A Swiss Christmas

A Swiss Christmas

"Take the evening free", Herr Hammer, our Headwaiter tells me.
"Tomorrow is Christmas and we'll be very busy. Two sittings for the
traditional lunch. Go home and take some rest now". He was a strict
disciplinarian but he was a kindly man, and treated us trainees
well.

I trudge through the winding streets of Zurich's old quarter. Peering
through candlelit window panes I see families, gaily preparing for the
morrows celebration. I wonder what they're doing at home right now?
Mother's last letter was written in a light-hearted vein but I can feel
the sadness between the lines. "You are the first to leave the nest and
we'll miss you!" she says. I remembered another Christmas, many years
ago?.

The Radio forecast had predicted a white Christmas. Bitter artic winds
bringt little flurries of sleet throughout the day. The slushy
particles dissolve as they hit the ground. Suddenly, a subtle
difference. Wet sleet turns to powdery snow flakes, floating and
swirling through the air, forming a soft white carpet over the silent
countryside.

"They're plucking geese in Scotland" chuckled Granddad, gazing out at
the whitening landscape. Blue eyes twinkled through clouds of aromatic,
blue smoke from the old Peterson pipe. "Go out and catch some for me".
And out we dashed into a white magic world rejoicing in our new-found
freedom. The warm knitted gloves are soon abandoned as we hurl
snowballs in all directions. Shrieks fill the air as aims improve and
find their mark. Rudolf, our giant snowman, takes shape on the lawn.
Mum's red tartan scarf and Dad's old topper give him a gay rakish look.
Two glassy alleys are added for the eyes, an old raincoat belt, some
lumps of coal for the buttons, and Granddad's old pipe complete the
task. We stand back to admire our masterpiece. Leonardo da Vinci
couldn't have done better we reckoned. "Will Rudolf still be here
tomorrow for Christmas Day?" we wondered???

I cross the frozen lake. The Zurich-See remains ice-bound for four long
months and the resourceful Swiss make the most of it. Hundreds of
brightly clad skaters form countless criss-cross patterns on the blue
white surface. Sleds of laughing children are propelled in all
directions by energetic young parents. They pause occasionally to buy
roasted chestnuts from the red-hot coal braziers that surround the
lake. Even the Bratwurst vendors are here with their charcoal grills.
The large Veal sausage coated with strands of burnt onion and German
mustard tastes delicious. I can just about afford a glass of ice cold
beer to wash it down.

Wrapping the old duffel coat closely around me I decide to take a short
cut through the park. My feet make crunching sounds on the snowbound
pathways. A blue and white tram rattles noisily by. My little attic
apartment is on the fourth floor of the old tenement building. I glance
up at the memorial plaque on the wall of the house across the road.
"James Joyce. Irish writer. Died here. February 1941".

Old Herr Schmidt in the corner caf? remembers him well. "He used to sit
right there by that window. Never used to say much. Just sat there,
drinking red wine and writing. He wasn't very well I think, that last
winter. When he died his family in Ireland weren't informed for ten
days. The British delayed the telegram. Apparently they thought it
might be William Joyce, the Nazi propagandist". Did it snow that
February of 1941 I wondered? Poor Joyce. He said he couldn't live in
narrow-minded Ireland any more after one of his works was savaged by
the critics. He must have felt lonely and abandoned here too.

The ancient heating system doesn't work very well and I decide to keep
my duffel coat on until the two bar electric fire warms the room up a
bit. The strains of `Silent Night' waft up from somebody's gramaphone
on a lower floor. "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht". The words sound
different, but the melody's just the same. They're getting ready to go
to Midnight Mass at home now. I wonder what the Crib in St.Patricks
church will look like this year?

Little rivulets of condensation trickle down the window as snowflakes
form on the frozen panes, warmed from inside by my little electric
fire. Outside the snow is falling more heavily now. Bing Crosby where
are you? It's tough being nineteen and all alone for the first time
ever on Christmas Eve. But its nice and cosy now, under my Goose-down
quilt. Roll on January. We'll have more free time then. It'll probably
still be snowing and maybe I can learn to ski and toboggan. This is
Switzerland after all???..

The End