Elation over what this could mean rippled through the crowd. So much so, a boy launched himself from the front row and with him a swarm of followers.

“No, no! Not yet!” Big Vera motioned as if fending off piglets from a trough.

Volunteers jumped in to reverse the stage rush. With relative order restored, they huddled to confer with Big Vera, who readdressed the room.

“Children, we can see you’re all very excited about the goodies waiting for you. We’ve therefore decided to bypass the play for the time being. If you’ll kindly line up at the stairs to my left—in a mannerly fashion—you may approach to receive…”

The rest fell away. Like the pop of a pistol, the announcement unleashed a massive dash for the queue. I too joined in, determined not to be left empty-handed. Squeals and grunts arose as competitors jockeyed for a spot. Bony elbows and shoulders pegged me from all sides. Though I kept from tumbling, I wound up toward the rear of the endlessly snaking line.

When a man dressed as Santa Claus settled on a chair by the barrels, a pack of kids clambered straight onto the stage. A volunteer looked displeased. She gave them no turns with St. Nicholas but dispensed their presents with haste. Then she shooed them past the piano toward the steps designated for descent.

I frowned at their unjust reward but continued to inch my way forward. One child after the other chatted briefly with Santa before leaving with items from the barrels. Observing the interactions, as was my usual pastime, I fidgeted with my dress and the buttons of my coat. Two years earlier, a kindhearted Bulgarian woman gave me the outfit, which her daughters had outgrown. Soon widowed by the mine, she packed up her family and moved away. The dress—with embroidered pink petals, a Peter Pan collar, and a tie at the waist—was the sole one I owned and obviously fancier than my usual overalls. As for the fit, it had grown a bit short and tight around the ribs, but that wasn’t the current core of my unease.

While I progressed steadily toward the stage, the first barrel was emptied. Much too fast, the final mound was depleting. The deeper the volunteers reached, the more my nerves jangled. A trio of brazen boys slid into the line a second time. Quickly thwarted by vigilant parents, they half smirked through their punishments—ear tugs for the smaller two, a cuff to the head for the eldest—as if the gamble was still worthy.

On the main floor and up in the balcony, where columns and arches added flair, parents yakked away in ethnic clusters. Mothers soothed infants by rocking and bouncing. Laughter and languages clamored, growing loud enough to require near yelling. Framed by windows spanning a single wall, the cloud-laden sky began to dim.