HIDE THE MENORAH!
by Dan Tirman

My heart surged with joy and wonder at pre-dawn when I awoke to find my bedroom decorated with gifts and the magic of Christmas. At the age of four, I somehow assumed I’d know this dreamy intoxicating coziness again. But it wasn’t to be. One day, my little playmate, Carol Hiris, solemnly told me that she was Catholic and advised me to find out what I was. Later that night, my father informed me that I was Jewish, which I, in turn, informed tiny Tarquin Rottoti, who was only three, who ran inside to find out from his father: Catholic. The numbing reality was that the very same children I played with got presents under a decorated tree, merrily adorned their homes with festive lights, and had their good behavior assessed by Santa Claus prior to his yearly generous visits to their homes. How I admired the Mullea family, whose expansive estate was smothered with multicolored lights, snow men, Santa Claus, elves, reindeer, the works. What a show they put on! How I longed to be part of a gentile clan climbing onto a roof with strings of lights to create a spectacular holiday spectacle. Alas, the closest I’d get to a roof was “Fiddler”, for all I could count on, literally, were the nine orange bulbs of the Hanukah menorah. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’d meticulously attend to the Hanukah menorah during those moderately anticipated days of celebration when the Jewish community would relate a tale about a group of brothers called the Maccabees, who won a battle against the Syrians some long time ago, thus saving the Jews from yet another life and death assault on their entire existence. And, of course, the oil burning candles in a temple miraculous held firm for eight days, hence the lighting of the menorah….yada yada yada, as they say… I just wanted a bulb to light, desperately. So, I took it upon myself to be sure my parents hauled out that electric menorah where I’d strategically position it by the front window of the house. On each of the eight nights, I’d twist on another orange bulb so that the world could see we were on top of our game. I’d make the very most of it, but still looked up to the sky on Christmas eve, just in case I spotted Santa…on his way…even if he’d just be “in the neighborhood.”

One afternoon during Hanukah, my Grandmother, my Nan, was at the house while my mother was still at work. Andy Steinfeld was over to play and do homework. We were about nine. All was calm when little Howard Milgrim rang the doorbell, visibly upset, but like a good soldier, bless his heart, delivered an urgent alert, “I think you should know that David Marler and Robert Glass are riding their bicycles over Tiger’s stomach and putting him in a garbage can!” We were all shocked and appalled, and this raised the ire of my Nanny, the ever feisty Mae Levy. Tiger, my black and white cat, was one of the nicest, most trusting and affectionate animals in town. He was one of those special beings God put on this earth to teach children respect, love and kinship toward all creation. Some children get that better than others I guess, but Mae Levy, in the true Hanukah spirit of her ancestors, the Maccabee brothers, sprung into action. “You stay here!” She trumpeted, then threw on her coat and was out the door. My mother arrived home from work and went directly up to her room to unwind. Andy Steinfeld was called home for dinner, but by the time he got to his house, the traumatized boy needed a mother’s comfort, for he was sobbing hysterically. Through his hot tears and quivery lips all he could eek out was, “Danny’s grandmother, Danny’s grandmother…” Howard Milgrim reported back at the front door, “Come quick, your Grandmother’s been in a fight!” We ran down the block and met up with my Nan who was strutting down the street like a five star General, trailed by half the kids in the neighborhood. She was heaving with fresh adrenalin. “What happened?” As I struggled to keep up with her march down the sidewalk, she announced, “I’m calling the police!”

Back at home Tiger the cat was comfortably socializing on a most satisfying quilt. Fully content in his present activity of kneading and purring, he could reveal nothing about the incident and had actually been quite cheerful about the amusing game of bicycle wheel rolling over pussycat’s robust belly. He would soon enjoy a can of Little Friskies’ Tuna and a well deserved snooze.

Mother called downstairs, “Ma, Joy Steinfeld just called. Did you get into a fight?” “Yes, the police are on the way.” Mae was calmly waiting for her next scene. Audrey Tirman was alarmed as she prepared herself and her house for the arrival of the police. With growing concern approaching panic, she scanned the living room; her eyes zeroing in on the front window. “Hide the Menorah!” “What!! Hide the Menorah!?” I protested. No. She was not going to take my orange bulbs away. Besides, the Marler family was Jewish too. Did she think this was Poland, 1942?

A chubby, cherubic faced man, closely reminiscent of the stereotypical Irish cop on the beat, of which there were still remnants in the late sixties, arrived at the house. He had already interviewed Mrs. Marler and Mae was now telling her side of the battle.

It seemed that Mae Levy had walked up the twelve steep concrete steps to the front door of the house where little David Marler lived; the impish little “dear” who abused innocent animals. When his mother answered the door, Mae offered this suggestion, “How’d you like me run over your son and put him in a garbage can?” As they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, for Mrs. Marler instinctively replied by giving Mae a shove forceful enough to send her flying, back first, through the air, over the daunting concrete steps, where she landed, dazed, but most fortunately, on her back atop a three foot high bush. This was witnessed by the Steinfeld boy, who then raced home in great distress to his mother’s bosom. As Mae felt the thorny, but life saving bush sticking into her back, she saw stars twirling around her head; Christmas lights no doubt. She managed to get on her feet, stalk menacingly back up the imposing steps to the frosty Mrs. Marler, grip the beaded necklace which adorned the younger woman’s neck, and rip it off in one rage filled thrust; beads scattering to the ground like fallen Christmas tree ornaments.

Audrey Tirman was doing her best to charm the policeman and make light of the fracas, but Mae found herself shouting in the face of the poor officer, “Did I hurt her? Did I hurt her?” He looked stumped but finally replied, as if at that point defending himself, “Oh yes you did!”

Many many Christmas seasons later, with my cousins in Boca Raton, Florida, we decided to check out a Christmas lights display. They were just average. As we drove away, the elder cousin muttered to no one in particular, “Eh, Goyisha Nachis”. “Goyisha Nachis…what is that?” I asked “Gentile pleasures” they translated. Some of my DNA wiring must have gotten crossed. All I really wanted was just a bit of Goyisha Nachis, just a little. Is that really asking too much? Better Goyisha Nachis than Yidishe souris and aggravation that you shouldn’t know from. But could I get any of that….. HO HO NO!!! Well, Merry Christmas anyway!