Years ago in Germany, we did “the twelve days of Christmas” on some German neighbors. People we didn’t know.

“The twelve days of Christmas” consists of picking a family or individual and secretly leaving them one small gift on the first day, two on the second, and so on, concluding with twelve on Christmas day.

We had done this back in the States to friends in our neighborhood. As you can imagine, our children loved all parts of it: choosing what to give, making the gifts, putting them in paper bags, numbering the bags, sneaking up, leaving that day’s offering, ringing the doorbell, running away before it was answered.

In Germany, my wife, my three young children, and I were the only Americans in our apartment building. On one end, there were four floors of apartments. Those butted up against four floors on the other end. The fifth floor was a long attic that stretched the whole distance. Families from both ends of the building could hang their laundry there in winter. To get from one set of apartments to the other you took stairs to the upper floor, walked the length of it, then descended the opposite stairwell.

We randomly picked an apartment on the other end of the building. Our family would go up to the attic section, cross over, leave our gifts at the strangers’ door, ring their doorbell, and run like crazy for the stairs. Our kids loved it. It felt like high adventure.

The gifts we gave our unknown German friends were simple. On the third day, for example, we left three ornaments. On the fourth day, four snowflakes cut from folded paper. Then five Christmas cookies. Six origami swans. That sort of thing.

On Christmas Day we rang their bell but didn’t run away. When they opened the door, we stood there and sang “We wish you a merry Christmas!” Oh, how we had rehearsed, and oh, how our hearts beat as we sang. We gave them a dozen home-baked goodies.

You should have seen the looks on their faces. They invited us in like we were long-lost family. Though our German was terrible and their English pretty broken, it didn’t matter. Everyone was introduced. Glasses were produced and filled. Children were admired and given chocolates. A tour of the apartment was conducted. All the while we chit-chatted, happily ignoring the language barrier. The meanings, after all, were perfectly clear.

When we finally left, went upstairs, crossed the upper corridor, and came down to our door, I felt as merry as I can ever remember feeling. In fact, I’m smiling as I write this.

The next day our doorbell rang. When we opened the door, no one was there. But on the floor in the hallway sat a large copper platter. In the center was a lovely red candle, lighted. Around the candle, filling the platter to overflowing, was a wondrous collection of nuts, candies, ornaments, and Yuletide taste delights.

We knew who had left it.