It was just a postcard with a simple message, but to me it was a precious Chanukah present.

My thoughts drifted back to the beginning of the fall term last September. I had been looking forward to this course in Spanish Literature and Culture because it sounded so interesting. Besides, it was my final course that would fulfill the license requirements for my job as an “English as a Second Language” teacher.

But things went wrong the very first night. Professor Mendez appeared competent and interesting as he began his introductory lecture. But I was surprised that he addressed us in English, since this was an advanced course. I raised my hand and questioned the professor on this point. The room grew uncomfortably still, and then Professor Mendez sarcastically answered that he was sure we weren’t advanced enough to discuss history and literature in Spanish.

This developed into a heated debate with everyone taking sides, and I was seen as the instigator. The feelings of antipathy that developed that night intensified during the term.

The professor had his opportunity to pay me back at the midterm exam. I prepared thoroughly, but he gave me a “B” and wrote a note explaining that I had misinterpreted a question; I had analyzed the material rather than summarized it.

I was furious, but my family felt he probably was an anti-Semite. Anyway, my class discussion had certainly placed me in an unfavorable spotlight.

Just about that time a magazine published a story of mine with cherished Holiday memories from my youth. I brought the magazine to class to show my classmates. I even planned to show it to the professor. That night, we had another disagreement, which settled the issue. At the end of class I angrily rushed out of the room.

Halfway down the hall, and I’ll never know why, I turned around and went back. The professor was gathering his belongings. He looked at me in surprise and I showed him my article. He glanced at it, and quite unexpectedly asked if he could take it home.

The following week, the professor asked me to meet him in his office after class. After we were comfortably seated, he began to tell me how much he enjoyed my article.

“He probably found it unique,” I thought. “This might be his first exposure to Jewish life.”

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted. “It reminded me of my own youth,” I heard him say. “It was during World War II, and we celebrated the Holidays in secrecy, each year not knowing if there would be another, each year in a different place.”

His next question stunned me. “How did you figure out I was Jewish?” he asked. Professor Mendez a Jew? I couldn’t believe it.

“My father changed our name during the war so we could escape to South America. We trained ourselves to appear non-Jewish, and assumed the Spanish style.” We sat in the office and discussed Jewish life for a while.

The following Tuesday, as I was preparing to leave, my daughter told me she had received several Menorahs at her school to share with anyone who wouldn’t otherwise have one.

“Give me one Menorah,” I told her. “And find some nice wrapping paper.”

I remained after class to present Professor Mendez with my gift. “Is it something special you baked or cooked?” he asked. I shook my head. “Please don’t open it until you get home,” I said. “And please read the material inside. Keep it and think about it carefully.” As I left, I turned and called, “Happy Chanukah.”

“Did you light the Menorah?” I asked him at the next session. “No,” he said, “I told you I am not observant. My life has changed drastically since my early years.” He had placed the Menorah on his desk at home, but was not interested in lighting it.

“Why?” I asked. “Why not light the candle to identify with your beautiful heritage? You need not remain in hiding any longer. Come forward and discover your real self.”

“Perhaps some other time,” he said. “Not now. But thank you anyway.”

Now, a year later, he sent me a postcard. The short message contained only four words.”The candles are burning!” He signed his name, “Professor Mendez,” and under it in small letters, “Yehuda Mendelovsky.”

There are different battles and victories. The Maccabees had their battle and victories, and we have ours. Sometimes we must struggle to overcome an enemy, and sometimes we must struggle to overcome ourselves.

Courtesy of “The Jewish Home”