By Ray Lenarcic
Many years ago, civil war ravaged a small, mountainous country. As Christmas day drew near, only those villages isolated in valleys located in the steepest mountains had escaped total economic devastation. But even there, the war had taken a toll. Many of the young men had been killed or wounded, and the normal supply of goods entering these villages had been reduced to a trickle. As Hans walked down the main street of Vordin, he couldn’t help but notice that shops only last year brimming over with Christmas delights were now either closed or filled only with dust and memories. A Christmas without presents was almost unthinkable for a boy of ten.
As he slowly trod the path which led to his home overlooking the village, Hans was thankful that at least the family would have a tree. A beautiful, decorated Christmas tree wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing! Inside Hans’ home, one couldn’t help but notice the sadness masking the faces of the family. As they sat eating their supper, the laughter and chatter normally accompanying an evening meal was missing. Hans, his sisters Inga and Gretchen, and parents had reason to be quiet. Franz, the oldest boy, had gone off to war and hadn’t been heard from in six months. Other families who had suffered through similar periods of not knowing came to learn the horrible truth-their loved one had perished in the war.
That thought had crossed Hans’ mind, but only briefly. He wouldn’t let himself think the worst. It was going to be difficult enough not to have Franz around for Christmas. Dead. Hans could never accept that. Franz had always been there to help him with his chores, to teach him how to hunt, to play games with him. He wasn’t just an older brother, he was his best friend. After supper, Hans climbed the stairs to the loft. It wasn’t even six o’clock, but the little boy wanted to go to sleep. At least when he slept, he didn’t have to worry about his brother.
The morning of December 12 was cold and a light snow was falling from an overcast sky. Josef Grieg had dressed with the dawn, and as he had every day for years, prepared to go to the barn to do the morning work. He opened the door, took one step and then stopped abruptly. There, on the path leading to the village were small footprints. They had come from the house. Mr. Grieg turned and quickly rushed back inside. He called Hans’ name. No answer. He climbed the loft and looked everywhere. No Hans. He was gone. But where? Why? He returned downstairs and searched from corner to corner. All he found was a note scribbled on a slate tablet. It read:
Dear mom and dad-I have gone to find Franz. Since he can’t be here for Christmas, I’m going to bring him a present. Maybe he won’t feel so lonely now. I know I won’t. All I want for Christmas is to see Franz and be with him for awhile. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. Love, Hans P.S. my gifts for you are in the left corner of the barn under a small pile of hay.
Elisa Grieg began crying, as did the girls. “Both my sons are gone,” she sobbed. Josef Grieg ran outside and down the path in hopes of catching up to his son, but it was too late. Then he organized a search party to scour the countryside. They too were unsuccessful. Hans was gone. The father returned home and went to the barn. Inside, in the left corner under the hay, he found Hans’ gifts; four small wreaths made from pine branches and cones and red ribbon. Tears swelled in Josef’s eyes as he picked up the presents. In his country, the wreath had been a holiday symbol of peace and friendship for as long as anyone knew. The door of each home had a wreath on it to remind passersby of the joy and peace synonymous with Christmas. Also, any house displaying a wreath meant that it was open to anyone who needed a hot meal or a place to stay overnight. While returning to the house, Josef couldn’t understand how a country with a tradition like the wreath could be destroying itself in such a terrible manner.
“Hey, you! Boy! Where are you going?” The loud voice of the guard caused Hans to stop in his tracks. He had reached the lines. The thought that he might have reached the wrong lines caused him to begin shaking all over. For three days and nights he had trekked in bitter cold, through burned out villages, past wagons filled with wounded men returning from the front, sleeping only for an hour or two when he could find shelter, eating only a few biscuits which he had managed to take with him. Hungry, tired and cold, Hans realized that he couldn’t go much further, much less run from the guard if he proved to be the enemy.
“Boy, come here! Now!” Slowly, Hans made his way toward the shadowy figure in the distance. As he grew closer, the boy noticed the gray uniform with red buttons and a broad red stripe running down the pant leg. Our side. His joy was unbounded. Summoning what strength he had left, he ran toward the soldier as fast as he could. Soon, he would be with his brother. Or so he thought.
The guard took Hans to an officer’s tent where the boy explained why he was there. The officer, a young man not much older than Franz, seemed nice. But his words weren’t very comforting. Since the boy didn’t know his brother’s unit and given the size of the army, the officer felt it would be impossible to find him in time for Christmas. Besides, his brother might not even be alive. He had food brought to Hans and told him to rest there that night. In the morning, he would send the boy back home in the company of two soldiers.
But Hans wasn’t about to go back. When he was certain that the officer was sleeping, he quietly crawled out of the tent. The night was cold but clear. The full moon provided ample light as the boy made his way toward the front lines. He just knew Franz was there. He had to be.
After dawn had broken, the sounds of war erupted everywhere. Rifle fire and the booming of cannons made the boy cover his ears. But he wouldn’t stop now. He couldn’t. He had come too far. When he reached the trenches, he knew that his journey was over. Franz had to be there. “Look, a boy! What are you doing here?” An older man, his uniform covered with dirt, shouted at him. After Hans explained why he was there, the man took him up and down the eight-foot-deep hole in the earth, asking if the soldiers knew of a Franz Grieg. All morning and afternoon they walked with bullets whizzing overhead and shells exploding everywhere. Nobody knew a Franz Grieg.
That night, Hans slept huddled against the kind old soldier. Tears glistened in the boy’s eyes as he gazed skyward. A canopy of stars above reminded him of Christmases past when he and Franz and the rest of the family walked to midnight church services. It was December 16. Christmas was less than two weeks away. As he drifted off to sleep, Hans clutched his gift for Franz tightly to his chest. He wasn’t sure anymore that he’d ever see his brother again.
In the morning, after a breakfast of tea and biscuits, Hans resumed his search. The old man told him they’d try another trench but after that he’d have to go back. Following several hours of futility, they finally met a group of men who knew Franz. Yes, he had been in their unit. “Had been?” asked Hans. A tall, thin man with reddish hair took the boy aside and gently explained to him that his brother had been killed. Hans began crying uncontrollably. “No. no, it can’t be,” he screamed. “Where is Franz?” The soldier held Hans close to him for a few minutes until he had calmed down. He told him Franz and a few others had gone on a mission and upon returning had been hit by a shell. All the men were killed. “But why wasn’t he sent home and buried?” cried Hans. The soldier then told him that the dead were buried in the cemetery of the nearest town because so many were killed each day that there weren’t enough wagons to take them all home. “Where’s the village?” asked the boy. “I’ll take you,” answered the soldier. As night fell and with it a silencing of the guns, the tall soldier and heartbroken young boy began walking away from the front.
The next morning found Hans alone among rows and rows of white crosses. The soldier had left him there with instructions to return to the headquarters in the village where arrangements would be made to take him home. To his horror, Hans noticed that there were no names on the crosses. Where was Franz? He could be anywhere among hundreds of dead young men. Slowly, Hans removed the gift under his coat. It was a tiny wreath made from pine branches and cones and red ribbon. He bent down and placed it at the foot of the nearest cross. Then, he stood and walked toward a nearby, pine-covered hillside.
It was nearly dark when the soldiers found Hans. When he didn’t return, an officer at headquarters sent some soldiers out to the cemetery. After a few minutes of searching, they found the boy crumpled over a grave. He was clutching a tiny, ribbon-less wreath, much like the others at the foot of over two dozen crosses. Not knowing which grave was his brother’s, Hans decided that he would cover each with the very special Christmas present he had made for Franz. But nearly a week of cold and fatigue had proven too much for the brave little boy. His mission would never be completed.
Hans was at last awake. He saw blurry figures all about him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was in his parent’s bed. He felt the warmth from the large fireplace and heard his mother’s voice. “Oh, Josef, he’s awake, he’s going to be all right.” Then he heard his father say, “Thank God.” His sisters were kneeling by the bedside. Hans had been returned to his home in a delirious, feverish state. His fever had broken and he was going to recover from his ordeal.
He heard the bells ringing. “What day is this?” he asked. “It’s Christmas Eve, Hans,” Inga answered. “Christmas Eve?” Hans sat upright in bed. He tried to get up but was held back by his father. “Let me go. I have to give Franz his present. Please let me go.” “But I already have your present,” said a voice from the back of the room. With his vision clouded by tears, Hans couldn’t make out the figure walking toward him. Wiping the tears away, he could now see the man clearly. It was Franz. Franz was alive!
The tall, blond-haired, rosy-cheeked young man knelt down at Hans’ side. “I thought you were dead,” whispered Hans. “I know you did,” his brother replied. “But I was only wounded; nothing serious, just a scratch.” “Where’s your uniform?” Franz’s answer startled the boy. He told of how Hans’ laying of the wreaths on the graves had spread like wildfire. Everywhere along the front lines men stopped fighting. It was as if the troops had been reminded of the meaning of Christmas by Hans’ actions at the cemetery, and they weren’t willing to continue a war which made a mockery of that meaning. Somehow, the news of the incident reached the enemy as well, and they too put down their guns. Franz went on to tell how a white flag of truce was raised and a ceasefire called. Both sides were now meeting and Franz believed the war was over.
The brothers embraced and then Hans fell back onto his pillow. As the bells rang in yet another Christmas, Franz reached inside his coat, removed a tiny wreath and placed it in his little brother’s hands. “Thanks, Franz but your being here is the best present I’ll ever receive!” And from that day on the tradition of the wreath would be changed. At Christmastime each year it would be placed on the graves of veterans as a testament to their service to the country. Also, it would now symbolize not only peace and friendship, but also a little boy’s love for his brother. Over time, the wreath would become popular across the globe; its display intended to remind all those who see it that Christmas should indeed be a time of peace, friendship and love. Merry Christmas!