The Swiss man squirmed. He should have known better than to get involved with these people.
“What would your dear wife and children say?” continued the man whom he had called Scarlino. “The stakes are high. To fail me now could, shall we say, be a fatal miscalculation on your part.”
“Don’t worry,” he said finally. “I will get the information. Just keep my name out of it.”
42
Frau Grizzel
Even in the midst of her own melancholy, Amanda had noticed that Frau Grizzel was noticeably absent from the chalet Christmas party. For several days following, her thoughts continued to turn toward the grumpy old woman she had met in the village. Maybe, she thought, she could try to cheer her up. No one ought to be miserable at Christmastime.
The day after Sister Gretchen—the last of the chalet’s departing sisters—was gone, Amanda set off for the village with a parcel of fresh cookies, bread, and some Christmas candy.
Her own spirits brightened considerably as she walked. The mere resolution to try to do something for someone else took her mind off her own troubles. But the closer she got to Frau Grizzel’s run-down cottage, the weaker her knees began to feel and the slower her step.
But there was no turning back, she told herself as she made her way up the walkway. She must not lose heart now. Amanda stopped, drew in a last breath of courage, then timidly knocked on the door.
Inside she heard nothing. She waited for what must have been a whole long minute in silence. Suddenly the door slowly creaked open to a distance of about six inches. Out of the black void peered a wrinkled old face, out of the middle of which glared two mean-looking eyes. The mouth displayed no sign of intended movement. The eyes, however, roved up and down skeptically over the unwelcome visitor who had interrupted their solitary misery.
“Hello,” said Amanda, “I don’t know if you remember me. I saw you just down the street there several weeks ago. My name is Amanda. I live up at the chalet. I brought you a loaf of stollen and some other sweets. I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.”
“Christmas, bah!” retorted the old woman, her lips springing into action and her eyes narrowing as they stared out of the opening, which did not widen a millimeter. “What happiness does Christmas have for one like me whose family has left her?”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . .” stammered Amanda. “I didn’t—”
“Go away, girl,” interrupted the woman.
“I just thought you might like—”
“Take someone else your alms. I don’t need them.”
“But, please—”
“Wait till you’re my age, little girl! You’ll see what old age brings them as has no family, whose loved ones are gone and care for them no more.”
The words sent a pang into Amanda’s heart. The next sound she heard was of the door slamming in her face.
Saddened, she turned to walk away. She paused at the street still holding her parcel, then turned in the direction of Herr Buchmann’s cottage. How very different was the answer to the knock she gave upon his door a minute or two later.
“Amanda, my dear!” exclaimed the bookman, the very whiskers of his beard seeming to come alive from the smile radiating out from the center of it. “How delightful to see you again. Please come in!”
“Would you like some Christmas bread and sweets?” said Amanda as she followed him inside.
“What a thoughtful thing—why, thank you!”
This time Herr Buchmann closed the door behind them and offered Amanda a chair in his front sitting room rather than proceeding straight to the library.
“Actually,” said Amanda shyly, setting the parcel down on a low table in front of her host, “I came to the village intending these things for Frau Grizzel. But she shut her door in my face. So I didn’t really bake them just for you.”
“You are a straightforward young woman as well as thoughtful!” laughed Herr Buchmann. “Believe me, I am not insulted in the least. I shall appreciate the goodies no less for being secondhand gifts. You may recall, I am fond of secondhand things!”
“I think I remember!” laughed Amanda. “Books at the top of the list.”
“Right you are, my dear!”
“I had hoped that Frau Grizzel would see my gift as a gesture of friendship,” said Amanda. “She seems so sad and lonely.”
“Many have tried,” said Herr Buchmann sadly, “including myself and all the dear sisters of the chalet. But the poor woman is so consumed by her bitter and unforgiving spirit, she will let nothing in—not gifts, not flowers, not smiles, not a kind word.”
“Was she always like this?” asked Amanda.
“Actually no,” answered the former schoolmaster. “It is the most curious thing. She used to be one of the most highly thought of ladies in all Wengen, with a happy family and children the entire village enjoyed. They were all pupils of mine.”
“What happened?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Her husband died some years ago. But she seemed to handle his passing with the special strength given to women for such occasions. At least I saw no immediate change. One by one her children all left. I don’t know when the sourness of her present disposition began, or why. I suspect creeping resentments gradually got the best of her—although concerning what I haven’t an idea. They are like that, you know—unseen resentments that prowl around in the hidden places and dark shadows within us. They can take us over if we do not conquer them. Obviously poor Frau Grizzel did not root them out, so they grew and grew in her mind, and gradually conquered her.”
“It is so sad. Why would anyone want to be so miserable?”
“There is a certain pleasure the soul takes in self-centered misery,” answered Herr Buchmann. “Wallowing in such gloom is easier for some people than swallowing their pride over some assumed offense they have been dealt by another, or by life’s circumstances, or by God himself. Many sad souls find it a better thing to remain angry and unforgiving than to lay down the offense and let forgiveness wash their soul with the sweet-smelling water of God’s roses and violets and hyacinths. I don’t understand it myself, but I see many who are the sad victims of their own pride. It seems to be a disease especially lethal among the aged.”
“Do you really think so?” said Amanda. “It seems to me that young people are more foolish and prone to—”
Suddenly she stopped. Where had such a thought come from! She had been about to land the implication of her own observation straight down on her own head.
If Herr Buchmann suspected the truth about her sudden silence, he gave nothing away by his expression.
“I admit,” he said, “that there is a foolishness in the heart of the youth that later years do tend to cure. However, the foolishness of old age is sadly one for which there seems no cure but death. My own theory is that old age brings to the surface what has been invisibly growing from thousands of hidden seeds one has been planting in the garden of his or her own heart all their lives, either seeds of sweetness and graciousness, or seeds of irritability and grumpiness. As life slows down, those seeds sprout for all the world to see.”
“It is a fascinating theory,” said Amanda.
“It answers the curiosity,” Herr Buchmann went on, “that old age seems to make some people sweeter and others more crotchety. The sad truth is, Amanda, my dear, many people are not able to see the character traits they are building within themselves day after day, year after year. Then they grow old. Some of the natural defenses and barriers of personality fall away, the second childhood of life comes, and suddenly blossoms a lifetime’s character patch of ugly weeds, or a nicely trimmed garden of sweet-smelling flowers. You are young, Amanda, so take care what you plant, because you will reap your own harvest in the end. But come,” he added, rising, “enough of all this serious talk. I want to show you a book that came into my hands just a few days ago, an absolute treasure. I think you might like to read it.”
Only too glad to avoid any further conv
ersation in the direction this one had been going, Amanda jumped up and followed him through the cottage toward the Buchmann library.
43
Miraculous Birth
Hope Guinarde awoke early Christmas morning.
It was still dark outside, though hints of dawn were visible. She thought she had heard a sound, like the door opening downstairs.
She listened. The chalet was completely quiet. Gradually she dozed back to sleep.
When Hope woke again, another hour had passed. It was yet early and the house still quiet, but the light of morning filled her room.
Some compulsion made her rise. She put her robe about her and went to the window, then gasped in astonishment.
Out in front of the chalet, in the freezing cold of morning, Kasmira Tesar was kneeling in the snow staring at the empty manger of their makeshift crèche. Her black veil was down from her head, hanging from her shoulders. If was the first time Hope had even seen her full face and neck and flowing black hair, and a beautiful picture it was. Even from this distance, Hope could tell that the girl’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Hurriedly she dressed and ran downstairs.
As Hope ran out the door and across the frozen ground to the empty stable, gradually her step slowed. The radiant tearful expression on Kasmira’s face was such as she had never beheld in her life. She stopped and could do nothing for a moment or two but gaze upon it.
Still the veilless young Muslim woman stared weeping at the manger, in which still lay the folded blanket Sister Galiana left in it every day for the villagers to make use of.
Slowly Kasmira glanced up.
“I don’t know why,” she said softly as Hope now approached, in broken but intelligible German, “something seemed to tell me to come out. I fell on my knees and was filled with such wonder as I remembered what I heard the other night about the stable. . . .”
Her eyes glistened, her lips parted in a smile of mingled bewilderment and awe, and with also the dawning hint of a smile from some new well of joy inside that was unlike anything she knew.
Hope went forward, knelt in front of her, then slowly wrapped her arms about the cold shoulders from which hung the veil this precious new daughter of God would no longer have to hide behind. Kasmira fell into her embrace and wept like a child.
For a minute or two they remained in each other’s arms, then slowly parted. By now Hope was no more aware of the morning’s cold than Kasmira had been earlier.
“But . . . why is this happening?” Kasmira said. “What is the power of this . . . what is it called, this Futterkrippe—”
“That’s right,” smiled Hope, “a manger.”
“What is the power of this manger? Why did the story make me weep? Why am I filled with new feelings I cannot understand? Why do I no longer think I must shield my face? Why do I no longer want to hide any part of me? I feel . . . so . . .”
Her voice stopped as her mouth remained open in wonder.
“My dear sister,” said Hope with a heart full of tender love, “the power of the manger is that the little baby that was born in it was the Son of God. Because of that, he changes people, as he is now changing you.”
“Do you mean the man Jesus? I have heard of him.”
Hope nodded.
“But I do not believe. . . . I am a Muslim, not a Christian. How can he have power . . . over me?”
“Do you think it matters to him what you call yourself? His love for you is no less than it is for me, or anyone else. That is what the manger means, Kasmira dear, that his love has come to the whole world—you and me . . . and everyone.”
“You . . . you call me sister. But I am a Muslim . . . you are a Christian.”
“Yes,” said Hope, “and we have the same Father. That makes us sisters of the universal humanity to whom he has given life. You may not yet know him as I do. There is a closer family as well as a universal one. He wants you to be part of that family too. He wants to know you intimately, and that is why he called you out here on this Christmas morning to show you the meaning and power of the manger . . . to touch your heart with the new life he has for all.”
“He called me out,” repeated Kasmira in astonishment. “Do you mean it was his voice that woke me?”
“I believe so, my dear.”
“That . . . that Allah would speak . . . to me . . . why would he do so?”
“Because he loves you.”
“Me . . . a mere woman?”
“The true God, the Father of Jesus Christ, loves all equally—women, men, rich, poor. And speaking to individuals is the kind of thing our Father does when a heart is searching for its home.”
“I . . . I don’t understand what you mean.”
“He is always waiting to speak, waiting to wake, waiting to reveal the manger. That is no doubt why he sent you here, so that you could hear about Christmas and so that he could wake you and bring you on your knees before the manger.”
“Oh . . . there are so many things I do not know what to think about,” said Kasmira, beginning to weep again. “It is all so strange to my ears. Do you mean that I can be a Christian too?”
“Of course, my dear,” replied Hope tenderly. “The Father draws men and women to the manger from every nationality and culture—Muslims, Africans, Serbs, Chinese, Americans, Russians, Germans, Buddhists, Hindus, those who believe, those who do not believe. God brings all to the manger eventually, just as he brought you on this morning. The manger is where life begins.”
“It is all so new . . . there is so much I do not understand.”
Hope rose and now helped Kasmira to her feet.
“Come inside, my dear,” she said. “We shall build a warm fire and have a long talk. I shall tell you all about the man who was born in this manger, and how you can take him for your very own Savior.”
44
Christmas Morning
When Amanda awoke on Christmas morning, she lay in bed a long time.
The chalet was quiet, though she heard what might be voices somewhere outside. But she thought nothing further of it. Something made her reluctant to rise, sensing that the day would contain memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to face.
But as on the night of the party, she was not able to stop them. Gradually images and scenes, sounds and sights and smells began to tumble out of the past into her consciousness. . . .
————
Christmas morning at Heathersleigh Hall was always fun and filled with laughter and presents, song and food and stories and rides in the country. Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford spared no effort to make every Christmas more memorable than the last.
On this occasion, seven- or eight-year-old Amanda bounded down the stairs at the crack of dawn, followed by her brother, George, older by two years. They scampered to the Christmas tree, the floor underneath it spread with brightly colored packages and presents. Yelling and talking both at once, they could scarcely contain their excitement, or wait for their mother and father and baby sister to make an appearance.
“The stockings, George!” cried Amanda. “Look!”
The next instant they were off in the direction of the fireplace. There hung three huge knit stockings with the three names AMANDA, GEORGE, and CATHARINE knit into the pattern, all fat and filled and spilling out with candy and tiny toys, and with three small stuffed animals peeking their heads out from the tops of each. On either side of the three hung two others, not stuffed so full, it is true, but completing the picture of the whole family of five, with the names CHARLES and JOCELYN embroidered into them.
Moments later Amanda’s and George’s stockings were in their laps on the floor. Amanda hastily picked hers up from the bell on its bottom and dumped all the contents into a heap on the floor. She grabbed the first piece of candy her fingers could seize, stuffed it quickly into her mouth, then proceeded to rip open every present in a frenzy of unbounded energy.
George, meanwhile, who had had the good sense to move a little way across the floor from her,
began methodically to examine each item in his stocking with interest, slowly opening one tiny package after another, not beginning another until he had given each the attention it deserved.
“Hurry up, George!” clamored Amanda as he began carefully to open a second little wrapped box. “I’m already done.—Here, I’ll help you with that . . . I know what it is!”
“Get away, Amanda. I want to do it myself.”
Amanda turned and ran back in the direction of the tree.
On the landing above, seen by neither, stood Jocelyn Rutherford in her robe, watching the scene in silence with a contented smile on her face. . . .
Years sped by and the three young Rutherfords grew, and now the scene shifted to another Christmas. Amanda was fifteen, George seventeen, Catharine nine. How very different was the atmosphere in Heathersleigh Hall now as the five members of the family sat in front of the tree on Christmas Eve listening as Charles read the Christmas story from the Bible. As teenage Amanda sat listening, she could feel the quiet annoyance rising in her heart. Christmas used to be so fun, she thought, before they started making it so religious and . . .
————
In the midst of her reflections, Amanda heard the front door of the chalet open downstairs. Voices were entering from outside. It was time she got up.
Slowly Amanda rose. She was in no hurry to go downstairs. She moved about her room slowly, gazing absently out the window for several long minutes at nothing in particular, then began to dress.
Some time later she slowly made her way along the corridor toward the stairway. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Suddenly she felt almost like the child of her memory again, though cautious and timid now rather than eager and energetic. There was no tree, no presents, no pony with ribbon tied to its mane awaiting her. Why did she feel so peculiar on this Christmas morning?
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