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Dancer ushers them into her apartment. Her face is flushed from cooking, her hair tied back, an apron over her dress. Around her, the room glows warm with lamplight.

“Come in, come in! You must be freezing. Philippe, our guests are here,” she calls out.

They enter, and the warmth envelops them. The apartment is immaculate—Dancer has tidied up for them. Every surface shines. The smell of cooking oil fills the air. A small boy appears, dark-haired like his mother.

“This is Philippe,” Dancer says, her hand on his shoulder. “Philippe, say hello to our friends.”

“Hello,” the boy says shyly. His eyes find Josie. “Are you Joséphine? Maman told me you were coming and that you know how to light the candles.”

Josie nods. “I do. My Papa taught me. Did your Papa teach you?”

Philippe’s face falls slightly. “A little bit. Not very much. He’s been gone a long time.”

“My Papa too,” Josie says quietly. “And then my Maman and my brother.”

The two children look at each other, recognition passing between them. They’re the same, these two. Both living with loss. Philippe reaches out and takes Josie’s hand.

“Come on. I’ll show you the menorah. Maman cleaned it specially.”

They disappear into the other room, and Dancer watches them go, her eyes shining.

“I didn’t expect that,” she says quietly. “I thought he’d forgotten Saul. He was only four when they took him, days after occupation. They caught him protesting along with his friends. I begged him not to go.”

“Children remember more than we think,” Tina says, touching Dancer’s arm. “Now, what can we do to help?”

Dancer wipes her eyes quickly, forces a spark back into her voice. “Everything’s nearly ready. The latkes are keeping warm; the brisket is done. I visited Gypsy and told her you were coming tonight and asked if there was any way she could get me a small piece of brisket and she did. I even managed to make sufganiyot: jam doughnuts. Don’t ask me where I found the ingredients, but I did.”

She laughs. “Let’s think of this celebration as an act of resistance. Saul always said Hanukkah without sufganiyot isn’t Hanukkah at all.”

The table is beautifully laid: a white cloth, mismatched plates that somehow work together, candles waiting to be lit. In the center, a menorah. Silver, tarnished in places, but polished until it gleams. Eight branches waiting for candles, plus the one for the shamash, the candle used to light all the others, taller in the middle.

Josie and Philippe are already there, Josie explaining the menorah to him in a serious voice. “See, tonight we only light one candle. Tomorrow night, two. And it keeps going until all eight are lit. The shamash lights the others—that’s its job. Papa always said the shamash was taking care of the other candles, making sure they could shine.”

Philippe nods solemnly. “That’s nice. The shamash is brave.”

“Very brave,” Josie agrees.

Dancer approaches. “It’s time,” she says softly. “We light the menorah before we eat.”

From a drawer she takes out a box of white candles. She places one candle in the shamash holder, one in the furthest-right branch. Then she steps back.

“Josie,” she says, “would you do us the honor?”

Josie stands. In the dim light she looks even smaller than usual, a child playing at adult rituals. But her face is serious, composed. She approaches the menorah, and Dancer hands her a match.

“Do you remember the blessing?” she asks gently.

“I think so. Papa always said it in Hebrew first, then told us what it meant.”

“Then say it however you remember it.”

Josie strikes the match. The flame catches, bright in the darkness. She touches it to the wick of the shamash, and the candle blooms with light.

Then, holding the candle carefully, she begins to speak. Her voice is clear, surprisingly strong. The Hebrew words come haltingly at first, then more confidently, as if her father is whispering them to her across time and distance.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.” With the final words, she uses the shamash to light the other candle. The flame wavers, then steadies. Two small lights in the darkness.

She pauses, translates. “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.”