Wall Street Journal      Dec. 23, 2011

 

dewinter

By LEON DE WINTER

 

Haarlem, The Netherlands

 

Long before Santa Claus existed there was Sinterklaas. For centuries, families have gotten together on the fifth and sixth of December in many European countries to celebrate him. But nowhere does he excite the same emotions as in the Netherlands.

Each year around mid-November, Dutch children place a shoe beside the fireplace, or beside the stove if there's no fireplace, or somewhere in the living room. They leave a carrot in the shoe, a treat for Sinterklaas's horse.

In the morning, the carrot has vanished, replaced by a small surprise gift for the child, like a bar of chocolate or a toy. The "miracle" has a mesmerizing effect.

Sinterklaas—St. Nicholas in English—was apparently a real person. According to tradition, he was born in Patara, which was part of the Byzantine Empire, in A.D. 280. He became a bishop and died in early December 342.

He began as patron saint of mariners, but over time he would become the patron saint of, among others, prostitutes, merchants, butchers, thieves and pirates, and children. In the 13th century the Church set his holiday as Dec. 6, and his celebration spread across Europe, striking deep roots in Dutch society.

 

      

In the Middle Ages, the poor used to leave a shoe in church. But by the 16th century, the holiday had transformed into a family party and had found its way into the private home. With a long white beard and wearing his episcopal miter he rides his gray horse over the rooftops. At each chimney he passes he leaves presents for children. An agile helper—Zwarte Piet (Black Pete) does the actual climbing down the chimney, descending deftly with a handful of parcels.

Today's Dutch Sinterklaas figure was developed midway through the 19th century by a schoolmaster and poet named Jan Schenkman. His Sinterklaas kept a book in which everything the child had done was recorded, the good and the bad. If a child had been well-behaved, the reward was sweets and toys. If not, then a flogging with the birch might follow. Zwarte Piet, another of Schenkman's embellishments, would administer the punishment, if the parents desired. In Holland, a few weeks before Dec. 5, Sinterklaas arrives by ship from Spain (all this is Schenkman's invention). A massive party erupts. National TV stations broadcast the event live. Children everywhere sit glued to the screen. The ship is piled high with presents for the children who have a religious faith in his existence and magical powers. Parents cultivate this as long as possible. I had no doubt he was real until I was 12. Even in the Jewish family that I grew up in, we used to put out a shoe. And in the morning, on Dec. 6, we would find dozens of presents stacked on the dining room table.

Holland teems with thousands of Sinterklaases and tens of thousands of Zwarte Piets. They turn up in shopping malls, at schools, in the home. This ability to be at so many different places at the same time, at least so I imagined based on what my mother told me, was due to assistant Sints. Then, inevitably, there comes a day in every Dutch child's life when Sinterklaas cannot be anyone other than Uncle Bert. And by the time reality hits they notice Uncle Bert has already had a few too many gins (he gets a glass at each home he visits, with instructions about who gets which presents), and his beard is already half-loose.

After World War II, the tradition of presents in the morning eventually made way for a new tradition cherished by a large majority of the population: The grown-ups and often the children have an evening of present giving the night before, called Pakjesavond (Package Night). The importance and intensity of this tradition can be compared to family Thanksgiving gatherings in America. It is the occasion no one misses. People buy gifts for each other and place them anonymously in a pile in the living room. Inscribed on each parcel is the recipient's name. And each gift is from Sinterklaas. Uniquely, each parcel is also accompanied by a poem, written by Sinterklaas of course. This rhyme, which may vary from a few lines to an entire page, is pasted alongside the name.

It is an evening full of food and drink, and presents, each one opened in turn, with the poem read out loud and shared with the rest of the family. While the verses should have an ironic ring, they can also be sharp and critical. My wife and I wrote over 30 poems this year for as many presents. And we heard at least a hundred poems that night, including ones by my teenage children.

Earlier this year I had a serious falling out with a relative. At first I was angry, then disappointed. We talked about it, but nothing was quite as effective as placing a Sinterklaas poem next to the present I gave him (the video game "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3") telling him I love and forgive him. As tradition dictates, my relative read the poem to the group. It was obvious in no time which Sint had been behind this particular verse. Tears rolled down my wife's cheeks and I couldn't help myself either, nor could my relative. Soon everyone in the room was crying. Other poems, meanwhile, had us in stitches.It was Sinterklaas the way it's supposed to be: too many presents, too much food, and lots of emotion.

Among the Dutch, the legend of a Byzantine bishop has developed into a family ritual like no other in today's sober, secular Netherlands, a gathering at which we can dish out the truth or show our love in a rhyme. A sweet, gentle occasion.This Dutch festival gave rise to America's Santa Claus. Only the poems haven't caught on. A pity. Never underestimate the healing power of a good poem.

Mr. de Winter is a novelist and magazine columnist in the Netherlands.

Copyright 2011 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved