Little Flasks of Hope

Most Jewish grandmas I knew didn’t have tattoos. If they did, they generally didn’t sport it with pride. One Friday night, my grandmother, wearing her red wig and her red lipstick and her glammed up orthopedic shoes, rolled up her sleeve and showed me and my mother her tattoo with tremendous pride. Of course, it wasn’t really a tattoo. It was the Nazi branding. It was the attempts to turn her into a number to keep track of her death. It was her souvenir from Auschwitz, where 1 million Jews were gassed.

“Do you see how neat it is?” she asked us.

“Umm?” we said.

“Yes,” she said. I saw the tattooist was writing sloppy numbers, so I dashed to the next line where the tattooist was writing neater.”

“How could you be so vain in a time like that?” we asked her. We started to laugh because it was the kind of thing she would do. “You were in a death camp! You were starving. You were worked to the bone. You risked your life for neater numbers?”

She first had a good-natured laugh at herself and then she turned serious.

“It wasn’t vanity,” she said. “I knew I was going home. The neat numbers were a promise to myself. I was going home and when I got home, I knew I wouldn’t want sloppy numbers on my arm for the rest of my life.”

Neat little numbers. Such a small little thing. Yet it filled her with hope.

Tonight is Chanukah, a holiday that commemorates the rededication of the Beis Hamikdash (House of God) in Jerusalem over 2,000 years ago. We light the menorah for eight nights because of the great miracle that happened there. What was this great miracle? Well, the Jews wanted to light the menorah after reclaiming their temple from the Greeks who tried to destroy it. The problem was, they couldn’t find any sealed oil. After searching and searching, they finally found one tiny flask. They lit the menorah. That oil lasted eight nights, the perfect amount of time for them to make new oil. We light a menorah for eight nights to celebrate that miracle.

A small little flask. Such a small little thing. It has been giving us hope for 2,000 years.

It doesn’t feel like a hopeful time right now. There is tremendous suffering all around the world. 138 hostages are still held by Hamas – undergoing unbelievable torture. Three presidents of Ivy League schools straight up refused to say that calling for the genocide of the Jewish people is considered harassment. My grandmother wanted to tell her Holocaust story to fight against antisemitism. Never in a million years would I think it would get so bad again. 

Chanuka always takes place in the darkest time of the year. The days are short. It is freezing cold. And we find the strength within us to reignite the hope.

Sometimes a little hope is enough to last eight days. In fact, in Judaism, the number eight represents infinite. In the wreckage of their beloved place of worship, the Jewish people only found enough oil to light the menorah for one night. That oil lasted for eight days. That oil is still lasting now, even if we must search and search for it. I wish the world would look different. I wish the suffering would end. But I don’t get a say. I only get a say on the little things. I only get a say if I bring a little light into this world. If I make someone feel a little better. If I smile a little brighter.

From the numbers on her arm to the nail polish on her fingers (always choose a cheerful color so when you look down at it you’ll feel a spark of happiness), my grandmother taught me that it is the little things that reaffirm life. She didn’t get neat numbers because she was naive about the state of the world. She got neat numbers because she believed in a world that would get better. She didn’t get dressed up to ignore the suffering in the world. She got dressed up because against all odds, she believed in a world worth getting dressed for. She believed in lighting other people up with love and she knew that doing that was only possible by finding the fire inside of you. Everyone she met was met with her beaming smile and her all-encompassing love. Maybe it didn’t change the world, but it definitely changed me. She taught me it is the little changes we make, it is the neat numbers instead of sloppy ones, it is the pretty manicure, the kind smile, the tiny drop of oil, that sometimes makes all the difference.

That to me is a comfort and I hope it can be a comfort to you too.

HAPPY CHANUKAH to all. I wish you all so much peace and light and joy.

I would love to hear your comments on this.