow eyes that gazed at me tolerantly as I dragged him around wherever I went. Paprika was ten years old when I came into this world. He had been held and loved by my mother for all ten years of his life, while I had never known her, so I considered him my link to her. Each time I hugged Paprika tightly to my chest, I warmed to the knowledge that my mother had held him, too.

"Did you love her a lot?" I often asked Paprika as we snuggled on my bed.

"Meow!" he would answer, rubbing my chin with his pink nose.

"Do you miss her?"

"Meow!" Paprika's large yellow eyes gazed at me with a sad expression.

"I miss her, too, even though I didn't know her. But Grandma says Mother is in heaven and watching over us from there. Since you and I are both her orphans, I know it makes her happy that we have each other." I would always say these words to Paprika, for they were most comforting thoughts to me.

"Meow!" Paprika would respond, climbing on my chest and purring.

"And it makes me so very happy that we have each other," I would tell Paprika.

I'd hold him close, tears welling up in my eyes. Paprika would reach up with his orange paw and touch my face gently. I was convinced that this cat understood me, and I knew that I understood him. His love and devotion were always obvious.

My maternal grandparents raised me because the war had taken my young father away, too. He served in the army and visited me occasionally, but I could not live with him. As I grew older, the fighting intensified. Soon we were forced to become migrants in search of safer surroundings.

In the spring of I944> when I was eight years old, Paprika and I snuggled in the back of a wooden wagon as we traveled around Hungary. During the numerous air raids of those terrible times, we had to scramble to find safety in a cellar, a closet, or a ditch. Paprika always stayed in my arms, for I refused to go anywhere without him. How could I ever be separated from him? After all, one of the first stories my grandparents ever told me was that my dying mother had begged them to take care of her cat as well as her baby.

After Christmas of 1944 , when we were almost killed in a bombing, Grandfather decided that we would be safer in a rural area. We soon settled into a small house that had a cemetery as its neighbor. Grandfather and some helpful neighbors built a bunker for us nearby.

On an early spring day in 1945> we spent the entire night in that bunker. Paprika was with me, of course, because I refused to leave without my cat. Warplanes buzzed, tanks rumbled, and bombs whistled and exploded over our heads all night. I clung to Paprika, my grandmother held on to both of us, and we prayed the entire time. Paprika never panicked in that bunker. He just stayed in my arms, comforting me with his presence.

Finally everything grew deathly still, and Grandfather decided that it would be safe for us to return to the house. Cautiously, we crept into the light of early dawn and headed across the field. The brush crackled under our feet as we walked. I shivered, holding Paprika tightly. Suddenly there was a rustle in the bushes ahead. Two men jumped out and pointed machine guns at us.

"Stoi!" one of the men shouted. We knew the word meant "Stop!"

"Russians!" Grandfather whispered. "Stand very still and keep quiet."

But Paprika, who had never left me through all the traveling and the bombings, suddenly leapt out of my arms. So instead of obeying Grandfather, I darted between the soldiers and scooped up the cat. The tall, dark-haired young soldier approached me. I cringed, holding Paprika against my chest. To my astonishment, the soldier reached out and gently petted my cat.

"I have a little girl who is about your age," he said. "She's back in Russia. She has a cat just like this one." As he smiled at us, I looked up into a pair of kind brown eyes, and my fear vanished. My grandparents sighed with relief.

Later that morning, we found out that the Soviet occupation of our country was in progress. Many atrocities occurred in Hungary in the following months, but because the young soldier had taken a liking to me and my cat, our lives were spared. He visited us often and brought treats for Paprika and me. Then one day, a few months later, he had some news. "I've been transferred to another area, Malka ['little one'], so I won't be able to visit you anymore," he said. "But I have a gift for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. It was beautiful, and it had a turquoise Russian Orthodox cross on it. He placed it around my neck. "You wear this at all times, Malka. God will protect you from harm. And you take good care of your kitten."

I hugged the soldier tightly, then watched with tears in my eyes as he left.

Throughout the trying times that persisted in our country, Paprika's love made things easier for me to bear. He was my comfort and my best friend, and he rarely left my side.

In the fall of 1945» Grandfather went into hiding. He had spoken up about the atrocities taking place in our country, and he didn't want to be imprisoned as a dissident by the new Communist government. Grandmother and I expected Christmas to be solemn, but it then turned into my worst nightmare. I awoke on Christmas morning to find Paprika lifeless and cold, still curled up next to me. I picked up his body, held him close, and sobbed uncontrollably. He was nineteen years old, and I was only nine.

"I will always love you, Paprika. I will never give my heart to another cat," I vowed through my tears. "Never, ever!"

"Paprika's spirit is in heaven now with your mama, sweetheart," my grandmother said, trying to comfort me. But my heart was broken on that terrible Christmas Day.

Grandfather remained in hiding until the fall of 1947- At that time, we were finally able to escape Communist Hungary by hiding among some ethnic Germans who were being deported to Austria. When we got to Austria, we lived in a displaced-persons camp for four years. But there was hope for us: We were accepted for immigration to the United States of America. In September of I951, we boarded an old Navy ship and were on our way to America.

Christmas of 1951 was our first in this wonderful new country. The horrors of war and the four years of hardship in a refugee camp were behind us. A new life, filled with hope, lay ahead.

On that Christmas morning, I awoke to a tantalizing aroma wafting through the house: Grandmother was cooking her first American turkey. Grandfather, meanwhile, pointed to one of the presents under the Christmas tree. The package seemed to be alive, for it was hopping around to the tune of "Jingle Bells" that was playing on the radio. I rushed over, pulled off the orange bow, and lifted the lid from the box.

"Meow," cried the present, jumping straight into my lap and purring. It was a tiny orange tabby kitten. When I looked into his yellow eyes, the vow I'd made in 1945 to never love another cat crumbled away, and love filled my heart again.

I do believe my mother smiled down approvingly at us from heaven that Christmas Day, while Paprika's spirit purred joyfully at her side. Since then, there have been many other cats in my life, but the memory of my mother's cat will live in my heart forever.