I remember Christmas 1918

1918. It was the year of many memories for me. A year when the blood of our American soldiers mingled with that of the French and the British at the Meuse-Argonne battlefront toward the close of World War I. Most clearly, though, I remember how the trauma of that war reverberated in our Oklahoma home of Fairview.

Since the U.S. was at war with Kaiser’s Germany, our large settlement of German-background Mennonites soon became the object of suspicion and often, outright hatred. We were labeled “Huns” and were often pelted with dirt clods on the way from school. I wanted to cry out against the injustice, the insults, but we were told not to retaliate in word or deed; instead we suffered with patience.

I remember clearly several men of our local war board marching unceremoniously into our sanctuary in the midst of elder Martin Just’s sermon one Sunday morning. Abruptly halting the service, the men strode toward the podium, bid our beloved pastor to sit down and announced that from that day on, no German service would be permitted in this church, or else they would close it down.

The group of men exited unceremoniously and without apology, just as they had come. A hush prevailed over us, except for a few sobs, some sniffling and blowing of noses. We were stunned. Then elder Just announced in a choking voice that he would abide by the board’s ruling. He would practice his sermons in English from behind the haystack. And he added that the Lord could understand his broken English prayers as well as he could his German. Our tears flowed freely.

Fearful days followed. It was rumoured that several brethren, including elder Just, were under suspicion and might be abducted or suffer bodily harm at the hands of those seeking to vent their hatred of our overseas enemy. Several times our brethren were secretly whisked away by fellow churchmen to keep them from being molested by unruly townspeople. Not all were so lucky to escape, however. One of our more outspoken individuals was to be tarred and feathered, and while I cannot recall if the marauders succeeded, I do know the man was confined to bed for some time.

For our family, 1918 held its share of additional catastrophe and fear besides the side effects of war.

Once, while my father was helping my uncle cut his wheat, my youngest brother Leonard accidentally drank separator oil. Hours passed as my mother fretted over him, concerned for his life. As darkness settled, Mother remembered she had failed to remind Albert to gather the eggs. Usually she never allowed the younger children to carry a lighted lantern or lamp, but it was dark and the eggs needed to be gathered. She gave him the lantern.

While Albert gathered the eggs, an angry brood hen raised a sudden ruckus in the manger and the flying hay caught fire. The barn and our almost-new Dodge touring car went up in smoke. My mother ran with wet blankets to try and douse the flames while I put out a “general call” over the telephone party line, bringing my father, the cutting crew and our neighbours running to help.

I can still see the bucket brigades that formed from our two wells as we slaved to save the other buildings. Despite the charred wreckage that remained, we still had reason to be thankful: although Albert had struck our sister, Edna, when he hurled the lantern out of the burning shed, both lives had been spared.

After the fire came influenza. Whole families were stricken, and many people succumbed. Soldiers in nearby training camps were often sent home in coffins. Mother was the first in our home to be struck down by the dreaded illness and the rest soon followed.

Only my 10-year-old brother Henry was spared. Although the neighbours did our milking, none were allowed to enter the house. So Henry was left with most of the remaining work – separating milk, slopping hogs, cleaning milk utensils and even doing the cooking under Mother’s direction. He laboured with tenderness and without complaining until all of us were up and about again. Then he, too, took ill. Yet God was gracious in bringing all of us through the ordeal without fatalities.

November 11 dawned, bright and beautiful. It was my 13th birthday, but I was hardly aware of it. I was still very ill with the flu and wandered in and out of a semi-coma.

About mid-morning we heard the railroad roundhouse whistle blowing long, continuous blasts. We could hear church bells from town, two miles from our home. Passing cars honked their horns. Even the train, passing near our house, tooted its steam whistle and rang its bell incessantly.

It was an eerie feeling. What did all this mean? Was it an omen of further evil?

Suddenly the telephone clanged with a series of short rings. That meant another “general call” and 28 receivers went off the hook at once. “Hear all,” yelled the operator amid a background of whistles and bells. “The armistice has been signed. The war is over!”

That was good news. Longstanding hostilities could finally ameliorate, and life could slowly return to normal – except for the flu, which raged on and on.

November drifted into December and Christmas was almost upon us. A heavy snowstorm moved through Dec. 22 and its howling wind piled huge drifts of snow on through the night and the next day. Traffic was at a standstill as the feathery whiteness piled higher.

By the time Dec. 24 dawned, the leaden sky had finished dumping its treasure. Mother awakened us and told us to prepare for school. As she moved about, I sensed a slowness and heaviness about her.

Just then my father and brother came into the house and Fathered lowered himself to the floor in sheer exhaustion. The two had been out since dawn, breaking open the road while my uncles and others had been attempting the same from the other end, all of them working with a driving urgency.

I knew what that meant. In those days, parents did not disclose to their children the expected arrival of a new life. And although my mother had never mentioned it to me, there was a secret understanding between us – and this was the day.

We children set out for school, walking about a mile along the railroad track until we came to the section road. There Mr. Cornelson met us with his team and wagon. The Kahn children came from the opposite direction and we all piled into the wagon together with our teacher, who had walked to the tracks from town. Once we arrived at school, we had our exchange of gifts and a program of sorts, then school was closed until further notice. Health officials had banned all public gatherings until the flu epidemic passed.

Despite the excitement of new snow and special activities, it was the longest day of school I experienced in my life. My mind was at home with my mother. Had the midwife gotten there in time? Was all well?

At 4:00 p.m., Mr. Cornelson took us back to the tracks, and while my brothers continued their usual loitering, I ran almost the entire way home.

When I entered the warm house, my aunt Lizzie greeted me with a big smile and ushered me into my mother’s room. Mother lay there weak and wan, but beside her in a cradle lay a wee baby girl with a full head of dark hair. It was the sweetest baby I had ever seen. My secret wish for a baby sister had been realized.

Then Christmas Day dawned upon a white, clean earth and banks of snow glistened like diamonds. We would spend this Christmas Day at home; there wouldn’t even be the traditional church program and Father would not stand before his choir like he always had, leading them in singing beautiful Christmas carols.

Nevertheless, this was one of the most precious Christmases of my memory. We had come through a time of severe trial and fear. Natural and man-made evils had tugged at the strong bonds of our family. They had tugged for naught. We still had each other; the war and hatred had ceased; the flu had left no graves to mar our joy; my oldest brother was home after many months’ absence – how I had missed him. My mother had been ailing for months due to flu, but now had given birth to a healthy child and was cheerfully looking forward to good health again.

It was tradition in our house that Father and Mother would awaken us on Christmas morning with the singing of Nun ist Sie erschienen (The Sun Has Arisen in Heavenly Glory). That was followed by a mad scramble to the table, where each of us children had placed a plate the night before in anticipation of the gifts and surprises that awaited us.

As the oldest daughter, I found I had a new duty to fulfill. Mother had dressed a goose and had kept it cold on the porch. Aunt Lizzie helped me get it into the oven before Father took her on home to her own family. With Mother giving directions from her bed, I prepared the rest of the meal and our family’s hearty appetite did justice to all my hard work.

In the afternoon, Father gathered the family in the living room, just next to Mother’s bedroom, and read the Christmas story. That was followed by carols – singing was always a joyful part of our family experiences. We sang for hours.

I will never forget the year 1918. It had been a year of crisis – in the world, in the church and in our home. But it had ended beautifully. Christmas had brought a blanket of pure white snow that covered the earth’s ugly scars . . . and it had brought to our home the joy of a new life, a new child.

What a fitting way to depict that first Christmas when a different babe arrived in an ugly world. He, too, came to cover its ugly scars with His blood and wash us as white as our snow outside.

As our family reviewed the Christmas story there in our living room, the meaning of Christmas became alive to me that day in 1918.

Susan H. Neufeld, who died in 1990, was a member of Shafter MB Church in Shafter, Cal. This story originally appeared in the Christian Leader in 1979 and again in 2001; it is used by permission.