Although Dad was not speaking much anymore, the song came out clear and audible, every word of Haneiros hallalu

Little did I know that last year would be the last year. We had the menorah ready on the foil-covered table, and the siddur open to the Chanukah page. Next to the little table, on the shelf, stood a picture of the Makover Rav, and a Rabi Meir Baal Haneis tzedakah box. I held my father’s hand steady on the candle; he lit the first flame in its little glass of olive oil. And then, although Dad was not speaking much anymore, the song came out clear and audible, every word of Haneiros hallalu, in the tune I loved to hear.

Singing and watching my father sing “Haneiros hallalu anachnu madlikin” has been a highlight of Chanukah since my childhood. He’d sing it with such strong emotion, a heartfelt song of faith, immediately after lighting his precious menorah.

My father, Mr. Gavriel Klein a”h (fondly known as George), was forcibly deported from his childhood home in Makó, southeastern Hungary, on March 16, 1944, when he was only 13 years old. He remembered the Nazis’ cruelty to Jewish youngsters, the way they tossed his precious bicycle down the steps, breaking it.