My Family's First Christmas as Refugees

A man gets trampled to death by shoppers at a department store on Black Friday, the paper says. Astounding, my mouth dropped open in utter shock. Whatever happened to the "Christ" in Christmas? Suddenly my attention is turned to the garage door as my husband sluggishly steps through it after a twelve hour day.

Fatigue wore on his face as he shook his head, "Unbelievable" he said and collapsed into a nearby chair.

All at once, a squeaky voice cries out from across the house charging at him full force, "Daddy! Daddy!" Her eyes sparkle in delight.

"Hello sweetheart," He moans as her little arms clamp around his neck.

Money is tight this year, bills are piling up, and long holiday work hours are ahead for the retail manager, yet so few to share with our family. But I always hang on to hope and faith especially this time of year to get us through times like these. My husband tells me I'm a wonderful person for having such stamina. I smile and say I'm a Polak, it is in my blood. Struggle is nothing new to me at Christmas time.

Perhaps there is a comfort in struggle at Christmas because it is so familiar to me. In communist Poland, money was always tight and food rationed. There was no mercy simply because Mary gave birth to the savior of mankind. One year, my mother and I stared blankly at my father's empty plate through an entire winter. Therefore our Polish Christmas festivities consisting of Polish carols, Christmas Eve Vigils, and my mother's "desert surprise" consisting of chocolate and oranges kept me warm and comforted like an old blanket. But the most exiting part of a Polish Christmas for kids starts every year on December sixth.

Many Europeans celebrate and honor St. Nicholas of Myra on the day he died, the Bishop who inspired the legend of our beloved Santa Claus. Whether it was in our small apartment in Poland, or as refugees in Germany, or as new Americans in our small community of Polaks, St. Nicholas was sure not to disappoint me with his presence.

I remember my fondest Christmas memory of our St. Nicholas celebration. But it did not even take place in Poland. It was in Germany, the year we fled Poland when General Jaruzelski declared martial law over the entire country. My parents, myself, and my baby sister lived in a boarding house outside of Frankfurt with other Polaks just like us who left with barely anything. Since we were refugees, there was no work for the two years we were there, and what little the government gave us had to be saved for our eventual move to America.

In my letter to Santa I told him about our family's situation and that I wanted a doll and a stroller. In Germany kids left their boots out, but Polish kids get their gifts under the pillows. I was sure he'd leave it just outside the door to our studio-room. One dark evening I folded the paper and opened the window ajar, tucking it in between the open window door. An hour or so later I noticed the letter was gone. I ran out of my room and across the hall to my friend's open door in delight. I anxiously told him Santa took my letter and if his letter was gone too. A Polak came up to us and said that we just missed him that St. Nicholas was here and sped down the street on his sled and into the sky. I asked anxiously if he had our letters. He said he thought so. We rushed upstairs out to the balcony looking up into the starry sky waving at the brightest star we could see.

"There he is!" We squealed in delight and jumped up and down in exhilaration.

Several days later a letter arrived from St. Nicholas while my friend said he got one from Superman. St.Nicholas said I would indeed get a present. When the morning of December seventh finally came, I woke up anxiously throwing my pillow to find my gift neatly wrapped. Then I jumped out of bed frantically looking around for my stroller. But to my dismay it wasn't there. To remedy my disappointment my parents took me and my sister out into the freshly laid snow to find the perfect Christmas tree. When we brought it home, it sat neatly on our little table no more than a foot and half of it with cheap lights and a few scattered bulbs. Underneath lay four tiny little presents which we opened after the whole house threw the largest Christmas Eve dinner I ever had in my life. This is by far my fondest Christmas memory ever.

To honor that memory we try to do the small things around Christmas, like those small little presents under the tree. When there is a need for hungry and needy in our community we donate some food. Every year we started going through our daughter's toys around Christmas and donate one to the Salvation Army. Whenever we see the Salvation Army chiming the bells by stores in the freezing cold, we give if we have something to give. Throughout the year I try to snag that dollar donation tag by the check out counter for the hungry children. When someone passes away so tragically , like in that department store, we say a prayer and on Christmas Eve we will set out one dinner plate for the "unexpected visitor". For our newest addition to our family, our baby girl's first Christmas, we too will celebrate St. Nicholas on December 6th at the Christmas Festival in my hometown. Furthermore, we will honor Christ's birth in a re-enactment my daughter's Pre-K class will perform. Finally and most importantly, on Christmas Eve Vigil we will thank God for blessing our children with wonderful Grandparents, their dozens of cousins, Aunts, and Uncles. In this way I try to keep that memory of "Christ" in Christmas alive.

To this day, I still do not remember what presents I got that year in Germany. But I will always treasure my fondest Christmas in Germany as refugees because the best gift of all did not come from a department store shelf. It was getting a letter from Santa and watching him flying across the sky with his reindeer. It is my hope that someday I too can give that kind of gift to my girls, like my parents and my fellow Polaks gave to me.

God bless, and Merry Christmas to all.