A MOST MIRACULOUS CHRISTMAS DAY

A brighter blue skied knee-high snowed Christmas Day afternoon there never was, as the clock struck 1400 and the distant village church bell announced the hour.  The deeply iced air seemed to breathe as each sonorous peal oscillated wave-like with distance, first distant, then nearby, then again distant. For those of age making their ways from one celebration to the next, the bitter cold stung the exposed skin, facial hair frosted over and hands not adequately mitten’d had the feel of immutable marble. Yet, no one seemed to mind at all, as small teams of children fought snowball wars, both against each other as well as the occasional adult having the misfortune of crossing the field of battle at just the wrong critical moment.

Within each house, large and small, some parents, uncles, aunts and a host of grandparents had long abandoned the midday meal and were thoroughly ensconced in the warm comfort of overly stuffed parlor chairs, couches or rockers. The young not participating out of doors were seen to sprawl across dark thick imported carpets or pillowed window benches lining the Erker (oriel bay window) in the living room. Being very young, no one seemed to mind that my corner of solace could be found stretched out at the foot of the large dark thickly wooden carpeted stairway leading up to the first floor, head propped up by the lowest step and deeply immersed in an unremembered historical novel.

It was wonderfully warm, secure and, save a snore or two from one of the uncles and a faint word from behind closed sliding doors leading to the kitchen, peacefully still. After a time, I could read little more as my eyes closed in half-sleep.

I was suddenly aroused from this most pleasant state by louder voices from above, all serious adult tones of the type one hears at times of great concern and impending disruption. I quickly became vertical as my Father urgently bounded down the stairs, coming to an immediate halt before me. I looked up at his pale graven face and immediately knew the cause of the disturbed solace. For Oberst (Colonel) Czerski was dying.

Oberst Czerski had been a subordinate to and yet a dear friend of my Grandfather, a Field Marshall in the Austrian Army. They were true comrades in arms, having fought together in countless actions. Czerski had been highly decorated by my Grandfather for his successful leadership and courage. It was thus a great blow to both men to learn that during the course of the war, Czerski’s villa had been destroyed and his wife and children killed. With the war’s end, the Colonel had literally neither a home nor family. Being a man of great honor, my Grandfather invited Oberst Czerski to live with us until he could arrange for his own lodgings and disposition. Our own family villa was quite large and the Oberst was given a private apartment on the uppermost floor. That was almost 20 years ago and Czerski was still with us, adopted if you will as an honorary member of our family.

Some of my earliest memories were of our Christmases with Oberst Czerski joining our family at table and as we sat about the large, beautifully decorated Christbaum (Christmas Tree). For me as a small child, Czerski was just another jovial, heavily mustached, round-bellied uncle with a penchant for laughing heartily at his own jokes. Yet, he could be the perfect cavalier gentleman, always impeccably dressed as appropriate for the occasion and (although having lived with us for practically two decades) the epitome of polite formality, especially with my Grandmother.

Now, we were told that poor Oberst Czerski had not long to live, and I was instructed to fetch Pfarrer (Father) Georg, who would hear the Oberst’s confession and administer the last rites. Donning my thickest jacket, I quickly scarved and capped myself as I left the warm comfort and launched into the approaching gloom of the winter late afternoon. The sun had long disappeared behind the Alpine range surrounding our valley, with the high peaks blocking even the briefest warmth-bringing appearance.

With the pealing of fifteen hours, the streets and surrounding rolling fields, however, became slowly abandoned, as late afternoon Christmas meals were being prepared. Dark pillars of Kachelofen (enclosed tile fireplace) and Kachelherde (cooking stove) smoke could be seen bellowing from the chimneys of every house, wafting to great altitudes before disappearing into the heavenly ether. So it was at our house as well, for despite the expectation that the Oberst would not survive the day, Pfarrer Georg would have to be fed. The village church was located some distance from our home and, as the roads had become impassable due to the heavy snows so characteristic of this part of Austria, it would take some time to get to him and then bring him back to our home.

Running was nigh impossible as I struggled my way through the deepening field snow covering the rolling hills. I felt somewhat akin to an arctic adventurer, creating a path through kilometers of unexplored deep frozen tundra. The already blisteringly cold air found its way past layers of my coat, thick woolen sweater and winter underwear seemingly turning my perspiration into a world of mini-icicles stabbing at me without mercy.

Finally, I arrived at the church, at first panicked by the fear that Pfarrer Georg would be elsewhere. Happily that was not the case as I found him reading in the Sacristy. Explaining the plight of poor Oberst Czerski, Pfarrer Georg quickly donned the warmest long coat he possessed, took his satchel in hand, and together we made the journey back to my home, slowly plodded the same path I had earlier created.

It was late and dark by the time Herr Pfarrer and I shook the snow off our coats upon entering the house. We were greeted by my Father, Grandfather and a host of relatives. Stopping but a moment to drink a cup of hot spiced wine and admiring our Christmas Tree, Pfarrer Georg was then guided up the stairway to the privacy of Oberst Czerski’s rooms. The door closed, Father returned from the upper floors and we all sat at the long, very old wooden able in the dining hall. Conversation was conducted in faint whispers so as to not be heard and disturb the solemn events underway so many floors above. I did not want to lose my ‘uncle’ Czerski; he was kind, generous, funny and I loved him dearly. The idea that he was not immortal had to this point not ever occurred to me. So upset was I that I did not even touch the hot cocoa placed before me by my Grandmother.

It seemed like an eternity until Pfarrer Georg descended the stairs and took a seat at our table. He was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally, as he told all of us that he had done all he could and that Oberst Czerski lay quietly, at peace, accepting his impending end of life. Father and a couple of the uncles would keep periodic watch during the night to ensure that the Oberst was comfortable and in no distress. Mother asked our cook to please give Pfarrer Georg a small meal (Jause) and something warm to drink; the Pfarrer warmly welcomed this hospitality.

It was about then that our village was hit by a rather savage winter storm. It had blown very quickly over the surrounding peaks and through the sinuous passes, turning each into wind tunnels belching forth hurricane force winds, dropping temperatures to dangerous levels. The heavily blowing snow obscured all making venturing out of doors a perilous undertaking. Under these conditions, Pfarrer Georg would certainly not be able to make his way back to the church and he was invited to stay in one of our guest rooms. I liked Pfarrer Georg very much. He was a deeply religious man, a scholar of sorts, who, during his sermons knew how to impart the lessons in such a manner so as to maintain the attention of all his flock. He knew all of his parishioners by their first names and visited with them at their homes as often as possible. I was comforted in the knowledge that Oberst Czerski was spiritually in very good hands.

Morning. The storm had subsided and, although the skies remained morose and gray, the snowfall was light and the calamitous winds had all but disappeared. It was Stefanitag…St. Steven’s Day….and Pfarrer Georg was to celebrate Mass at 1100. It was thus at 0800 that, having awakened some hours before, Herr Pfarrer joined my family and I were gathered for a simple breakfast. There were loaves of dark rich freshly baked Bauernbrot (farmer’s bread), thick slabs of yellow butter, orange and berry marmalade and a large porcelain steaming teapot.

Father made note that the last time he has peered into Obsert Czerski’s room had been at about two in the morning. The Oberst’s breaths were rare and extremely shallow, with hardly any chest movement perceptible when he breathed at all. With each tortured breath, faint rasping could be heard indicating fluid filled lungs. Neither my Father nor the uncles had kept close watch thereafter, assuming that the Oberst should not be disturbed during what were certainly to be his final few hours.

It was planned that prior to his departure, Pfarrer Georg, along with my Father and the village Doctor would confirm Oberst Czerski’s death. I had just donned my coat to retrieve the doctor when it happened. Down the stairs, dressed in his pajamas, robe and slippers came a very much alive and ravenously hungry…Oberst Czerski. His demeanor was one of pleasant surprise, in wonderment as to why everyone at the breakfast table was seemingly frozen in place and most impolitely staring at him. Uncle Czerski took his usual place at the table and commenced spreading a thick slab of butter on a piece of bread.

My memories of the moments which followed are mixed and fleeting, but I seem to recall that Pfarrer Georg slowly sat back down at the table, crossing himself several times. Mother and one or two of the aunts collapsed into the nearest chairs. Father and the uncles exploded in laughter and at ear-splitting volume sputtered almost incomprehensible cries of bewilderment and joy. All about the table quickly joined them in what became a most memorable Christmas breakfast. I am certain that Pfarrer Georg took great delight in this course of events and I dare say may have even pondered it as a Christmas miracle, grist for a Predigt (sermon) for presentation at Easter Sunday Mass.

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Dear Reader, the story above combines actual experiences which took place many years ago at the home of my wife’s family (in the Austrian region of the Steiermark) with a healthy dash of creative license. It is at this time of the rolling year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord that we are again reminded to not forget just how precious gift of life is from its conception to its end.

Now, as I complete this during the first hour of this bitter cold Christmas Eve morning here in the Tirol, may I wish you all a most blessed and joyous Christmas season!