by Rosalind Belmont
Damp, heavy snowflakes fell on Rebeccah's bright woolen beret, warming her ten-year-old head. She walked alone around a park near her parent's new store: a "candy store" sometimes called a "stationery store." When her family had moved away from Brooklyn, New York, to Hackensack, New Jersey, "The Store" had become the most important thing in their lives. Survival depended on it.
Everything had changed with the dramatic shift in circumstance, conducting currents of fear to the child. Her vivacious, fun-loving mother had now become a serious, tense woman, her frequent laughter replaced with polite smiles to the customers. In the old neighborhood, during the workweek, she had worn colorful skirts and crisp blouses. Weekends on the boardwalk, perched on pretty high-heeled shoes, she displayed the snappy outfits she had designed and tailored herself. In Brooklyn everyone had admired the Russian born Genya; here hardly anyone noticed her. While working in "The Store," she covered her body with billowing drab smocks. Long hours left Rebeccah's mother tired and drawn every day; her makeup refused to beautify; rouge caked on her skin, and lipstick faded.
But to Rebeccah, Genya remained the most beautiful woman in the world, like Snow White: slender, blue-blue eyes framed with heavy black hair. Even after twelve hours in the new shop, her mother was always ready to make quick decisions. She continued with a determined step in those spike heeled shoes, the telltale vestige of that glamorous woman from Brooklyn. Yes, she had changed, but at least she still wore beautiful shoes.
Everything else seemed so different. The young girl's ideas about her strange, lonely life shuffled back and forth every hour. Brooklyn had been a safe place because everyone knew everything about everyone. Moving to strange place on the other side of the Hudson River was daring, adventurous. Her old friends were frightened for her, but at the same time, they envied her the excitement and danger.
Almost everyone in the old neighborhood had come to America from Russia; they came escaping from gross hatred against Jews. Daydreaming, in a reverie Rebeccah remembered her mother sitting with friends at a wooden round table singing "old country" songs, talking and arguing in rousing voices about piece work in factories, about plays, opera, and books. They spoke about life in Russia, their homesickness, the sister or brother awaiting the chance to come to America. Remembering pogroms and the murderous Cossacks made their voices rough and brought a hushed murmuring of victims' names victims and places. Everyone in Brooklyn knew about hatred and the burden of being Jewish. Painful memories fueled songs and laughter as they clung to each other, relishing their special ways, their jokes, stories and delicious food.
Brooklyn was far from "The Store." No other Jews with whom to play and talk. At least her mother no longer worked in a dark factory where there were strikes and fear; she was always at home there in the store where they ate and took turns waiting on customers. Her mother was married to Isaac, her caring stepfather; Genya and her own father had long been divorced. They were a family who worked together every day.
If only there other Jews, even one, to sing, play, or simply be with. All the people in New Jersey were "gentiles." Rebeccah knew that gentiles didn't understand anything about Jews.
"You better be careful around gentiles. Don't give them any reason to look down on us. Always look clean, not dirty! We want them to respect us."
"They are different. They don't scream and cry like we do. They DON'T TALK WITH THEIR HANDS!"
"Their funerals are quiet. No matter what is happening, they always stay calm."
"So when you are around them, be careful how you behave. DON'T RAISE YOUR VOICE! It's better to say nothing than to say something foolish. Gentiles are always polite. Be sure you are polite when they are near you. DON'T SPIT! DON'T BLOW YOUR NOSE! Don't talk with your hands!"
Rebeccah behaved. She worked in the store every afternoon and early evening completing her school homework between attending customers. At night, alone, she went to the small upstairs apartment to sleep. Genya had often explained that the sparsely furnished apartment was acceptable "for the time being."
As Rebeccah thought about her new life, she decided to walk around the block once again. The air was crisp; her cheeks tingled; the snow dampened her eyelashes. Christmas vacation was coming with more time for playing outdoors. No schoolwork! And she could help her mother and Isaac. They were busier than ever; they needed her. People were buying the expensive, elegant gifts that Genya had displayed so attractively in her immaculate glass-covered cabinets. Although the country was rocking from the 1929 Depression, "The Store" was becoming a success. Isaac raced from one end of the store to the other, serving customers while humoring and joking with them. His face flushed as his dark almond shaped eyes glistened as he sensed the possibility of good luck.
Rebecca was useful: to sell penny candy, she could squat down almost to the floor level. Serving and accommodating the kids in the neighborhood gave her pleasure as she presided at the soda fountain, scooping ice cream into sugar cones and sundaes. So many chances to test the different flavors, like butter-pecan and coffee! Roller-skating to the bank and post office for change and stamps gave her importance. She knew how to sell, handle cash, and make change correctly. The potent public, her customers, took kindly to Rebeccah's studied pleasant politeness in virtuously helping her industrious parents.
Christmas excitement had whirled into the severe family routine. Merchandise was moving: elegant boxes of Schrafft's candy, expensive cigars, and fancy writing paper. But beneath the aura of success, a subtle antagonism toward the symbols of Christmas had seeped into unspoken thoughts.
Rebeccah had responded to her first experience of Christmas amidst the wonder of white snowflakes, kids sliding down hills on sleighs. The Salvation Army man swaying a jingling bell. Promises of Santa Claus and colorful Christmas cards. Best of all, a holiday from school! Yet Christmas was a Christian holiday; her family was Jewish. It was not their holiday.
The conflicting ideas that could not be pushed aside stubbornly wormed their way into the troubled child's thoughts. The snow stopped; cold air penetrated around her collar. Pulling a woolen scarf around her neck, she wondered, "Will my mother still be angry?" She felt a chill race through her body as she remembered her mother's taut face wordlessly kissing at bedtime. The air was bitter cold as she squinted and squeezed her eyelids tightly. Had she been walking too long because she dreaded her mother's icy blue-eyed look of anger? What would Genya say today? Maybe it would be all right. Isaac and her mother were too busy to talk about anything. That's the way her family lived: their daily life accompanied the store merchandise in a commercial display of discussions, conflicts, enjoyment of radio. It was as if their total existence became public property; personal privacy was stowed away in a three-room apartment directly over the business, a place to sleep among the unpainted furniture after long store keeping hours.
It had happened so suddenly the past Sunday morning. Customers were coming from church to buy a treat or the Sunday paper. After it happened, a shocked silence, like a gust of outside icy wind, blew into "The Store." A friendly customer carrying colorfully beribboned box had entered and handed the package to Rebeccah while calling out "Merry Christmas!" The child's eyes lightened with delighted surprise. Genya stood as though rooted to the ground like an ominous warning statue, her eyes darkened in an angry face. Isaac frantically waited on customers wondering what Genya would say. The embarrassed customer hurriedly pulled the door open, turned and defiantly shouted, "Christmas is for everyone!"
The pale dawn of success had just crested on family's horizon when this new disturbance blurred its vision. An uneasy acceptance of the Christmas gift yielded to pressures of increased business. A gelatinous mass of confused emotions became a shroud over the turbulent incident. Genya and Isaac had long ago separated themselves from the religious ideas of their own heredity, but they reacted sullenly to the intrusion of the Christian holiday into their mentality. After all, they were "Freethinkers," associating themselves with vegetarians, anarchists, trade unionists, devotees of the theater and classical literature, racial equality and what not. The abrupt antagonism about Christmas surfaced when they least expected it: time or will to understand uncomfortable feelings was a luxury. They buried their uneasiness beneath work and fear, postponing discussion "for the time being."
A second shock rattled them into a panic. Rebeccah was sick. Red squinting eyes cringing from light accompanied a harsh, hacking cough, fever and a blotchy pink rash. MEASLES! Now, during the busiest time, she would not be able to help out! To bed she must go--upstairs to recover. It was like walking in a blizzard, lowering their heads into a blinding storm, through which they must stubbornly push to survive.
The doctor, one of their customers, commanded that Rebeccah stay in bed with the shades drawn tightly down to protect her eyes; she must rest in the darkness and stay warm. There was no medicine for measles. Just time and rest.
The disease pummeled the child's body with fever, dizziness, and a painful sore throat. Pressing her lonely self into her narrow bed, she tried not to think about the discomfort or the inconvenience to her parents. Was this a punishment? Water and juice sat sadly on the unpainted chair beside her bed. A bare chest of drawers was the only other furniture in the blank-walled room.
Rebeccah felt better when her mother came upstairs every two or three hours to see her bringing penny candy, drinks, ice cream and kisses with hugs. Her mandates: "Stay in bed. Keep the window shades down." Day and night joined into unending, monotonous dullness.
She slept feverishly. When awake, thoughts about her friends in Brooklyn seeped into her thoughts: the fun of playing freely in the streets, soft ball games, the exciting danger of dodging traffic, roller skating alongside automobiles and hanging on to the backs of trucks, friendly shopkeepers in the grocery and delicatessen stores. Buying cream cheese and sour cream stored in deep bowls. "Mmmm," she murmured out loud as she thought of the big, round wooden barrels with kosher dill pickles, and the biting smell from barrels of salted herring. Memories of excitement and happiness also brought smarting tears to her sore eyes. So many people talking politics, music and books! The one book that she would never forget was about the Count of Monte Cristo, with its prisoner in a dark cell who managed to dig himself out into the freedom of the outer world!
After a few days she stopped remembering. She waited, for what she did not know. She only waited.
It seemed like the end of a long, sad dream when she heard a rustling sound stirring the stillness of the shaded room. Was it a mouse? A ghost? Her imagination? The whispering sound came from the bottom of the hallway door. Rebeccah sat up, lifted her pale legs over the side of the bed, stretched to see the door, but she could see nothing in the gray light. Silence coaxed her curiosity. No, it was not a dream; there had been a sound. Shuffling close to the door, she noticed a corner of paper peeking at her from under the door. A message! Someone was sending her a message!
Carefully and slowly, she approached the door. Yes, there was something! She pulled the corner of paper and found a slim booklet. Grabbing it, she ran to the window, defiantly pulling up the shade to examine the cover. A cross was printed on the pamphlet that read, "That's what heaven is like, filled with light." There was a picture of Jesus, surrounded by cute, curly-headed babies.
The next pages' gray, grainy paper printing hinted at mystery! They showed music with written words set between rows of notes. Songs! Maybe the same ones the kids at school sang that she had never dared to learn. She thought, "Hide the book!" Surely Genya would throw it away. What a beautiful book! Now she could learn to sing the songs. She slid the slender book under the narrow mattress, waiting till it was safe to look at it again. Such excitement!
Conspiracy pulled Rebeccah out of her darkness. The bare room became a prison cell; she was the Count of Monte Cristo. When her mother offered nourishment, she accepted the attention passively, whimpered conveniently, responding docilely to cautioning instructions. As soon as the apartment door clicked shut, out came the little book. Experimenting, she learned to coordinate the words with the written music, she conquered the first song, "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear." The printed page presented a magical picture of an angel with widely spread wings. The song sounded exactly as she had heard it at school! With this chance to sing those melodies, she developed her method of learning, passing from one song to another, singing boldly with passion. Time went by quickly. Once the caroling blocked the sound of the door opening. Genya was relieved to see Rebeccah recuperating, singing with a happy face, though the child stopped singing before her mother caught the actual words.
With every repetition, the songs sounded better, telling a beautiful and sentimental story, wiping the sadness out of the room. It seemed as though the young girl's clear, rising voice changed the drab, bare walls and furniture. "Oh, Holy Night" flooded her eyes, while other tunes left her smiling.
Rebeccah kept her wonderful secret forever. The measles left her body; the Christmas carols never deserted her.
Twelve years later, a sharp, echoing train whistle pierced through the predawn frozen Minnesota air into Rebeccah's slumbering ears. Her eyelids fluttered as she remembered that this day was Christmas. Different, special. Turning under the covers, the student nurse reminded herself that she was ready for a new holiday experience. Christmas, at the University School of Nursing dormitory showed her a different celebration from those under the nervous eyes of her parents.
Each day postal packages wrapped in wrinkled brown paper had arrived filled with beautifully decorated homemade cookies, home tailored clothes and fancy bars of soap. They came from the farming families of Rebeccah's classmates. Delighted cries of anticipation greeted each new package. A few opened boxes offered delicious sweets enjoyed by the twenty-five students. Sugary cookies and creamy homemade fudge eased the incipient homesickness. Antiseptic odors and the rigid hospital environment seemed to vanish in the presence of family devotion.
With sleep laden eyes, Rebeccah pulled on her robe, and rushed to the shower room; eager for the new day, she dressed quickly in her blue and white uniform. The bedroom mirror showed a glowing face framed by dark hair pinned neatly above a starched, round white collar. Smiling at the image of the prim white cap perched on her head, she was reminded of the determination and dedication she had spent on order to wear it. A surge of pride straightened her back and shoulders. She was ready.
On Christmas Eve the students had rehearsed carols, then celebrated with a gift exchange; Rebeccah received gifts wrapped with dancing ribbons and Christmas paper. Her friends' embraces and wishes of a Merry Christmas pressed her into the celebration.
While growing toward young womanhood, Rebeccah had become part of a whole. Everyone in the class had worked together: they had learned nursing arts and skills together encouraging and reassuring each other. They had seen death and recovery, endured fear of failure. Now a unified body, they sang the hopeful carols.
She checked her shoes for whiteness, straightening the seams of her stockings before rushing to join the group. They hurried through a connecting tunnel into the hospital, rose in an elevator to Station 42, a ten-bed ward. "Silent Night, Holy Night" was the first anthem.
Almost like a long remembered lullaby, the soft voices began to wake the men in narrow iron beds. Were they dreaming? Some wondered for a moment if they had died during the long, lonesome, painful night. Others imagined dreamily that they were back on the farm: maybe it was time to get up and start the early morning chores. Then the reality of anchoring tubes and bottles pushed their heads back into pillows. The music continued while the men looked at the pure, clear eyes, the strong bodies of young nurses who had been taking care of them. Surely these were "Angels of Mercy" on this Christmas morning -- singing angels, full of love.
At first, the patients stared wide-eyed listening to the young voices bringing old songs to them. They felt blood rushing through their veins again. Their bodies, accustomed to hard work, had been immobilized by sickness into a bed far from their poor struggling families. The repressed fear and worry that filled their sick bodies welled into a gush of unaccustomed tears, watering dry, blue eyes, and flowed along weathered skin on bony faces. Some tried to join the singing.
"A thrill of joy
The weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks
A new and glorious morn"
Some sang in broken voices, some deep and strong, some in Swedish, Finnish or Croatian accents. A many-voiced song of hope rang out into the long hospital corridor.
A blue dawn joined the cold winter sky as they sang, "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." At almost 7:00 a.m. it was time to begin the workday.
Rebeccah sensed the inclusion of an old healing ingredient as she delivered treatment trays of sterile equipment to bedside stands.
About the Author
Rosalind Belmont is a life-long learner for whom writing has emerged as a new passion. Retired from a forty-year career as a public health nurse, Roz has studied writing at Point Loma Nazarene University with Dean Nelson and Kay Harkins. She has also studied writing and literature at Mira Costa College. At almost 85 years of age, Roz continues to delight and inspire all those who know her. Her story "Christmas Carol" (a fictionalized account of her own true life experience) embodies well the Wesleyan concept of prevenient grace. Roz lives with grace and determination in Encintias, California. You may e-mail your responses to her story to: Rozrites@aol.com