Page 31

She hesitates, then recites two other prayers, for the miracle of light, for life and for her family’s survival, with each word her voice gaining in confidence and volume.

Josie sets the shamash back in its place. She stands there, staring at the two flames: the helper and the helped. Her lips move silently. Andrée realizes she’s praying or talking to someone who isn’t there. To her father, perhaps. Or her mother. Or both.

Then the tears come. Silent at first, just streaming down her face. Then her shoulders shake, and a sob breaks free.

Andrée is there instantly, kneeling beside her, pulling her close. “I know, Josie. I know.”

“Papa’s supposed to do it,” she chokes out. “Papa always did it. He wore his good jacket, and he smiled a lot, and he made it special. And now he’s gone and Maman’s gone and Léon’s gone and I’m doing it without them.”

“I know it’s not right,” Andrée says fiercely. “None of this is right. But your Papa would be so proud of you right now. So proud. You remembered the blessing. You lit the candle. You’re keeping the tradition alive. That’s what he would want.”

Dancer is crying too now, and Tina, and even Louis must look away, his fists clenched. Philippe stands uncertain, then moves to stand beside Josie, slips his small hand into hers.

“My Papa would be proud too,” he says. “Maman says he’s watching from wherever he is. Maybe your Papa is watching too. Perhaps they’re together, watching us.”

Josie looks down at him, wipes her eyes. “Perhaps they are.”

They stand together, all of them, watching the candles burn. Two small flames against the darkness of occupation, of loss, of war. But flames nonetheless. Light that refuses to be extinguished.

“There’s a song,” Josie says after a while, her voice still thick with tears. “‘Ma’oz Tzur’—Papa used to sing it. It’s about being strong, about God protecting us. I don’t remember all the words, but I remember the tune.”

She begins to hum, tentative at first. Dancer recognizes it and joins in, her voice blending with Josie’s. The melody is ancient, mournful and hopeful at the same time. Philippe hums along, off-key but earnest.

Andrée doesn’t know the song, but she hums anyway, finding harmonies where she can. Beside her, Louis and Tina do the same. Six voices in a small Paris apartment, singing an old Jewish song while the Nazis patrol the streets below. It’s defiance. It’s remembrance. It’s love.

After the song, it is time to eat. Dancer serves the food with pride: a small amount of tender brisket that falls apart on the tongue, roasted vegetables that taste like days gone by. Louis pours wine for the adults, water for the children. They talk quietly, carefully avoiding dangerous topics. No talk of arrests, of deportations, of resistance. Tonight is for light, for memory, for defiance of a different kind.

When the meal is finished, when the plates are cleared away, Dancer serves the sufganiyot, dusted with sugar, oozing jam. They eat them slowly, reverently, tasting sweetness in a world gone bitter.

“My Papa always said Hanukkah is about miracles,” Josie says, licking sugar from her fingers. “About how sometimes, when everything seems darkest, a little bit of light can last much longer than it should. Back in the time of the Temple, the oil that should have burned for one day, burned for eight.”

“And what do you think?” Dancer asks. “Do you believe in miracles?”

Josie considers this. Looks around the room at Andrée, at Louis and Tina, at Dancer and Philippe, at the candles still burning bright.

“I think I do,” she says quietly. “I think maybe miracles are just people being kind when they don’t have to be. People being brave when it’s easier to hide. People sharing what little they have. People lighting candles when it’s dark.”

Andrée’s throat tightens. This child. This wise, brave, beautiful child.

“Then we’re surrounded by miracles,” Louis says gruffly.

They stay until the candles burn low, until Philippe starts yawning, until the night deepens outside and curfew looms. They mustn’t take any risks. They bundle into their coats, embrace Dancer and Philippe, promise to see each other again soon.

At the door, Dancer pulls Josie aside. “Thank you,” she says. “For tonight. For helping Philippe remember. For helping me remember.”

“Thank you for making the sufganiyot,” Josie says seriously. “Papa would have said they were perfect.”

“Next year,” Dancer says, “we’ll make them together. You and me and Philippe. We’ll make enough for everyone.”

“Next year,” Josie echoes. As if next year is certain. As if they’ll all still be here, still be safe, still be free to light candles and eat jam doughnuts and sing old songs.

On the walk home, Josie is quiet again, but a different kind of quiet. Not sad, but thoughtful. She holds Andrée’s hand on one side, Tina’s on the other, and Louis walks ahead, watching the streets, keeping them safe.

“Tata Andrée?” Josie says as they near their building.

“Yes, Josie?”

“Do you think Papa saw me? Do you think he knows I lit the candles?”