A CHRISTMAS STORY
a true story
by Jay Frankston
There's nothing so beautiful as
a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know,
I often had that dream. But I was Jewish
and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It was
everyone else's holiday and I feltleft
out . . . like a big party I wasn't invited
to. It wasn't the toys I missed,it was
Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.
So when I got married and had kids I
decided to make up for it. I started with
a seven-foot tree, all decked out with
lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on
top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings
were frayed by the display and, for them,
it was a Hanukah bush. And it warmed my
heart to see the glitter, because now the
party was at my house and everyone was
invited.
But something was missing, something
big and round and jolly, with jingle
bells and a ho! ho! ho! So I bought a bolt
of bright red cloth and strips of white
fur and my wife made me a costume.
Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny
frame, but no amount of makeup could turn
my face into merry old Santa.
I went around looking at department store
impersonations sitting on their thrones
with children on their laps and flash-bulbs
going off, and I wasn't satisfied with the
way they looked either.
After much effort I located a mask maker
and he had just the thing for me, a
rubberized Santa mask, complete with
whiskers and flowing white hair. It was
not the real thing but it looked genuine
enough to live up to a child's dream of
St. Nick.
When I tried it on something happened.
I looked in the mirror and there he was,
big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There
he was . . . and it was me. I felt like
Santa, like I became Santa. My posture
changed. I leaned back and pushed out my
false stomach. My head tilted to the side
and my voice got deeper and richer and a
"MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."
For two years I played Santa for my
children to their mixed feelings of fright
and delight and to my total enjoyment. And
when the third year rolled around, the
Santa in me had grown into a personality
of his own and he needed more room than I
had given him. So I sought to accommodate him
by letting him do his thing for other children.
I called up orphanages and children's hospitals
and offered his services free. But, "We
don't need Santa, we have all sorts of
donations from foundations and . . .thank you
for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely
and useless.
Then, one late November afternoon, I went
to the mailbox on the corner of the street
to mail a letter and saw this pretty little
girl trying to reach for the slot. She was
maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure Santa
will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you
addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so
he should get it," the mother said and lifted her
little girl so she could stuff the letter into
the box. My mind began to whirl. All those
thousands of children who wrote to Santa
Claus at Christmas time, whatever became
of their letters?
One phone call to the main post office
answered my question. They told me that,
as of the last week of November, an entire
floor of the post office was needed to
store those letters in huge sacks that came
from different sections of the city.
The Santa in me went ho! ho! ho! and we
headed down to the post office. And there
they were, thousands upon thousands of
letters, with or without stamps, addressed
to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle,
scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written
on pretty stationary.
And I rummaged through them and laughed.
Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme
letters, like "I want a pair of roller
skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and
a personal computer, and a small portable
TV, and whatever else you can think of."
Many of them had the price alongside
each item . . . with or without sales tax.
Then there were the funny ones like:
"Dear Santa, I've
been a good boy all of last year, but if
I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad
boy all of next."
And I became a little flustered at the
demands and the greed of so many spoiled
children. But the Santa in me heard a
voice from inside the mail sack and I
continued going through the letters, one
after the other, until I came upon one
which jarred and unsettled me.
It was neatly written on plain white
paper and it said:
"Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I
am eleven years old and I have two little
brothers and a baby sister. My father died
last year and my mother is sick. I know there
are many who are poorer than we are and I
want nothing for myself, but could you
send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at
night." It was signed Suzy.
And a chill went up my spine and the Santa
in me cried, "I hear you Suzy, I hear you."
And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up
with another eight such letters, all of them
calling out from the depth of poverty. I took
them with me and went straight to the nearest
Western Union office and sent each child a
telegram: "GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT
YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME.
SANTA."
I knew I could not possibly fill the need
of all those children and it wasn't my
purpose to do so. But if I could bring them
hope. If I could make them feel that their
cries did not go unheard and that someone
out there was listening . . . So I budgeted
a sum of money and went out and bought toys.
I wasn't content with the five-and-ten cent
variety. I wanted something substantial,
something these children could only dream of,
like an electric train, or a microscope, or
a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on
TV.
And on Christmas Day I took out my sleigh and
let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn't exactly
a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove
me around because with all those pillows and
toys I barely managed to get in the back seat.
It had graciously snowed the night before and
the streets were thick with fresh powder.
My first call took me to the outskirts of the
city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky
and all it said was: "Dear Santa, I am ten
years old and I am an only child. We've just
moved to this house a few months ago and I have
no friends yet. I'm not sad because I'm poor but
because I'm lonely. I know you have many things
to do and people to see and you probably have no
time for me. So I don't ask you to come to my
house or bring anything. But could you send me
a letter so I know you exist." My telegram read:
"DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE
ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA."
We spotted the house and drove past it and
parked around the corner. Then Santa got out
with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and
tramped through the snow.
The house was wedged in between two tall
buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it
was more of a shack than a house. I walked through
the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell.
A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt
and his stomach bulged out of his pants.
"Boje moy " he exclaimed in astonishment.
That's Polish, by the way, and his hand went
to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered,
"p-please . . .de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass
. . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait."
And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and,
assured that I would wait, he ran down the
street in the snow.
So I stood in front of the house feeling good,
and on the opposite side of the street was
this other shack, and through the window I
could see these shiny little black faces
peering at me and waving. Then the door
opened shyly and some voices called out
to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya
Santa".
And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there and
this woman asked if I would come in and
I did. And there were these five young
kids from one to seven years old. And I
sat and spoke to them of Santa and the
spirit of love which is the spirit of
Christmas.
Then, since they were not on my list,
but assuming from the torn Christmas
wrappings that they had gotten their
presents, I asked if they liked what
Santa had brought them during the night.
And each in turn thanked me for . . .
the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the
warm new underwear.
And I looked at them and asked: "Didn't
I bring you kids any toys?" And they
shook their heads sadly. "Ho! ho! ho!
I slipped up," I said "We'll have to
fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be
back in a few minutes, then trudged
heavily through the snow to the corner.
And when I was out of their sight,
I ran as fast as I could to the car.
We had extra toys in the trunk and
my wife quickly filled up the bag,
and I trodded back to the house and
gave each child a brand new toy. There
was joy and laughter and the woman
asked if she could take a picture
of Santa with the kids and I said,
sure, why not?
And when Santa got ready to leave,
I noticed that this five-year-old little
girl was crying. She was as cute as
a button. I bent down and asked her
"What's the matter, child?" And she
sobbed, "Oh! Santa, I'm so happy."
And the tears rolled from my eyes
under the rubber mask.
As I stepped out on the street,
"Pan, pan, proche . . .
please come . . . come," I heard
this man Barsky across the way. And
Santa crossed and walked into the house.
The boy Peter just stood there and
looked at me. "You came," he said.
"I wrote and . . . you came". He turned
to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he
came." And he repeated it over and
over again. "I wrote . . . and he came."
And when he recovered, I spoke with him
about loneliness and friendship, and gave
him a chemistry set, which seemed to be
what he would go for, and a basketball.
And he thanked me profusely. And his
mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking
woman, asked something of her husband
in Polish. My parents were Polish so I
speak a little and understand a lot. "From
the North Pole," I said in Polish. She
looked at me in astonishment. "You speak
Polish?" she asked. "Of course," I said.
"Santa speaks all languages." And I left
them in joy and wonder.
And I did this for twelve years, going
through the letters to Santa at the post
office, listening for the cries of children
muffled in unopened envelopes.
In time I learned all that Santa has to
know to handle any situation. Like the big
kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask:
"Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?" And I'd
say, "How old are you son?" And he'd say,
"Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a big
fellow and you ought to know better. Santa
used to come in a sleigh many years ago,
but these are modern times. I come in a
car now." And I'd hop in the back seat and
my wife would drive off.
Or the kid who would look at me closely
and come out with, "That's a mask," pointing
a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd
say, "Sure, son, of course. If everybody
knew what Santa really looks like they'd
bother me all year long and I couldn't get
my things ready for Christmas."
Or the mother who would whisper so her
young son couldn't hear, "Where do you
come from?" I'd turn to the child and
say, "Your mom wants to know where I
come from Willy." And he'd say, "From
the North Pole, Mommy," with absolute
certainty. And she'd nudge me and whisper,
"You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean,
how do you come to this house?" I'd turn
to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy, your mom
wants to know why I came to see you." And
he'd say, "Cause I wrote him a letter,
Mommy." And I'd pull out the letter and
she knows she mailed it, and she's
confused and bewildered and I'd
leave her like that.
As time went on, the word got out about
Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on
anonymity, but toy manufacturers would
send me huge cartons of toys as a
contribution to the Christmas spirit.
So I started with 18 or 20 children and
wound up with 120, door to door, from
one end of the city to the other, from
Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.
And on my last call, a number of
years ago, I knew there were four
children in the family and I came
prepared. The house was small and
sparsely furnished. The kids had been
waiting all day, staring at the
telegram and repeating to their
skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy,
he'll come." And as I rang the door bell
the house lit up with joy and laughter
and "He's here . . . he's here!" And
the door swings open and they all reach
for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . .
Hya, Santa. We just knew you'd come."
And these poor kids are all beaming with
happiness. And I take each one of them on
my lap and speak to them of rainbows and
snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope
and waiting, and give them each a toy.
And all the while there's this fifth child
standing in the corner, a cute little girl
with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm
through with the others, I turn to her and
say: "You're not part of this family, are
you?" And she shakes her head sadly and
whispers, "No." "Come closer, child," I say,
and she comes a little closer. "What's
your name?" I ask. "Lisa." "How old
are you?" "Seven." "Come, sit on my lap,"
and she hesitates but she comes over and
I lift her up and sit her on my lap. "Did
you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask.
"No," she says with puckered lips. So I
take out this big beautiful doll and, "Here,
do you want this doll?" "No," she says.
And she leans over to me and whispers
in my ear, "I'm Jewish." And I nudge her
and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do
you want this doll?" And she's grinning from
ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire,
and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.
It's been a long time since I last put on
my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has
lived with me and given me a great deal of
happiness all those years. And now, when
Christmas rolls around, he comes out of
hiding long enough to say, "Ho! ho! ho!
A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."
And I say to you now, MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS."
"A Christmas Story" is published by the author
and is available personally autographed
in hard cover for $9.95 + S&H
from WHOLE LOAF PUBLICATIONS
41201 Airport Road,
Little River, Ca. 95456
(707) 937-0208 e-mail wlp@mcn.org
web site at: http://www.mcn.org/a/wlp/christmas/
