The Menorah and the Gun
by Philip Graubart
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Judith returned to her house at 6:00 a.m., hoping for a quick nap, coffee, then a shower. But her ex-husband, Peter, was waiting for her at the kitchen island. She hadn’t seen him in three days, and the brown stubble on his face told her he hadn’t shaved in all that time. His jewfro hair was puffy and unwashed, like he’d pushed it up with his fingers and left it at that. He held a weird stringed instrument in his lap, cradling it, as if it were a baby. “My Tonkoro,” he said, lifting a wooden, dagger-shaped violin.
For a sleepy instant, Judith thought it was a real knife. “Forgot to take it with me.” Peter said. He leaned back and smiled, relaxed and ready, as if he and Judith had a 6:00 a.m. appointment and he was waiting for her to start.
Judith walked around him into the kitchen and scooped coffee into the French press. She made enough for her ex. “Hannah could have picked up the instrument,” she said, her back to Peter.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“At six in the morning?”
“You’re an early riser,” he said. “So am I.”
Judith turned and faced him full on for the first time in the visit. “God, we didn’t used to be.” She remembered in their early sex-filled days, sleeping until 10, 11, noon, 1 in the afternoon.
Peter smiled. “Ever since Hannah, awake with the sun.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Hannah says he’s Israeli. A security guard.”
“Not a guard,” Hannah said quickly. For some reason it became momentarily imperative to stress that he owned the security company and hired the guards. But she caught herself. “That’s what you want to talk about? It’s none of your business.”
Peter nodded quickly, conceding the point. “I want to talk about the gun. That you brought into our house.” Judith flashed a look. “Sorry, your house. It’s hard to get used to. Anyway, Hannah — my daughter — lives here. And you brought a gun into her house?”
Why, Judith thought, am I so suddenly enraged? That Peter had shown up to her place first thing in the morning? That he hadn’t shaved in days or cut his hair in months? That sipping morning coffee together in the kitchen created the illusion of a normal marriage, while their marriage was anything but normal and was no longer a marriage? None of those explained the fury that coursed through her veins. It must be the gun. “You’ve heard of Pittsburgh?” she said. “Poway? Bondi? Boulder? Every responsible Jewish organization has to take steps—”
“But Hannah—”
“Hannah’s leaving. In less than a year. And the gun’s in a safe. Hannah doesn’t know the combination. I’m taking gun lessons. I know how to...” She stopped for a moment. Shoot? But actually, she didn’t. She still didn’t know how to shoot. “I’m learning gun safety,” she said.
She must have raised her voice because Peter was leaning back, with his brown eyes wide open. They stared at each other — neither hostile, nor loving — just a stare, curious, cautious. Peter nodded. “I saw Sara Hansen and her mother at the Feldstein bat mitzvah last Shabbat. God, she even wears her hair like you. And the tallit?”
Judith smiled. “Somehow, she found the exact model. I guess she likes me.”
“More like worships you. Idolizes you.”
Judith tilted her head at him. Was he accusing her of something? He wore his guileless smile. But Judith had learned over the past year that there was plenty of guile behind that innocent smile. She was about to push back at “idolizes,” when she reminded herself that Peter’s subtle put-downs were no longer her problem. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then got up, signaling that it was time for him to leave.
He caressed his weird string instrument, petting it as if it were a cat on his lap, then rose. Taller than Ari, Judith thought. Not what she would have guessed.
“Hannah and I are coming to the lighting tomorrow night,” Peter said at the door. “We’ll see you then.”
“Candle lighting!” Judith said. “Oh my gosh, I forgot to set up the menorah.” She looked at her watch, then did some quick schedule calculations in her head. “I can switch the Berger’s to tomorrow morning,” she said, clearly talking to herself, not to Peter. “Or, I can just do it tonight after my class.”
“Tonight’s the synagogue sleepover,” Peter said, “for the youth group. I’m trying to convince Hannah to go.”
“Good luck with that,” Judith said, taking Peter’s arm and leading him to the door. She ducked away from his attempt to kiss her on the cheek.
The synagogue menorah was a ten-foot tall, twelve-foot wide, nine-branched candelabra, each cup holding kerosene oil and a wick. A local well-known artist had designed and manufactured it, then, without solicitation, donated it to the synagogue. Every year it had to be assembled anew, with smaller pipes fitting into larger ones, each cup screwed into its base, and the whole monstrosity schlepped to the courtyard.
The hardest, grossest part of the job was filling the cups with kerosene. It took more than the miraculous eight days for the smell to wear off. Judith referred to it as the monster menorah, first just to herself and family and now, a decade later, to anyone who asked about it or brought it up in conversation.
Every year Judith desperately searched for congregants to take on the task of setting up the monster. Judith suspected that the kerosene odor lingered on her hands for so long, the smell of it — possibly permanent — dissuaded any volunteer from stepping forward.
* * *
She started by dragging the bigger stainless-steel pipes from the dark closet into the social hall. Then, already covered with sweat from her exertions, and hallucinating the smell of kerosene — she hadn’t yet dragged up the vials from the basement — she sat on the floor and started screwing parts A into parts B. Her headphones played Hanukkah songs, which she quickly switched to Leonard Cohen; his wintery voice seemed more appropriate to the unpleasant task.
She’d completed 3 of the nine pipes when she heard the footsteps, loud clomping — running or fast walking — coming from the courtyard, just outside the social hall doors. Teens, she thought. The youth group sleepover. But the schul had recently remodeled the youth lounge. It had been transformed into a decent place as an adolescent hangout with couches, foosball, VR goggles, dozens of AI games loaded into thirty laptops and a ping-pong table. Besides, the instructions for the counselors and the kids were clear: no roaming the synagogue campus.
Suddenly, more clomping. This time from the roof, directly overhead. An animal? But these were heavy, loud, fast. It would have to be a dear or a moose, and how would any large animal make it to the roof? Then, again, clomping, banging, stomping from the courtyard, just a few yards away. Boots, she thought. Running.
Ari. The name popped into her brain, banishing thoughts of catastrophic attacks. She smiled. The guy never quits, she thought. She imagined the scolding she’d receive. Even with kids around, he’d say, scowling or maybe smiling. He’d tour her through ten or twelve or 100 weak spots he’d discovered.
She took a deep breath and stood up. She needed a break. Suddenly anxious — dangerously eager — to see Ari, she fast-walked to the edge of the room and opened the door to the courtyard. That’s when she heard the shots. Boom! Then, louder: BOOM! Judith recognized the demonic noise right away. No mistaking gunshots for firecrackers for Judith; she was a veteran of the gun world.
She froze with fear. She’d never felt her heart beat so loudly, so quickly, as if it would pump itself right out of her body. The phantom kerosene smell turned into real, sharp flop sweat. It coated her forehead and soaked her underarms. Her eyes roamed involuntarily, left, right, left, right. And finally holding on left.
She saw the leg first. Jeans. Ari’s jeans. Then the blood, pooling around his ankle. She stepped out of the social hall and saw him, lying flat on his back, blood pouring out of his left leg. With his right hand, he pushed at the air, urging her back into the social hall. She twisted her head. Somehow, without noticing, she’d run four, maybe five steps outside, toward Ari.
She ran back to the social hall. And heard her name. “Rabbi Judith!” a young voice cried. Adolescent, Judith thought. A girl. A teen. A teenage girl inexplicably dressed like her. “Rabbi Judith!” she called.
She saw her young twin running desperately to Ari. Oh no, Judith thought. No, no. Oh, hell no. “Sara!” she cried out, begging God to give voice to her scream. It worked; she was loud. “Honey, no! Sara! SARA!!”
* * *
Judith stood inches from the grave, here eyes locked on the plain wood casket sunk into the brown dirt. She’d manage to conduct the funeral liturgy without breaking down, but now she was afraid the slightest move would set her off, open a river of tears that would never stop.
She shut her eyes then opened them quickly when images of blood, odors of death, mournful sounds of sirens flooded her brain. After shooting the terrorist, the cop who’d arrived in less than two minutes after her 911 call, told Judith she was lucky. One casualty. Could have been many. A room full of teenagers. God was looking out for them. Lucky.
Judith felt wet fingers on her hand. Hannah, she thought at first, but Hannah knew enough to give her the distance she needed. With some reluctance, she turned her eyes from the casket in the ground and saw the small person standing next to her: Sara
Ari had bled out by the time the ambulance arrived. Sara was unhurt. The masked gunman had stared at her, even pointed his pistol at her chest. But he had fled when he heard the siren. Only one casualty. Lucky.
Sara hugged her, and Judith tried to reciprocate tightly, but all she could manage was a weak pat on Sara’s shoulder.
“He was a hero,” Sara said.
Judith tried to answer, but no words came. Only a phlegmy cough, tears springing from her eyes. Her hands shook, then her legs, her torso, everything. Will I faint? she wondered. Fall? Will I ever get up?
Hannah was suddenly there, gripping Judith’s forearm. “Mom, we have to go.” Peter grabbed her other arm.
Images of the synagogue, again. Blood. Smoke. The body. Ari’s body. A day later — yellow police tape, police cars everywhere, armed cops guarding the sanctuary. Kerosene cans. Twisted wicks. The monster menorah.
“Mom!” Hannah said.
“It’s time to go,” Peter repeated.
She looked at him, her one-time husband, her lover for so many years. She shifted and watched Hannah’s face. Her daughter looked like a panicked parent.
She wiggled away from Peter’s grasp and then from Hannah’s tighter grip. “Mom!” Hannah said.
“I have to go,” Judith said, and quick-walked toward the cemetery gate.
“But where?” Peter asked.
“To the synagogue,” she said, walking quicker and not looking back. “It’s Hanukkah. I have to light the menorah.”
Copyright © 2026 by Philip Graubart
