[yshavurah] Happy Hanukkah
- From: Adamsmicki@xxxxxxx
- To: yshavurah@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Thu, 9 Dec 2004 10:13:31 EST
My own family never celebrated any of the Jewish holidays, but I thought
others might like to read this story. I'd read it before, and this came to me
today through Chicken Soup for the Soul. Enjoy!
Micki
Connecting the Generations
By Gina Klonoff
A cold drizzle was creating puddles around my feet as I made my way home
from the Seattle Public Library. It was an afternoon in December 1940, soon
after my arrival in the United States. Under my coat I was protecting a copy
of
Anne of Green Gables, which I had just checked out for the third time.
Despite my limited English, I was determined to discover how Anne met the
challenge of adapting to an unfamiliar environment, mirroring my own new life
in
America.
The dim, gloomy street reflected my mood as the faint lights from Christmas
trees, already visible behind the windows, reminded me that tonight was the
first night of Hanukkah. I stopped and leaned against a wet lamppost
recalling images of past Hanukkah nights and of my now fragmented family.
I was back in our Vienna apartment. My parents, Grandfather Mendel with his
dignified beard, Grandmother Tova in her blue silk dress and pearl necklace,
and Cousin Bertha, her raven hair pulled into a bun, were all gathered
around our silver Hanukkah menorah. My great-grandfather, a silversmith in
Poland, had crafted it for the marriage of his eldest daughter. In every
generation since, it had brightened my family's Hanukkah celebrations. It
symbolized
not only the victory of the Maccabees, but also the invincible spirit of
Judaism and the continuity of our family.
A hundred years later and six thousand miles away, I still delighted in the
thought of its rich silver patina, with lovely rosebuds and exquisite leaves
and stems engraved on its nine branches.
A dump truck pulled up and splashed me from the feet up, shattering my
reverie. "Where did everything go?" I mumbled to myself.
But I knew where everything had gone. Grandfather had been arrested on
Kristallnacht and taken to Dachau, where he was killed. Grandmother died of a
heart attack soon after the Nazis had looted their apartment and destroyed
their stationery store. Bertha, arrested by the British trying to escape to
Palestine on an illegal boat, was interned in a detention camp. But the
Hanukkah menorah? Since it was forbidden to take any valuable artifacts out
of the
country, its fate was a mystery.
It was dark by the time I arrived home. My father was already back from the
synagogue, and my mother was peeling potatoes. She laid aside one large
potato and began to grind the others for latkes. When I asked her what the
extra potato was for, she answered, "That will be our Hanukkah menorah."
I shook my head in sorrow. With so many people and things vanished from my
life, was our precious heirloom to be replaced by a potato? Was that to be
another new custom in our new country? Mother hollowed out two shallow
grooves on opposite ends of the potato and pressed a small candle into one.
Father
was about to light the second candle when there was a knock on the front
door. When he opened it, a mailman thrust a package into Father's hand.
"Special delivery," he said. "Sign here."
The package was covered with foreign stamps, which turned out to be from
Palestine. There was no return name or address anywhere on the box. We were
dumbfounded. Who could have sent us a package from the Holy Land? With
unsteady hands, we tore away the paper. The first thing we saw was a sealed
envelope addressed to my parents. Father opened it and read the letter aloud
in
German.
Dear Cantor and Mrs. Schiffman,
After the Nazis looted Mrs. Schiffman's mother's apartment, she died from a
heart attack. The concierge went into her apartment and found a package
hidden in the closet. The concierge was a Christian woman who knew the
family.
She took the package to Bertha just before she left for Palestine. On the
boat to Haifa, Bertha told me the story. She said if the British catch one
of
us, the other must mail the package to the address inside. I was lucky to
escape after we landed, helped by the Hagganah. I had plenty of trouble in
the beginning and I am sorry to say, I forgot about the package. Yesterday, I
found it. Please excuse me for this long wait.
Respectfully,
Bertha's Chavarah
The three of us pried open the box. Inside, wrapped in torn tissue paper,
lay a black and white horsehair cushion. As Mother lifted it out of the box,
we all wondered, What was so important about this cushion that Bertha had
risked so much to ensure its safety? Father examined it from all angles, even
sniffed it, and pressed his hands into the bristly cloth. He stopped
suddenly.
"Quick, Marta. Get me some scissors." Mother found her sewing basket and
handed him her small scissors. Father carefully began to snip open the
stitches along one side of the cushion. With a mass of straw littering the
floor,
he reached in and pulled out the still shining, so familiar, silver Hanukkah
menorah!
I could barely contain myself. Our beautiful menorah had returned just in
time for the first night of Hanukkah in our new home. For a moment, we were
stunned, and then we all started talking at once. How did it get out of
Austria? Who would have risked smuggling it out of the country? We assumed
Bertha had hidden it in the cushion, taken it on the train across the border
and
onto the boat. Then she made sure that, in the event she could not carry out
her intentions, someone else would.
Father put the menorah on the table and transferred the candle from the
potato into its rightful place. He lit the shammas, which he held up high,
and
recited the b'rakhah over the Hanukkah candles. When he began to sing
Sheheheyanu in honor of the first night, mother and I joined in with fervor.
For
me, the blessing that night applied to more than just the beginning of
Hanukkah. It also acknowledged the miracle that had reconnected me with my
roots.
I felt a surge of hope and optimism. For the first time in a long time,
things did not look quite so bleak; something precious had come back to me.
The
fact that it had arrived when it did was a special omen.
Today, the silver Hanukkah menorah stands on the sideboard in our dining
room. My older son, David, knows that one day it will stand in his home, and
later, in that of his daughter, Anna, and then in that of one of her children,
and down the generations. Its flickering candles will symbolize the
continuity of our family, as well as the inextinguishable flame of Judaism.
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