Benka and the Golden Key

The little gnome—a real one from the Black Forest—was sitting cosily beneath the festively decorated Christmas tree, gazing at the twinkling lights and gleaming presents. Suddenly he heard soft footsteps, and the gentle ringing of little bells sounded. The Christ Child stepped beneath the tree, a radiant smile on its face. It wore a shining robe of golden stardust and had delicate angel wings that shimmered in the gentle light. The gnome looked up in awe and could hardly believe his luck at meeting the Christ Child in person.

‘Hello, little gnome,’ said the Christ Child in a soft, soothing voice. ‘How are you this festive evening?’

The gnome, overwhelmed by the Christ Child’s presence, stammered a little before he answered, ‘Oh, er, hello, Christ Child! I’m just here to take care of the last preparations for the present-giving. How can I help you?’

The Christ Child smiled tenderly and sat down beside the gnome. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job, little friend. Christmas is a time of joy and togetherness. I have come to thank you and to give you a special gift.’

With these words the Christ Child handed the gnome a sparkling little parcel. The gnome opened it excitedly and found inside a tiny golden key. ‘This is the key to people’s hearts,’ explained the Christ Child. ‘You bring so much joy and magic into their lives. Use this key to go on opening their hearts.’

The gnome—his name was Benka—thanked it humbly and promised to do his very best to spread Christmas cheer, then set to work.

Benka was tired.

Not tired of wrapping presents, not tired of tying bows, and certainly not tired of the smell of Christmas biscuits that had been around him for days. No—it was a different kind of tiredness. One that tugged deep at his little gnome-heart.

He had visited palaces and government buildings, conference halls, and secret bunkers. Invisible, thanks to the Christ Child, he had stood by the desks of those whose decisions cast whole countries into fear. But however often he held the golden key to their hearts, he heard the same dull response: nothing happened.

The hearts were tightly sealed. Some didn’t even have a keyhole.

On a cold, clear winter’s night, the gnome finally returned to the Black Forest. Beneath an old fir tree whose branches sagged under the weight of snow, he settled down on a mossy stone. Above him the stars glittered as if they wanted to bolster his courage. But inside him it was quiet.

‘Christ Child …,’ he murmured softly. ‘Perhaps I’m not the right one for this task after all.’

He had barely spoken the words when it grew brighter around him. Not a harsh light, more a warm, gentle glow, like the kind you know from childhood when you sit with closed eyes in front of a fireplace.

The Christ Child was suddenly standing beside the fir tree. Its robe of stardust whispered softly, and its small wings shimmered in the moonlight.

You look sad, little gnome,’ it said and sat down next to him. ‘Tell me.’

The gnome sighed so deeply that a few snowflakes fell from the fir.

‘I tried,’ he began. ‘I went to the dictators and aggressors, to the politicians and the powerful. I held the key to their hearts as hard as I could. But they stay shut. And every day people show in their media how little changes. Perhaps the key isn’t as powerful as I thought.’

The Christ Child was silent for a moment, looking into the forest and up at the stars. Then it smiled gently.

‘The key is powerful,’ it said calmly. ‘But it is not a crowbar.’

The gnome blinked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘A heart,’ explained the Christ Child, ‘can only be opened if there is still a crack somewhere. A fissure, a tiny longing for love, for peace, for truth. That is where your key can work. But where a heart has bricked itself in, thickly surrounded by fear, greed, and pride, you cannot simply break your way in. That would be violence—and violence is never part of my task.’

The gnome let his shoulders droop. ‘So, it’s all for nothing?’

‘No,’ replied the Christ Child, placing a hand on his hat. ‘You are paying too much attention to those who are the loudest. To those who dominate the headlines. But the world is not made up of them alone.’

It nodded down into the valley, where the lights of small villages glittered.

‘Do you see all those windows there? Behind each one, a life is burning. A family, a lonely person, a child with a question, an old woman with a memory. Their hearts are not sealed like concrete bunkers. Many are just tired or hurt, some full of doubt. Your key is for them.’

The gnome followed its gaze. From this distance everything looked peaceful. But he knew: in some houses people were arguing, in others there was silence, because no one knew anymore how to speak to one another.

‘So, I should simply give up on the powerful?’ he asked cautiously.

‘You give up on no one,’ said the Christ Child. ‘But you no longer waste yourself only on those who are not yet ready. Look after those who long for an open heart, even if they would never admit it. The world does not change only in palaces—it changes at the kitchen table, in the school playground, in the care home, on the bus, and in the office.’

It made a small gesture with its hand, and the golden key in the gnome’s hand began to shine more brightly. The light did not fizzle out but divided—into tiny sparks that floated around them like fireflies.

‘What is happening to my key?’ cried the gnome in alarm.

‘Benka, don’t be afraid,’ the Christ Child soothed him. ‘Every time you use this key to open a heart even a little, a new, invisible key is formed inside that person. An inner one. Then that person in turn can touch other hearts—with a kind word, an apology, a courageous “no,” or an unexpected “yes”.’

One spark drifted down into the valley, through the roof of a house, straight into a child’s room. There a girl was sitting at the window, clutching a letter to the Christ Child tightly to her chest.

‘Her name is Lina,’ whispered the Christ Child. ‘She has written to you without knowing that you truly exist. She doesn’t understand why her parents argue so often and why everyone is so stressed when it’s supposed to be Christmas.’

The gnome listened. He heard muffled voices from the floor below, sharp and weary. The girl wiped a tear from her cheek.

‘Go to her,’ the Christ Child said quietly. ‘Show her that her heart matters. And then watch what happens.’

In the blink of an eye, the gnome was in Lina’s room, so small that he could easily sit among her cuddly toys. Lina felt nothing but a warm tickle in her heart and looked up confused.

The gnome raised the golden key. Only Lina could sense its glow, like a feeling of hope you cannot quite name.

‘Lina,’ he whispered, even though he knew she would not really hear him. ‘You are not powerless.’

He held the key to her heart. There was no great spectacle, no thunder, just a soft, comforting thudding.

Lina suddenly stood up, put the letter aside, and carefully went downstairs. In the living room her parents were standing with their arms folded, between them a mountain of unfinished tasks. The air was thick with unspoken reproaches.

‘Mum? Dad?’ Lina said shyly.

They both turned around.

‘Could we this evening …’ – she hesitated – ‘… just have tea and Christmas biscuits together without arguing? It’s Christmas. I love you both.’

It was no fairy-tale miracle moment, no instant happy ending. But something flickered across her parents’ faces—irritation, then emotion, then a quiet sense of shame.

Her mother took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘We… we can try.’

Her father cleared his throat awkwardly, went into the kitchen, and came back with three mugs. The argument hadn’t disappeared forever, but for that evening it stepped aside. In its place there was a small, warm togetherness.

The gnome smiled. Very gently, almost imperceptibly, a tiny, invisible key began to form in the parents’ hearts as well.

‘You see?’ whispered the Christ Child, who was suddenly standing beside him again. ‘This is how it begins. From one opened heart come three, from three come nine, and so on. One day there may also be people in high office whose hearts were once touched by such a key—as a child, as a friend, as a parent. And then they will listen differently.’

The gnome nodded slowly. He understood.

From that night on he still travelled with the golden key, but his paths had changed. He sat in crowded trains beside people who felt lonely. He accompanied carers who, tired but gentle, held the hands of elderly people. Furthermore, he was there when someone found the courage to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I’ll help you,’ or ‘I will stand up against this injustice.

The big news of the world continued to tell of wars, scandals, and selfishness. But between the lines, in the small, unremarkable stories, something new was glowing.

And sometimes, on a particularly quiet night, when you think you are sitting all alone in front of your Christmas tree, a tiny may be from the Black Forest appears beside you. You may only feel a warm tug in your chest, a gentle urge to ring someone, to forgive, to help, or simply to listen with your whole heart.

Then you will know:

The gnome has held his key to your heart.

The rest is up to you.