There's nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know; I often had that dream. But I am Jewish and my parents didn't celebrate Christmas. In my school days, I was never invited to the big Christmas party. I felt left out2 and was lonely. Christmas was everyone else's holiday, not mine. It wasn't the toys I really longed for; it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree. So when I got married and had kids, I decided to make up for3 what I'd missed in my childhood.
I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out4 with lights and little bells. At Christmas in 1956, my daughter Claire was only two years old, but her eyes sparkled as she smiled at the tree. It was the first Christmas tree in my house. It gave off warmth that filled every corner of our home and warmed my heart. Because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.
But still, something was missing—Santa Claus that brought children love and hope.
When the next Christmas was coming, I bought some bright red cloth and my wife made me a costume.
On Christmas Eve, when my wife and kids were sitting round the Christmas tree, I tried on the new dress and put on a Santa mask with white whiskers5 and hair. I couldn't believe my own eyes when I looked into the mirror. The Santa of my childhood stood in front of me. Then I went into the living room where the rest of the family were sitting and singing. My voice got deeper and richer. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”
Claire was almost three and Danny not yet one when Santa first came to our house. They stood in awe and I saw in their eyes the fantasy and magic of what I had become.
For two years I played Santa for my children, and I enjoyed it as much as my daughter and son. And when the third year came, the Santa in me had grown into a personality6 of his own and he wanted to do something for other children.
One day in late November, I saw a pretty little girl dropping a letter into a mailbox and saying, “Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?” My mind began to whirl7. Lots and lots of children wrote to Santa. What happened to their letters? Children who write to Santa Claus, whatever becomes of their letters? I made a phone call to the post office and was told that all those letters were stored in huge sacks in the dead-letter office.
The following Sunday morning I found myself digging into the huge mailsacks and looking over many of the letters children had written to Santa. Most of them were give-me letters. I became a little flustered8 at the greedy demands of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack, and I continued searching until I came upon one letter that jarred me:
“Dear Santa, I am an 11-year-old girl, and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than us and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket because Mommy is cold at night.”
I could not hold back9 my tears as I read the letter. I dug deeper into those sacks. I found another eight letters like that. They were all from children of poor families. I took them with me and immediately sent each child a telegram: “I got your letter. Will be at your house on Christmas Day. Wait for me. Santa.”
I knew I could not possibly fill all the needs of these children, but I could bring them joy and hope on the holiday.
On Christmas Day, my wife drove me around New York City to see the children whose letters I had answered. I was in the special dress and the Santa mask. It was my first round playing Santa and bring Christmas presents to other children. It had snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder.
“Hiya10 Santa! Hiya Santa!” Wherever I appeared, children greeted me warmly, and wherever I was, there was joy and laughter. But when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed one girl crying. I bent down and asked,
“What's the matter?”
“Oh! Santa,” she sobbed, “I'm so happy.”
Tears rolled from my eyes under the mask.
Then I went to see a Polish boy Peter, who said he felt lonely. Peter and his parents had just moved to this country and lived in a slum outside the city. With the toy bag in my hand, I walked up the steps and knocked. As I stepped into the boy's house, Peter just stood there and looked.
“You came,” he said. “I wrote and ... you came.” It was clear that he was so surprised to see Santa in his house that he did not know what to say. When he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set and a basketball. He was overjoyed and thanked me a lot. When I was about to leave, I heard Peter's mother asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were polish, so I speak a little and understand a lot.
“From the North Pole,” I answered her question in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment.
“You speak Polish?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Santa speaks all languages.” And I left them in joy and wonder.
I enjoyed playing Santa so much that I did it for twelve years. Every year when Christmas was drawing near, I felt stirred and I knew that the Santa within me was back. I returned to the dead-letter office and to those heartbreaking letters. I made my rounds from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day, and from one side of New York to the other.
Then, at age ten, Claire handed me a little poem.
“I know that Santa is make-believe,
But I still love him so,
Because he is my daddy, ho! ho! ho!”
So now she knew. When she read the letters I gave her, she cried. Later on she became a true Santa's helper, shopping and wrapping the toys for my Christmas rounds.
A few years ago I made my last call. I knew there were four kids in the family and came with a toy for each. The house was small and there was hardly any furniture in it. The kids had been waiting for me all day.
“Santa will come, Mommy. He is sure to come.” Now and then they looked at my telegram and repeated this to their mother.
As soon as I touched the door bell, the door opened and they all came up to me. They reached for my hands and held on before I could step into the house.
“Hiya, Santa. Hiya, Santa!”
“We just knew you would come.”
The kids could not have been happier! Their eyes were shining with happiness and excitement.
I took each of them on my lap11 and told them Christmas stories. Then I give them each a toy.
All the while there was a fifth child standing in the corner, a cute12 girl with blond hair and blue eyes.
I turned to her and asked,
“You're not one of this family, are you?” She shook her head sadly and whispered, “No.”
“What's your name?” I asked.
“Lisa.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“Come, sit on my lap.”
She hesitated, but then she came over.
“Did you get any toys for Christmas?” I asked her in a soft voice.
“No,” she says.
I took out a big beautiful doll.
“Do you want this doll?” I asked the little girl.
“No.” Then she turned to hold my head in her little hands and whispered in my ear, “I'm Jewish.”
I smiled and whispered, “I'm Jewish, too.”
Lisa smiled back. She took the doll I handed her and ran out of the house.
I don't know which of us was happier—Lisa, or the Santa in me?
再美的事物也美不过孩子梦中的圣诞老人。我知道；过去我常常做这种梦。但是我是犹太人，父母不过圣诞节。上学的时候，从没有人邀请我参加盛大的圣诞聚会。我感到受人冷落，孤零零的。圣诞节是所有人的节日，惟独不是我的。我真正渴望的不是玩具，是圣诞老人和圣诞树。所以我成家有了孩子以后，就决定弥补儿时的缺憾。
我先买来一棵七英尺高的圣诞树，树上缀满灯泡和小铃铛。1956年的圣诞节，我女儿克莱尔只有两岁，但她见到圣诞树就笑了，两眼熠熠发光。那是我家里的第一棵圣诞树。它散发的温馨充满我们家的每一个角落，温暖了我的心。因为现在聚会就在我家里开，我把所有人都请来了。
但是，还缺点什么——给孩子们带来关爱和希望的圣诞老人。
第二个圣诞节来临的时候，我买了几尺大红的布料，妻子为我做了一件衣服。
圣诞前夕，当妻儿围坐在圣诞树旁的时候，我穿上那件新衣服，戴上粘有白胡子、白头发的圣诞老人面罩。我照照镜子，竟不敢相信自己的眼睛。童年的圣诞老人就站在我面前。然后我走进客厅，家人正围坐在那里唱歌。我的声音变得深沉而浑厚：“祝大家圣诞快乐!”
圣诞老人第一次到我们家的时候，克莱尔快三岁了，丹尼还不满周岁。他们敬畏地站着，我看见他们眼里充满我带来的幻想和魔力。
我为我的孩子扮了两年圣诞老人，儿女们很喜欢，我也很欢喜。第三年的时候，我心中的圣诞老人变成一个有他自己个性的人，他想为别的孩子做点什么。
11月底的一天，我看见一个漂亮的小女孩把一封信投进邮箱，说，“妈妈，你肯定圣诞老人会收到我的信吗?”我脑子里就活动开了。许许多多孩子给圣诞老人写信，这些信到哪里去了呢？那些给圣诞老人写信的孩子，他们的信后来究竟怎么样了呢？我给邮局打电话，他们说那些信都大包大包地存放在死信办公室。
那个星期天的上午，我置身于一个个巨大邮包里，翻看孩子们写给圣诞老人的信。这些信大都是索要东西的信件。看到这么多被宠坏的孩子提出的贪婪要求，我都有点心绪不宁了。但我内心的圣诞老人听到邮包里传来一个声音，于是我继续搜索，终于找到一封令我震惊的信：
“亲爱的圣诞老人，我是一个11岁的女孩，有两个小弟弟，一个刚出生的妹妹。我爸爸去年死了，妈妈病了。我知道很多人比我们穷，我不想为自己要什么，但你能不能送我们一条毯子？因为妈妈夜里冷。”
我读着读着，眼泪止不住往下流。我继续在这些邮包里翻寻，又找到八封类似的信，都是穷人家的孩子写的。我把这些信带走，马上给每个孩子发了封电报：“我收到了你的信。圣诞节到你家。等着我。圣诞老人。”
我知道无法满足这些孩子所有的愿望，但我可以在节日那天带给他们欢乐和希望。
圣诞节那天，妻子开车送我满纽约跑，看望我回过信的孩子。我穿着那身特制的衣服，戴着圣诞老人的面罩。这是我第一次扮圣诞老人给别的孩子送礼物。头天晚上下过雪，大街上铺满厚厚一层新雪。
“你好，圣诞老人！你好，圣诞老人！”无论我走到哪里，孩子们都这么热情地叫我，所到之处无不充满欢乐和笑声。但圣诞老人准备离开的时候，我发现一个女孩儿在哭。我俯身问道：
“怎么啦？”
“啊！圣诞老人，”她啜泣道：“我太高兴了！”
面罩里我的眼泪滚落下来。
然后我去看一个波兰男孩彼得，他说感到很孤独。彼得和父母刚搬到这个国家，住在市外的一个贫民窟里。我手拿玩具袋，走上楼梯敲门。我进门的时候，彼得一个劲地站在那里看我。
“你来了，”他说，“我写过信……你就来了。”显然，他看见圣诞老人到他们家感到很吃惊，都不知道说什么好。等他回过神来，我跟他谈孤独，谈友谊，送了他一套化学用品、一个篮球。他快活得不得了，说了很多感谢的话。我即将离开的时候，听见彼得的母亲用波兰话问丈夫什么事。我父母是波兰人，所以我能说一点波兰话，能听懂很多波兰话。
“从北极，”我用波兰话回答她说。她惊讶地望着我。
“你会波兰话？”她问。
“当然，”我说，“圣诞老人什么话都会。”我带着欢乐和惊奇离开了他们的家。
我非常喜欢扮圣诞老人，一扮就是12年。每年圣诞将至，我便感到被唤醒了，我知道心中的圣诞老人又回来了。我回到死信办公室，翻看那些令人心碎的信件。我从圣诞前夕跑到圣诞节，从纽约东头跑到西头。
后来，克莱尔10岁的时候送给我一首小诗：
“我知道圣诞老人是假装的，
但我依然非常爱他，
因为他是我爸爸，嗬！嗬！嗬！”
所以她现在知道了。她看我给她的那些信，看着看着就哭了。后来她成了圣诞老人的得力助手，为我的圣诞之行购物、包玩具。
几年前，我最后一次登门发送玩具。我知道那家有四个孩子，就给他们每人带了一个玩具。房子很小，几乎没有什么家具。孩子们等了我一整天。
“圣诞老人会来的，妈妈。他一定会来的。”他们不时看看我发的电报，对母亲这么重复说。
我一摁门铃，门就开了，他们一起朝我涌上来。没等我进屋，他们就抓住我的手不肯松开。
“你好，圣诞老人！你好，圣诞老人！”
“我们就知道你会来的。”
孩子们简直高兴极了！他们眼里闪耀着喜悦而兴奋的光芒。
我把他们一个个抱在腿上坐着，给他们讲圣诞故事。然后我给他们一人一个玩具。
当时还有一个孩子一直站在角落里，是一个金发碧眼的可爱女孩。
我转身问她：
“你不是这个家的孩子吧？”
她难过地摇摇头，低声说：“不是的。”
“你叫什么？”我问。
“莉莎。”
“几岁了？”
“七岁。”
“来，坐我腿上。”
她犹豫了一下，还是走到我身边来。
“你圣诞节收到过玩具吗?”我轻声问她。
“没有，”她说。
我拿出一个又大又漂亮的洋娃娃。
“你想不想要这个娃娃？”我问小女孩。
“不想。”然后她转身用小手搂着我的头，对着我的耳朵低声说，“我是犹太人。”
我笑着低声说，“我也是犹太人。”
莉莎也笑了。她接过我递给她的玩具跑出了屋子。
不知道我们谁更幸福——是莉莎，还是我心中的圣诞老人？
1． Santa [口]即Santa Claus，圣诞老人
2． leave．．．out 忽视
3． make up for．．． 补偿，弥补
4． deck out 装饰，打扮
5． whisker n． 胡须
6． personality n． 个人；人物
7． whirl v． 旋转，打转
8． fluster v． 使慌张
9． hold back 阻挡；控制
10． Hiya 你好！（How are you之略）