by Ferenc N. Somogyi
For Christmas Eve, December 24, 2018
He wore his weather-beaten black fedora at a slight angle. As he walked along the quiet brick street, he held the collar of his charcoal-gray woolen overcoat close to his neck. The street was sparsely lit by a few old streetlamps, which shined gentle beams of light toward the ground and illuminated the fragile snowflakes flurrying about in the windy night. The street itself was lined on both sides by turn-of-the-century American houses, most of them gray or white or beige. Those houses, most of them dark at this hour, were most properly workingmen’s estates, but in that dismal year of 1930, they were palaces to their residents.
By his own standards, the man in the black fedora felt himself lucky. In his fifteen years in the United States, he had made for himself a respectable, but by no means glorious, living. Factory work was dull and repetitive, of course, but it was certainly a step up from the farming lifestyle of his youth. Somehow, though, he missed those days. The rolling plains of his native northeastern Hungary were where he had grown up and eventually met his wife, God rest her soul. There was something so temptingly simple about that past life, so beautiful and pure, something no smog-producing factory tower in “the land of the free” could replace.
It was true, America had been good to him. It truly was a place of opportunity… but it was also fraught with problems that had never interested the man in the black fedora in the slightest. Mortgages and stocks and politicians and billionaires and all sorts of other hoopla – in his opinion, everybody should’ve just kept to themselves, and the Depression would’ve never happened. But it was what it was, the man scolded himself, and there was no point mulling over the past now. The situation would have to be dealt with. He had been out of work for nearly three months, and he didn’t fancy himself accepting help from Cleveland’s soup kitchens. He was Hungarian. He could fend for himself.
As the man made his way along the street, focused intently on the steps he made in the snow, a movement on the other side of the street caught his eye. Stopping, the man looked up and through the snow. His gaze fell upon a male figure heading in the opposite direction who, by the looks of him, was about the same height as the man with the fedora. Strangely, the figure was not clad in the customary overcoat of the time, but instead he was wearing some sort of white shirt. He did not notice the man with the fedora. His arms were held close to his body as if to conserve heat.
More out of curiosity than anything, the man with the fedora watched the white figure for a few seconds. Suddenly, the figure seemed to stumble on the icy sidewalk, and fell over into the snow. Then, driven by a strange impulse his very private self usually neglected, the man with the fedora set off in a brisk walk on an intercept course with the figure.
When the man with the fedora had reached the other figure, he held out his arm for the person to take. The figure accepted the help, and, with a strange calmness about him, smiled pleasantly, as he stood up. Slightly out of breath, the man with the fedora promptly asked, “What are you doing out here in the snow? It’s Christmas Eve. Don’t you have family?” Only after he had said this did he realize he had fallen back to the same type of abrupt talk he had always tried to break. After an awkward pause, he continued, “My name’s János Szatmári,” and he held out his hand.
The other man, who looked about the same age as János, took his visitor’s hand and shook it firmly. “You have an accent,” he said, continuing to smile.
“So, do you,” said János, slightly too defensively.
“My name’s Nicolae Sibianu. You’re Hungarian, are you not? From Satu Mare. I worked with some Hungarians back at home, so I could tell your name gives away your hometown.”
János responded cautiously. “You are Romanian. From Nagyszeben. I… also speak some Romanian. Similar reasons. Your name… also gives away your hometown.”
Nicolae smiled some more. “Look at us. We call our home-cities different things, but both our peoples live in them. And somehow, we both end up in this foreign place, meeting as neighbors again. And we recognize each other by our last names! And, most importantly, we seem to get along. That is a rarity in these modern days among our peoples.”
János digested Nicolae’s words. Then, he said, “Are you from around here?”
“From a little way to the west, yes,” Nicolae answered, “In the Romanian neighborhood. But tonight, I wander into the Hungarian neighborhood.”
János thought this strange. “Have you no home or family?”
Nicolae shrugged in reply. “My family is in Romania, awaiting my return. I came here five years ago to make money to take home, and things looked good until the stock market crash. I have been stuck here since. As for my home…. Another Romanian family, one with fourteen children and no house for two months, needed it more than I did. I gave it to them for now – it is Christmas, after all.”
János listened to this quietly. He looked the Romanian up and down, and to his surprise, realized the white clothing was nothing other than the traditional peasant clothing of Romanians.
Nicolae saw János’ expression. “My clothing is peculiar here, isn’t it? But it’s all I have. I sold the American stuff just recently for money. But this… well, I would never sell it. Besides, I doubt anyone would want it.”
János suddenly felt a pang. Only weeks ago, he had sold his own traditional coat from Hungary. Maybe he should have kept it, like this man kept his clothes. It would have kept him warm….
“My friend, you seem better off than me,” Nicolae added. “Do you not have a family? Or a home?”
“I – well, no. I am staying with some friends down the street. They are nice people – wanted to share a humble Christmas with me – but… no, I didn’t feel right there. My wife has been dead for seven years and my two children are in New York with a better-off cousin of mine,” János revealed.
Nicolae twisted his mouth in thought. “Well, neither of us have anywhere to go – except onward, of course. Do you mind if I join you in your walk? No one should spend Christmas alone.”
János apprehensively considered, then nodded in agreement. “Your people and my people don’t get along, but – you are different.”
Nicolae gave another grin. “Thank you. You, too, are a welcome symbol of friendship among our peoples.”
János objected quietly. “I do not make friends quickly… not with you, not with anyone.”
Nicolae shrugged. “Which way shall we walk?”
“Yours,” János said briskly. There was a stubborn reason to this decision that Nicolae chose to not explore. The situation was fragile enough as it was: members of two proud nations, brought together under extreme circumstances and cordially accepting each other. It was best to leave it at that, and find bonds between the two, not divisions.
Silently, as the two began to walk, they seemed to subconsciously agree that no political discussions would tarnish their extraordinary relationship. It was Christmas, after all – a time for unity.
* * *
Nicolae and János did not talk much as they walked. Their only discussion was about the nature of Christmas – something to which they could both relate.
“How beautiful, that our Lord would come to earth as a baby boy to save us,” Nicolae sighed. Looking to his left at his quiet counterpart, he asked, “Are you religious?”
János grunted. “Religious? I… I’ve always been Catholic, but I’m… I’m not religious. Stopped going to Mass a few years ago. You know, work. God has to understand that. I work to keep my children and myself well. God won’t force me to go to Mass. He probably doesn’t care anyway.”
Nicolae disagreed, but he changed the topic. “Your mustache is very manly. I have always envied Hungarians for their skill with mustaches.”
János looked over at Nicolae, some rare brightness in his eyes. “Thank you.”
The two had been walking for a good time by then. While the style of the houses around them hadn’t changed, the residents certainly had. The two men had entered the edge of the west side German enclave, and the German spirit was strong and steadfast. All seemed quiet for a while, but as Nicolae and János admired some of the nicer homes of the better-off poverty-stricken immigrants, some yelling pierced the cold night air. Curious, Nicolae and János turned a corner and found themselves in front of a small hardware shop nestled between two houses. At the door of the hardware shop was a bedraggled, red-bearded man in dirty brown overalls and an undersized newsboy’s hat. The man was banging on the shop door, angry and fierce.
“Open up, you rascal! I ain’t going to tolerate this here attitude! I work here an’ I wanna stay here tonight! The weather’s a wee bit chilly, if you hadn’t noticed!” The man had a heavy accent.
A voice from inside the shop responded, overpowering even the strength of the shop walls and reverberating in the night. “No one is staying in this shop! Nein! I am the owner and I decide!” This man also had an accent, but of different sort.
János would’ve rather stayed away from the fight, but Nicolae ran over to the shouting. “What’s this noise? It’s Christmas Eve!”
The red-bearded man turned on Nicolae. “Go away, you Easterner!”
Nicolae was unfazed by the nationalist insult. “Who’s in the shop?” he asked.
“My German boss, that’s who,” the man said. “I’ve got no family, and he won’t even let me in his place on Christmas to sleep!”
Nicolae narrowed his eyes. Then, turning to the door, he said something angry in German.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed man emerged slowly from the tiny shop, eyeing Nicolae with amazement. “You – you speak German? You do not look German!”
“I’m not,” Nicolae said. “I’m Romanian, but I have family in Germany. I spent time there as well. And I’m from one of the biggest Saxon-German cities in Romania.”
The German looked thunderstruck, but regained himself quickly. “Well – stay out of our fight! This Irishman and I will not be disturbed!
Interestingly, the Irishman seemed to agree.
Suddenly, János stepped up. “Excuse me, but this is ridiculous. It is Christmas Eve and you two want to fight.” He peered into the rickety shop carefully. In the darkness, he could just barely make out an old camp bed (military grade, by the looks of it) and a dirty bucket. János then glanced at the German. The man was wearing pieces and parts of what must once have been a fine black suit. He was unshaved and jittery. He was also unnaturally thin, and his overall composure was one of rugged self-reliance and mistrust of anyone else.
János spoke slowly, but confidently. “This shop is no home, nor is it a proper substitute for one… do not lie to me and tell me it is,” he said, addressing the German. He waited for a response.
The German’s eyes drifted, embarrassed, to the ground for a moment, after which they darted silently back to focus on the other men.
His assumption proven, János continued, addressing the German and Irishman. “If you don’t have a place to go… why don’t you join my… my friend and I?” This was unnatural for him – that is, labeling others as friends.
Nicolae watched with awe. János, no longer reserved and unfriendly, had extended a hand of companionship to lonely souls – and called someone he would have considered a foe a friend!
The German surveyed the scene carefully. He looked to the Irishman, who was also processing the situation. Finally, he clicked his heels together, bowed slowly, and said, “I am Klaus Schmidt. My company is yours.”
The Irishman, feeling pressure to not be left alone, quickly added, “Brian O’Flaherty, at your service,” extending his hand.
János shook O’Flaherty’s hand.
Nicolae jumped to introduce himself. “My name is Nicolae Sibianu. I am Romanian.”
“And I am János Szatmári. Hungarian,” János said.
More handshaking followed, after which the four set off in the direction the original two had been heading, towards the middle of the city. Conversation was easier now, with four men instead of two. They exchanged backstories as they walked. As it turned out, all were in a similar economic predicament. They were friends before too long, and the Irishman and German forgot their argument.
“You know, once back in Cork in Ireland, I drank so-ooo much whiskey I –” Brian was cut off in the middle of his story as the four saw two figures running toward them. One was throwing snowballs at the other.
“Go away, you foreign runt!” the snowball-throwing figure called in a young male voice. “Go back to your own neighborhood!” That voice was without accent….
The smaller figure was looking behind him at the apparent bully, running without hesitation. Suddenly, he ran straight into Klaus, sending the two flying to the ground. Before any apologies could be exchanged, the bully caught up, surveying the crowd with apprehension. A glance at Nicolae convinced him his lingering hunch was right, but as he prepared to spew nativist insults, Brian inched towards him, as red in the face as he was in the beard.
“Now, you listen here, boy… you may be an American, but I’ve got news for you. So are we! And the fact that we’re not like you doesn’t change one bit of the fact that we’re stuck together, and we’ve got to get along! And how dare you take this holy night for your sinful activities! Go home to your family! Go! Your clothes give it away, you’re not poor! Go, and learn a lesson about common human decency!”
The boy darted away quickly. Brian’s attention turned to the other boy, now up from the ground and apologizing profusely to Klaus.
“What’s your name, sonny?” Brian asked.
The boy looked about nineteen. He was skinny and dressed in clothes too small for him. Nervously, he said, “Thank – thank you. My – my name is Andrzej Nowak. I – I speak bad English. I – I am Polish.” The boy seemed to want to say something else but couldn’t find the words.
“We are also foreign,” Klaus said. “We have no families. Do you have one?”
“Y-yes,” Andrzej answered slowly. “I – I was with my friends – they are American, and they are kind… not like that boy. They help me learn English. But I was chased by the no… no kind boy and need to get home, for I am… I am… la…?”
“Late,” Nicolae said. “You are late is what you mean?”
Andrzej nodded.
“Is your house far from here?” János asked. “We can accompany you.”
“It is… it is not f-far,” the boy stuttered. “F-f-f-follow me.”
And so, the group, now five in number, set off together. Andrzej proved to be an intelligent and kind young man. Soon, he was reminiscing with the others and feeling at ease with them.
Finally, the group came upon a modest house in the Polish neighborhood – the Nowak residence. As János, Nicolae, Brian, and Klaus prepared to bid Andrzej goodnight, the boy spoke up. “Please – my friends – come share Christmas Eve with us. It is just my parents and I.”
“Danke, but –” began Klaus for the group, but Andrzej insisted.
The men looked at each other cautiously. In the short time of wandering through the streets of Cleveland, they had become companions, and friends. They were all quite different, but their American stories made them all similar. They were nothing less than brothers.
“We would be delighted to join you,” Nicolae said to Andrzej politely.
The group then entered the warm household, following the beam of light from the open door that beckoned them warmly. And as the last man shut the door behind him, a clearing in the cloudy winter sky appeared. A star – brighter than any other – shone from that clearing onto the home. In that place, the spirit of Christmas was alive and well.
The Spirit of Christmas by Ferenc N. Somogyi
NOTE: This story is based on how Cleveland’s West Side neighborhoods existed in the 1920s and 1930s. The characters are entirely fictional, but are meant to reflect and explore the ethnic composition of early twentieth-century Cleveland. Below is a map showing the progression of the characters through the city, starting from the left star and ending approximately at the right star. Key: Rm=Romanian; Hu=Hungarian; Ge=German; Po=Polish. The blank area to the right of the Polish neighborhood is American and where the American boy in the story lives.
