“’Jesus, our king is born, Je-sus is born.
Madeleine is being assailed faster and more furiously than ever by unbidden thoughts. For example, the word “ass” is in Christmas — unavoidable. What if she went home and threw the Baby Jesus in the garbage? Such thoughts are shocking, and she buries her face in her hands at her desk.
“Sleepy, little girl?”
She looks up sharply and turns to the assigned page.
“‘O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie….’” What if she took the Baby Jesus and touched her bum with it? What can she do about these thoughts? Pray. She tries, while singing, to ask God to remove the evil thoughts, but instead of white clouds and angels, the image of herself smashing a baby’s head in with a hammer appears. Rudolph saves her. The sight of his bright red nose like a clown’s; the memory of his fearless stand against the abdominal snowman, his humility and triumph on Christmas Eve…. She knows it is not right to pray to Rudolph, but the thought of him calms her mind, soothes it like Vaseline on a burn and renders it impervious to the assault of terrible thoughts.
“You should join the choir, little girl, you have good pitch,” says Mr. March.
Jack was surprised how good it felt to hear Simon’s voice. He put it as casually as possible — careful to keep any hint of complaint from his tone — that it might be wise to brief McCarroll at this point. Make Fried feel a little more secure, knowing there was a second car on hand, another number to phone. Or if not McCarroll, it might be time to bring Mimi into the loop — in fact she could help. She could visit Fried during the day, do a little shopping, cooking … as Jack spoke he began to like this idea more and more.
Simon said, “Bugger’s driving you mad.”
Jack laughed.
“I didn’t warn you, Jack, because I didn’t want to prejudice you, but I’m not surprised. He’s working you like a bloody housewife.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Look, you don’t need to put up with it, I’ll have a word with him and—”
“Forget it, Si, I think I know what his game is.”
“Oh? What’s that, then?”
“He wants a goddamn car.”
“Christ.” Simon groaned. “It’s what he’s been after from the start.” Fried had asked Simon for a car when he defected. “I told him, forget it. Too risky, too complicated. He could drive it into a ditch—”
“Or get pulled over for speeding.”
“It opens up a whole new can of worms. An expensive one.”
Jack surmised a series of false documents: driver’s licence, registration, ownership, insurance, plates. “Who will you register it under?”
“I won’t, simple as that.”
“What about—?”
“Not your headache.”
“Look Si, why don’t I brief McCarroll? It’s what he’s here for anyhow, and between the two of us—”
But Simon preferred to take on the chickenshit task of wangling a car for Fried, rather than allow the Americans in a moment before it was absolutely necessary. He said it was because he wanted the operation to remain airtight. Briefing McCarroll would mean making it porous. That would mean air pockets. “And you know what that means.”
“Turbulence,” said Jack.
“Don’t say I never gave you a Christmas present.”
Midweek, Jack catches a quick flight on a Beechcraft Expediter to Toronto. He has lunch with his counterpart, the OC of the Staff School up on Avenue Road, and makes plans for an exchange. Then he takes a taxi out to Toronto International Airport. Following Simon’s directions, he walks to the far northeast corner of the parking lot. Simon has worked quickly as usual. The 1963 metallic blue Ford Galaxy coupe is there waiting, just as Simon said it would be, with a brand-new set of Ontario plates. Jack opens the door, lifts the mat and finds the keys. It’s a spiffy set of wheels, the kind he would like to buy for Mimi when they can afford a second car.
He gets in, puts on his sunglasses and pulls into the brilliant December day. He makes good time back to London, and when he arrives at Fried’s apartment at dusk and drops the keys into the man’s open hand, Fried actually forms a small smile and says, “Danke.”
“Fröhliche Weihnachten, Oskar.”
“Fröhliche Weihnachten, Herr McCarthy.”
He has the taxi drop him in the village of Centralia, just beyond the station and out of range of inquiring eyes, and gives the driver a decent tip.
The street lights come on, dispelling the five o’clock gloom as Jack rounds the corner, the snow squeaky cold beneath his rubbers. He fills his lungs with clean crisp air. Tomorrow is his first day of leave. He sees Henry Froelich out hammering a nail into his front door. Elizabeth is bundled up in her wheelchair, a pyramid of snowballs in her lap. She is throwing them at unpredictable angles for the dog, who leaps to catch them between his jaws, where they explode.
The words escape Jack’s lips: “Fröhliche Weihnachten, Henry!” He feels himself redden instantly. Time to take the bull by the horns. He walks up the driveway.
“Hank, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Being such a … knucklehead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean….” He reddens again. He can’t apologize for his stupid “You’re a typical German, Hank” remarks because that gets too close to a painful, private subject — Jack knows about Froelich’s tattoo only by accident.
“Jack, are you okay?”
“Yeah, Henry, I’m just — look, I only recently realized that — I realize you don’t celebrate Christmas, so I’m sorry for—”
“But we do celebrate.” Froelich hangs a wreath on his door. “My wife likes to celebrate the solstice.”
“The solstice?”
“Festival of light. Like Chanukah.”
“Oh. Happy Chanukah.”
Froelich smiles. “Jack, I am a Jew. But I am not religious. You worry too much.”
Jack relaxes. The scrape of a shovel catches his attention; he turns and notes with approval his son shovelling his driveway across the street. In Froelich’s front yard, the big dog rolls on his back in the snow. Jack is ambushed by a rush of pure happiness. “Henry, I don’t give a damn if you’re pagan, Moslem, Hindu or from Mars, you and Karen are coming to the New Year’s Eve formal with me and Mimi as our guests.”
“No, no, this we do not—”
“Aber ja!” exclaims Jack, counting on his fingers, slapping them into his palm. “You’ve fixed my car, my lawnmower, filled me up with good homemade wine, it’s time I had a chance to pay the Piper.”
Froelich is about to object again. The two men stand, eyes locked, and a twinkle of amusement enters Henry’s. He shrugs. “What the heck. I mean, thank you.”
When he tells Mimi the Froelichs are coming to the mess for New Year’s, she gives him a Mona Lisa smile and turns back toward the kitchen.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Rien du tout. I think it’s lovely you invited them.”
He follows her. “You do not, what are you thinking, woman?”
She pauses at the stove, bites her lower lip — a touch of malice just enough to be sexy — and says, “I’m curious to see what she wears, c’est tout.”
“You’re bad.”
She lifts her eyebrows briefly, then turns and bends, a little more than she needs to, to check the mincemeat pies.
On Saturday the twenty-third, chaos reigns in the rec centre as the children’s Christmas party gets underway, to the helium strains of The Chipmunks’ Christmas Album. Flushed faces bulge with candy canes, grown-up voices cry above the din, “Don’t run with that in your mouth!” A mountain range of wrapped gifts surrounds the towering Christmas tree, each package bearing a tag marked “girl” or “boy.” Madeleine knows better than to bother opening one marked “girl” but she also knows not to court public humiliation by taking one marked “boy.” She joins in the ecstatic mayhem of chasing and screaming. Every kid in the PMQs is there, and so are many from the surrounding community — including a busload of orphans who arrive with a detachment of nuns, all of whom seem to know Mrs. Froelich. For once, Madeleine plays with all her friends at once, including Colleen. She experiences a moment of trepidation when a genuinely rotund Santa Claus enters. But it isn’t Mr. March, it’s Mr. Boucher. “Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noël!”