Clubhouse Magazine

It all began at the marketplace where I went to beg. My mother had long since passed away, and Father had lost his job. As a result, our family had nothing. But he, my two sisters and I still had to eat, and it was my duty to ask for food.

Over the months, merchants and grocers tired of giving my family credit. They knew, as I did, that the debts could not be paid. Yet on most mornings I came home with something: old vegetables, stale bread, an egg or some yellowed cloth that could not be sold.

One day I brought the last of my mother’s jewelry—a small gold pin with a pearl—to the market. I hoped to trade it for some meat and fresh vegetables. Selling the pin would keep my family alive.

“What’s this, girl?” the butcher asked in a loud voice after I showed him the pin. With thumb and forefinger, he held the pin and studied it. “Why, it’s real gold.”

I snatched the pin from his thick fingers and shoved it in the pocket of my apron. “Hush,” I said, “I don’t want the whole village to know my business. How much lamb can I get for it?”

“Lamb is what you want, eh?” he said. “I’ll let you have a nice, thick leg.”

I shook my head, my long yellow braid swishing. “The whole hind quarter,” I said heatedly, “or I’ll take my jewelry somewhere else.”

“Jewelry?” she warbled. “Why, Katia, you still owe me money for loaves I’ve given you all summer. Where did the likes of you come by any jewelry?”

To defend myself I explained in a soft voice: “The pin is the last of my mother’s jewelry. It was for my sister Nona’s dowry, but my family is starving. My father sent me to sell it for food.”

“Dowry?” she laughed. “None of you girls will ever get married. With your debts, it’ll more likely be slavery for you.”

She came toward me. “Let me see the pin,” she snapped. “I should think it belongs to me for all I’ve given you.” Her long fingers, surprisingly strong, dug into my upper arm.

“No!” I said and pulled away. “You gave us that bread out of charity! This pin belongs to me.” Turning, I saw a group of people gathering around us.

The crone grasped for my apron, but I was too quick. I thrust myself through the crowd, shoving bodies out of the way. My only thought was to run and hide so Mother’s precious pin would not be taken.

My apron was torn from me by the mob. Not being satisfied with robbing me, the townsfolk watched as the old woman spat on me and then held the pin triumphantly in the air.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The baker woman’s cruel words haunted me, “With your debts, it’ll more likely be slavery for you.”

I laid awake in the pile of straw that served as a bed for my sisters and me. Nona and Mary had cried themselves to sleep. All of us were beyond hunger. The ache in our stomachs had long ago been replaced by a dull tiredness.

How long would it be before the merchants sold us into slavery so our debts could be paid? I wondered. The wood in the fireplace burned out, and I fell asleep shivering.

I woke before dawn, my muscles cold and stiff. When I got up to start the morning fire, I found the sack. It had come down the chimney and landed in Nona’s shoe, which was sitting on the hearth. At first I didn’t know what it was and brought it to my father. He opened it and lifted out some gold coins. To satisfy his curiosity, he bit the edge of one.

He left immediately in his torn wool cloak. When he returned, the sack was lighter but our debts had been paid in full. He also brought food—more than we had ever seen.

That day we did nothing except eat and rejoice and give thanks to God. Father decided the rest of the money would be used for Nona’s dowry since the money had been found in her shoe. At least she would never see slavery.

But I wasn’t so sure about Mary or me. The gold pieces would be gone when Nona married. My daily trips to the market would begin again, and I was afraid to beg.

The next morning, however, I found another bag of gold. This time it was in Mary’s shoe.

“Then Mary’s dowry it shall be!” Father decided. He sat on a wobbly stool, rocking back and forth. He let the money slip through his fingers into the sack.

A part of me wanted to complain: “I found the sack. Why shouldn’t I get the dowry money? I am older than Mary.” But I kept silent and tried to be happy for my sisters. And I was. After they both got married, there would only be Father and me to feed.

During the night, a loud creak woke me. It was the sound of a roof beam bending.

My father must have heard the same noise. He was up and out the door before I could even stand. I heard more creaking and a bump. Footsteps hurried down the lane, my father’s heavy thuds following.

For a moment I froze. Then I looked in my shoe. Another sack of gold! I grabbed my shawl and rushed out the door. I saw a cloaked figure duck behind our neighbor’s house. My father made the same turn and lunged.

“That I know. You have given us two bags of gold—nay I guess three!—and I must thank you.”

“I will reveal myself if you promise never to tell a soul. My Father in heaven knows of my deed; that is all I want.”

I had edged to the corner of the house. I peered around the wall and saw them. The cloaked figure lowered his thick, wool hood. A young man of about 17 years stood before my father.

“Nicholas!” Father cried. “I thought you joined the monastery at Xanthos.”

“I am preparing to leave, sir. But first, I must rid myself of the wealth my parents left me.”

Nicholas looked my father in the eyes. He placed his clean, white hand on Father’s shoulder. “I was there at the market two days ago,” he sighed. “I saw how the merchants robbed Katia. I also heard they wanted to sell your daughters to reclaim debt money. I feared there wasn’t much time to save them.”

My father dropped to his knees. He grabbed Nicholas’ hand and tried to kiss it, but the young man pulled back.

“Save your thanks for the Holy Lord,” he said. “And remember, tell no one about what you have seen tonight.” He pulled the cloak over his head and hurried into the night. “The Lord be with you,” he called over his shoulder.

That was the last time I ever saw Nicholas. I tried to keep the story to myself, but I had to tell Nona and Mary about the kind young man.

Soon one thing led to another and the whole marketplace heard about Nicholas. Before winter’s end, children were putting their shoes and stockings by the hearth at night in hopes that Nicholas would choose to leave a gift at their house.

I felt sorry I had told. I didn’t mean for the story to get around. I’m sure it is just a passing fancy. No one will remember the kindness of Nicholas for very long. The people will soon forget, you’ll see.

Obviously Nicholas’ kindness was not forgotten. The current idea of Santa Claus is based on his generosity. Here’s more about Saint Nicholas. No one knows which part is truth and what part is legend:

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