My dear son recently presented me with a hand-crafted, incredibly detailed, sterling silver menorah. Watching the shining flames on the beautiful menorah, past Chanukah memories floated through my mind.

It was December, 1943. Cold gusts of wind shook the rafters of the old barn where my parents, brother and aunt and uncle, huddled together to keep warm. I was cold, tired and hungry, but all we had to eat was one small, half-frozen carrot.

It was Daddy’s idea that we all play a game of draydel in honor of Chanukah. “We’ll use this for a draydel,” he said, holding up a tiny, uneven stone, “and these,” he continued, pointing to a mound of pebbles, “for the coins. And the winner gets the carrot!”

We played, and just as I’d won the draydel game many times previously, I won again.

Smiling, Daddy handed me the precious carrot while everyone cheered. Hands trembling, I fingered the carrot, and then carefully cut it into six pieces. I passed the slices around, and then looked down at the tiny carrot in my own hand, feeling my appetite waning.

Tears formed as I recalled the Chanukah prizes of past years: the lovely green dress with the matching hat I received last year, the shiny new ice skates the year before, and the china doll with the pink, frilly dress that was my favorite.

I squeezed my eyes shut to hold back the tears, but they refused to stop. Through my sobs, I was aware of how quiet the room had become, of the presence of my father sitting beside me.

“He doesn’t understand,” I thought angrily. My father was not the emotional type, and I’d never seen him cry. I felt his hand on my arm, asking, “Annie, what’s the matter?” I couldn’t answer, so he tried again. “Tell me, what do you miss most of our Chanukahs back home?”

I recalled the presents I received, the delicious food we ate, and skating with my friends on the pond when school was over for the day. “Th-the menorah,” I said finally.

Father reached for my hand. “Come outside, Annie – there’s something I want to show you.”

I walked outside with him to the starry night sky. “Pick out a shamash,” he said, pointing at the stars. I chose a bright, glowing star.

“Now pick the first candle,” he said gently, and so I continued, choosing the twinkling lights to form the most beautiful menorah.

I gazed up at the sky, enjoying its still beauty, until a cold wind whipped the scarf off my neck. I turned to my father, to whom I now felt closer than ever before, but his head was averted.

“Daddy?” I said softly. He remained still for a moment, but when he turned around, I saw that he’d been crying.