A few years ago, I ended my schedule of rabbinical rounds for Chanukah with a program at a local adult day care. The 50 participants were seniors from Russia and China, and I was dependent on staff for translation. After concluding my talk about the holiday I was about to remove the menorah I bring to such gatherings when a Russian-speaking Jewish participant stood up in front of me.
This gentleman, who was blind and had a military bearing, spoke to me in such strident tones that I understood I had committed some offense. The room was transfixed. I looked to the translator for explanation.
The man, as it turns out, was telling his story of being a Jew in the Soviet Union: the infantry in WWII, second-class citizenship and deaths of loved ones. Before this evening he never learned the story of Chanukah or saw a lit menorah, which he could now dimly but gratefully perceive.
When the last translations of his words trailed off, there were many tears. Standing in the midst of a now silent room, he and I gripped each other in a lengthy handshake of profoundest warmth and appreciation. My traveling menorah found a home that night, and an abiding image as I left was of him sitting quietly in front of it regarding the lights with an unfocused, steady gaze. n
Rabbi Jon Sommer is a staff member at the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center.