The following childhood memory was shared by Rabbi Chaim Mordechai Aizik Hodakov, a pioneering educator in Latvia and America, and chief of staff of the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory:
There is one Chanukah that is deeply etched in my memory. It took place during the final months of World War I when I was just a young boy, around bar mitzvah age, living in Riga, Latvia. I had lost my father, Rabbi Shalom Yisrael, of blessed memory, during the war, and my mother worked hard to support us.
Those were days of chaos and confusion. The front line passed through Riga, with Germans on one side and Russians on the other. Bullets whistled through the air, explosions thundered, and airplanes flew overhead. The city changed hands several times. The Germans would capture it, then the Russians would take control, and meanwhile, the Latvians were preparing for independence. No one was sure they would live to see the next day.
Adding to all these troubles, the Spanish flu was raging through the city. In the harsh wartime conditions, it was nearly impossible to find a doctor or medicine, leaving patients so severely weakened that they often never rose from their sickbeds.
With war and sickness dominating our lives, what could a child my age do? Educational institutions were closed; no cheder, no yeshivah. But Jews still pray and study, so I went to the synagogue three times a day despite the danger.
I returned home from synagogue late one evening, shivering. My throat was dry and my head spun. I felt hot and then cold and then hot again. I tried to hide my condition but my mother immediately noticed that something was wrong. She placed her hand on my forehead and I could see the terror in her eyes.
“Let me go get the doctor,” she said. I begged her to wait for morning, as going out late in the evening was very dangerous. She insisted, however, placing a small kerosene lamp by my bed before heading out into the city streets.
I awoke to Mother’s warm touch as she stood by my bed saying, “Mordechai, my little son, the doctor will come right away. Would you like to eat something in the meantime?” I shook my head, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
When the doctor arrived, he checked my pulse, measured my temperature, and put a spoon in my mouth, asking me to say “ah,” but only a strange sound came out. It was evident that the doctor was not pleased. Mother stood to the side, watching anxiously. Finally, the doctor stood up, gathered his things, and prepared to leave. I didn’t fully understand what he told my mother, but the fragments I managed to catch were, “… too late … nothing to be done … G‑d’s will … ”
“I'll go get the medicine the doctor prescribed,” Mother said.
“Don't worry, I’ll be fine, G‑d willing. You’ll see for yourself,” I tried in vain to convince her. She couldn’t contain herself anymore, fell upon my bed, hugged me, and cried bitterly. Only now did I begin to understand how serious my condition was.
But then I remembered that the following evening would be the first night of Chanukah. Mother had promised me several days ago that she would try to get some oil for the Chanukah lights. Mother could be counted on to remember, but how would she be able to procure any oil when there was none available, even for large sums of money? And even if she did, would I have enough strength to get up and light the Chanukah candles? With all my heart, I wanted to live, at least long enough to light the first candle.
These thoughts tormented me as I tried to rest. I could hardly breathe, and the pain in my throat grew worse moment by moment. It seemed to me that at any moment I would suffocate. Each time I dozed off for a few minutes, I saw the Chanukah lights before my eyes, their flames raging into a fire that threatened to consume me.
All that night, Mother stayed by my bedside, but when morning came, she put on her old coat, wrapped a scarf around herself, and rushed to the synagogue. “Fellow Jews, have mercy!” she cried tearfully. “Mordechai is deathly ill. Jews, Have mercy on him, say Psalms!” Immediately after prayers, they began reciting Psalms for me, adding an extra name to mine—“Chaim” (meaning “life”). If, G‑d forbid, a heavenly decree had been made against Mordechai Aizik, now I was a different child—Chaim Mordechai Aizik—and the decree would no longer apply.
Mother shed many tears, pleading with G‑d not to take her only child. On her way home, she remembered that she needed to get oil for the Chanukah lights. She went into one shop, then a second, then a third, until finally fortune smiled upon her. She purchased a small bottle and immediately set out for home.
“Mordechai, I managed to get some oil! Tonight you'll be able to light the Chanukah lights!” she called out excitedly. But I could hardly see or hear her. My condition was worsening from moment to moment, and everything was a hazy blur.
Toward evening, I suddenly rose, as if an invisible hand had lifted me to my feet. It was time to light the Chanukah candles. My mother sat beside me without moving, having not slept for more than twenty-four hours already. But when I sat up in bed, she opened her eyes. I gathered all my strength and whispered a few words from my dry lips: “Mother, I want water … to wash my hands … I want to make the blessings and light the menorah.”
The prepared menorah stood on a small table by my bed. Every movement was painful, but I slowly made the blessings, after which Mother helped me light the candles. A deep inner joy enveloped me as I watched the small flame flicker and then catch hold of the wick, burning steadily. I cast a grateful look at Mother. She forced herself to smile.
A great weariness came over me, and I immediately fell into a deep sleep. How long I lay unconscious, I don’t know. Even the injections given to me by a merciful nurse, I didn't feel. My illness reached its peak that first night of Chanukah, and my life hung in the balance. When I opened my eyes again, my gaze fell on the small table where the menorah still stood. The crisis had passed, and I remained alive. The merit of lighting the Chanukah candles had stood by me, saving me from certain death.
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