Celebrate The Light

It was Christmas Eve in 1944. The fighting was once more dangerously close. Fifteen months ago, my mother, with us four children, had fled our native Ukraine with the retreating German army. Father had been reported missing in action at the Russian front.

Now we were refugees living in a two-room shack in Dieterwald, Poland. Frequent air raids sent us scurrying for cover. Explosions rattled the windows. Army trucks brought in the wounded and the dead. Hay wagons filled with refugees rumbled west; bombers droned overhead and army tanks rolled east. Partisans (underground resistance) attacked innocent women and children at night.

Nobody in his right mind went out into the dark winter night.

And yet, it was Christmas Eve. Two women had prepared a Christmas party in a neighbouring village and invited us. Mother, wanting to give us children joy, accepted.

She instructed my sister and me to dress warmly against the winter's cold. "Tonight we're going to a party," she said. Being only eight-years old, I sensed no danger--only wondrous excitement.

Hurriedly my sister, two years younger, and I dressed. If only Mother would hurry! A simple wick flickered in a saucer of oil--our only light. We could barely see her shadowy form as she bustled about getting my four-year-old brother, Fred, and almost two-year-old sister, Katie, ready. Finally Mother was putting on her heavy winter coat, kerchief, and warm felt boots.

With one small breath, she blew out the oil lamp. It was pitch dark now.

"Open the door, Lena," she called to me.

We stepped onto the crisp snow covering the farmyard. A moon crescent hung above a large house across the yard where the estate owners lived--kind people who treated us refugees well. It, too, was shrouded in darkness.

Mother lifted Katie and shuffled her to her back: she'd carry her piggyback for the five kilometres to the village.

"Hang tight onto my coat collar," she coaxed. Then, turning towards us girls, she said, "You take Fred's hands." My younger sister and I complied. We had often taken care of our little brother while mother had culled potatoes in the big barns or had done other chores for the landowners.

At the road, we stopped. Although I knew it well from my treks to school, I could barely make out the houses on either side of the street. Windows heavily draped allowed no light to seep out of the houses. My mother hesitated for a brief moment, then she said, "Come, we'll take the shortcut across the fields."

The snow crunched as four pairs of feet punched holes in the white expanse of open fields. Stars spangled the vault of sky above us. A blood-red glow smeared the eastern sky. At times an explosion sent flames shooting into the sky.

Her arms aching, my mother put Katie down on the snowy ground. "Girls, recite your Christmas poems," she said in a shaky voice. Our recitations made white puffs in the cold night air. "When your turn comes, speak up loud and clear," she said. "No mumbling."

She lifted Katie onto her back again, and we continued our walk. After about an hour, we arrived at our friends' house, also veiled in darkness. Yet, when the door opened, we gasped at the brightness of candle light emanating from a small Christmas tree. It cast a soft glow on the happy faces of mothers and children sitting on the floor. We took our places and participated in the program. Each child said a poem or a Scripture. Then Weihnachtsmann (Santa) entered the room and gave each child a colourful ball. To me it was the most wonderful gift. Much later, I learned that the women had made the balls from scrunched up rags wrapped in rainbow coloured threads of wool gleaned from unravelling sweaters.

We ended the program by singing our favourite Christmas carols: "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht" (Silent Night, Holy Night) and "Welch ein Jubel, welche Freude (What Rejoicing Comes at Christmas Time)." Some mothers sang alto, the rest of us, soprano. We sang with gusto and from memory, songs that lifted our hearts above the terrors of war and inspired new hope for the days ahead.

Soon after that wonderful Christmas party, we were evacuated. Icy winds blew snow into our faces as we cowered on an uncovered hay wagon pulled by two scrawny horses. With the front so close behind, we travelled day and night. Once it was safe to stop, we slept in drafty barns. We ate hunks of frozen bread and drank the occasional cup of milk supplied by a Red Cross jeep.

But the warm memory of that Christmas celebration shone like a small candle in the darkness. Years later, when my own life's circumstances seemed too bleak to celebrate Christmas, I remembered the truth of Christmas born in my heart that night: Jesus, the light of the world has come and no amount of darkness can put out the light.