In
1963, I was a ten-year-old girl living with my parents and four-year-old
brother in Madrid, Spain. We were poor Cuban refugees who had left our country
just a few months before.
Our
stay in Spain would be brief as we waited for our U.S. residency to be
approved. My maternal grandfather and uncle had sacrificed their little savings
– they were recently arrived refugees to New York – to send us a meager monthly
stipend for our humble lodgings. Our only meals came from a soup kitchen where
we lined up in the late morning along with dozens of other Cubans.
That
particular winter was bitterly cold in Madrid. Our hospice room was freezing
during the day, so we would spend our time walking Madrid's magnificent
boulevards. We marveled at the architecture and the large plazas and the snow!
We missed our homeland, but the promise of a fresh beginning beckoned, and la
madre patria was a magnificent start for a new life.
The
Christmas season arrived. Overnight, Madrid lit up. Every corner was awash in
sparkling holiday lights, los madrileños were busy bustling about buying gifts
and looking forward to la Noche Buena, and el día de los reyes.
Every
storefront was a winter wonderland full of dolls, trolleys and every imaginable
toy. The storefront at the Corte Inglés department store had a fabulous
Christmas village full of enchanting chalets, snow-covered peaks and a shiny
red train that circled the town, hooting its horn at every turn.
My
younger brother, Santiago, was born during the first year of the Cuban
Revolution, and he had never seen such a wondrous toy. Toys were considered a
luxury then and were very hard to obtain.
My
brother fell in love with that train. Every day he would push his nose against
the glass in the window and ask: "Do you think los reyesmagos will bring
me that train? Do you? Do you?" My parents' pain was apparent as they
looked at their son's hopeful face. They knew that no matter how hard their son
wished for that train, his wish would not be granted.
Looking
at my parents, I just wished Santiago would stop asking. But I also didn't want
to destroy the innocence of a hopeful four-year-old. So the next time Santiago
ran up to the storefront window and asked the question, I pulled him aside.
"Santiago,
you know that we left our country and we are in a strange land," I said.
"The three wise men are pretty smart, but since we are only here in Madrid
for a little while, they probably don't have our address. I don't think we'll
be getting any toys this year."
I
also told him that once we were settled in the United States, the three wise
men would find us once again. To my utter surprise, he accepted my explanation
without question, and our excursions up and down the main boulevard continued
without any major interruptions.
A
year later, we were settled in Union City, New Jersey, the town we had moved to
upon entry into the United States. Both my parents – a teacher and an engineer
– were working at factory jobs. Santiago and I were adapting to a new school
and quickly learning English.
That
Christmas was modest, but my parents bought a silver-colored Christmas tree,
and we put tiny, sparkling lights on it. They also bought the traditional pork
and turrones for the Noche Buena meal.
On
Christmas Day, I woke up early, and to my surprise and delight found several
presents underneath the tree with my name on them. But even better than that
was watching my brother's face as he opened a square box with a large red bow
and his name on it.
Inside
was a shiny, brand-new train! The locomotive and caboose resembled the one that
had so enthralled my brother a year before. Santiago's face lit up like the
Christmas tree. He looked at my parents and me, and his eyes shined with
happiness and surprise.
"Babby,
you were right!" my brother told me eagerly. "The three wise men
found our address, and they gave it to Santa Claus!”
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