Moonbeams hit the water, broke up on the ripples, and bounced back again. The ship rocked gently at its berth. Forty tired little boys and girls came up on deck, some laughing, some with tears in their eyes. As I look back and try to recall that Christmas in the orphanage, I can only remember the looks on their faces. We were as happy as homeless children could be on the one night of the year when the home and family are so important and close.
It had been a long hard day. I had just been removed from a foster family who had been abusing me, and I had no possessions to call my own. I was being transferred to an orphanage in Jacksonville, Florida. The train grumbled and growled along like a tired lion, but it had a goal somewhere in the unknown beyond that it must reach. It was 24 December 1947.
In all the towns, people were scurrying and hustling around looking for something—they weren’t sure what. We were in Florida, and it was a beautiful warm day. Even in the train, there was an air of excitement: people going places for the holidays. There was the swish of full skirts, the smell of pipes. Eyes were shining as bits of conversation bounced back and forth. The train stopped here and there, and yips of excitement underscored the long-awaited- for destination announcements. The other passengers were going home to their loved ones, to presents under the tree, and to an atmosphere of peace and happiness. For me—a child of nine who had never known the actual meaning of such words or of lying in front of a cozy fireplace with a mother and a father—it was hard to understand the electrically charged atmosphere. To me, it was a day not much different from any other: perhaps an extra helping of meat, maybe a present from a charity organization doing its duty for mankind—“doing good.”
Finally, the train chugged into the Jacksonville station. I was met there and taken to the orphanage. Yet, amazingly enough, there was something inexplicable in the air even at the “home.” Boys and girls gathered in the living room and the matron began playing the piano. Forty childish voices swelled most inharmoniously to the strains of the old well- known, well-loved “Away in a Manger.” We made up in enthusiasm what we lack¬ed in singing talent. The matron stopped and walked over to the window to look out. In a breath, everyone rushed after her. Surely something out of the ordinary was about to happen!. . .Yes! There were two buses pulling up at the curb. We were bundled into warm clothing and then piled on the buses for roll call, each of us wondering what the big secret was and where we were about to go.
About 20 minutes later, we were on the pier, and sailors were running to greet us. U.S. naval vessels were based there, and the sailors were giving us a party. Many, many high-pitched squeals of excited and happy laughter echoed across the water. We were given a full tour of the ship, a cruiser, and then escorted to dinner. After stuffing ourselves like hungry little pigs, we went down below. There was a real Santa Claus! A nice, fat, bubbling Santa Claus! He called each child by name and took him or her on his lap. He talked with each and gave him or her a present. Everyone waited in glowing, stomping anticipation for his or her name to be called—including myself. However, Santa got to the last child, gave a final pat on a little head, and started singing Christmas Carols.
I was blind. I couldn’t stop the tears—I had been forgotten! I was too young to realize that since I had just arrived at the orphanage that day, I was not expected by the crew. All I could think of was that I was the only little girl without a box of macaroni jewelry, the only child with no gift at all! I tried to control my sobs, but it was impossible. Everyone was happy. “It isn’t fair!” I wanted to scream out. I wanted so desperately to be happy. I wanted to be one of the group, and now I didn’t even fit in with the other orphans.
A sailor heard me crying and came over to console me. I sobbed out my story and attempted to be brave, to show that it didn’t really matter. Then, he left me, and feeling forsaken I cried all the more, my small body wracked with tears. Suddenly, the music stopped, and I heard my name being called! Anna (Little Orphan Annie for real) Sylvestre! As a chill ran up my spinal chord playing rapid arpeggios, I managed to fight my way through to Santa Claus. They hadn’t forgotten me after all! He picked me up, and I wept into his beard. I received my present and a sailor’s hat to keep for my very own. With glistening eyes “my” sailor came back to walk around the ship with me.
Then, it was time to go back to the orphanage. Clutching our presents, we went up on deck and clambered back on the buses. The ships were moving with the rhythm of the sea, peacefully as cradles being rocked gently by loving mothers. Everything was good again. I was at peace with the world.
A week later, after listening to the bells chime in the New Year from our little beds lined up in a row in the dormitory, I was sent off to the next family. I was told that if these people did not keep me, I would no longer be eligible for adoption. Walter and Mary Hayward adopted me the next year, and I became Anne Hayward.