Decades of self-absorbed city-living had pushed childhood Christmas delights deep into my sub-conscience. Now, as I experience America’s exuberant celebrations of the season, a long-dormant longing for gentler times was reawakened. Such as the mystical, albeit sparse, post-war wonders of my old-fashioned Christmases in Austria.
With Europe’s cities still largely bombed out in 1948, my parents had to rent a single room on a small farm. In Austria, small at the time really meant small. One cow, three pigs, one goat, with sundry chickens scratching in the yard. No electricity, no running water and, of course, the much-detested outhouse. Just starting first grade, it was an hour's walk to school. During a snowy winter, I skied down the sloping path and skate-stepped the rest of the way on a pristine country road hoping to meet up with other kids during winter-dark mornings. The way home meant that ‘she who schusses down must drudge back up.’ It made for rosy cheeks, and bedtime was never a problem. Sleep was instantaneous.
On Christmas Eve, Mutti sent me on various errands, all of which seemed suspiciously contrived. ‘See if the brown hen laid eggs,’ or ‘Go find a hedgehog,’ while mysterious rustlings and enticing smells filled the air. When I was allowed back in, Vati covered my eyes saying that the Christmas angel had decorated the tree and now must leave unseen. Then, a silvery bell rang out, and my eyes flew open in starry wonder.
The freshly-cut tree shimmered. Flickering candles had been judiciously placed on the branches. Chocolates—some liqueur-filled—hung wrapped in tissue-paper, ends cut into fringes, dangling between strung-up petit-fours and other mouth-watering delights. To this day, most European tree-trimmings are edible. As the tree remains up until early January, it allows for more leisurely and tummy-friendly ‘noshing.’
I slyly assessed the few packages nestled under the silvery branches. Much too small for the longed-for bicycle. Too square for a doll. None of the boxes moved or miaued. So I feared there would be no kitten. But there surely would be a book. I loved books. In keeping with tradition, my parents solemnly sang Silent Night, Holy Night. While they had good voices, I was born tone-deaf. To this day, I shirk gatherings where people are bound to burst into song which I must mouth in painful deception.
After giving due homage to the season, and extinguishing the candles between spit-wetted fingertips, we sat down for a light evening meal. And only then could I at last gather up my gifts, childish eagerness quickly dashed by Mother’s admonishment not to tear the wrapping paper.
Around ten-thirty, I was bundled up in my little coat cut from blue-grey material that could not belie its former military glory, and we stepped out into a pristine night, the sliver of a cold moon illuminating the ghostly landscape. Snow crunching under our lace-up our boots, we defied cold and sleep and set off for mid-night mass.
Being a handful of Lutherans in very Catholic Austria, we especially looked forward to the awe-inspiring ritual in the frigid cathedral. As the soaring nave steamed up with communal exhalation and incense, the message from the ornate pulpit for once was of universal peace and love, and we knew that God didn't care about man's difference in worshipping ideologies.
Christmas Day meant pure leisure - no modern-day frenzy to unwrap and pile up gifts to the point of exhaustion. If the farmer could manage, apple-stuffed roast goose with red cabbage and potato-dumplings was our holiday meal. The new book was leafed avariciously for a glimpse of a happy ending, we listened to the radio, and played cards or a board game until I gladly crawled onto my made-up box spring pulled from under my parent's narrow bed. The first to warm my feet on our one hot-water bottle, Mutti handed me a crunchy red apple. In oil-lamp dimness, I suddenly stopped in mid-bite and scrambled out of bed to spit the bitter culprit out. On my way back to bed, I sneaked a piece of chocolate off the tree carefully re-puffing the empty tissue wrapper; to my childish delight, the miniature bottle was filled with Kirsch-liqueur, and I quickly got over the taste of the wayward worm.
With my new book by my pillow, wrapped in Mutti's hand-knitted muffler, I happily drifted off until my eternal did-you-brush-your-teeth nemesis snatched me back from sweetly unfolding dreams.
“Up!” Duly chastised and following my marching orders, I longed to get back to my dream. At last, I could snuggle back under the cooling featherbed.
“How about your neck? No? Up!” Upon that return to bed, the rough linen sheets had turned clammy.
“Ingelein?” (Usually, this was a verbal caress; however, judging by the tone, this one was ominous) “Did you wash your feet?” It was the same every night. I don’t remember when I wised up and duty-fully sponge-bathed the required body-parts, or perhaps learned to fib with more conviction.
Ah, memories. The older we get they seem to waft more frequently through our dreams. And they seem to surface clearer each year. Perhaps it was time to regain some of the special joy and gentleness of the Season.
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