by Jan Priebe

Freta, nine years of age, and her younger brother Peter, sat huddled closely together in a cottage on the outskirts of West Germany. The decrepit cottage was furnished with a table, a few battered chairs, and two warped cots hidden in the largest corner of the room. Their heat consisted only of a fireplace, which now stood unused because of the lack of firewood. The silence within was broken by the terrifying sounds of battle heard in the distance. Their fear was quickly quenched, as they glanced at the brightly burning candle sustaining them with light and hope.

The night was Christmas Eve. Peter and Freta didn't have gaily wrapped packages under a beautifully trimmed tree, or festive decorations to signify the Christmas

holiday. All they had was their mother and the warmth and happiness she conveyed to them by reading the traditional Christmas story.

Their mother suddenly felt the overwhelming need to give her children something special for Christmas. She left the cottage in haste to get a tree from the woods just over the hill. She knew of the prowling German soldiers, but the thought of seeing the gladdened faces of her children when she returned was worth all the danger in the world.

Their mother's last words before her departure remained clear in their minds. "Don't worry, I'll return before that candle burns out," she said reassuringly. Their eyes stayed fixed on the candle until the last spark of light had vanished.