The Christmas Angel

Sasha Kovalenko's washboard hands gently stroked young Alexy's soft cheeks. He was asleep now. Finally. The fever was growing worse with each passing hour, rising as steadily within his twelve-year-old body as the temperature was falling outside their three-room shack.

"How is the boy?" asked Fyodor, the boy's father, as he struggled against the fierce wind to close the shack's door. The heavy bundle of wood he carried made his effort even more challenging.

"He is burning up--his flesh is like fire." Sasha's voice was almost inaudible, partly because she was afraid if she spoke too loudly Alexy would wake, but mostly because the fear which consumed her made speech a near impossibility. "I fear if the fever does not break soon...we will lose him."

Fyodor placed two logs on the fire and then walked slowly over to the bed where his wife had maintained her two day vigil. "You must rest while he sleeps. You are exhausted and it will do no good for anything if you become ill."

She looked up with tear-filled eyes. Her husband's strong peasant hands massaging her aching shoulders brought her no solace or comfort. "Where is the doctor, Fyodor? Why does he not come?"

"We must be patient. The village is rife with sickness and there is but one doctor. The nurse told me that he has not seen a bed in several days, and is himself not well. Supposedly, word has been sent to Leningrad requesting help but the weather is so bad, there is no telling when that help will arrive." A deep sigh of exasperation escaped from the helpless tin smith's thick chest.

Alexy stirred from slumber and began thrashing about the bed. His movements were without purpose. Jerky and erratic.

"Fetch me a wet cloth-quickly!" ordered his mother. "He is throwing a fit!"

Moments later, with a cold rag still resting on his forehead, Alexy Fyodorovich Kovalenko's seizure stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

"Papa. Papa. Look--over there!" The boy's words were strained, as though it took more strength than he possessed to utter them.

"What is it, my son?" asked his frightened father.

"He is delirious," announced Sasha.

Again the boy spoke. This time, however, there was no mistaking that he knew what he was saying. His words were deliberate and he pointed with one finger."In the corner. Over there. He is beautiful. The most beautiful man I have ever seen!"

Sasha and Fyodor looked to where their son pointed, but saw nothing but the coat rack, laden with Sasha's tattered winter fur and Fyodor's leather apron, the one he wore in his small shop.

"Now, now, Alexy. You must rest," whispered Sasha into her son's ear. "It is nothing but the coat rack. You were just having a dream. You are imagining things. Mama and Papa are here with you. No one will harm you."

"No, Mama. I am not dreaming." Alexy placed his arms alongside his thin body and with all his might lifted himself into a sitting position. "It is a Christmas angel. I can see him clearer than ever. He is standing in the corner beside the Christmas tree. Saint Nikolas has sent him. Or God."

If there had been any momentary hope harbored by Fyodor Kovalenko that his son's condition was improving, it was now dashed. The boy's sickness had now affected his mind, his words were nothing more than mad ravings. There was no Christmas tree standing in the corner; there was no such person as Saint Nikolas, the elder Kovalenko's had taken diligent care to insure that their child would not grow up believing in such foolish myths. And as far as God was concerned; well, he was the cruelest myth of all.

"Fyodor! Don't shout at the boy. He is ill. Leave him be." Sasha held her son tightly against her body protectively.

Alexy's bright cobalt-blue eyes remained fixed on the far corner of the room. A pained smile broke across his fever-baked lips, and he continued to point at the coat rack. He was apparently oblivious to all, except for the wonderment which played magnificently in his mind. And to which he, alone, was privy.

Several hours passed and the short Russian winter day slipped quietly into evening. And with the coming of the long, frigid darkness also came the need for additional wood.

Mother and child were now fast asleep, cradled in each other's arms. Fyodor placed the last log on the fire and prepared to make his way out into the blizzard to fetch more wood, when there came a pounding at the door.

"Who's there?" shouted Fyodor gruffly, for he was still upset by his own behavior earlier that day. All afternoon he had been sitting by the fire, bewildered as to why his son had made such silly and disquieting remarks.

"It is Doctor Belikov. Please open the door."

"What is it?" asked a half-awake Sasha.

"The doctor's come," said Fyodor as he unbolted the door.

"Good evening, Fyodor Mikhailovich. I am sorry it has taken so long for me to arrive, but you must understand that you are a long way off and I have had many patients to care for."

"Come in, Doctor, and warm yourself," invited Sasha from across the room. "Let me get you some hot cabbage soup."

"-Perhaps some vodka, Doctor?" offered Fyodor.

"Thank you, that is very kind. But first I must look after young Alexy."

Without turning, the doctor removed his woolen scarf and shed his sheepskin coat and gloves, placing them into Fyodor's waiting arms. "How is he?"

"Not well at all, I'm afraid," answered the distraught mother. "He hasn't been able to keep anything down in three days--not even water. And the fever rages inside him. This afternoon he became delirious."

A look of grave concern shrouded the doctor's face as he stood by the boy's bed, rubbing his hands together to warm them before touching the child's fiery body, fearful that the sudden shock might have dire consequences.

"The entire village of Bryansk is a veritable cauldron of pestilence. No one-young or old, weak or strong is immune from this disease."

"What is the sickness called?" asked Sasha timidly.

"It has no name," answered the Doctor, blowing on his hands to hasten the warming process. "And I must be totally truthful with you, so far all attempts at treatment have met with less than encouraging results. Its cure is beyond scientific explanation. We shall have to look to a higher power. For the time being, all we can do is pra...." The Doctor stopped before finishing his sentence, remembering in whose home he was visitng.

"Alexy has never been a strong boy," complained Fyodor, placing two glasses on the bed-side table and pouring a generous amount of vodka into both. "He prefers playing his stupid violin and writing poetry to playing sports like other boys. He has no friends..."

"...That's not true, Fyodor. His teacher says he has many friends. They just live so far away," defended Sasha.

Satisfied that his hands were now warm enough to begin the examination, Doctor Belikov carefully pulled the quilt blanket away from the boy's neck, opened his medical bag and removed his thermometer and stethoscope.

"How long has he been sleeping?"

"Four, five hours--maybe a little longer."

Doctor Belikov touched the boy's forehead and gently called his name.

No response.

The Doctor unbottoned the top of Alexy's pajamas and stood silently, watching the boy breathe. Alexy's ribs were clearly outlined beneath the milk-white skin, as distinct as if being viewed on X-ray film, but their movements were even and unlabored. Doctor Belikov placed his stethoscope on Alexy's chest, listening intently to the boy's heart sounds. They were as strong as an athlete's. Neither was there any sign of congestion in the boy's chest.

"What is this, Fyodor Mikhailovich, some kind of a joke?" The Doctor angrily tore his stethoscope from his ears and threw it in his bag. "I have sick people to attend to. Some of them are dying-and you call me here for nothing!"

Sasha became hysterical. "What is it, Doctor? Are you too late? Is he already...gone?"

"Gone!" cried the Doctor, reaching for the glass of vodka-more now for its calming effect than for its warming properties. "The boy is asleep. That's all. His skin is as cool as a melon. See for yourself."

Each of the boy's parents placed a hand on their son's forehead and shook their head in disbelief.

"Give me my coat," demanded the Doctor. "I have no further time to waste here."

And then for the first time since he had entered the small home, Doctor Belikov turned to face the opposite side of the room. A look of inexplicable astonishment beamed across his face.

"Why Fyodor Mikhailovich! Since when have you taken to celebrating Christmas? And where did you find such a magnificent tree? With an angel on top, no less!"

But of course neither Fyodor Mikhailovich nor his dumbfounded wife Sasha had any idea what he was talking about.

END