- Grade Level: 2 - 3
- Audio Cassette
- Publisher: Recorded Books; Book and Cassette edition (December 1, 1997)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0788717995
- ISBN-13: 978-0788729041
- ASIN: 0788729047
- Package Dimensions: 9 x 7.1 x 0.2 inches
- Shipping Weight: 7.8 ounces
- Average Customer Review: 9 customer reviews
- Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #7,506,807 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
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The Power of Light: Eight Stories for Hanukkah Book and Cassette Edition
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From Publishers Weekly
PW said that this stirring collection "can enrich readers of all faiths, all ages, with its descriptions of the miraculous power of light over evil. The stories also reveal Singer's genius." All ages.
Copyright 1990 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
<div>"The Nobel Prize-winning author again gives us a collection of stories that children will read and reread." --Children's Book Review Service
</div> --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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I was reduced to tears.
Yet, it is in dissonance with the typical situation in terms of history.
The truth was that the Jewish leadership, not Cossacks, who took the Jewish boys from their families. And they were not placed in with Russian peasants; they were brought up in military schools.
Yet, the author weaves a believable narrative. He outshines his older brother, a Yiddish writer Israel Singer.
The story of Hanukkah is scintillating in this slender paperback. It is presented as a fight between Judeans in their hilly domain of Cisjordan and Greeks well established in Damascus, the coastal plain of the former Philistia and in Decapolis. It was rather a struggle between the Hellenized Jews and the Jews refusing to assimilate into the prevailing Greek culture. It was kind of a civil war. The strategic situation of rivalry between the Greco-Aramaic Syria and Greco-Pharaonic Egypt allowed the small territory around Jerusalem to become a buffer state.
I envy Itsik Singer’s mastery.
Second Haibun for My Ex.
In September 2012 my 87-year old mother in Moscow received a phone call from my ex-wife in Boston. At first, my mom got frightened, then bemused and, finally, puzzled.
My ex boasted to my mother that she had reared perfectly her now well behaved great granddaughter who passed a milestone that month—she started to attend school.
Comparing herself with my superficially uncaring sister, my first wife confessed that my stylish daughter had treated her similarly.
My sister was compared with my female descendant. Hmm!
faint breath of wind
the Universe is endless
for insiders only
My former wife suggested to my mom that my mom emigrate from her apartment built by the Soviets in 1967 to my 100-year old place in Allston. She called it spacious. Later, my ex chimed in on the phone, my mother would receive her own subsidized flat in America.
But my mother has no intention to abandon her empty nest permeated with Russian melos and to find herself in the Boston version of Russian America.
water in the channel
the west wind
I am sending a telepathic message to my ex, “Ah, Nyusha, if you had treated my mother nicely, if my mother had been allowed to take part in the upbringing of my daughter, then it might be feasible to break the bonds between my mom and her Moscow grandchildren who, from time to time, do bestow some signs of attention and, occasionally, “shower” my lonely mother with gifts and short trips.” After all, they are enemies of my “mother's enemies.”
in nine months— the spike
on the birthrate curve
My poor mother was carrying her presents and Communist morsels of food to my daughter through deep snow but, at that time and place, this attempt to help did not receive any appreciation. Yet my ex was so capable of flattery.
On the contrary, my mother was used by my ex as an object of hatred. My daughter grew alienated from my mother and my mother's dream to bear hug her great grandchild is not to materialize in any shape or form.
And Nyusha herself was not in a hurry to join me in my quest in the West. She used her respite from me to be playful, unfaithful and filially pious to her parents.
the cutest grandchild...
my ex-wife's arms remind me of
“Nevertheless, Nyusha, do not take it too close to your heart. As you remarked once, 'Things just happen this way.' Watch your health and continue to forgive and forget. There are still some regrets on my part—our parents could join us and extend their time on earth, my sister could be watching her children and grandchildren prospering in another milieu if you took my side and charted our course in the narrow straits of life's waters with me.
A catamaran, so to speak. Perhaps, another child could appear and gladden our hearts for a while.
I recall how sincerely you asked me to back off and not to intrude into our grandchild’s domain. You wanted to rule over our daughter's small extension by yourself. And to enjoy it by yourself. In the summer 2011, on a furlough from the Middle East, I waited in vain for five hours to get a glimpse of my granddaughter at your front yard. Right there, I decided to grant you all the exclusivity you wanted. As the Russian minstrel Okudzhava sang, 'Let the power hungry guys get all the power at its fullest.'
In the long run, it does not matter.
Things just happened that way.
I had a shameful relapse planning my visit to California to reconnect with my daughter, her brainy husband and a growing child, but I stopped myself just in time.
winters...millions of them...
the sourish taste
of the redwood leaves
Once, my late father and my remarkable mother went to see a play by some foreign playwright, Further Down—Silence. It was about the vagaries of the final period of our strange and mysterious presence on this planet. All the same, we are closer and closer to our separate defining moments after which even silence cannot be perceived. Let's hope that success in the medical field would allow a longer lifespan of our small clan because it is a thinning gang. Let them become immortal if it is possible.”
In 2011 I shared with my mother this ditty:
We do not exist.
We will never have a life.
We've not been, ever.
My mom chuckled and nodded. My ex demurred…
Lately, my daughter found herself in Stockholm buying an expensive piece of lace for the price of the visa and the ticket to nearby Moscow where my lonely mother is living out her days. Her picture in that attire was in the Boston Globe!
calling on Skype:
her voice filled tablet
tickles my palm
On this occasion, it was snowing, and his brother Joshua pointed out that each snowflake was a hexagon-it had six sides "with fancy little designs and decorations." His father added that it was the world of God Almighty. The story then explains how the game of dreidel works, right down to the meaning of the letters on the little top. And it imparts the story of a miracle contemporary to his father's time.
All eight other stories, including the title piece about Chanukah during the Nazi era, are miracles in their own right.
--Alyssa A. Lappen