The Cap Poppa Got from the Czar

I can’t remember a Hanukkah without snow. Snow in drifts as tall as a man. And that man? My Poppa-the-Rabbi, trudging home from shul in the evening darkness to light the candles.  Poppa with a wool muffler over his nose, rubber galoshes flopping on his feet and his head warmed by a Persian lamb fur cap. 

On any given Hanukkah night, Poppa would stomp into the house, blow the snowflakes off the cap and say, “So, did I ever tell you who gave me this cap?” He’d asked this question many times before, and of course I knew the answer. But pretending I didn’t know was part of our family’s Hanukkah tradition.

“No, Poppa. Who gave you the cap?”

“The cap? The cap was given to me by Czar Nicholas, himself.

“Really, Poppa! When?”

“When I was seven, maybe eight. It was Hanukkah and Czar Nicholas just happened to be passing by our village when, through the open window, he heard me singing Maoz tzuuuur y’shooo-a-seeee. He was very impressed.”

“And what did Czar Nicholas do then, Poppa?” 

“Then? What did he do then? Then the Czar bent down, shook my hand and said,  ‘You may call me Nikki’.”

From the kitchen Mama would call, “Oi, Alex!  Such stories you tell her.”

The Hanukkah candles we lit when I was a child were CANDLES.  Fat, smooth, sturdy and orange.  Not plain-Jane orange, mind you, but ORANGE.  And when those candles stood in the frosty window, their flames melting the ice until it puddled on the sill, well -- anyone passing by knew he was looking at candles that meant business.  Don’t mess with us, they seemed to say, if you know what’s good for you.  Just like the Maccabees.

*

While the candles burned on those long-ago evenings, I spun my dreidel and Poppa sang his Hanukkah songs -- in Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian, English.  I loved the singing, really I did, but Momma wouldn’t start frying her latkes until the singing was over and the candles had burned down to nubs, and sitting through Poppa’s Hanukkah concerts in anticipation of Momma’s latkes was not easy. Mama’s latkes, you see, were the true miracle of Hanukkah.  

“And what makes Momma’s latkes so miraculous?” Poppa asked every year.  

And every year my response was the same. “The secret ingredient!” 

“And what is the secret ingredient?”

I knew the answer, but pretending I didn’t was part of the tradition. “Tell me, Poppa! What is the secret ingredient?”

Then Poppa would put down his fork, wipe the sour cream off his moustache, take Momma’s hand and whisper, “The secret ingredient is the tiny piece of her knuckle that she grates in along with the potatoes.”

Blushing, Momma would say, “Oi, Alex.  Such stories you tell her.”

*

I did not grow up with Hanukkah shopping lists or fancy gift wrap and bows. And a gift every night? Never. I got one present and one present only. Hanukkah gelt that Poppa took from his trouser pocket and put, unwrapped, in my palm. Every Hanukkah the gift was the same. An uncirculated 1923 silver dollar that Poppa had somehow gotten his hands on the year he came to America. He kept a stash of these coins in several black, lisle socks hidden behind our stove. I don’t know who he thought he was hiding them from. I knew where the treasure was, and Poppa knew that I knew. But pretending I didn’t know was also part of our family’s Hanukkah tradition. A tradition we observed until the fateful Hanukkah of 1944. 

*

It was the day of the fifth candle. We woke to find the radio -- gone. The Victrola -- gone. In the kitchen, Poppa moved the stove. Oi, Vey! Gevaltdt! Ganeyvim! The sock with the silver dollars had vanished. Unlike the small jar of oil that kept burning in the Hanukkah story, our seemingly inexhaustible treasure was also gone. Stolen while we slept by some non-sectarian Grinch.  

I wept. Poppa fumed. Then he put on his coat, his galoshes and the cap that he got from the Czar and marched straight to the bank. That night, as he had done for years, Poppa gave me my Hanukkah gelt. I turned the coin over and over. Studied its face. It was familiar but somehow different. And then I realized what was wrong. This dollar wasn’t engraved 1-9-2-3. The numbers on this silver dollar were 1-9-4-4.

“Poppa?“

“Tochter. See how it shines, so bright. So new. So much better than the old.”

And Momma sighed, “Oi, Alex. Such stories you tell her.”

*

Looking back, I realize a child more perceptive than I would have gotten a clue, right then, that more than just dates on silver dollars can change. Now, when I gather with my children and grandchildren to celebrate the Festival of Lights, it’s very good, of course. But my Hanukkah is gone. It’s been replaced by frantic shopping and candles that are thin, pale imitations of the real thing. Sadly, the latkes are often made from a mix, the snowdrifts are seldom tall as a man, and the Czar never passes through our village. 

It’s then I run back to a magical time. I taste my mother’s latkes. I hear my father’s Hanukkah songs, remember his stories and feel the old silver coins in my hand. These riches can never be stolen. They are safe, secure -- along with the knowledge that hidden deep in the bottom of my dresser is one 1923 silver dollar and the cap Poppa got from the Czar.