V

But carnival time passed too, and spring really did arrive, and instead of the song “Come, Lovely May,” one could have already sung “Lovely May, thou art now come.” Then it was June. Four Christmas trees had already withered, and none of the more recently consulted doctors could promise any hope of improvement. My aunt was adamant. Even Dr. Bless, regarded as an international authority, had withdrawn with a shrug of his shoulders to his study after collecting his fee of 1,365 marks, thus supplying further evidence of his unworldliness. A few further, rather vague attempts to curtail or discontinue the celebration met with such screams on the part of my aunt that the family had once and for all to desist from such sacrilege.

The terrible part was that my aunt insisted on all those close to her being present. Among these were also the priest and the grandchildren. It was difficult enough to insist that members of the family turn up regularly, but the case of the priest presented still greater difficulties. For a few weeks, out of consideration for his old penitent, he had stuck it out without grumbling, but the time finally came when, with much hemming and hawing, he tried to explain to my uncle that the situation could not continue. Granted the actual ceremony was brief (it lasted some thirty-eight minutes), but in the long run even this brief ritual was becoming insupportable, the priest maintained. He had other obligations: evening gatherings with his confreres, parochial duties, to say nothing of taking confessions on Saturdays. For several weeks he had put up with having to rearrange his schedule, but toward the end of June he was making vigorous demands for his release. Franz went on the rampage in the family, looking for accomplices to his plan to have his mother placed in an institution, but he was met with rejection on all sides.

In short: problems began to mount. One evening the priest didn’t show up, couldn’t be reached by either telephone or messenger, and it became apparent that his absence was deliberate. My uncle cursed mightily, and he used the occasion to call the servants of the Church names that I must refuse to repeat. As a last resort, one of the curates, a person of humble origin, was asked to help out. He did so but behaved so appallingly that the result was almost a disaster. However, it must be borne in mind that it was June, in other words—hot; nevertheless, the curtains had been drawn shut in order at least to give the impression of winter darkness, and the candles had been lit. Then the ceremony began. Although the curate had already heard of these strange happenings, he could not really imagine them. With a good deal of trepidation, the family introduced the curate to my aunt, explaining that he was substituting for the priest. To their surprise she accepted this change in the program. So: the dwarfs hammered away, the angel whispered, “O Christmas Tree!” was sung, then cookies were eaten, the carol was sung again, and suddenly the curate was seized with uncontrollable laughter. Later he confessed that he hadn’t been able to hear the line “… in winter too, when snowflakes fall,” without laughing. He exploded with clerical foolishness, left the room, and was not seen again. Everyone looked breathlessly at my aunt, but in a resigned voice she merely said something about “yokels in priest’s clothing,” and popped a piece of marzipan into her mouth. At the time we too deplored the incident, but today I am inclined to call it an outburst of natural mirth.

At this point I must—if I am to do justice to the truth—insert that my uncle exploited his connections with the highest ecclesiastical authorities in order to complain about the priest as well as the curate. The matter was handled with the utmost punctiliousness; an action was brought over neglect of parochial duties and was won by both clerics. An appeal is still under consideration.

Fortunately a retired priest was found who lived in the neighborhood. This charming old gentleman graciously and unhesitatingly agreed to put himself at their disposal and complete the regular evening ritual. But I am anticipating. My Uncle Franz, who was sensible enough to realize that the situation was beyond any medical aid, and who also obstinately refused to attempt exorcism, was enough of a businessman to take the long view and to work out the most economical method. He began by putting a stop to the grandchildren’s expeditions as early as mid-June, having established that they were costing too much. My ingenious cousin Johannes, who maintains excellent contacts with the business world at all levels, discovered the Fresh Christmas Tree Service provided by Söderbaum’s, an efficient company that for the past two years has deserved high praise for relieving the nervous strain of my relatives. After only six months Söderbaum’s converted the arrangement into an annual contract at a considerably reduced rate. Further, the company undertook to have the delivery dates precisely established by Dr. Alfast, their specialist in evergreen trees, so that now, three days before the old tree becomes unacceptable, the new one arrives and can be decorated at leisure. Furthermore, as a precautionary measure, two dozen dwarfs are kept in stock and three angels held in reserve. To this day, the confectionery has remained a sore point. It has a devastating tendency to melt and drip down from the tree, faster and more radically than melting wax. At least during the summer months. Every attempt to preserve their seasonal crispness by skillfully camouflaged cooling devices has so far failed, as has a series of experiments designed to test the possibility of embalming the tree. Nevertheless, the family is grateful for and open to any innovative suggestion that might reduce the cost of this permanent festivity.