​Christmas Ration

 

     The world has grown lean around me. Factories sit silent behind locked gates, shelves in the markets stand stripped to their metal bones. A few families, like mine, grow things like carrots, cabbage, or potatoes, but most survive only on the rations distributed by the government. Monthly, every house-hold gets bags of flour, cornmeal, rice, and dried beans, along with pouches of powdered milk and cans of lard. Every two months, some kind of canned meat is also included. Once a year, on Christmas Eve, each household receives an extra ration called a “Holiday Gift.” Each “gift” is unique, and no two within a community are alike. It was a gesture meant to pass for cheer in a season drained of abundance.
   Outside the government’s local distribution center, the line stretches along the street. Gray coats, bowed heads, and the dull shuffle of feet surround me. I stand between my parents, my breath clouding in the cold air. Air which smells of the rust and coal smoke rolling out of nearby chimneys.
   Inside, screens loop the State message: a smiling family, a bright white box, a warm voice speaking of unity and gratitude. No one here smiles. Every face turns toward the counter where the officer slides the rations across with mechanical precision.
   Our number echoes from the speakers. My father steps forward with our papers. “One box per household,” the officer recites, already preparing for the next name.
   A small white carton glides across the counter. I hold my hands tight at my sides so I will not reach for it. The box seems almost luminous against my father’s rough palms. The cartons are the only clean looking things in sight.
   My mother wraps the carton in a homemade cloth tote bag she only carries on special days. She cradles the wrapped package in her arms. My parents do not dare to open our “gift” here so we leave the center and quickly walk home.
   Our apartment waits as it always does, a dim three room apartment with peeling paint and a radiator that rarely wakes. The air in the kitchen carries the faint, weary smell of boiled cabbage. My mother clears space on the table, sets the “gift” on it, and carefully peels back the wrapping. Inside, lying in a neat row, rest ten large dark squares. Chocolate, she whispers. I know the word from books, not from taste. My father watches the pieces as if they might disappear. “We will save this for tomorrow,” he says. My mother, her voice soft as dust, adds, “Yes, tomorrow.”
   Through the thin walls, I can hear Mr. Lewis coughing. He has a dry and persistent rasp. I know he is leaving to retrieve his ration. I hear the creak of his door, but not his normal shuffle to the stairs. Curiosity tugs at me and I slip into the hallway and peer around the corner.
   Mr. Lewis is standing quietly looking at an official notice taped to his door. Administrative Discrepancy, the message reads, claim denied pending review. He reads the remaining portion of the notice then peels it off with trembling fingers and folds it into his pocket. His shoulders curl inward. “No ration this year,” he tells me when he notices I am there. “Some mistake, they said.” He tries to smile. “Mistakes seen to happen a lot these days. Especially to those of us who are older.”
   That night, after my parents have gone to sleep, I lie awake listening to the building settle. The box rests high on the top of the kitchen cabinet, and out of my normal reach. Hunger aches inside me, yet something sharper gnaws at me. I keep seeing Mr. Lewis’s empty hands.
   After my parents go to sleep, I slide from my blanket and cross the cold floor. Standing on a chair, I take the white box and tuck it under my arm. In a drawer I find a scrap of paper and a dull pencil. Merry Christmas, I write, though the letters waver. In the corridor I place the box and the note at Mr. Lewis’s door, then slip back into the apartment.
   Morning brings pale light and the familiar pull of hunger. A knock startles me awake. My mother straightens her robe. My father moves with the tense care he uses when strangers might stand on the other side. When he opens the door, Mr. Lewis is there in his worn coat, an open white carton in his hands. His eyes shine.
   “I think it was you, Alex, that left me the gift,” he says, lifting the note. “You are the only one I know who writes an R like this.” Heat rises in my face. “I could not eat the chocolate alone,” he continues. “Thinking it was you, I saved this one square for your parents, then I cut the others into slivers. As I cut, I could not resist, and I savored one sliver until nothing remained but the taste. When I finished cutting, I took the slivers and shared them with the others that live here. I shared with the children downstairs in 23-B, with Mrs. Ortega who lives on our floor, and then I made sure that everyone in the entire building got to taste this magnificent gift. At first, they were unsure what was happening, then the people began to look at our situations differently.”
   “They gathered and surrounded me,” he says. “With their own rations and more. Packets of dried rosemary, a handful of fresh carrots, a can of meat someone had been saving. We pushed the tables together in the courtyard. We built a fire in the old metal bin. Your chocolate started it, Alex. People brought things they had been guarding for years.” He looks at my smiling parents, “I thought you should know, and want to ask you and your son to join us.”
   I follow the smell of smoke down the stairwell. It is not the usual smell of coal burning; it is something completely different. The courtyard, usually a bare square of cracked concrete, has changed. In the center of the square, is a stove made from an old drum. The smell is coming from a pot on the top of it. Tables stand draped in mismatched cloths. Children run between the adults, laughter mingling with the clatter of battered mugs and stoneware bowls. Neighbors arrive one after another carrying small offerings. My parents say nothing as they add our cabbage and grain to the communal pot, which sends up a scent so warm it makes my mouth water.
   Bowls pass from hand to hand. Conversations begin to rise. People trade stories of other winters and describe holidays from before. Someone hums a melody, and others join, letting it become something new. Mr. Lewis presses a crust of bread into my palm. I taste the thin stew. It is not rich. It is not truly enough to completely satisfy the feeling of hunger, yet at the same time it feels like a feast.
   As dusk settles and the fire sinks low, I sit beside Mr. Lewis on the steps. The courtyard seems almost warm. “You know you could have kept it,” he says. “No one would have blamed you.”
   I think of the ten squares of chocolate, then look around the courtyard at the faces that are softened by firelight and the smallest comfort of shared food. I look at the smiles on my parents faces. “I thought I would regret it,” I say. “But I do not.”
   Mr. Lewis, slow and sure, nods at me. Wiping a small tear from his cheek, he looks around at the people who have gathered.
   And in that quiet moment it becomes clear to me that the most meaningful gifts are those we share, not those we keep all for ourselves.

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