We light the first candle for the first night of Hanukkah. After a long and heated discussion, the girls, my four daughters, picked a blue candle and a white one for the Shamash (the candle with which the other candles are being lit).
My father put the Hanukkiah on the living room windowsill, the window that overlooks the city of Jerusalem. It is dark out, and the light of the candle is reflected in the black glass. The small orange flames flicker and send small flashes of light that are mirrored in the eyes of all of us gathered around.
“Let me tell you a Hanukkah story,” my father says. Being the eternal teacher, he cannot let go of a teaching moment when it comes his way.
The girls appear reluctant foreseeing another boring historical account.
“It’s about this young man, Judah,” my father says, matching his voice to resonate like a storyteller’s one.
“A prince among men,” he continued, slightly smiling, and I can see how this story is changing to fit a classical fairytale. The girls raise their heads, and a glint of interest lights up in their eyes.
“Once upon a time.” Here we go. “In a small village in the mountains surrounding Jerusalem, a young man with long, unruly black hair tied back with a string, black, fierce eyes, smart as a whip, and fast on his legs, Judah, the third son of Matthias, drew the eyes of all the young women in his village.”
The girls are now enchanted. A young, good-looking hero, one that always emerges unscathed from all altercations, no matter how underhanded he is, matches every young girl’s fantasies.
I use the moment that they are all immersed in the story to withdraw to the kitchen and help my mother finish up the traditional food that will be in high demand once the story is over.
I nod my head and shake it to clear it. It’s been over twenty years since my parents passed away. But every Hanukkah, when I light the hanukkiah I recall the memories of our time together and the images surface. Full of color and life, they defy the time that has passed. I can feel the warmth of my parents’ house in the cold winter night, see the hanukkiah on the windowsill with the glowing lights, the smell of the favorite dishes (mostly fried oil, I remind myself), and the faces of my daughters, all engrossed in my father’s tales.
I often wonder, if he were still alive today, what kind of story my father would tell. Will it be again about the young hero, so sure of his ways, fearless, and bursting with clever maneuvers. A born leader, the one that people follow to the end of the land without hesitation. Heroes often die young, and so did he. My father never revealed his tragic ending to the girls. I wondered then and still do if it is the stories that change with time and lose their luster, or perhaps it is us who lose our infatuation with fairytales and trust in magical heroes.
