Open Writing

'Good King Wenceslas did look out on the feast of Stephen,' I sing. 'Frost and snow lay round about.'

'It should be dark and cold mit snow.' Oma grumbles as she stuffs the goose-laden baking tray into the cranky combustion stove. 'Australia too bright, too hot.' She bustles around the kitchen and tells me the story of a very good Christian king called Saint Wenceslas who went out into the snow and saved people.

'He hero,' she says as she cuts little houses out of ginger bread. Oma is baking kuchen. 'Go see if any letters, Franki.'

The hot sun burns my head and north wind dust devils squabble down the path. I grab an envelope from the letterbox and hurry back.

'Goot Gott, it hot,' Oma murmurs, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. 'You read.'

'Fromliche Weihnachten.'

'In English,' she snaps. 'How many times I tell you mit der Englisch.'

'Happy Christmas, Herta.' I read. 'I send you a sprig of fir tree.'

A tiny green twig falls out of the envelope. Oma holds it in the palm of her hand.

'This from Magdeburg.' Her eyes are misty. 'Once only Germany have Christmas tree, but in 1840 Queen Victoria marry her German-born cousin, Prince Albert. He say, “I miss tree mit candles like at home.” She love him very much and get tree. Now everyone have beautiful Christmas tree. Mmmmmm,' Oma says, popping a bit of gingerbread into my mouth. 'Taste. Better than kuchen from Nuremberg.'

I don't know why I live with my Oma and Papa, but I'm very lucky. The Australian boys at school have to wait until Christmas morning to get their presents. St Nicholas comes to our house when I am having a late afternoon sleep on Christmas Eve. Already our three socks are pinned to the needle-worked cloth hanging from the mantelpiece. I wish my foot were as big as Papa's. His sock is so much bigger than mine. Our lounge room looks wonderful. In the corner is a big pine tree with lots of candles tied to its branches and Oma has made stars from threaded beads and pearls. I like the tiny carved rocking horses, gnomes and elves that Papa made and painted bright colours. Twisting and turning from the centre of the ceiling is a big round decoration we made from two steel hoops off the pickle barrels, bright balls, holly and tinsel. When it spins, the room is filled with sparkling Christmas fairies.

Today, Oma got up before it was light and I heard her getting out pots and pans. She has been cooking all day and late tonight we will have roast pork, sauerkraut and dumplings and boiled plum pudding before we go to midnight church. The pudding has been hanging in the laundry for weeks.

'Why did you put the pudding in one of my old nappies?' I ask.

Oma flings up her hands and says, 'Not nappy, Franki, that calico, new calico.'

I still think it's an old nappy. She tells me that I get presents because the three wise men bought presents to Jesus for his birthday.

'What did he get?'

'First wise man give gold for wealth. Second give anointing incense for rubbing on head or feet, but this special incense; very, very expensive frank-incense.'

'Was it named after me?'

'No Franki. You named after it. You also special and very, very expensive. The third wise man give myrrh to stop pain. Now, write letter to Saint Nicholas.'

Dear Santa, I have been very good all year, but I don't need any gold, frank-incense or myrrh, so could you please bring me a train.

Oma takes my letter, puts her hand up the chimney and the letter disappears. 'Letter gone to North Pole.' I don't tell her that last summer I found a ledge up the chimney where a brick is missing.

'Off to bed,' she says. 'Or Santa not come.'

I toss and turn on top of my hot eiderdown and hear her sigh as she trudges out into the kitchen. She will ring the silver Christmas bell when it is time to get up.

Oma is talking very loudly to someone. 'Yes, Santa, Franki has been goot boy, but I don't know if you should leave presents. Many times he not goot at schoolwork. And he forget to help Papa in garden. And he lock next door's cat in lavatory. And . . . '

I bury my head under my pillow. Please ring the bell, please let there be a present. Ring the bell. At last, ting a-ling a-ling. Jumping out of bed I run into the lounge.

The big black engine's wheels go round and round. I am so excited that I fart. 'Can you hear the train whistle, Oma?'

'Yes, Franki. And I can also smell the smoke.'

© Glenice Whitting