Then there were the funny ones like: “Dear Santa, I’ve been a good boy all of last year, but if I don’t get what I want, I’ll be a bad boy all of next.”

And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me. It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: “Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy’s cold at night.” It was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, “I hear you Suzy, I hear you.” And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: “GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.” I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn’t my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them hope.

If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn’t content with the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted

something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV. And on Christmas Day I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn’t exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: “Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We’ve just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I’m not sad because I’m poor but because I’m lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don’t ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist.” My telegram read: “DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I’LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.” We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow. The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. “Boje moy ” he exclaimed in astonishment. That’s Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. “P-p-please . . .” he stuttered, “p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait.” And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

Also read the other parts of A Christmas story:  [Part 1]   [Part 2]   [Part 3]   [Part 4]

By Jay Frankston