When “Once upon a time” was the opening line of my books, World War II was in progress. Though memories sometimes materialize as make-believe, let me tell you about my first personal Hanukkah menorah.

People always ask if Hanukkah’s the Jewish Christmas. How could that be possible, as it started in 165 BC? The holiday actually has no Biblical basis. Rather, it’s a celebration of religious freedom.

The Seleucid king of Greece, Antiochus Epiphanes, believed anyone not following Greek religion was a threat to the state. He tried to force his religion on Judea and made it a crime to teach the Bible or follow the Covenant of Abraham.

A three-year rebellion ended when Judah the Maccabee recaptured the Jewish temple from Seleucid Greeks and spent eight days purifying and rededicating it. Hanukkah literally means “dedication.” Its proximity to Christmas is coincidental timing.

Candles on the menorah

The eight candle slots in menorahs are in a straight row because no Hanukkah day is more important than another. Only the center slot is tall; it holds the ninth candle called the shamash (guardian of the lights), which is lit first. The flaming shamash lights the rest of the menorah. How could a candle protect other candles, I wondered as a child? My daddy huddled his family together at dusk, and on night one lit the shamash, then candle one.

Then we sang songs only heard at this holiday. This ritual continued every night for a week. I liked to open a traditional box that bulged with multi-colored candles, pull up each crushed wick, then decide which colors to use.

Daddy said that Hanukkah candles weren’t for light, but to remind us of a miracle. Judah Maccabee’s vial of oil—enough to last a single day—burned for eight days.

A menorah of my own

Mother’s sturdy brass menorah was made so it looked the same on the front and back, but I wanted my very own menorah. I filled little blue cardboard banks to raise money for the Jewish National Fund and earn my own menorah.

In October 1944, I set up my collection stand on a corner by Brooklyn’s Pitkin Avenue. My grandpa gave me a nickel for a Charlotte Russe to fortify myself while I raised the money. People paused, smiled at my whipped cream mustache and actually dropped coins in the metal slot.

When I got my gold-colored, tin menorah, I placed it on the windowsill.

The miracle

My mother taught me about a brave lady named Judith who made latkes and fed them to Holofernes, the general of a bad Assyrian army. He got thirsty so she gave him liquor, made him drunk and helped save the Jewish people. Rescuing people from dictators linked Judith to Hanukkah.

I started thinking: Would anyone understand a festival of lights in a world darkened by blackout shades and air raids? Would anyone know that these candles prove there can be victory over power and take-overs?

Logically, one day’s supply of oil can’t last eight days, but logic has little to do with miracles.

The world powers declared a desert was unable to grow crops or sustain life with any self-sufficient society. In 1948, that desert was named Israel. Logically, a small group of people shouldn’t be able to make a massive mark when they’ve been subjected to quota systems, ghettos and blacklists. But Jewish contributions in fields from science to music have enriched many nations.

When I pull out my menorah each Hanukkah, I remember how important it once was for me to have my own sitting next to my family’s. I’ve sung the same songs I sang as a child with my children and grandchildren, as the candles tilt and drip.