By Richard Mather
“Our holiday has been turned into a day of mourning” -- Chaim A. Kaplan
By lamp and by oil, we hunger the hours
as the dusk's frost settles in. There is still
time: the freight cars are not ready yet, but
we are, we are ready, on this night. Sit,
sit down while I set down these makeshift wicks,
these meager latkes, this hanukkiah
of ours, gifted by my father the day
he was beaten and taken away.
Thin fingers make moves in the quiet of thought
like an untutored chess player at a
difficult table. The shamash is lit,
a blessing is said, a battered prayerbook
is brought in and then pressed in my hand.
A mouth is turned open, and another
is shut. Mine, I think, is contorted; it
is the smile of a man who must conceal
quite a lot. Joy is hard. Hard to come by,
hard to endure and yes, I admit, so
hard to resist. For though it is dark,
and the last scraps of food taste like crumbs
of affliction as I put down my fork,
we are together and we are breathing
as one in this bitter Warsaw cold, though
some of us here seem to be elsewhere.
The light burns low but we continue to
sit or to stand or to lie on our sides,
knowing tomorrow we go and never
come back, knowing the next candle shan’t be
lit. I’d love to say a marvel took place,
that God intervened and showed us his hand.
He didn’t and he won’t. We live in hell
and dream of light. I dream, dream of a land
that is our temple, where Holon, Afek,
Jaffa, Gat, all the rest, comprise the altar.
And all the people say: This is the oil
that burns, the source of light, the hope that shines
bright when the rest of the world is in night.
This dream, this dream of light, I dedicate
to HaMakom. What else is left? I wait.
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