Every year, when the entire audience sings the Rain Prayer with the cantor, and the cantor lends his voice to the song and shows his power as he puts a new melody to the words "for a blessing and not a curse," he stands in his place in the synagogue, covered in an old yellow tallit whose tassels at the edges have turned black, and has been singing to himself for decades, to the tune of the children's song about Hanukkah "For a warm and sweet bread" - the words from the Rain Prayer "for a blessing and not a curse, for fullness and not hunger, for desire and not thinness, for life and not death..."'
The next day, while the grandchildren are putting the Sukkah decorations in storage, he opens the table that has seen better days, one of whose legs is actually an old car tire, pulls out the screws, and arranges them in different sizes at the top of the table. Then he spreads out the red cloth tablecloth that has seen better days, and begins to sing Chanukah songs to himself with a lilting heart.
The warehouse window runs right along the edge of the street above it, more than halfway sunk into the ground, with only the arch of the window peeking out from above. The street leads to a neighborhood Talmud Torah school, where all the children know that every day, until Hanukkah, you can peek into his window and see him at his work.
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And so every day he assembles, little by little, in a slow but steady order, reed after reed for the menorah.
He sets up its legs, shaped like the legs of a lion, inserts the central rod, and slowly levels it to the right and left until it is centered, assembles the rosettes of the cups and sings to himself each time the song "Jacob's Rose" from the Purim songs. But immediately, when he assembles the cups that look like jars, he returns to the Chanukah songs and hums to himself "A small jar for eight days, the one who gave me oil..." and laughs to himself when he remembers how his little daughter, who was at his side at work, used to correct him in the well-known children's song.
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Every day of Hanukkah.
Even on Saturday nights and Fridays. He tried every year not to underestimate 44 menorahs as the number of Chanukah candles we light. The same year he broke his leg, when it snowed heavily in Jerusalem, he was hospitalized and did not have time to build 44 menorahs. That same year his wife fell ill and died. His sadness was evident every time he was asked how many menorahs he had managed to assemble, and whether it was the same amount every year.
The menorah buyers who would come to him would crouch under the branches of a fig tree on the way to the warehouse buried in the ground. Because no one entered his house. Thus, apart from his children and grandchildren, no one knew that every year a new menorah was added to the collection at home - alongside other old menorahs from different parts of the world that he had collected over the years.
For the past year, I have watched him assemble the menorah, slowly, patiently, and with a smile. When I asked him which menorah he liked best of all the ones he had made, he looked at me and smiled a huge smile, his eyes as blue as the sea disappeared in his big smile, his teeth stood out against his white beard, and he said: I love all the menorahs, all of them. I know how much joy they bring to hearts, and how many children stare at the lights they provide.
I insisted: But there must be one you really like. He looked at me, his smile fading, his eyes widening. You could drown in them.
He stood up heavily, dragging his feet, his slippers scraping the floor with a creaking noise. He stood up and turned into the house, and when he saw that I was hesitating to go inside - because I didn't understand if he was letting me into the place where no one else was - he motioned for me to follow him inside.
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We went up the stairs, entered the kitchen. The faint smell of breakfast was still in the air. Sit down, he told me. I sat down on the chair next to him. He bent over the kitchen cabinet, pulled out a simple menorah that was clearly his own work, and placed it in front of me. There, between the legs of the menorah's lions, I saw prominent letters.
I bent down to read and he already whispered to me: 'Nechama, it says Nechama. That's my wife's name, God willing, and this is the first menorah I made. I made this menorah the first year we were married. We didn't have money to buy a fancy one.
""Nechama asked me to build her a menorah and write her name on it. That's what I did, and since then she hasn't agreed to replace it with another. It's the most beautiful menorah you've ever made, she always told me. It's the menorah that, after I gave it to her, she said to me: 'You're the best 'menorah builder' in the world. Build lots more like these. But this is mine. This is the menorah I love the most.' And I love her the most, the menorah, and the person I miss the most - my dear wife.".
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On Hanukkah I arrived at his house.
At the eighth candle, a little after sunset, it was dark outside. But in his house there was plenty of light, dozens of grandchildren were standing at the front door, there was shouting, singing, and several of his sons were trying to sing "Maoz Tzur," alongside mothers who were curling up with their children, protecting them from the cold.
And he sits on a chair, looking at the small menorah, and smiles to himself with great happiness, all curled up and wrapped up against the cold outside.
''The menorah builder,' I shouted at him. He looked up, smiled his charming smile, and immediately his blue eyes disappeared again into his large cheeks, and his beard, crowned with a fringe, peeked out through the blankets that wrapped him.
''happy holiday,' I saw his lips whisper - and he waved his hand with great joy.
''Happy Hanukkah, menorah builder,' I whispered to myself.
Happy Holidays!
