Three Christmas Trees

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 51, 23 December 1925, Page 11

Three Christmas Trees

(By John Ayscough, in the London Month.)

Christmas Eve, .and-;the night falling. For two days the same sharp wind had blown out of the east across the great central plain of Europe, with a bitter black frost. in its mouth. Now the snow was falling, but sparsely, barely sufficient to whiten the house tops: but enough to keep all indoors who had no business to call them out into the long, narrow street—of Mariahilf, a small bleak townlet fifteen.miles eastward of «'- +1 „■ ." '* J "■ ,'' " " By the fare, in a. wooden elbow-chair, sat Jmedrich Giinther—of a once great name, but of modest condition. His hair was griz- ' zlecl but not white: a year ago it had been still almost black. The lines in his gray face were deep now, and the once genial mouth

was set in what had become a chronic puckering of lips seldom opened without necessity, for sorrow had taken the man sternly, as it takes some breaking down frozen tempers. Perhaps this bowed head had been held over-proudly till the weight of grief struck it down. An elderly woman, evidently his wife, was pretending to have some occupation at the window, which had a long sill broad enough to support certain dull plants (which looked as if they had never flowered and never, intended to flower), but in reality the woman was doing nothing, only peering through the screen of mouldy greenery out into the desolate street. From the window she could see, while the fading dusk lasted, a good way—as far as "Hans Schaun's corner," where Schaun's shop stood, a shop which had no speciality of stock-in-trade, but displayed in its window any articles Schaun could afford to procure and his neighbors could (as he calculated) afford to buy. Half the space in his window was taken up now by tiny fir-trees—for poor as the neighbors were they must even in war-time, have each their Christmas Tree: very small trees with very little on them. Among the tiny fir-trees were small boxes of colored tapers— and lean—red, blue, and yellow: and there was one box of tinsel balls, not all gold, but some rose-colored with tinsel stripes or stars, some white, also goldstarred. Also among the little; trees there was a little crib, of brightly-painted, embossed cartridge-paper. It could fold up and was esteemed by Frau Schaun a miracle of art. She liked it none the less that the Blessed Virgin, St. Joseph, and the shepherds were clearly Germans— of the shepherds remarkably like Anton Hess the wheelwright round the corner. Frau Giinther up the street had been Maria Hess, and was Anton's sister, but older than him, and since her marriage— years ago—much better off than any of the Hesses. "Is there," Friedrich called out from his place by the hearth, "any sense in making thyself cold there? Do we .have fire to warm the chimney?" / \f' ; ']''■ •: ' His wife sighed meekly. u ; ' • ; v ; "Thou \ knowest why I look* \ out by ] the window," she= said. "When he went away

I promised to look out every evening at night-falling—let* me set a candle in the window. We can afford it, especially just to-night Christabend." 1 > "What is the use of putting it? What is the use of looking out Her t husband objected. It had come to that with him' that he asked concerning everything What is the use of it?" He let her alone and went on with frs dreary musing. The fire at least was not dreary, it could warm his feet, "if h could not keep his heart from freezing ; "Fritz," Maria said with a timid hardiness over her shoulder, "when the other children came, long ago, after our Fritzchen you did not welcome them. You were afraid

■■>.•■•. . —-—-• *«u noio wxam they were going to be too many and would prevent you getting rich as soon as you wished. ..." Her husband frowned but let her go on, pretending not to listen at all. He bent forward and stirred the logs so that they made a brighter blaze, till 'all the homely room was filled with light: Maria saw how the bright light shone upon the long window and thought "it will do instead of i the candle." ••■■'■ "You grumbled as they came," she went on, braving the frowning '.' face that cast a huge shadow on the white wall; "you thought of nothing but the spending they would cost. And even when they died you did not care much. You only thought ' there will be more for Fnzchen.' You only cared for him, because he was the eldest— if you were a Count of the Holy Empire all taken up with your heir, who was to carry on your fine name—a corn-factor's heir. : . "\"' : ' /m/! :; ' At last Friedrich interrupted harshly. ' "My heir though: heir of the last of our branch of the Giinthers—and, but you know nothing of what it is to hold a great name. It is no use expecting you to understand. How should Johann Hess's daughter understand!" "Johann Hess loved all his children: not the eldest only. There were twelve of us. And he was poor, but he never thought-one of them was one too many. He found bread for all and never cared if the eldest should be poorer because there were eleven brothers and sisters to love him.'? ~ The poor man groaned. "And you think I didn't love my lad—-first-born, the only one left to me!" ' * ;i It was a very bitter cry of protest and it dried up the reproaches his wife—with a pent-up silence of many years burst and broken at last—had been raining on him. 5 "Ah, dear God]" she cried weeping, "but you loved him: he had it all, all the love that should have been divided among all. And yet—yet you grudge a candle for him, and ask 'What use " .? ■ ; ;,- •.••_, , s "Well,; what usb is, it?. Can a candle in the window give welcome to one who can never come home? Can he see it from his grave, if he has any grave? It only makes it worse—pretending to i have i hope t. when

, . ~-•■• ■ . there is no ;• hope. I would"burn the house down to make /a.: bonfire to light him up the , street he could'be there. You know where IShe is, dead in that French place.'.' • v ' k The man's words were harsh ' ! and pitiless, ■but ;•; the voice, that had grown in a few pnths an old voice, was very anguished. He was become like a poor agonised deathly stricken hound that will bite at itself and everyone in its torture. ~ r ''~' g;; ; "But Fritz," Maria , pleaded, 'the priest who wrote did not say he was dead." , j)i- : "He ■' said he had found the boy, among eleven , others, in a room at a ■school used as |a hospital, mortally wounded. He said he had given him the Last Sacraments, . and praised his religion and devotion. When he went back next morning he had no hope of £ finding him alive, and lie found him gone. •I The dead it seemed were taken at once to ■ ; the mortuary and buried quickly. It was a 'French priest who lived near by the school who buried them." &'< "But," urged Maria, "the priest who wrote j never saw him dead. He did not bury him, I though he buried some that very day on | which he looked for him and did not find him." > "He saw a list of the dead—English, French, and German —who were to be. buried that day, arid our Fritzchen's name was among them." n. The agonised father was in terror of listening to delusive hope. ■j His wife went away again from his side, and crossed the room to where a crucifix stood, between carved wooden figures of Christ's bereaved. Mother and St. John, and from -under the pedestal of the cross took \letter and brought it over to the fire. By *j its light she read the often-read letter over /'again. | It was directed to the Archbishop of P., and was written in English. It bore date of October 18, 1914 and said: My Lord Archbishop, % I may not say whence this is written. We may not give the place of writing on any letter we write even to our nearest relations. I I write this to Your Grace instead of to the ©parents of a poor lad I assisted during his last moments yesterday afternoon, because £1 think it certain a letter addressed to one in your high station sure to arrive, and also because I. can venture to write in English to Your Grace, and I can scarcely write in German at all. I was able long ago, but have forgotten. I cannot talk much German either, but can understand it still if spoken slowly. Yesterday at dusk I visited one of the several hospitals in this town for the 11 wounded. This one is really a school used as a hospital. In one of the class-rooms I found eleven' poor fellows of your nation || all brought in from the battlefield mortally wounded. : Four were Catholics, and ill four made their confession, and received Exc-eme Unction arid Holy Viaticum.:. All were very J;: devout, and full of religion. But I 'w;is t touched most of all by the devotion of a big 1 lad : .of- nineteen (he looked older) who talked to me also.after he had fulfilled h : s religious duties- about his home and his parents with mast,tender love, regret. It was rarrowing. He yearned so terribly for his home and them; and suffered so much more for ;

their bereavement r than from his own wounds and pain. I was a long time with him, but at last he slept, through exhaustion, 'and I went away. i| Next morning I went back, bu;; found his place empty were the ten other places. Ten were —one little lad had become sufficiently better to 'be removad to train-head for transference to another hospital. He had told me hi s name —Kail Fuick. Where my poor fellow had lain was cos prayer-book, and in it was his name, Friedrich Gunther, son of Friedrich Gunther, of Mariahilf, near P—— . He, with the other nine who had died since I was there yesterday— English, four. French, and three Germans all buried by a very charitable French priest who lives next to that school used as a hospital. That priest talked German perfectly, and was as kind. to any poor wounded Germans as if they had been of his own nation. I did not think at once of writing through Your Grace to let the poor parents know how Christian an end their son made. I fear it will be more difficult to send their son's prayer-book as well as a letter, but I will ask, and do so if it is possible. Begging Your Grace's Blessing, I am, most respectfully, Your servant, ; . Henry Masters, , Military Chaplain. Attached to the English letter was a German translation, but the poor mother and father fingered most the original paper traced by a hand that had given the last holy Unction to their boy. "It is certain," Friedrich sobbed; "it is hopeless. When we cheat ourselves with false hope we lose him again each time the hope breaks down." "We break down," the mother persisted, "not the hope." ~ "It is cruel to say that. It is cheating one over again. It is as you have been hintingpreaching rather. I grumbled because God sent us children I had not wanted, thinking them too many, thinking they would prevent me leaving Fritzchen rich. So God has stolen away the one I wanted to keep." "How can God stealwho owns everything? That is a wicked word, and I was wicked to say what I did. God would not let a lad be killed to spite his father. God loved the boy more than we did." "Not more than I —speak for yourself," the father gruffly retorted. Maria shuddered. * "Fritz," she asked, "have you 7 ever asked God to send him home?" "No. What use to ask the impossible! We shall go to him: he will come no moro to us. Did David get his "son "back "Did David ask? He said what you have just said. 7 ask every day, and all day long. I should ask if. I had wen him killed." This + ime it was the father who shuddered. His wife's indomitable faith frightened him. "What; is being killed to God?" the poor woman cried aloud. "Is one way of being J dead .beyond" His power, and another not? ;; Lazarus was 'as much dead as if he had been killed in battle. Jesus knew when he died, and .went to bring him back. The Jews laughed at Him. Our friend sleepeth,' Jesus said, and Igo to waken him out of

sleep.' Has He forgotten how to raise the dead because He has raised Himself from death. Fritz, my beloved 'bridegroom, ask ; Him! Kneel down and;, ask Him. And get up and go and light the candle in the window. It will lighten him home even if., they put him into the ground— foreign ground. Ask, ask, ask! Don't let God think you agree to his being dead." "i f \\. ;$ "What is the use of asking the impossible groaned the wretched father. / ij % of us; but how impossible for Christ who raised Himself out of His own grave? Kneel down and ask Him." ;' *Mj' "She grows crazy," thought Friedrich; and to quieten her he knelt down and asked.jt» Outside the gloomy air was filling with the noise of the Christmas bells. They chimed a regular tune, the air of the anthem, "For unto us a Son is given." >:| The snow fell thicker and faster now. If any passengers had been abroad their clothing would have been thick with soft whiteness. There was only one in all the street. He looked, in the wan light of Schaun's window, outside which he stood, like a snow man, such as the children make. Around his neck and face a thick comforter was wrapped, up to his eyes. That also was half snow-covered. Pushing the shop-door open he went in and said gruffly: "A Christmas tree, please. The biggest you have." "Ah, we have no really big ones this year. Everyone is too poor: what money they can spare they spend on comforts to send to their sons' and husbands at the war. We have but these little ones." "Then I will take these three,'' said the stranger. "And all these candles and these pretty decorations." • ',",'.,',-'-'; I So large an order much impressed ■ Fran Schaun: the stranger must be rich. >•; v "No presents?" she inquired, wondering what to offer. '"''.'• .', >' "Only'one." ,/\ \ "For three trees!" : ,' "Yes, only one. It will be enough. <I have it." ' ': His pockets were certainly bulgy. Frau Schaun stared at them, wondering what they might hold. ; "But only one present," she objected, "for three trees." "' ,v " r fn]'"Yes, only one. They won't complain." The stranger's voice suddenly changed—it had been cheery, almost mischievous. It took on a certain note of uncertainty and • dread. ."" ~ I|- ( >Tj , "Are all well in the village," asked the stranger. ,;. ■:'.'.;.;■/;/ ■■; '■;■::•: "•: .■■.•";<;;.■ : ""•;]: ' "All well. No! How could that be ? With Fran Seheuch, bedridden, and; ; : Mattheus Hienz half doubled with rheumatism!. Plenty :i of illness;A; hard season and not too much fuel or ford. Certainly not all well.". j! v ."None dead though—-since; since the summer?" .. ~v ,;. ;.,.,,- ..yjj''.'..: ' " "Many families in mourning: v - for so; many killed at the war. But none dead in the town, since Ferdinand Schreiner' died in July. It was to be expected at his age—-' who can be surprised when one of ninety dies?" ■ stifrj.i-j- viXxm^M

The stranger toot hi§ three little tree* in his arms and stuffed into his pooksta - ; , 'the boxes ? of candles : and , bauble*. - C This V saying "Thank yon, and good Chriatabend, \ Frau Schaun," he went out into the thick J^snow. .Vu }■■._ c.\ -••;-;/ \ ■ *£ " His big feet made hardly any sound on the muffled pavements any more than if he had been walking on carpet. "'Frau Schaun,'" thought that lady; ,f he -knows what my name is. What's his, .1 wonder." -!;• "Hans," she called out, "come out here." Hans, in the stuffy little parlor (more like <a counting house, that smelt like warm sec-ond-hand clothing) was seasonably employed in compiling Christmas bills, partly by the aid of a well-thumbed scales-book, and partly by sheer force of imagination and bold surmise. 7" "Why?" queried Mr. Schaun, not eager to quit the cosy airlessness of the parlor for the draughty shop. p "Because I want thee to come and look at a J man who," she concluded with alluring hyper--1 bole, "has just bought all the shop." :■ Thus seduced Schaun lumbered up and joined his wife. " "Where is he?" he demanded with a dis- , appointed glance round the remaining stock, " i which was much less reduced than he had ! been led to hope. ;; "There: look at him. Do we know him? , He called me Frau Schaun." /! "Customers don't generally call thee Lisa I don't know him. He's like no one I know except the pump." ; ■ |- Earlier in the week Schaun had swathed K the pump in far from "tailor-made" habiliments of straw. Meanwhile the man like the | pump was passing up the street. A broad street of houses so low as to make it look broader than it was. -• Friedrich Gunther risen from his knees, was, as an act of reparation for his previous refusal, setting three candles among the plants in his window. By the time the J stranger had reached Gunther's house The candles were well alight. "One for each tree," he told himself. She hasn't forgotten j her promise," he added with a sharp realization of the many, many times she must have lighted her candle with a quickening I sense of its inutility. But perhaps not: He did not know any definite bad news of lvm had come home. c ~ He drew near the window and peered in—how well he knew that room! || The elder Fritz had drawn back from +he window and was standing by the fable in the; middle of the floor. || ; : "There, ; I have done what thou didst ask," he muttered, turning to his wife, behind whose back all the. bright light of tho fire was shining. j| 'Tes, -dear man : I thank thee," she was / saying. Then, with sudden start more lil-e terror than joy or hope, she gasped out | "Herr Je'!" | That exclamation, so often used profanely // came from her lips as something midway between a prayer and a cry of ineffable " terrified aspiration. Her eyelids closed—she was "afraid to go on looking. /ft "What is it?" Friedrich demanded, sharply

♦nraing iron her to gla*4« wither ska h*4 bean staring. . , ■ i fj Above tha plants, a face wis" almost pressed against tha window-panes. Above tha faoe was a snow-piled cap. H i! "NoI" shouted Friedrich. "It cannot be! Dear, God, it is and to mock." Maria's eyes opened again: her lips were trembling exceedingly. Her face was ghastly white almost gray. She fell forward in a heap at her husband's feet: she had never fainted in her Hfe before and it seemed to her and to him like death. But it was the best thing, I daresay, she could have done. When her consciousness returned it was not her husband only who was leaning over her, with a small cup of potato-brandy in his hand. Fritzchen, the young. Fritzchen,' was supporting her head, and chafing her forehead, her hands with the brandy. A big puddle of melted snow from his clothing lay all around them both. Three little .fir-trees stood round it, as if it had been a little lake in a little forest: little tapers of various colors kept dropping from one of his pockets. "Are they good for swooned persons?" the elder Fritz inquired as one of them" plumped down on his wife's nose. It was the only joke he had ever attempted since the second year 0 f his marriage— attempt proved how over-wrought he must be. His son was stooping down in a fruitless effort to kiss his mother without shaking snow all over her. "That is," the lad answered, succeeding. It gave him a queer feeling when, later on, he read the English priest's letter about his own Christian end. "Eh," he said, "how I remember that afternoon! 7 thought I was dying: I was sure of it. I hadn't much consciousness when I saw him come in picking his way across the floor that was covered with there were no beds and we lay in our stretchers as thev i.orl brought us. All were badly wounded, but onlv eleven of us in my state. It felt very cold—we hadn't eaten since before the battle: though they had covered us with plenty of blankets. I didn't notice that he was a priest, for he was not wearing the cassock. But presently I heard him reading T.ntin—over the little fellow lying next me: a boy almost, with a funny face and very black hair. The Driest was giving him Extreme Unction : I heard the lad say 'My feet also,' and saw him straining to get his boots off. Then the priest gave him the Blessed Sacrament and I said ' I am a Catholic, too.' and he turned round to me. 'I can't talk German,' he said, in what he evidently thought was German; 'but,' he ".aid. ' I can understand enough to hear vour Confession— l think.' So I made my Confession ; then he asked if I had any, prayerbook— we , all had one. And he read the nrayers for the dying out of it, arid the long words nearly killed him. He gave a sort of gasp when he saw. one coming: and tumbled over it, as if he had -been tumbling over a chair in the dark. All, the same he did his best, and he was like a father in that strange place. He stayed a long time, and when he left; me, said he would 'come

baok in the morning—that was after he Had given ma the Blessed Sacrament: and read all the prayers. I said I should be dead before morning. One ;of : his tears fell on my lace and I know he was kind, though English. He went away as if he wanted to stoponly he saw I was scarcely conscious. I had had to hold on to myself to do it all. He told me I had better sleep, but I said ' When I do it will be for ever.' I had told him about you, and how my mother would lat that hour be lighting the candle in our window for me to see if I came home—it was then I felt his tear on my cheek—-I liked it because it was hot, and everything else was so cold. He said God's Mother would pray for mine— her Son had come back to her. Yours, Mutterchen, would never, I knew, come back to her. I suppose I was asleep when he went away: I knew no more till early in the morning. I saw. the little dark fellow by his side, dead, with his eyes open, and a sort of laugh on his lips. He was holding my prayer-book—he had told me before that he had lost his. A sergeant was taking down the name and regiment written at the beginning of it, and I tried to explain that was my name and my book: but I could not: the man could not understand me—of course he did not understand German, and I couldn't speak at all clearly or move either of my hands to make a sign. Presently they carried out the little black-headed lad, and I knew where he was going. They carried me away too, but only to another place where there were doctors hadn't seen them since before the priest came on the afternoon before. One seemed to think it was no r Us© doing anything more, but the others insisted and they did an operation. I recovered in another place, and felt much better-— in less horrible pain, and able to breathe, and they gave me hot soup with brandy in it, I think/, and I felt better still. Presently— don't know how long after, for I was always falling asleep, I recovered again and I was in an ambulance, and it took me (and some others) to a hospital train. We went to England (our own people) had said that was England, and that we couldn't go to London because it had been destroyed. I was terribly ill for some time, % and \ had another operation. The doctors ~ were ?kind and so were the nurses, though some of] the nurses looked as if they did not like us—us Germans I mean. One patient:in:a. bed next mine had been a waiter and he could talk a little German— German! - I asked him to write a letter for me, but he said he couldn't do that—German prisoners' letters must go through the Commanding Officer. I don't think he could write a German letter, and my hands were bound up in splints till long after that. At last when I could write I made a letter," and I threw it out of a window in the wash-place! I didn't know what else to do, and just hoped someone would pick it up and post it. Perhaps someone did, but they had regulations like ours about letters, and a letter to Germany would not have much chance of gom? through—at all events, not for a ; long time. You may get it still; I was wounded on 'the 18th of October early in the morning. Oh the Bth of December a lady came who talked^

good German: she said her son was a prisoner here in Germany and had been badly treated. But she spoke most kindly—though I think fe she was a foolish person;, Perhaps, she said, had pity on me, it would cause those where her son was to be kinder to him. I fe Md her I had thrown my letter out of that ; *sindow. ' If it had been yourself,' she said, .: 'some kind person might have helped you.' '_ It was at four o'clock in the afternoon,' I told her, and she said 'To-morrow after- :<: noon?' as if she was a fool, for I had told f her it was two weeks ago. After she had gone I thought it over, and wondered how | any rich, educated lady could be so silly." .■"God bless her for ever, and send her son safe back to her," said Maria. ■■■. "Yes, Mutterchen! I wakened up in the J night and thought Who was the fool she or I.' Next afternoon before four o'clock I went into the wash-place, where a dandy English soldier was cleaning his teeth —I almost laughed. But when he had finished ; arid there was no one else there I went where my letter had gone. It was not easy, for v, the window was very little and opened outslantways to let the air in from the : top. However I did get out, and found my- : self . in the park—that hospital was a rich gentleman's house. There were little trees standing about, and it was so nearly dark they looked almost like people. I stood behind one and saw a motor-car coming. "It stopped near my tree and a lady called out of the window: 'John, I think I have dropped my muffwhile I was showing my pass to the sentry at the gate. Would you go and see?' It was my lady, my fool as I had thought her. < "John went back as she told him—and I c?M not return for five minutes. She had dropped the muff —on purpose, though not f where she had been speaking to the sentry. She had dropped it out of the window. ; "Meanwhile she had opened the door for me and told me to cower down on the floor at her feet, and a big fur-rug of hers she had stretched over me from her knees to the seat opposite. She thanked the man . for finding the muff, and her hand shook as she received it from him. I thought she : was talking silly again when she said ' John, /do I look pale? I feel pale. I feel as if I should like to be sick. Do you think I am going to faint John couldn't see whether ■she was pale or not. It was too. dark in the car. But he said ' Yes, my lady. Sadly pale. P'raps your ladyship had better go home.' She generally stayed a long time in the hospital, and I expect he preferred to I go home. Very well, it may be best,' she : said, as if unwillingly. So we turned round : and went to her home, a sort of castle on the edge of a town. She kept me there, hidden, for some days. Then a pass came , for her, from a great Minister, to go to Holland, where she pretended her own poor ; son had been sent from here. I travelled ;with her as her footman, dressed in her livery. She pretended I had been shell- ! shocked and could hardly speak. We got . to Holland which it was not so hard, "but still hard enough. She had to tell many lies, and used to cry afterwards. But she told them—saying that her son was at Dus-

seldorff and if she could get there would she be allowed to see him. At 'Dusseldorff 'I asked her to let me go and -see :.~.dw Commandant, zand she gave me her card Countess she was, though there was no coronet on the card. I told the Commandant all she had done, and he came to see her an-d promised he would do all he could for her son, and he began by going himself to see the Commandant of the prison-camp where her son was: and he brought the son back with him — Commandant likes Countesses lam sure, even English ones. So she didn't go back to England alone, but her son only had to wear the footman's clothes for a day— they got to The Hague. So after all her lie about seeing her son at Diisseldorff came true, and her first lie to the Minister about his being in Holland." > "God wasn't much angry with her lies," said Maria,, "that sees itself." "So," Fritzchen concluded, "here I am, with three Christmas trees and plenty of tapers but no presents. Fran Schaun thought me crazy to buy so many trees and so many candles, but no presents. I said one was enough and it was ready. Here it is.' ' And the big lad thumped himself for explanation. Though he had bought so many tapers his mother took the three candles from the window and fastened one to each tree. "Listen," she,said, "to the bells chiming." "For unto us a Son is given," chimed the bells. Another Scripture text came reproachfully into old Fritz's mind. "For my son was dead and is alive." 'Twas he, not his son, who had wandered far, and eaten the swine's husks of doubt and misbelief. "Why," asked Fritzchen, "don't you use all the tapers I bought ?" There were dozens and she had only fixed six of them to each tree. "It is enough," she whispered softly. "One for each of your brothers and sisters, who are keeping their Christabend with the Christ Child Himself."