By Crystal Arbogast

----- I sat on the steps, wine glass touching my lips as I gazed down, across the hallway and into the living room. The Christmas tree sparkled and flickered with a life of its own, and I could see snow falling outside the window beyond. The giggling of my grandchildren escaped from a bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. My daughter's voice gently admonished them, and tried to continue reading the Christmas story she had started. Her voice was low and smooth, and the words she read drifted softly to my ears. Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the wall, mesmerized by the sound. This was a wonderful, peaceful holiday. My family was with me and the house was filled with life. Memories rushed back, and I thought about another happy Christmas years before.
----- It was in December of 1944. My older brothers and I lived with our mother outside of a small town in Germany. Our father had made sporadic visits as the army had allowed. He served in the infantry and was never in one place for long, especially in the last year of the war.
----- At the end of that year, Germany was in chaos. Stories of atrocities at the hands of the Russians arrived in town, carried by people fleeing to the hopeful safety of the allied army. Our houseguest, a Prussian soldier, had left some weeks before. He had left his supplies and bedding behind, knowing we could use them. My brothers and I missed him and the stories of his own family. I know that my mother had missed the sense of protection she had felt with his presence.
----- It had been months since we had news from our father. My mother had been silent, but the concern had shown in her eyes. Those same eyes would gaze down the road, which ran past our house and into the town below. Thinking back, I couldn't say if she had been looking for our father or worried about Russians.
----- As that Christmas came near, more and more refugees arrived from the east. Everyone in the town, as well as Mother, opened up their doors and offered what shelter and hospitality they had to give. Our house was filled with people.
----- Looking out a window on Christmas Eve morning, I saw a woman with two small children at her side. Huddled against each other, they stood and stared across the road at our house. After pulling Mother from the kitchen to see, she put on a wrap and went out to speak to the strangers. I remembered the smile on my mother's face as she opened the door and ushered the trio into the warmth. The woman and her children were the family of our Prussian soldier. She had found us from the information he had sent in his letters during his stay with us.
----- That night, our house was filled with song and laughter. Stories of miracles, such as a young man finding his sister, and friends being united were abounding. The adults made gifts out of whatever was at hand for the children. I remember my gift. Mother had made me the softest pair of red stockings imaginable. I loved them so much that when they wore out, I had begged her to make me another pair. Except for my father being away, that was the best Christmas of all.
----- Behind my closed eyes, I could see the smiles and hear the songs. The memory of our joy and the laughter faded as I opened my eyes and realized that my grandchildren were still giggling.
----- Finishing the wine, I rose and walked down the steps and into the living room. A small package lay at the edge of the tree. It had arrived the day before. No one had told me. It had been placed along side of the other gifts. As I reached for it, I noticed that it was addressed to me, and I recognized the handwriting. With trembling hands, I tore away the outside wrapping and opened the box. Folded inside were a pair of red stockings. They were as brilliant and soft as my first pair all those years ago.
----- "Thank you mother," I whispered.
----- Taking the package with me, I approached the steps and headed for my grandchildren. It was Grandma's turn to tell a Christmas story.