We live in a rented apartment shared with an obligatory additional person. My mother works, and my grandmother takes care of me. My father is absent from home. He has been on a business trip during this particular December. I am eight years old. Tito is our adored and undisputed Communist leader.
It was on a cold December day when I returned agitated from school and blurted out, “All the kids have a Christmas tree. Do I have one?”
My grandmother was clearly taken aback by my forceful proclamation. She looked at me with her sad eyes and slowly said, “I guess in that case, you too will have a tree.”
And I did.
She somehow got a tree and decorated it with small, homemade dolls. I happily helped her attach candles, real candles, to the branches. When my mom came home in the evening and saw those candles, she remarked that they would surely catch the house on fire.
On top of the tree, my grandmother fixed a red, five-pointed star. I did not know the star on top of a decorated fir tree could be anything but a partisan star.
The tree was glorious. It was placed in the middle of the room, and when the candles were lit, I jumped in joy and excitement. And there were some packages under the tree. One of them was a fantastic book: The Stories of Hans Christian Andersen.
I started reading the next day and discovered the one about the young fir tree.
That tree was envious of all the forest trees that were chopped and transported to the big city to be decorated for holidays. It felt that it missed some great action and glory. But after a year of agonizing, its wish was fulfilled, and it too was cut and hauled to the city.
It was beautifully decorated with snowballs and shining angels. The ornaments glowed and sparkled. The little tree was enthralled. But after 14 days of glory, it was completely stripped and thrown into a basement and, oh dear, attacked by rats.
When I got to that tragic end, my eyes filled with tears, and I felt a deep, deep sorrow. Still sobbing, I told my grandmother that next year we won’t have a tree.
She was surprised and asked, ”Did the teacher tell you not to have a tree for the holiday?”
“No, the teacher didn’t speak about the trees. But I just thought that it’s sad to be so beautiful and then thrown out into the basement.”
“At least it was beautiful,” said my grandmother.
After a week I came back from school and saw discarded trees on the sidewalk near our house. I approached the big pile and one of them had our red star. I climbed up to the apartment and told my grandmother that she forgot to unpin the star from the tree.
“Oh well,” she answered smilingly. “All those trees will be buried in the forest, and the red Communist star will help our little one find a place on top of the heap.”
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