A Child's Christmas 1943 PicFic.

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Five minutes before Christmas Day,  Napoleon, Illya and Jo celebration of Christmas in 1943.

The 12-year-old was dressed in a tuxedo, brown hair perfectly in place. As an ambassador’s grandson, nothing less would be acceptable.  The party was in full swing, but for the only young man there, it was boring.  He had done his duty and spoke to all the guest before his escape to the streets of Washington DC.  

He roamed the avenues leading from the consulate until he came to the poorer part of town.  His grandfather would be extremely angry if he knew that he was here, but the happy voices and singing pulled him to a house. 

Peeking in the window while hiding behind a bush, he saw a family sitting around a kitchen table. 

He watched as a small amount of the food was given to each member of the family.  He had eaten almost as much food as they were serving for his own supper.  Yet these people were happy with what they had and were acting as if it was a feast.  It seemed unfair that only a few miles from here food was being wasted while this family had so little.

He listened as they laughed and giggled over supper.  He could hear them reliving the joys of the day.    

The talk at his grandfather’s table had been about war and fighting.  No one laughed or joked there.

Although getting cold, he continued to watch as after supper, the whole family began playing games.  They took turned suggesting one and everybody joined in; no one was excluded. 

After he had finished supper, the adults had broken into group discussing anything but the holiday. No one had invited him to join his or her group.

He watched as the family before him decorated the tree together, once again laughing.  Everyone helped from the youngest to the elderly grandmother.  He could tell that the children had made many of the ornaments.   As each was hung, it was handled with care.

The tree in the consulate was tall and richly decorated by maids.  When he asked to help, he had been told it wasn’t something in his position that he should do.

Finally, the family opened a gift apiece.  Small things, many handmade were exchanged.  The oohs and ahhh were honest.  Although he had received many gifts, his grandfather hadn’t actually given him any.  The servants had picked them out and wrapped them.

With five minutes left of Christmas Eve, he slowly turned and headed toward the consulate, head down and sadden. The unfairness of the world was bothering him.  Someday he would work on correcting it.

Knowing his grandfather would be looking for him to instruct him on how to act at tomorrow’s function, he hurried to the place that he called home this week.

“Someday,” the young Napoleon whispered to himself.” I will have a Christmas with the love of someone who really cares.”

…….

A 10-year-old boy ran through the streets.  Clothed in rags, his blond hair dirty, he held on to his precious package tightly.  Knowing that the younger children that he was keeping safe would be waiting for him, he ran faster into the Ukrainian night.

Crashing into an older man, an angry German voice yelled. “Where are you going?” 

Looking down at the small oranges that had spilled, he felt the tears begin to form in his eyes.  The others were waiting for him and hoping for something from Did Moro (Father Frost in Ukraine).  He had taken the oranges from the Germans, although he knew the penalty for stealing food was death.

“What do we have here?”  The man said picking up one orange while holding on to the struggling child with the other hand.

 “I wonder where this came from,” he said looking at the child.  The man could tell the boy was one of the orphans giving the army a difficult time by stealing from their kitchens.

 The boy stopped struggling and looked at fruit before giving the man an icy glare. 

“I was hungry,” the boy said defiantly. 

“And you were going to eat,” the man counted the scattered fruit.  “Twenty oranges all by yourself?”

Knowing he had to protect the others, he lied.  “Da.”

The man smiled holding up the orange.  “You know what they would do to you for stealing this?”

“Da.”

“Well, maybe if you told me where the others are we could make a deal.”  The man pulled a chocolate bar out of his pocket offering it to the boy.

When was the last time he had anything other than what he picked from the garbage.  The chocolate looked so sweet.  Then he thought of those waiting for him.

“Nyet.  I do not know of others.”  The boy said sticking out his chin in defiance.

“I did not think you did.  Here,” the man handed the bag back to the boy after picking up the dropped fruit.  “Tell the others you do not know about, I said Merry Christmas.”

The boy ran until he could no longer see the man.  Before long he entered a burned out building where the others hid.  He handed each child an orange who took it as if it was gold.  He took his own and went to sit in a corner thinking over what had happened. The man had not turned him in, this he did not understand.  But he smiled at the man’s kindness.

With five minutes left of Christmas Eve, he went to his place the bag on the floor but it fell. A chocolate bar dropping out of it with a small note catching his attention:

To a young man who is brave beyond his years.  Always protect the innocent, Did Moro.

The small boy promised silently to Did Moro that he would do just that.

“Someday,” the young Illya whispered to himself.” I will have a Christmas with the love of someone who really cares.”

……

The 8-year-girl strawberry blonde was tired from running.  The Germans had almost caught her stealing food this time.  She had lost her coat when the sergeant had grabbed her.  It was paper thin and torn, but it was all she had.  Now she was not only hungry but also cold. 

She heard noises and hid in the corner of a broken down building.  As the noises became voices she shivered, whether from the cold or from fear she wasn’t sure.  She wanted her parents, grandmother and older brother, but she knew she would never see them again.  The Germans had killed each one, and she was alone in the world.

“I found her,” an older woman called out looking down on the trembling girl.  “Come out child, I will not hurt you.”

The woman offered her a hand, but the child pushed further back.  She had been betrayed before by kind voices. 

A younger woman came into view.  “Oh mother, she frightened.  Child we will not hurt you.  Are you hungry?”  She held out a muffin to the girl. 

The smell made the child’s stomach cramp in hunger, but memories of others who had used food to trap her filled her mind.  “Nyet, I am not hungry.” She managed to lie before tears betrayed her.

“Alexandra hand me the coat,” the older woman said to the younger woman.

“Here mother,” Alexandra said handing her a worn but warm looking coat.

“This child is for you.  I saw what the German did to you.  Please take it and the muffin.  We really would like to help you.  It is Christmas Eve you know.”

Christmas, the child hadn’t thought of the day in two years, since the death of her family.  No day meant anything other than another to survive. 

The women placed the coat, muffin and a warm container of Borsch in front of her then moved back to give her space to run if she wanted to.

Crawling slowly toward the offering, the child pulled them into the corner.  She slipped on the coat then went to take a large drink of the soup when the woman called out.  “Stop!”

Fear widened the child’s eyes.  “I am sorry little one; I didn’t mean to scare you.  That is very hot, sip it carefully.”

The child did as directed enjoying a taste that reminded her of her grandmother’s.  The muffin had sour cream something only the very rich had.  This meant the women had money, and that frightened the child.  She heard of rich people stealing children to make them their slaves.

Angry German voices could be heard outside the building. “The child came this way, I saw her.  That brat is not getting away from me this time.” 

“Hide child,” the older woman said.  Quickly standing, she and her daughter headed toward the outside wall.

“Halt,” one guard yelled.

The women stopped and looked at him.

“Did you see a dirty reddish blonde girl come this way?”

“Nyet,” said the two.

 “Why do you want her? What has she done wrong except being a child?” The mother challenged.

“Get out of my way, old woman.  We will search this place.”  He said as he pushed her down.

“My mother told you that we saw no child.”

The sergeant turned back toward the women, angry that another Ukrainian challenged his authority and shot them. 

At the sound of gunfire, the child ran leaving her hiding place.  She scurried until she reached a church then stuck into it. 

 Staying in the shadows, she approached the Virgin Mary’s alter.   With five minutes left of Christmas Eve, she knelt down praying for the dead women as her grandmother had taught her.  They had given their lives for her.  Slowing she touched the warm coat and offered a silent prayer.  After finishing, she walked away making a vow that someday she would help others in need.

 “Someday,” the young Josephina whispered to herself.” I will have a Christmas with the love of someone who really cares.”