The holiday season makes many of us nostalgic about the good old days. But 1953 stands out because I wasn't sure if we would have much of a Christmas.

Times were bleak in post-war Germany. I was 6. My parents and I had left relatives behind in small-town Braunfels in the hope that my father would find employment in Hamburg, a large seaport.

Housing was scarce. Even though the war had ended years before, there was still rubble from a bombed-out house across the street from our apartment. Since we weren't native Hamburgers, we had no rights to housing.

My parents and I were lucky to sublet one room of an apartment rented by a somewhat dysfunctional family. They allowed my mother to cook our meals in their kitchen. Our room was small. My mattress was kept under the table.

Engineering jobs were also scarce. My father earned a little money bicycling from house to house to take magazines from one family to the next (people rented, rather than bought them). My mother sometimes sewed, darned socks and cleaned for Herr Kramer, an elderly widower who owned a small house on the outskirts of the city.

There was little money. I often overheard my parents voice concerns as they sought to keep food on the table.

Then something amazing happened: Herr Kramer, an avowed communist and atheist, invited us to celebrate Christmas with him!

He supplied the ingredients and my mother started baking cookies. She was a staunch believer in the power of traditions. So each Sunday afternoon "zum Kaffee" (similar to the British afternoon tea), we celebrated Advent with Herr Kramer, with cookies, ersatz coffee and milk. We recited a short poem, lighted the requisite number of candles on the homemade Advent wreath and sang as many Christmas carols as we could remember.

We went to Herr Kramer's house often. Frequently, my mother, my dad and Herr Kramer would disappear for a time into another room. They told me they were needed as Weihnachtsmann (Father Christmas) helpers. They also kept the curtains drawn on the windows. Of course I tried peeking in but without success.

At last, it was Christmas Eve, the traditional time for the Bescherung (opening of gifts). We ate duck for dinner. As my excitement grew, I could barely eat.

Finally, my mother disappeared into the locked living room to see if the Christkind (Christ child) had been there. She opened the door wide and I was allowed to walk in. The room was dark, lighted by many little candles. In the middle stood the Christmas tree, also lighted with real candles.

Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw it!

Next to the tree was a doll house. It had a kitchen, a living/dining room, a bedroom and even a storeroom.

My parents and Herr Kramer had made each room from old wooden crates. The little bedroom had a bathroom in one corner that was made from a cigar box. Using cloth remnants, my mother had sewn curtains, bedding, rugs and clothes for a family of dolls. My father had wired the kitchen and living room with a battery pack for lighting.

Herr Kramer, very good with woodwork, had made much of the furniture. He also made the storeroom with two rows of drawers along the back wall (each filled with candy) and two wooden counters in the front.

What my parents couldn't make, they traded for on the black market. Great Uncle Henry had sent a large care package from Pittsburgh. The real coffee that he sent was a sought-after commodity (but a real sacrifice for my mother -- a lifelong coffee aficionado). My parents were able to trade for things such as a small club-foot bathtub, a kitchen stove that heated up with a little candle (unimaginable today) and lamps.

I still have some of the items to this day. The dollhouse was one of the few possessions that we brought to America the following summer. For many years afterward, it would reappear refreshed and restocked each Christmas and my parents would retell the story of our last Christmas in Germany.

My mother would always say that no matter how bad things get, the real challenge in life was for family and friends to make the best of every situation. It was a great lesson -- as well as our best Christmas.