|
There's
nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often
had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It
was everyone else's holiday and I felt left out . . .. like a big party
I wasn't invited to. It wasn't the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and
a Christmas tree.
So when I got
married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a
seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of
David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the
display and, for them, it was a Hanukah bush. And it warmed my heart to
see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was
invited.
But something
was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a
ho! ho! ho! So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white
fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my
skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old
Santa.
I went around
looking at department store impersonations sitting on their thrones with
children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn't satisfied
with the way they looked either.
After much
effort I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a
rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It
was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a
child's dream of St. Nick.
When I tried
it on something happened. I looked in the mirror and there he was, big
as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and it was me. I
felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back
and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice
got deeper and richer and a "MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."
For two years
I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and
delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled
around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he
needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by
letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and
children's hospitals and offered his services free. But, "We don't
need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . .
thank you for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely and
useless.
Then, one
late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the
street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach
for the slot. She was maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure
Santa will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you addressed it
to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it," the mother said
and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box.
My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to
Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?
One phone
call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that, as
of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was
needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different
sections of the city.
The Santa in
me went ho! ho! ho! and we headed down to the post office. And there
they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps,
addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on
wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary. And I rummaged
through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters,
like "I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe,
and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you
can think of." Many of them had the price alongside each item . . .
with or without sales tax.
Then there
were the funny ones like: "Dear Santa, I've been a good boy all of
last year, but if I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad boy all of
next."
And I became
a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled
children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack
and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I
came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.
It was neatly
written on plain white paper and it said: "Dear Santa, I hope you
get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and
a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know
there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself,
but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at night." It
was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried,
"I hear you Suzy, I hear you." And I dug deeper into those
sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling
out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to
the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram:
"GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR
ME. SANTA." I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those
children and it wasn't my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them
hope. If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and
that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money
and went out and bought toys. I wasn't content with the five-and-ten
cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children
could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge
doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.
And on
Christmas Day I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it
wasn't exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around
because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the
back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets
were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of
the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was:
"Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We've just
moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I'm not
sad because I'm poor but because I'm lonely. I know you have many things
to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don't
ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a
letter so I know you exist." My telegram read: "DEAR PETER,
NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME.
SANTA."
We spotted
the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got
out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through
the snow.
The house was
wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal
and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up
the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his
undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. "Boje moy
" he exclaimed in astonishment. That's Polish, by the way, and his
hand went to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered,
"p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I
go get him. Please, please wait." And he threw a coat over his bare
shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the
snow.
So I stood in
front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street
was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny
little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly
and some voices called out to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya
Santa".
And I ho! ho!
hoed my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I
did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old.
And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the
spirit of Christmas.
Then, since
they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings
that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa
had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for . . .
the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.
And I looked
at them and asked: "Didn't I bring you kids any toys?" And
they shook their heads sadly. "Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up," I
said "We'll have to fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be
back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the
corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to
the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up
the bag, and I trodded back to the house and gave each child a brand new
toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a
picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?
And when
Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl
was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her
"What's the matter, child?" And she sobbed, "Oh! Santa,
I'm so happy." And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber
mask.
As I stepped
out on the street, "Pan, pan, proche . . . please come . . .
come," I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed
and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at
me. "You came," he said. "I wrote and . . . you
came". He turned to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he
came." And he repeated it over and over again. "I wrote . . .
and he came." And when he recovered, I spoke with him about
loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to
be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely.
And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her
husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and
understand a lot. "From the North Pole," I said in Polish. She
looked at me in astonishment. "You speak Polish?" she asked.
"Of course," I said. "Santa speaks all languages."
And I left them in joy and wonder.
And I did
this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post
office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened
envelopes.
In time I
learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big
kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: "Hey, Santa,
where's your sleigh?" And I'd say, "How old are you son?"
And he'd say, "Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a
big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh
many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now."
And I'd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.
Or the kid
who would look at me closely and come out with, "That's a
mask," pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd say,
"Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks
like they'd bother me all year long and I couldn't get my things ready
for Christmas."
Or the mother
who would whisper so her young son couldn't hear, "Where do you
come from?" I'd turn to the child and say, "Your mom wants to
know where I come from Willy." And he'd say, "From the North
Pole, Mommy," with absolute certainty. And she'd nudge me and
whisper, "You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you
come to this house?" I'd turn to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy,
your mom wants to know why I came to see you." And he'd say,
"Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy." And I'd pull out the
letter and she knows she mailed it, and she's confused and bewildered
and I'd leave her like that.
As time went
on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on
anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a
contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20
children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city
to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.
And on my
last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the
family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished.
The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating
to their skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy, he'll come."
And as I rang the door bell the house lit up with joy and laughter and
"He's here . . . he's here!" And the door swings open and they
all reach for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa.
We just knew you'd come."
And these
poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on
my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them
stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.
And all the
while there's this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little
girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm through with the
others, I turn to her and say: "You're not part of this family are
you?" And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, "No."
"Come closer, child," I say, and she comes a little closer.
"What's your name?" I ask. "Lisa." "How old are
you?" "Seven." "Come, sit on my lap," and she
hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap.
"Did you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask. "No,"
she says with puckered lips. So I take out this big beautiful doll and,
"Here, do you want this doll?" "No," she says. And
she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "I'm Jewish." And
I nudge her and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do you want
this doll?" And she's grinning from ear to ear and nods with
wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.
It's been a
long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has
lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years.
And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough
to say, "Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."
And I say to
you now, MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS.
|
"Choose
you this day
whom ye will
serve
but for me
and my
house we will
serve the Lord "
