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For all the Family
THE CHRISTMAS CARD
By
J. W. B. Laing
It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was alone in the office of my air charter business, feet on my desk, relaxing and thinking about the drive home. The staff had gone home early after our Christmas luncheon. I glanced out the window at the snow that was now falling heavily, large flakes like small white feathers, slowly floating down to join the blanket that covered the airfield and the wings of the anchored aircraft. I took another mouthful of Molson's Golden from the bottle. Fortunately there was no wind, but it was still going to be a tricky drive from the airport to the city.
I thought I'd look through the day's mail that had been dumped on my desk and lay unopened. The bright blue Christmas card envelope stood out among the usual white and tan business envelopes. I picked it up, looked at it and turned it over, looking for some indication as to whom it was from. I noted that it was from some indecipherable place in Germany, the name of which was blotched. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. It read..."Have spent many years searching for you. We hope this reaches you. All of our family, including new grandchild, at home for Christmas. We all thank you for that most wonderful Christmas we ever had. May you also have a wonderful one with many more to come." When I read that, it wasn't necessary for me to read further to know whom it was from. Holding it in my hand, I again looked out the window at the heavy snow flakes as the memories came flooding back...it all seemed so long ago...but it wasn't really.........
Shivering, I stepped out of the steaming, smoky warmth of the railway station onto the poorly lit and dismal city-street. Alone in Germany wasn't exactly the best place to be for a single and relatively young airman, especially on Christmas Eve, or so I thought.
I didn't know a soul in the city and felt depressed. I felt lonely and sorry for myself, wishing I'd remained at the officers' lounge back at the base; there, I'd at least be among others in a similar predicament, crying on each other's shoulders over mugs of beer. I smiled to myself at the thought of a group of grown men sitting in a circle, sobbing between gulps of beer. I chuckled at the thought and the depression eased off. This was the first time I wouldn't be at home in the village with my family and life-long friends for the Christmas holidays.
No one to blame but myself. No one forced me to remain at the base; but one pilot had to be on stand-by for twenty-four hours, which duty I assumed that morning before the storm started. I knew that the other pilots in the squadron had families they should be with at such a time. All I would be going home to was a large empty house filled with the echoes of happy memories of past Christmases, on a bleak, snow draped estate. All my old friends were now scattered around the globe, involved in their varied careers, most with families of their own. They'd outgrown the "come home" effect the old village once held on them. I too, had outgrown that familiar and impelling urge, and now desired a more exciting way to spend Christmas, beyond that of a formal dinner with a neighboring family and the boring tranquillity of a sleepy village.
My parents had decided to spend the holidays in Switzerland with their life long friends...skiing no less, a sport I thought they were too old for until I remembered they were only in their fifties. This too, was their first time away from home at Christmas and felt uncomfortable with leaving me at home on my own. It took quite a few phone calls to convince them that I'd be just fine. In a sudden fit of desperation, I lied a little when I told them that I was assigned to be Duty Officer for the holidays, especially when they tried to convince me to join them in the Alps. Hell, I was twenty-five and everyone in their party was at least fifty, besides, I didn't care for skiing. Like a rock group performing at a Mozart festival...I'd be unquestionably out of place and bored to death.
So...where was I? Oh yes. Here I was, alone in a strange city...and country...on Christmas Eve. Being the "stand by pilot" for the next twelve hours, I would have to call the base every hour on the hour to make sure my services weren't required. Thank, I wasn't worried about since the entire country was socked in with, on and off, light to heavy snowstorms with gusty winds, and similarly forecast for the next several days. Flying was out of the question. In any case, it was only half an hour by taxi back to the airfield. I stopped for a moment on the snow-covered sidewalk, wondering which way to go...left or right. It really didn't matter; I'd never been in the city before and had no idea where all the action was. I decided to try my luck by going to the right, bent forward, headlong into the gusty, snow-laden wind to see what "wonders" I'd find.
I walked, or should say staggered, against the blustering wind, past several, dark and dismal buildings. Finding nothing of interest, I was about to turn and try the other direction when suddenly, to my left, I came upon a wide street, or avenue, that appeared to be an isolated and very busy shopping district. To my delight, I'd stumbled into a fantasy world of seasonal decorations and sounds. Christmas trees decorated with hundreds of colored, winking lights and equally colorful neon lights that illuminated the many brightly lit shops. Christmas music wafted in the snow-laden wind.
All around were hordes of people, tightly bundled against the elements, laden with gift-wrapped presents for husbands, wives, children, or other relatives or friends; everyone taking advantage of the post-war prosperity. The whole atmosphere changed my mood completely. I actually began to feel the spirit of the season flow through me as children laughed and shouted with the excitement of "Sinter Klaas" coming to their homes during this special night, bringing gifts...some of which they knew of...some of which they just hoped for. This shopping area with its throngs, consisted of two wide avenues separated by a long strip of a park studded with trees festooned with small white lights, all blinking and swaying in the wind. To me, it was a Christmas wonderland, and for pedestrians only it seemed, since no vehicles of any kind could be seen.
I stood spell-bound at the wonderful sights and sounds for several minutes until I was jostled by a group of happy laughing, teen-age shoppers who apologized to me profusely, wishing me a "Froehliche Weihnachten." How inappropriately polite for teen-agers, I thought, especially since I was standing mesmerized in the middle of the sidewalk with gift-laden people, bent over against the wind, bumping into me.
The cold wind and wet snow was becoming more uncomfortable. Raising the collar of my overcoat, I pulled it tight around my neck and began to move with the crowd, stopping now and then to look into some of the brightly illuminated shops at their eye-catching window decorations and wares.
Regardless of how much I enjoyed the scenes, I still wanted to find an open nightclub or lounge where, perhaps, I could find someone, preferably female, and with whom I could share the festive spirit.
As I continued my search for the idyllic setting, I heard the beautiful sound of "Silent Night" being sung in German by a group of period-costumed singers all wrapped in heavy winter coats and scarves. They stood bunched together beneath one of the twinkling trees in the park and with a covered and decorated wooden tub for donations for charity. That immortal Christmas carol brought back memories of bygone Christmases as a youngster. I crossed the crowded street and dropped fifty Marks into their red and green-ribboned tub. Having made a donation to their worth-while cause, I began to feel better about my situation...probably my conscience, but I still felt better...besides, I knew I had quite a bit more where that came from. I didn't think it was too much...what else was I going to spend it on any way...liquid Christmas cheer...in one end and out the other, plus an ensuing hangover?
All around, people were in a festive frenzy, looking for that last minute gift for someone almost forgotten in the usual hectic seasonal rush, trying to make sure that this would be their best Christmas ever. The atmosphere was filled with that indescribable feeling of excitement, happiness and anticipation, a feeling that was contagious.
The snow was now falling heavier, giving the old fashioned scene, with all of its attractions and festivities, the look of a beautiful, traditional Christmas card.
Somewhere in the distance I heard the unmistakable sound of sleigh bells. Eventually, to complete the picture, came a horse decked out with festive garlands; around its neck were strips of scarlet felt to which were attached small silver and gold bells that chimed in time to its gait as it pulled a high backed sleigh. Clouds of steam puffed from the horse's nostrils in the cold air as it slowly pulled the sleigh filled with young people on a wintry joy ride, the long tails of their colorful woollen caps billowing like banners in the wind. Feeling again the intense need for companionship, I pushed on, head bowed against the elements, looking for that elusive appropriate source of Christmas cheer; I just had to get inside, away from this weather.
I walked for about two more blocks, when I spotted a large, frosted over window above which hung a neon sign depicting a cocktail glass. With the windows covered with frost, it was impossible to see inside. It didn't look like much from the outside, however, being in the middle of the mainstream shopping area, it had to be respectable. With my face up close against the glass, I rubbed a portion of the window with my gloved hand, removing some of the built up frost. Suddenly I found myself looking eyeball to eyeball with an old, round, rosy-cheeked face with a pipe protruding from a mouth that was overhung by a large bushy white moustache. The face stared at me with a wonderful smile; I knew, immediately, that I'd found my place.
I had to push hard to get the door opened and soon found out that it was due to the crowd inside crammed up against it. As the door slowly opened, the people were forced back, spilling their drinks, but just laughed as they helped drag me inside. I found myself being slowly pulled by invisible hands through the crowd towards the bar.
While I waited for the bartender to serve me, I scanned the crowd looking for a possible companion. The room was quite large and reeked with tobacco smoke, the smell of beer, liquor, cooked food and the musky smell of body sweat. It was also filled with a cacophony of laughter, clinking of glass mugs of at least a hundred people, plus voices singing to the accompaniment of an unseen accordion. Young men, young women, old men and old women, all thoroughly enjoying themselves in the mood of the season. Much to my chagrin, I saw no young women who appeared to be unattached.
Standing next to me at the bar was a man who looked to be very much in discord with everyone else, a few years older than I, slight of build, with a hollow, sunken eyed look of a man not in the best of health. He wore an old, scruffy overcoat and an equally old and scruffy scarf that hung from around his thin neck; he appeared to be alone. He turned to me and said something in German. Feeling embarrassed at my inability to understand what he was saying, I apologized to him in English telling him my German was extremely limited.
"Vell mein friend, tonight ve speak ze English," he said, smiling and nodding his head in self-approval of his bilingualism.
"Thanks," I said. "What do I have to do to get a beer in here?" I asked impatiently; I wanted to catch up with the other revellers.
Suddenly I remembered I had to check in at the base. I looked around for a public telephone and spotted one in an alcove between the rest rooms.
Excusing myself from my new acquaintance, I struggled through the crowd, pulled out a handful of change from my pocket, deposited enough that I hoped would cover the call, into the ancient, well used telephone and dialled the station number. I spoke to the Duty Officer, advised him of where I was and gave him the telephone number that was printed behind an age-faded strip of plastic below the dial. I had to shout into the phone in order to be heard above the din of the celebrants. The Duty Officer laughed, as he shouted that there was nothing happening there, that the party sounded good, to enjoy myself and wished he could join me. After exchanging a few seasonal pleasantries, I hung up the receiver.
Once again, I struggled back to the bar to the spot I'd left. To my surprise, my scruffy friend was still there and had a large mug of beer waiting for me. "Thank you very much," I said to the man. He just smiled, nodded and raised his mug in a toast, "Froehliche Weinachten und Glueckliches Neues Jahr." That, I understood, so I raised my mug and responded with, "And to you."
I looked around, without much hope, to see if there was a table we could sit at, when, from the corner of my eye, I spotted two people who seemed to be getting ready to leave from one in a corner of the room. I grabbed my grubby friend by the arm to make a dash for it. He had to reach down to retrieve some un-noticed paper parcels at his feet and by the time he'd gathered everything together, the table was taken.
"I sorry," he said to me, with a weak smile, hoping I wasn't upset.
"Don't worry about it, there'll be others," I said with a big smile to put him at ease and thinking this was a good way to open a conversation.
"By the way, my name is Anthony." I offered my hand in introduction. "Some people call me Tony, I...don't...care." I bit my tongue just as I said that. I really did care; I certainly did not like being called Tony.
When I was about ten years old, around the corner from my grandmother's house, there was an ice-cream shop. The ice-cream was the finest in the city, and the owner, who's name was Tony, had shiny black curly hair and, to my disgust, thick bushy nose hairs which protruded from his nostrils. I used to imagine with horror, one of those gross hairs falling from his nose onto my ice cream and always watched closely to make sure that it didn't happen. If it weren't for the fabulous ice cream, I'd never have gone there. I wouldn't allow anyone else to go to the shop for me; I had to personally watch for those nose hairs. Even after receiving my ice cream from Tony, I would inspect it thoroughly for any of those offensive hairs.
It took a few black eyes and bloody noses until my classmates at school realized that they should call me Anthony from then on.
The German took my hand and shook it rather weakly.
"My name Adolph, I very to good to know you," the man said, as he gathered his packages between his feet again.
"Adolph!" I exclaimed in surprise. I spluttered and choked on my beer, afraid to ask him what his last name was. The war had only been over for about seven years, so I couldn't help associating the name 'Adolph' with 'Hitler'. He was the first Adolph I'd heard of since Hitler. A bubble of laughter welled up inside and had to strain to keep it there. "You okay?" asked Adolph, with a worried look on his face.
"Yes, I'm fine thanks Adolph," I said, desperately trying to suppress my urge to laugh. I ordered another round.
"Vy you not mit family maybe?" asked Adolph.
"Well, someone has to be on call back at my air force base during the holidays, and that someone turned out to be me," I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. "In fact I shouldn't even be here, but not even the birds can fly in this weather." He nodded in agreement.
I struggled to remove my overcoat and looked for a place to drape it. I was sweating heavily from the heat in the body-congested room. The perspiring bartender placed two more large mugs of frothy beer on the bar in front of us. He reached over, squeezing his huge belly against the counter, grabbed my coat saying, "I will put it here for you, it will be very safe," as he stuffed it under the bar. I started to say, "Thank you sir," but he was quickly gone, filling more mugs of beer for the thirsty, festive crowd. I thought they must all be regulars since they were joking with him and were calling him by the name of "Gus."
"What about you, Adolph?" I asked, "do you have a family, are you married?"
"Ah... ja, Tony, I has family. Two kinder...girls, good ja?" he responded. "Mein vife, Gretchen, und kinder, zey are at house...not far."
After numerous mugs of beer, which I insisted on paying for, and more idle chat about family, Christmas and the weather, Gus, the bartender, came and asked if we would like something to eat. The alcohol had taken away my desire for food that I'd felt earlier in the evening, and replaced it with a sort of alcoholic euphoria, so we settled for huge hot German sausages served on a plate with a pile of paper towels to handle the grease.
When we'd washed them down with more beer, Adolph said, "I ask you, soon ve go to mein house for good foods, okay?"
"Sure thing," I slurred. Neither of us was suffering any pain due to the copious quantities of brew we'd consumed, which I still refused to allow him to pay for, much to his embarrassment. I knew, without a doubt, my new friend couldn't afford to pay and I had plenty.
Time passed quickly, but I still remembered, in my fuzzy state of mind, to call the base every hour as required. I'd no doubt in my mind that I wouldn't be of much use as a pilot now, even if the need for one arose.
The din of loud laughter, raised voices and music had increased with the amount of alcohol consumed by the patrons. Tired of competing with the noise and shouting to each other to be heard, we decided to give our voices a rest. I took stock of my newfound drinking companion. He was indeed a haggard man, with a dark five o'clock shadowed chin and was wearing pitiful clothes that were too large for him. His very threadbare coat hung loosely on his lean frame. He wore a crumpled white shirt with a bright red tie that was adorned with a menu of food stains. On his feet were old worn out shoes. Here, obviously, was a very poor man. Although he was poor, he still tried in vain to pay for some of the drinks, carefully counting out the change in his hand. I imagined that he'd been saving for some time to afford a few drinks on Christmas Eve with other celebrants.
Adolph told me that he'd been at the eastern front during the greater part of the war, but had been sent to the Italian front where he was captured by the American forces. I thought to myself that it was damned strange that every German I'd talked to who'd fought in the war had done so at the eastern front. What were they ashamed of? Did any of them fight on the western front? I felt a little disappointed in Adolph. Then again, maybe he was telling the truth...but I had my doubts. "Oh, what the hell," I thought, "tonight, who gives a damn."
We'd been drinking and talking, sometimes with other revellers, for several hours when Adolph, looking at the clock on the wall, gathered up his packages and said, "Come, ve go to mein house for foods, but first ve go to favorite place for little time... come."
"That's fine with me...let's go." I felt a change in scenery was required. Gus, the bartender, returned my overcoat and wished me the best of the season in good, but broken English. I handed him a fist full of Marks as a tip that at first he declined, but after my vociferous insistence, he accepted with an equally vociferous display of gratitude
If you'd like to read more of this story
then you can contact Jim Laing at:
Copyright 1999, JWB Laing All Rights Reserved
Two great Christmas stories
The Christmas Card (J.W.B. Laing)
The Christmas Walk (Hilary Flanery)
The Indian Tracker By J.W.B. Laing
Argolyn's Bell, by J.W.B. Laing
The Nick Hardy Story (Don't miss it!)
Bobby R Woodall Author of "Mercer's Manor"
Read more of Bobby R Woodall's work
More excellent work by Bobby R Woodall
My novels can be seen at
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http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/cuppa1.htm
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My Family in Memoriam
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Mike's military days (Pictures not to be missed!)
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My Own Tales (Short stories by Mike Coatesworth)
The Cave (Short story By Mike Coatesworth)
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The Power (Short story by Mike Coatesworth)
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An amusing tale from Mollie Matthews
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