On December 6, all children waited anxiously the arrival of Saint Nicholas, the old, bearded man with ragged clothes. Everyone put their shoes outside the door in hope that they would be filled with candy and chocolate.
Many do not know the story of Saint Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra from Turkey. The story goes that he had become the symbol of anonymous gift giving when he donated three sacks of gold to an old man whose daughters could not marry because he was so poor, he could not afford their dowries. St. Nicholas threw a bag of gold each night into the old man’s house through an open window. When the story was told in colder climates, St. Nicholas dropped the gold through the chimney instead of an open window.
Thus St. Nicholas came to represent the secret gift giving. He was portrayed in meager clothes with three round discs, the three sacks of gold. In the town of Bari, Italy, where the bishop was buried, pawnbrokers hung three gold disks in front of their shops in remembrance of St. Nicholas’ gift of gold.
Eastern Orthodox churches celebrate services on the night before December 6 when St. Nicholas appears as a bishop, not in a red suit. Parishioners leave their shoes outside the door and, upon departure, find gold disks of chocolate wrapped in foil inside their shoes, in remembrance of the three gold dowries that St. Nicholas provided to the poor man.
My childhood friends in Romania left their galoshes outside the door. The one pair of leather boots each of us owned in winter was too precious to leave out in the elements. We wore galoshes over boots in order to protect them from rain and the dirty slosh when snow mixed with salt began to melt. We trusted that nobody was interested in taking our rubber galoshes.
Every morning on December 6, I would find an exquisite orange, a banana, a large chocolate bar filled with raisins, and a small bag of hard candy. I felt very special and was always curious why I could never catch St. Nicholas bringing the delicious treats.
The communist economy we lived under never delivered enough basic and decent food for everyone, much less luxuries such as fresh fruit in winter. A banana or an orange were exquisite gifts that we dreamed about all year long.
People waited in long lines for the lone salami in the window of a butcher shop. Unlike the privileged elite that shopped at their own stores, we had to contend with empty shelves and long lines. To pacify the masses at Christmas time, the communist party leaders would order extra food, fresh fruits, and the lines were shorter.
December 25 was a secular holiday with “Mos Craciun,” Santa Claus, who was dressed in red with a fake cotton beard. We still believed, however, that he had the power to place a small gift by our pillows the night before. I would wake up to find a small rag doll with a porcelain head, a book, or a small puzzle.
Although the communist party did not allow people to go to church, we always went to my grandmother’s village for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, circling the church with lit candles three times for the Holy Trinity.
Groups went caroling from house to house at night and were received with gifts of food, hard pretzels, or a warm cup of plum brandy. No matter how hard the communists tried to suppress our traditions, faith survived.
Magically, a tree decorated with real candles, colorful handmade crepe paper baskets filled with candy, hanging apples, cookies, and a few ornaments appeared. The glass ornaments must have cost my dad a fortune since they were hard to find. The Christmas tree did not have electric lights, but we would light up candles carefully for a short while on Christmas Eve. The scent of the blue spruce filled our small home and made me happy. I was walking on air, oblivious to my parents’ financial sacrifice.
Nobody exchanged presents, the holiday was about our faith in God, children, togetherness with the extended family, visiting each other’s homes, eating and drinking whatever we had. Villagers slaughtered pigs for Christmas and shared them with family members. The leftovers were preserved in a cellar or smoked to feed them throughout the year when meat was hard to find.
Eating
chocolate was an acquired taste. Grandpa convinced me to try the gooey confection
I melted on the heater to spread on my doll’s face. I was playing house and
feeding my doll chocolate. Grandpa never told me how many bars of chocolate I
ruined this way. Once hooked, chocolate became a favorite treat for special
occasions.
My Christmas banana was always green, and I had to wait until it turned golden and sweet. I placed both fruits in the middle of the table so I could see them from every angle in the room. The orange was wrapped in white onionskin paper. I kept it for days admiring its perfect orange color and the fragrant smell emanating from its pores. It came from a faraway place, Israel, whose language I could not read.
I wondered what exotic place grew such perfect fruits and how long it took to travel to me. Will I ever journey to see the tree and pick this perfect orange myself? The wind was always howling outside, and the snow was coming down very hard, but I was dreaming of the tropical location that grew my perfect Christmas orange.
