The Sixth Chanukah Light flickered and curtsied and told her story:

My story will take you many years from those days of Chanukah under the Hasmoneans, for I am going to bring you back to our times, sad and tragic though they are. Once again, a cruel tyrant, even more cruel than Antiochus, declared an open war against our people and threatened to extinguish the light of our Torah.

My story takes you back to the early days of the Second World War, when Hitler’s armies were drunk with conquest. My story takes you to a miserable place, a place unfit for human beings, a place which will always be spoken of with horror and aversion; a concentration camp.

This was a concentration camp in France, where many Jews had been herded and where they awaited an unknown fate.

It was into this concentration camp, the little Chanukah Light continued, that I was called to bring hope and courage to the suffering and despairing Jews.

There was a venerable man among them. He was a Rabbi. He was always on his feet going about from man to man, giving hope and solace to his brethren. But to bring hope to those despairing internees was quite a difficult matter.

Then Chanukah came.

For about a month before Chanukah, the Rabbi had been saving up some oil from his daily meals. He collected this precious oil drop by drop, and by Chanukah, he had enough of it to be able to fulfill the cherished mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah Lights. He managed to obtain a raw carrot from the kitchen and cut out in it a little cup for the oil. From a corner of his coat he cut off a little piece for a wick. He now had a 'Chanukah Lamp.'

It was dark in the barracks where these poor Jews were confined, for their tormentors would not give them any light at night. In this silent darkness the venerable Rabbi’s words seemed to come from nowhere, like a voice from heaven.

"My dear brethren," the Rabbi began, "tonight is Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, the festival that brings a message of hope to all Jews oppressed by tyrants like Antiochus. I am now going to light the Chanukah Lamp for all of us. Please listen carefully to the blessings."

Then, lighting the improvised Menorah, the Rabbi recited the three blessings over the first Chanukah Light. There were no tears in his eyes, and his voice rang with solemn hope and courage coming from the very bottom of his heart:

"My brethren," the Rabbi continued, while the little flame threw a dim light in the barracks. He could barely discern the sad faces of the internees but he knew there were tears in many eyes, and a stifled sob here and there confirmed this.

'Tonight," the Rabbi said, "is not a time for despair. Look at this little flame and try to understand what it signifies. When Aaron was about to kindle the Menorah in the Mishkan (Sanctuary), G‑d made a promise to him: that although the Menorah of the Temple might be put out for a time, when Israel turned away from Him, there would be a light that would always be kindled. This light would be kindled in the dark night and would bring light and hope to His children in their darkest hours. These lights were to be the Chanukah Lights.

"Let us, therefore, not despair, but pray to G‑d to deliver us from the hands of our tormentors, so that we may live to rekindle the lights again next year in our Holy Land!"

Here the little flame paused, but young Chaim wanted to know what happened to those internees, and the little Chanukah Light continued:

Those were the more fortunate victims of Hitler. They had the good fortune to be regarded by him as "enemy aliens" and were held for exchange for German prisoners. After the Rabbi kindled the Sixth Chanukah Light, they received the happy news that they would be exchanged for German prisoners and sent to America. To this day they celebrate Chanukah with special joy because it is also the anniversary of their liberation. I must go and visit them at once. So long, my good little boy. I’ll see you tomorrow!