’Twas the night before Christmas and there was an elf named Mick, who was all upset because Santa was sick.

“Mrs. C,” he asked, “how is Santa?”

“He’s not doing well, Mick. He has a fever of 102 and is very weak,” Mrs. Claus replied.

“What are we going to do?”

Santa heard the commotion and called weakly, “Margaret, come here, please.” His voice was raspy, each word caught in his throat.

“Yes, dear,” she said as she sat on the edge of his bed and felt his forehead.

“Call Harry.” He said weakly.

“Are you sure? Hanukkah just ended two nights ago. He’s probably exhausted—and with a little too much Manischewitz in him at this time of night.”

“Just call him. He said that if I was ever in a bind…” Santa couldn’t finish as his throat closed up on him. He just waved for her to call.

“Okay, just rest.”

Margaret walked to the phone, shook her head the whole time. She quietly muttered, “Now what was his number again?” Her index finger tapped her chin. “Oh yes—1-888-MENORAH.”

Margaret Claus dialed the number, and after two rings she heard, “Hello? This better be an emergency, calling this late.” Harry’s voice was a little raspy, with a Brooklyn drawl.

“Harry, it’s Margaret. I’m sorry to call so late, but Santa’s sick and he asked me to call you.” Her voice trembled, pleading and laden with concern.

“What’s going on, Margaret?” he asked, now more attentive.

“He has a 102-degree fever and can barely get out of bed,” she said, her voice on the edge of tears.

“What can I do for you?”

“He wants to ask you for help, but he can’t speak too well.”

“He must be really bad if he needs my help. Okay, I’ll be right over—and I’ll bring Harriet’s famous matzo ball chicken soup. It’s Jewish penicillin, you know.”

“That would be wonderful, Harry. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Margaret—and I’ll say a Mi Sheberach for him before heading out.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s a prayer for the sick—to help them get well and restore their soul.”

Mrs. Claus put a hand over her heart. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry hung up the phone and called out, “Harriet! I need a matzo ball chicken soup to go—for Nick. He’s sick.”

Harriet answered, her voice trembled with anxiety. “Oh my God, what’s the matter?”

“He doesn’t take care of himself—run down, doesn’t eat well, especially on Christmas. I kept telling him, but would he listen?”

Harriet gave Harry an incredulous look. “Please. Mr. Universe over here. So, what does he want you to do?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out after dropping off the soup.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Be back later.”

Hanukkah Harry wore a royal blue and white robe trimmed with silver faux fur. He also wore a large wool scarf with a Star of David pattern, cozy mittens, and a slightly oversized belt and menorah buckle. He topped it off with a floppy blue cap that had a white pom-pom.

Harry took the Mythical Express Jet from Miami Beach to the North Pole and arrived before midnight. Mrs. Claus greeted him at the door with a hug.

“Thank you for coming, Harry.”

“My pleasure. Where’s the patient? I have Harriet’s matzo ball chicken soup—he’ll be up and about real soon.”

Mrs. Claus led him to Santa’s bedroom. Harry walked over to him. Santa’s eyes were half-closed, his vision a little bleary.

“Harry, it’s good to see you,” Santa croaked.

“Nick, you look horrible. Here,” he said, lifting the soup out of the bag, “Harriet’s famous soup. You’re going to eat the whole thing.” He helped Santa sit up and spoon-fed him the soup.

Santa made a face.

“I know it’s not milk and cookies, but it’s delicious—and you’re going to eat it all.”

After finishing the entire bowl, Santa looked a little better.

“See, Nick. You’ll be up and about in no time. So, what can I do for you, old friend?”

“Harry,” Santa started, his voice a little stronger, “I need you to deliver the presents.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief—even his long beard seemed to twitch.

“Nick, you’ve got to be kidding. You know I’m allergic to deer of any kind.”

“Please, Harry—you know I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t really important.” His voice was still raspy.

“Oy vey… please don’t tell me I have to drink the milk. You know I’m lactose intolerant.”

Santa smiled warmly. “It’s okay, Harry. Just dump some of it in the sink to make it look like you drank it. You can share the cookies with the reindeer.”

Harry was given instructions on what to do and set out to deliver all the Christmas presents on time.

House after house, he took Santa’s bag and went down the chimney.

“Oy, this is just a lawsuit waiting to happen,” he muttered as he knocked over a lamp and broke the shade.

Harry complained as he delivered the presents, dumped a little milk, and pocketed some cookies. Every now and then, he checked the fridge to see if anyone had some seltzer or Perrier water. In one home, he grabbed a box of tissues because his allergies were acting up.

Before the sun rose on Christmas Day, Harry made it back to the North Pole. Santa greeted him when he landed.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa boomed. “You made it back—thank you!”

“I see you’re looking better. Harriet’s soup cures everything.”

“How did it go?”

“Nick, it was horrible. My allergies are killing me, I broke some furniture, and I think I slipped a disc in my back. Next time, call the Easter Bunny! I just hope my Chiropractor will see me on Christmas Day.”

As he limped toward the Express Jet, he called out, “See you after the New Year for pinochle!”

And that’s how Hanukkah Harry saved Christmas.