by Dr. Blair P. Grubb
Several years ago, a doctor from southern France contacted me. He had read my articles on disorders of the autonomic nervous system, and asked me to help his granddaughter who was suffering from a baffling disease whose symptoms matched those I described.
I collaborated with the child's French physicians by phone and fax, we came to a diagnosis, and I prescribed a course of therapy. During the next several weeks, the girl made a miraculous recovery. Her grandparents expressed their heartfelt thanks and asked me to let them know should I ever come to France.
In the summer of 1996, 1 was invited to address an international scientific meeting in Nice, so I sent word to this physician. He called me as soon as I arrived at the hotel, and we arranged to meet for dinner. We met and then drove north to his home in the beautiful French countryside.
It was humbling to learn his home was older than the United States. During the drive he told me that his wife was ill with metastatic breast cancer, but she insisted on meeting me. When introduced to her, I saw that despite her severe illness, she was still a beautiful woman with a noble bearing.
They treated me to a wonderful meal, and after dinner, we sat in a 17th-century salon, sipping cognac and chatting. Our conversation must have seemed odd to the young man and woman who served us because it came out in a free-flowing mixture of English, French, and Spanish.
After a while the woman asked, "My husband tells me you are Jewish, no?"
"Yes," I said, "I am a Jew." They asked me to tell them about Judaism, especially the holidays. I did my best to explain and was astounded by how little they knew of Judaism. She was particularly interested in Chanukah. After answering her questions, she looked me in the eye and said, "I have something I want to give you." She disappeared and returned several moments later with a package wrapped in cloth. She sat, her tired eyes looking into mine, and began to speak slowly.
"When I was a little girl of 8 years, during the Second World War, the authorities came to our village to round up Jews. My best friend was a girl of my age named Jeanette. One morning when I came to play, I saw her family being forced at gunpoint into a truck. I ran home and told my mother what happened and asked where Jeanette was going. `Don't worry,' she said, 'Jeanette will be back soon.'
I ran back to Jeanette's house only to find that she was gone and that the villagers were looting her home of valuables, except for the Judaic items, which were discarded and thrown into the street. I saw an item from her house lying in the dirt. I picked it up and recognized it as candlsticks that Jeanette and her family would light around Christmas time. I thought `I will take this and keep it for Jeanette,' but she never returned."
The woman paused and took a slow sip of brandy.
"I have kept it since. I hid it from my parents and didn't tell a soul of its existence. Indeed, over the last 50 years the only person who knew of it was my husband. When I found out what really happened to the Jews, and how many of the people I knew had collaborated with the Nazis, I could not bear to look at it. Yet I hid it, waiting for something, although I wasn't sure what. Now I know it waited for you, who helped cure our granddaughter, and I entrust you with it."
Her trembling hands set the package on my lap. I slowly unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a brass menorah, with eight cups for holding oil and wicks and a ninth cup centered above the others. It had a ring attached to the top and the woman mentioned that she remembered that Jeanette's family would hang it in the hallway of their home.
The Menorah looked old to me; later, several people told me that it is over 100 years old. As I held it and thought about what it represented, I began to cry. All I could manage to say was a garbled "merci." As I left, her last words to me were "Il faudra voir la lumiere encore une fois" - it should once again see light.
She died less than 1 month after our meeting. This Chanukah, this menorah will once again see light. As my family lights it, we will say a special prayer in honor of those whose memories it represents. We will not let its lights go out again.
Annals of Internal Medicine
© American College of Physicians
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