Ark of the Lost Angels

Art from Christmas Eve and Other Stories by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (Artist: Greg Hildebrandt)

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Christmas Eve has offered promises of magic for as long as the city of New York could remember. Countless wishes had been heard and granted, from those ice skating in the glow of the tree at Rockefeller Center or window shopping on Fifth Avenue to the ones struggling over the years in the shadow of the West Side Elevated Highway or in the South Bronx. New York City in the snow at Christmastime is supposed to be a magical sight.

The young woman in an old city bar in Manhattan, however, sees the city quite differently. To her, New York at Christmastime is a monument to selfishness with foul weather. Despite having lived in the city for many years, the woman had never quite gotten used to the way the winters freeze the soul.

The bar, oddly open this late on Christmas Eve, is a well-loved institution. The place is old, with worn wood all around and light fixtures above with a glow, as if someone had not changed the bulbs for many decades but they had never faded nor burnt out.

The woman runs her hand across the bar’s coffee-colored wood, feeling its scratches and chips and pits, trying to listen to the stories it held, the way her mother taught her. The inability to discern even a single of the countless tales from the bar’s history sends a bolt of frustration through her body and right to her face, which curls into a sneer.

The remainder of her vodka cranberry burns a path down her throat. The alcohol has done little to quell her complicated feelings around the holiday, and she doubts this latest addition will help much.

A small tug at the woman’s charcoal coat catches her attention. She scowls and whips her head around to spot the annoyance, only to find the eyes of a small child. Gorgeous icy-blue eyes that make the woman’s frustration melt ever so slightly. Her scowl drops. Even the sourest of souls cannot be harsh to a child on Christmas Eve.

“You look sad,” the girl notes. The young woman takes a breath, unwilling to subject a kid to her verbal tirade on the holidays. The woman puts on a smile which could barely convince a blind man and tries to sweeten her tone just enough to not give away her true feelings to the child.

“I’m just…not a great fan of Christmas.” As the woman speaks, the girl’s eyes go wide.

“Your voice is beautiful,” the girl whispers in amazement, almost as if seeing an angel. The woman’s smile becomes slightly more genuine.

“Young one.” Both women turn to look in the direction of the voice. The bartender, in waistcoat and tie with a dignified mustache, steps up to the pair. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Two hot chocolates please! One special, and one for me!” The girl gives a toothy grin. The young woman can’t help but mimic the child’s expression.

“Oh, don’t let your dad tell you that I don’t make the drink special for you,” the bartender jokes, causing the girl to giggle. The woman holds her hand in front of her own mouth to stop from giggling herself.

“Okay, I won’t!” The girl has a cheerful, mischievous demeanor, with every tiny giggle causing her chestnut brown hair to crest and ripple down the back of an elegant and dignified grey coat.

The bartender looks over towards a man sitting by the window, talking to a woman with raven hair, wearing an emerald sweater that matches her eyes, and a beautiful necklace of an angel holding a snow globe with a rose inside of it. Hanging over the back of her chair is a long red coat which matches her lips and poking out of the pocket is a white knit cap that looks as soft as fabric could possibly be.

“Just put it on my tab!” the man calls over to the bartender, who laughs.

“Nonsense Tristan, it’s Christmas Eve. This round is on the house!” The bartender gives a joyous belly laugh. The woman at the bar finds her smile widening without her even realizing, and a small fraction of the nasty weight of her trepidation over the holiday lifts from her chest.

“Thank you, David!” Tristan calls back, shaking his head at his inability to pay back what seems to be an old friend.

“What’s your name?” the girl asks the young woman. She sighs but turns to the girl anyways.

“I’m Anya.”

“I’m Georgia!” the little girl declares proudly. Something about her earnestness teases out even more of Anya’s smile.

“Is there anything I can get for you, miss?” David inquires, handing the two mugs of hot chocolate to Georgia, who practically skips back over to the table with Tristan and the woman. Tristan waves Anya over to join them. Anya thinks about it for a moment, biting her lip, before turning back to the bartender.

“I’ll just have a glass of water.”

“Here you go,” David grants her simple request, and gestures towards the three at the table by the window. “Give them a chance. I’ve known them for a few years now, they’re good people.”

Anya picks up her drink walks over to the table with the grace of a dancer, sitting down next to the raven-haired woman at the empty chair.

“Hi, I’m Katrina,” the raven-haired woman introduces herself, offering a handshake, which Anya accepts.

“Anya.”

“Your accent is lovely, but I can’t place it. If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“I grew up in Sarajevo, but my mother and I moved to Long Island quite a few years ago. I got an apartment on my own in the Bronx somewhat recently.” Anya chose to leave out the more sordid parts of her rather eventful history.

“If you’ll continue to forgive us being nosy, why are you in Manhattan this late on Christmas Eve?” Tristan inquires.

“I was hoping to find some of that Christmas magic that Americans love to talk about.” Anya’s bitter tone betrays the sense of helplessness she’s been feeling. Tristan, Georgia, and Katrina all share a knowing look, which only further confuses Anya.

“I was in exactly the same position a few years ago. It was a Christmas Eve a lot like tonight, and I found a place, and some wonderful people, who helped me find what I needed to find,” Tristan explains, “And then right afterwards, I ran into Katrina, and we found Georgia right outside this very bar. We’ve been together ever since.”

The way Tristan tells his story is filled with such warmth and appreciation, as if he could divide his life into two eras: before that Christmas Eve and afterwards. Something about his tale strikes a chord deep within Anya’s heart, offering her something to grasp at to give a sense of Christmas magic. Tristan pulls out a pocket watch, with the same symbol of a rose within a snow globe that rests on Katrina’s necklace. Anya raises her eyebrow about the coincidence but holds her tongue.

“We have to get going, we’ll miss our train,” Tristan announces, turning to Anya while the girls put on their coats. Tristan turns to Anya. “It’s rough outside, I’m not looking forward to walking in this mess either. But there’s a hotel nearby that’s pretty easy to find. They have a really good band that always plays on Christmas Eve. Might help you with some of that holiday spirit you’re searching for.” The man offers a sincere grin in response to Anya’s confused look while pulling on a battered grey wool coat.

“Merry Christmas Anya!” Georgia chirps with a hot chocolate mustache over her grinning lips, and the sparkle of Christmas magic in her eye. Anya finally lets out the chuckle she had been holding in for the past several minutes.

“Merry Christmas Anya,” Tristan bids her before grabbing a napkin and kneeling down next to his adoptive daughter, “C’mon little bird, let’s get that mustache cleaned up.”

“I found that hotel when I needed help the most in my life. I was a bit lost, and that place helped me find my way. Shortly thereafter, I ran into Tristan, and the rest is history,” Katrina explains, speaking of the hotel with the same sort of reverence and awe which accompanied Tristan’s side of the story. “It’s hard to explain, you’ll just have to trust us on it.”

Anya considers this stranger’s words. Katrina’s eyes radiate total honesty, and her voice is filled with the warmth and hope her words espouse. Despite having no viable reason to believe her, Anya takes the woman’s story at face value. Nodding in acceptance, she pulls out cash to settle at the bar while her three new acquaintances head towards the door. Before they finish departing, Anya turns around.

“Katrina,” Anya calls after the other woman. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas Anya, may you find what you’re looking for.”

With a thick coat around her and a scarf keeping her neck warm, Anya dares to venture out into the cold. Leaving the bar behind, Anya quickly begins to regret her decision on account of the brutal chill. This is the kind of cold that stabs at the few inches of exposed skin on her face with the fury of a thousand icy warriors, turning her nose a bright red, and sending the cruelest of chills down her spine.

This is the kind of cold and bitter snow that steals the world from before one’s very eyes and steals the warmth from their very soul. Familiar sights lose their focus as the snow becomes more intense, and the lights of skyscrapers whose peaks were already masked by the drifting snow now start to completely fall away. There are no more incidental lighthouses making vain attempts to guide passersby to their intended destinations. Man will always lose to nature, and no amount of flowing current can change that fact. Nothing past the countless white flakes hurtling towards the ground can be seen.

Nothing except a Manhattan hotel: one remaining beacon that stands alone, parting the snow before it with the warm glow of a home for wayward travelers. The building looks to be well over a hundred, but aged gracefully, with intricately crafted wooden doors keeping their strength and beauty, and glass windows only slightly filtering the golden light of old lamps inside.

Suddenly, Anya understands what Tristan and Katrina meant when they spoke of the hotel. She eagerly accepts its silent invitation. She steps inside and travels to another time. Outpacing the opulence of Radio City Music Hall or the Plaza Hotel is this old building with old grandeur that has never fallen out of style. Golden walls with warm yellow lamps mix with red carpeting, throwing some different colors into the mix with green Christmas trees bedecked by old bubble lights and a timeless kaleidoscope of ornaments.

As she shakes the snow off, Anya turns to look out the windows. Outside, the storm blots out any sight of the city to be had. A small voice in the back of her mind begs Anya to walk right back out those doors. This is not a place for her to be. However, the sound of music from the bar touches a place deep within Anya’s heart and draws her further in. Grateful for relief from the cold, Anya reasons that perhaps her newfound friends offered worthwhile advice after all. She has missed seeing live music, and what she can hear from the other room is quite an exquisite example.

At the grand piano near the bar sits a vivacious man. His skin is dark, cracked and worn from the stories he lived across his many years. His voice, while gravelly, is filled with light and warmth and life. He gently coughs and lets out a great smile.

“Now this is one I taught to Cab Calloway way back in the day!” He laughs before his fingers slide and flit across the keys like dancers in the ballrooms of the imperial palaces from the days of emperors and kings who watched the modern world in its infancy. Anya cannot identify the song he’s playing, but it doesn’t seem to matter as she joins the crowd dressed in their finery as they sway along to the music. Anya watches the singer, enraptured by his voice, and by the gentle caress of the enraptured audience by each and every note. If any of his playing is improvisation, he is so skilled that it appears perfectly composed ahead of time.

Anya steps up to the bar, next to a man in his thirties and a girl who looks to be in her late teens or early twenties. Anya raises her hand to get the bartender’s attention, which works as he steps up. The bartender – in waistcoat and tie with a dignified mustache – offers her a friendly smile, which she returns.

“Good evening, miss. You look like you could use something hot.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed. Don’t know what to get though, now that I’m ready to order.”

“Cocoa, with some peppermint schnapps,” the man next to her suggests. “It’s probably my favorite.”

Anya ponders the idea for a few moments, the idea of a hot drink strikes as appealing, and if tonight is about trusting the words of strangers, she might as well go all in. She nods to the bartender, who smiles.

“Very good miss, it’ll just be a few moments. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks.”

Anya looks over the bar, trimmed in gold and dark wood. It’s pitted and worn with the same marks of a storied past as the old bar she just left. This bar is similarly aged in such a way as to not seem worn out and in need of replacement. The lights are an old yellow, like the bulbs had not been changed in many years but had never burnt out, just like the foyer. Anya watches the people in the bar as they listen to the singer, who starts singing a blues number that, once again, she cannot place. The warmth of the room, however, does not stand unappreciated, nor does the delivery of the promised hot drink with the alcoholic addition.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime, miss. After all, it is Christmas Eve.” The bartender winks and returns to his post. Anya sips the drink and smiles contently. The stranger’s suggestion was spot on. She leans over to him and taps him on the shoulder.

“Thank you for the recommendation! It’s delicious!”

“Well, Daniel here knows how to get everything just right,” the man gestures to the bartender, who responds with a friendly wave while serving some customers closer to the pianist. The stranger offers his hand to Anya. “The name’s Joel.”

“Anya.”

“This here is Hannah,” Joel states, gesturing to the younger woman next to him. Joel has greying hair, though not too many wrinkles on his cleanly shaven face. Joel has a spark of life that seems somewhat unfamiliar even to him. The age disparity prompts Anya to give a cursory raise of her eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything as she looks Hannah over. Her hair is a shade of blonde that, when colored by the glow of the lamps, turns into almost golden fire. The perceived heat in her hair is at odds with the icy blue of her eyes. But, much like Joel, there’s a warmth and spark in her soul that seems to be a fairly new phenomenon.

“Your call,” Hannah comments, causing Joel to shake his head and toss a coin in the air.

“Tails,” Joel calls, and the coin lands on the bar. “Damnit!” Anya peeks at the coin, what looks to be a military challenge coin, but emblazoned with a rose inside of a snow globe. Joel grumbles and takes his wallet out, folding a few bills and placing them on the bar.

“We have a running game going where Joel and I call out who pays for the current round. I win more often, which makes sense, because his drinks are usually more expensive,” Hannah explains. Anya notices Hannah’s necklace, which is identical to Katrina’s from earlier. She begins to put the pieces together, that all of those with an item with that design have a connection to the hotel.

“How long until our train?” Joel inquires of his companion. Hannah begins digging in her purse.

“You seem a bit of a mismatched pair,” Anya comments tactfully.

“Yeah, we met here a while ago. We both had some unresolved father figure issues, and we came to some realizations together. We were also both from Cleveland, and we had a very good friend find us a way home together. This time, I was out here for work, and Hannah is studying at Columbia. We were on the same flight home, and it got cancelled, but our friend was able to wrangle us some train tickets.”

“We’ve got to stop planning so poorly that we end up on a night train on Christmas Eve,” Hannah comments dryly, “We’ve got about fifteen minutes until we need to leave.”

“So, what about you? Why are you here, Anya?” Joel inquires, point blank. Anya settles back in her chair. Truthfully, Anya had no clue as to why she was spending Christmas Eve making small talk with strangers in an old bar and now an even older hotel. Perhaps some of the ghosts of Christmas past needed to be faced and conquered.

“I have a hard time with the holidays. Christmas is not my favorite time of year, bad memories of my childhood,” Anya gives a little away. Joel studies her for a moment, then taps his lips thoughtfully.

“You’re from Sarajevo, aren’t you?”

Anya is physically taken aback by his correct guess.

“My dad was with the NATO forces that intervened during the war. He met a lot of the people involved, was in Paris and Dayton for the peace talks, ended up meeting Vedran Smailović many years later, and so on. It was one of those experiences that always stuck with him. My father told me the story of how Smailović played the cello in the town square every day for three weeks. He told me that story before I joined up, about how admirable it was that one man could find a way to bring beauty in such a horrid time,” Joel recounts his father’s stories of his military service.

 “My first memory is from ninety-four I think, definitely after Smailović escaped. I was very young, but I remember being in a bomb shelter on Christmas Eve. I was in a bomb shelter on my mother’s lap, listening to the shells bursting around us…” Anya trails off as she remembers what came after the bombs: the people taking shelter singing Christmas carols and sharing what little they had with each other to celebrate the holiday. “And the next morning, we heard the string quartet play a bunch of traditional carols, and we shared whatever food we had scrounged up as a Christmas breakfast.”

“That’s what we do in warfare. Try to find a way to keep human.” Joel draws the comparisons with the Christmas Truce of 1914, and recounts the movie shown in the theater attached to the hotel the Christmas Eve when he met Hannah. A British veteran of the war brought a German veteran home to his family in London for Christmas, as a way to share in what they hoped to be a lasting peace and carry on the spirit of December 25^th, 1914, when they both laid down their arms and interacted as brothers. The conflict within the movie was the British veteran’s father being unapproving of letting the enemy into their family home.

Joel chuckles. “I have always remembered the British soldier’s monologue from towards the end of the movie. His father had just gotten on him for bringing the enemy to their family holiday dinner, and the British guy said, ‘He and I both fancied girls, both caused mischief, both love our countries while we wish they never go to war again. We both laugh, we both cry, we both dream. Any man who does these things, and wishes only for peace on earth and goodwill towards his fellow man is my brother.’ I think that if more people were like that, if they thought like that, then the world would be a better place.”

“That’s a beautiful sentiment, but I have seen firsthand how that isn’t true. After the war was over, my family was basically run out for being Serbs, even though we were just as much victims as most everyone else. We settled on Long Island years ago, and then I moved to the Bronx more recently. But no matter how far I run, what I grew up with will haunt me. I don’t think I’ve met any American who knows what it’s like to go somewhere entirely foreign because your home doesn’t want you anymore. And I don’t think I’ve met any American who understands how the holidays can be a painful experience. Nothing bad ever happened on Christmas in America.”

“I had a terrible Christmas when I was serving in Afghanistan. We had been helping keep a village safe, as they were giving us information on terrorist operations in the area. There was an attack on Christmas morning, and we went out to help repel it, but the fighting lasted for hours. When we finally drove them off, fourteen people were dead, including a young girl I had befriended. She was learning English and I had been helping her, giving her some of my old books when I was done with them. I went for the funeral with some of the guys in my unit. It was only later that we found out that the reason the village was a target was because we were involved there. I rotated home and left the service. I used to feel the same as you did, but I had some good people teach me that the world isn’t quite as hopeless as I thought it was,” Joel makes a connection, and destroys a few of Anya’s preconceived notions. She ponders his words for a few moments before Hannah’s head pops up from behind him.

“It was me, I’m one of those people. Joel’s who life right now is due to me,” Hannah’s interjection causes both Anya and Joel to laugh. Hannah taps him on the shoulder impatiently. “We have a train to catch.”

“All right, start heading down to the station, I’ll be there in a bit. I ought to say goodbye to Adrienne first,” Joel gets up, waving the bartender over again, and giving him the cash for the last round of drinks.

“Hey, we never flipped!” Hannah protests. Clearly, the rules of the game mean a lot to her. Anya cannot help but be amused by the almost sibling-like relationship the unlikely pair have. Perhaps family is meant to be found after all.

“It’s on the house, after all, it is Christmas Eve,” the bartender dismisses her protests jovially.

“Merry Christmas Daniel,” Joel addresses the bartender, “Give Tom my love, tell him I wish that I could stay longer and hear him play more, but I have to make sure I can get home in time. Probably going to be more delays around Pittsburgh again, I’m not getting stuck on the late train this time,” Joel offers his farewell to a familiar friend from this hotel.

“Safe travels,” Anya bids Joel, “And thanks for the talk. Oh, and tell Hannah that I wish you both a Merry Christmas.”

Joel smiles a movie star grin and chuckles again. To Anya, he feels like a man who had only recently pushed a weight off his chest. “Merry Christmas Anya, it was nice meeting you,”

Joel offers her another handshake to say farewell, which Anya accepts, before he heads off to meet his traveling companion. Anya sits back at the bar for a few minutes longer, sipping her hot chocolate, and listening to the jazz band that has grown around who she assumes is the forementioned Thomas.

The spirit of finding family and love even where it is difficult seems to be a recurrent theme among the strangers she has encountered on this auspicious Christmas Eve. A pang of jealousy hits Anya, wishing she too could find such warmth.

“You’ve witnessed my favorite aspect of this place,” a distinguished voice comes out of nowhere, placing a gentle hand on Anya’s shoulder. She turns to find a tall woman standing next to her, radiating an aura of elegance, and almost ancient wisdom. The woman’s skin is immaculate, pale like the snow, and her hair is a true black, flowing down her back like a river at night. Her lipstick matches her coat: noticeably red, but not overpoweringly so, while her eyes are a piercing emerald green. She’s in a red and green dress trimmed in gold, with the same necklace that Hannah and Katrina had around their necks.

“The hot chocolate?” Anya’s deliberately snarky tone does little to hide her discomfort at the situation. While most of the people she encountered tonight felt normal and warm and relatable, something about the aura around the woman before her makes Anya absolutely certain there is nothing average about her.

“The people. This place touches everyone who comes through here, and they go out and touch others in the same way. It keeps the magic of the season alive even in the heat of summer.”

“What is this place?” Anya inquires.

“This is a place for those missing something to find what they need,” the woman answers, placing a movie ticket in front of Anya. “I’ll see you after the show.” As she turns and walks away, a realization hits Anya the way a large wave hits someone standing in the surf while facing the shore

“You must be Adrienne, aren’t you?” The woman stops in her tracks, smiles warmly, and turns back to look at Anya.

“You are a clever girl. I think you believe in this place more than you want to admit,” Adrienne notes, “But you do have a show to catch.”

Adrienne almost melts away into the people coming from watching the pianist. Anya finishes her hot chocolate, and grabs the ticket, following the crowd towards the theatre.

The theatre is grand and old, with rich red carpeting in its foyer, ornately engraved golden walls, and a chandelier that captures the flashes of snowflakes tumbling to the ground in the lights of the city outside. In the corner is a Christmas tree, bedecked with tinsel and garland and ornaments of every color, topped with a star that Anya swears is actually glowing. She looks down at her ticket and sees that her seat is in the balcony. She turns towards the grand staircase and ascends with the rest of the crowd shuffling their way into the theater, decked out in top hats and coats or elegant dresses while wrapped with furs. Anya feels underdressed in her peacoat and jeans. She is handed a program for the night’s entertainment by a rather dapper usher in a red vest with a white bowtie and tails. The evening’s entertainment is a film, though its title is unfamiliar to Anya. She takes her seat, the lights fall, and the curtain is pulled open.

The movie opens with Sarajevo falling victim to bombs and artillery, showing the decay of the city as the war wears on. Anya stirs uncomfortably in her seat, the imagery dredging up so many horrid memories of the war which defined her childhood.

After the destruction comes a depiction of Vedran Smailović playing the cello in the rubble. And slowly, even while the city is in the grips of horrid war, come the stories of neighbors doing for each other: celebrating the holidays, the string quartet playing in the ruins, of neighbors and friends meeting to remember the dead and celebrate the living, ending on Christmas Day 1996, the first Christmas after the Siege of Sarajevo was lifted.

Driven to tears, Anya exits the theatre, recalling how many of those stories echoed her own formative years. Tears slip out of her eyes and onto the carpet below as Anya recalls stories which had been locked away by the trauma and time. So distracted by her memories, Anya slams into a blonde woman by accident, interrupting her train of thought.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Anya apologizes. The blonde woman meets Anya’s gaze noticing the red eyes from her tears.

“It affected you too, huh?” the blonde woman speaks, revealing her own background with the Russian accent to her English. Two women from the same region of the world about the same age thrown together by the forces of fate in a place which defied the rules of reality.

“I lived through the Siege of Sarajevo,” Anya explains. The blonde woman nods solemnly.

“Brought back some unfavorable memories?”

Anya nods, equally as solemnly.

“Nadezhda Nikolaevna Tarasova, but my friends call me Nadya,” the blonde woman introduces herself. “And yes, I was named after the lead from The Irony of Fate. It was my mother’s favorite movie to watch around the holidays.”

“Anya. Anya Delić.” Anya offers a handshake, and Nadya accepts happily. There’s a bouncy cheer to the Russian, even when her face is grim about serious matters, Anya can tell the next stranger of the night is one who seeks the light.

“It’s very refreshing to meet someone who grew up in such a similar situation,” Nadya states, “Russia in the nineties was not a very fun place.”

“I can imagine,” Anya comments dryly.

“So, when did you move over?” Nadya inquires, eager to make a new friend. Anya raises a questioning eyebrow in response but decides to indulge the energetic Russian before her. IF not for this conversation, Anya would have to find some other way to keep herself occupied.

“It was in the early two-thousands. I was probably eleven or twelve. How about you?”

“Two thousand and five,” Nadya responds proudly, “I remember being in America, it was so different. My parents and I settled in Brighton Beach, and it was nice having people from our homeland around us, but people outside the neighborhood were still so welcoming.” That last bit stuns Anya.

“I had never felt welcomed after I came to America.” Even as the words leave her lips, memories began to flood back: of children in school going out of their way to learn something about Sarajevo, or neighbors bringing over food and offering recommendations for restaurants and grocery stores. Nadya giggles at the realization making its way across Anya’s face.

“What about before you came over?” Nadya presses the issue to make her point. Anya contemplates the question for a moment.

“While we were rebuilding, I remember an old friend of my parents brought over cheese he got from France, and it was such a big deal that it was practically a party. The building we were in didn’t have running water or electricity, but we had a block of brie cheese from France.”

“I remember it was my birthday back in Russia, and we could barely afford food, but somehow my mother made me a cake. She made me a cake! I didn’t find out until later that the households of my family and their friends had all bought one ingredient each and gave them to my mother, and she made a chocolate cake for my birthday, and everyone got a piece.” Nadya giggles at the story. “And then my mother and I sat on the couch and watched The Irony of Fate on the television set my father had managed to find. My birthday is two weeks before Christmas, but my mother always made sure she made it special.”

“My first memory was of Christmas Eve in ninety-four, spent in a bomb shelter in Sarajevo, and we sang Christmas carols to drown out the bombs. Then, the next morning, we went to hear the string quartet and scrounged up enough food for a Christmas breakfast held by candlelight,” Anya states.

“My first memory was in October of nineteen-ninety-three, during the October coup, I remember watching the shelling of the White House in Moscow on the television. My family grew up on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, so we were a fair distance from the violence. But my mother sat me on her lap while the news was playing, and during that week, we went to a play put on by some university students.”

As if the heavens parted, the snow still churning outside stops, and the epiphany crashes into Anya like another of those waves. The stories she had been hearing all evening suddenly made sense, and she questions. Her hatred of Christmas seemed almost childlike in hindsight. She turns to her new friend.

“Are your parents still in Brighton Beach?”

“No,” Nadya laughs, “They moved down to Miami a few years ago. I had to work this week and couldn’t get a flight out.”

“I’ve heard that story a few times tonight.” Anya ponders for a moment. “Come to Long Island with me for Christmas.”

“Are you sure?” Nadya seems taken aback by the sudden offer.

“Of course. If tonight has taught me anything, it’s that Christmas is only as good as we can make it for others.”

“Only one question, how will we get to Pennsylvania Station in this utter mess?” Nadya inquires. Anya stops dead in her tracks.

“I still need to get back to the Bronx to pack,” Anya realizes.

“I think I can help with that,” comes the timeless voice of the hotel’s generous woman of means. The two girls turn to find Adrienne, brandishing two train tickets. “As Joel probably told you, there is a train platform underneath of this hotel, and we can make special requests when needed. These will get you to Grand Central, after which you can figure out how to get where you need to be. After all, Christmas usually shows the way.”

“Thank you, Adrienne. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” Anya offers, but Adrienne modestly waves her off.

“There is no need. As I said before, this hotel is to help those in need find what they require. Simply go out and spread the magic you have found tonight. That is thanks enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Anya insists, and hugs the mystical woman regardless. Such a simple expression of thanks stuns the usually unflappable Adrienne for a moment, before she regains her composure and gently clears her throat.

“Not to rush you, but you both have a train to catch.”

Anya and Nadya share a panicked look, practically ripping the tickets from Adrienne’s hand, and calling over their shoulders in unison as they sprint for the doorway Joel had used earlier:

“Merry Christmas!”

As they descend down the stairs to resplendent station with old lamps and intricate tiling in archways across the ceilings that still don’t give up where in the city they are. But the light down the tunnel and clunking of wheels on rails lets them know that the train is coming, and they’re one step closer to home, and a Christmas with family. As the lights of the shuttle to Grand Central appear out of the darkness down the tunnel, Nadya lets out a chuckle.

“Anya, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

And so it is, on this night of nights, that the magic of Christmas is found by those who simply believe. For it is in reaching out to touch the soul of another that the magic of Christmas comes alive. The magic of Christmas is ever present, all we must do is let it shine throughout the year, by doing for others. The season is begging to teach us lessons, and all we must do is open our minds and let them in. ‘Tis the season for peace and joy and love, but it is not the only season. The magic of Christmas is with us year-round and deserves to be shared with every soul we meet.