Stille Nacht

“During the 1914 Christmas truce of World War I, soldiers on both sides of the western front spontaneously stopped fighting, and against their commander’s orders – crossed no man’s land to exchange gifts and play soccer!”

–From a Ripley’s Believe It or Not!® cartoon on a 2007 Ripley® Entertainment, Inc. company Christmas card


Stille Nacht* 
Copyright © 2009 By Curtis Meyer

First I imagine the language barrier;
Both sides tripping over each other’s accents
Maybe some hand gestures to indicate
desire to drink one another’s whiskey

Then, the conversation: Introductions, stories of families
back home, a show-and-tell of scars and bandages –

Franz the artist shows off sketches of the countryside in his journal
George’s comrades urge him to share some of his poems
Maxwell tells dirty jokes as Johann passes around a photo of his wife
along with pudding, chocolates, and cigarettes,

Danke. Merci. Thank you.

The tension must have been stifling:
Yesterday he was trying to kill you, today
he’s right in front of you, tomorrow’s a crapshoot

For all you know, this is the man who gunned down your partner
or launched the grenade that went off inside your foxhole

In November 2006 a letter written by a British soldier who was there
purchased at an auction recounted amongst others things,
a number of the soldier’s platoon helping the Germans provide proper burial
for one of their snipers – I imagine his killer as one of those digging, shovel in hand

But always the distrust and mutual hatred of circumstances –
How it all binds them: Boys, men, all shaking in the cold, refusing to surrender
the blade-tipped rifles on their backs, thinking to themselves,
“Could this whole thing be some sort of red herring?
Someone’s sick idea of a Trojan horse?”

It began with one side caroling in German, placing candles
in the branches of nearby trees. The other side joined in, singing songs in English
before they walked out, pawns greeting each other in the middle of the chessboard 

I imagine them stepping out to specks of dried blood on the snow,
the ground marked by shellfire, decorated by tattered uniforms and shrapnel,
spiraling barbwire framing the edges of their trenches like chords of holiday lights
All welcoming shadowy figures on the horizon, coming as magi or ghosts on the fog

And I remember being in the break-room when my supervisors
announced they weren’t having a Secret Santa because
they said it would be offensive to non-Christian employees

And I hear my friend tell me about his buddy, a vet from Vietnam,
who’s started a support group for ex-soldiers coming back from Iraq
mistaken for drunk drivers because they had flashbacks behind the wheel

In some areas, the ceasefire lasted a week
In others, past New Year’s

Several officers vowed to their troops
that no such activity would be tolerated again

The last living participant of the Christmas truce of 1914 died in 2005 at the age of 109

I imagine a shell-shocked grandfather remaining mum
The youngest told by his parents not to bother him,
but he would gladly address the question if pressed –
It’s not every day one gets asked, “What’s your favorite memory of the war?”

He would tell them of when the air in Belgium became free of mustard gas,
the environment bereft of the cadence of gunfire and mortar rounds;
How in that moment he remembered the legend of an artist
who after being told to paint the perfect image of peace, was put to task
and presented his king with a mural of a tumultuous storm

In the painting, a wind-tossed tree with a bird nesting
in its branches, its wings open to shield its young
The old man would speak of carols sung by both Jew and gentile,
when sworn enemies laid down their arms united by a fear of dying,
a love of presents, and the understanding that we all hate our bosses;
All proud, joyful, and triumphant, on this, our most holy of nights



* German for “Silent Night”