Which worlds did he traverse in those quiet moments? Was he here or was he there?

M

aybe my father’s first menorah after the war was simple metal and maybe it was merely tin. I only remember that in my child’s mind, it was shiny, and lighting it on Chanukah was not done in the front window.

Perhaps they lit in the doors and windows in the big European cities, perhaps not. But my parents grew up in small cities in Poland. Their families may or may not have lit their menorahs in the front windows of their respective apartments and homes. I somehow doubt they did.

Those were dark days. The reality of Jewish submissiveness permeated every thought and action, and most were both keenly aware and ever vigilant to guard both their privacy and their precarious political standing. The winds of war were beginning to blow across their geographic path.

After the war, it’s difficult to imagine what things were like for the European survivors who came to the US. Most had lost their entire family, and the responsibility to rebuild their lives sat heavily on them, a mission they bravely but unceremoniously dragged to these foreign shores along with battered suitcases and ravaged dreams.