The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.

Shabbat Candlesticks

On my dining table, two silver candlesticks
stand at attention, waiting
for me to light them.

My mother gave me these candlesticks,
which her mother, who died when my mother was sixteen,
had lit every Shabbat in Rhodesia,

and for years I thought my grandmother
had brought them with her on the boat, along
with my mother in her pram, her older sister, and my grandfather,

from Frankfurt to Africa in 1939, uprooting themselves,
finally understanding it was time to leave,
that they couldn’t wait for America to let them in,

after my grandfather was arrested on Kristallnacht, then
imprisoned in Buchenwald; (Germany was still allowing
Jews out of the country, if you had the right papers).

So every Friday night, I imagined my grandmother
lighting them along with me,
saw their solidity as a physical link

to my grandparents’ life in Germany,
but then my mother told me that
the German government sent these candlesticks

to my grandmother after she had fled
to Africa and settled with her husband and two little girls,
as recompense or apology

for losing all their treasured possessions –
paintings, furniture, rugs, all that fit into two trunks;
as, the Germans said, the boat carrying their belongings

was torpedoed, sunk,
everything lost at sea.
My mother said this as fact, but

I was doubtful – still,
these candlesticks were shipped,
from Germany to Bulawayo,

which means they had belonged to another
Jewish family, another German family that
likely

was marched to their death,
shot or gassed,
perhaps tricked into packing their valuables

into one suitcase and then when
they were separated from their loved ones
the suitcase was unpacked

and the candlesticks were found, then sent to
my family – a souvenir
from their homeland:

Yes, you had to leave your home,
you lost all of your possessions,
but here are these candlesticks.

Now when I light them each Shabbat I imagine besides me
my grandmother, my mother as a little girl, and also
this other family that once lit them in Frankfurt,

and other Jews that can no longer light candles –
the hostages, the murdered, and the stolen –
I imagine them all

hovering with me by the flickering flames,
bringing in the Shabbat Queen,
blessing the children,

letting the flames go out on their own,
tiny lights glowing from past Shabbats
like stars flickering with the light of stars from years before.

Until Friday night comes, the candlesticks rest
side by side on my table,
ornate curlicues and teardrops at their base

curving out in a circumference,
as if they are two proud old ladies,
grandmothers wearing shiny, billowy dresses,

weary of being uprooted again,
of crossing seas, continents, cities –
Germany to Africa to New York to Chicago –

but not complaining, no,
surviving, and counting
their blessings.

Laura Hodes writes regularly for the arts section of the Forward and frequently for other publications, including Lilith, which published a story of hers in their fall 2018 issue. She had an essay published in Allium in 2023. She studied English literature at Yale, and has a law degree from the University of Chicago. She organizes literary readings of Jewish writers at Chicago Loop Synagogue.

Featured image in this post:020210821 135240 Sanok County in the 20th century, Jewish Shabbat Table, Silar, creative commons via wikimedia commons.