By Renee Sussman

Papa and Henry were second cousins who’d known each other a long time. They looked alike, with piercing blue eyes, and white hair with a kippah above. They were the fixing, fiddling, and accumulating types.

Papa visited Henry at the Jewelry Exchange whenever he made the trek from the Bronx to Manhattan. He’d bring Henry strings of copper wire he scrounged from radios or other objects. Papa kept bits of metal to make sculptures, or fix household items. He'd had a hardware business in Vienna.

Henry would tuck away what Papa brought in his cramped shop, already competing for space with hundreds of figurines, jewelry, and knick knacks for repair or sale.

One day, Papa held out to Henry a metal object. "Here, take this menorah, my family will never use it," he said sadly.

He was right. Observance had lost its glue in his daughter's family. His daughter (my mother) was headed for divorce. Papa blamed it on her lack of interest in the old ways.

"It belongt to my fadda, Dovid." Papa said softly, looking down at the floor. Henry reluctantly accepted the relic and became its guardian.

Thirty years later, our car rolled up a narrow street to a row house deep in Brooklyn…Serele's house. Serele is Henry's daughter, now in her 40's. Like me, she had begun a quest to gather family information. She found her way to my cousin in Santa Fe, who connected us. Tonight was the big reunion with Henry and the long-awaited introduction to the rest of the family.

A tall, friendly man with metal glasses welcomed me. "Renee? Come in! Come in! I'm Josef, Serele's husband."

The rest of the mishpochah slowly migrated through the door, Nusha, Henry's sister, with her husband and daughter, Esther. Soon the number of people in the small library reached critical mass, creating forward motion to advance a wave to the dining room. We wedged in around a dinner table. Faded memorabilia, certificates, a ketubah, photographs, and folk art by close relatives lined most of the wall.

Finally, Henry and his wife arrived. He burst through the door, his white hair contrasting against his black tam beret, huge blue eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf. His vivaciousness was infectious and soon the room was buzzing.

The conversation came easy. We marveled at the many family members from the 1800's, now invisible, who made it possible for us all to sit here together. Halfway through the meal, Henry leaned back in his chair and recounted the menorah episode, unaware of me wincing that Papa spoke about us with such disappointment.

The menorah became the focal point of my curiosity. As we prepared to leave, I resolved to ask Henry if, in a few weeks, I could light it for Chanukah. What better way to rediscover a branch of my family than by rekindling my closeness to Papa and connecting to my ancestors.

Henry called the next day, "I talkt it over with my wife and we want to give you the menorah." We agreed to meet at his shop. Not soon enough I stood in front of the door; I swallowed with anticipation.

I took only one step inside and reached the counter. The available space the size of a small stall shower allowed only one other person. Something covered every inch. I wondered how this vibrant, vivacious people person could lock himself in this closet for over 30 years. His life force was so expansive. But he didn't seem to mind the overwhelming accumulation.

He and his daughter shared this love of collecting, unwilling to part with anything, as if it were sacred. He held up an object wrapped in paper and plastic as we talked. He finally unwrapped the menorah as he retold the story again.

It emerged both plain and elegant and Middle Eastern – a simple design with a hint of scrolling carved out of one piece of dulled brass. No candle holders – only oil troughs. A tiny hole at the top big enough for a small shamash candle that lights the others.

He handed it to me, a reverse transaction. I could feel my grandfather's hands on the menorah and his feet where I stood.

That night, my husband and I arranged all the menorahs we had on the dining room table. Turning down the lights, we placed Papa's menorah first in line. I lit its shamash, and with it I kindled all the other shamashes in the other menorahs, going down the family tree.

It felt good to prove Papa wrong.