I don’t remember the bombing of Pearl Harbor that brought the United States into the Second World War. Since it happened on December 7, 1941, my thoughts, at age six, circled around the upcoming Christmas festivities and Santa’s visit. I didn’t take notice of something that happened so far away from our apartment in Brooklyn, New York.
I do
remember the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. I picked up on the anxiety of the
adults around me as they spoke in hushed tones. The Christmas season felt
subdued that year as young men rushed to war.
Soon after
the attack on Pearl Harbor, as I rummaged in my parents’ room, I found a baby
doll in a small crib, hidden behind their bedroom door. I’m not sure what I
looked for but I remember the surprise I felt at this discovery. Mama caught me
standing in confused awe and shooed me out.
“Mama, is
that for me? Where did it come from?”
“Santa
brought it early because he has so many children to visit on Christmas Eve that
he makes some deliveries beforehand and asks the parents to keep them hidden
until Christmas.”
“Well now
that I’ve seen it, can I play with it?”
“No, Santa
would get angry with me if I let you play with your Christmas gifts too early.”
Days later, I had an opportunity to
look again at my baby doll and crib but it had disappeared. I searched in all
the hiding places I thought Mama would use but couldn’t find it. So I waited
and received my secreted gift on Christmas morning. Although I suspected that
my parents had lied and that Santa didn’t exist, I preferred to pretend that I
still believed. In my heart I knew the truth. Christmas 1941 ended my faith in
Santa.
It became my date that lives in
infamy.
No comments:
Post a Comment