Michael Noach was lighting a candle on his hanukkiah in the window of his small terrace when he heard a crash and someone crying out. Instinctively, he reached for the phone next to his window but stilled his hand when he heard a second cry, this time clearly coming from the back. He stood still, stroking his beard, pondering his actions. Another yell. He could not ignore a human in pain, so he picked up the torch he kept by the back door and peered outside.
“Is anyone there?”
“Oh shit,” said a voice. He shone the beam in that direction. There, on the ground, was a teenage boy, his foot at an oblique angle to his leg.
“Hold still,” urged Noach as he hurried across the yard, “I’ll help you up.”
“I think I’ve broken it.”
They turned, and Noach saw the Swastikas daubed in red paint on his back wall. Anger flashed across his face. “Why do you do this?”
“You’re fucking Jew boy,” the teen said, his chin jutting defiantly.
Noach paused for a moment and gathered his words. “I am a Jew, this is true, but I haven’t done any fucking for many years.”
“You’re still a Jew.”
“And this means you can deface my wall with such a symbol?” Noach shook his head. “We need to talk. What’s your name?”
“Derek, but everyone calls me Deggsie.”
Well, Deggsie, I’m Noach, let’s get you inside.”
“And then you ring the cops?”
“No, then I make you a cup of tea and call an ambulance.”
Inside, Noach asked him, “Why do you hate Jews?”
“You’re weirdos and you keep all the money.”
“Hah, do I look like I have money?” Noach ran his hands over his threadbare clothing. “As for being weird. You might have a point. I know some very weird Jews. And weirdly, if you promise not to deface my house, I will not inform the police.”
“I promise,” Deggsie said as ambulance lights stopped outside the window, framing the menorah. “What’s that?”
“That’s my hanukkiah. I light a candle every night for eight nights to commemorate the recovery of Jerusalem from the Greeks. We also eat weirdo food like doughnuts and sing songs.”
“Like a Jewish Christmas?”
“Sort of,” Noach replied. “Look, if you like, you can come back when they fix your leg, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Okay, just don’t call the cops.”
“Deal.”
A year later, a knock came at the door and there stood Deggsie, a box of doughnuts in his hands. “I brought you these.”
They talked about the Maccabees and the Festival of Lights and the miracle of the oil and the importance of remembering. Especially remembering.
Deggsie thought of those talks often, so when he said goodbye to Noach’s earthly presence, he commemorated him with a doughnut, a glass of wine and a latke. And did so every year from then on, on the first night of Hannukah, after twenty-five days of Kislev.
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