The situation that develops in European countries a good three months before Christmas and New Year holidays can be described by borrowing the title of a well-known film: a hundred days before the order. As if on command, rainbow-shimmering garlands, Santa Clauses, and Christmas angels appear in shop windows, climbing out of every nook and cranny, TV screens fill with Christmas advertising blocks.
Closer to the middle and end of December, most streets and squares in populated areas bristle with Christmas trees and are barricaded with Christmas markets. Through this obstacle course, crowds of buyers, maddened by persistent advertising exhortations 'don't forget to buy gifts' and craving treats, stubbornly break through: only in the pre-Christmas days can you buy fireworks or a firework, and many shops and retail chains earn half their annual income. Notably, for the sake of the opportunity to earn a couple of extra euros, the German Association of Retailers took an unprecedented step: usually the most apolitical of entrepreneurs dug into their pockets and lobbied the Bundestag to pass a special law allowing shops to remain open on each of the four December Sundays - the so-called 'Advent Sundays,' each of which is itself a Catholic (as well as Protestant) holiday.
We will not speculate how Christ Himself, who once drove the merchants out of the temple, would have reacted to this fact, but we note that these days are especially hard for salespeople. In the last days before Christmas, all of Germany turns into a big madhouse. Hurrying to buy gifts, garlands and toys, as well as stocking up on food for a week of holidays, the German citizens once again confirmed that deep in the soul of every German there sits a tank: the sidewalks rumbled and in places sagged under their heavy tread, shop windows clinked plaintively.
Who said that the West has everything except queues? Nonsense! In the last pre-Christmas days, for example, in most grocery supermarkets in Germany the situation was truly besieged: in anticipation of the holidays, everything was swept clean from here, down to the last potato, and only long queues slowly churned at the checkouts.
However, from 4 p.m. on December 24, everything froze and stopped: pedestrians and cars disappeared from the streets, house windows lit up with lights, delicious smells wafted from everywhere. And only lonely slowpokes who had failed to buy gifts darted with a plaintive squeak from one closed shop to another. Grace was descending on Europe along with dusk...
However, dear readers, this is a preface, a preamble. Our story is not about the quiet European Christmas or the banging and champagne-hissing New Year holidays, but about how emigrants from the former Great and Mighty celebrate them. How many New Years can an ordinary person celebrate in one night? Theoretically one, maximum two, if you live in a different time zone from Moscow. Now let's see how the family of your humble servant celebrates New Year.
First, at 8 p.m. Berlin time (10 p.m. Moscow time), New Year arrives in the hometown of the author's wife, in Orenburg. Two hours later, to the frosty breath of the Russian president and the chime of the native Kremlin bells, glasses are raised to the Russian New Year. An hour later comes the turn of the Ukrainian (also known as Israeli) New Year, from which the author of these lines hails, after which, at midnight Berlin time, finally comes the turn of the German Sylvester. Who is the last one here for the Guinness Book of Records, comrades?
Interestingly, having gone out onto the balcony at that moment and being in a rather elevated state, out of sheer mischief I yelled out in Russian to the whole neighborhood: 'Happy New Year!!!' I was answered by such a united, merged roar of 'Uuuurrraaaaa!!!' that one might think the Russian infantry had gone on the attack. The feeling of a battlefield was intensified not only by the frequent bursts of rockets and firecrackers in the sky, but also by a quiet elderly German woman living on the floor below. The dear little old lady rolled out onto her balcony something like an ancient anti-aircraft gun and opened hurricane fire upward, where rare stars shone and I and my wife with a glass of champagne were looming. Maybe that was her reaction to the Russian 'hurrah'?
Things are exactly the same with the actual stretch of holidays. In Germany, the Russian-speaking contingent consists mainly of ethnic German settlers who profess not so much Orthodoxy as Protestantism or Baptistism, as well as Jews who, with the help of local Jewish communities, are slowly returning to their religious roots, but habitually cross themselves in extreme situations. Despite such a serious difference in faiths, the Russian-speaking contingent happily celebrates in succession Catholic Christmas, then New Year, after that Orthodox Christmas, and finally Old New Year, and the Jews do not forget also their native Hanukkah.
An average German, if he ever set himself such a goal, could quite easily determine which apartment Russians live in. One only has to walk through the streets on January 1, once it gets dark, and everything becomes clear at once. Where the New Year's illumination is not taken down but continues to twinkle in the windows, our people are sure to live. From personal observations, there are more and more such windows in German cities every year.
This year, for the first time, the German president himself, Johannes Rau, congratulated the Orthodox community of Germany on Christmas from TV screens. I do not think he realized how close to heart his congratulations would be taken by all Russians, regardless of their faith. Nevertheless, from here, from a wet and far from snow-covered country, on the eve of the Old New Year, I would like to congratulate all compatriots and wish them to remain compatriots, wherever they may be thrown.