Already two weeks before Christmas the smell of moist dough, flour, butter, cinnamon, nuts and newly-baked cookies penetrated the house. The kitchen was truly like a bakery, all the shelves and tables covered with breads, cakes and cookies, either ready for the oven or just emerged from that dark cavern which could turn the pale, rubbery dough into thin crisp morsels of golden-brown. How I delighted in recognizing my favorite "gebeck" as it was called, in going from shelf to shelf sampling the many varieties. What joyful Christmas memories their familiar taste recalled. For we never indulged in these delicacies at any other time. They belonged to Christmas and consequently, they were associated in my mind with that festivity only. It was unthinkable that anyone should ever taste a "Springerle" or a "Wespennest" at any other time.
When the baking was at its height, everything else was forgotten and the whole family was in the kitchen with aprons on and sleeves rolled up, measuring flour, sugar, butter, cutting up almonds, greasing pans, stirring hard cubes of butter into a soft creamy paste, making little cheesecloth bags filled with flour to powder the baking boards and rolling pins, kneading dough until it was just the right consistency, straining powdered sugar through sieves so that it might have no lumps. The dough for some of the cookies had to be stirred for one or two hours steadily. I can see myself sitting on a high kitchen stool with a tremendous bowl on my lap, stirring a delicious mixture with a long-handled wooden spoon imported from Germany. At first the stirring would be easy, but as more and more flour was added, the dough would become stiffer and stiffer, until finally I would abandon the spoon and knead the smooth damp mass with my hands. What a wonderful feeling it was to squeeze the dough hard and let it bulge up between my fingers!
The greatest fun of all was the actual forming of the "Springerle". For this we used little blocks of wood with designs and pictures of all kinds carved on them. When the dough had been rolled out to an even thickness, these wooden blocks were pressed on it, leaving the figures in high relief.
We had pictures of all kinds, but I always preferred the ones with animals. There was one block for which I had a special fondness. It had a doe carved upon it. The slender legs of the little creature, the graceful neck, and the coy turn of the head appealed to me. I felt that in a way this little animal was alive. When the time came for eating these delicious cookies, however, my sentiment did not prevent me from consuming the ones picturing the doe with as much relish as any of the others.
The kitchen, saturated with these smells and filled with such an abundance of delicious "gutzel", seemed like a different world. In fact, our whole house, once preparations had started, became a fairy world, in which the common, everyday things did not exist. Every room had an air of mystery because the "Christkind" was hovering about.
I never saw the "Christkind", but I felt its presence very strongly. In the evenings, when it was dark, we would turn out the lights and sit by the window, each with a burning candle, and sing to the "Christkind", and watch for a glimpse of its wings or of its golden hair as it flew past the window. We knew it would fly very quickly because it had so much to do on earth at Christmas time. It had to decorate thousands of Christmas trees and gather presents for children all over the world.
To help it out, we made some decorations for our own tree every year. Now whenever I come across the odor of gilt, I see myself sitting at the big nursery table making beads out of flour, salt and water, gilding walnut shells, cutting stars out of cardboard and covering them with silver-paper, painting butterflies with brilliant wings, and gilding pine cones with such zeal and enthusiasm as only children have. What a wonderful smell the mixed odor of pine-pitch, gilt, paste and water-colors made, and how wonderfully sticky my hands became!
Every evening we would put our contributions outside the nursery window, and the "Christkind" would never fail to get them, for the next morning they were gone and in their place we sometimes found a little wisp of "Christkind" hair!
Then there was the making of the Christmas presents. We never bought any for the family, but always made them ourselves. The real attraction, however, lay in the fact that they had to be made secretly. Mother must have no idea what we were making for her, or it would be all spoilt, for a surprise counted far more than the present itself.
One of our greatest joys was to be forbidden to go into certain rooms, or to look into certain closets. The more places that were closed to us, the nearer Christmas seemed and the more excited we became. What a thrill we got out of the rustling of paper, the sound of whispering voices, the dull pound of hammering in the cellar, a place full of mysteries around Christmas. The house was, inded, a fairyland in which the Christkind was ever present. Everything was centered on Christmas, and all else fell into the background.
As time went on, this atmosphere became more and more intense until, late some afternoon about a week before Christmas, we suddenly became aware that "Nikolaus" was about, and that he was coming to see us that evening. He came every year, and we always learned a poem to recite to him. After supper we would sit in the hall and sing Christmas songs, trying to stay still and patient. Sometimes we would suddenly stop in the middle of a verse, because we thought we heard him coming, and finding it was only the wind or some people in the street, we would continue singing with a mixed feeling of disappointment and relief. In the dimly lighted hall the atmosphere would become more and more mysterious until finally the suspense would be broken by the unmistakable sound of thumping and shuffling outside the front door. We would sit spellbound waiting for his loud knock.
Mother always opened the door to let him in. He seemed much larger than any ordinary human being, and he could scarcely get through the door. Over his snow-covered fur cap loomed a great sack which he carried slung over his shoulder. As he came toward us he seemed to stagger under its weight. He was very much out of breath and quite exhausted from his long journey; his hands shook as he leaned on his huge staff; in his long white hair, and in his beard which was so profuse that it covered most of his face, were twigs and bits of fine branches from the woods.
We stood looking at him with a mixture of awe, wonder, love and fear. He seemed to me hundreds of years old, and when he spoke his deep voice shook, and the words came haltingly and with an effort. By the time we had recited our poems he would be a little more rested, and with a sudden motion the contents of the great sack would be spilled upon the floor. There was a great clattering and thumping when the nuts, apples and oranges fell upon the stone floor and rolled in all directions. With screams of delight we fell upon our knees to gather it all, and when we looked up again "Nikolaus" was gone.
After his visit Christmas preparations went on with greater fervor than ever. To our great delight the number of forbidden places increased day by day, until, on the 24th, we were only allowed in the nursery, in the dining room, and on the back stairs. The air on that day was heavy with mystery and wonder. We strained our ears for the sound of fluttering wings, and every noise we heard was in some way connected with Christmas. We knew that the "Christkind" was down in the hall. Perhaps at this very moment, we thought, it is hanging one of the nuts we gilded on the tree!
That afternoon, when we lay down to take our rest after lunch, it was impossible to sleep. I often wished I could fall asleep because then the time would go much faster. As it was, the afternoon dragged on and on. With what impatience we awaited the moment, the great moment, when we would hear the silver tinkle of the bell which the "Christkind" rang when all was in readiness! Then the whole family would walk slowly down the stairs singing some favorite carol.
Before I could see anything the fragrant smell of burning candles, warm pitch and singed pine-needles seemed to float through the air. Then I became aware of the flickering gleam of many lighted candles, and as I turned the corner of the stairs I suddenly saw the whole tree before me. It was a maze of soft yellow lights and bright sparkling threads of silver and gold running in graceful loops from branch to branch, higher and higher, until they reached the silver star at the very top. As I came closer the brilliant mass separated into single objects. The nuts and pine-cones we had gilded were there, the butterflies I had painted, all beautified by flickering lights and reflections. We found not only the new ornaments, we had made but those of previous years as far back as we could remember.
The very brilliance of the tree seemed to make the rest of the hall darken, for although it was a glittering light it was mellow and did not penetrate far. The tree was magic. It had been brought by the "Christkind" from another world. Its charm lay in its mysterious existence, and while under its spell I forgot the world of everyday.
Margaret Neilson
Nov. 7, 1932