The present I never got

DEBBIE JACOB

MY MOTHER always believed she had the most important Christmas present I would ever receive in my life. Every December for 20 years she took the present from its hiding place for me to see. The pear-shaped, ruby ring sparkled under an ordinary light bulb. The ring seemed as magical as Dorothy’s ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz.

“Some day, you will have this ring,” my mother said.

She assured me that the perfect Christmas to pass the ring on to me would present itself.

The ring had a story. My grandmother Josephine Götz had received it one Christmas from her mother. It had been passed down for generations; it was always given as a Christmas present on a very special Christmas – the one when there could be no other gift to give. My grandmother got the ring when her mother could not afford any presents. Hard times were the norm in Timisoara, Romania, where my mom had been born.

My grandfather, Stefan Götz, never felt he belonged in Romania. His birthplace in Hungary was given to Romania in a treaty after World War I. My grandfather would not live in Romania. He fled the country.

When my grandmother sneaked my mom out of Romania to join my grandfather in Germany, she took the ruby ring with her. My mom, only 13, could not even carry her doll with her when they pretended to be going to a wedding in Hungary. My mother carried the ring back home when they were caught illegally trying to cross the border. My grandmother went to prison. After a time, they fled again, this time hiding in a horse-drawn cart while the border police stabbed the hay with a pitchfork.

When they arrived in Germany, the government formally categorised my grandparents and mom as displaced immigrants. During World War II, my grandmother worked in an underground munitions factory; my grandfather worked at a railroad station outside of Hannover, Germany. My grandmother sneaked into farmers’ fields to feed her family and searched for potatoes missed in harvests.

“Just before Hitler came into power, not even a whole wheelbarrow filled with money could buy a loaf of bread,” my mother said.

The situation got worse. My grandmother gave my mom the ruby ring on one of those dire Christmases. The ring survived the war – even when the allies’ bombs flattened their neighbourhood – including my grandparents’ house.

After the war, my grandparents and mom’s family migrated to the US. My grandmother, born in St Louis, Missouri, was an American citizen raised in Romania when my great-grandmother missed home and returned to Romania to live.

In the US, my grandparents worked in factories. My mom worked in a knitting mill and as a housekeeper.

I first saw the treasured ruby ring when I was about five. When I turned 25, I seemed to be no closer to getting the ring. My mom felt determined it had to be given to me in the direst circumstances, but my dad’s dairy farm always kept us afloat. We were neither rich nor poor so I didn’t qualify for the ring. But my mom kept promising.

Then, one December, my mom decided to appraise the ring. It would be the first time in at least four generations that the ruby ring was not in our possession. I took this as a sign that she had given up the idea of falling on hard times and would finally give me the ring.

A few days after she dropped the ring off, the jewellery store called to tell her the ring had been appraised. The next day, my mom went to pick up the ring and discovered the store had been robbed. Thieves stole the ruby ring.

The appraisal said the ring had no value. It was merely cut glass. The jewellery store apologised for the theft and let my mom choose an expensive ruby ring with diamonds to replace her ring.

My mom looked sad and defeated when she showed me the new ring, sparkly and stunning and expensive. But it had no meaning. The old ring had immeasurable value. No piece of paper could tell us that ring was worthless.

I don’t know what happened to the replacement ring. I never got it. I can’t remember what it looked like, but I think of the shiny, lost ruby ring every Christmas and imagine it on my finger. Surely, the most valuable Christmas present I ever received is the present I never got.

Merry Christmas, dear readers. Cherish your memories.