The snowy streets of Hammelburg had looked like a picture postcard last night, someone's childhood ideal of what Christmas should be, Newkirk mused as he stood for morning rollcall. Even Luftstalag 13 had looked almost pretty as the search lights illuminated the frosty rooftops upon their return to camp. He wasn't imagining it; Carter had remarked on it just before he ducked down into the tree stump entrance, and the way Hogan smiled and nodded, there was no doubt he agreed.
But now, on Christmas Eve morning 1943, a biting wind tore through the compound. Flurries had turned to icy rain, leaving only pock-marked, muddy snow banks and frosty puddles. At the dawn of day, the men of Luftstalag 13 were standing in the slush, feeling the chill rising up through the holes in their boots as the slop from the sky pelted their backs and shoulders.
Newkirk looked to his left and saw LeBeau clutching himself and stamping his feet to keep warm. He had scrounged up an extra sweater, and his scarf was wound twice around his neck, but his nose and cheeks were chapped red. He was clearly freezing.
Newkirk looked to his right and saw Colonel Hogan in his poor excuse for a jacket. Some pilots had shearling-lined bomber jackets, but Hogan's was just an ordinary leather one, and it didn't look warm because it wasn't. He had his crusher on, of course, and it provided more protection from the elements than Newkirk's RAF side cap did. But at the moment Hogan's eagle cap badge was sporting a crusting of ice and it peered over a brim that was starting to resemble one-half of a skating rink.
Newkirk shivered, and then realized Hogan never shivered. It must be his officers' training, Newkirk decided as he tugged his great coat tighter. Hogan wouldn't complain; he never complained. If he did, he would drag the whole camp down with him. So Newkirk wouldn't complain either. Not about consequential things like being warm and staying alive.
He cast a glance over his shoulder to see if Kinch and Carter had turned to ice lollies yet. Any minute now, he decided.
Actually, he did have a complaint. But it wasn't for himself or his mates; they would all survive this misery. No, his complaint was on behalf of Great Oak and his son, their underground contacts from the previous night's mission.
They'd connected behind the St. John the Baptist Church near the Hammelburg Marktplatz. Great Oak, who towered over Colonel Hogan by a good five inches, shook ice pellets out of his hair as he handed him a folded sheaf of papers; in exchange, Carter passed him a small box of radio parts while Newkirk stood watch.
"Tell us what else you need," Great Oak told Colonel Hogan.
"The question is, what do you need?" Hogan asked.
"Food and firewood," Great Oak replied. "There are six of us, including three younger than my son here, and the winter is hard."
Hogan nodded. He'd deliver, somehow.
Newkirk's eyes shot over to the boy, who had no code name; he had privately dubbed him Acorn. He was only 11 or 12, Newkirk reckoned, judging from his pink cheeks and high voice, but he seemed well on his way to becoming a lanky six-foot-something like his old man, seeing how his wrists stuck out of an outgrown coat. It was unbuttoned, probably because his breathing would have been compromised if he'd attempted to fasten it. He was shifting to keep warm, rubbing his hands together. His boots were shiny, and it took a moment for Newkirk to work out that they were held together by silvery duct tape. They were big, like a puppy's paws right before it reaches full size.
The lad, in fact, was the go-between, a treble in the boys' choir that was rehearsing for Christmas mass. The choirmaster had information on the gasoline storage tanks and supply lines that Hogan's team was assigned to destroy on New Year's Eve. Great Oak's excuse for being out late at night with a child in tow was that his son was one of the choir's soloists. Details on the target were scratched onto the sheet music for Ave Maria and The Shepherds' Cradle Song that the choir director had marked up in front of everyone with a caesura added here and a ritardando circled there.
During rollcall, in the miserable light of dawn, Newkirk couldn't shake the thoughts of that lad. He knew what being poor, cold and perpetually damp was. Winters in the East End had taught him a thing or two about soggy weather.
His mates in camp had come to expect Newkirk's mood to plunge along with the thermometer. Hogan, Kinch and Carter had been treated to Newkirk's sullenness for the first time last year, but LeBeau was seeing it for the fourth year in a row.
Newkirk hadn't joined in last year as the men pepped themselves up for Christmas by swapping memories of home. When they'd pressed him, he had walked off in what looked like a snit, heading down below to work on uniforms until Christmas passed and it was safe to be not of good cheer.
His friends had talked among themselves when Newkirk was supposed to be out of earshot, and they thought they knew what was wrong.
LeBeau was the closest to Newkirk, having known him the longest, and he had pieced together enough stories to understand that Newkirk had it pretty rough as a boy. He had left home at an age when LeBeau was still squabbling with his brothers and sisters over whether it was worse to have to shovel the front steps, walk the dog in the snow, or stay in and do the dishes.
"It's Christmas, and there was never much joy," LeBeau had said. "Christmas is painful for him."
Newkirk hadn't bothered to correct LeBeau, but he was only partly right. Christmas was painful. But he still had fond memories of the holiday. The trouble was that now something was missing.
H=H=H=H=H
Newkirk didn't want to be a killjoy. When the men filed back inside, slipped off their wet garments, and wrapped themselves in whatever dry clothes or blankets they could find, Newkirk forced himself to stay put and be jolly this time. Well, not jolly. But not moody either.
Carter, of course, was off and running with nostalgia as soon as he took his first sip of cocoa, which naturally he had chosen over the coffee that LeBeau was also dispensing.
"Back home we'd have whipped cream in our cocoa on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day," Carter said dreamily. "And a little sprinkle of crushed candy canes."
"I thought you grew up in dairy land," Newkirk said. "Thought you would have had cream every day." He wasn't sure what this "whipped cream" was, but he imagined it was some relation to clotted Devon cream, and he had no idea why Americans would put something like that in a hot drink. But he was trying to be congenial.
"Aw, heck, no, Newkirk," Carter said. "Whipped cream was for special occasions, like Christmas and birthdays and Easter. We only kept enough milk and cream to keep us kids healthy. There was never extras of anything. After the crash, I was out on the roadside every day before school, selling eggs."
"Your 'whipped cream' is something like Crème Chantilly, I think," LeBeau said. "American tourists like it, but they always seemed surprised that there is vanilla in it," he added with a shrug.
Hogan let out a big sigh, which got everyone's attention. "Sorry, guys," he said as all faces turned to him. "Blueberry pancakes for breakfast, with bacon and syrup. That was Christmas"
"Syrup on the bacon?" LeBeau said, looking scandalized.
"Oh, yes," Hogan and Kinch said in nearly perfect harmony.
"Just a dab," Hogan said.
"No, Sir. You've got to drench it in syrup," Kinch replied.
Newkirk listened as the cheerful reminiscences went round and round. Sleds and ice skates. Baseball mitts and footballs. Cowboy guns and air rifles. Tinkertoys and erector sets. Roaring fires and chestnuts. Ham and turkey with gravy. And pie. Apple pie. Pumpkin pie. Pecan pie. Pie and pie and pie. No wonder Carter was always on about pie, Newkirk thought, and a laugh escaped his lips.
That little laugh was all it took to give Carter an excuse to ask the question no one dared to ask. "What was Christmas like for you, Newkirk?"
Ordinarily Newkirk would dodge any personal question, but he'd known these blokes for a long while. They were as close as brothers now, and he was being nice and trying not to bring his mates down. So Newkirk took a long drag on his cigarette and steeled himself to answer.
"Christmas? My mum did her best to make it cheerful for us," Newkirk said. No thanks to the old man, he added silently.
There wasn't much more to say, really. For a poor boy in the East End, an apple in his boot on Christmas morning was the height of luxury. If they were lucky—and they often were—someone's cast-off toys and books were a treat for his little sisters and brothers. They didn't go hungry, not at Christmas. There was always a ham or a skinny goose that the butcher let Mum have for cheap, and there were handouts from the ladies' guild of the Welsh church. Food mostly, but sometimes clothes and shoes to get the family through the winter. Newkirk remembered the year when he dug "Tales from Shakespeare" from the bottom of a crate. He could still breathe the musty odor and the acid tang of ink and old paper. He would have been about Acorn's age, and having a book of his own was a thrill.
"Oh yeah?" Carter said, interrupting his reverie. "What was your favorite part?"
Persistent little bugger, Newkirk thought, but just at that moment LeBeau refilled his coffee mug and produced the apple cake that Schultz had sneaked in to his favorite prisoners. Newkirk could feel his mood rise. He was a storyteller; he didn't have to mention the parts where the old man was unavoidably detained by His Majesty or the parts where he gradually stopped coming around unless he needed something. No, he could concentrate on the good parts.
"Mum would make it lovely for us even if times were hard," Newkirk said. "She managed to cobble together a plum pudding every year without fail. She'd set aside flour and sugar and raisins and currants and spices, and stash away a thruppence to hide inside it, and a few pennies to pass out so the little ones wouldn't cry. We'd stir it up together, east to west, and hang it up to dry, trying to catch the drips with our tongues."
Everyone but LeBeau responded with stunned silence. That was more personal information than Newkirk had ever dispensed in one gulp, at least to them.
"East to west?" LeBeau asked. "What does that mean? And what was the money for?"
"The thruppence goes in the pudding; it's lucky to find it," Newkirk said. "And you stir east to west for the Three Wiseman, who traveled east to west. The whole family stirs up the plum pudding and you make a wish when it's your turn," Newkirk said. The expressions on his friends' faces told him they had no idea what this meant; it had never dawned on him that perhaps it was an English custom.
"Don't you make plum pudding?" Newkirk asked, looking around the table.
"No," Carter said. "Mostly we make pie. Apple pie, cherry pie, chocolate cream pie…"
"Well, making plum pudding's a piece of cake, Andrew," Newkirk said. "You start with 13 ingredients, one for each of the disciples and one for, you know, Jesus himself." He felt embarrassed at any suggestion that he'd had a religious upbringing; it just didn't fit the devil-may-care persona he'd spent years cultivating. But the fact was, his mum had hauled him to church for years. Some words had sunk in, if not the convictions.
He could have explained more. He could, in fact, have recited the collect for Stir-Up Sunday: "Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people." The good Lord could not have been clearer about the importance of making that pudding, he thought, smiling a bit again. He could have also sung the little ditty he and other rascals had chanted on the streets:
Stir up, we beseech thee,
The pudding in the pot,
And when we get home,
We'll eat it all hot.
We'll eat the lot.
Now he was smiling, really smiling, at the recollection. There was something else he wanted to say, and he might as well say it to his best mates.
"You know what was grand? Hanukkah." He nodded as he took another long drag on his cigarette, this one for pleasure, not courage. "My best mate back home is a lad called George Feinstein. They had latkes, sort of like the potato pancakes the Krauts like to eat, only much better. And they had puffy little round cakes with apricot and plum jam inside. It goes on for eight days, you know." He looked at Carter's bewildered expression and added softly, "It's a Jewish holiday. It happens around Christmas, but it's not as important to them as Christmas is to us. Still, it's very nice. The smell of spices and …"
"Christmas has 12 days," Carter interrupted.
"True, but we really only celebrate three of them. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day."
"Boxing Day? Hey, Kinch, you'd like that," Carter said.
Kinch let out a hardly laugh. "I think it's a different kind of Boxing Day, Carter," he said. "I read up on British traditions before I left for England. It's in the song 'Good King Wenceslas,' right, Newkirk?" Then he sang, "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen…"
"Yes." And Newkirk recited a line, because he didn't dare sing: "'Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.' It's about being generous with what you do have, even if it's not much."
With that, the spotlight shifted away from Newkirk and onto Christmas carols. Carter and LeBeau needed no encouragement; they were harmonizing beautifully. Newkirk sat quietly, listening and thinking.
He thought about Hanukkah and Boxing Day the year he was 10; they'd coincided, as they do from time to time. His father was … away. Detained. Daily life was a struggle, and to make matters worse, he'd grown like a weed; nothing fit, and clothing him was an added strain on Mum. Sam and Hal Levine, who worked in their father's tailoring shop along with Peter's mother, had quietly taken his measurements. When they turned up on Boxing Day, which was also the sixth day of Hanukkah, they had a new woolen coat for him—in hunter green, with brass buttons, and room to grow.
Newkirk wore that coat for three winters, until it no longer fit and Hal Levine showed him how to trim it down and restyle it for Mavis. He learned to nip it at the waist, and he switched every button and button hole from right to left for her so no one would think his eight-year-old sister was wearing a boy's coat.
He didn't see Hogan and Kinch exchange worried glances as he sank deeper into his thoughts. Suddenly he was on his feet and banging on the bunkbed entrance to head down below. Carter and LeBeau stopped singing.
"Hey, where are you going?" Carter asked.
"I just thought of something I need to do," Newkirk replied as his head disappeared from view.
"Tell Baker I'll be down to spell him soon," Kinch called.
"Roger," Newkirk replied as the bunk slammed back into place.
"Your shift's not up for two and a half hours, Kinch," Hogan said. "Baker knows that."
"I know that, but Newkirk doesn't. That's just my message to Baker to keep an eye on him," Kinch said. "If he's in a real mood or he does anything stupid like leave camp, Richie'll let us know."
Hogan nodded. There was a reason Kinch was his second in command.
LeBeau was on his feet now. "I'll go talk to him, mon Colonel," he said. "I'll find out what's going on. He'll tell me."
"We know what's going. It's his Christmas melancholy. Just give him a little breathing room, LeBeau," Hogan replied.
"If he's sulking, he'll miss dinner, and we actually have a ham," LeBeau said. "A very, very small ham, but a ham." But he saw Hogan shaking his head; he definitely meant no. LeBeau took his seat at the bench, where he let out a sigh of frustration.
H=H=H=H=H
Newkirk pawed through the wardrobe racks. He was sure it was in here somewhere. He'd made it by hand back when all he knew was that the operation was expanding rapidly and he needed to be ready for anything. It was too big for LeBeau and too small for anyone else. He finally located it and yanked it off the hanger. It was fine. It was perfect. It was … it was moth-eaten. He leaned into the wall and tipped his head up in frustration. Then he looked at the coat again. It would do for a pattern, and the buttons were brass; they'd work nicely. The lining was well made—well, of course it was. He'd made it and he was very particular about details. He was sure he had some undamaged wool that would serve, but it was going to be a late night.
He really needed to talk to Colonel Hogan about getting a sewing machine. It would help immensely.
But Newkirk was nothing if not quick. He snipped off the buttons, disassembled the coat, set aside the lining, drew up new patterns and cut out most of his pieces in a matter of hours. He was just about to start pinning pieces together when the bunk bed lifted and feet clattered down the ladder. He recognized from the clumsy landing that it was Carter.
"Hey, is everything going OK?" Carter hailed Newkirk. "LeBeau has a really nice Christmas Eve dinner planned. Boy, it's pretty amazing what Louis can accomplish with spam and corned beef. I have no idea what it is, but I think it's called putain. He seemed excited."
"You go right on believing that, mate," Newkirk said without even looking up.
"That's not what it's called?" Carter asked.
"No, Andrew, I'm quite sure it's not," Newkirk snickered. He put his work down and finally looked up. "I'm fine, Carter, but I'm busy. What are you hanging about for?"
Carter wasn't listening. He was fingering all the pieces of fabric that Newkirk had just cut out and started pinning together.
"It's like a puzzle," Carter said. "At least it is to me."
"It's exactly like a puzzle," Newkirk allowed. "And when you're the one putting it together, you've got to pay attention or it's not going to fit. I need to concentrate, Andrew."
"What is this?" Carter asked, holding up a piece of fabric.
"That's an upper sleeve," Newkirk said. Carter held up another piece. "Back panel. Another back panel. Facings. Come on, Carter, don't mess up my pieces." He took the fabric out of Carter's hand and firmly placed it on his worktable.
"Do you need any help?" Carter asked.
Exasperation was creeping into Newkirk's voice now. "What could you possibly help with? You don't sew, and I certainly don't have time to teach you."
Carter answered with another question—or two. "It's a coat? For who?"
"It's just something I want to have in stock," Newkirk said. "All right, listen. Can you iron? Without burning things, I mean?" He wasn't going to get rid of Carter without being unpleasant, and he was trying very hard to be pleasant at Christmastime.
"Yeah, I can do that. Jeez, Newkirk, I'm careful. I handle explosives, you know. Ouch!"
"You stuck yourself with a pin, didn't you?" Newkirk said, fighting back a laugh.
"Seems like it," Carter admitted.
"All right, heat up them irons and I'll tell you what I need you to do," Newkirk said. "And don't burn yourself."
Kinch came down to change shifts with Baker and poked his head into Newkirk's sewing alcove. "Everything OK, guys?"
"Just working on uniforms, Kinch. Keeping supply ahead of demand," Newkirk replied.
Kinch came in and peered at the work in his hand. "That's kind of small. Is it for LeBeau?"
"Get a grip, mate. It's too big for LeBeau," Newkirk scoffed. "I might bring it to the zoo and give it to Freddie."
Kinch rapped him on the back of the head and laughed, then went off to relieve Baker.
H=H=H=H=H
Newkirk and Carter made headway, but LeBeau came down the ladder with a tray of food for Kinch, and summoned the two of them up to eat.
His meal was a small miracle, better than anyone had a right to expect. The meat was finely ground and baked into a sort of shepherd's pie, topped with a sauce and mashed potatoes that were fresh, for once; or at least the amount of mold that had to be cut away was minimal, Olsen reported. There were carrots and parsnips and cheese and an apple tart.
And when the last scrap had been consumed, there was a burping contest to finish the evening in style. Olsen won the award for volume with his wall-rattler; Carter, to everyone's amazement, took the duration prize with a rumbler that went on for a full 15 seconds, according to Garlotti's stop watch. There was talk of additional competitions, but Hogan drew the line at what he was sure Newkirk was about to suggest.
LeBeau pulled Newkirk aside. "What are you doing down there?"
"Something helpful, Louis," Newkirk replied. "Not to worry."
"You're not down? You're not unhappy?" LeBeau persisted. He did worry, whether Newkirk said to or not. They'd been through some very hard times together and he knew Newkirk was a professional at masking his feelings.
"No. I'm actually quite happy with the job I've given myself. It's for someone who needs the help, Louis."
"All right," LeBeau said. Then he grabbed Newkirk by the sleeve. "Come to mass with Colonel Hogan and me tonight? It would do you good."
Newkirk shook his head. "I just can't, Louis. The incense gets up my nose, and the Latin baffles me."
LeBeau shrugged. "Then go with Carter and Kinch and your British friends. It won't be half as beautiful in English, but it will lift you up."
"I just can't, Louis. My heart's not in it," Newkirk replied. He leaned in and whispered. "I like the story, Louis, but I can't be mesmerized by magic. I know too much about conjuring. And I can be more useful here."
"Pagan," LeBeau said with a smirk. "You're going straight to hell, you know that." They'd had this conversation more than a few times.
"Oh, there's no hope for you either and you know it," Newkirk laughed. "Remember, you go to heaven for the climate and to hell for the company, Louis. I'll see you and the Colonel there. I expect Andrew and Kinch will be too busy learning to play the harp."
H=H=H=H=H
Mercifully, the icy rain had stopped by the time Christmas Eve services were to begin. Roll call was dispensed with; Catholics would be counted at mass in the rec hall, while Protestants would be tallied at the service in the mess hall. A handful of Jewish prisoners stayed behind with a couple dozen atheists and professed heathens like Newkirk; they were mustered onto the parade ground for a quick head count and then dismissed to the barracks and left to their own devices for a change. Newkirk returned to his task underground.
He worked away until he heard the bunk bed lift up again. This time the feet that landed at the bottom had the clickety sound of a good pair of leather shoes striking a stone floor. It was the Colonel. Newkirk covered up his project with his uniform blouse and gathered up a pair of trousers in need of hemming.
Hogan had two cloth bags in his hands as he entered the alcove. "Newkirk—the very man I wanted to see. You're with me tonight."
"Tonight, Sir? What's the mission?" The radio had been quiet; he wasn't aware of anything that had to be done.
"I'm Santa; you're my elf. Get your blacks on," Hogan said.
Newkirk smirked. He liked the sound of that, even though he had a lot of work to do. "Righto, Sir," he said. "What's in the bags?"
"Food and a couple blankets for Great Oak. Apples, potatoes, two cans of milk courtesy of Schultz, plus all the salt, sugar and flour LeBeau could spare," Hogan said. "LeBeau said you'd have to help him steal some more next week."
"Pleased to be of service, Gov," Newkirk said.
"I wish we could give more, but we can't risk having them caught with anything from our Red Cross packages."
"But what about the children?" Newkirk said. "Nothing from Father Christmas?"
"There's no time, Newkirk," Hogan said. But he sounded regretful and his eyes swept the room, seeking inspiration.
"How old are they, Sir? Boys or girls?" Newkirk asked.
"You've met the boy," Hogan replied. "The other three are girls. I think the oldest is eight."
"Could you give me 30 minutes, then, Sir? I can make some toys. Maybe you can find something up above for the boy. A ball or a checkerboard or a… a…"
"A jackknife. Garlotti has one that he won from a guard. I'll talk to him," Hogan said.
Newkirk worked quickly. He grabbed four clothespins, wrapped them with yarn, and quickly fashioned hair, dresses, pillows and blankets for them from fabric scraps. He tucked them into bed in a pair of German pharmaceutical tins that they'd kept as props. Those would do for the older girls. Then he stitched together a simple teddy bear with a brown cloth patch for its nose. He stuffed it with fabric scraps, stitched on button eyes and a red mouth, tied a blue ribbon around one ear, and fashioned a little pinafore. With so many little sisters, he'd had lot of practice improvising dolls.
As they were preparing to leave, he turned back to go through the wardrobe racks one more time. He pulled out a jacket that would do for Great Oak and ran his fingers over one of his Granny dresses. It would surely be too large for Great Oak's missus, so he left it behind, but he stashed the jacket in the bag without mentioning it to the Colonel.
They met Great Oak at the edge of the wood. He was dressed for church; he'd just been to the midnight mass. His family had gone home ahead of him on one of the few nights of the year when curfews were eased.
Hogan handed him the bags and explained, "Food, blankets, and a few gifts for the children. There's nothing in here that's identifiable, so you're just a father who's bringing a few things home for Christmas." Hogan shook his hand. "Merry Christmas, Great Oak. Oh, and Schnitzer is delivering some firewood. He might be there by now, actually."
"Good, good. Peter will bring it in," Great Oak said.
"Who's Peter?" Newkirk asked.
"My son. You met him," Great Oak said. "You should have heard him in church tonight. He sang like an angel."
"Tall lad," Newkirk said. "How big is he?"
"He's 165 centimeters, and he's not yet 12," Great Oak said. "We can hardly keep him in trousers."
"Or coats," Newkirk said. "We put one in the bag, but it's more your size than his."
Hogan raised his eyebrows at that. He hadn't noticed.
Great Oak turned to Hogan. "We're grateful for anything, Papa Bear. Clothing is hard to come by."
"We'll be in touch," Hogan said. "We've got to get back now. Get home safely and be with your family."
Newkirk and Hogan walked silently through the woods. Finally, as they descended the ladder to safety, Hogan spoke up.
"He's got your name," he said.
"I knew I liked that lad," Newkirk smirked. "Sir, I've got something for him."
"We gave him the jackknife, Newkirk," Hogan said. "Let's not get carried away."
"Din't you see him last night, Gov? His coat don't fit. Shaking like a cold, wet dog, he was."
Hogan knew Newkirk was getting wound up whenever his accent ratcheted up and his grammar took a turn for worse. "OK, show me what you've got."
Newkirk led Hogan to his work table and dug the coat out from the pile he'd hidden it under. It was partly finished, partly pinned and basted, and he held it up gingerly. "I still have quite a bit to do, but if you give me tomorrow, I can finish it, Sir," he said. "We can deliver it on Boxing Day."
Hogan ran his fingers over a seam. Newkirk's work, as usual, was precise and professional.
Newkirk continued. "Did anyone ever give you something you really needed, Sir? Not just something you wanted. Something you needed?"
Hogan looked down, bobbing his head as he thought. Finally, his eyes met Newkirk's.
"I can't say I've ever really needed anything, Newkirk. I've been lucky."
"I've been lucky too, Sir," Newkirk said. "Because just when things look dark, something good usually happens. When I was about that lad's age, someone made a coat for me, with brass buttons like these, and didn't ask nothing in return," he said, scooping up the buttons one hand. "This is my chance to return the favor."
"And you weren't cold anymore," Hogan said.
"I wasn't cold. And I wasn't ashamed neither. Not when I walked down the street and not when I went to school. Because my clothes finally fit."
Huh, Hogan thought. His clothes had always fit.
"That lad Peter's coat can become his little sister's new coat, Sir. I can take it in and remake it for her. And then the next little one can have her coat, and the little girl after that. Or I could make a new one if I got the measurements, and if I could have the time…" He ran out of steam, looking tentatively at Hogan, who was looking at him in something between surprise and confusion.
"You can have the time, Newkirk. But we can't become an outfitting service to every family in the underground," Hogan said.
"Not every family. Just one family, Sir. We can show them a kindness. We can be useful and help them." Because that was what was missing from Christmas for Newkirk. Not food. Not presents. Only the ability to be of use to others for no other reason than a desire to help. Because he remembered what it was like to need an act of generosity.
"A boy named Peter and his three little sisters," Hogan observed.
"I didn't know that about them, Sir, not until tonight," Newkirk said with a crooked grin. "It's strange, isn't it?"
"No," Hogan said. "No, it's not strange. It's Christmas."
The story about the Levine Brothers making Newkirk's coat comes from my story "In the Name of the Father." In the same story, Newkirk has three sisters immediately younger than him.