Chanukah Memories
Chanukah Geld today refers to the glittery gold and silver chocolate coins, sold in tiny net bags and scattered decoratively across the Chanukah table.
In my childhood, Chanukah Geld was mamish Geld. Real money.
The day before Chanukah, my father would take the Bezalel menorah out of the dining room credenza and place it on the desk in front of the window. Each night, the colorful candles left behind hardened drops of wax, clinging to the base. I watched in wonder as the colors layered themselves, night after night, turning the menorah into something richer and more alive. With a toothpick, Papa carefully cleaned the candle holders, making room for yet another evening of light.
We sang the traditional songs and sat quietly by the window for a few moments, watching the flames flicker against the dark. Then my father would reach into his Portemonnaie, his change purse, and pull out shiny ten-Schilling coins. He placed one into each of our hands, a gift in honor of Chanukah.
We spun the wooden dreidel on the dining room table, and when we were older, we played Quitlach, a card game we especially enjoyed in those years when Chanukah and Christmas happened to fall at the same time.
Across the courtyard, our neighbors displayed an enormous tree, lavishly decorated with lights, colorful balls, and endless candies wrapped in fringed white paper. It was irresistible. We stood by the window for a long time, imagining what it must be like to eat so much candy and receive so many presents all at once. The neighbors’ children, Björn and Ulla, would show up the next morning at our front door, proudly showing us their gifts. One year it was a new pair of skis, another time an electric train set or a car race track.
Latkes and doughnuts were not part of my Chanukah then. I only encountered them years later, after moving to America.
That was when I learned how Chanukah was celebrated in the country where we began raising our family. I quickly discovered that Chanukah Geld was no longer the main attraction. Instead, each night brought another gift, carefully wrapped in blue and white paper and placed somewhere near the menorah.
“When your children are older,” friends advised me, “you can give one big gift instead of many small ones.”
I remember thinking that American Jews had decided it was unfair that Jewish children received no presents, and so a new custom was born.
In the store, the saleslady would ask,
“Christmas or Chanukah paper?”
And each time, I dutifully revealed my identity by answering,
“Chanukah, please.”
When I look back now, I remember the weight of that coin in my hand, the warmth of the candles by the window. In my heart, I feel my father’s quiet inheritance to me, carried from memory into eternity.