Tannenbaum

The winter of 1962 was cold and bitter, one of the hardest in living memory. I found myself in Zurich that Christmas Eve, an eighteen years old Hotel student, penniless and alone. “Take the evening free”, Herr Hammer, the Headwaiter announced “Tomorrow is Christmas Day and we are busy, busy, busy. Two full sittings for the traditional lunch. Go home and take some rest now”. He was a strict but kindly disciplinarian and treated us trainees fairly.

I trudged through the winding streets of the Niederdorf - Zurich’s old quarter. I decided to spend the evening in the Wirthaus, a cosy candlelit basement bar discovered quite by accident some months earlier. It soon became my local. Hans, the Innkeeper, was a genial, retired Opera singer. He was stocky, bald and wore traditional Tyrolean costume – brightly patterned blouse, lederhosen and thick woollen stockings. His patrons were old friends from his Opera days and I enjoyed many musical evenings there in company with some of my student friends from Ireland.

I wandered through the deserted winding streets of the Niederdorf, slipping and slithering on the icy cobblestones. My breath rose in dense clouds in the sub-zero temperatures. Suddenly two menacing figures loomed out of the darkness. I was knocked violently to the ground. They left me bruised and soaking wet minus my pay packet. I struggled to my feet, brushing melted snow from my sodden clothes and turned for home. My Opera friends would have rallied round but I was too proud to ask for charity.

My head ached from the fall and my hands had lost all sensation. I rubbed them vigorously together to restore circulation. Peering through frosted candlelit windows I saw families, gaily preparing for the morrows celebration. I wondered how things were at home. My mother’s letter though intended to cheer held sadness between every line. “It’s your first time away for Christmas and we’ll miss you,” she wrote.

I thought of another Christmas, many years before….

The Radio forecast had predicted a white Christmas. Artic winds brought little flurries of hailstones and sleet throughout the day. The slushy particles dissolved as they hit the ground. Suddenly, a subtle change. Wet sleet turned to powdery snow. The snowflakes floated and swirled through the air and formed a soft white carpet over the silent countryside. Fairhill, on the heights overlooking Cork City had become a magical wonderland.
“They must be plucking geese in Scotland” chuckled our Granddad, old Denis Cronin, as he gazed out at the whitening landscape. Blue eyes twinkled through dense clouds of aromatic smoke from his old clay pipe.
“Go out and catch some for me Tom”.

And out we dashed into a white magic world, rejoicing in our new-found freedom. The warm knitted gloves are soon abandoned as we hurled snowballs in all directions. Shrieks filled the air as aims improved and found their mark. Rudolf, our giant snowman, gradually took shape on the lawn. We draped Mum’s red tartan scarf around his broad shoulders. Then we set Dad’s old shiny, black topper at an angle on his head. It gave him a gay, rakish look. Two bright blue glass marbles provided sparkling eyes. An old mackintosh belt, some lumps of coal for the buttons, and one of Granddad’s old pipes completed the task. We stood back to admire our masterpiece. Leonardo da Vinci couldn’t have done better we reckoned. “Will Rudolf still be here tomorrow?” we wondered………
Lake Zurich was frozen over for many months during that long, hard winter of 1962 and the resourceful Swiss made the most of it. The flashing skates of hundreds of brightly clad figures made zigzag patterns on the blue white frozen surface of the lake. Smoke curled lazily in the still air from the red-hot coals of a dozen charcoal braziers.

“Gruezi liebchen!” Dancing brown gipsy eyes peered at me from behind the flames. Memories of childhood flashed to mind. Leonore, our nanny from Berlin used to use the very same phrase; “Fancy something to eat, schatzeli?” The old gypsy lady’s golden earrings glinted in the firelight. I could almost taste the spicy veal sausages, coated with fried onion and tangy mustard. The large Veal sausage coated with strands of burnt onion and German mustard tasted delicious. I could just about afford a large tankard of ice cold beer to wash it down.

Pigeons took flight as my boots crunched on the snowbound pathways of Belvoir Park. I ached from the cold and huddled deeper into my thin duffel coat. An old blue and white tram, its windows steamed up, clattered noisily by as I emerged onto Sternstrasse. The Christmas lights twinkled from the windowsill of my tiny attic apartment high above. Not far to go now. Number 125, Seestrasse. My tiny attic apartment is on the fourth floor of the old tenement building. I glance up at the memorial plaque on the wall of the neighbouring house. “James Joyce. Irish writer. Died here. February 1941”.

Old Herr Schmidt in the corner café remembered 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 many days. The British intercepted the telegram. There was some confusion about the name. They thought it was William Joyce, the Nazi propagandist, who made the radio broadcasts. You know, the one they called Lord Haw Haw”.

Did it snow that February of 1941 I wondered? Poor Joyce. He said he couldn’t live in narrow-minded Ireland any more when his works were again savaged by the critics. He must have felt lonely and abandoned here too. How is it that so many famous people have to die first before their genius is recognised, I wondered.

I spread my soaked clothing on the lukewarm radiator. In the basement the steam boiler alternately hissed and cranked in vain. Outside the snow fell heavily and little drops of moisture trickled down the frozen windowpane. Suddenly a chorus of voices wafted up through the crisp night air. I wrenched the window open. Far below my Swiss neighbours held hands as they gathered around the little Christmas tree. “Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, wie gruene deine Blatter” (dear Christmas tree, dear Christmas tree, how green are your leaves) – they sang.

I leant far out and scooped up handfuls of powdery snow from the window ledge. The younger ones shrieked and ran for cover as my snowballs found their mark. “Merry Christmas Herr Tom, Merry Christmas. Come down soon. Dieter has made Gluwein and we are having roast Goose tonight”.

It turned out to be a wonderful Christmas after all - that winter of 1962.

THE END