IN-DEPTH FEATURES
The Fifth Chanukah Candle

FICTION

When Yaakov returned home from the vosikin minyan, the dew still glistened on the pine trees and the milk truck was just about to pull away from the grocery store.

Yaakov entered his building and saw his neighbor, Shai Perry, near the mailboxes. Shai was leaning against the wall, reading the headlines of the daily newspaper. He looked like a typical kibbutznik. At the sound of Yaakov's footsteps, Shai looked up with an impatient, even irate expression.

"You chareidim manage to force yourselves into every nook and cranny," he growled.

Yaakov was taken aback. As a new neighbor in the building, he had received many greetings, starting with warm shaloms and offers of help and ending with cold shaloms. But that greeting was unusual, to say the least.

"I'm a tenth generation Israeli. Even if your parents came here during the First Aliya, we still preceded you," Yaakov replied calmly, as if delivering a history lecture to an audience.

"So am I," Shai replied as he poked his head into his paper again.

"What was your last name?" Yaakov asked with curiosity.

"Porush."

"Ah, what yichus!" Yaakov warmly countered. "My last name is Cheshin. Could be that our cousins played marbles together — better yet chamesh avanim, because who could afford marbles in those days?"

That broke the ice a bit. Shai smiled and Yaakov went on up to his apartment on the second floor.

Yaakov still felt uncertain about the decision he had made. He had asked and was told that he should move. But his heart hadn't truly agreed with the step he had taken.

The decision to transfer a family with eight children from Kiryat Sefer to a secular neighborhood hadn't been easy. But really, Yaakov had no choice. From the moment Dudi had become ill, the priorities of the Cheshin family had changed. They had to live close to the hospital where Dudi was a outpatient. The proximity of the apartment to the hospital and the low rentals in the area led Yaakov to move there from the relatively distant Kiryat Sefer.

The long ride from Kiryat Sefer to the hospital had been very difficult for Dudi, and he vomited on every trip. Once that misery had ended, Dudi's situation improved a bit.

Rationally, Yaakov was certain that he had made the correct decision. But for Yaakov, living in a chareidi community and choosing his neighbors were amenities he found difficult to forgo.

Yaakov hadn't chosen his apartment in Kiryat Sefer for any other reason. "One chooses a good environment for his children, and selects neighbors who share his Torah ideals," he said on many occasions.

In Kiryat Sefer, all the families were yirei Shomayim, and a Torah-true atmosphere prevailed in the entire city. He never had to fear that his children might visit homes with televisions or Internet. He never had to worry about the books they borrowed. Where he lived, all of the children received an excellent chinuch.

His children didn't feel deprived. They had great times with their pals and let out their energy, playing healthy games. They were exuberant, happy kids, who were nonetheless shielded from harmful elements which poison the soul.

That morning, as usual, the kids got out of bed and pranced into the kitchen. Ima Cheshin could barely catch her breath. They kids had to be out early to catch the school bus which took them all the way from their new neighborhood back to Kiryat Sefer.

"It's great to go to cheder by school bus," six-year-old Shlomi giggled. "It's so bouncy."

"Yeah? I hate to travel to Kiryat Sefer every morning. We have to get up so early," Reuvi grumbled.

"Better that we should travel than Dudi," Itzik intervened.

All of the Cheshin kids agreed with Itzik. They would do anything to ease Dudi's suffering.

*

"After all my efforts to get away from people like that, why did they land here, precisely under my nose?" Shai Perry asked himself. "It's too much, too much!"

Poor Shai! Scenes and memories from his past pursued him relentlessly. Apparently he had been indoctrinated quite well, there, because the memories stuck to him like glue. Indeed, the greater his efforts to suppress them, the more strongly they surged — just like that big frog in Egypt who spouted frogspawn each time it was beaten. Yes, he still thought in yesteryear's concepts. One can't erase childhood and youthful impressions. Life doesn't begin at 18.

"Nimrod, you're late for school," Shai pressured his son, who was busy reading a comic book.

"Aw, there's nothing special today. Everyone comes late on Wednesdays," Nimrod answered.

"But you have to learn to be punctual and to be a decent human being," Shai said, as he tried not to let the word "mentsch" escape his lips.

"What for?" Nirmod asked.

"If you want to make it in life, to rise to the top and to earn a good living, you have to learn to work," Shai replied.

"Yeah? Someone who wants to earn has to know how to get along in life," Nimrod replied. "Right now, I'm reading about a guy who worked for a high-tech firm. He stole secrets from it and sold them to competitors. The police grilled him for half-a- year, and he didn't admit a thing. In the end, he kept the money."

"Such horrid literature! What kind of kids are we raising?" Shai reflected.

When Nimrod was smaller, Shai still had influence on him. One time, as they were waiting on line at an amusement park, Nimrod piped up: "Abba, if you say I'm five, we'll get a discount."

"But you're six," Shai replied. "We are decent people, Nimrod. We don't lie."

Nimrod nodded obediently.

One time, Nimrod found a wallet filled with money.

"Let's see whose it is. He'll be so happy if we return it to him," Shai told Nimrod.

Nimrod proudly called the owner, who came to pick it up that night. "Isn't it nice to go to sleep after a day in which we did something right? We feel pleased with ourselves, don't we?" Shai asked Nimrod.

Nimrod nodded.

The following day however, Nimrod returned home with a sour face. "I told my friends that I found a wallet with a lot of money in it," he said. "They asked what I did with the money and I told them that we returned it to the owner. Everyone laughed at me. Some kids said that I was stupid, and others called me a chump."

"But you did a good deed and should feel good," Shai said.

"But if I had bought a bicycle with the money, I would have felt even better," Nimrod blurted out.

"Nu," Shai reflected. "My father had it easier. He would have said: `You fulfilled the mitzvah of hashovas aveidoh, and that's worth more than all the bicycles in the world.' "

Then he continued to reflect that it was difficult to raise kids without religion — or maybe impossible. He recalled that his melamed in Eitz Chaim had constantly told him, as Avrohom Ovinu said, "Im ein yiras Elokim bamokom hazeh, vaharoguni" — "If there is no fear of Hashem in this place, they will kill me." Apparently, the melamed had sensed way back then that Yeshayohu Porush/Shai Perry had some sort of problem with yiras Shomayim.

As Nimrod grew older, he began to attach more importance to his peers' opinions than to his father's, which he regarded as idealistic but impractical — nice words but old- hat.

"Aha, Shai, al de'atfech atfucha — your son is repaying you for what you did to your father," he would muse in moments of candidness.

And then the sequel: "What are you doing here? Why did you leave? Are things so great here? Tachlis, Shai. Tachlis!"

*

When the chareidi family moved in one flight below him, Shai felt that he couldn't take it anymore. Old memories that he had throttled with his fingernails suddenly surged up again.

Shabbos. Shai held his cup of coffee, and stretched out on the couch, enjoying the peace and quiet of his day off.

Suddenly: Kol mekadesh shevi'i . . . Kol shomer Shabbos kados meichalelo . . . rang in his ears. That was the same song they had sung at home when he was growing up.

Shai didn't finish his coffee. Suddenly, he felt as if he were being sliced in half with a sharp knife. Then, out of the blue, Yeshayohu surfaced from the distant past — gentle and pure.

At that point, Shai didn't know whether he was Yeshayohu Porush or Shai Perry. A person can't be himself and his opposite at the same time. A person can't be an active member of Meretz, the anti-religious political party, and a kid from Meah Shearim simultaneously. "Such a person has to be crazy — yes, crazy," Shai mused. "There's no other definition. But since the Cheshin's have moved in, I've been going nuts."

*

"Where are you going?" Shai asked Nimrod, who was just about to leave the house.

"Somewhere," Nimrod replied, as he lowered his eyes and hoped that his father would be too busy to ask.

Where was he going? To the Cheshins'. He was very bored at home. All of the neighbors in the building were old. No one had children his age and he was so happy that a family with children had finally moved in. Eight children! They were never bored.

He knocked on the door, and Ima Cheshin opened it. Nimrod was embarrassed. "Oh, such a nice guest," Ima Cheshin warmly cried. "Kinderlach, see who's come."

After such a welcome, Nimrod quickly shed his shyness. All of the boys came to the door while the girls peeked from the kitchen.

"We're making a tent on the porch. I'm glad you came," Reuven, who was Nimrod's age, said as he took Nimrod's hand and led him to the porch.

Nimrod had a great time that afternoon. He built houses, plied various professions, and traveled to distant countries.

"Kinderlach, suppertime," Ima Cheshin cried out.

Quickly, they arranged the toys in their places, and put back everything else they had played with, such as Abba's umbrella and Ima's pocketbook.

As the children were about to seat themselves in the kitchen, Ima Cheshin told Nimrod: "Ask your mother if she'll let you eat supper here."

"She'll let me," Nimrod replied confidently.

"Still, it's better to ask," Ima Cheshin said gently.

Nimrod ran upstairs, and breathlessly called out: "Ima" but she wasn't at home. Abba was!

"Yes, Nimrod," Shai answered as he looked up from the pile of papers on his desk.

"Can I eat supper at the Cheshins?"

"No!" Shai replied emphatically. "And I forbid you to visit them again."

*

Shai Perry returned from a political meeting feeling proud of himself. Everyone had asked him questions and was interested in hearing his opinion. He had excellent ideas and a clear grasp of the situation in the street. It had been a very productive meeting, and he — Shai — had directed it successfully. He patted himself on the back.

He pulled up beside a candy store. He deserved a snack. Suddenly, he saw a familiar face. It was Yaakov Cheshin, the new neighbor, waiting for the bus. He hadn't seen Shai pull up. Shai hesitated. Yaakov would have to wait a long time for the bus, and then would still have a long ride ahead of him. So why not offer him a ride? But on the other hand, how will it look if Shai Perry, the chairman of Meretz the anti- religious party, was seen giving a chareidi Jew a lift?

Suddenly a word he hadn't heard for a long time, flashed across his mind: Middas Sdom! You can't drive home with four empty seats in the car and let your neighbor waste his time on the bus.

Shai called out: "Hey, Yaakov, wanna lift?"

Yaakov was surprised to receive such a generous offer from Shai Perry, his grouchy upstairs neighbor. But Yaakov was in a rush. He thanked Shai warmly and got inside.

After a few moments, Yaakov broke the silence.

"A great car," he said.

"Yeah," Shai replied bitingly. "You have Olam Habo and I have olam hazeh."

"Let's suppose that I don't have olam hazeh — even though I often think that I am enjoying my Olam Habo already — but there's no connection between the two parts of what you said," Yaakov replied thoughtfully. "It's as if Bill Gates would lose his billions one day and then comfort himself saying, `Oh well, at least I have a penny in my pocket.' We'd think he was nuts. The difference between Olam Habo and olam hazeh is far greater than that."

Yaakov spoke from his heart and his words were penetrating. Silence once again prevailed in the car, and both of them felt sorry. Shai was sorry that he had given Yaakov a lift. He had known in advance that such an encounter would likely cause him to toss and turn in bed for weeks.

Yaakov was also upset by the exchange. "Every sight we see, every phrase and even word we hear, leaves an impression on our souls," he said to himself.

*

It was nearly Chanukah. There were signs of the holiday even in the new neighborhood. The grocer would place a tray of fresh sufganiyot on the counter. He also sold Chanukah candles.

Shai had nearly forgotten Chanukah. He never went to the grocery store. Only Nimrod's vacation reminded him that he had to do something during the holiday.

"Nimrod, do you want to go to grandma's in Rosh Pinah?" he asked.

"No. It's boring there," Nimrod said dryly.

"Last year you had a good time at grandma's," Shai said, surprised.

Yes, but I want to light candles at the Cheshins this year. Reuven told me that all of the kids light candles and sing together. This year, Reuvi will light with olive oil. Their father plays dreidel with them and tells them stories after they light candles. It'll be great.

Nimrod thought about this, but he didn't dare say anything lest his father ruin his plans.

Every night when the sky turned red, Nimrod would sneak downstairs to the Cheshins and join them for Chanukah licht bentschen.

On the fifth night of Chanukah, the Cheshins decorated their house with balloons and tacked a Mazel Tov sign on the refrigerator.

"How did you know that today's my birthday?" Nimrod asked.

"It's your birthday today? Then you could have been Reuven's twin. Today's his birthday too," Ima Cheshin replied with a smile.

The Cheshins sang Maoz Tzur together, ate sufganiyot, and put Reuven and Nimrod at the head of the table. Yaakov then blessed them that they always merit to do Hashem's will. Chani chimed in: "May you be like Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov." Then they sang Chanukah songs and gave out candies.

When Nimrod came home, his parents greeted him with smiles. A birthday cake with ten candles was on the table.

"Nimrod, what do you want for your birthday?" Shai asked him.

"Will you give me whatever I ask for?" Nimrod replied.

"The sky's the limit," his father rejoined.

"Well then, I want you to light Chanukah candles in honor of my birthday," Nimrod pleaded.

Chanukah candles? What does Chanukah have to do with me? On Chanukah, the zealots triumphed over the Hellenists. Why should we be happy? At least that's what Shai had declared at a Meretz meeting the other night.

But Shai was honest. A promise was a promise.

Carefully, Shai removed a small menorah from one of the drawers. Nimrod ran down to the store to buy candles, and Shai lit them.

Shai stared at the candles for a long time. They warmed his heart and reminded him of his happy childhood.

The five candles and a shammash flickered in the window, lighting up the darkness. Nimrod and his father sang Maoz Tzur. Then they sat down and didn't speak for a long time. In the meantime, Shai's wife made latkes in the kitchen.

That was the nicest birthday present Nimrod had ever received from his parents. As the candles shone, Shai hoped that no journalist happened to be in the neighborhood.

*

Eventually, the neighborhood changed. When Yaakov had moved in, one rarely saw avreichim in the area. However slowly, young chareidi couples began to populate the neighborhood, due to the low cost of the apartments and the nearby chareidi neighborhoods. After the first ten brave chareidi families bought apartments at bargain prices, the prices of the other apartments began to skyrocket.

Shai Perry didn't move out though, and no one knew why. Some said that he was waiting for the value of his apartment to go higher. Others said that, deep down, he still longed for the chareidi neighborhood in which he had grown up. In truth, Shai himself didn't know why he stayed.

Yaakov flipped through the paper, over breakfast. It contained a long and philosophical reaction to the remarks of Meretz's chairman — Shai Perry — about chareidi draft dodgers.

Yaakov smiled to himself. Only yesterday, Nimrod had told him that he planned to take a trip abroad the following year.

"But what about the army?" Yaakov asked him.

"I'm not going. What am I, a friar? I went to a psychologist and told him that I have phobias. He gave me an exemption on the spot. They have too many recruits in the IDF. They don't need so many," Nimrod vehemently replied.

Nu, Shai, what do you say about that?

The year passed quickly and both Reuvi and Nimrod turned eighteen. One day, Reuvi bumped into Nimrod on the staircase. Nimrod was carrying a huge backpack, and was followed by his parents.

"What's up?" Reuvi asked.

"Tomorrow I'll be in India. Should I buy you something there?" Nimrod answered gaily.

"Buy me an elephant," Reuvi replied, "and send it airmail."

Shai's mood was a bit less jolly. Staring at Reuven, Shai's heart bled. If my son remained at home, I would even let him study in a yeshiva. Nirmod's going so far away; yet he's so young, so green, so powerless, so careless.

Shai knew that he would be eaten up with worry over his son. He would get a postcard every six months, which would say, "Hi, Pop and Mom!" and no more. Who knew what could happen in India?

*

The neighborhood had truly become chareidi and a bareheaded man there was a rarity. On Shabbos, the peace and quiet was broken only by the sound of one car — Shai's. The few secular neighbors who still lived there preferred to park their cars on Friday afternoons in the nearby neighborhoods, so as not to offend their religious neighbors. Shai, though, was different. Waving his fists, he would declare: "I won't accept religious coercion. I have the right to travel on Shabbos whenever I please."

A delegation of avreichim tried to persuade him that he was coercing their children to see chilul Shabbos. But he replied: "I was here first. Who asked you to move here?"

There was no one to talk to. Shai continued to ride on Shabbos, making a lot of noise.

A few youngsters decided to demonstrate, without asking their parents. Apparently, Shai had been waiting for that for a long time. Shortly after the beginning of the demonstration, a drove of photographers swooped down on the demonstrators.

Shai had wanted to make headlines, and the demonstration gave him the opportunity. At every party meeting he had spoken against closing roads on Shabbos, and now he was in every local paper, trumpeting his views.

Ah, those were great days for Shai. He basked in his success. Woe to such glory. Woe to such success.

*

That was it. There were no more demonstrations. The adults had reined in the youngsters and Shai drove about freely, blowing his horn along the empty streets — in vain. No one let out even a peep, except for a three-year-old who shouted "Shabbos!" from the window. But one couldn't call a photographer for that.

No one knocked on his door. No one reacted to his provocations. He began to drive about less frequently. Anyway, all he had wanted to do was to annoy the chareidim. If he could not do that, he preferred to remain at home on his sofa.

*

When Shai made headlines, he was like a fish in water.

One Tuesday morning, Shai's name appeared in a bold headline on the front pages of all of the country's papers: "Shai Perry, Meretz chairman and head of the League Against Religious Coercion, is organizing a lobby in the Knesset to expand criteria for eligibility for aliya according to the Law of Return."

Shai and Yaakov met at the mailboxes in the morning. Shai read and reread the main article, smiling to himself whenever his name was mentioned. He raised his eyes and saw Yaakov taking out his Yated and looking at the headlines too (although he hadn't made front page in the chareidi press.)

"Nu, Yaakov," he said. "What do you say about the new proposal? We have to improve our demographics here."

"Yes," Yaakov replied, without mentioning Nimrod's name. "If our youth roam about in India, we have to bring Stephan and Ivan here from Russia.

"You understand Shai, if we cut off the roots, from where will the branches draw their sustenance? You can't raise strong trees on a sand dune. If you begin Jewish history with Herzel and A. D. Gordon, you will raise youngsters who, having no ground roots, will scatter all over the world."

Shai was stunned, and couldn't answer. At last he sputtered his ace-in-the-hole: "You don't serve in the army!"

"Could be. But we stay here. Our children are here and so are our grandchildren. At the end of their army service, your kids go abroad. Yerida statistics swell from year to year. Your cream is in Silicon Valley in California. Eretz Yisroel simply ejects them, since it cannot bear sinners," Yaakov concluded.

Shai didn't argue. Under his breath he mumbled a few more empty slogans. He didn't want to hear any more from Yaakov. He couldn't deal with it.

*

Shai had to be in the headlines. He came up with proposals, one after the other. He had plans that would obliterate every reminder that Eretz Yisroel had once been a Jewish state. He wanted to cancel the law forbidding the sale of pork. He wanted to open stores on Shabbos. He wanted gambling casinos.

Shai didn't initiate conversations with Yaakov anymore. He was afraid of Yaakov's replies. However Yaakov initiated conversations with him. When the headlines were about the sale of pork, Yaakov "complimented" him: "I see that you are going out of your way to be hospitable."

"Me?" Shai wondered. He thought he was the last person in the world who could be called hospitable.

"Yes, you," Yaakov replied. "First you invite goyim to Eretz Yisroel, and then you open pork stores for them on Shabbos and open casinos — so that they'll feel right at home."

"At least they serve in the army," Shai answered, as usual.

"Of course," Yaakov retorted. "After they finish their army stint, those goyim may be considered bona fide Jews."

Shai retreated to his apartment like a defeated soldier.

*

A month after Nimrod had left, Shai received a postcard which said, "Hi, folks! How are you?"

Three months later, he got another one. It said, "Regards! I'm alive."

And that was it.

When six months had passed with absolutely no mail, his parents' hearts fluttered with worry. The house became quieter. The medicine cabinet filled with sleeping pills and tranquilizers.

Shai seemed to have aged by thirty years. His gaze became glassy and remote and he lost his energy. He had long stopped making headlines, but that didn't bother him at all.

Shai hired a company which specialized in locating Israelis in the Far East. He contacted embassies. However, his efforts were in vain. Nimrod had vanished. Even a private detective couldn't come up with anything regarding Nimrod's whereabouts.

Rumors spread that he had been seen in a bus which had been swept up by a flood and whose passengers had all drowned. After that, no one had seen him. The company stopped searching.

"According to our information, it is highly unlikely that Nimrod is alive," they told Shai in a dry letter.

The private detective also gave up. "How long can one search for the wind?" he mumbled in apology, refusing to continue, even for a million dollars.

Shai felt that his world was collapsing. The uncertainty threatened to drive him insane. Every day, an empty house awaited him, and he had nowhere to escape his worry and fear. His religious brothers invited him to their grandchildren's weddings, while Shai had only one son and didn't know whether that son was dead or alive.

Like a thief in the night, Shai crept into the home of the neighborhood rav to ask whether he had to say Kaddish for Nimrod. The rav posed a number of questions, and replied that Shai didn't have to say Kaddish. Shai heaved a sigh of relief. For him, reciting Kaddish would have been the final confirmation of Nimrod's death. But Shai didn't want to believe that.

*

A missing son. Every ring of the phone caused Shai to jump. Perhaps it was from him, or from someone who had seen him. He began to gobble tranquilizers. At night, he struggled to fall asleep — and then he would wake up from nightmares. He would go the medicine cabinet and take a new prescription for insomnia. In the morning he would get up, his eyes red from lack of sleep and from crying. Then he would rush to work, trying to keep as busy as possible.

Yaakov was very sorry to see the once proud and confident Shai so downcast. Old age had crept up on him. His hair had grayed. His eyes were sunken. Gone were the questions, the debates and the cynical remarks.

"Shai, get back to yourself," they told him at Meretz's local meeting house. They needed someone active, someone who plastered headlines in the papers.

"Shai, we understand you. But you have to understand us. You're not functioning," someone in the upper echelons said. The comments became more pointed, more direct, and more frequent. Many people eyed his seat.

Then one grim rainy day, a meeting was held, and it was decided: Shai was out.

A few hours after the meeting, a good friend broke the news to Shai. Had he been up to par, he would have fought back, done a bit of mudslinging, blackened his colleagues in the media. He wouldn't have budged from his seat, even if it meant splitting the party, and making long-range plans for its eventual downfall (after he had formed a rival party of course).

But now he accepted his sacking with silence. Of course, it hurt him for a brief second. But the pain he felt over the loss of his position was nothing compared to his sorrow over Nimrod's disappearance.

After that, Shai stayed home, staring at the walls or leafing through albums with pictures of Nimrod. Every now and then, he would get phone calls. But then even the phone calls ceased, and there was only a deathly silence in Shai's home.

It was the fifth night of Chanukah, Nimrod's nineteenth birthday. A person can't remain 18 forever!

On principle, Shai did not light Chanukah candles. But since Nimrod's ninth birthday, he had never failed to light the fifth candle. Nimrod never asked for birthday presents. He had only one request: "Abba, light Chanukah candles on my birthday."

So, every year Shai would light the fifth candle, hoping that no press photographer would pass by his house and snap him in action. Nimrod would look at the candles, his face glowing, and wouldn't leave the room until the last candle had gone out. In the Porush home they would have called him a "heilege neshomoh."

Then Shai and Nimrod would sit down in the kitchen and Shai would tell Nimrod about his childhood in Meah Shearim. Nimrod waited for that licht bentschen ceremony an entire year, in order to see the glowing light and to absorb the special kedushoh which permeated their normally mundane home at those moments.

Now two parents, who had aged before their time, stood beside the window. Shai lit the candles slowly: five candles and a shammash. Then he sat down and wept, letting out all of his pent-up sorrow.

He hadn't cried when the evidence had become clearer, nor when the detectives had given up, nor when he had been dismissed from his position as Meretz chairman. But now, the tears flowed down his face and he didn't even bother to wipe them. The tears which were as pure as Nimrod's eyes, melted a grim block which had obstructed Shai's heart and had throttled his ability to think.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. The Cheshins had come to invite them for licht bentschen in their home. The Cheshins had been very kind to them during this difficult period, and helped them as much as they could. His wife went downstairs to the Cheshins, in an effort to flee the pain and the sorrow, but Shai stayed home. He didn't want to do anything but cry, and actually hoped that the tears wouldn't run dry and the sorrow not dissipate. For how long? Until he met Nimrod again.

*

Five candles plus a shammash flickered in the window on the third floor. Like Shai's hope, they rose and fell in order to rise again. "Maoz Tzur," Shai sang and then once more he began to cry. "Ro'os sov'oh nafshi . . ."

Suddenly, the door opened. Nimrod stood on the threshold — tall, sunburnt and smiling.

"How are you? It's good to be home," Nimrod said. Then, with laughing eyes, he removed his backpack.

Shai didn't faint, but his heart began to pound. Then he cried and cried. While embracing Nimrod and stroking his bouncing curls, he suddenly felt a small kippah.

"What's that?" he asked, not angrily but in surprise.

"My roots, Abba," Nimrod replied. "I've returned to Eretz Yisroel. Keeping mitzvos here isn't the same as keeping them in chutz la'aretz, you know. Here they have added meaning, added kedushoh. Do you understand?"

Shai knew that. Indeed, he knew quite a bit about Yiddishkeit. But now he understood, too. Reality had explained it to him.

"You understand, Shai, if we cut off the roots, from where will the branches draw their sustenance? You can't raise strong trees on a sand dune. If you begin Jewish history with Herzl and A. D. Gordon, you will raise youngsters who, having no ground roots, will scatter all over the world."

Yaakov had told him, but he hadn't wanted to understand then.

But then his son found his roots — thick, long roots, which reached all the way to Sinai. Without those roots, he wouldn't have returned home, but would have wandered far away — very far.

"Yes, I understand," Shai told Nimrod, the crackling of the candles confirming his words. Then, father and son began to sing Maoz Tzur, swaying back and forth until the fifth candle had gone out too. But even when it went out, it left an intense light in their hearts, one which neither the winds in the street nor the illusions of the times could ever extinguish.

"Thanks Abba," Nirmod finally said.

"For what?" Shai asked.

"For lighting the fifth candle, my annual birthday gift."

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