HAMBURG 1941

You are eight years old, sitting at the table with your little brother and sister. Your mother is wiping the table and your faces. She has done her best on poor rations. You havenÕt seen your father for a long time. He is fighting in Russia with the other fathers for the Fatherland.

Christmas is in the air and on the faces of the little ones, Liese and Hans. Tonight is the night St Nicholas will come and knock at your door. You are above all this because you are the eldest, the man of the house, but you feel the thrill singing in your gut.

The doorbell rings and little Liese starts the chant, ÒItÕs him, itÕs him, let him in, let him in.Ó

You go to the door while your mother wipes her hands on her apron, and pats her hair. Liese and Hans run to her. Smiling and cooing, she kneels and shelters them with her arms crooked like folded wings while they cling and peep.

You let him in and hold the door as he stamps in with his mitre and crook. You notice he wears black socks and ordinary shoes under his red robes. When he turns to you there is black stubble under his cotton wool beard.

ÒGood evening sir. Are there any good children here?Ó he ruffles your hair. You point to the little ones, who shrink further into your motherÕs arms. ÒI have presents for good children.Ó

You laugh as you watch them and your thumb finds its way into your mouth.

ÒAh, a naughty boy who sucks his thumb,Ó he says and you whip both hands behind your back.

ÒCarl,Ó your mother says. ÒI thought youÕd stopped that, what would your father say?Ó

Heat floods your face and you fight back tears. St Nicholas coaxes the little ones to hold out hands for presents. He smiles at you, offers a present, ruffles your hair again.

ÒCome on, little man,Ó he says. ÒPromise to be good and not suck your thumb and you can have a present.Ó

Your hands stay locked behind your back. He shrugs and puts your present on the table, the damage done.

That night you are in the air raid shelter with your family and neighbours. You are cold in the dark and hear whispering and praying between the crumps and thuds of bombs.

ÒWill St Nicholas be safe?Ó asks Liese.

The bombs go on and on. You pray for your mother, father, Liese and Hans. You think about death, black and final. Your mother has told you that heaven is light and everlasting. You think about Jesus and all of you sleeping and floating on clouds. You try to ignore the smell of urine from your pyjamas.

The dawn brings the all clear and you stumble out into the street holding your brotherÕs hand. There are fires and gaps where tidy houses stood yesterday. The smashed houses have been scattered across the street. You crunch through glass, stub your toes on broken bricks and mortar, and tiptoe around puddles of dirty water. You hear firemen giving orders and hushed voices of onlookers. The smells of burning timber and broken gas mains mix with new smells, which you think are death. In a row on the pavement there are mounds covered with grey blankets.

ÒWalk with me, meine Kinder,Ó your mother says. ÒDonÕt look.Ó

You cannot tear your eyes from the mounds as you pass near them. You see a pair of feet in black shoes and socks sticking out from one of the blankets. Your mother does not see you approach and lift the blanket. His face is covered in dust and dirt but you notice the stubble still there beneath his white beard, now askew. The blank eyes of St Nicholas look into nowhere. Dropping the blanket over his face you turn to your brother and say ÒServes him right.Ó