Small Gifts and Gigantic Joy
By Robert H.M. Killpack
Berlin, December 1949. The great and terrible war had ended in May 1945. The once-magnificent city of Berlin still lay in ruins. Homes were wherever they could be improvised...in boarded-up ruins, dug-out basements, on farms in barns and sheds. Food could be obtained, but poverty's grasp made the necessities the main concern. Christmas with all of its trimmings would have to wait at least another year.
Every family had lost loved ones. Some families were separated by the patrolled borders of their divided land. The maimed were everywhere to be seen; many people were still missing. The orphanages were full, the children's faces were blank, their eyes expressionless and without hope. Few people lived in the same houses they had lived in before the war...or even the same city. Elders Wilson, Gregory and I, young missionaries, visited three orphanages to give them quilts that had been sent from Utah. One orphanage was sponsored by the Catholic Church, one by the Lutheran Church and one was run by the government. There were tears in the eyes of the sisters as they gratefully accepted the quilts. The workers at the government-run orphanage asked if we would like to see the children. We accepted the invitation, completely unaware that a scene of human sadness and tragedy would be branded upon our memories for the rest of our lives.
The door opened on a dimly lit room with nine or 10 children seated around a table. They were mending their stockings. The stockings were covered so completely with patches that you could not distinguish the color of the original wool. Bunk beds lined the walls; they had been made from rough lumber salvaged from the ruins. There was a straw pallet covering the rough boards and, looking more like a neatly folded bundle of rags, a blanket at the foot of each bed.
Conversation failed us as we drove home that December night. A scripture came to mind: "But who so shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea." Surely, severe punishment awaits those who wage war.
It was decided that the children who came to our Sunday School must have a happy Christmas this year. Toys were made, some for girls and some for boys. A box of oranges was obtained, as were the ingredients for cookies, thanks to the U.S. military. Each child was to receive a sack of cookies, an orange, and a toy.
Christmas Day fell on a Sunday, so during Sunday School the children were all assembled in a large auditorium in a bombed-out school. There was no heat, of course, so they all sat there in their coats. Sitting next to me on the front row was a dark-haired, dark-eyed little beauty. I cannot remember her name, but her face is etched in my memory to this day. She wore a blue snow suit obviously sent over from America. Over and over I heard her recite to herself the little poem children are expected to say to Father Christmas. "Lieber guter Weihnactsman shau mich nicht so boese an. Stecke deine Rute ein. Ich will immer artig sein." In Germany, Father Christmas is strict and ill-tempered. He carries a bundle of willows with which to punish the children who misbehave. The children's poems are meant to soften him. A literal translation of her poem is "Dear, kind Father Christmas, do not look so displeased with me. Put away your switches. I will always be good."
A child's name would be called, and he would receive his presents. The first child, after saying his poem, received a sack of cookies, turned and started for his seat. He was stopped and given an orange, and he again started for his seat. Once more, he was stopped and was given a toy. He could not believe that he would be so fortunate as to get three presents.
My little friend became more and more anxious as she waited for her turn. I began to wonder if her name had been missed. I decided that if for some reason she did not get her presents, I would take her shopping as soon as the stores opened. I would buy her a real doll, Swiss chocolate and a whole box of cookies. Finally, last of all, her name was called. She jumped down, ran up on the stage, and recited her poem, received her sack of cookies and started for her seat. She was called back and given an orange, and again she started for her seat. Again she was called back and given a doll. With an expression of pure joy she returned and cuddled her doll. These children, the real victims of the war, had been conditioned to believe that they could not expect to be as fortunate as other children, even though they had seen every other child receive three presents.
At 20 years of age, I had not thought much about the adage, "It is better to give than to receive," until that December of 1949. Not once did I think about what I might receive for Christmas that year but rather how I could make this Christmas memorable for someone else. My Christmases would never be the same after this one. This was a Christmas I would never forget. This was a Christmas I must never forget. This priceless experience was 49 years ago, and not one Christmas has passed that I have not mentally peered into that angelic, anxious little girl's face.
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