“Mama, mama, Zosia and Mrs Janowska invited me to help decorate their Christmas tree. Can I go mama? Hanukkah is not for another week.”
“Sure Doniusia, but don’t be late for supper. And dress warmly, it’s cold outside.”
I put on my warm coat, leggings, scarf, mitts. Polish winter is no joke, snowflakes as thick as goose feathers, my nose red in an instant, but the world around me so beautiful, all glistening whiteness. Children already toboggan on the nearby hill, rubbers leave perfect imprints almost instantly erased, the air cold crisp, you think it will burst your lungs, yet, like a winter sparrow I shout and sing. It isn’t far to Zosia’s house and I walk quickly.
‘Hello Donusia.” Zosia’s mom greets me warmly and Zosia runs out and pulls me inside. I hurry to free myself from rubbers, scarf, mitts, aware of Mrs Janowska’s critical eye, God forbid, dirtying up the floor or adding to the Christmassy untidiness of the house. Anyway, I am too well brought up to let my mother down. Finally, I am ready. Zosia’s face is flushed, we are in the living room, and there, near the window stands, no, grows out of the floor, a fir tree, already partly decorated, the salon an underbrush of coloured paper, paste, red apples, candles, angels. At once, school, store, orchard, forest waiting for our eager hands to create a new wonderland.
Suddenly I feel shy. I know what to do on Hanukkah. We light candles, say blessings, receive a few coins called Hanukkah gelt, recount the stories of the brave Maccabees and the miracle of the cruise of oil. My grandma’s and grandpa’s faces are real, the blueberry buns are moist, potato pancakes called latkes melt in my mouth, little candles multiply as we add one for eight consecutive days but all this pales beside the enormity of this tree, the decorations, the rainbow globes of light that will glisten from every house to announce His birth. I do not think of Him, only the tree, the marvels strewn beside me. I do not know what this really means to me being Jewish, except for the joy and awe of actually being part of a different world, the real, the important, the dominant. Yes, their world is real, and our exiled glory is not. I cannot wait to begin.
“Where do we start Zosia?”
Oh yes, we will make a lot of chains, how shiny the paper is, here is the glue, the scissors…
“You know how to make chains?”
I am too excited to feel offended. Mrs Janowska has the apples all ready, deep red, dipped in cranberry sauce and glazed, and the candles, all the colour of rainbows.
“We need angles and wise men and stars and a very big star at the top, you know the star that guided them to baby Jesus. And we can make all kinds of cut-outs –children, animals, yes, the ones that guarded Him in the stable and just anything else.”
Zosia is suddenly suspicious.
“You know the Christmas Story, don’t you?”
I’ve heard my parents refer to a man they called Yeshua. I am drowning in chains but suddenly I want to make something special, something unusual, my own, and I don’t know what. It will come. The main thing is to go on.
I love the smell of the tree. It hasn’t lost any of the forest’s fragrance and I see rows upon rows of evergreens wearing starry crowns. And others capricious, like powdered ladies from a French court. We hang the apples on the branches. Now the chains. How crinkly the paper is. Slowly we cut out stars from a cardboard, glue them on coloured paper, every one different. Now baby Jesus, donkeys, wise old men with long beards. I am not very good at drawing but Zosia hands me pre-cut designs and then it’s easy. Now Mrs Janowska comes with little sandwiches and we devour them, gulp up hot cocoa, our fingers itching for work.
“You don’t have to finish today,” smiles Mrs Janowska.
Now, slowly up the big ladder to the top branch. The huge star is all red with golden edging and it shines so brightly all the stars above will be jealous. We stand back to admire our work.
“It’s getting dark,” says Mrs Janowska.
“Your mother will be worried, but thank you so much for your help. You and Zosia made the most beautiful decorations and it was good of your mother to let you come.”
I walk home slowly. All at once a thought strikes me. The baby, baby Jesus, so soft, so helpless even the animals took pity on Him. Why our Maccabees could protect Him. That’s what He needs. A Magen David, a shield of David. Brave Mattathias and his five sons, Judah, Jonathan, Simon, Eleazar, and Johanan. I see them in a long procession, their shields surrounding the little babe. How safe He would be then.
I cannot sleep. I try to draw but I am a poor ‘drawer.’ At school, the teacher always finishes my pictures. Then I know. Why not copy the illustrations from the beautiful Hanukkah book. There are wonderful pictures of the Maccabees and a Magen David as large as the Star of Bethlehem. I work feverishly. Mattathias is dressed in a long brown tunic, Junah, Jonathan, Simon, Eleazar, and Johanan wear short ones, each a different colour: red, yellow, orange, purple, green. In their hands an immense Magen David, white and blue, and above my best writing in big gold lettering.
WELCOME BABY YESHUA
From Donia
Originally published in White Wall Review 20 (1996)