Christmas 2019 — A Look at the Christmas Truce of 1914

Although it had long faded from public memory, this century has brought renewed awareness of the “Christmas Truce” of 1914. About ten years ago our family enjoyed the deeply moving, 2005 production of Joyeux Noel. We knew a little about the truce, but hardly enough. We later learned that there were truces in all fronts of that war.

To better understand this event requires an appreciation of the religious awareness of men and women at the turn of the twentieth century. Although the nihilism of Nietzsche, combined with the deleterious effects of the German, and, later, English “lower criticism”, had begun their march across elite academia and her handmaidens, their effect had not yet dribbled down to Everyman. Yet it was Everyman who would be sent out to march to his death in the name of the cynicism making its inroads into western civilization. 

Most men and women of the West considered themselves Christian and cherished their traditions, with Christmas occupying a special place in their hearts. So when, a few days before Christmas, 1914, in defiance of national leaders, a “Christmas Truce” was observed across all fronts of the war, the politicians and military brass (along with certain civilian sectors ) were outraged. In other words, those not actually in the arena, in the war’s front; those not bleeding and dying, were angry. Adolph Hitler was not in the trenches at the time, but he is known to have been bitterly opposed to the truce. Charles De Gaulle called it “lamentable.”

In one section, the Truce began with Germans singing Silent Night, in their language. The British across no man’s land were surprised, but also began to sing the same Christmas carol in English. Eventually, a German soldier came out of his trench and erected a Christmas tree in no man’s land. British guns were aimed on him, but no one fired. That action spurred more spontaneous reactions, and, eventually, British and German soldiers were meeting in no man’s land, shaking hands, laughing, singing, exchanging cigarettes, food, and other small gifts — even soccer matches were held — in the spirit of Christmas. 

Many letters are extant which tell, sometimes in moving prose, the details of the truce as it unfolded and ended in the letter-writers’ sections. Especially touching are the narrations about how the respite also allowed each opposing side to bury their dead.

In some sections, this truce extended through the first of January.

The brass descended with guns blazing. In one incident, an irate British officer, beside himself, took a rifle and, not to put too fine a point on it, murdered an unarmed German soldier standing in no man’s land. 

The war resumed and carried on through three more Christmastimes and almost a fourth, were it not for the armistice of November 11, 1918. The high commands ensured there would be no more Christmas truces by, among other measures, issuing orders the following December warning against any “fraternizing” with the enemy. Anyone participating in any Christmas truce would be charged with “rendering aid and comfort to the enemy.” 

By the end of the war, over twenty million people had died in the conflict, ten million of which were soldiers such as as those who had participated in the Christmas truce of 1914.

The 20th (twentieth) century should be known as the atheistic century, as it was characterized by regimes that boasted their denials of God. Gil Elliott in his 1972 work, The Book of the Dead tells us that the twentieth century, the century which represents the great triumph of humanism, gave us wars, revolutions, and concentration and re-education camps that killed between 89 and 159 million men, women, and children. Twenty-eight years later, seven French scholars wrote the magisterial, The Black Book of Communism which in over 900 chillingly documented pages, using formerly unavailable source documents, demonstrates that over 100 million fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, boys, girls, and babies died under the hand of atheistic communism, in addition to the dead from the wars of that century. 

“From whence come wars and fightings among you? Come they not hence, even of your lusts that war in your members (James 4:1)?” The great fighter pilot and writer, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, whose existentialist tendencies I reject, but whose insights of man-in-action I respect, expressed it pithily: “For in the end, man always gravitates in the direction commanded by the lodestone within him.” 

The Biblical, Augustinian concept of Just War needs to be dusted off and examined once again. There is evil in the world and Just Wars may be necessary; however, many wars certainly are not just. 

On that first Christmas Day over two-thousand years ago was born the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6). God commands all, including governors and princes and judges to honor Him. In history, many have done just that. And many have disdained to do so, especially in the 20th century. Peace and life tend to characterize the former; wars and death, the latter.

On this Christmas season of 2019, may we renew our love for God and may that renewal bring us to love our neighbor, and to be at peace with one another even as those soldiers of opposing armies were at peace, albeit for a short time, on the Christmas Truce of 1914.

Our family wishes you and yours a Very Merry Christmas season.

British and German soldiers at the Christmas Truce 
Statue in Liverpool, England, commemorating the Christmas Truce of 1914.
British and German soldiers during the Christmas truce of 1914
Germans and Brits at soccer during the truce

Christmas, 1959

Yes, it’s my favorite season. You can blame my parents for that. They abused us by making every effort to ensure we children experienced the joy of Christmas every year we lived in El Pao. Did they not realize that those memories they took such pains to create would endure throughout all the years of our lives? For shame.

They also forced us to receive visits from my mother’s side of the family who, every Christmas, drove over an hour on the dirt/rock road (later, when the road was asphalted, it took 45 minutes or so) to our house in El Pao for Christmas dinner (something we’d reciprocate by visiting them, every year, on New Year’s Day). Ah, what visits! All the laughter and joy. How did we ever endure such mistreatment?

We even believed in Santa Claus! Yikes!

I recall rushing through our front screen door, which led to the screen-enclosed, spacious porch area, sparsely outfitted with a rattan lounge chair and small sofa to the left, and a tall wooden bookcase, built to order by Señor Montaño, the camp’s carpenter, to my right. These furnishings seemed, to me, to be permanently covered by what appeared to be clear plastic shower curtains to protect them from the mists and drizzle which would drift in through the screen windows during the rainy season. However, since Christmastime was not the rainy season, the diaphanous coverings were absent. But I’d see them anyway.

Then I’d hear the at once familiar diapason sounding forth from the living room, where the record player sat. The vinyl disc was a Christmas album by The Randolph Singers whose broad tessitura instantly announced the upcoming joyous season. It must be 1959, because we are only two children. To this day, whenever “The Boar’s Head Carol” or “The Wassail Song” or “Fum Fum Fum” is  performed on radio or stage or disc, I can’t help but to compare such to The Randolph Singers.

A few nights later, the camp would shine with a host of blinking white lights interlaced among the scores of steady, multi-colored bulbs entwined throughout overhangs, bushes, and large boughs, and stately trunks and throughout the vast coronas of the Araguaneys. The lights were so many that the camp seemed a mini-Times Square in the eye of the jungle, forever stamping in my memory an enduring association of lights with Christmas.

A most apt association indeed as Jesus Christ is the Light of the world.

The aguinalderos would soon begin their sporadic visits, going door to door, singing with good cheer and hilarious make-them-up-as-you-go carols. The aguinalderos were the Venezuelan version of 20th century descendants of the medieval jongleurs, or English and French minstrels. These men were adept at playing the “cuatro”, a four-string, mini-guitar, the tambour, a lightweight, slender, but sufficiently long and loud percussion instrument, maracas, and, often, the guiro, a conical instrument with washboard-like grooves across which the musician would rasp a small wooden board.

But these men were even more adept at making up songs with pointed, relevant lyrics, often detailing some physical characteristics of the house at which they sang, or quirks of its inhabitants, along with some historical anecdotes about them; but all tying back to Christmas somehow, and all at the spur of the moment. Those who knew Spanish, would laugh uproariously, fully understanding and marveling at the jokes, the light sarcasm, the sweetness, but most of all, the agility. Those homes with little or no Spanish knowledge enjoyed the lively music, but only for a little while because it quickly began to sound repetitious, which it was to those not understanding what was being said.

Another two memories which come immediately to mind at Christmas. 

Mrs. Bebita De La Torre had a beautiful and sweet singing voice. At Christmastime, events would be held at the camp club. One Christmas season night, it seemed the entire camp population fit into the main club hall and we stood around the hall about two lines deep and sang “Silent Night” in English and Spanish. I happened to have been placed right next to Mrs. Bebita. To me, her voice seemed to waft, to carry across the hall, even though it was not loud or overwhelming, and certainly not ostentatious. Towards the last verse, I just pretended to be singing, because I preferred to just hear her as she sang “Silent Night” next to me.

And then there’s “The Christmas Song”. The record player sits across the room from the tree under which many wrapped presents are placed and we children are being readied for bed. The silky soothing voice of Nat King Cole issues forth from the player and I know it is Christmas night.

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=the+randolph+singers&view=detail&mid=91822C3C81A5C580039B91822C3C81A5C580039B&FORM=VIRE
Should you like to hear one of The Randolph Singers Christmas albums

Should you like to take 6 minutes to see snippets of a family Christmas in 1958. You’ll see four generations here, including the pipe smoking great-grandmother. This is around the same time of the events in this post.
Should you like to bask in the late, great Nat King Cole’s voice singing “The Christmas Song”
Christmas 1961, the last Christmas in the “old house”.
Early Christmas season, circa 1964, in the “new house.”
Uncle Alfred and Cousin Janis, early Christmas season, 1960, Miami. Aunt Sarah in background.

The Lost Children of Vargas

This post is one of the few where I direct the reader to current news, this time via three links (below).

The first link is a wrenching narrative by José Cordeiro, whose father was unable to survive the wait times imposed by socialized medicine.

The second link is an article on Venezuela’s refugee crisis, which now surpasses Syria’s. However, as you will read, the “international community” has provided over $7 Billion to the Syria crisis, but about half a Billion to the Venezuela crisis. One can only conclude that some crises are more chic than others.

The third, and final, link is perhaps the most wrenching of all. This hearkens to “the Vargas tragedy”, December, 1999, when days of rain precipitated massive landslides which destroyed, completely buried, or washed out to sea countless people and entire towns. The United States offered help, initially accepted but then refused by then-president Hugo Chavez who, in agreement with his good friend, Fidel Castro, believed a revolutionary stance was more important than saving lives. Many children were handed over to officials by distraught parents. What happened to them? The question remains unanswered twenty years later.

https://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2019/12/13/study-venezuelas-refugee-crisis-to-surpass-syria-largest-in-modern-history/

In a Socialist society, people often vote with their feet.
There are countless images of the Vargas disaster. Among them are photos of makeshift wooden crosses with the names of the members of entire families who disappeared.

Ikeya-Seki, 1965

I did not remember anyone talking about waking us up at, what? 2 A. M.? 4 A. M.? 

But there was my father, shaking me awake hours before dawn on a weekday morning. 

In my torpor I figured we were going fishing, but the little voice in the back insisted and persisted in affirming that today was a school day and it would be highly unlikely for him to encourage us to play hooky.

By the time I was on my feet, shuffling to the living room, I saw that my mother had already awakened my sisters, who, equally perplexed, waited for me in the living room. We were too sleepy to speak or even grumble. The house was silent.

Our parents led us through the long kitchen and someone drowsily asked whether the Flor de La Medianoche (Midnight Flower) was blooming that night. A most reasonable question, which would unlock tonight’s mystery.

However, there was a difference: trumpets usually (always?) preceded the Flor de La Medianoche spectacle. Throughout the day, the talk around the camp, among children as well as adults, would reflect the excited anticipation of getting up at midnight to witness the event. We’d go to bed knowing that we’d be awakened to go outside and gawk at this magnificent, aromatic flower which buds at midnight. Sometimes, at that hour, we’d receive visitors who did not cultivate it but who enjoyed its beauty and would come over to celebrate with us. Photos would be taken. Other families around the camp who cultivated the flower, would do likewise. 

The flower not only blooms at midnight, but it also begins to die almost immediately. As I recall, this was a biannual occurrence. 

But tonight was different. Too quiet, for one thing. No excited talk the previous day, for another. It was as if the adults had thought about engaging in whatever it was that we were about to do, but did not commit, given the nuttiness of the hour.

My father held the kitchen door open and we all, no longer shuffling, marched out to the carport as he ordered us to get in the car. In our pajamas? Really? 

Mother and father said nothing or very little or very quietly or I was too sleepy to capture any conversation. We three children (at the time) just sat in the back seat as we rode along the familiar camp road out, past the club grounds, and to the alcabala (security gate) whose guard dutifully opened for us.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recall is coming to Rankin Hill, a residential section of the labor camp (otro campo) with a clearing at the edge, which afforded an expansive overlook. As my father sought a space to park, we saw many (many!) people, from both camps, gathered there. Through the windshield we beheld the most spectacular constellation of lights, with a brightness that surpassed the moon’s, and an apparent proximity which felt as if we could reach out, just beyond the hill, and grab a handful of stars.

We walked, hurriedly, to the clearing; everyone knew everyone and greetings were continuously exchanged, but always the gaze, the commentary, the wonderment was towards the spectacle displayed against the tropical night sky. The brightness was powerfully magnetic, like a consuming fire which doesn’t allow you to look away. 

“Ikeya-Seki”, someone said. What? “Ikeya-Seki!” And what in the world is an Ikeya-Seki? A new constellation appearing next to the earth?

It was a magnificent comet, discovered by Japanese scientists in 1965, just a month or so before it became visible to the naked eye as it swept within 500,000 miles of the sun. This was brighter than Halley’s. I had seen photos of Halley’s. I had read about Halley’s. Halley’s was a good friend of mine. And this was way more impressive than Halley’s. 

Ikeya-Seki was confirmed to have been the brightest comet of the 20th century; indeed, of the past one-thousand years. Some called it “The Great Comet”.

Scientists tell us it was 10 times brighter than the full moon. From a child’s perspective, it seemed like another sun, only broken into  countless, infinitesimal pieces, with a 75 million-mile long tail that looked like a curtain majestically splayed across a massive night stage. From Rankin Hill, the comet shot downwards, with a tail stretching up into limitless space. We looked almost straight up, as if standing at the foot of the Empire State Building and looking up to try to see the observatory deck. The tail seemed to “hang” down from infinity, and lowering our gaze to behold it horizontally, we could see its width extending across, and its length dropping behind the jungle horizon. To say it dominated the sky would be the understatement of the ages.

Ikeya-Seki continued to own the sky throughout the month of November, 1965.

Seems that someone from the labor camp had called our parents and encouraged them to come, and to bring us along, as the sight was one for a lifetime. 

And that it was.

I had never seen anything like it; nor have I since. 

It’s due to return in about 1,000 years. 

Photo taken in southern California in late October, 1965. This is not the view I had in southeastern Venezuela, but unfortunately I cannot find photos taken in the vicinity of my childhood. Maybe someone took a photo, but I’ve had no success thus far in 
tracking it down.
Midnight Flower
My sisters enjoying the Midnight Flower in our El Pao home, circa 1967