Festivals of Light

Festivals of Light

The miniature Hansel and Gretel house was suspended from the pine branch by a fragile silk thread. The wicked witch that resided in it assured the safety of this precious Christmas tree ornament.

Knowing that the crimson, snow-roofed cottage was irresistible to a four-year old, yet not wanting to deprive me of its fairy tale magic, my mother hung it low. She then carefully explained that touching was forbidden, lest it arouse the ire of its hidden occupant. Wide-eyed with wonder and fear, I could only nod to indicate I understood.

Our tree was adorned with all manner of exquisite and unusual ornaments, lovingly collected over several years, but it was the fragile hut that captivated my heart. I ached to hold it, to softly stroke its shiny, smooth surface, and during brave moments, to peer through the frosted window. I would approach as close as possible, all the while keeping my hands tightly clasped behind my back. There was no taking chance with that darn witch!

Three Christmases later, in 1957, my family was in Poland, awaiting the precious visas that would allow us to continue our journey from the Soviet Union to Canada. Russia was where my father had fled at age 16, with his five closest friends, always one step ahead of the invading German army. Being a Polish citizen, he had managed to finally win permission to return to his homeland. His father was in Canada, having gone before the war to earn the money to bring his family over. Unfortunately, he had run out of time. My father was the only one to survive, and now my grandfather was frantically processing the paperwork that would enable him to see his first-born for the first time in 23 years.

I, of course, was oblivious of our tenuous position. I sensed the tension and was aware of the constant hushed whispering between my parents, but I had no idea as to the cause. All I knew was that the New Year was fast approaching and no one had yet mentioned a tree. When I could wait no longer, I started nagging my older brother about it.

"We're not allowed to have a Christmas tree any more," he informed me.
"You're lying!" I accused hotly. "We always have a tree!"
"Well that was there, but now we're here, and we can't have a tree. Boy you're dumb. Don't you know Jews don't have Christmas trees," he taunted.

My head swirled with all this new information, confusing and distressing me. Sobbing, I sought out my parents and waited for their reassurance that the Christmas tree would be erected as usual, with its shimmering silver star at the top, and the witch's house at eye level, still tempting me.

Gently my father explained that in Russia the tree was part of the New Year celebrations, but that everywhere else it symbolized Christmas, a holiday for people who were Christians. We were indeed Jewish, and Christmas was not our holiday. He did not add that in Communist Russia, not having a New Year tree would have cast suspicion on us, and so we had joined in the winter festivities.

From now on, he continued, we would be celebrating our own holidays, as soon as we were safely in Canada. I listened intently, feeling sad and betrayed. I didn't want new holidays; I wanted my tree. I wanted my witch. I was inconsolable.

By summertime we were settled in our new home in Montreal. For the next few months I was kept busy learning a new language and acquainting myself with the vast army of cousins who had suddenly sprung up to welcome us. The telephone amazed me, as did other gadgets not seen before. And the flickering black and white TV, with its rabbit ears antenna was truly awesome.

I was also discovering the unique holidays that were part of the "being Jewish" package. Who could complain about apples dipped in honey on New Year's Eve, even though I thought it strange that we celebrated the New Year in September? And what fun it was to dance through the synagogue to celebrate G-d giving us the Torah, our Bible. I decided being Jewish was tolerable, especially as it did not preclude dressing up for Hallowe'en.

As Christmas approached, I found myself drifting into nostalgic fantasies. I wondered what had become of the little house and all our other ornaments. I knew there would be no tree in our home, and I stoically made the most of the celebrations at school. There were carols to sing and the class tree to decorate. Wisely I refrained from boasting about the magnificent decorations we used to own back in Russia. My Jewish friends would not have believed me and my Christian friends would have been hurt. And I certainly never mentioned the house where the witch lived; I was too afraid of being ridiculed for believing such nonsense.

The evening before Christmas Eve, my family bundled into the station wagon of my father's favorite cousin and the two families set out on what my favorite cousin would only call a "surprise". I was intrigued, as well as delighted that I would not be going to bed at my usual time. It had to be something special for my parents to so casually dismiss my bedtime!

It was snowing lightly, fat soft flakes that drifted lazily down to the pavement and melted there. As the car wound slowly through an affluent residential area, I could not contain my gleeful outbursts at the gorgeous Christmas trees decorating the snow-covered front lawns. What a surprise indeed!

"Oh, that's not the surprise," my cousin grinned mysteriously.
There was more? I could not imagine what lovelier events lay in store!

At last we reached the downtown area and my uncle parked the car.
"Let's go troops," he said and led the way to the main street.

Holding my mother's hand, I tramped along with the rest of the crowd out doing their Christmas gift buying. I searched for the surprise, but saw nothing except hordes of weary shoppers. Up ahead, the giant department stores, each occupying a city block, beckoned with their bright Christmas lights. I had seen them once before, right after we had arrived in Canada. My great-aunt had taken me on an outing for my first pair of "party shoes" and a special gift, a doll tea set. I had been awed by their size and by the overwhelming variety of goods they sold. Could the stores be the surprise?

I did not have too long to mull it over for, suddenly, I was standing in front of a wonderland. The entire display window of the first store was a page out of a fairy tale. Animals danced, a train overflowing with brightly-wrapped packages chugged along, winding its way into a tunnel, and dolls were having a tea party. Other dolls were placing gifts beneath a beautifully decorated tree. My heart raced as I tried to take in all the magic behind the glass.

Just then, my cousin yanked me away and rushed me to the next window. It couldn't be, but this one was even more spectacular! A page from a different fairy tale had come to life and again I was left speechless.

The running back and forth from window to window and store to store continued for over an hour; I could not get my fill. Finally, collapsing on a bench in front of my favorite display, I tried to memorize every detail, every doll, every decoration, and every tree ornament.

I couldn't have a tree at home, but I could have all this, if only for one magical night.

Over the years I have learned to appreciate and love the wonderful traditions that are a part of the Jewish holidays my family celebrates, for they are warm and meaningful traditions. One holiday in particular is my favorite, Chanukah. Lighting candles every evening for eight days encourages introspection, while the joyous songs and games that are played provide an opportunity for family closeness. The feast celebrates a miracle and it lights the way for religious freedom, nothing to take lightly. But I think there's another reason I so love this festival of lights. It just happens to come around Christmas time!

Story ID:	3283
Written by:	Ryma Shohami (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Story
Writers Conference:	My Favorite Holiday Story
Location:	Montreal Canada
Year:	1958
Person:	Ryma Shohami