The Gift of Story (2 page)

As for him, his ears stuck out like this, and his hair was just two white tufts. His pants were like balloons with his two little twig legs inside them. His belt was so big it wound around his waist twice.

There they sat, two strangers with nothing to their names, stripped of everything except their own heartbeats. There they were, two refugees listening hard for footsteps in the snow, two souls ready to flee at a moment's notice. And together they carried all this heartbreak on a most beautiful night during which, in normal times, people everywhere would he

celebrating in their own ways the high holiday season and the return of the blessed light to the world.

It was clear from the old man's way of speaking that he was far more learned than she. Even so, she was grateful when at last he said, "Let me tell a story to pass the night." Ah, a story, something familiar. In the times they lived, nothing, nothing,
nothing
made sense. But a simple story—that she could understand. This is the story he told... one that gave meaning to the question, "What is enough?" and made that night unlike any other before or since.

"Tonight we have nothing," began the old man. "But somewhere in the world, no doubt, there are people who may have much more than they need. What is enough? Let us consider this question."

Once upon a time a long time ago, during the times our blessed grandparents were still living, there was a poor but beautiful young woman who was married to an equally poor but handsome young man. It was nearing the holiday time of year when gifts were customarily exchanged. The young people were very hard pressed, for a war that had raged over the land for many years had only recently receded.

All the sheep had been slaughtered by the soldiers for food. So, there was no wool to make thread. And without thread, there was no spinning, and without spinning, there was no cloth, and therefore no warm clothes to replace threadbare ones. As they were able, people cut up two pairs of shoes to make one pitiful pair. Everyone wore all the ragged sweaters and vests they owned, so that they looked deceptively robust in the belly, yet gaunt above and below.

Then, as often happens when the worst of war is over, people began to creep hack to what was left of their homes. Like the dog that knows its own field, they came back to stay regardless of the poor conditions. Some of the farm women began to mend the plows, replacing the blades with shell casings they heated and shaped by hand. Others cut open and shook the dead plants searching for seed. The tailor begged a few scraps of cloth, and began to sew again and sell his patchwork vests and coats on the streets. The baker ground by hand whatever grain he could grow in broken pots in the window, then deftly shaped tiny breads which he sold from his
front door. And gradually merchant-minded people began to gather a small living for themselves by selling little thises and thats—while thanking goodness that whatever evil war could do, it had not been able to blot out the sun. And so it went in the village. Though not bountiful, everywhere there reappeared the most simple signs of new life. And people took great care to protect all things that were either frail or young.

So it was that the beautiful young woman and the handsome young man lived. Though they had lost much in the war, they still had two fine possessions. He had managed to hold on to his grandfather's pocket watch, and was proud to tell the time to anyone who asked. And she, though ill-fed for months, still had beautiful long hair which, when she let it down, touched the ground all around her, covering her like a robe of finest sable. And so, rich in these simple ways, the young couple proceeded with their lives, eking pennies by selling a small turnip or winter apple here and there.

Oil and rag candles were lit in the windows

throughout the town for the holidays. The dark came earlier, stayed longer, and the snow flew fast. The young woman wanted so much to give her dear husband a gift for the holiday, a big bright beautiful gift. However, when she searched her pockets, she found only a few pennies. And as she considered her plight without even the smallest amount of self-pity, she still could not help hut silently weep.

She realized that tears would not help if 4 gift for her loved one was still to be found, so she dried her cheeks, and plotted a plan. She pulled on her worn coat, and two pairs of gloves, each with different fingers missing. Out the door and down the muddy street she ran, past all the little shops with not so much in their windows. Now nothing else mattered for she had in mind a gift, a special gift for her husband who worked so hard and toiled so long to bring home what little he could.

Past piles of rubble, past stairs with no houses behind them, and down a narrow alley she ran, and then into a drab building. Up three flights of stairs
she ran, by then breathless, and with barely strength enough to knock at the door.

Madame Sophie answered, wearing a miserable moth-eaten little mink around her throat. Her hair was orange and stuck out all over her head. Her eyebrows were like sooty scrub brushes. Surely she was the oddest old woman who ever walked the face of the earth. She, who before the war had made fine wigs for wealthy men and women, was now reduced to living in a one room flat with no heat.

Madame Sophie's eyes glittered. "Ah, have you come to sell your hair?" she cooed.

She and the young woman bickered back and forth until at last a deal was struck. The young woman sat in the wooden chair. Madame Sophie lifted one of the young woman's heavy tresses to the light. It shined like silken floss. With shears the size, it seemed, of great black iron jaws, Madame Sophie cut the young woman's glorious locks right off in three great snips. The lovely shanks of hair fell to the floor, and the young woman's sparkling tears fell

with them. Madame Sophie gathered the shorn hair together as if she were a greedy rodent.

"Here's your money," the old woman barked. She dropped some coins into the young woman's hand, pushed her out into the hall and slammed the door shut.

And that was that.

Despite suffering such an ordeal, the young woman was guided by her inner vision, and her, eyes

lit with enthusiasm once again. She rushed down the

street to a man who was selling watch chains made of lead covered in silvery tin—but assuredly looking

finer than a simple string any day. She gave to him

the several pennies she had before and those she had earned from selling her beautiful hair. And with

grimy hands he handed her a watch chain. Oh, how suddenly filled with joy she was to have a gift to give to her beloved. Why she fairly ran home, her feet barely touching the ground like the angel that she, in another time and place, might certainly have been.

All the while, her husband was busy at his own work of finding a gift for his dear one. Oh what
could it be? What would be just right? A vendor thrust a shriveled potato toward him. No, no, that would not do. Another vendor held out a scarf, that though bedraggled, was a pretty color. But no, it would cover her lovely hair, and he so liked to see her hair with its glints of ruby and gold.

On the next windy corner, yet another vendor held out in his palms two plain and simple combs;

one was perfect, the other had only one broken tooth. The young man knew he had found the perfect gift.

"Twelve pennies for these fine combs?" wheedled the man.

"But I do not have twelve pennies," said the young man.

"Well, what do you have?" whined the man. And the barter began.

Meanwhile, hack in their tiny rented room, the young woman moistened her hair with a little water

and coaxed it to curl around her face and then sat awaiting her husband. "Let him think I am still lovely in my own way," she whispered in silent

prayer. Soon she heard his steps on the stair. In he rushed, poor soul, rail thin, red nosed, icy fingered, but with all the earnestness and hope of the newly horn. And there on the door sill, he stopped in his tracks, staring at his wife quite dumbfounded.

"Oh, do you not like my hair, dear husband? Do you not like it? Well, please say something. To tell you the truth, I cut it so that a good could come from it for your sake. Please say something my love."

The young man was torn between pain and laughter, but mirth overtook him at last. "My dearest," he said and held her close. "Here I have your gift for this holiday season." Out from his pocket he drew the combs. For a moment her face grew brighter, and then all her features plummeted downward as she burst into tears and fairly howled with woe.

"My love," he comforted, "your hair shall grow back some day, and these combs will be glorious then. Let us not be sad."

All right then, she straightened herself. Her happiness returned as she brought out the gift she had for him. "Here, this is your gift my dear hus
band." And in her palm lay the simple chain, her gift of sacrifice for him.

"Ha!" he hooted, jumped up, and began to pace the floor. "Do you know I sold my watch to buy your combs?"

"You did? You did?" she cried.

"I did! I did!" he cried.

They hugged and laughed and cried together, and promised one another that the future would be better, it would, truly it would, just wait and see.

So, you see, though some might say these two young people were foolish and unwise, they were in fact, like the magi who sought the messiah. Even though the magi with righteous intention brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, in the end, that which they carried within their hearts had the most value, their yearning and devotion.

And the young couple here, like the magi, were wise too, for they gave the most golden of all things possible. They gave their love, their truest love to one another.

And it was enough.

nd with this, the old man, who was hardly more than a heap of bones, ended his story. There in the hut, his words made the loneliness and fear each of them felt, less lonely, less fearsome. Not because reason to fear was lifted magically from them, for it was not, hut because the story provided them with strength.

There they sat, the old man and the old woman, on that evening of the holiday time. He revealed to her that it was near the time of

Chanukah, the time of year he and his loved ones normally gave
gelt,
small gifts of coins. And she told

him it was somewhere near Christmas, a time of year during which her people also exchanged gifts.

And they smiled sadly, for both their traditions required gifts and there they were with absolutely nothing to give anyone. They sat in silence, until suddenly these words leapt out of the old woman's heart.

"I know. I will give you the gift of the sky above us."

And she could see that something swept through his heart, for he closed his eyes for a long moment, inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes again, and looked directly at her. He replied, "I am honored to receive your gift to me." And the old woman expected him to say no more.

Then all of a sudden he spoke again. "And...and I give you in return, the gift of these stars overhead."

"Also I am honored," she said. And they sat on in mutual heartache, a deepening joy, and contemplation.

Words rushed again into her mouth, from where she did not know. "And I return the favor to you, for I will give you the... the gift of the moon this night."

He remained silent for a long, long time. He was searching the sky for something else to give, hut