Katherina Minardo, Sculptor

Dragging the silver spruce made his mind start to wander. Images returned of another time and place; a hilltop village somewhere in old Europe. He remembered himself as a young man studying for the priesthood, trying to comply with the family’s wishes. The family was poor, and the church was an avenue to a free education. But he was not really convinced.

He had first seen her during a village celebration for their patron, Saint Peter. He thought he had seen an angel! They were married within a year. Healthy, strong, and good with his hands, he started working in the local quarry. Cutting blocks of marble was hard and dangerous work. But he had her by his side, and that was all he cared.

Years went by. One of the other workers in the quarry had migrated to America and soon convinced him to follow. In his letters he made it sound like the land of milk and honey. So one day, after all the papers had been signed, he and his angel were on a ship.

The New World did not turn out quite as he had envisioned. Yes, there was plenty of work on construction sites, and he worked hard. But she was lonely; he knew she missed her mountains, her family and her friends. It took her a long time to learn the new language, and she found the climate was much harder than she was accustomed to. But she was a fine seamstress, and soon her reputation spread throughout the neighbourhood. Women came to her for every kind of repair: hems, tucks, and all their other sewing needs. 

She never questioned his decision to come to America. With time things improved, and they managed to set aside a little savings. Their apartment slowly filled with solid furniture and small luxuries. Life was getting easier. 

Then she fell ill. At first the doctors did not know what to make of it. She had sudden dizzy spells and fell several times. Her bones became brittle and broke at the smallest provocation. He began to miss work while all the treatments began to eat into their savings. Gradually things worsened. They decided to leave their apartment for a cheaper basement flat in a poorer neighbourhood. He was laid off work due to all his absences. But she was all he cared about. She was his reason to live and he was terrified of losing her. Money became tight and he watched every penny.

The screech of a car just a few inches away brought him smartly back to reality. The scare made him drop some parcels and the driver was screaming at him.

But he and the tree were almost home. He could hardly wait to see her face when she saw it.

Cyril, bruised and scraped from the long journey, felt as though life was over. And being dragged down a flight of stairs into a small room seemed to be a fitting end to his dreams!

The old man entered the bedroom. She was sleeping and he did not wake her. He was hoping she would stay asleep so he could surprise her.

Cyril was finally untied. Having so recently decided that he was dying Cyril was surprised to feel shape trickle back into his branches. To set him into a bucket was a major effort. But then, when the gentleman filled it with water, Cyril started to breathe once again. He felt his branches starting to lift, his needles plump up, his sap running.

The old man dusted him off. He had not imagined what a beautiful tree he had been dragging home. He took out the silver garlands and draped them over the branches. Then came the red and white sugarcanes. There was not much light in the room but the garlands made Cyril’s silver blue needles shine and sparkle like snowflakes on a moon-lit field.

The old man quickly wrapped his gifts and placed them under the tree. Then he set the table. A red candle served as centrepiece.

She entered the room some time later and stood silently gazing at the tree. Cyril saw himself reflected in the tears of joy that welled up in her eyes. Was he really that beautiful? He had not expected that someone would cry simply looking at him. He was humbled and just a little embarrassed. He lowered his branches ever so slightly. 

Of all the scenarios that had played in his mind this was not one he had ever imagined. A woman in a sparsely furnished basement crying in front of him.

“Do you like it, Anna?” the old man asked, placing his arm tenderly around her shoulders.

She started to sob so he guided her over to the table. Not that she cried easily. In fact he actually could not remember the last time he had seen her cry. But the sight of the wonderful tree, and the table set with such care, had simply overwhelmed her.

The chicken was still hot and ever so tasty. The storekeeper had been generous not only with the roast potatoes, but had thrown in some carrots and broccoli as well. From somewhere appeared a small bottle of red wine. He watched her eating with such pleasure, and saw no wrinkles when he looked at her face, just the warm, caring, dark eyes that he loved.

Yes, it was a beautiful Christmas dinner, and she had not yet opened her presents. There was something for him too. She had secretly been knitting for months: a new sweater, the wool hoarded from better times. But working with her hands had become more difficult and quite painful. Still, every day when he was gone she took out her knitting and worked just as fast as she could. The sweater was a plain dark green in colour. He certainly needed one, since he never bought anything new for himself. Now, simply wrapped in plain brown paper, it was placed under the tree. Cyril looked down and in his own eyes saw beautiful boxes instead.

They had hardly finished eating when the doorbell rang. The elderly man got up; he knew who it was. He opened the door and looked down at ten little faces. Some Mexican, some Chinese, one white, one black, all stood waiting to be invited in. In the old country it had always been tradition for children to sit around the fireplace in the winter months and listen to stories. And he had been one of the best storytellers. He loved doing it. It was easy; he could talk for hours and hours, the words flowing like water from a well. The stories were never the same. He was almost incapable of repeating himself. In the few times he did, prompted by the children who liked one particularly story, it was never exactly the same. What he told was always a surprise; that’s why it was so exciting. When he started on a new story he had only the vaguest idea in his head, but it would grow and unfold like the cones on a tree, one after the other.

“Come in. And behave!”

The children pushed through the door. His large frame had hidden the tree from their eyes. As soon as they saw Cyril they could not but clap their hands, they jumped and cheered. Not one of them had a Christmas tree at home, and a magnificent one like Cyril was beyond the wildest expectations.

The old man smiled at his wife, and she told the children they could take the candy canes. To Cyril, feeling all those little hands touching his branches and needles felt like the sweetest caress. One shy little girl with big brown eyes and pigtails was the last to come near. The cane she wanted was just out of reach. She stretched on her tippy toes. And no one noticed how the branch bowed a fraction, just enough for her to grasp it.

It took a little time but finally the children gathered around the tree. Some sat crossed legged, some were lying on their stomachs, others leaned on each other. The wooden floor had been barely covered by a tired worn-out rug, but now to Cyril, looking down on the circle of excited children this was the most lovely sight.

The old man leaned back in his time worn brown velvet chair while his wife occupied the other — two of the few possessions kept from better times. From his shirt pocket he extracted a pipe. It had belonged to his grandfather and his great grandfather before him. His own father had presented it to him when they left for America. He never actually smoked, but he loved holding it in his hands and placing it in his mouth. He always did that when he told his stories.

The room became eerily quiet. The children had all learned he needed perfect silence to start. But the air was electric with anticipation. Cyril remembered feeling something similar when he was growing up on the farm. It was the stillness in the air just before a storm. He had always loved that special moment when nature seemed to stop its heartbeat and stand still. But tonight there was to be no storm, just one man’s voice breaking the silence.

“Once upon a time…”

The stories were always different, but without fail they commenced with the same old-fashioned words. And the children loved them. There was something magical, unchanging and reassuring in these words…

To be continued…