A Season of Miracles by Ed Goldberg

A Season of Miracles
    Magic. Every day was magical in this new and magical America. Samuel Itzkowitz,
for seven of his eight years, had lived in a world devoid even of common contentment, but now he
existed in a world of enchantment.
    Brooklyn! Even the name was filled with forward motion. Brooklyn! It soared.
    Sammy was born in captivity. He was born to Jews hiding in a root cellar in a Polish
farmhouse. The farmers had rented rooms to his father's family for many summers, and when
Warsaw became a branch office of hell, his family fled to the country. The farm couple took them in.
Not gladly, and with more than a little trepidation, but they did it.
    Sammy's mother, Rachel, was pregnant. Sammy was born on December 25, 1940. He
learned, as quickly as a new baby has ever learned, to cry softly, or not at all. They lived as moles, or
bats in a cave. But even moles can emerge from their tunnels and bats from their caves. Yossel and
Rachel Itzkowitz, and their baby Samuel, were trapped in their darkness for five years, as the world
sorted itself out.
    Every year, on his birthday, Sammy was treated to the muffled sound of merriment and
laughter coming from the house above. And the sound of the farm family singing, joyous and
poignant, the Polish carols. He loved his birthday, because it was the only time of year there was
sweetness in the world.
    The farmer's wife, who sneaked down at night and in the early morning, would bring lavish
treats: roast birds, stewed fish, cakes, aromatic puddings. But only on the day of his birth. The rest of
the year, the food was nutritious, but ordinary.
    Sammy loved his birthday.
    The year after his fourth birthday, the world suddenly changed. The farmer and his wife
threw open the doors of the root cellar, which had been concealed with rugs, and called for Sammy's
family to emerge. Trembling with fear of betrayal, they went up the stairs. It was then that they
learned that they were free, that the devil Hitler was dead, and that the war was over.
    Sammy gasped. He had never seen sunshine, or grass, or trees, or heard a bird sing. It was
almost like being reborn.
    Like so many other refugee families, the Itzkowitzes were sent to a displaced persons camp.
There they met concentration camp survivors, and blessed their hole in the ground as the stories of
these tragic people unfolded. There Sammy learned that there were other children in the world--all
shapes, sizes, appearances, and personalities. There he learned that he was a Jew, and that others had
been killed for that reason alone.
    And there, he had his first Hanukkah.
    In that overcrowded, dirty, forlorn, and numbed setting, he was told the story of the Festival
of Lights, of the desecration of the temple, the revolt against the Greek oppressor, and the
purification of the temple in the aftermath of victory. He learned that the sanctified oil, only enough
for one day's burning of the eternal light, lasted eight days until the new oil could be produced.
    A miracle. A miracle of resistance to tyranny, a miracle of spirit, a miracle of light.
    Sammy's parents had celebrated no holidays in their mole hole. The joyous songs of
Hanukkah had never been heard in their cellar. He was captivated by the lighting of the candles, the
lusty songs celebrating the Maccabee heroes, the eight days of little gifts to the children, as poor as
they were in that sad place.
    As the month of December progressed, he noticed that the American GIs were preparing for
their own celebration. Candles began to appear in barracks windows, and sprigs of greenery, and
chains of colored paper.
    The night before his birthday, Sammy was awakened by singing. He dressed and sneaked
out of his barn-like dormitory, drawn toward the sound of the music. While not exactly the same, the
songs were much like the singing he had heard faintly through the earthen ceiling of the cellar every
year on his birthday.
    He peeked through the window of the barracks, and saw an amazing sight: a small