One item I smuggled out of Auschwitz when the Nazis moved me into "Camp Number 8," a quarantine for thos e suspected of carrying typhus, was my spoon. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and it would come to play an important role in my Jewish life.

This new camp had no labor details, but we were ordered to help in its construction, which was still underway. Having had some experience in the Lodz ghetto as a mechanic, I helped the electrical technician install the camp's lighting.

With my new access to tools, I brought my spoon to work and filed down its handle into a sharp knife. Now I could use it both to eat my soup and to cut my bread. We often got one chunk of bread to divide among several people, and it was difficult to apportion the bread fairly without a knife. Now I was regularly called on to use my spoon-knife to avoid disputes and maintain relative peace among the prisoners

When winter came, we had been transferred to a Camp in Kaufering, more similar to Auschwitz in its daily ordeals. Despite the horrendous daily hardships, we tried maintain a proper self-image as Jews, despite the danger involved.

I kept mental track of the calendar, and knew when Chanukah came. During a short rest break, we inmates began to reminisce about life at home before the war, how our fathers would light their menorahs with fervor and joy. We remembered how we couldn't get our fill of watching the flames sparkling like stars, how we basked in their warm, special glow, imbued with a special sanctity.

We thought back to the origins of Chanukah, the war of the Hasmoneans against their Greek tormentors, who were intent on erasing Judaism from Jewish hearts. We recalled the heroism of Jews at the time who risked their lives to keep the Sabbath, practice circumcision and study Torah. And we remembered how G-d helped them resist and rout their enemy, enabling Jews to freely observe Torah and mitzvot once again.

We looked at ourselves. Here we were in a camp where we were considered sub-human and we were constantly in danger, where it was impossible to observe our Judaism. How happy we would be, we mused, if only we could light Chanukah candles.

While talking and dreaming, we were all struck by the same idea: We must find a way to do this mitzvah. One fellow offered a little margarine he had saved from his daily ration to serve as our oil. And wicks? We began to unravel threads from our uniforms.

But what could be our menorah? I took out my spoon, and within moments, we were lighting the Chanukah "candle," reciting the blessings. We all stood around entranced, transfixed, each immersed in his own thoughts... of Chanukahs gone by... of latkes, dreidels, and Chanukah gelt we received as children.

Our unusual Chanukah menorah kindled a glimmer of hope. As we recited the blessing about the miracles G-d performed for our forefathers "in those days" -- but also "at this time" -- we knew that only a miracle could save us, a great miracle as inscribed on the dreidel's acrostic.

The famous Viennese psychiatrist Dr. Viktor Frankl, himself an inmate of Kaufering, asserts in his book "Search for a Meaning" that to survive the concentration camps, a person had to have something imprtant to live for. Those of us with goals had a better chance to remain alive.

Many Jews in the camps were good examples of that phenomenon, living for Sabbath, our holidays and our daily recognition that there is a G-d, whether or not we could fathom His ways. Our convictions helped us cling to life when others sank into despair.

Today, I am overwhelmed with gratitude to G-d for my personal miracle of survival, especially when surrounded by my children and grandchildren, all of whom are committed to Jewish continuity. My feeling of gratitude comes rushing every winter, when I light my elaborate real menorah, still remembering my little Auschwitz spoon Menorah.

I.I. Cohen, a Polish-born survivor of three concentration camps, lives in Toronto, where he is writing a book about his experiences. Excerpt courtesy of Am Echad Resources.