Admiral David L. McDonald, USN
Navy Department
Washington, DC
Dear Admiral,
This letter is a year late; nevertheless, it is important
that you receive it. Eighteen people asked me to write to
you.
Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I
were in France on our way from Paris to Nice. For five
wretched days everything had gone wrong. Our hotels were
“tourist traps,” our rented car broke down; we were all
restless and irritable in the crowded car. On Christmas
Eve, when we checked into a dingy hotel in Nice, there was
no Christmas spirit in our hearts.
It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a
drab little joint shoddily decorated for the holidays. It
smelled greasy. Only five tables in the restaurant were
occupied. There were two German couples, two French
families and an American sailor, by himself. In the corner,
a piano player listlessly played Christmas music. I was too
stubborn and too tired and miserable to leave. I looked
around and noticed that the other customers were eating in
stony silence. The only person who seemed happy was the
American sailor. While eating he was writing a letter, and
a half-smile covered his face.
My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us
the wrong thing, so I scolded my wife for being stupid. She
began to cry. The boys defended her, and I felt even
worse. Then at the table with the French family, on our
left, the father slapped one of the children for some minor
infraction, and the boy began to cry. On our right, the
fat, blond German woman began berating her husband.
All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold
air. Through the front door came an old French flower
woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat and shuffled
in on wet, rundown shoes. Carrying her basket of flowers,
she went from one table to the other. “Flowers, monsieur?
Only one franc.” No one bought any. Wearily she sat down
at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she
said, “A bowl of soup. I haven’t sold a flower all
afternoon.” To the piano player she said hoarsely, “Can you
imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?” He pointed to his
empty tipping plate.
The young sailor finished his meal and got up to leave.
Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman’s
table. “Happy Christmas!” he said, smiling, and picking out
two corsages, asked, “How much are they?”
“Two francs, monsieur.” Pressing one of the small corsages
flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed
the woman a 20-franc note.
“I don’t have change, monsieur,” she said, “I’ll get some
from the waiter.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, leaning over and kissing the ancient
cheek. “This is my Christmas present to you.”
Straightening up, he came to our table holding the other
corsage in front of him. “Sir,” he said to me, “may I have
permission to present these flowers to your beautiful
wife?” In one quick motion, he gave my wife the corsage,
wished us a Merry Christmas, and departed.
Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone was watching the
sailor. Everyone was silent. A few seconds later,
Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb.
The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note.
Hobbling to the middle of the floor, she did a merry jig and
shouted to the piano player, “Joseph, my Christmas present,
and you shall have half so you can have a feast too.” The
piano player began to beat out “Good King Wenceslaus,”
hitting the keys with magic hands, nodding his head in
rhythm.
My wife waved her corsage in time with the rhythm. She was
radiant and appeared 20 years younger. The tears had left
her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up in
laughter. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her,
bellowing the song with uninhibited enthusiasm.
“Gut, gut,” shouted the Germans. They jumped on their
chairs and began singing in German. The waiter embraced the
flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French. The
Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat rhythm with a fork
against a bottle. The lad climbed on his lap, singing in a
youthful soprano.
The Germans ordered wine for everyone. They delivered it
themselves, hugging the other customers, bawling Christmas
greetings. One of the French families ordered champagne and
made the rounds, kissing each one of us on each cheek. The
owner of the restaurant started singing “The First Noel,”
and we all joined in, half of us crying.
People crowded in from the street until many customers were
standing. The walls shook as hands and feet kept time to
the yuletide carols. A few hours earlier, a few people had
been spending a miserable evening in a shoddy restaurant.
It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve
they had ever spent.
This, Admiral McDonald, is what I am writing you about. As
the top man in the Navy, you should know about the very
special gift that the U.S. Navy gave to my family - to me
and to the other people in that restaurant. Because your
young sailor had the Christmas spirit in his soul, he
released the love and joy that had been smothered within us
by anger and disappointment. He gave us Christmas.
Thank you very much.
Merry Christmas
William J. Lederer
