The picking of the Christmas tree was always a special time for our family. My brother and sisters and I were insistent on having just the right one. Often times this meant going to every tree lot within 15 miles of our house. In the 1930�s, this wasn�t always practical, but Papa humored us. I think it made him remember the more pleasant parts of his childhood.
Papa came to New York in 1922. From Russia. There�s a lot he doesn�t talk about, not even with Mama. Whenever he went to the movies, he always came back silent and withdrawn, even when he�d seen a funny movie. I asked Mama about it one day, and she said it was the newsreels that made him sad.
That didn�t really answer my question though, but I was old enough to know better than to press about it. There were certain things that Papa just didn�t talk about in front of his children when we were young, and the lies and Communist propaganda he saw on the newsreels was one of them.
But I digress, back to the Christmas trees. Papa loves Christmas. Even though he pretty much hates winter, he loves everything about Christmas. He proposed to my mom on Christmas day, 1923. On Christmas Eve 1922, he told her he was falling in love with her, so it was a doubly special day for him. He wanted a Christmas wedding too, but Mama didn�t want to wait that long. I�m glad she didn�t.
I think having the perfect Christmas tree was just as important to Papa as it was to us, especially after Hitler took over Germany in 1933. It was almost as if Papa had this urgency to make Christmas magical for us. I found out later it was just as much to keep his own demons at bay as to make a day we�d never forget.
We always managed to find just the right tree too. There�s a specific list of attributes that the perfect Christmas tree must have: plenty of branches, fat, tall, and a perfect top for the angel. You see, Papa didn�t like having to climb up there on a chair or ladder and carve out a spot to sit the angel. Neither do I.
Christmas 1940 was one of the more somber Christmases I remember. Papa was watching the events in Europe very closely, and with more than a little trepidation. He knew it was only a matter of time before the US was drawn into it. Unlike so many other people he knew, Papa actually read Mien Kampf. It scared him too. I didn�t find out why until after the war was over and I was working at our embassy in Moscow.
I�ll never forget Christmas 1943 either. I�d been drafted and it was my last Christmas at home for God only knew how long. Papa cried. His brother, my uncle Alexei, fought in World War 1 and never came home. He�d been taken prisoner by the Germans in 1915, and by the time he was released at the end of the war, the Russian Revolution and ensuing civil war was in full swing. He couldn�t go home, it wasn�t safe. Papa was afraid I wouldn�t come home either.
I almost didn�t. I was captured in Italy for a few days, but managed to escape and rejoin my unit. We were then shipped up to Europe and I spent the rest of the war bouncing around on the Eastern front because I speak Russian fluently. Papa had always been a bit of a mystery to me, and these assignments helped me to begin to understand him.
Russians are very patriotic people. Yes, Papa is an American citizen, but he will always be Russian at heart. I found out Russia does not take kindly to being invaded from the outside. I worked with many Russians in �44 and �45 and saw why Papa says the Russian people are more dangerous to themselves than any outside invader could ever be. I also saw why they are so resilient.
After the war was over, I was on my way home and managed to get myself recruited by the OSS, now the CIA. That�s how I ended up in Moscow, much to my father�s chagrin. His dislike of Moscow goes all the way back to his childhood when he came down with the chicken pox there.
I made the mistake of falling in love while I was over there. She worked as a translator at the embassy. And then she just disappeared. The hatred my father and uncle held for Stalin and the Party began to grow in me after that, and I dedicated myself to helping bring communism to its knees.
Papa came to Moscow in �47, on business with the ambassador. One chilly night in October, not too long before my birthday, he told me everything. What happened to Grandpa and his friend Yuri who was like another uncle to us, about fighting with the White Army and then being sent to the gulag.
Then he told me who I really am, and why he was so afraid for me to be there. Our family was nobility before the Revolution. Grandpa was an advisor to the tsar and a leading voice for change. There were still enough people around to remember our family name and connect me to it if I were to ever say my Russian name out loud.
Turns out Papa had very real reason to be afraid for me. Less than a week later, I was arrested on suspicion of being a spy. I didn�t tell them they were right. Hard as it was, I didn�t say a word for five weeks. By some miracle, Papa got his visa extended, and using his old contacts in the underground, he broke me out and took me home.
Five weeks inside Lubyanka Prison would get anyone to understand my Papa. I came out of it physically broken, but with a new respect for Papa and my grandfather. Mama and Mandy fussed over me something awful while I was recovering, like to drove me crazy. Papa did a lot of work from home too, to be there for me. I feel closer to him now than ever though, because of what happened.
I�m still dedicated to fighting communism, only now I do it from an analyst�s desk in Washington. Turns out Papa�s experiences and advice give me a very unique perspective. Even though Russia is the enemy right now, I�m still proud of my heritage, and have taught my children about the Russia Papa knew.
A squeak on the stairs brings me back to the present. I�m sitting in my chair, staring at the tree.
�I thought you went to bed, Pop.�
My eighteen-year-old son is standing behind me. I look at him. He just finished basic training and leaves for Vietnam in two weeks. This is his last Christmas at home for God only knows how long.
And I�m scared for him. Now I understand how Papa felt, and how Grandpa felt. I pray my son never feels it.
Evan sits down. His name was sort of a compromise between a Russian name for my heritage, and an Irish name for my wife�s heritage. When Grandpa says it, it comes out as Ivan.
We stare at the tree. The Perfect Tree. It has every characteristic you ever dream of being in a Christmas tree.
�I�m scared, Papa.�
He hasn�t called me that in four years. �I know. I�d be worried if you weren�t.�
�Everyone says we shouldn�t be over there, that it�s none of our business.� He turns and looks at me. �Do you believe that?�
I look back at him, reluctantly seeing him as a man instead of my little boy. Evan, my oldest son, a mirror image of his grandfather at that age. So I tell him. It�s time he knows.
�Evan, this is the right thing to do. You�re carrying on our family�s legacy. It�s a legacy of fighting for justice and protecting hard-earned freedom. As the grandson of a Russian prince, it�s in your blood. In every fiber of who you are. Your grandfather fought with the White Army, to set my grandfather free, and he was sent to Siberia as punishment. I worked for the CIA when I was in Russia too. I was just getting started as a handler when my cover was blown and the NKVD arrested me.
His blue eyes are wide with amazement, and I keep going.
�Papa once told me, that as he stood on the deck of the ship as it left St. Petersburg behind, he vowed to do everything within his power to bring communism to its knees. I made that same vow in 1945, and now it�s your turn to make that decision.
�The rise of communism very nearly kept both of us from being born. America is the protector of freedom. The things that are happening in Vietnam must be stopped. If we don�t stand up and tell them that what they are doing is wrong and must stop, then America is useless. We have to be willing to make great sacrifices for what�s right.
�I know that I might lose you. You could be killed, or captured, or worse. But I can deal with that if it happens because I know why you�re really fighting.�
He smiles. �I was hoping you�d say that, Papa.�
I watch him stand, come to me, and then kneel down and take my hands. And then in Russian, my son adds his name to the family vow. Defeat evil wherever it shows itself and bring freedom to the oppressed and enslaved and imprisoned.
As the grandfather clock in the hall strikes twelve, I wrap my son in a tight embrace. Christmas is here now, the day our ultimate Freedom was born in a stable. He sacrificed his life for our freedom. To know true freedom is the greatest gift one can have.
I know that whatever happens in this war, or any war, the cost of freedom is always worth the price. I am proud of my son, and proud of my father.
This Christmas I send my son to war. Next Christmas, a few more people will know freedom.