Chanuka with the Crooked CatsThe authors of Crooked Cat, publisher of my romance with a difference: Neither Here Nor There, are holding a six-week extravaganza of stories, poems, free giveaways and more, called: CHANUKA WITH THE CROOKED CATS, or something like that!

In honour of this unique event, I am publishing, here on my blog, my Christmas story with a difference. The story clearly takes place in a year that isn’t this year, because this year Chanuka ends on Christmas eve, whereas in the story there is a gap between the end of Chanuka and the beginning of Christmas.

If you want to discuss anything in the story, you’re welcome to do so in the comments below. Please comment promptly because I’m going away in a few days and might not be available to respond.

By the way, while there are about fifty ways of writing Chanuka in Latin letters, there is only one in Hebrew: חנוכה.

Who’s Santa?

Everything I hear and everything I see seems to have something to do with Christmas. On the TV and the radio, and in magazines. Everywhere. They talk about it and sing about it and have pictures about it. I think it’s boring. When I turned on my favourite TV programme – Doctor Who – and found that was all about Christmas, I was so fed up that I actually switched off and even read my library book instead.

At school, we only talk about Christmas a bit of the time. Keith said we must never write Xmas, even though it’s easier to spell. That’s because the X stands for the cross and we don’t believe in that. Keith was also the one who told me I must never look for a rainbow in the sky when it’s raining and sun shining at the same time, because I don’t know the brocha for it. I think that’s a shame because rainbows are pretty and it’s nice to look at them. I’ll have to find out what the brocha is and memorise it. It’s probably something like, “Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, for giving us the rainbow.” I wonder how you say rainbow in Hebrew.

On Tuesday, when Mummy took me home from my piano lesson, it was dark. On the way back from the bus stop, we passed three houses with lots of little flickering lights. I knew what they were. Christmas again.

“Why do people have Christmas trees?” I asked Mummy.

“Oh, it’s part of celebrating Christmas,” she said. “And people put them where others can see them as they go past, just like we put our Chanukah menorah on the window sill for people to see.”

“Why is everyone talking about Christmas?”

“Well, Christmas is a big thing for Christians. It’s their most fun time of the year.”

“What’s our most fun time of the year?”

Mummy had to think about that one. “Maybe Purim.”

“So why doesn’t everyone talk about Purim like they talk about Christmas?”

“Because there are a lot more Christians than Jews. And lots of people celebrate Christmas, even if they don’t believe in it.”

I like to be happy and have fun. So I said, “Why can’t we celebrate Christmas?”

“Because we have our own religion and we’re happy with that.”

“But I want to have fun, too.”

“And you do. At Simchas Torah and Purim. Remember?”

Well, that’s true. I love all the singing and dancing in shul. And I love dressing up on Purim. I suppose what I meant was that I want to have fun now.

The next day, I met my friend, Johnny, in the street. I like Johnny because he’s only six and I’m seven, so I can tell him things. Once, I told him how many more Corn Flakes coupons he needed before he could send away for a football, because he didn’t know how to work it out. And another time, a big boy walked past us and Johnny wanted to know what it said on his shirt. “It said, ‘I came on Laura’,” I told him.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

So I told him. “It means that he made Laura hurry up.”

This time, it was the other way round. Johnny told me something I didn’t know. He said, “I want Santa to bring me a train set. What do you want him to bring you?”

“Santa?” I said. “Who’s that?”

“You know. Father Christmas.”

“Who’s Father Christmas?” It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard of Father Christmas. But I never really took much notice before.

He looked up at me and frowned. “You must know that. Everyone knows that. Father Christmas brings presents to all the children. He lives in a very cold place with lots of snow and ice, and on Christmas Eve he flies in the sky pulled by a reindeer and gives out all the presents.”

I didn’t know there were special deer that came out in the rain, but I didn’t like to say I didn’t know that, either.

Then Johnny said something else. “Father Christmas only gives presents to good children. Maybe you’re not good and you’ll go to that place where there are fires burning all the time.”

It didn’t seem bad to me to have fires burning. Especially if there was ice and snow there. Still, I punched Johnny in the tummy. Not a real punch – just a pretend one. “I’m good,” I said.

We played outside for a while, taking turns to ride my new scooter, which I got for Chanukah. It was while I was running after Johnny that I saw something small and flashy on the pavement. I stopped, picked it up and started to examine it. Johnny soon came back. “Hey! Why did you s…,” he started. Then he spotted my prize and his eyes widened. “My dad’s got one of them. It’s a cigarette lighter.” This business of Johnny telling me things was getting to be a habit I didn’t care for. “Try pressing that button quickly,” he said.

I pressed. Nothing happened. So I pressed again more quickly and a flame sprang up. “Cool.”

“Can I have it?” Johnny asked.

“No. I found it.” I put it into my pocket – after letting go of the button, of course.

 

Afterwards, on my own in my room, I decided to experiment with the lighter. The first thing I tried it on was my counterpane and… well, I decided not to try it out again, although it made a nice smell. I hope Mummy and Daddy don’t notice that pretty hole in the counterpane with the black edge. I wonder if Santa ever burns holes when he lights his fires. Anyway, while I was doing that, I thought about what Johnny had said about Santa giving out presents only to good children and all that. Maybe we were bad because we didn’t have a Christmas tree and that was why Santa didn’t bring me presents.

I was still worrying about it when I went downstairs and saw Daddy sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper. So I asked him, “Why does Santa bring presents to Johnny and not to me?”

Daddy put the paper down beside him, laid his glasses carefully on the little table and pulled me onto his knee, like he always does when he wants to explain something to me. “Daniel,” he said. “There is no Santa. Santa is someone made up and Christian parents pretend that he brings presents for children. Really, the parents buy the presents.”

I was shocked. “You mean Johnny’s mummy and daddy lied to him?”

“No. It’s not a lie. It’s just a story they tell him, and when he gets older they’ll tell him it’s not true.”

“How do you spell Santa?” Spelling is my thing at the moment, and I bet Johnny doesn’t know how to spell it.

“S-A-N-T-A.”

 

I thought about that in bed. Daddy said it wasn’t a lie, but it did sound like one. I thought Johnny ought to know about it. Then I thought about that game – Scrabble – that my big sister, Rachel, often plays with Mummy and Daddy, and how I wanted to join in and they all told me I’m not ready for it. So, the day before, I asked Rachel how I could get ready for it and she said, “It’s all about making words from a group of letters.”

“How d’you do that?” I asked.

“Well, take the letters of my name: R-A-C-H-E-L.” She took a piece of paper and a pencil from the sideboard drawer and wrote down the letters. “You can make lots of words with those letters. Car, care, race, hear, heal, real, arch, larch and lots more.”

“Now do my name.”

“D-A-N-I-E-L. And, end, lid, line, dine. There’s even a word that uses all the letters: nailed.”

“I don’t like that one,” I said. “I wouldn’t like to be nailed to the wall; it hurts.”

She smiled. “OK, I see another one: denial.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when you say no to everything.”

“I like that,” I said. “I’m always saying no to Mummy and Daddy.”

So when I was in bed, thinking about Santa, I wondered what the letters S-A-N-T-A could make. But I think I fell asleep without thinking of anything. When I woke up, I knew Santa was bad. I don’t know why – I just knew it. And I decided I had to tell Johnny about him.

 

That day, after school, Johnny came to my house to play with me and Mummy gave us tea. We drank hot chocolate and ate Mummy’s jam doughnuts. I love doughnuts, especially when I bite into a jammy bit and all the jam suddenly spurts out everywhere. I know Mummy thinks I get jam all over my face and hands on purpose, but I don’t. It just comes. Anyway, while we were eating and drinking, Mummy asked Johnny, “What do you want from Father Christmas?”

Johnny said, “A train set.”

I said, “There’s no such thing as Santa.”

Mummy said, “Of course there is.”

I said, “No, there isn’t. Daddy said so.”

Mummy ignored me completely. She turned to Johnny and said, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just being naughty.”

I was hurt. I wasn’t being naughty at all. I was being good and teaching Johnny something he needed to know.

After Johnny left, Mummy called me into the kitchen. I sat on the stool. She sat next to me on the folding chair and I saw the frown that always makes the wrinkles round her eyes show up more.

“Daniel, I’m sorry I had to say you were naughty, today,” she said. “It’s really very good that you teach Johnny things. But there are some things you shouldn’t teach him. If his mummy and daddy want him to believe in Santa now, you shouldn’t tell him he doesn’t exist. Johnny will find that out when he’s older. All right?”

“Yes,” I said.

 

It makes sense, I suppose. It would be confusing for Johnny if everyone told him different things. He wouldn’t know what to believe. So, for now he’ll carry on believing he gets presents from a man who lights fires to keep warm in the snow and ice, and is pulled along by deer that come out in the rain.

All this makes me wonder whether grown-ups have told me any lies. I wonder about the tooth fairy. And about Haman, the wicked man who wanted to kill all the Jews on Purim. There couldn’t really be someone who wants to kill all the Jews, could there?

WhosSantaTo see all the other Crooked Cat stories, poems, giveaways and more, join our Facebook group.

Neither Here Nor There, my romance with a difference, is available from Amazon, Crooked Cat Books, Smashwords and The Book Depository.

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