Silent Night

Amara put the things on Father Tom’s table one by one, in the vestry, on Tuesday morning. Last came the little lamp, which was still on.

Amara menaruh barang-barang itu satu per satu di meja Father Tom, di sakristi, pada Selasa pagi. Yang terakhir lampu kecil, yang masih menyala.

Then she stood up very straight, the way her father told her to.

Lalu dia berdiri sangat tegak, seperti yang dikatakan ayahnya.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I took them. Nobody helped me take them.” She turned to Mr Doyle. “I’m sorry, sir. I climbed in by your window.”

“Maaf, Father,” katanya. “Saya yang mengambilnya. Tidak ada yang membantu saya.” Dia menoleh ke Pak Doyle. “Maaf, Pak. Saya masuk lewat jendela Bapak.”

Father Tom couldn’t speak. He just put his big hand on her head.

Father Tom tidak bisa berbicara. Dia hanya menaruh tangannya yang besar di kepala Amara.

“My window,” said Mr Doyle at last. “I opened it with my pole, in November, because you asked me. Then I closed it fast, because you were in a hurry. Thirty years, and I didn’t check it.” He looked at me. “So it’s on me too, Miss Novak. And on you, a little.”

“Jendela saya,” kata Pak Doyle akhirnya. “Saya membukanya dengan galah, bulan November, karena kamu minta. Lalu saya menutupnya cepat-cepat, karena kamu terburu-buru. Tiga puluh tahun, dan saya tidak memeriksanya.” Dia memandang saya. “Jadi ini salah saya juga, Bu Novak. Dan salah Anda, sedikit.”

Then he held out his hand, and I gave him back his key.

Lalu dia mengulurkan tangannya, dan saya mengembalikan kuncinya.

“I’ll clean the hall again, and look at the heating,” he said. “For the children. I don’t forgive you yet, Miss Novak.”

“Saya akan membersihkan aula lagi, dan melihat pemanasnya,” katanya. “Untuk anak-anak. Saya belum memaafkan Anda, Bu Novak.”

That was fair. I didn’t argue.

Itu adil. Saya tidak membantah.

After that I phoned PC Shah, and he closed the report, and he didn’t go to Marco’s workshop. Then I went to the hospital myself and stood at the ward sister’s desk until she looked up.

Sesudah itu saya menelepon Polisi Shah, dan dia menutup laporannya, dan dia tidak pergi ke bengkel Marco. Lalu saya sendiri pergi ke rumah sakit dan berdiri di meja suster kepala bangsal sampai dia melihat ke atas.

I gave her a note from Kofi Mensah, bed eight, written slowly in pencil. Please let the children come. It is the only Christmas my daughter can give me.

Saya memberinya surat dari Kofi Mensah, tempat tidur delapan, ditulis pelan-pelan dengan pensil. Tolong izinkan anak-anak datang. Ini satu-satunya Natal yang bisa putri saya berikan kepada saya.

The sister read it twice. “Your journalist phoned me three times,” she said. “That didn’t change anything. This does.” She took out a form. “Forty children on my ward at night. Whose name goes here? The school’s?”

Suster itu membacanya dua kali. “Wartawan Anda menelepon saya tiga kali,” katanya. “Itu tidak mengubah apa-apa. Ini mengubahnya.” Dia mengeluarkan sebuah formulir. “Empat puluh anak di bangsal saya pada malam hari. Nama siapa di sini? Nama sekolah?”

“No. The school said no this morning. A parish play at night is not a school trip.”

“Bukan. Sekolah berkata tidak pagi ini. Pementasan paroki pada malam hari bukan kunjungan sekolah.”

“Then whose?”

“Kalau begitu nama siapa?”

I wrote my own name. One child on the ice, and it was my name, and maybe my job.

Saya menulis nama saya sendiri. Satu anak di atas es, dan itu nama saya, dan mungkin pekerjaan saya.