Hanukka was never a big deal for us, growing up in the Diaspora. It fell during the summer holidays in South Africa, and we were at camp or on the beach during candlelighting time; somehow it seemed to pass us by. Even in Israel in the early years, I can’t remember eight days of doughnut delight… but that all changed once I met Martin.
Martin, in his wonderful way, made Hanukka yet another time of magical moments. A store-bought menorah was not my husband’s style; soon after our wedding he handpicked a solid chunk of stone from the side of the road up North, and painstakingly drilled holes in the surface to house his gorgeous glasses. He imported bags of beautiful wax – lime green, cobalt blue, crimson and vivid fuchsia – and taught the kids to layer it in the delicate cups, in an ordered, color coded manner. His artifact stood on the windowsill next to the children’s more basic hanukkiot, and everyone who gathered in our happy home got the chance to light a candle.
We moved the couch forward for the lighting ceremony, and for almost three decades most of the children in our extended family moved through the “tunnel,” past the glittering lights, to where Martin stood with an outstretched hand, clapping shekels into each kid’s palm in turn. We would all sing the first verse of Maoz Tzur, but Martin could belt out all six stanzas – and he did, each year, eight nights in a row.
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