Verhovayak Lapja, 1940. július-december (23. évfolyam, 27-52. szám)
1940-12-26 / 52. szám
Page 2 Verhovayak Lapja Christmas Return Branch 430 By STEPHEN J. ROTZ Homestead, Pa. December 26, 1940 Fred Walters couldn't have explained—even to himself, had he the will to do so— why he decided to take that walk late Monday night. Perhaps because it was of the infernal loneliness which gnawed at his heart-—a loneliness which he tried to shake off, but which grew and grew, refusing to be denied, each time someone brushed by him, shouting a loud, happy: “Merry Christmas, man! Merry Christmas!'’ Marry Christmas, indeed! snorted Fred, plodding doggedly through the ankledeep snow. And what was so merry about it? he thought bitterly, his lips forming a silent snarl at his own question. What had he— Fred Walters—to be merry about? Even the fools at the office had been high-spirited all this day, because Old Man Duncan had told them that they didn’t have to return to work until Thursday; then had made their happiness complete by handing each of the office force a white envelope containing a bonus, all the while his red old face wreathed in a smile which would have done Old Nick credit. Fred saw again the beaming face of Everett Duncan, as though projected against the silently falling curtain of snow which swirled about him, heard again the booming greeting of Christmas joy: “Merry Christmas to you all!” How many times had he heard that password which implied peace and goodwill and happiness over all the land, over all the earth? From the newsboys, from the cop on the corner, the clerk at the cigar counter, the doorman at the club— until, finally, the men at the club insisted in dinning that greeting in his ears, over and over and over; and he forced himself to smile woodenly, shaking hands, drinking toasts, enduring hearty back slap, while deep inside there was an ever increasing void, a blackness which none of this merriment and Christmas spirit could penetrate. Realizing with a pang that his loneliness was more apparently painful to him than ever amidst the jolliness of the men, Fred tore himself away from the bright lights. Donning his overcoat, he fled into the darkness, away from the blare of traffic, from smiling faces—away from the chiming of bells, from radios which played nothing but Christmas carols. He walked swiftly, finding satisfaction in the silence of the dark night, the sting of snowflakes on his chin, his footsteps muffled in the snow. Here he could think ... God, he was lonesome for his wife and son! His numb hands clenched tightly in his pockets as he thought of tall, slender Barbara—she with the soft voice and tender hands, apd of little Lonnie, his shrill voice and his quick feet. Six weeks had passed since he had last seen them; six long, interminable weeks since he had flung himself from the house, anger searing at his brain, vowing never to return. This was the climax of a chain of mounting quarrels which began over some inconsequential act which Fred could not for the life of him recall. “Barbara, darling!” he breathed. So engrossed was he with his thoughts of his wife and his son and his unvoiced longing to be with them, that he failed to notice a figure coming toward him until it was full upon him. In the sinking screen of huge flakes, he caught a glimpse of smiling eyes and a red nose, and lips which parted swiftly; “Merry Christmas!” And before he could catch himself, Fred responded with fervor, “Merry Christmas to you!” Startled by his automatic reply, Fred repeated the words over and over, forming the words deliberately, as though the words were in some foreign tongue. At first the words were nothing but meaningless sounds uttered in a woefully sad voice, then they broke through the fog which had enveloped Freds brain,, and suddenly took on meaning and warmth and cheer. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured to himself, liking the sound of his own voice uttering the ages-old sentiment; and something exciting, something thrilling took hold of Fred Walter’s heart and wiped away the despair therein. He knew now what he must do! He cursed himself for being a fool—a fool with too much false pride; and he prayed that it might not be too late for him to humble himself before those whom he loved with all of his being, with all his soul, with all his heart. There was a curious lightness in Fred’s step as, twenty minutes later, he turned into a familiar street. Anticipation was as keen „ as the sharp wintry air and as bright as the gay Christmas lights which decorated the front of every residence. Halfway down the block, he stopped before a trim, white bungalow, its porch and windows as lavishly lighted, as cheerful in appearance as the other homes on the street. That would be Barbara’s doing, thought Fred. Hers was a rare, brave strength. No matter what, no matter how her heart was breaking, she must keep up appearances for the sake of the boy, for Lonnie. And as Fred moved toward the side of the house where a light showed in the living room his heart almost burst with love and admiration for the woman he had married. At first, only the dancing flames in the fireplace met his eyes. Then as his eyes eagerly swept the room he saw Barbara, her back towards the window and her face buried in her arms on the table. Her shoulders trembled as though she were crying softly. A dry sob welled up in Fred’s throat as he watched. He stifled a rising impulse to rush in and cradle that figure in his arms, but he fought it down. Barbara lifted her head suddenly as though she heard a sound. She rose and crossed the room to a divan where a child stirred in his sleep. For a long moment which proved almost unbearable to Fred, she regarded the boy. Suddenly she burst into tears of anguish, and Fred could hear her sobs as he stood outside the window. The boy wakened swiftly, stared for a moment in bewilderment at Barbara’s tear ful eyes, and then tried in his childish, pathetic way to comfort her. With his ear placed close to the windowpane Fred could hear the boy’s muted question. “Mommy, why doesn’t daddy come home?” “Hush, darling,” Barbara tried to sooth him. “Daddy had to go away on a trip. I don’t know when he’ll be coming back.” The boy’s face wore a puzzled frown. “Won’t he be back for Christmas? I miss him so.” Barbara dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She tried valiantly to smile. “I miss him too, Lonnie. So much.” Her voice was wistful. “It won’t seem like Christmas if daddy isn't here to help trim the tree, will it, Mommy?” At the window, Fred’s heart leaped as Barbara leaned forward to kiss the youngster. “Daddy will be back, darling. I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow night. We both love him too much for him to stay away.” This seemed to satisfy the child, for he smiled wearily at his mother, his eyes drooped sleepily, and in a few minutes his head slumped against her bosom. Fred turned reluctantly away from the warmth of the scene, but there was elation in his heart. Barbara still loved him, wanted him to return to her and to their son. And with the first real smile of happiness which had come to his face since he had quarreled with his wife, Fred went happily down the street. He was anxiously awaiting the morrow. At five o’clock the next afternoon, Fred entered his room, his arms and pockets laden with packages of all sizes. His arms and legs were numb, but his face wore a happy smile; and in his heart there was a song of anticipation.. He had been busy all day, braving the throngs of frenzied men and women who pushed, pulled, clawed and tore at him in the hysteria of last minute Christmas shopping. Never in the world had he dreamed that so many shoppers could be found in the department stores at any one time. Dropping the packages on the bed, Fred sank wearily in a chair and sighed thankfully that it was all over. He had walked miles, it seemed, in his quest for just the right kinds of gifts for the two he loved. And as he sat there musing, he knew that the best gift of all would be their reunion. What happiness would be theirs; and what rapturous joy would be his. He chuckled at the thought. Then, softly, as though it were a benediction, the chimes of a nearby church came floating to Fred’s ears. But as they ended, he roused himself from the lethargy into which he had fallen, reminding himself that he must make haste. • Humming “Silent Night, Holy Night,” he shaved and bathed leisurely. Then, attired in his finest suit, he surveyed himself in the mirror and was gratified by the sparkle of his eyes. It was rather dark out in spite of the fact that a thick blanket of snow covered everything. But he decided to walk to his home, mulling over the words which he would utter to Barbara and to his son Lonnie. Several minutes later, Fred reached the street on which was situated the small, cheerful home where he and Barbara had known so many happy hours. When he was within sight of the house, his pace quickened. He smiled as he tried to visualize the surprise on Barbara s face when she answered his knock on the door. When he turned into the walk, he noticed a dull glow in the front window. Barbara probably had the fireplace lighted, as always on Christmas Eve they had sat before the fire, popping corn and singing carols. Eagerly, Fred grasped the knocker on the trim door and knocked lightly. He could hear the echoes pass through the house; then after what seemed ages of silence to Fred, light footsteps made their way toward him. Heart pounding savagely within him, Fred listened as the knob was turned. At last the door was pulled open. Barbara stood framed in the doorway, the light from the hall spilling out onto the porch. Instantly, during ttot brief, electrical moment in which they stared at each other, Fred noticed that she had been crying. In her hand she carried a crumpled, damp handkerchief and her eyes were tear-stained. Then with a low cry of anguish, she threw herself against him, her arms circled his neck, and she began to sob from relief. Fred patted her shoulder awkwardly, his lips uttering no sound because of the huge lump in his throat. “Merry Christmas, darling,” he managed at last. She smiled up at him, her eyes shining as radiantly as the star which once guided three wise men to a manger in Bethlehem. “Merry Christmas to you, Fred.” She sighed. “I knew—somehow— deep in my heart—that you wouldn’t -stay away. 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