Chuck Hagel: A Christmas Present, and Past

Years later, an answer appears in a letter from the South Pacific on Easter Sunday, 1944: " You ask me if I thought there would be another war in 25 years. I don't know Sis, but if I thought I would ever have a son who would have to go through this, I would never get married."

In other letters, Charles described 14-foot snakes, asked his sister to look out for their mom, who was working too hard at the store, and mooned over Betty, "No kidding Sis, she looks just like a doll."

Hagel leafed through the pages, thin and crinkly. They had aged so much, they no longer smelled like paper but like a person, like old skin. In between his father's lines, Hagel recognized himself as a young soldier. "The same insecurities," Hagel said. "You try to project a certain manliness, that things are going well."

One of Charles's diversions was talk of Christmas. In 1943, he praised the Christmas cookies his sister had sent. Another year, he wished he could go Christmas shopping. In November 1944: " I don't want you to worry about those Christmas boxes you sent. . . . They might be a little late in arriving, but don't worry ."

In 1945, Charles came home in time for Christmas. He married, had four sons, worked in the lumberyards of Nebraska. He never quite made it, and it rankled him, though he'd always cheer up for the holidays.

He made presents from scraps of lumber. One Christmas he built the boys wooden cars and tied them with red bows. Another year, the kids found a child-size wooden table and chairs under the Christmas tree. Charles cut out reindeer and elves from plywood, painted them, and put them on the roof.

In 1962, on Christmas Eve, Charles, 39, had strung the lights on the bushes and put the boxes under the tree. He said good night to Chuck. Chuck was 16, played football and pumped gas at Babe and Frank Murphy's Texaco station. "See you tomorrow," the father said to the son.

On Christmas morning, Chuck's mother came home from early Mass and put the turkey in the oven. She wondered why her husband was still sleeping; they would be late for second Mass. "Mom went in to wake him up," Hagel said, swallowing. "And he was dead." Hagel swallowed. "She called, 'Chuck! Come in here, right away.' "

His father had died of an aneurysm. Chuck took his mother across the street to the Murphys and tried to comfort his brothers. Aunts, grandmothers and uncles arrived for Christmas dinner only to learn of a funeral. Chuck's mother took him aside and said, "I'm going to need your help." Hagel said: "It was a pretty rough day. . . . The boxes stayed under the tree, no one had any interest."

This Christmas, as always, the Hagel brothers will gather in Nebraska. They will raise a glass of wine, as always, to their father. They will talk about the letters. "You can hear his voice," Hagel said. He has read some three times. "It's magical, to be able to go back."

Hagel tucked away the letters and looked at the box that had arrived before Christmas.

"It was," he said, "a gift."

Off Camera is a monthly column featuring Washington's top decision makers in their off hours -- outside the office and inside their lives.