Daniil stared at the picture, his dark eyes scanning the strange picture calculatingly, as if he could interpret it with his 10 year old brain. His mind trying to convey an explanation for what it was. It was a real picture, but the man in it looked anything other than that.
He was clad ridiculously with a dark cape on his back, a helmet resting on his head, a golden breastplate gleaming in the sunlight. It couldn't of been real. Could it? Daniil's eyebrow burrowed as his eyes squinted intently at the picture, mind whirring, unsure of the strange photograph.
~~~~
The single light of the Menorah casted it glow on Daniil's young face, causing his features to stand out. As his mother took the match lighting the second one for this night, Daniil stood, a smile slowly creeping onto his face.
No one dared to celebrate the holiday openly in his country, but for him and his mother. It was a nice little celebration in their small apartment, the candle lights warming the room from harshness of the soviet winter outside.
Her soft voice began to sing, cutting through the comfortable silence, the ever familiar sound of foreign words that she sang every year. The meaning of this mysterious song was unknown to the child, but nontheless he listened to the entrancing sounds flowing from his mother's mouth. Her voice was like fresh cut grass soft, new, and fresh. It was truly beautiful.
She had heard the song from her mother when she was a girl, and now she sang it to her son. Words past down through the generations. He sang along his voice conjoint with her soft one.
After a while of singing it slowed to a comfortable stop.
"Daniil." his mother said taking a box from her pocket. Daniil's chocolate eyes eyed the small burgundy box, curiosity intent inside of him.
Gently recieving the little box from her, he noticed her eyes, the never fading trace of sadness lingering there. Opening it up, it revealing a small silver Star of David in the center of the slightly crinkled wrapping paper.
"It was your Papa's" his mother said. Remembrance danced across her features, the slightest traces of sadness etched onto her face.
Daniil stared at the necklace. It was when he was just a baby that his father had died as a sailor in the Soviet Navy. His ship was involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis and had been blown up. Daniil was so young at the time he couldn't even remember his father's face.
All Daniil had to know of his father Ira Popov was that of his face in the old photographs. His mother kept them hidden and out of sight. In an attempt to forget about the day her heart broke apart.
While she missed him for who he was, Daniil missed his father for who he could of been.
~~~~
That night Daniil laid underneath his makeshift tent, the blankets warming him from the outside coldness. The light of the flashlight in his hands illuminating the pages of the magazine that held the strange man on it . His mother had sent him to bed half an hour ago, but he stubbornly refused to sleep, staying up in a attempt to decipher the foreign letters in the magazine. It wasn't Russian, the alphabet a completely different language then what he
knew .
Giving it up, Daniil flicked off the light of flashlight, allowing the room to be engulfed in darkness. The only exception was for the faint illumination of moonlight's glow, shining through his little window.
Lifting off the covers, he placed the flashlight and the magazine on the floor next to his bed.
He lied down on his back, welcoming sleep, patiently waiting for the inevitable slumber awaiting him.
But when sleep decided not to come, he found his mind wandering. Around his neck the Star of David rested against his pale skin, the same necklace that at one point rested against his father's skin.
Had he worn this very same necklace during Hanukkah when he himself was Daniil's age? Had he had it since he married Daniil's mother? Was it a gift from his father?
Daniil had no idea where these questions were coming from as they continued popping endlessly into his mind. He couldn't help but wonder about his papa.
His mother rarely ever brought it up in an attempt to keep tears out her eyes, which usually lead to many nights like this for the poor boy. Laying his bed, underneath the covers eyes shut tight, his mind wide awake. Contemplating about his father. There was so much he wanted to know about him. All he had was a name and face.
And the thoughts began to cease as sleep finally decided to take the tired kid under its wing.
