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We still lit candles every Friday night for the Sabbath and Mother said the silent prayer, tears streaming down her cheeks. There was no way we could go to synagogue anymore since it was too far to walk in the dark winter night. We just took our prayer books and read to ourselves, by flickering candlelight, the words of the Shabbat evening prayers. Before the war, these lights had warmed the dining room and filled our hearts with joy and a feeling of peace. Now they were only lights, barely providing enough brightness for us to read by. There was no more challah on the table, no plate of honey to dip the kiddush piece into, none of the usual home-baked chocolate cake we used to eat on Saturday and Sunday mornings. There was no jam for the traditional sufganiot. And at Chanukah, our celebration consisted of lighting one lonely candle each night, quietly singing the traditional songs, eating some bread, then putting the candle out and saving it for the following day.