In 1943 Hungary, a Jewish Hasidic couple Ferenc Zenthe and Hédi Temessy adopt an orphaned boy named Lackó, who is Christian. To avoid the laws against Jews adopting Christians, the adoption papers are backdated to 1938, and the father gifts two calves to the boy, hoping a divine sign will confirm the act. Lackó proves stubborn and unruly, pushing against the boundaries of the orphanage, and Ferenc Zenthe is quick to read this defiance as a sign that a spark from one of the calves has somehow passed to the child, marking him as a chosen one who might carry the family’s faith into the future. The decision to raise Lackó among their own people invites murmurs of disapproval from the village’s Jewish community, and the burden of legitimacy weighs heavily on them, especially under the gaze of the local religious leadership.
The village’s rabbinical authorities view the arrangement with suspicion, and the charge of blasphemy shadows Jób’s and Róza’s unconventional family plan. Despite the tension, the couple remains committed to their belief that Lackó is meant to survive where their own children did not, a hope that holds the family together even as outsiders question its wisdom. Lackó grows up without a sense of formal faith, observing Sabbath preparations and prayers with a blend of curiosity and distance. When his father explains that God resides in all things—even frogs—Lackó reluctantly joins his neighbor in frog-hunting as a way of honoring his father’s faith in the world around him.
The arrival of a circus in the village becomes a cultural doorway, and with it the film The Frozen Child is shown to the townspeople. The cinema experience elicits a spectrum of reactions: some are moved to tears by the screen, while others resent the emotional distress they’re asked to pay for, unable to separate the art from the illusion. The film’s power stirs new emotions in the community, and it also awakens personal bonds—Ilka, a maid, and Jani, a farmhand who work on Jób’s ranch, feel their own feelings deepening. The emotional resonance of the moment leads to a quiet, private decision between them, and their wedding soon follows, blessed by the village priest.
A monk named Günther arrives and begins teaching Lackó about religion, a development that spurs Jób into passionate prayer for his son. When rain arrives the next morning, Jób takes it as a sign of divine approval, a small mercy after so much hardship. But tragedy strikes when Lackó falls ill with diphtheria—the disease that has haunted Jób’s family before. Desperate prayers from both parents bring a miraculous recovery, and the Jewish community showers them with gifts and support, reinforcing the sense that Lackó’s life has become a shared beacon of hope for everyone around them.
As the family prepares for an eventual separation, Jób presents Lackó with his father’s knife, a symbolic gesture charged with history and meaning. The next day, with Lackó still sick, Jób and Róza depart, leaving him in the care of Ilka and Jani. The painted Star of David on their former home stands as a quiet reminder of the life they once shared. The departure is abrupt and painful; Lackó witnesses the deportation of his girlfriend Kati and confronts his parents, who respond with cold rejection. Left alone, Lackó wanders through a war-torn landscape, watching deserters be executed and witnessing his loved ones depart in cattle wagons. In a final, heartrending moment, Jób urges Lackó to stay and await the Messiah, but as the wagons pull away, the boy cries out for the Messiah and begins a solitary journey that will define the rest of his life.
