It was winter of 1999, and I was seven years old. I never considered myself a gullible child, but I had always believed in Santa Clause. My parents, brother and I were spending Christmas Eve at our family friend’s apartment, or former family friends I should say, and it was a typical Russian gathering: the children kept themselves busy; the pets were running lose; the music filled the claustrophobic dining area; and the table was set with mouth-watering appetizers, several meal courses, and of course, alcohol. I was the only girl among three boys: one younger I, one older than I, and my brother who at the time was five. As many seven-year-olds I believed that gift-opening was the night’s highlight, so I waited impatiently to open my gifts and I hoped desperately for a keyboard.
Bored with the three boys, I nagged my parents to allow the children to open presents; however, rejected once again, I stormed into the boy’s room to complain.
“I already know what you’re getting,” said the oldest boy.
“No you don’t,” I answred, “only Santa does!”
“I do know. I saw your parent wrapping your gift.”
“What?” I did not believe him, so he led me to the balcony, the heaven of hevavens, the place where someone placed our gifts!
“But I thought that Santa Clause delivered our gifts,” I muttered.
“No. There is no Santa,” I didn’t know what to believe.
“You see that large gift over there by the table?” I squinted my eyes in the dim light and made out the shape of a large rectangle.
“Yeah, so?” I asked, still confused.
“Well, that’s your stupid keyboard.”