Where I live, in the Alps of central Europe, there are three rival December traditions involving benevolent, bearded gift-bringers. With a pair of young daughters to indoctrinate in the beloved mythology of the season, I find myself getting confused as to which tales to spin. I can only imagine how confusing this must be to a three- and a four-year-old.
First, the basics. December 6 is Saint Nicholas Day, or where I live, Sveti Miklavž. It's the saint day of a Greek bishop of Myra (born circa 270 AD), one whose biography is full of just the sort of story that warms the heart and brings a dose of Christmas cheer. The most popular Saint Nicholas story through the Middle Ages tells of how the bishop entered an inn and immediately sensed that the innkeeper had — wait for it — murdered and dismembered many children and placed their bones in barrels to pickle in the basement (and, one can only imagine, serve to unwitting customers as a holiday special). No wonder he was chosen to get into the Yuletide spirit.
The other, gift-related story about Saint Nicholas is only slightly less grim. An old man, unable to afford a dowry for his three daughters to marry, nor even the entrance fee required for them to enter a nunnery, and apparently eager to get them all out of the house, determined that he would have to turn them into — wait for it — prostitutes. Nicholas heard of this and, having inherited family wealth, was determined to distribute it in a covert philanthropic fashion. He placed gold coins in stockings and hung them outside the man's home (or, depending on the version of the story, he sometimes dropped them down the chimney). He offered one stocking of gold per daughter, thereby paying for their dowries so that their father could pack them off to doubtless less-than-ideal marriages. Fa-la-la-la-la . . . la-la-la-la.
To top it off, this kindly bishop would later be horribly murdered for his Christian faith, thrown over the side of a ship with an anchor tied around his neck (hence, he is the patron saint of sailors). Medieval traditions held that parents would give gifts to their children on Nicholas' name day — even the flimsiest of rationales is sufficient for a happy day of gifting — but it is rather a stretch to think how a martyr's name day became associated with that most capitalist of holidays.
The shift came during the Reformation, particularly in anti-Catholic northern Europe. The tradition of gift-giving, and the desire of parents to give presents to their children, remained even when celebrating saints was no longer en vogue. So the saint's name day shifted away from its ecclesiastical resonance, at least in Protestant countries, and focused on the gift side of things. For instance, in the Netherlands, Saint Nicholas became Sinterklaas, and children would leave a wooden clog or shoe outside their bedroom doors on the eve of December 6. If they'd been good, in the morning it would be filled with gifts, candies or fruits. If they'd been naughty, it would contain a birch rod (to administer rough justice!).
Keeping kids in line has always been a big part of the holiday. Parents could promise treats for good behavior and, back in the day, mete out corporal punishment for bad. The idea that someone was always watching them — even if the parents were out of sight — was a useful anti-naughtiness technique, as we've learned from Michel Foucault's Panopticon. But it didn't really work to combine the kindly gift-bearer persona with someone who also strikes fear into the hearts of youth, so an alternative characterization was formed — a sidekick, or henchman, to accompany Saint Nicholas and keep the kids in line. This would be Black Peter in the Netherlands (a racist caricature and current rally point for the region's far right wing), parkeljnev in Slovenia (red-faced demons who shake chains and wail outside of houses, to thoroughly freak out children, until Sveti Miklavž enters, white-bearded and white-robed, carrying gifts and making nice), and the truly terrifying Krampus across the border in Austria, hybrid horrors with goat horns and legs and faces meant to be as scary as possible — like proper Clive Barker scary. The various incarnations of the frightening side dish to the soothing saint are all part of a psychological game played for centuries by parents. When examined from a clinical distance, it's a little grim, though a good deal less grim than the real story of Saint Nicholas.
While Saint Nicholas is the origin story of the Christmas tradition, you may well have noticed that we've been discussing December 6, not December 25. Linguistically, the shift from the Dutch Sinterklaas to the anglicized Santa Claus is easy to spot. He traveled with Dutch immigrants to America, and his shift from scrawny Greek bishop martyr to plump, jolly old elf is down to a series of popular American short stories and poems: Washington Irving's 1809 "Knickerbocker's History of New York" and two anonymous poems, “A Child’s Friend” (1821) and “The Night Before Christmas” (1822, which most people agree was written by Clement C. Moore). These shifted away from the saint’s day (which were not celebrated in the Protestant world) and to Christmas day, making the gifts a celebration after the three Gifts of the Magi that were brought to the Christ Child. The iconography and accoutrements of Santa Claus were developed over the course of these stories (smoking a pipe, flying through the skies pulled by reindeer, wearing furs, leaving gifts in stockings, breaking and entering via the chimney), but it was a combination of the artistry of caricaturist Thomas Nast and a campaign to feature Santa Claus drinking Coca-Cola that transformed him from a miniature elf into the full-sized, corpulent, red-clad jolly character we imagine today. This tradition then migrated back to Europe.
But it wasn’t popular with all. In Catholic countries, Saint Nicholas remained a presence, but it was tough to compete with Santa Claus. Many families adopted both traditions. Those less religiously-inclined opted only for the gaudier of the options — Santa Claus — on Christmas. But since Santa Claus, in its most-developed guise, was an American tradition, it was embraced or rejected as such. The enthusiasm of post-World War II for all things American, in thanks for winning the war, led to the adoption of many aspects of American culture, and it’s tough to dislike Christmas.
But if anyone could dislike Christmas, it was Joseph Stalin. He did not want a religious holiday in the Soviet Union, and he did not want anything American. But parents were attached to the gift-giving. And so his minions established Ded Moroz, Grandfather Frost, a figure dredged up from Slavic mythology and dressed in a blue robe (so as not to confuse him with Santa, in Coca-Cola red), and made his arrival on New Year’s. It was different for the sake of difference, but it caught on across Socialist countries, including Yugoslavia, where Dedek Mraz would appear at various factories and bring gifts to the children of the workers. But families would privately still celebrate the beloved holidays they recalled from their childhood, and so, in former Socialist countries, you might well encounter a packed December, featuring white-robed Saint Nicholas (and his accompanying devils), red-robed Santa Claus and blue-robed Ded Moroz, all in a row.
This is certainly confusing, but allows for a row of kindly old men watching your kids’ every move, to ensure good behavior, even if parents have to figure out multiple gift celebrations and can sometimes mix up who is coming when, watching what and bringing which present.
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