So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me “Hya Santa”… “Hya Santa”.

And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for… the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.

And I looked at them and asked: “Didn’t I bring you kids any toys?” And they shook their heads sadly. “Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up,” I said “We’ll have to fix that.” I told them to wait, I’d be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trodded back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her “What’s the matter, child?” And she sobbed, “Oh! Santa, I’m so happy.” And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, “Pan, pan, proche… please come… come,” I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. “You came,” he said. “I wrote and… you came”. He turned to his parents. “I wrote… and he came.” And he repeated it over and over again. “I wrote… and he came.” And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely. And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot. “From the North Pole,” I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. “You speak Polish?” she asked. “Of course,” I said. “Santa speaks all languages.” And I left them in joy and wonder.

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: “Hey, Santa, where’s your sleigh?” And I’d say, “How old are you son?” And he’d say, “Thirteen.” And I’d say, “Well, you’re a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now.” And I’d hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, “That’s a mask,” pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I’d say, “Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they’d bother me all year long and I couldn’t get my things ready for Christmas.”

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

By Jay Frankston