The line lasted so long that Santa had to excuse himself “for a break to feed the reindeer.” Since the remaining kids were all older like me, aware of the truth and caring most about the gifts, Big Vera stepped in to keep the queue moving.

At last my turn came and I scuttled into place.

“Hello, my dear,” she said from a mile overhead. “How about a little doll? Would you like that?”

I nodded vigorously, too excited to speak. The closest thing to a real doll I’d ever possessed—not the paper kind that I’d wrinkled and ripped over years of play—had been sewn from a sock and became so tattered it resembled a one-winged penguin.

But as Big Vera rummaged through the barrel, her smile wavering, my heart plummeted even before the news.

“I’m ever so sorry, honey. I could have sworn I saw another one down in there.” She brightened. “I know! How about a special choo-choo train? Would that be all right?”

Girls traded mutterings behind me. Though expressed in Russian, their impatience needed no translation.

I replied to Big Vera with another nod, this time hiding disappointment as Papa would insist I be grateful. Politely I accepted a small wooden train and a handful of penny candy—butterscotch and taffies, which I stuffed into my coat pocket. I thanked her with the toothiest grin I could muster, perhaps not the most convincing, and was shuffling away when she tapped my shoulder. Leaning down, she slipped me an additional gift: a pair of thick mittens, dark green and fuzzy.

“A match to your lovely eyes.” She winked, and my cheeks warmed from being seen.

Recalling she was unmarried, I tried to envision her and Papa engaged in a courtship. Whereas some called me a “Dutch runt,” my father was the standard kind of tall. But Big Vera was even taller, and to my dismay, I suspected that wouldn’t work.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

I bid her the same before being guided offstage and funneled through a lengthy hallway. The path hooked me into the back of the main room. By then, piano notes drifted from the stage. As a young girl with a big red hair bow played “Away in a Manger,” I reviewed my loot off in a corner.

The mittens were a tad big. This only meant they’d last longer, I realized. I relished their softness on my cheek before storing them in my pocket. The locomotive, hand-carved though unpainted, could never top a doll, but at least the wheels spun. As did the smokestack—or was that a flaw? Maybe it needed glue.