I knew of course who the Old White Man was. He came the night before the New Year and lifted the children to check if they had eaten well. He threw away those who had not eaten enough and rewarded those who had with even more delicious dishes. So far, nobody in our clan had been thrown away, but people said it had happened elsewhere. But I did not know what the jolka was. Father could not tell me and not even Grandma knew. Brother and Sister talked about a decorated room, but did not know what exactly it was all about. Much later I learned that jolka was derived from a Russian word and meant Christmas tree. At the time, our New Year celebrations had not yet been declared illegal, but preparations for that step were well under way, and new customs were gaining ground. Even in our corner of the country, people had begun to celebrate New Year’s Eve the way people did in Russia, and the Russian Father Frost had become the Mongolian Old White Man.

I was not the Old White Man, but I did serve Brother and Sister the leftover sweets they had been awarded before. They were more astonished than pleased. Sister Torlaa wanted to know why I had not been allowed to eat them. “It was his own choice,” Mother explained, “he was very frugal.” Was she defending herself or making excuses for me? “You’ll become a Stalin,” said Sister Torlaa, only to be scolded. The chiding came from Father and included a rebuke for Mother, who had coined the phrase everybody now used when they found fault with me. On the other hand, Brother Galkaan had nothing but praise: “That’s amazing! I couldn’t have done it.” It was costly praise: I gave him the biggest piece, and he ate it with relish. Days later, though, I got the replacement when Father returned with the Old White Man’s presents after taking Brother and Sister back to school.

They had kept nothing for themselves and sent me everything that was in the two paper bags. There were candies and biscuits of a kind nobody had ever seen. The biscuits tasted slightly of roasted barley flour and were soft and very sweet. Grandma praised them, but I said I couldn’t eat them. So Grandma ate the soft, sweet biscuits and loudly blessed Brother and Sister, who had learned well and earned their presents.

Brother and Sister stayed with us for nine days. I spent my days with Brother and my nights with Sister. It was the first time I sensed in him a second father and in her a second mother. They pampered me. Once again I was the baby. But my time with them was far too short. It was like a dream I had to wake up from in order to become aware that I had been deeply happy. I had to wake up and watch Brother and Sister be torn from me again. Arsylang watched along with me, and I realized only then that I must have somehow neglected him over the days of their visit. I felt guilty. Dark sadness filled his eyes as he carefully watched Father saddle the horses and tie the bulging bags to the saddles. When Father lifted Brother and Sister up onto their horse and Mother sprinkled milk on their stirrups, Arsylang plunked himself on his behind, turned his mouth toward the sky, and let out a low, drawn-out howl.