Hersh Goldman
The names and events in this police story are fictional. Any resemblance to real people or happenings is purely coincidental.
It happened at 5 p.m. Dec. 20, on a snowy Hanukkah evening. Solomon Green heard the doorbell ring. The old man thought it was probably a stranger looking for directions. He hobbled through the empty house to the hallway stairway leading down to the door.
Before descending, Solomon paused by the Hanukkah menorah standing in front of the hall window. It was a family heirloom, and he was the last of the family. Solomon gazed, spellbound, at the three-foot brass menorah. There was something soothing about the white Shabbat-brand candles and their still flames reflected in the darkened windowpane.
It looked the same as it did 74 years ago. The same candles in the same menorah reflected against the same snow-framed background. The lonely old man saw himself as an 8-year-old boy again. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone. He was watching the menorah with his mother, father, Bubbie, and Zaydie (Yiddish for “Grandma” and “Grandpa”).
Shloymie—he was no longer Solomon—held his baby sister, the only one who could make her laugh. Shloymie could hear his grandfather’s gravelly voice: “These candlelights are holy, Shloymie. You must not blow them out. Just look at them. That’s what it says here in the siddur (Jewish prayer book).”
Shloymie remembered Zaydie staring intently at the flames and nodding. “Ner Hashem nishmas odom,” he intoned. (“The Lord’s light is a person’s soul.”)
Shloymie marveled at how vividly those words from Proverbs came back to him. “It’s just as Zaydie said,” the old man thought. “These candles have warmed and revived my soul.”
The doorbell rang again, jarring Solomon from his reverie. Shloymie’s family faded but seemed to urge him to stay.
Had Shloymie ignored the bell, he would have spared himself a lot of grief. But it was not to be.
“I really must go,” he told the empty room. “I’ll watch the candles with you later.”
He descended the stairs and opened the door. A tall man in the doorway shone a flashlight into Solomon’s face. Then he struck the old man’s skull with it.
When Solomon regained consciousness, he was gagged and tied to a chair in his kitchen. The shades were drawn, and his head throbbed. The old man fought to stay awake.
The intruder entered. “Good. You’re awake,” he said. “You’re probably wondering why I’m letting you see my face. Why I’m not afraid you’ll identify me. Take a good look. Don’t you recognize me? You sure recognized me 10 years ago in that police lineup.”
The man’s voice hardened. “You figured me for that variety store holdup. I didn’t rob you. I robbed the storekeeper. But you had to stick your big fat Jewish nose where it didn’t belong. I did 10 years because of you! I swore I’d kill you when I got out, and Freddy Dingle keeps his promises.”
Dingle grabbed a steak knife and tickled Solomon’s throat with the point. “You’re going to die, old man. But don’t feel bad. I did 10 years; you don’t have 10 left anyway. And it’d be a waste not to take anything. That candleholder by the window—how much do you think it’s worth?”
Shloymie slipped back into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, he was in a hospital bed. A nurse adjusted his pillow. “How are you feeling, Shloymie? You took a nasty blow.”
“I feel fine,” he said, touching the bandage on his head. “What happened?”
The nurse laughed. “You’re clear-headed, that’s for sure. Officer Pat Riley can fill you in.”
Officer Riley smiled. “You came close, Shloymie. If I hadn’t come when I did … well, here’s what happened.
“I saw your candles burning in the window like always. Later, they were out, and I knew something was wrong. I saw big footprints in the snow leading to your door and heard noises inside. I smashed the window, got in, and caught Freddy Dingle. Same guy you testified against 10 years ago.”
Officer Riley added, “It’s a miracle. Your Hanukkah candles saved your life. Your God must like you.”
“And you, Officer Riley,” said Shloymie, “are God’s messenger. My Zaydie’s words came back to me that night: ‘The Lord’s light is a person’s soul.’ I took care of His light, and He took care of mine. Dingle should never have messed with those candles.”
Hersh Goldman is a Swampscott resident.
