III

The idea was excellent, but its execution proved to be extremely difficult. By this time it was almost the middle of February, and it is fairly difficult to find an acceptable Christmas tree for sale at that time. The entire business world has long since shifted—with gratifying speed, by the way—to other things. Carnival is approaching: masks and pistols, cowboy hats and crazy headdresses for Czardas princesses fill the store windows where earlier one had been able to admire angels and angel hair, candles and Nativity scenes. The confectionery stores have long since moved their Christmas items back into their storerooms, whereas carnival crackers now adorn their windows. In any event, Christmas trees are not available at this time of year on the regular market.

Eventually an expedition of rapacious grandchildren was equipped with pocket money and a sharp ax. These young people rode out into the state forest and returned late that afternoon, obviously in the best of moods, with a silver fir. But meanwhile it had been discovered that four dwarfs, six bell-shaped anvils, and the all-surmounting angel had been completely destroyed. The marzipan figures and the cookies had fallen victim to the greedy grandchildren. So this generation too, now growing up, is good for nothing; and if ever a generation has been good for something—which I doubt—I have come to the conclusion that it was the generation of our fathers.

Although there was no lack of cash, or of the necessary contacts, it took another four days to assemble all the accessories. Throughout this time, my aunt screamed incessantly. Telegrams to the German toy centers, which were just beginning to get back on their feet, were sent winging through the ether, urgent long-distance calls were made, express packages were delivered during the night by perspiring young postal assistants, bribery ensured an import license from Czechoslovakia at short notice.

Those days will be remembered in the annals of my uncle’s family as days of an exceptionally high consumption of coffee, cigarettes, and nerves. Meanwhile my aunt was wasting away: her round face became hard and angular, her mild expression gave way to one of unyielding severity, she did not eat, did not drink, she screamed incessantly, was watched over by two nurses, and the dose of Luminal had to be increased every day.

Franz told us that the entire family was in the grip of a pathological tension when at last, on February 12, the Christmas tree decorations were once again complete. The candles were lit, the curtains drawn, my aunt was brought from her sickroom, and among those assembled only sobs and giggles were to be heard. My aunt’s expression began to relax in the light of the candles, and, upon the right degree of warmth being reached, the little glass fellows started hammering away like crazy, and finally the angel whispered “Peace,” and again, “Peace,” the most beautiful smile lit up my aunt’s face, and almost at once the whole family would strike up “O Christmas Tree!” In order to complete the picture, the priest had also been invited, since he normally spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Franz’s. He too smiled; he too was relieved and joined in the singing.

No test, no psychologist’s expertise, no specialist’s disclosure of hidden traumata, had achieved it, but the sensitive heart of my uncle had hit upon the right thing. The Christmas tree therapy of that kindest of men had saved the situation.

My aunt had calmed down and was almost—it was hoped at the time—cured. After a few carols had been sung, a few dishes of cookies emptied, everyone was tired and withdrew for the night, and lo and behold: my aunt fell asleep without any tranquilizer. The two nurses were dismissed, the doctors shrugged their shoulders, everything seemed to be back to normal. My aunt was eating again, drinking again, was once again gracious and gentle. But the following evening, as the twilight hour approached, my uncle was sitting reading the paper beside his wife next to the tree, when she suddenly touched his arm gently and said, “So now let’s light the candles and call in the children, I think it’s time to begin.” Later my uncle admitted to us that he was startled but that he got up to summon his children and grandchildren as quickly as possible and to send word to the priest. The priest arrived, somewhat out of breath and surprised, but the candles were lit, the dwarfs made to hammer, the angel was made to whisper, carols were sung, cookies were eaten—and everything seemed to be back to normal.