Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (18 page)

BY ANNEMARIEKE TAZELAAR

W
hen my father pulled our 1939 black Ford sedan into the Chicago intersection of Lake Shore Drive and Jackson Boulevard to make a left turn, a policeman blew his whistle, held out his hand to stop traffic, and approached the car.

“What in the Sam Hill?” Papa said under his breath. He rolled down the window cautiously, wondering what he'd done wrong.

The officer extended his hand and asked, “Where are you heading?” Then he peered into the car, his eyes stopping on my mother. I watched her profile as she smiled at him, an earring dangling beneath the lace cap of her Dutch costume. From the back seat, I saw my father's shoulders relax. The officer was merely curious.

“The Museum of Science and Industry,” Papa answered.

“My family is supposed to be on stage in two hours.”

The policeman scanned my two siblings and me, costumed and shy, sitting stone still in the back seat. “Where are you folks from?” he asked.

“Grand Rapids,” Papa said.

“The Netherlands,” Mama offered, leaning over my father to look up at the officer. “We came here less than a year ago.”

“No kidding? You folks must've been in the war!”

My father's eyes answered the police officer's question silently. Sometimes, when talking about the war, there was too much to say, sometimes there was nothing to say. Sometimes, we were just glad we had lived through it all, and yet sometimes — like right now — I could think of some very fond memories that could never have taken place if there hadn't been a war.

Taking the hint, the officer quickly changed the subject. After explaining the most direct way to the museum, he wished us good luck on stage and waved us on.

A college friend of my father's had arranged for our participation in the 1946 Christmas Around the World program at the museum. On our way to the auditorium, we clomped on our wooden shoes through a long hallway lined with Christmas trees decked out in the traditions of many countries.

Dazzled by the grandeur of the lights, the decorations, and the huge trees, my mind wandered back to another Christmas, two years before, in war-torn Arnhem — our beloved city. We were evacuated, so our family and my mother's parents had rented two rooms in a nearby village. For Christmas that year, the seven of us shared one small chicken, garnished with potatoes and rutabagas gleaned from the fields, and fresh mushrooms found in the forest: a feast, compared to our usual meager fare of boiled potatoes.

And we had a tree. My father cut three pine branches, tied them together, and “planted” them in a bucket of soil. The amorphous shape kept flopping over until we leaned the tree against a wall.

My brothers and I took charge of decorating the “tree.” From colored scraps of paper, we fashioned five-pointed stars and nativity scene characters, which we cut out and hung on twigs. On the forest floor, we found silver strips — radio distorters dropped from British planes to thwart German communications. These we draped on the branches. The bright tinsel sparkled as candlelight transformed our ugly duckling tree into a Christmas swan.

That was then. Now, we were scheduled to enact the traditional Dutch St. Nicholas celebration. Although we had never worn costumes in the Netherlands, the museum staff wanted us to don them, so Mother had hastily cobbled our outfits together. I felt proud and pretty in my lace cap and long skirt. My brothers grinned sheepishly when they tried on their wide, billowing breeches. We all needed practice walking in wooden shoes.

Someone led Mother and my brothers and me to a stage furnished with a living room façade: a wall with a single door and pictures of windmills and tulips. A decorated tree stood to one side. Mother tried to explain to the stage director that the December 5th St. Nicholas celebration and Christmas had nothing to do with one another, but the Christmas theme won over authenticity, so the tree stayed.

Mother tested the upright piano with a few chords and arpeggios. Satisfied, she rehearsed a song with us before the doors of the huge auditorium opened.
But where was my father?

Backstage sat a dozen or so “wooden shoe” dancers — girls from Holland, Michigan. A short, stocky man held the reins of a white horse, which looked somewhat nervous, and doing what horses tend to do any time they feel the urge, the horse suddenly let go with an impressive splash that bounced off the wooden floor and onto the bevy of girls. The girls jumped up, screamed, and scattered.

With a booming voice, their coach soothed them. “Ladies, please settle down! It'll dry!”We watched the worried horse owner trying to calm the animal as a stagehand appeared with a bucket and a mop.

We peeked out from behind the side curtain at the gathering audience, a huge mass of people to our apprehensive eyes. Suddenly, the street-organ dance music began and the girls filed out, now quite composed and self-confident. The performance ended and the applause cascaded with thunderous appreciation. The curtain came down, and we took our place on the stage.

Mother opened the St. Nicholas songbook to a favorite we all knew by heart, about the moon shining through the trees and St. Nicholas, astride his white steed, riding from rooftop to rooftop. When the curtain rose again, we were already singing.

The door of the backdrop opened, and a black-gloved hand tossed candy onto the carpet. We scrambled for the sweets, singing the traditional song that accompanied the action.

Then the door opened again. The white steed we'd seen back stage entered. Astride sat St. Nicholas in a white robe, a gold stole, and a tall mitered hat. St. Nicholas would have looked quite regal, except that the animal balked, its eyes growing big and round. And St. Nicholas, awkward in the saddle, certainly didn't look as though he could handle a whole evening of rooftop riding!

Nodding to the good Saint, my mother played the introduction to “Welcome to Our House, Honored Bishop,” as my older brother and I sang.

But not my younger brother, Hans. He stood, openmouthed, looking at his beloved St. Nicholas. The audience fell silent, and my mother stopped playing to see what had captured their attention. We all stared at Hans.

Then, with a gasp, totally oblivious to his surroundings, Hans blurted out, “That's Papa!”

Laughter exploded from the audience. Then the applause thundered, realizing they had witnessed a rite of passage for my brother: his entry into the adult world of realism. His childhood idol was, after all, merely mortal.

At the reception that followed our performance, a sea of people milled around us, smiling, murmuring appreciation for our skit, complimenting our costumes and our voices. We gravitated toward a table laden with platters of turkey, mashed potatoes, salads, and pies.

“All that food!” my mother exclaimed, choking back tears.

And then, we heard a jingle of bells and a booming voice that filled the room. The crowd parted to make way for a corpulent Santa Claus walking toward my tall, lanky father, who was still dressed in his bishop garments.

We watched every move of the jolly man with the magnificent white beard. Santa opened a large bag and held up a candy cane for Hans.

Then, a smiling Saint and a smiling Santa shook hands. A glimmer of wonder returned to my brother's eyes. And as two traditions mingled, a young boy's faith was restored.

BY AL SERRADELL

M
y family has always been a great collector of people. Mom was especially gifted in this sport, so gifted, in fact, that I never knew whom she'd bring home for dinner or a holiday celebration. Her strategy was simple: If she met someone she thought needed comforting or just companionship, within twenty-four hours her new friend would be sitting at our table enjoying a home-cooked meal. I remember one Christmas holiday in particular, when I came home from college to find a strange woman sitting in our living room. She wore a shapeless denim smock and looked to be about forty-something. With no makeup, her hair tied in a long graying ponytail, she appeared haggard and worn, a living portrait of a rough life.

After a quick hug, my mother introduced me to her new best friend.

“Say hello to Grace, Al. She's visiting us from St. Grace,” Mom added.

St. Grace was a local nursing home. Images of old, bedridden people too feeble to move flooded my brain. But surely something was wrong. Grace didn't appear to be old and looked pretty healthy, at least strong enough to feed herself.

I smiled and said hello to our visitor. Instead of responding, the strange woman sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed forward, not even looking at me. I wasn't sure she'd even heard me, so I said hello again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Mom bridged the awkward silence with small talk, which she continued throughout dinner, informing us that our visitor had no blood family to speak of and so was anxious to make new friends. Knowing our mother's strict rules on hospitality, we tried conversing with our guest. “Don't you love Christmas?” “I haven't even had a chance to do much shopping.”“What's your favorite Christmas carol?” On and on we went, ignoring her silence while refilling her plate and water glass every few minutes.

After dinner, one of my brothers decided to hook up the karaoke machine. I wasn't sure this was such a good idea. Grace wasn't having a very good time as it was. Sitting like a statue, not saying a word, she was probably counting the minutes until she could return to the peace and quiet of her own room. But the family tradition won out, as each of us started going through the offered selections to choose our musical numbers. When the songbook was passed to Grace, she just nodded and said, “Number 135.”

I checked the list. Patsy Cline. “Crazy.”

Uh-oh, I thought. This is it. The theme song for the infirmed — Grace was about to crack. I wondered if we'd have to call an ambulance to take her back to the nursing home or a mental ward. After all, she hadn't uttered a sound since her arrival here — surely this would only push her over the edge. But my worries proved groundless. When her turn came, I was shocked. Not only could Grace vocalize, but she sang well — soft and slow, with perfect phrasing and pitch and without even looking at the words on the monitor. She knew the song, and had no doubt performed it before!

Afterward, we applauded and Mom handed our guest the songbook again. This time, the woman chose a Christmas song.

Closing her eyes, Grace poured every ounce of emotion and power into her performance, as if she were onstage. I could feel the song coming to life for her, the joy of Christmas rising from her soul.

I felt the trickle of tears rolling down my face. Grace had blown me away. Looking around, I realized she'd achieved the same effect on everyone in the room. Never had we enjoyed a more beautiful and emotional rendition of “Silent Night.”

Wanting to know how she had learned to sing that well, I risked a conversation with our singing guest.

A smile lit up her face. “Honey,” Grace said in a hoarse, whispery tone, “I sang in a band with my husband for nearly fifteen years. We weren't really professional, but folks seemed to enjoy our singing of the popular songs.” She stopped for a minute, and I thought she was finished for the night, but after a moment she continued. “When Sammy died, I just stopped singing. It was like I just didn't have the heart anymore. But tonight, with all of you around, I thought I could try it again.”

I put my arm around her. “Well, you can come sing for us anytime.”

“For fifteen years I sang with that man,” she explained. “Fifteen wonderful years.”

Grace's eyes sparkled, and I knew she was thinking of Sammy and singing in their band. All those memories had come back, and she was happy once again. I looked at Mom and a feeling of pride raced through me. Not everyone would invite a stranger into their home, but because Mom had, Grace had come out of mourning and was enjoying the warmth of just plain being alive again.

BY DMITRI BARVINOK

I
n Slonim, Belarussia, the holidays are celebrated by giving what we can to the needy. That same sense of gift giving circulates down through homes and businesses. Even the day care my little brother, Nicholas, attended always hosted a large celebration, complete with a huge Christmas tree, lots of fruit punch, and presents.

The families of those who attend the day care always come for a bit of holiday cheer, bringing friends and relatives with them. One year, the celebration at the day care was particularly large. At the age of six, my best friend, Kiriil, and I couldn't wait for everyone to arrive so we could grab a piece of fruit or a cookie! As soon as we were given the go ahead, Kiriil selected an apple from the table and shoved it into his pocket, while I grabbed a few cookies for us to share in the big room where the festivities were to take place.

We children looked forward to this event and couldn't wait to check out the tree! The Christmas tree stretched up to the ceiling and was draped with shiny ornaments, presents, and candy!

Soon, we were standing beneath the tree looking at the huge assortment of gifts — including a brightly knitted pair of mittens — with a simple tag that read: To Anton C. for a fence well painted.

As we crowded around the tree, adults took various presents off the branches or from under the tree, read the inscription, and passed the gifts on to the prospective recipient. Kiriil and I waited patiently while lucky children raced back to their parents shouting, “Look what I got!”

Grandparents smiled at the chaos, nodding with glistening eyes as they watched the expression on each child's face.

Every year, for as long as I could remember, we always returned home pleased with the new toys we received. It was always an evening filled with happiness from beginning to end. No one expected this year would be different. But in the midst of the holiday happiness, someone rushed into the room shouting that a fire had broken out in the kitchen, and mass chaos ensued!

For a moment, Kiriil and I froze. Then we heard parents yelling for their children, children screaming for their parents. The unmistakable smell of smoke wafted through the doors from the kitchen, and almost immediately, a grey-black cloud rolled into the main room. As people started coughing, those closest to the emergency exit finally got it open and the fire alarm shrieked, adding to the din. Strong arms grabbed us and helped us outside, where we stood for the next few minutes, watching the commotion with wide eyes and wondering where our families were.

Though the excitement of the Christmas Party had taken a frightening turn, even at our young age we could see that in the midst of the horror, goodness had taken over. Those with cell phones dialed 911, while others ran for fire extinguishers. Adults grabbed youngsters — including both of our younger siblings — and hauled them safely from the burning building, and teenagers helped the elderly.

Soon, everyone had congregated outside. As flames lit the night sky, parents counted their children to make sure no one had been left behind. When we heard the first fire siren, a collective sigh of relief fanned through the group. Many looked up at the night sky — some to our Creator, some just to the beauty of the stars. For the first time ever, I realized how precious my vision was, something I had taken for granted before today.

Bonded by trauma, Kiriil's family clumped together with ours as we made our way home.

The next week, as other organizations celebrated the holidays, the day care director posted a small note on a local bulletin board asking for donations to help rebuild the center. Then she placed a small box beneath the note.

When Kiriil and his younger sister, Tanya, accompanied by their grandmother, saw the request and the empty box, Kiriil turned to his grandmother.

“Grandma,” he said, “I want to talk to the lady in charge of the day care. I have an apple that I kept from the party.” The old woman smiled. Moved by her brother's kindness, Tanya smiled, too. She pulled a dollar bill from her pocket and asked if she could donate it to the cause as well.

The woman beamed with pride as she took her grandchildren to see the director. When the story spread throughout the area, the community came alive with the Spirit of Christmas, and donations began to pour in!

The director was so touched by Kiriil's gesture that she, too, made a gesture. She announced that anyone who donated to the fund would get a small slice of the apple as a symbolic gesture of her thankfulness and appreciation.

Over the next month, there were so many donations offered, there was no way an apple could be divided into that many pieces. To make up for it, the director mailed a small plastic replica of an apple — the sort teachers might keep on their desks — to each contributor, with a small plaque bearing the words “To Those Who Care and Give.” And, to mark the generosity of a child, the director decided to add a new tradition to the festivities.

When Christmas came the following year, the day care director retold the story of what had happened the previous Christmas. After she finished praising the community for their quick thinking during a time of panic, she told a story about a little boy who had donated his apple — all that he had to give — in hopes it would help the rebuilding of the center. Then, she asked Kiriil to step forward to accept not only a generous round of applause, but also the first apple of the evening.

Though it's been a dozen years since that Christmas, this tradition still continues, in honor of Kiriil, the “best” best friend I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.