It was the anniversary of my father's passing and my yarzeit candle was kindled in the dining room. Dare I risk it? The housemaster was a stickler for rules and tolerated no sound after "Lights out." I hesitated for a moment, and then set out on the perilous trip.

Steady breathing, accompanied by stentorian snoring, greeted me from the other rooms. Were they dreaming of parents and little siblings left behind in Hitler's Europe? Of the purgatory we had escaped? Perhaps they were too young to realize how fortunate they were to find refuge in England, but could imagine the horrors in the Europe we left behind?

I opened the dining-room door; the yarzeit light flickered on the mantlepiece. I sat down and gazed at the gentle light casting a huge shadow of myself on the opposite wall.

Was it really ten years since my father died? For a boy just turned twelve, it seemed like forever. I heard so much about him that I felt like I had personal memories of him. What if father were still alive? Would he have taken us out of Germany before that terrible day in 1938 when they destroyed our apartment? Or would he have been arrested with the rest?

I remember my mother's words as the Nazi hordes ravaged our belongings. "Perhaps it's better that Father died when he did." I felt with certainty that at this very moment my mother in distant Palestine was thinking of me. Our minds met wherever it is that minds meet, and Mother said with a smile, "Be strong, my boy. With G-d's help, we will meet again!"

The moment passed, but it was a priceless one that remains forever. That moment alone made my effort to get the yarzeit light worthwhile.

It wasn't easy. Those months in Blackpool since the beginning of the war, thirty of us lived in a refugee hostel. We had little beyond the bare necessities, but at least these we had, except for money! Our basic needs were seen to. If we wanted anything beyond that, such as a birthday present, we just did without it.

Doing without is well and good with personal needs. If you desperately want an ice cream cone and can't afford it, that's just too bad. If you don't have the money to go swimming, you do without it. Not so with religious issues. Whoever heard of a religious Jew not putting on tefillin because he can't afford it? When we need matzot on Pesach, they are bought and the money just has to be there! With G-d's help, it always is.

As my father's yarzeit drew near, I wanted to light a yarzeit candle. They cost one shilling and six pence, but with a little bargaining, Mr. Koblenz, the local grocer, would reduce it to a shilling and three pence. But it made no difference. They might as well cost a hundred pounds. I had neither a hundred pounds nor a halfpenny for a lollipop. I had nothing!

With a heavy heart I set out for Mr. Koblenz's grocery. Perhaps there was an errand or service to make myself useful? Anything except owing Mr. Koblenz money, which I saw no way of repaying.

The shop was empty as I entered, except for Mr. Koblenz snoozing on a stool in the corner. Hanging on the wall above Mr. Koblenz's head, was a black-framed photograph of a strikingly handsome boy in Royal Air Force uniform. The caption, "Reuven Koblenz, Killed in Action, March 1940," told me everything.

Staring at the photograph, I didn't notice Mr. Koblenz gradually opening his eyes. I was so absorbed by the picture that I was startled when Mr. Koblenz said: "It's three months already since he's gone. Seems like yesterday!"

"He certainly was a nice-looking boy," I said.

"Yes, and good-natured, too."

"Was he your only one, sir?"

"He was that," replied Mr. Koblenz, "and now I am left with nothing, just nothing."

"How did he die, Mr. Koblenz?"

"Shot down by Messerschmitts over the channel. The navigator, who bailed out, told me how Reuven stayed at the machine-gun, shooting to the last. He is certain they got a Messerschmitt before going down themselves."

"You must be very proud of him! Oh, Mr. Koblenz, do you realize how helpless we were when they smashed our apartment? How I wished we could hit back at those creatures. And now your son did that very thing! How terrific!"

"Son, I never looked at it that way. Perhaps he didn't go for nothing."

There was silence and then I remembered the purpose of my mission and hesitantly asked:

"I need a yarzeit light, Mr. Koblenz."

"A yarzeit light at your age?"

"My father, sir. He died when I was two."

"Growing up without a father isn't easy, son. I guess we all have our troubles."

"Mr. Koblenz, sir, I'm afraid I can't pay for the yarzeit light. I have no money."

"That's all right, son. That shilling or two won't make me rich or poor."

"I don't want it for nothing, Mr. Koblenz."

"All right, son. Pay me whenever you can."

"Mr. Koblenz, is there something I can do for you? A delivery or something? I don't want to owe you the money."

"Sonny, I have an idea. You're saying Kaddish for your father, right?"

"Why, of course!"

"Well, there's no one to say Kaddish for my Reuven. It's a long time since I've been to Synagogue and I wouldn't even know what to say. So when you say Kaddish for your father, will you think of my Reuven and say Kaddish for him at the same time?"

"I sure will, sir, this year and every year in the future."

He handed me the yarzeit light.

"Anything else you want, son? Don't be bashful."

"Well, yes. I'd like a photograph of Reuven, so whenever I think of how helpless we were when the Germans ravaged our home, I'll look at it and remember that Jewish boys fought back!"

That evening, I said Kaddish with more devotion than ever before, as I thought of the two men, neither of whom I had known, but each of who had special meaning for me. As I turned to leave the Synagogue, I was surprised to see Mr. Koblenz walking towards me.

"I wish you a long life, my boy," he said, as he grasped my hand. "Here, I brought you the photograph."

I looked at the picture of a happy and carefree boy, and then at Mr. Koblenz who was still clasping my hand.

A tear slowly trickled from his eye down his cheek.

"You'll think of him on future yarzeits as well?"

"I will, Mr. Koblenz, G-d willing. I promised you, haven't I?"

I, too, felt a tear forcing its way to the fore, but I turned round and walked into the cool breeze sweeping in from the Irish Sea.

Courtesy of the OK Jewish Homemaker