Christmas, 1933

            As the Christmas season was rapidly approaching, the younger Martin children could barely contain their excitement. With the commencement of Advent and the beginning of December, all the days leading up to that Holy Night of Christmas Eve were agonizingly long. Each calendar day was just one more to be counted off. And young Andrew made a point of doing just that each morning—with a thick dark X from his pencil. Almost nine, Andrew and his twin brother, Anthony, had the hardest time dealing with the wait. Amos and Michael, the older boys, 13 and 12 respectively, were practically men. They had both already taken their places beside their father down at the fish plant. Their wages didn’t match those of the men since everyone was on “piece work”, but Amos was nearly as fast as many a lot older than himself. Mother continuously reminded the household that her older boys’ schooling was only on hold temporarily—until times got better.

            But in 1933, the prospect of better times didn’t seem very likely. Even at their young age, the twins had already spent half their childhood in a time when for most people, what had once been accepted as “needs” were now looked upon as “wants”. But since they were too young to remember a better time before, and their own needs were taken care of, the notion of a Great Depression held no meaning for them. Life was just the way it was. There was family, there was school, plenty of other kids just like themselves to play with, and a neighborhood just filled with back alleys, junkyards and friendly faces. 

            Plenty of their wants were fulfilled as well, and all completely free. If they wanted snow for Christmas, they got plenty of it. It had been dusting the town off and on since mid-October. By the middle of November, with the first real storm of the season, two feet of the stuff had come down. Since then it had been snowing some almost every day until two weeks before Christmas, the drifts from the plows were halfway up the telephone poles. If they wanted to go sliding, they only had to step out the front door of their house. The slope of their street made a perfect hill, just as long as you were careful to abandon the sled before it intersected with Main Street. Even then, the danger was minimal, since there were so few cars around anyway. And if the ploughs hadn’t been out yet, what cars there were would not be moving anywhere. But if you sailed across Main and continued down the hill, that was a different story. The hill became very steep then and continued down to Water Street and the train tracks. And you never knew when one of the big locomotives might be crossing your path, they seemed to be moving all the time. The big steam engines were a constant thrill for the boys, but the thought of sliding underneath those big steel wheels was just… well… unthinkable. Besides, the climb back up from the bottom of George Street, in a snowsuit and galoshes that barely allowed you to move at all—and pulling a sled behind—it just wasn’t worth the original descent.

            If the boys wanted a sled, those who had sleds shared them. But almost anything at hand would do in a pinch: a dismantled cardboard box, an old and patched inner tube. Even a round hubcap from a junked Chevrolet worked as a sled, sometimes providing the fastest ride on the hill. Except for Tommy MacIsaac’s sled, the “Rocket”, which had been ordered special from Dean’s Department Store the Christmas before last. The Rocket was a sight to behold, with its graceful runners and sleek styling, not to mention its patented steering handle and its name emblazoned along the center board in bright red paint. But Tommy never shared his sled just as he never shared anything else, from toys to candy.

            Tommy wasn’t exactly one of the neighborhood kids, anyway. By some unspoken agreement, where the upper end of George Street ran into Winston Avenue, the neighborhood ended—or began, depending upon your point of view. It extended for two blocks on either side, placing George Street in the center. And it was bounded by Main and Winston Avenue, west to east. It was comprised of about 40 houses, mostly small, containing about 60 families, mostly large, with a few vacant lots and junkyards. The adults, as well as the older children, were mostly laborers, housewives, a few store clerks, or unemployed. They were predominantly Catholic and without exception poor. The younger children roamed the neighborhood freely, and beyond, recognizing young and old alike and known by all.

            If you lived on the other side of Winston Avenue however, you most likely resided in a larger house, came from a much smaller family and got to remain in school until you graduated. Your father might have worked in a bank or an office or supervised store clerks. Even if he were a laborer it didn’t matter. You lived in a different neighborhood, were considered “uppity” by the residents of George Street and, although you might slide down their hill on your fancy sled, you would never be accepted as one of them. And Tommy MacIsaac was not really such a bad fellow, even if he didn’t share like others. He was just different: from across the Avenue, that’s all. Their mother provided the boys with another perspective as well. She told them that they should feel sorry for the poor boy actually, being an only child with too much of everything. Andrew and Anthony both had trouble with that explanation.

            “Think about it,” she said seriously, “What do you two have that Tommy might really want, but never be able to get?”

            The boys looked around the small kitchen where Mother sat, next to the warm stove with the baby on her lap. It was hard to imagine anything that Tommy did not already have, let alone anything he might want from them. The baby fidgeted and gurgled happily as she suckled at her mother’s breast.

            “I think I know,” said Anthony hesitantly. He looked at Andrew, then at his mother. “I think that Tommy could use a brother.”

            Mother smiled.

            “Yeah, that’s right!” Andrew chimed right in. “And even…even a sister… like Rosie.”

He still wasn’t sure what to make of this latest addition to the family. He knew one thing for sure though: in the few months since her arrival she sure made a lot of noise and took up most of his mother’s time. “Maybe we should give Rosie to Tommy’s family,” he offered, in his most innocent voice.

            Just then the baby belched loudly and Martha gave Andrew a stern look. “How about we give you to Tommy’s family,” she replied. “After all, you’re closer to his age and we would still have Anthony. Well?”

            Andrew wasn’t absolutely certain whether or not this was a joke, but he laughed anyway. “Never mind,” he said. Then to his twin brother, “I think it’s time to go out and play. C’mon.”

            For the most part, the Martin children like most children in their neighborhood understood the value of money: it was very valuable, and there just wasn’t enough of it. But they also learned early not to want all the things that money could buy. In some ways it was harder for the older children, the ones who could still remember a time of gumdrops and oranges and Milky Way bars in abundance. But gumdrops sold at two pounds for a quarter and a quarter could buy a lot of other things that were much higher on the list of priorities, like a half-peck of potatoes for instance. A quarter could buy five loaves of bread, if your mother didn’t make bread. It helped of course when they could get a little work, like Amos and Michael at the fish plant.

            Most of their earnings went directly towards the household expenses, and they were happy to contribute. But out of their four or five dollars a week, they were always allowed to keep something for themselves. And sometimes they just couldn’t help but spend it all on a treat. Like the Saturday when the plant closed early and Michael stopped off at Newman’s Market. He had intended to buy only a penny’s worth of candy. He left the store instead with a whole dozen of the largest, juiciest oranges that had ever been seen on its shelves. The oranges cost 49 cents. His pay for the week had only amounted to $4.79. By the time he gave his mother the 4 dollars, he was left with 30 cents in his pocket until next payday.

But he couldn’t stop grinning as the family delighted in his generosity. There were two oranges each, except for Rosie who was barely more than a newborn and Grandpa, who refused to consume anything that came from a tropical climate. It made no difference that Florida was not considered as part of the tropics, it was “close enough”. It also didn’t phase him when Martha would always remind him that he consumed plenty of “tropical” rum from Barbados. His answer was that there was always at least one exception to every rule. The boys didn’t mind the second orange however, and the finest meal at the Waterfront Café could not have surpassed that Saturday afternoon feast.

Anthony loved to spend time with his grandfather and he would go off with him almost any chance he could. He appreciated the old man’s slow and easy pace. He never had to run to keep up with him. On their Saturday morning walks downtown they would just meander, stopping to talk with other grandfathers or grandmothers. Grandpa always seemed to be more talkative and spend a little more time with the grandmothers. They would spend much of their time just window-shopping, every once in a while going into one of the stores, like the Woolworth’s Five and Dime. Their destination on these excursions was always the “power house”, Grandpa’s euphemism for the liquor store. With his pint of rum in his pocket, they would then cross the street to Dean’s Department Store, where a penny would buy a bag of the best candy in the world. Grandpa would always insist on dividing the loot into two bags, the second one meant for Andrew.

On the Saturday morning that came just two weeks before Christmas, young Anthony was stopped short by the sight of something in Dean’s Christmas window display that made him forget momentarily that he must not want too much, especially of things that had a two dollar price tag. Standing at attention, brightly painted in red or blue and forming two perfectly straight rows, were the most beautiful tin soldiers he had ever seen. As he pressed his face against the cold glass of the window, Anthony could not take his eyes off the little soldiers. Everything else in the display disappeared as he imagined all the fun that he and Andrew could have with them. Grandpa was watching him with a knowing smile on his whiskered face.

“Aren’t those the sweetest rag dolls you ever laid eyes on, Tony?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Grandpa was the only one who ever called him Tony and the boy liked it, since that was how Grandpa was called as well. The old man also loved to tease, which was what he was doing now.

“How about that?” He pointed to the large dollhouse just behind the dolls. “Isn’t that just grand?” It probably was a grand toy, if you were a girl. “What about those tinker toys, laying down over there, right in front of those little tin men?”

“They’re soldiers, Grandpa. They’re tin soldiers.” But he knew he was being teased now. Then he had an idea. “I need to go to work,” he told his grandfather. “I’ve been trying really hard to save money, but so far I only have 29 cents in my can. I still need…” He thought for a moment. “… $1.71. Yeah, that makes two dollars.”

“And what would you do if you had a whole two dollars?”

“I would buy those tin soldiers and give them to Andrew for Christmas,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Wouldn’t he be surprised, huh?”

“He sure would be,” Grandpa smiled and joined the boy in gazing wistfully at the shiny bright little army. “Two dollars sure is a lot of money, isn’t it?” he said as if to himself. “You would have to work a lot of hours after school over the next two weeks…”

“I’ll have two full days off just before Christmas Eve… “

“Well, there might be a way, but you are still a little young for…”

“Grandpa, I can work. I’ll do anything, really.”

His grandfather put his hand up, waving down the boy’s zealousness. “Don’t get too excited yet, son. You might not thank me for this by the time you’re through the first two hours, let alone two weeks from now. You’d be working for Old Epstein. He owes me a favor and he’s been whining for months about cleaning up that old warehouse of his.”

Anthony looked stricken, as if he had just been given some very bad news. “Epstein?” He barely whispered the name. “You mean Mr. Epstein, the old Jew?” he asked, his eyes suddenly large.

“The very same,” answered the old man. “Mr. Epstein, the old Jew, the junk dealer and friend of one Tony Martin’s grandpa.” Anthony stood there shaking his head in disbelief. There was no way he could go and work for Old Epstein. Even the name brought terror to his young heart, and all kinds of ghastly pictures to his overworked imagination. He was the meanest man in the whole neighborhood, maybe in the entire town. Not only that, it was common knowledge that he hated children, and had trained his mangy old dog, which was even meaner than him, to eat them.

He smiled at the boy. “Don’t believe everything you hear, young man,” he continued as he took his grandson by the hand and headed back towards home. “If old Abe didn’t pretend to be so mean, he is convinced that he would have half the neighborhood kids scavenging through his junkyard, helping themselves. Then where would he be? It’s only junk, but it’s his junk, and it provides him with a living. And he’s probably right about the kids as well—about some of them at least.”

“But will he really pay me, Grandpa?” Anthony asked innocently.

At first the old man didn’t understand the question, then its meaning dawned on him and he laughed out loud. “You’re afraid that he will “Jew” you out of the money, huh?”

“Everyone says…”

His grandfather cut him off. “Just more stories, son, usually spread by ignorant people who should know better but never do. And even if the truth bit them on the arse, they still wouldn’t recognize it—or have a good thing to say. I think that this might be a fine experiment.”

Anthony wasn’t altogether sure about what his grandfather meant by that. Just as he wasn’t fully convinced that his plan was a good idea. But if Grandpa said it would be okay, then he figured that he could put his faith in that. He would just have to remind himself of those beautiful tin soldiers and Andrew’s face on Christmas morning—and his own joy of course, sharing them with his brother.

By mid-afternoon, the deal was made. Martha agreed just as long as Anthony tended to his school work and did not work on a Sunday. Mr. Epstein agreed but insisted that he could only afford to hire him for an hour-and-a-half each day after school. He was closed on Saturdays because that was his Sabbath, and he would be leaving for New York a week from Thursday to spend time with his daughter—not for Christmas but for Hanukkah. He offered the boy 15 cents an hour, then reluctantly settled at 20, after a little haggling from Grandpa. The old junk dealer reached out a large, gnarled hand and he and Anthony shook on the deal and set Monday after school as the first day of work. The boy did some quick figuring in his head and determined that his eight days’ tenure at 30 cents a shift would be more than enough to meet his requirements. He was satisfied.

He was also more than a little surprised concerning his encounter with the “scary old Jew”. His stature, tall and large-framed, as well as his demeanor and reputation certainly justified the fear he inspired in the neighborhood kids. His appearance alone set him apart from everyone else and being different or strange was enough to justify and affirm any rumor, no matter how groundless or even absurd. His long gray, straggly beard matched the shock of wild hair, almost pure white, which protruded at all angles from beneath his funny-looking skullcap. The hair and beard were not altogether unlike Grandpa’s, but the two long ringlets were definitely unique. Anthony decided however that it was the long black waistcoat, which he always wore, ending just above the tall black leather boots, which really gave him a sinister air. As well as his thick accent of course, which was guttural and foreign-sounding. What surprised the boy were the old man’s eyes.

They were like two deep, dark pools that seemed to penetrate inside of you when he held your gaze. His was unlike the gaze of anyone Anthony had ever encountered. Even the Bishop during Anthony’s confirmation couldn’t get much beyond the surface when he had looked into his eyes. Only Grandpa could come close to the intensity of Mr. Epstein’s gaze. Although he would never be able to put it into words, what he recognized in the old man’s penetrating eyes was a combination of both pain and kindness. This was not a man to be feared. This was a man to admire. At least that’s what young Anthony felt, although he could not have articulated the sentiment. Over the next week or so however, he came to recognize that first impression—and to appreciate why Grandpa had befriended the old junk dealer.

That first afternoon that Anthony reported for work after school, it was with a little trepidation. For one thing, there was still Max to deal with. But with one command, just a word from his master, the terrifying dog ceased its barking. One more word, introducing the boy as a “friend”, and the dog behaved as if the boy was a part of the family. Mr. Epstein explained that Max was a German Shepherd and that the language of the commands was also German. And that he himself was a German Jew, who had “escaped” from that country many years ago, first landing in New York and then eventually making his way to Grace Harbor. He explained that New York City was a wonderful place, but a hard place too. He had not known Anthony’s grandfather there, but maybe that they shared a common background might help to explain their friendship. He said that New Yorkers were “cosmopolitan”, and although the young boy didn’t know what the word meant he liked the sound of it. For the rest of his life he would always associate the word with those two old friends.

By the time he was finished working at the junkyard, sorting through and cleaning up the old warehouse, Anthony numbered Mr. Epstein among his own friends. He had also come to learn a couple of lessons regarding the nature of ignorant tongue-wagging and malicious gossip. Not only had the old Jew not “Jewed” him out of his wages, to his surprise and delight, he had given the boy a “Christmas bonus” of one whole dollar! But he had made him swear not to tell a soul about his generosity—for fear of ruining his reputation. Not only that but he promised the boy more after-school work in the New Year, “if he would be so kind as to accept the offer.”  The young boy felt the stirrings of becoming a young man as he skipped home to supper through the fresh snow. His pocket bulged with the combination of bills and coins that totaled $3.40, more money than he had ever possessed at any one time in is life—more money than he needed to buy the tin soldiers!

Anthony felt very content indeed. It was Wednesday evening, the last day of school before the Christmas break, he had money in his pocket and Christmas was only five days away. Tomorrow he would saunter down to Dean’s and purchase those beautiful tin soldiers, wrap them up and provide his twin brother with the biggest and best surprise of his life. He couldn’t wait.

As he turned the corner onto his own street he had to pass in front of the small brick building, which housed the Saint George Volunteer Fire Brigade. The sudden eruption of noise from the building startled him. With clanging bells and shouting men, the horse-drawn pumper burst through the wide doors and sped off up George Street, with a half-dozen men running behind it. At the first intersection it turned the corner on two wheels and headed up East Street. Anthony took off running and followed the procession. It was just about dark and the western sky still showed hints of light in a narrow line between the low dark clouds of the day and the dark gray water of the harbor. In the northern sky however, only a block beyond Anthony’s own house, there was a reddish-orange glow that defied the approaching darkness.

The next moment Anthony found himself in the midst of a most amazing and terrifying scene. What had once been Molly Gordon’s house was almost entirely engulfed by flames. Mrs. Gordon was in a terrible state, with tears staining her soot-blackened face, wailing and cursing at the two men who were constraining her. Three of her six children were clinging to her skirts. They were also crying. None of them was dressed for the cold, without jackets, hats or boots. Little Molly, about the same age as Anthony, was wearing only a thin dress and nothing at all on her feet. They had left the house in a hurry. Mrs. Gordon’s frantic plight was due to the fact that her husband and the baby were still inside the burning building.

The men of the fire brigade were terrifically busy battling the blaze. Two of them were manning the hand pump of the small tanker. They had stripped down to their undershirts and the firelight reflected off their powerful muscles, which gleamed with sweat from the strenuous work. When their arms began to feel like lead and the strain on their backs and shoulders were becoming too much to bear, they would shout for relief and two others would take over the pumping. Others had organized a couple of water bucket brigades. Men, women and even children made up the lines, the last in each line running the empty buckets back to the taps, where they were filled once more and thus continually passed along to douse the flames. By now half the neighborhood had turned out to watch, or become a part of, the excitement.

The flames were so hot that it was almost impossible to get near their source. But two of the firemen, who had thoroughly been doused in water, had managed to smash out a window and open a large hole in the side of the building that was still approachable. In a mad gamble they rushed into the burning house. In the next moment they were stumbling back through the same opening, coughing and gasping for breath. A huge roar went up from the assembled crowd when they realized that the two men had escaped the inferno, each with a prize. One carried a bundle in his arms, close to his chest, that could only have been the Gordon baby. The other man staggered under the dead weight of Mr. Gordon himself, slung over the shoulder of his rescuer. The rescuer and victim both fell to the ground and lay sprawled on their backs in the soot covered snow.

At the same time, there was a tremendous roar of fire and splintered wood as the roof of the small house suddenly collapsed inward, sending up a shower of ash and burning cinders into the night sky. There were more shouts then when someone noticed a flaming faggot starting to alight the roof of the house next door. Another ember was threatening the house behind. It wouldn’t take much to send the whole neighborhood up in flames. None of the old wood-framed houses were a match for a spreading fire. And the wind was starting to come up. 

There was nothing left to save of the Gordons’ place, so the firemen turned their attention to the roof next door. Everything seemed to be happening at the same time and rather quickly. The noise of the collapsing roof spooked the horses and the two huge Clydesdales suddenly reared up together and bolted away from the scene. A couple of the men dashed off to retrieve them—and the water tank. Other firemen began redirecting the bucket brigades towards the next-door house before a new fire got out of control.

Two men were sent back to the station house to rig up a second pumper—if the horses could be corralled and convinced to pull it. Others were organizing a shovel brigade of men and older boys. They were quickly engaged in shoveling snow onto the remains of Molly Gordon’s house. Anthony noticed his father and two older brothers among them. Every shovelful would hiss and produce a cloud of steam or a spray of embers into the air, but their efforts seem to be paying off. A particularly burly and dirty fireman laid a large hand on Anthony’s shoulder, startling him from his reverie. Bending down so that his blackened, soot-streaked face was level with the boy, he said evenly, “Son, it looks like we might be in trouble.”

Anthony nodded grimly, his gaze held by the red-rimmed eyes of this serious man.

“You look like someone who can run pretty fast. Is that a good guess?”

The boy nodded once more.

“Do you know how to get to the central firehouse?”

“The big one over on Grand Street?” Anthony nodded. He knew how to get to just about anywhere in Grace Harbor.

“Okay, son, now take this and run as fast as you can. Tell them there to send all that they got. And tell them to raise the central alarm to bring in the North End and Hillside companies. Got it?”

The boy nodded. They both looked up to see the roof of a third house starting to blaze.

“Now, go!”

The fireman ran off towards the newest outbreak of flames. Anthony raced down East Street, crossed Prince and didn’t stop until he reached Grand and his destination. In his hand he tightly clasped the badge from the helmet of the man who had sent him on his way.

He was out of breath by the time he arrived at the stationhouse, but the men there didn’t need to be told the news. The badge said it all. Soon Anthony was hoisted up next to the driver of the biggest fire pumper he had ever seen, pulled by a team of what must have been the four largest horses in the world.

“Just point the way, son!” the driver shouted, as he cracked his whip just over the heads of the two lead horses. They raced back down the streets he had traversed only moments before. Behind them the wail of the old air raid siren began to fill the night air. Anthony decided there and then that someday he would be a fireman and he would be the one holding the reins of these magnificent horses, racing through the night, bringing rescue and relief.

When they arrived at the scene of the fire, the roofs of two of the three threatened houses close to Molly’s were ablaze and close to becoming out of control. The bucket brigades were still going strong but, by the time the water reached the men at the top of the ladders, it was too slow and almost ineffective. Also everyone looked exhausted but nevertheless a great cheer arose at the sight of the reinforcements. Anthony felt very proud of himself as he was lifted down from the wagon and was greeted by his mother and his twin brother, Andrew. Both their faces were streaked with soot. Both had wide grins as they met him.

“How is Molly and the other Gordons?” he asked anxiously. “Her dad and the baby?”

“Everyone is going to be all right,” Martha answered. “The two of them were taken to the hospital for smoke inhalation, but miraculously there were no burns. Molly’s mom and the others are at Mrs. Murphy’s, being well looked after. And I’m going home now to finish getting supper ready, since I have a family that needs looking after as well. You two must be hungry.”

The boys hadn’t thought about it but now that she mentioned it, they realized that they were famished. The remaining fires were quickly being brought under control and the sound could be heard of other equipment arriving from the edges of the town. Soon the excitement would be all over. Like Martha, most of the women were beginning to drift off to their own homes to tend to their own hearths; to feed their families and heat the water that would be needed to scrub away the soot and grime from exhausted bodies.

The Gordons’ home had been reduced to a pile of charred and smoldering ruins. It was a pitiful sight really and everyone had a comment as they passed by: “What a terrible night,” and “So close to Christmas. They lost everything,” and “It could have been worse,” and “Thank God they are all alive.”

The next morning the whole neighborhood was abuzz over the events of the preceding evening. Since there was no school and the sun was shining, all the children young and old alike had gathered around the site of the fire. The blackened debris and the muddied, slushy snow somehow seemed even more forlorn in the light of day. Here and there a whiff of smoke curled upward on the morning breeze. A few firemen were combing through the rubble, making sure there was nothing left that could flare up. Anthony noticed Molly standing to one side. She was dressed in an old, threadbare coat that was too small and galoshes that were obviously too big for her. In one hand there dangled the charred remains of a rubber doll. One of its legs was melted and all its hair had been singed. He couldn’t help but think that the doll she was holding could have been Molly herself. She was also the saddest sight he had ever seen.

“How’s your Da’?” he asked her.

Molly just nodded, as if lost in her own world.

“And the baby, little Emily is it?”

She nodded again. Then she looked up at him, tears filling her eyes. “There’ll be no Christmas this year,” she said. Then she was gone, fleeing the scene, dragging the pathetic doll behind her. Her words seemed to echo in the young boy’s head as he watched her departing back, stumbling through the snow in her oversized boots.

While the Gordons were trying to find the strength that they would need in the coming days, their neighbors were busy finding the means to support them, to “help get them back on their feet again”. Before noon, the Salvation Army had committed enough food to sustain the family for an entire week, including a complete Christmas dinner. The Saint Vincent de Paul Society prepared to supply them with bedding and linen and winter clothing—even in all the right sizes. Now if only they had a stove to cook that Christmas dinner on, or beds for their new bedding. That too was taken care of in a rather surprising way. The only people not surprised were Anthony and his grandfather.

As soon as he had heard about the tragedy, Abraham Epstein had procured a small house that he knew had been empty for awhile. It belonged to a landlord friend of his. And although the rent was more than the Gordons were used to paying, it being situated on the other side of Winston Avenue, he worked out a deal for the difference. The deal also included that the house come fully furnished, and not with just “leftovers from the Crimean War, either,” he insisted. He paid the first three months rent in advance, but only after he made sure that the movers had begun the furniture deliveries. He then sent word to his friend, Tony, asking him to take care of the details.

Once he felt assured that everything was in order he made a hasty retreat for Yarmouth and the waiting steamship that would take him to New York and a visit with his daughter. He had sworn both the landlord and Anthony’s Grandpa to secrecy concerning his role in the affair. Such a thing is next to impossible of course in a small town, or even smaller neighborhood, and soon everyone was talking in amazed whispers or unbelief about the “Old Jew”. His mean and nasty reputation was sure to be tarnished now.

For much of the day the twins were kept busy helping. Martha had “volunteered” their services to the Saint Vincent women, and the two boys could be seen making numerous trips, carrying assorted bundles of clothing and bedding, or picking up casseroles and desserts from neighborhood houses. Grandpa supervised the movers and ensured that his old friend’s instructions were carried out to the letter, twice refusing to accept substitutions of rickety old stuff that was only fit for the town dump.

Long before suppertime all arrangements were completed and Mrs. Gordon and the children were handed the keys to their new home, in which they found a roaring fire and more food awaiting them than they could possibly consume. Overwhelmed, it seemed they could do nothing but cry. When Mr. Gordon arrived from the hospital with the baby, he was quite upset and insisted that he couldn’t be accepting such charity, it was just not right. Grandpa calmed him down, insisting that he could make it all up a little at a time, just as soon as he got back on his feet again. For now he had to consider the children and all they had been through. And Christmas was just around the corner. That seemed to work and his reunion with the children seemed to touch him deeply, indeed.

Christmas Eve was a mere three days away and it fell on a Sunday, leaving only two days to shop. And what could the Gordon children look forward to on Christmas morning? Especially since whatever gifts their parents could afford had already been bought and lost in the terrible fire. The meager poor box at Saint Mary’s was perpetually exhausted, with so many families unemployed. And although most families in the neighborhood had little to spare, and some literally had nothing, a collection was taken up for the Gordon family Christmas. Four of the ladies from the Catholic Women’s League had begun canvassing from early that morning, each beginning at one corner of the neighborhood. At every door they were greeted with sympathetic smiles, and from many of the doors that is all they came away with. From others, a couple of pennies were offered after much digging around the bottom of ginger jars. Some others, the ones who had more or less steady work or more than one working in the household, were able to give more. The Baxters contributed a whole dollar!

The ladies made their way through the entire neighborhood, between Main Street and Winston Avenue and two streets on either side of George, canvassing every house from corner to corner. Throughout the day they worked their way towards the center and by supper they had converged at 19 George Street, which happened to be the Martin household. No one there had realized before that they just happened to be living right at the center, the very heart of the neighborhood. The fact gave them an obscure sense of pride.

In the excitement of the day Anthony had been totally preoccupied with the business of getting the Gordon family settled into their new home. Not until the hat was being passed around the little kitchen did he even remember his pocketful of money from the night before. He had just thrown it into his tin with the other coins before throwing himself into bed and falling into an exhausted and fitful sleep. He had forgotten all about his plan to head down to the department store as well. And now the CWL ladies were asking for help—anything at all to make a difference—for the little ones for Christmas.

Grandpa dug deep into his pockets and came up with two quarters. The two older boys each matched his contribution, and Frank threw in a dollar, the one he had been hanging onto for a rainy day. “I guess this one was meant for Henry Gordon’s rainy day,” he said.

Andrew came forward with his worldly savings of 17 cents, then all eyes turned to Anthony. He had retrieved the small tin that had once contained chocolates from New York. It had arrived with his mother when they first came to Grace Harbor. Its once bright colors were all but faded and like Martha, it had seen better days. It now contained her small son’s worldly wealth: two crumpled one-dollar bills and assorted change. Anthony counted out the change, depositing the coins one by one into the collection basket of one of the ladies: $1.69. The ladies were delighted and thanked the household profusely for their generosity as they took their leave.

“Wait!” said Anthony. He reached for the basket in which he had just deposited his money. The face of the lady holding it clouded over, guessing perhaps that the boy wanted to make a withdrawal. She actually blushed however when Anthony removed the lid from his tin once more, turned it over and emptied its remaining contents into the collection. The two paper bills seemed to float there in slow motion, then disappeared into the basket. Both Anthony’s mother and grandfather began to protest at the same time, decrying the fact that he had worked so hard for that money. “What about those toy…?”

A look from the boy stopped the old man’s speech in mid-sentence. Then looking up at the kind face of the woman who now held all of his money, he asked, “Is it okay to make a request?”

“Well,” she said, pondering his question. “Well, I don’t see why not. What would you like, young man?”

“Could you buy the best doll you can find for Molly Gordon?” he asked evenly. “It should be a rubber one with lots of pretty hair. Grandpa and I saw one like it in Dean’s Christmas window last Saturday. Is that… is that okay?”

The woman smiled broadly. “I’ll be down at that department store before they even open their doors in the morning. And I’ll see to your request personally.” With that she extended her hand and asked, “Is it a deal?”

“A deal,” Anthony replied, taking the woman’s hand. He sighed.

The representatives of the Catholic Women’s League left the Martin household then, each with tears in her eyes. They were finished with their business of the day and what a business it had been. Martha too felt her own eyes starting to sting and she excused herself to go and look in on little Rosie. Although they couldn’t articulate it, the men of the house all had a sense that they had just witnessed something quite beyond the ordinary. Young Andrew was a bit ambivalent about the experience, still unsure about whether or not his twin brother had been a bit too extravagant. But Anthony felt better than he could ever remember feeling. That night he slept very soundly.

For the next two days, Saturday and Christmas Eve, he did what all the other neighborhood kids did, played in the snow, ran errands for his mother and generally enjoyed his time off from school. Like everyone else he was more than a little excited about the approaching big Day. He felt a little taller than usual, although no one seemed to notice. He didn’t actually forget entirely about the tin soldiers, but he was content when he pictured instead the look on young Molly’s face waking up to her new doll. That also helped him to shake the sadness of his memory of her the day after the fire.

On Christmas morning of course he was absolutely agape and delighted when he and Andrew unwrapped a present from Santa addressed to the two of them. Inside were the most exquisite—brightly painted in their red and blue uniforms—beautiful tin soldiers they had ever laid eyes on. No one in the Martin household seemed to know how they had found their way under the tree. Grandpa just shrugged and asked, “Why not Santa?”

End