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The Chanukah Mensch
by Harry Cicada
Bertie was the only kid in his first grade class who wasn't looking forward to Christmas, the only kid who wasn't writing wish lists to Santa Claus. He knew who Santa was (his mom had explained about the big guy in the red suit at the mall), but Santa didn't come to his house.
At recess Bertie's friends talked about how big their Christmas trees were, what presents they were hoping for, and what kind of cookies they were going to leave out on Christmas eve. Gary was helping his mom make sugar cookies shaped like stars and bells and Christmas trees. Angela was making chocolate chip cookies, to be served with Lactaid milk, just in case Santa was lactose intolerant. Bertie didn't say anything.
"Mom?" Bertie asked when his mom picked him up after school. "Why don't we have a Santa Claus?"
"You know why, Bertie," Mom said. "We're Jewish. We don't celebrate Christmas, and Santa is a part of Christmas."
"But why don't we have our own Santa Claus? A Jewish Santa Claus?"
"We just don't, silly. You have no reason to complain. Our holiday lasts 8 whole days. Christmas is only one day. And your dad's latkes beat fruit cake any day."
In art class everybody drew Christmas trees and made ornaments. Bertie tried to draw a menorah, but couldn't get the all nine arms to fit on the page. Then he tried to draw the Star of David, but couldn't make the points in the right place. So he drew a plate of latkes with applesauce. That made him hungry.
After dinner that night Bertie asked his dad, "Why don't we have a Santa Claus? All the other kids have one."
"A Santa Claus?"
"Yeah, a Santa Claus." Bertie said. "Everybody else has one. I want one too."
"What do you need a Santa Claus for?" Dad asked.
Bertie shrugged. "I dunno."
"You don't need any Santa Claus, Bertie. You've got the Chanukah Mensch!"
"Who?"
"The Chanukah Mensch. Don't you know the Chanukkah Mensch?"
"The Chanukah Mensch? There's no such thing," Bertie said.
"Of course there is," Dad answered.
Bertie asked what the Chanukah Mensch was, but Dad just laughed. Bertie's mom was listening in the other room, and he saw Dad wink at her, but he didn't know why.
The next day in school, Bertie asked his teacher what the Chanukah Mensch was, but she'd never heard of it. "I'm sorry, Bertie, but I really don't know all that much about Chanukah. You'll have to ask your mom or dad."
After school he asked his mom, "What's the Chanukah Mensch?"
"You don't know?" she asked, trying to hide a smile. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, I suppose."
That night was the first night of Chanukah. When Bertie's mom called him downstairs to light the menorah, he found a small box wrapped in blue paper waiting for him. There was a simple note taped to the package: "For Bertie. Love, the Chanukah Mensch."
"But what's a Chanukah Mensch? And how did this present get here?" Bertie asked his parents. Mom and Dad exchanged glances, but Dad just told him to open the package.
Bertie tore off the paper, and found a box of fancy Chanukah candles, with glitter in the wax.
"But I don't have my own menorah," he said.
"Oh. That's too bad," his mother said. "You'll have to use ours tonight, then."
Bertie picked out two brightly colored, sparkly candles, put them in the family menorah, and lit them.
The next day at school he told Gary and Angela about the present he had gotten from the Chanukah Mensch. When they asked what a Chanukah Mensch was, Bertie just shrugged.
"I don't know," he said. "I guess he's somebody who leaves you presents on Chanukah."
That night there was a larger package waiting for him by the menorah. "Dear Bertie, Enjoy! Love, Your Chanukah Mensch."
Bertie asked his parents about the Chanukah Mensch again, but when he looked at them he could tell they weren't going to answer. So he sighed, and ripped off the paper, revealing a brand new menorah.
"Just for me?" he asked.
"Just for you," his parents replied.
That night they lit two menorahs, one old one with regular Chanukah candles, and one new one with bright, sparkly Chanukah candles. While the candles were still burning, Bertie opened the doors to all the closets, to see if there was a Chanukah Mensch hiding in any of them, but he didn't find anything except sheets and clothes and various tchotchkes.
The next night he tried to sneak down before Mom called him, to see where the present came from, but he didn't see anything. The shiny, new, wooden dreidel miraculously appeared between his last peek and his arrival to light the candles. While his mother was cleaning up the supper dishes, Bertie looked behind the couch and under the beds, but found only dust and shoes, and no Chanukah Mensch.
On the fourth night of Chanukah, Bertie received a package of milk chocolate Chanukah gelt, wrapped in gold and silver foil. While his mother was upstairs folding clothes, Bertie took a deep breath, opened the basement door, and quickly called down the stairs, "Thank you, Chanukah Mensch!" just in case the Mensch was down there preparing his gift for the next night.
On the fifth night, before he went upstairs after school to do his homework, he tiptoed into the dining room and left a note (written with his teacher's help) next the menorah: "I like the presents, Chanukah Mensch, but who are you?" The note was gone when he came down to light the candles, but there was no answer waiting. There was, however, a new book about Chanukah, with beautiful pictures and large print, so Bertie could read it himself.
Bertie found a box of pencils with his name engraved right on them on the sixth night. On the seventh night a package of note paper with his name and address at the top (in both English and Hebrew) was waiting on the dining room table. He sharpened one of pencils and drew a picture on one of the pieces of paper, to leave for the Chanukah Mensch.
Every night Bertie asked his parents what the Chanukah Mensch was, and every night they smiled, exchanged a glance, and stubbornly did not tell him. He pushed, and whined, and begged, but his parents just ignored it and just told him, "You'll know in due time. Don't you worry."
On the eighth night, as usual, Bertie's Mom called him downstairs just as the sun was setting. But when he got to the dining room, there was nobody there, just a note with an arrow: "Th-is way," Bertie sounded out. The arrow pointed towards the living room. There he found an arrow pointing to the stairs, and another one at the top of the stairs pointing to his parents' room.
Outside his parents' door was a sign: "M-eet the Chanukah Men-sch here," Bertie read. His eyes opened wide. The Chanukah Mensch? In Mom and Dad's room? He quietly turned the doorknob, and slowly pushed the door in, peering through the opening. He didn't see anybody.
"Chanukah Mensch?" he whispered, padding softly through the door and across the carpet. "Hello?" The room seemed empty. He looked around to the back of the bed, then into his mother's closet. "Chanukah Mensch?" he called louder, squatting down to look under the bed.
"Right behind you." Strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground.
"Dad!" Bertie yelled, kicking and laughing. "Put me down!" His dad set him down on the bed and he flipped over. "Dad? Where's the Chanukah Mensch? The sign said—"
"That's right."
"But I don't see any Chanukah Mensch."
"You're looking at him." Dad grinned, as he pulled a blue and gold wrapped box out from under the bed. "Your very own Chanukah Mensch."
by Harry Cicada
Bertie was the only kid in his first grade class who wasn't looking forward to Christmas, the only kid who wasn't writing wish lists to Santa Claus. He knew who Santa was (his mom had explained about the big guy in the red suit at the mall), but Santa didn't come to his house.
At recess Bertie's friends talked about how big their Christmas trees were, what presents they were hoping for, and what kind of cookies they were going to leave out on Christmas eve. Gary was helping his mom make sugar cookies shaped like stars and bells and Christmas trees. Angela was making chocolate chip cookies, to be served with Lactaid milk, just in case Santa was lactose intolerant. Bertie didn't say anything.
"Mom?" Bertie asked when his mom picked him up after school. "Why don't we have a Santa Claus?"
"You know why, Bertie," Mom said. "We're Jewish. We don't celebrate Christmas, and Santa is a part of Christmas."
"But why don't we have our own Santa Claus? A Jewish Santa Claus?"
"We just don't, silly. You have no reason to complain. Our holiday lasts 8 whole days. Christmas is only one day. And your dad's latkes beat fruit cake any day."
In art class everybody drew Christmas trees and made ornaments. Bertie tried to draw a menorah, but couldn't get the all nine arms to fit on the page. Then he tried to draw the Star of David, but couldn't make the points in the right place. So he drew a plate of latkes with applesauce. That made him hungry.
After dinner that night Bertie asked his dad, "Why don't we have a Santa Claus? All the other kids have one."
"A Santa Claus?"
"Yeah, a Santa Claus." Bertie said. "Everybody else has one. I want one too."
"What do you need a Santa Claus for?" Dad asked.
Bertie shrugged. "I dunno."
"You don't need any Santa Claus, Bertie. You've got the Chanukah Mensch!"
"Who?"
"The Chanukah Mensch. Don't you know the Chanukkah Mensch?"
"The Chanukah Mensch? There's no such thing," Bertie said.
"Of course there is," Dad answered.
Bertie asked what the Chanukah Mensch was, but Dad just laughed. Bertie's mom was listening in the other room, and he saw Dad wink at her, but he didn't know why.
The next day in school, Bertie asked his teacher what the Chanukah Mensch was, but she'd never heard of it. "I'm sorry, Bertie, but I really don't know all that much about Chanukah. You'll have to ask your mom or dad."
After school he asked his mom, "What's the Chanukah Mensch?"
"You don't know?" she asked, trying to hide a smile. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, I suppose."
That night was the first night of Chanukah. When Bertie's mom called him downstairs to light the menorah, he found a small box wrapped in blue paper waiting for him. There was a simple note taped to the package: "For Bertie. Love, the Chanukah Mensch."
"But what's a Chanukah Mensch? And how did this present get here?" Bertie asked his parents. Mom and Dad exchanged glances, but Dad just told him to open the package.
Bertie tore off the paper, and found a box of fancy Chanukah candles, with glitter in the wax.
"But I don't have my own menorah," he said.
"Oh. That's too bad," his mother said. "You'll have to use ours tonight, then."
Bertie picked out two brightly colored, sparkly candles, put them in the family menorah, and lit them.
The next day at school he told Gary and Angela about the present he had gotten from the Chanukah Mensch. When they asked what a Chanukah Mensch was, Bertie just shrugged.
"I don't know," he said. "I guess he's somebody who leaves you presents on Chanukah."
That night there was a larger package waiting for him by the menorah. "Dear Bertie, Enjoy! Love, Your Chanukah Mensch."
Bertie asked his parents about the Chanukah Mensch again, but when he looked at them he could tell they weren't going to answer. So he sighed, and ripped off the paper, revealing a brand new menorah.
"Just for me?" he asked.
"Just for you," his parents replied.
That night they lit two menorahs, one old one with regular Chanukah candles, and one new one with bright, sparkly Chanukah candles. While the candles were still burning, Bertie opened the doors to all the closets, to see if there was a Chanukah Mensch hiding in any of them, but he didn't find anything except sheets and clothes and various tchotchkes.
The next night he tried to sneak down before Mom called him, to see where the present came from, but he didn't see anything. The shiny, new, wooden dreidel miraculously appeared between his last peek and his arrival to light the candles. While his mother was cleaning up the supper dishes, Bertie looked behind the couch and under the beds, but found only dust and shoes, and no Chanukah Mensch.
On the fourth night of Chanukah, Bertie received a package of milk chocolate Chanukah gelt, wrapped in gold and silver foil. While his mother was upstairs folding clothes, Bertie took a deep breath, opened the basement door, and quickly called down the stairs, "Thank you, Chanukah Mensch!" just in case the Mensch was down there preparing his gift for the next night.
On the fifth night, before he went upstairs after school to do his homework, he tiptoed into the dining room and left a note (written with his teacher's help) next the menorah: "I like the presents, Chanukah Mensch, but who are you?" The note was gone when he came down to light the candles, but there was no answer waiting. There was, however, a new book about Chanukah, with beautiful pictures and large print, so Bertie could read it himself.
Bertie found a box of pencils with his name engraved right on them on the sixth night. On the seventh night a package of note paper with his name and address at the top (in both English and Hebrew) was waiting on the dining room table. He sharpened one of pencils and drew a picture on one of the pieces of paper, to leave for the Chanukah Mensch.
Every night Bertie asked his parents what the Chanukah Mensch was, and every night they smiled, exchanged a glance, and stubbornly did not tell him. He pushed, and whined, and begged, but his parents just ignored it and just told him, "You'll know in due time. Don't you worry."
On the eighth night, as usual, Bertie's Mom called him downstairs just as the sun was setting. But when he got to the dining room, there was nobody there, just a note with an arrow: "Th-is way," Bertie sounded out. The arrow pointed towards the living room. There he found an arrow pointing to the stairs, and another one at the top of the stairs pointing to his parents' room.
Outside his parents' door was a sign: "M-eet the Chanukah Men-sch here," Bertie read. His eyes opened wide. The Chanukah Mensch? In Mom and Dad's room? He quietly turned the doorknob, and slowly pushed the door in, peering through the opening. He didn't see anybody.
"Chanukah Mensch?" he whispered, padding softly through the door and across the carpet. "Hello?" The room seemed empty. He looked around to the back of the bed, then into his mother's closet. "Chanukah Mensch?" he called louder, squatting down to look under the bed.
"Right behind you." Strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground.
"Dad!" Bertie yelled, kicking and laughing. "Put me down!" His dad set him down on the bed and he flipped over. "Dad? Where's the Chanukah Mensch? The sign said—"
"That's right."
"But I don't see any Chanukah Mensch."
"You're looking at him." Dad grinned, as he pulled a blue and gold wrapped box out from under the bed. "Your very own Chanukah Mensch."
