Estonia, Dec. 24, 1950
Already in the morning, the noisy jingle bells are heard as horse-drawn sleighs slide across the white Estonian countryside. In the city, the bright snow-covered streets finally replace the grayness of fall, and tired stares suddenly become warm grins. These are days of few hours, and cheerful shoppers hurry as nightfall approaches. The number two streetcar stops among the honking of busy traffic as jesting passengers unload and quickly scatter, quietly disappearing into the dimmer back roads amid echoing laughter. Lamps light up a white sky filled with snowflakes. In a blur, they glide with the soft guidance of the wind, reflecting the calm light of shop lanterns still glowing before closing time.
It’s Christmas Eve as always, but for an outsider something seems strange. For one, Christmas trees will not be sold for another few days, and there isn’t a Santa in sight. Furthermore, the word “Christmas” had not even been mentioned in the morning newspaper.
After the October Revolution in 1917, Christmas and religion in general were banned in the Soviet Union. Instead, the holiday season publicly climaxed on New Year’s Eve when Grandfather Frost, the Russian Spirit of Winter, replaced St. Nicholas. When Estonia was occupied in 1944, it too had to rid itself of such capitalist, bourgeoisie threats.
It is on such a Christmas Eve in the early years of the occupation when my grandmother, little Edna Leisberg, helps drag a sled through a dark and slippery trail. It has long been dark, but Edna’s father still carefully wrapped a blanket around the freshly cut tree. The respected religious leader, noted by the community and the KGB, shushes his children as they turn the last street corner to their apartment.
Inside, they are greeted by the warm smell of hot cocoa and the uncontainable excitement of Edna’s younger siblings. Last year, her mother simply filled a vase with fir branches, but today Edna decorates her first Christmas tree with live candle fire and a snowflake star. Edna’s father had made the candles the night before, as stores didn’t sell them this time of year.
After munching down a few more gingerbread cookies, the family joins the masses drifting toward the sound of choir music. It is the one time of the year that Edna has to shove her way into an otherwise cold and empty building. The towering Oleviste Church, recently renovated under the directorship of Edna’s father, was the world’s tallest structure when it was completed in the 16th century.
Edna had often played hide-and-seek in its hollow halls and watched bats scatter up past a cobwebbed bell still collecting dust. Tonight however, the wind no longer blows through the church’s hole-riddled ceiling, and hundreds gather inside, beneath two enormous firs. Amongst the joyful crowd, Edna sees her father glance at a shadowy character scribbling down the names of those present. Years later, Edna would be criticized in a newspaper for playing violin in this very church. Her friend would be expelled from school.
After the congregation, Edna’s mother is busy preparing a dining table flourishing with sauerkraut, blood sausage and mashed potatoes while her son sneaks desert from beneath the table. At one point, Edna sees her father suspiciously sneak off. Soon, the little ones run screaming with joy to meet a loud knock and a jolly “ho, ho, ho!”
Santa pulled out a neatly wrapped package from a brown potato bag. “What will you perform for us tonight? A song, a poem; perhaps you can dance?” he asked. In those poor Soviet times, especially in the earlier years, the presents weren’t many, but Edna was overjoyed even with little pictures her siblings had made for her.
It wasn’t until 1991 that Christmas was openly observed, but the holiday season was by no means ruined for the nearly 50 years of Soviet occupation. Songs sung on Christmas Eve were never taught in school, yet everyone still seemed to know them by heart. Santa still came and the tradition lived on behind curtain-drawn windows. Even the trees eventually came back to the market because people refused to purchase them after Christmas. It seemed that the only one to have missed Christmas was an unlucky dad who, the children learned, had been caught in the blizzard when Santa arrived.