A Doll Named Nudli, A Christmas Story

A DOLL NAMED NUDLI
A Christmas Story

Marta Boros Horvath

I was just a tiny little girl when the war ended. Still, the cruelties of war etched lasting memories into my tender mind. I remember, for instance, that my father was drafted, that there were air raids in our beautiful little town, and that my mother, baby sister and I sought shelter in the basement of our apartment building along with the other residents.

During the winter of 1944-45 the Allies launched three extensive bomb attacks on our city. My hometown and our country were reduced to ruins, and everything was in shortage by the time the bombing quieted down. In the villages people had a bit more food to eat, but our city dweller’s diet consisted of potatoes, beans, corn bread, and black chicory coffee. My poor mother was so tired of corn bread that for the rest of her life she never ever wanted to see it again.

Our city was occupied by the Soviet Red Army. The highest ranking officer decided to take possession of our lovely, fully furnished home and our family was forced to rent an upstairs room from a relative. That one room served as our living room, dining area, bedroom and washroom. I do not remember our arrangement for the toilet.

My clothes that I remember from this period were not cute, frilly, pink little girls’ dresses, but a gray flannel checkered dress befitting the uniform of a Dickensian orphanage. Gray, crudely knitted stockings and boyish brown high-top shoes rounded out my daily attire.

Since we were lacking basic food and clothing, we certainly could not afford toys. Our country and our families had more pressing problems to deal with. On days when my mother could serve our family a pasta called nudli (pronounced noodlie), made of potatoes and flour, rolled
somewhat like the Italian gnocchi, boiled and tossed with bread-crumbs, it was a red letter holiday, at least for me. Having grown used to wartime meals as a young child, this was my favorite food. With childish genius I prolonged the enjoyment of this favorite delicacy by making two or three bites out of each little hand-rolled noodle. Long after the rest of the family had finished dinner, I was still sitting by the table sucking and savoring the tiny noodle bites, now cold.

These were our circumstances when Christmas 1946 arrived. My parents managed to find a Christmas tree assembled from branches, so we did have a tree. My father took me on a walk early Christmas Eve while my mother set up the humble little tree. Aside from candles I do not remember how the tree was decorated, but placed underneath were my presents, a pair of new hosiery and a pair of gloves. In addition, the little Jesus (according to Hungarian children’s belief) also brought me a doll! The tiny, 13cm (five inches) rag doll did not even have hair. Her head was formed from an old silk stocking and the angel drew her face on with red and blue ink. I no longer remember what she was wearing.

Without any hesitation I named her Nudli. Her tiny arms were round and the exact size of my favorite pasta, the potato noodle; her legs were only a bit longer. I loved my Nudli doll very much, just as I loved her namesake, the potato noodle. Instead of a dollhouse and little doll bed, a small, brownish cardboard box with lid was Nudli’s residence. I lined the box with scraps of fabric to make her bed soft. I made small outfits for her, fashioned with scissors from scraps of fabric, reminiscent of priest’s vestments. I rounded out each “dress” with a piece of yarn for a
belt. To her head, or rather into her bald head, I pinned a bow made from blue polka dot fabric.

As my small fingers grew and became more skilled I also sewed tiny “shoes” for Nudli from round fabric scraps, gathered at the edges with thread and tied at her ankles. A small pillow and comforter also got into the box, along with a lacy coverlet. I dreamed and played for hours on end with my humble toy and found pleasure in Nudli’s colorful wardrobe. She had a red polka dot skirt, a floral blouse, a blue vest and red shoes.

Later, as our poverty eased somewhat, we had money to spend on toys, too. My playmates had hard plastic dolls by then yet I hung fast to my precious, beloved Nudli.

The city government finally allocated an apartment for us. Around that time Nudli, too, retired to her box, and a large doll with long hair took her place in my play world of make-believe. Nudli lay in her box in my drawer between her pillows and comforter while my interest slowly shifted from dolls to boys. Before I immigrated to America I left Nudli, along with my diaries, in a sealed box in my parents' care.

A few years ago when I returned to Hungary for my father’s funeral I realized I must make arrangements for Nudli’s future before any uninformed family member sentenced the ugly little doll to eternal damnation and the poor thing would end up in the garbage dumpster. This is how Nudli came to embark on a long journey, flying beyond the Seven Seas to the New World as an illegal immigrant. After her arrival I introduced her to my children (who grew up with colorful Fisher Price toys and dolls, each more beautiful than the other). They were amazed and unbelieving, almost uncomfortable at the sight of this tangible proof of my humble childhood. So, I put Nudli back into her little box and hid her in the bottom of a drawer. There she lay, more or less forgotten.

Just the other day as my thoughts turned to the upcoming Christmas--I myself don’t know why--Nudli came to my mind. As I opened her small, yellowish box, there lay my familiar little doll, yet it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. In her I saw the infant Jesus, born in humble circumstances and placed in a manger. That same little Jesus came to me on that long-ago, poverty-stricken Christmas after the war, when we had no home, no food, no clothes. Outside our city and our country lay in ruins, indoors we lacked coal and wood to heat our room, but our family was together, we escaped the ravages of war. That is when Nudli entered into my young life and in her humbleness all she asked was love. In exchange for it she lit up my gloomy childhood years and made my make-believe world happier and more colorful.

As I marveled at Nudli I realized that my beloved, poor little doll deserves a more prominent place and honor. From now on she will be sitting under the Christmas tree each year, the same as on that first Christmas after the war when the infant Jesus brought her into my life, so, through her, I may dream of a colorful world and a more beautiful future.

“Glory to God in Heaven
Peace to men on Earth”

(Hungarian Christmas carol)

Copyright © by Marta Boros Horvath. All rights reserved.

Placing my old rag doll, Nudli, and her written story by the Christmas tree became a tradition in our home since 1997. Instead of a Christmas card I also pass on her printed story to my family and friends. The humble doll reminds me of the true meaning of Christmas, and helps me appreciate the many blessings I have received since that long ago Christmas after the war.
m.boros.h@gmail.com