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Christmas Eve on the Third Avenue El
By Alfred Barten
Author's note: This story takes place during my childhood years (1939-c1952), which coincide with World War II (1939-1945) and the Korean Conflict (1950-1953). Though my childhood and the Manhattan portion of the Third Avenue El (1953) are long gone, the message of this story is just as applicable today as it was then.
 light snow had been falling through the afternoon, and by sundown had covered everything with a layer of white. As darkness fell, a damp north-easterly wind began to stir. I felt a chill as I hurried along Third Avenue toward the 89th Street Elevated station near our home. I tightened the scarf around my neck and leaned into the wind. I rounded the corner, passing the vegetable market with the light streaming through its windows, and headed toward the foot of the stairway that led up to the station.
 "Merry Christmas, Sonny," called old Mackey from his newsstand below the stair.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Mackey," I called back as I passed the booth and swung around onto the first step.
I kicked at each step, 42 in all, trying to knock the accumulation of wet snow from my boots. The air became colder as I climbed, leaving the bustling city streets and traffic below. The lights from the shops and the passing cars appeared blurred through the driving snow. The icy wind nipped at my bones, and I turned up my collar and pulled down on my hat.
Near the top of the stair I turned left at the big landing and made my final ascent to the doorway that led into the back of the station. The right-hand turn at the big landing led to a stair that climbed along the end of the station to reach the train platform, allowing passengers from the trains to go directly to the street without passing through the station.
I was greeted by a flow of warm air and a ray of dim light as I entered the station waiting room. There was a small coal stove that glowed warmly. I headed straight for the token window.
"Mom wants us to stop by the market on the way home," I said, looking up at my father and handing him a list.
"OK, son," he replied. I have another half-hour before I'm finished for the day. Then we'll leave and pick up our Christmas dinner fixings."
I had deliberately come early, since I loved to watch the trains come and go. This night I decided to stay inside where it was warm and just watch through the station windows. The wooden bench seat had its back to the window that looked onto the platform, so I knelt on the bench in order to face the window and get a good view of the trains. The station shook slightly every few minutes as a train rumbled to a stop. The train waited momentarily for passengers to get on or off, then continued its journey.
After awhile my knees began to ache from supporting my weight on the bench. I turned and sat facing the center of the station, and watched the flow of people through the doors at the rear, past the token window, and through the turnstiles onto the station platform. Occasionally some came in from the platform and made their way to the stairs through the rear of the station, but most people arriving by train took the outside stairs on either end of the station for a faster descent to the street. I noticed how quietly and purposefully the people moved. They paid little attention to others or their surroundings, eager to reach their destinations. The station was dimly lit inside, and just as dimly lit outside, thanks largely to the heavily falling snow. The lights from the outside had a warm glow, especially when I looked at them through the station's 19th-century stained glass windows in the end walls.
An old man came through one of the doors at the rear of the station and sat down alongside me. He had a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied shut with a piece of string. He was bent over and seemed tired from the journey up the stairs. I watched quietly as he dusted the snow from his dark gray overcoat and hat. After a long while he turned to me and asked: "Are you excited about Christmas?" There was a twinkle in his eye that belied his many years.
"Yes," I said. "It's my favorite time of the year."
"I'm on my way to see my daughter and her son," he said. "I've been traveling all day to get there. This will be the last leg of my journey. I come to see her every Christmas."
There was a gust of wind and the coals in the stove flared up from the downdraft in the stovepipe. The aging windows rattled.
"It gets more difficult every year," the old man went on. "The hearts of men are like the snow and wind - cold and biting - because they lack true love and understanding. This is the time of year when we must search the depths of our souls for the warmth that will lead the way toward spring and rebirth." He fell silent, head bowed as if in prayer.
Soon the room seemed lighter. Perhaps it was the arriving train that cast light from its headlights and many windows into the waiting room. Perhaps not. The snow stopped falling, the wind died down, and the night seemed suddenly warmed as the old man got up to board the train. Passing people began to notice one another, and smiled in greeting.
"Remember what I just told you, he said," as he slipped through the door and out into the night.
"Christmas is here! Christmas is here!" shouted my little sister. "Santa has been here! Come see!"
I awoke suddenly from my deep sleep, but had a most curious feeling, a recollection of something far off, of having been somewhere and having met someone. Through the day the details emerged. Now I can tell this story.
Cheers, everyone!
Al
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Illustration is a manipulation by Alfred Barten of a photo by Lothar Stelter.
Article and illustration �2006 Alfred Barten. All rights reserved.
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