Thinking
GRANDDAD FROST vs JESUS CHRIST or Memories of a communist Christmas
14/12/2008
I was sitting in my first classroom – turned into an improvised hall with the stage in front of the board – patiently waiting for Santa Claus to read out my name. The names were read out in alphabetical order and my “S” was at the very end of the list.
I was six and attending my first school in the neighbouring village of Kascerga. There were only seven of us in the first year and halfway through that year, a pupil moved to another school. Santa Claus was actually called Granddad Frost (Djed Mraz) as the communist system in Yugoslavia did not believe in saints (doesn’t “santa” come from “saint”?). When hearing my name I would get up and walk to the centre of the stage and collect a goodie bag. I only vaguely remember its contents: a book, a game such as miniature pinball or the board game "frustration", and some sweets, maybe a bar of chocolate or a box of six marshmallows.
For the whole of my childhood, Christmas was divided between an official communist celebration at school and a private church-going one. On one side there was Granddad Frost and on the other there was Jesus Christ and neither of them would ever mention the existence of the other one in positive terms.
Going to church wasn’t encouraged, but it was tolerated. Or - at least it was in the farming villages in central Istria. We didn’t receive a child allowance because my dad was a landowner and that was a seen as a crime in the days of co-operatives and nationalisation, but he was proud of his inheritance and knew the value of “our own piece of Earth”.
Christmas Eve’s midnight mass – which was never at midnight, but at 8 or 9pm – was an occasion for contemplation about the birth of Jesus and its importance in our lives, which had an educational rather than sacred effect on me. The old unheated church of St Michael in our hilltop village was populated by just a few brave souls. After the mass we would all shake each others' hands with wishes for a “blessed Christmas” and rush back to the warmth of our fireplaces.
On Christmas day we would have a meal of roast chicken with rosemary potatoes which my mum prepared while we were at the morning mass. In those days, I thought that was the most glamorous meal I could think of. We would also have a simple home-made cake or a box of biscuits. The four of us - dad, mum, sister and I - sat in our warm farm kitchen, while outside the rain danced with wind turning into a storm.
Presents? What presents? Apart from Granddad Frost’s goodie bag, an orange and a few sweets from neighbours, there weren't any. Christmas was not about presents at all.
I was six and attending my first school in the neighbouring village of Kascerga. There were only seven of us in the first year and halfway through that year, a pupil moved to another school. Santa Claus was actually called Granddad Frost (Djed Mraz) as the communist system in Yugoslavia did not believe in saints (doesn’t “santa” come from “saint”?). When hearing my name I would get up and walk to the centre of the stage and collect a goodie bag. I only vaguely remember its contents: a book, a game such as miniature pinball or the board game "frustration", and some sweets, maybe a bar of chocolate or a box of six marshmallows.
For the whole of my childhood, Christmas was divided between an official communist celebration at school and a private church-going one. On one side there was Granddad Frost and on the other there was Jesus Christ and neither of them would ever mention the existence of the other one in positive terms.
Going to church wasn’t encouraged, but it was tolerated. Or - at least it was in the farming villages in central Istria. We didn’t receive a child allowance because my dad was a landowner and that was a seen as a crime in the days of co-operatives and nationalisation, but he was proud of his inheritance and knew the value of “our own piece of Earth”.
Christmas Eve’s midnight mass – which was never at midnight, but at 8 or 9pm – was an occasion for contemplation about the birth of Jesus and its importance in our lives, which had an educational rather than sacred effect on me. The old unheated church of St Michael in our hilltop village was populated by just a few brave souls. After the mass we would all shake each others' hands with wishes for a “blessed Christmas” and rush back to the warmth of our fireplaces.
On Christmas day we would have a meal of roast chicken with rosemary potatoes which my mum prepared while we were at the morning mass. In those days, I thought that was the most glamorous meal I could think of. We would also have a simple home-made cake or a box of biscuits. The four of us - dad, mum, sister and I - sat in our warm farm kitchen, while outside the rain danced with wind turning into a storm.
Presents? What presents? Apart from Granddad Frost’s goodie bag, an orange and a few sweets from neighbours, there weren't any. Christmas was not about presents at all.