#hebrew university of jerusalem

[blueiscoool]

1,900-Year-Old Papyrus Records Roman Tax Fraud Trial

The Greek document details a court case in ancient Palestine involving tax fraud and provides insight into trial preparations in the Roman Empire

Back in 2014, a researcher from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem rediscovered an ancient papyrus while organizing a storeroom in the Israel Antiquities Authority’s Dead Sea Scrolls Unit. Once found in the Judean Desert, the document’s script had previously been classified as Nabataean—an ancient Aramaic language—but papyrus expert Hannah Cotton knew better.

“When I saw it marked ‘Nabataean,�� I exclaimed, ‘It’s Greek to me!’” the researcher says in a statement by the university.

Cotton and a team of experts spent the next decade deciphering the 133-line text, and their findings were recently published in the journal Tyche. Turns out, the document is the longest Greek papyrus ever found in the Judean Desert, and its newly translated content is particularly unique: a Roman lawyer’s detailed notes about the trial of two men accused of tax fraud.

“This is the best-documented Roman court case from Judaea, apart from the trial of Jesus,” says study coauthor Avner Ecker, a historian at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, in the statement.

Per the study, the papyrus was likely written on the “eve of the Bar Kokhba Revolt,” a second-century Jewish uprising against Roman rule. The Roman Empire had colonized Judea—the southern part of ancient Palestine—some 200 years earlier. By 132 C.E., various Roman incursions upon Jewish life, including bans on religious practices, had taken their toll: The dwindling population of Jews in Palestine revolted. The rebellion, led by a man named Bar Kokhba, was crushed by the Romans in 135 C.E., and Jews were subsequently banned from Jerusalem.

The newly translated papyrus was written after Roman Emperor Hadrian’s visit to Judea around 130 C.E. and before the Bar Kokhba Revolt, per the study. It details Rome’s case against two individuals—Gadalias and Saulos—accused of forging documentation about selling and freeing slaves to bypass paying Roman taxes.

“Forgery and tax fraud carried severe penalties under Roman law, including hard labor or even capital punishment,” says study coauthor Anna Dolganov, a papyrus expert at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, in the statement.

The papyrus was written in “vibrant and direct” language by a strategizing prosecutor, advising another lawyer about pieces of evidence and anticipating objections, per the statement. The document also contains a “rapidly drafted transcript of the judicial hearing itself.”

As Dolganov says in the statement, “This papyrus is extraordinary because it provides direct insight into trial preparations in this part of the Roman Empire.”

Significant portions of the document are missing, making conclusions about the trial’s participants difficult to draw. Still, the researchers write that the prosecutors were likely “functionaries of the Roman fiscal administration” and suggest the defendants were Jews. The papyrus also makes mention of “an informer who denounced the defendants to Roman authorities.”

As Live Science’s Kristina Killgrove writes, the papyrus sheds light on the long-debated question of whether or not ancient Jewish people owned slaves. The document mentions that Saulos’ family owns multiple slaves, but whether those enslaved people were Jewish is unclear.

The trial’s location and the case’s outcome also remain mysterious. Per the study, proceedings may have been interrupted by the Bar Kokhba Revolt. Somehow, this papyrus ended up among a collection of documents stored in caves in the Judean Desert—the Dead Sea Scrolls, which were rediscovered in the mid-20th century.

As study coauthor Fritz Mitthof, a historian at the University of Vienna, says in the statement, the papyrus showcases the Romans’ governmental reach: They regulated private transactions even in remote regions of their empire.

By Sonja Anderson.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Crafting the perfect bite of meat: Engineers develop metamaterials that mimic muscle and fat architecture

In a new publication in Nature Communications, Israeli and Palestinian engineers from The Hebrew University of Jerusalem pioneered the use of metamaterials to create whole cuts of meat. The work leverages cutting-edge materials science to overcome the long-standing challenges of replicating the texture and structure of traditional meat while offering a scalable and cost-effective production method that surpasses 3D printing technology. Metamaterials are composite materials whose properties arise from their structure rather than their composition. By adopting principles typically used in the aerospace industry, the team, led by Dr. Mohammad Ghosheh and Prof. Yaakov Nahmias from Hebrew University, developed meat analogs that mimic the intricate architecture of muscle and fat. These analogs are produced using injection molding, a high-capacity manufacturing process borrowed from the polymer industry, marking the first time this technology has been applied to alternative meat production.

Read more.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

By Edward H. Kaplan and Evan Morris

At Ben Gurion-Soroka Hospital, Technion-Rambam Hospital, and the Hebrew University-Hadassah Medical Center, we saw how integrated their medical schools and faculty are. The percentage of doctors, nurses, and pharmacists who are Arabs greatly exceeds their share in the total population.

We heard Arab university vice presidents, and their Jewish counterparts take full pride in jointly leading Israeli university life. Unlike the scene on American campuses, Muslim and Christian Arabs, Druze and Jewish students understand that their job is to learn, not to fight each other.

In presentations by an Israeli Arab journalist and a Druze professor, we learned that contrary to conceptions prevalent on American campuses, the majority of Israeli Arabs do not seek to separate from Israel. Indeed, while Israeli Arabs do have demands, we learned they are in service of more integration into Israeli society—better schools, law enforcement, and physical infrastructure—not less. Similarly, we learned from a Druze professor the strong connection to the Jewish State felt by the Israeli Druze.

We met face-to-face with faculty in academic disciplines matching our own at each of Ben Gurion University of the Negev, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the Technion-Israel Institute of Technology, the Weizmann Institute of Science, and Tel Aviv University. We also met with the leaders of Sapir College in Sderot which came under direct attack on October 7, and Tel Hai Academic College which is currently evacuated due to the Hezbollah threat from Lebanon.

The President of Israel's Academy of Sciences and Humanities and a Nobel Prize winner addressed the challenges facing Israeli academics in discussion with us. Facing such brilliance (and in such a small country), we were dismayed to learn the extent of academic discrimination being directed at Israeli academics: faculty who were invited to address conferences only to be told later���and in one case upon arrival in Australia—that they were no longer welcome to speak; external reviewers returning evaluation requests because they refuse to consider Israeli scholars; journals reneging on decisions to publish papers that were already accepted.

This is especially upsetting to us given the emergence of organized faculty extremists on American campuses with the publicly stated objective of boycotting Israeli academia. Our reaction to such prejudice is clear: we will build upon already existing collaborations with our Israeli colleagues, invite Israeli speakers to campus, offer to provide objective evaluations and reviews within our academic areas of expertise, and provide opportunities for budding young Israeli researchers.

[rolloroberson]

Paula Frederiksen a groundbreaking scholar in the field of Biblical History, in the age of the Tannaim, she held the position of William Goodwin Aurelio Professor of Scripture at Boston University from 1990 to 2010.Now emerita, she has been distinguished visiting professor in the Department of Comparative Religion at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, since 2009. She is courageous and blazed trails against the status quo in her field, who at one time could have your career if you took too seriously the fact that Yeshua of Nazareth was a Jew.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel

Israeli vintage postcard, mailed in 1960 to Paris

[storiearcheostorie]

A 3,800-Year-Old Red Textile Dyed with Biblical Scarlet Discovered in the Judean Desert Caves

A 3,800-Year-Old Red Textile Dyed with Biblical Scarlet Discovered in the Judean Desert Caves

In the caves of the Judean desert, the earliest evidence of red-dyed textile using scale insects was revealed. According to a new joint study of the Israel Antiquities Authority, Bar-Ilan University and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the color of the rare 3,800-year-old textile was produced from the oak scale insects, which the researchers identify with the biblical “Tola‛at Hashani”…

[rwpohl]

the spielberg jewish film archive

[penguinreadcom]

All the little things.

“The researchers found that suppressing our unwanted thoughts could help us to reduce it happening from the point it was formed.”- scientists may have figured out how to control intrusive thoughts, science focus, 2022 Keep telling myself: I feel cooler, cooler 🧘‍♀️. Yah, 35 outside is nearly all year around. 🤪

[catoswound]

irritating dude in classics that wont translate anything at all: (45.5) >]] ¦¦¥>;¦] >;>€>;>>¥>; (<- imagine that's the greek i dont have a greek keyboard). this may be taken a number of ways,

me, frantically taking note of the citation and searching for the relevant translated paragraph: ?????? uuhhuh okay. waita minute.!

[palestinegenocide]

Call to Action: Support academic freedom for Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian

Hebrew University's suspension of Palestinian professor Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian sends a chilling message to scholars worldwide. Silencing her undermines academic freedom and the broader struggle for human rights and dignity in Palestine and beyond.

[link]

[defencestar]

Israel Joins the Race for Quantum Supremacy with First Domestically Built Computer

Israel-IAI Unveil First Israeli Quantum Computer: Jerusalem, Israel – Israel has taken a significant step towards becoming a global leader in quantum computing technology with the unveiling of its first domestically built quantum computer. This milestone achievement, announced by a consortium consisting of the Israel Innovation Authority, Israel Aerospace Industries (IAI), and Hebrew University,…

[kropotkindersurprise]

May 27, 2024 - Student protesters at the University of Manchester in the UK unfurl a 10 meter long banner stating clear demands to their University to cut ties with Israel's barbaric genocide:

1. Cut ties with BAE Systems 2. Cut ties with Tel Aviv & Hebrew University of Jerusalem 3. End unethical research 4. No displicinary action for protesters

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Study shows how organic molecules impact gold nanoparticles' electrochemical properties

A new study shows how organic molecules greatly influence the redox potential of gold nanoparticles, with differences up to 71 mV. Using experiments and computer simulations, the study highlights the important role of capping agents in controlling the nanoparticles' electrochemical properties and also identifies how kinetic effects impact these interactions. These findings have practical uses in areas such as nanoparticle dispersion, monitoring ligand exchange, and advancements in fields such as catalysis, electronics, and drug delivery, showing the potential for customizing nanoparticle behavior for specific applications. The study, led by Prof. Daniel Mandler with Prof. Roi Baer and Dr. Hadassah Elgavi Sinai and a team at Hebrew University and published in the Journal of the American Chemical Society, reveals how organic molecules affect the behavior of tiny gold particles absorbed on surfaces.

Read more.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

Two of Israel’s most famous inventions are the commercialized cherry tomato and drip irrigation, so it makes perfect sense that another tomato/water innovation would arise here.

This time around, scientists developed tomatoes that are not only drought-tolerant, but whose yield actually increases in extreme weather conditions.

In a study recently published in the journal PNAS, researchers from The Hebrew University of Jerusalem crossbred two types of tomato species – a wild tomato from the deserts of western Peru and the cultivated tomato – with the aim of identifying which regions of the genome affect agricultural traits such as yields.

In the course of their research, which included DNA sequencing and data analysis of 1,400 plants, they identified interactions between two regions of the tomato genome that lead to increased yield. The new tomatoes are prolific despite consuming less water.

“Studies of complex traits in plants, such as yield and resistance to drought conditions, have been based on significantly smaller populations of around 200 species,” explains doctoral student Shai Torgeman, who conducted the research with Prof. Dani Zamir.

“This makes it impossible to identify all the interactions (epistasis) between the genes, as well as their influence on important agricultural traits,” Torgeman said.

“In this study, we genetically crossed two different species of tomato, and proved that by use of larger population and a genetic map that includes thousands of markers, it is possible to identify areas in the genome that have interaction between them that increases the yield.”

Now, the new varieties are being cultivated with the aim of commercializing them on the food market.

[girlactionfigure]

The return of the hostages from Hamas captivity is of the utmost importance to Israel. 

I thought it might be helpful for some of you to hear just a bit more about certain individuals that Israel is releasing in order for that to happen. The sacrifice being made.

A thread: 

1) Mohammad Abu Warda, responsible for 2 bus bombings in the 90s which murdered 46 people.

He made it clear at his trial that he would never stop murdering until Israel was destroyed. He was given multiple life sentences.

Now he'll be freed. 

2) Arafat Irfaiya. In 2019 he raped Ori Ansbacher, a 19-year old, and stabbed her to death. He was sentenced to life in prison, plus 20 years.

Now he'll be freed, and no doubt treated as a hero.

3) Zakaria Zubeidi, former Jenin commander of the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. Responsible for the 2002 terror attack in Beit Shean in which 6 were murdered. In 2019 he was charged with shooting attacks on civilian buses.

There will be widespread rejoincing in Jenin when he returns.

4) Bilal Abu Ghanem. In 2015 he and a fellow terrorist boarded a bus and began shooting and stabbing passengers. Three died, and dozens were wounded. 

He received 3 consecutive life sentences.

Now he'll be freed. Here are two of the people in their 70s who he murdered.

5) Wael Qassem and Wissam Abbasi, leaders of the Hamas-affiliated Silwan cell. Responsible for the carrying out of multiple bombings in the Second Intifada, which killed dozens (one of these bombings, at the Cafeteria at Hebrew University in 2002, pictured).

Now to be set free.

6) Ahmed Barghouti, relative & close associate of Marwan Barghouti.

Ahmed is responsible for a number of terror attacks, including a notorious mass-shooting in 2002 at a reception hall in Hadera (pictured) where people were celebrating a Bat Mitzvah.

Now to be freed.

7) Mahmoud Atallah. Given a life sentence for murdering a Palestinian woman who was accused of collaborating with Israel. More recently, manage to sexually assault and rape female prison guards. 

Now to be freed.

8) Ashraf Zughayer. Hamas leader accused of involvement in the 2002 bus bombing on Allenby Street in Tel Aviv, which killed 6 and injured dozens.

Now he'll go free.

9) Tabet Mardawi of Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Responsible for multiple terror attacks, including suicide bombings at stations in Binyamina (pictured) & Afula, a bombing at a bombing at a restaurant in Kiryat Motzkin (pictured).

Now he'll go free.

10) Nassim Zaatari. Received multiple life terms for his role in a 2003 terror attack when a suicide bomber detonated a five-kilogram device packed with ball bearings on a crowded bus in Jerusalem. 23 murdered, including 7 children.

Now he'll be free.

11) Ahmad Obeid, was sentenced to seven life terms for his role in sending out the suicide bomber responsible for the 2004 Café Hillel terror attack in Jerusalem.

Now he'll be free.

12) Leili Abu Ragila. Was serving life imprisonment for his role in the 2006 kidnap and murder of a high school student, Eliyahu Asheri (pictured).

Now he'll go free.

13) There are many more. Murderers. Terrorists. They will go free. They will be greeted as heroes when they do.

Israel is in an impossible situation. The hostages taken by Hamas *must* be freed. But a terrible price is being exacted for that to happen. 

14) Jews around the world rejoice with the families of those who have been reunited with loved ones released by Hamas yesterday.

We also grieve with the families who are seeing those terrorists responsible for their loved ones' deaths walk free. 

15) One more thought, if I may. You will see media outlets, certain commentators, even some politicians, trying to equate the hostages being released by Hamas with prisoners being released by Israel.

As the above thread shows, such a comparison is grotesque. Show them the truth. 

16) I know this thread will not have been pleasant to read or see. I hope, however, that if you have read this far, you found it informative. Please do share it if you found it helpful. 

*Thread ends* 

@Daniel_Sugarman

[hanaaishi]

PAIRING: Quinn Hughes x Fem! Reader

SUMMARY: The reader spends Hanukkah with Quinn after an ACL tear forces him to spend the holiday in Michigan.

WORDS: 6.4K

WARNINGS: None

I dedicate this story to @pucks-goals-penalties as part of @wyattjohnston's 2K25 Winter Fic Exchange. Thank you so much to both of you for the opportunity to write this. I had a lot of fun learning about Judaism and Hanukkah.

@kurlyteuvo @callsign-denmark @aqueersouthofthemasondixonline @ice-and-fields @avengedearth

"What is the name of the chocolate coin given at Hanukkah?" your best friend asked over the phone speaker.

You pulled your brush away from your hair and studied your reflection in the mirror, trying to name those blasted things. The word was maddeningly close, dancing at the forefront of your consciousness. Visions of digging your thumbnail under the reeding of the golden foil and lifting the metal leaf to reveal the milk chocolate inside flashed before your eyes. But the answer continued to elude you as you desperately tried to force it past your lips.

Suddenly, memory fragments began to come together to form a new picture, almost like a puzzle—perhaps a clue to solving this vexatious mystery.

It was the Mosher-Jordan study room; Mosher-Jordan—or Mojo, as the student called it—was Quinn's freshman door at the University of Michigan, you recalled. An entryway constructed from brown derby wainscoting gave way to an open room with unsightly barf yellow walls. In the center stood several rows of large wooden slab tables surrounded by matching musty wooden chairs and decorated with banker's lamps. The room was silent except for the howling Michigander winds outside, giving the area a chilling feeling.

Hanukkah had fallen on the last day of final exams that year. However, Quinn had a marketing and algebra final on the morning of the second night, meaning he would have to spend the first night in Ann Arbor. As a result, the two of you decided to meet for dinner and light a Havdalah candle as a symbolic shamash. Black plastic takeout containers from a local Kosher deli with remanents of Hannukah staples—latkes, brisket, knishes, kugel, and sufganiyot—sat neatly assembled at the end of the table.

The table had one of its banker's lamps turned on, illuminating a pile of those coins and a stunning robin's egg dreidel in the center. An artisan painted the Hebrew letters of nun, gimel, hey, and shin in navy blue, framed by white olive branches and marked with gold circles in the center. Gimel stared back at you from under its spotlight, meaning you had won the entire pot of coins. You remember scooping the pile towards you as Quinn wore an awkward smile on his face.

Quinn looked rather handsome that day. His attire was simple: a white button-up dress shirt and black slacks, almost as if he were preparing for the synagogue. He brushed back his fluffy deep chestnut hair under a white and blue yarmulke wove together by a talented craftsperson. According to Quinn, his grandmother made the caps for him and his brothers when they were born, and their mother asked them to wear them whenever they celebrated Jewish holidays. Even though he was 20 years old and away in the Midwest, he still put it on out of respect.

As you gently lifted the metal foil, Quinn explained that it's believed that they represented the coins printed by the Jewish priests to commemorate the rededication of the Temple at Jerusalem after the Israelites repelled the invading Greeks. But that kind of went out of style with the invention of modern machinery. Now, they're made from milk chocolate and used to teach children the importance of money and giving to charity—or making a young Division I hockey player happy.

You still ate the confection out of respect, but it wasn't that flavorful. The chocolate was relatively thin and only had a hint of sweetness, not nearly as succulent as the rush of dulcet caramel when you broke open a Lindor truffle. No offense to the Maccabees, but they still had a long way to go before they could compete with the Swiss chocolatiers. As your taste buds recalled the taste of the chlorate, you remembered his adorable pink lips moving.

You watched as his mouth pulled wide and his tongue hit his perfect teeth for a dental consonant, but what was he saying? Gold? Felt? Gelt?

That was it: gelt. The mysterious coins are called gelt.

"Are you alright?" your best friend asked after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think they're called gelt," you replied as you resumed brushing your hair. Your heart swelled with pride at remembering something about Quinn and not being a total failure tonight.

"That's right! See, I knew you could do it. I'm sure everything will be fine."

A soft sigh fell from your lips. as the butterflies in your stomach began to flutter around. Fine would be one way to put it. Then again, most people wouldn't agree to spend one of the winter holidays with their ex-boyfriend they haven't seen in five years. You had only dated for about a year, but Quinn was a bad boyfriend. He was one of the sweetest boys you've ever met. He would much rather spend a date picking out books for each other at the campus bookstore than partying with the rest of the Wolverines, the complete opposite of how you think a jock would behave.

He texted you good morning every day, taught you how to skate at the Yost Ice Arena, and took you on picnics at the Botanical Gardens. Hell, he ever shared a part of his religion with you. If there was any question whether you loved each other, you already answered it. And that's part of the reason you let him go, as people say. Quinn would have stayed in Michigan and completed his degree, forfeiting his chance to play with the Canucks. But you couldn't do that; you couldn't ask him to give up his possible one chance to play in one of the most prestigious hockey leagues in the world.

That's why you drove him to Detro Metro early one summer morning when the stars still twinkled brightly in the sky. The two of you stuffed his hockey gear in the back of your car next to your textbooks for the upcoming semester. Quinn had the charming bags under his eyes that he always got when he was stressed or tired, having woken up at 3:00 A.M. for a 12-hour flight to the Western seaboard. However, despite his exhaustion, he did his best to keep your spirits up. He told you jokes with his dry humor and listed all the wonderful things you two could do together when you visit him despite the sorrowful atmosphere in the car.

Even after all this time, your heart still stung at the image of giving him a final goodbye kiss and watching him work with the gate agent to check his equipment to British Columbia. He had promised you that your separation wouldn't change anything and that he would still text you good morning every day, even if he must get up at two. But a pit in your stomach told you that it was a lie. He was going off to become a big hockey star, making millions of dollars with the National Hockey League—and you were just some student at the University of Michigan.

As you predicted, he slowly stopped texting you in the morning. Quinn still tried to text or call during the day, but your little ritual had fallen apart. A storm of thoughts thundered in your head as you attempted to decipher what his subtle behavior change could mean, destroying a two-year ritual. Yes, there was a possibility that perhaps he was just tired from the amount of work Travis Green and the team put him through. However, you couldn't shake the feeling that he had met some pretty blonde girl in Vancouver, like all of the other girlfriends you see on a hockey player's Instagram account.

If she did exist, she was nowhere on Quinn's page. All he had was posts on hockey and his family, like the shy boy he always was, which somehow assuaged the worry in your heart. He still tried to check up on you in Michigan even though he couldn't text first thing in the morning. Fuck, he even left you two tickets for his first game against the Red Wings at Little Caesars' will call. There was no bombshell blonde in Vancouver, was there?

Why did navigating an adult relationship have to be so complicated?

After some more silence, realizing your thoughts had consumed you, your best friend finally said, "Alright, I should probably let you finish getting ready. Let me know how the date goes!" She disconnected the call with a click.

You placed your brush on the grey marble countertop of your apartment bathroom and tossed your hair, searching for the perfect style. It didn't need to be perfect—it never needed to be—but you still wanted to tell Quinn that you were interested. You settled on a simple outfit: a sweater, jeans, and boots to accomplish your mission. Once everything looked perfect, you set about cleaning up a little bit. Your hairbrush returned to a small mug that Quinn had sent from the team store, while several skin care bottles found their place in a small basket on a freestanding shelf in the corner.

A smile appeared as you looked over your cleaning and felt satisfied with your work. You unplugged your phone, turned off the light, and wandered into the hallway. Your apartment was a cozy one-bedroom, one-bathroom unit with a white and maple theme, about an eleven-minute walk from the University of Michigan. It was a little high at $2700, and you considered moving after graduation. But for right now, it worked for where you were in life.

You grabbed your keys and a few miscellaneous items and tossed them into your purse, sitting on a sectional sofa tucked away in the corner. On the kitchen's white marble island sat a jar of Vlasic pickles. The iconic pelican mascot and his plump, briny vegetable gave you a thumbs up, almost as if to say, "You got this."

You felt silly bringing Quinn something banal as a jar of pickles for Hanukkah dinner. Your imagination came to life with the the colors of a gorgeously decorated home with a joyous mirth from relatives sharing a cocktail and discussing their hopes for the new year as dinner was cooked in the kitchen, permeating a delectable aroma into the air. But you and Quinn had the good old pickle. Ironically, it was more sentimental in this way. You two could eat an entire jar together while watching bad films until you could hardly breathe on the common room television. Now, eating a whole jar of those little suckers may not be part of a professional hockey player's diet. But they still held a significance in Jewish culture, and you'd thought it would be a nice dinner gift.

You grabbed your belongings and slipped on your shoes, stepped into the hallway, and went to call the lift. One of the benefits of your $2700 rent was an elevator that headed straight down to the parking garage. However, you had hoped it would get stuck so you could call Quinn and tell him you couldn't make it. As the floor display continued to climb down to P level, you resigned yourself to the fact that fortune had not smiled upon you that day.

The elevator dinged and opened its doors, allowing you to step outside. As you took your first step onto the garage's asphalt, you bundled your coat as the abrasive Michigander wind dashed in from the open entryways and assaulted your cheeks. Perhaps if everything went well, you could spend next year's holidays in Orlando with Quinn, where you didn't have to wear half of your closet to make a 40-minute drive to the northern part of Detroit. You followed the faded yellow arrows deeper into the structure where your car awaited.

You hopped into the driver's seat and turned on the ignition, guiding the vehicle to the exit, where a line of cars from a nearby red light blocked your path. As you waited for the trying to move, your hands tightened around the steering wheel, trying to steel your resolve for what was about to come. This was your last and final chance to get out of this; if you entered the roadway, there was no going back. You had no one behind you, meaning you still had the opportunity to back up your vehicle and maneuver back into your designated parking space. Perhaps you could call Quinn and tell him that you had a sudden cold and didn't want to infect him. Surely, he would understand!

But your brain vetoed your anxious heart, screaming, "You can't do that to Quinn, you idiot!"

And it was right. Never mind that you were almost, not really, a little in love with him, but he specifically asked you to come and spend the first Hanukkah night with him. He had to return to Michigan to receive surgery on his leg for an ACL tear, but Ellen couldn't come and care for him for another few days, so he called you — not an old friend or teammate, but you. You were the first person he thought of when he needed healing, a home, and family, and you couldn't leave him to sing the Hanukkah prayer over the menorah.

"Let's do this!" you said to yourself, putting pressure on your gas pedal as traffic began to move. But a blaring car horn from a passing motorist caused you to jolt as if you had been struck by lightning and slam on the breaks. When you opened your eyes, you realized that two of you had nearly crashed your headlights into each other. Were they going too fast for a residential Ann Arbor street? Probably, who hasn't. But they still had the right-of-way, meaning that you would be liable for the damages no matter how paltry they were. "Sorry! Sorry!" you said, gesturing for the other driver to proceed. If they were glaring daggers at you, you couldn't see it.

A possible reconciliation with your ex-boyfriend and a near fender-bender — what a marvelous way to start the holidays!

The Hughes brothers had always been known for their humbleness and modesty, but you would have never known that based on the house they purchased on Orchard Lake. It wasn't like the sprawling 14-bedroom mansions in Los Angeles hills, made from limestone with those large circular stone driveways you could see on MTV's Cribs. But it was still impressive for its $2.79 million price tag.

Quinn had sent you some pictures of when the brothers first bought the home. It had an assuming exterior made from brown brick, accompanied by three spacious garages and a facade with three large triangle accents made from matching shiplap. The interior had five bedrooms—enough for the three brothers, their parents, and a guest—and seven bathrooms with grey-blue walls and white accents. Sitting on Cass Lake's southern banks, the property also boasted an expansive, verdant backyard with direct access to the calming blue waters and two boat lifts. Oh, yeah—and if that wasn't good enough, it had an indoor pool and a dry sauna to sweat out any residual hatred for the Flames.

You saw some of the serious injuries the Wolverines suffered while Quinn and Luke played at Michigan, and that was just NCAA Division I ice hockey. The last thing you could ever want is a league of 700 6-foot-tall, 200-pound men on literal knives chasing you up and down the ice like a pack of hungry wolves. Not to mention all the mental stress and fatigue from having to fly from coast to coast and speaking to the media every night. However, there was none of that here; there was no Devils or Canucks. There was just Quinn, Jack, Luke, Ellen, Jim, and their guests. Maybe one day, you would be occupying that extra bedroom you saw in the house listing, holding hands with Quinn, and having lakeside picnics just like you did all those years ago in the botanical gardens.

After 40 minutes, you pulled up to the Hughes' house, a bare star magnolia tree sitting on the front lawn. Only the family's Toyota minivan sat in front of one of the garages. A smirk appeared as you pulled in next to the grey vehicle, picturing the humorous image of three large professional athletes smushed in the back of the van as they took a family drive. You turned off the engine and took a deep breath. You were finally here; all you needed was for the night to go halfway decent, and you'd be back in Ann Arbor in your apartment. Grabbing your belongings and crisp pickles, you exited your car and followed the cobblestone path to the black double front doors.

A press of the doorbell caused its little chime to play, and the doors had an even pair of four small glass windows, giving you a glimpse into the house. From your limited field of view, your eyes caught glimpses of Quinn hobbling from the open kitchen on his crutches. You gave him a short wave, hoping he would see it as he approached the entrance. He had cut the mane of locks that you saw him sporting on SportsNet back into a neat quiff, and it was a sensible decision. Based on his tests and MRI, Dr. Regan diagnosed a partial ACL tear—a blessing because it meant Quinn wouldn't need surgery. He would, however, miss the rest of the season while he worked to regain strength in his knee.

If there was ever a good time to cut his hair, it might as well have been now.

Quinn took a bit to open the door, given that he had a pair of crutches. But after some time, he finally maneuvered the door open—and froze. His grey-blue eyes looked you up and down as Quinn formed a soft smile on his lips. You couldn't blame him because this was the first time he saw you in person in five years. Plus, you would be lying if you said you didn't do the same thing to him. If it weren't for his beard, it was almost as if Chronos had reached through time and plucked him out of that night in Mosher-Jordan. He didn't have his yarmulke but still wore a white button-up and black pants. Quinn never changed, yet he did in so many ways.

"Wow!" Quinn muttered after a few moments, causing you to giggle. It took a few seconds, but the soft expression of admiration contorted into wide-eyed embarrassment as his brain registered what it had just said. "I mean, I ... uh ... I'm sorry. Hello. Shalom. It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too," you replied. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It's not a problem. I was in the neighborhood and thought that maybe we could catch up. Come out out of the cold." He shambled away, granting you entrance to the home.

As you stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, you couldn't help but stare at the beauty of the place. The pictures that Quinn sent you didn't show the property justice. Underneath your shoes, you could feel the softness of a medium oval rug with a blue Paisley pattern. Its white negative space gave it an airy, delicate feel that contrasted nicely against the light blue foyer table. A small plant made from a collection of flowers and greenery sat in a beige ceramic planter in the center, and a more leafy plant rested adjacently on the floor. It was probably fake, so no one would have to water them while everyone was away. A misshapen cream bowl was between the two, proudly displaying its ugly, uneven edges and nonsensical paint splotches. According to Quinn, it was a pottery project that had gone wrong when he was in elementary school. He had begged Ellen to throw it away, but she held onto it and converted it to a catch-all tray as any proud mother would.

"There's a shoe rack in the closet if you want to use it," Quinn said, motioning to the white sliding doors on your left and breaking your reverie. "But you can just leave them anywhere. We're hockey players, not surgeons in an operating room." Doing his best, Quinn hopped down the hall into the kitchen, his crutches clicking with each impact.

Your eyes shifted away from the closet to Quinn's disappearing form, a slight frown on your face. Anyone who had spent enough time around Quinn knew there were two flavors of Quinn's sarcasm—playful and frustrated. It was sometimes hard to distinguish it based on his monotonous baritone voice, but his intonation suggested he was frustrated. However, you had the feeling that it wasn't against you. The source of his anger was more general and fleeting, like the bitterness one would have when losing a hard-fought game. There wasn't specifically anyone to blame; all you could do was accept that you lost sometimes and move on.

We're hockey players, not surgeons in an operating room.

Looking around, you acquired a sense of what Quinn hinted at. A lingering sense of linen in the air suggested that he had sprayed Febreeze or another air freshener to clean up the place. But despite his best efforts, the place remained in a still state of disarray. Hockey sticks and gloves were thrown haphazardly around in the living room beyond, along with discarded shoes, jackets, and video game controllers. A black trash bag with elastic stretched to the limit with what you imagined to be takeout containers and other garbage rested against the white square molding of the kitchen's archway. Quinn couldn't have taken that down to the bottom of the driveway with his busted knee. It was probably waiting for a friend to come and take it.

He was sour because, with his crutches, he couldn't thoroughly clean the place. But why would he need to make the home pristine? It wasn't like Quinn was inviting the President or anything. No, he was inviting someone far more important: you. He was frustrated because it wouldn't be perfect for you. Okay, there was another sign he was still in love with you.

Not wanting to contribute to his exasperation, you quickly found the white wooden shoe rack on the closet floor and placed your shoes in a free space on the top shelf. As you wandered deeper toward the living room and kitchen, the home didn't look too bad. Yes, it looked like a trio of 20-year-old bachelors lived there. However, it wasn't something that an hour or two could fix. In fact, you found the mess slightly endearing because it was candid; it was Quinn. A tiny scribe in your brain furiously wrote down a reminder to return here in the next few days to help Quinn clean—and any supplies he may need. Ellen would be here, but she probably wouldn't mind an extra pair of hands.

"Do you want water or soda or anything?" Quinn asked as you neared the marble island.

"Water would be lovely. Where are the cups?"

"They're in the left cabinet across from the sink - top shelf."

Quinn grimaced from his stool as you turned to open the cupboard door. The only glasses left hid in the back of the upper shelf, with most of them awaiting a wash in the sink. Thanks to your height, you could easily reach two—one for you and one for him. Still, it must have been distressing to be a host who couldn't care for his guest, let alone the girl you wanted to impress. "I'm sorry for the mess. I did my best to clean before you arrived, but I have my hands full," he finally said after a few seconds, solemnly gesturing to his crutches.

"It's not your fault," you replied as you filled the cups with ice and water from the fridge's dispenser and placed a glass before him. "Although you may want to have a word with your knee."

"My knee is quite popular nowadays," Quinn said as he sipped his water, your badinage causing him to smile.

"How is everything going so far?"

The two of you looked down at the ROM brace fastened around his left knee. With its many straps and hinge mechanism, it almost resembled a medieval torture device used to incapacitate someone by taking out their knee joint. Someone checked Quinn into the boards last month, causing him to land awkwardly on his knee. Thankfully, he was able to get up on his own accord. However, even through the television in your apartment, you could see the pain etched into as Boeser and Pettersen assisted him into the locker room.

"The pain and swelling have gone down, but it's still not stable enough to put weight on. I've been going to HealthQuest in town for PT, and they've been in touch with Dr. Regan back west—said I was a good student. He wants me to return for another MRI in two months to see how the injury is healing."

"Do you have anyone to take you to the appointment?"

"Mom should be here by then so she can take me." At that moment, Quinn paused, a spark of contemplation flashing on his face. If he had the same idea you had, which you hoped, this would be an excellent way for you to strengthen your friendship. After all, plenty of work was necessary to get Quinn back on his feet—pun not intended. If Ellen had the appointments covered, maybe you could help in other ways. "I do, however, have at-home stretches from my therapist. Perhaps you could help me do them; make sure I remember to do them daily."

"Like a drill sergeant?" you chuckled.

Quinn let out an audible laugh. It was different from the awkward little puff of breath that you would hear in post-game interviews whenever a reporter would ask Quinn a humorous question, and all Quinn wanted to do was go home. This laugh had more buoyancy and glee, a laugh you only heard with his family and friends. The last time you heard it was in his dorm during your movie nights. Your eyes would be fixated on the TV screen when you suddenly heard the laugh in your ear. He would be grinning from ear to ear as you turned to look him before he explained something demonstrably ridiculous he picked up in the film. Most of the time, you two would break into boisterous laughter as you tried to rationalize the director's artistic choice. It was good to hear that sound again; it made you smile.

"No, not like that," he responded. "I get enough of that in Vancouver. I meant kind of like a cheerleader or something."

"Alright, I will be your cheerleader. Go, Team Quinn!" you cheered, eliciting more of his laughter.

The two of you talked until the sun had set, transforming its idyllic masterpiece into a sea of shimmering stars. Nothing was off the table—ice hockey, work, hobbies, and off-season travel plans; you had five years of catching up. After you covered every topic you could think of, you helped Quinn set the table. You were comfortable eating on the island, but Quinn insisted that you put two places at the table for a proper holiday dinner—or a date. At Quinn's direction, you found two polished white china plates in an unassuming corner cabinet and some of the last silverware sets in their drawer.

On the other hand, Quinn struggled to remove the Tupperware from the fridge while also balancing on one leg. After teamwork, you two finally extracted the containers and placed them on the counter. Through the plastic, you could see the meal: Hanukkah staples—latkes, brisket, knishes, kugel, and sufganiyot—the same foods you ate all those years ago. However, his food was more vibrant, particularly for a meal stored in the fridge. It wasn't grab-and-place-in-a-to-go-container food from a deli, the best a college student could afford. Every layer and ingredient looked like someone assembled it carefully, similar to when da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa or Michangelo sculpted David. The culinarian made these dishes for Quinn, and your heart swelled with gratitude at the thought that a guardian angel was looking out for your stubborn invalid.

"Where did you get this food? Unless you're vying for a career change as a chef?" you asked him.

"Oh, please! If I started my restaurant, the health department would probably shut it down before it opened for being a fire hazard," riposted Quinn as he took off the top of what appeared to be the world's strangest lasagna, which you recalled as kugel. "No, my grandmother sent me this. She does this every year—a package to Newark and Vancouver. It holds up surprisingly well after all of the flying. But she discovered I would be in Michigan this year, so she sent some to our lake house."

"Well, compliments to your grandmother!"

Quinn let out a little chuckle as he pre-heated the oven. "It shouldn't take too long to warm everything up."

"I have something to hold us over while we wait," you stated as you strode out of the kitchen. Caught up in seeing Quinn again, you forgot you left your pickles next to his quirky elementary art project in the foyer.

"The humble pickle!" Quinn proclaimed as you returned and showed him the jar. "You know, a sandwich shop down the road from Rogers has the best pickles I've ever had—one with every sandwich. I'm going to bring you there when you visit the city."

You pursed your lips as you attempted to unscrew the jar top. There was always one in every batch that seemed to have its top stuck together with cement, and of course, you had to pick that one from the grocery store. It's okay—shake off the cramp and try again. Try again; you did, but the lid remained frozen like Bettman during a league scandal. Quinn slightly smiled during your embarrassing ordeal but respectfully didn't comment. Instead, he gave you a few tries before extending his hand, a silent plea to hand over the pickle jar. He twisted, and with a click, the lid came apart with a single try. It must have been those strong, muscular arms of his.

"All hail Quinn Hughes, the opener of pickle jars!" you deadpanned.

"I couldn't have done it without your contribution of loosening the jar. Here, have a pickle. You look like you could use one."

You smirked at him as you pulled a plump, juicy vegetable out of its brine. Quinn did the same, and with a raise of his pickle, he toasted, "Cheers!"

As Quinn predicted, it didn't take long for the food to heat the food back up. You two assembled a decent amount of food before sitting at the table. There seemed to be endless topics of conversation as you chattered together through not only seconds but thirds as well. You took a bite of sufganiyot, studying Quinn's features as the sweet strawberry jam and powdered sugar filled your mouth. You loved how his eyes always felt tired, even when he was smiling; you loved how he spaced out on the bench; you loved how his hair, when long, curled at the end like little angel wings.

You loved him.

Correction: You never stopped loving him. You had prepared your heart for him to move on when he first set foot in Vancouver, but it doesn't seem like he did. You definitely didn't. Memories of that fateful day at Denver Metro returned, as did that familiar heaviness in your heart. You wished you had stopped him and interrupted his conversation with the ticketing agent. The two of you did your best to stay in contact after that point, but you missed out on so much. Then again, there was no telling what could have happened if Quinn remained a Wolverine. The two of you could have broken up and gone your separate ways instead of the situatuionship you have going on.

You could be living in another state—maybe single or maybe dating another guy—with nothing but the memories of Quinn. They say that everything happens for a reason, right? So perhaps, it was a blessing in disguise that he had left Michigan in the middle of his sophomore year. The critical thing was that he was still here, and there was still a chance for you to fan the lingering embers of your love. As you placed the last of your sufganiyot in your mouth, Quinn put a menorah in front of you. It was rather plain, made from polished pewter, which gave it a faint gold color, but in a tastefully modern way. You imagined that the Hugheses must have a much more ornate one back home in Orlando, but the candelabrum would suffice for Quinn, his mom, and now you.

"Amazon?" you asked, shifting your gaze from the ornament to Quinn.

"Amazon," he replied with a grin.

He placed a pack of long, colorful candles and a black electric lighter adjacent to the menorah before reassuming his seat beside you. "Are you ready?"

You nodded as Quinn opened the pack and pulled out eight candles, inserting them right to the left like reading Hebrew. One candle stood on a peak above the rest: the shamash—an actual shamash, not the substitution you used all those years ago. Quinn lit the flame and then used it as a helper to light the leftmost candle of the first night. As the wick ignited, a prayer fell from Quinn's lips:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tsivanu l'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.

Baruch atah, Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, she-asah nisim la’avoteinu bayamim hahem bazman hazeh.

Baruch atah Adonai, elohenu melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiyimanu, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.

As you listened to his words, your eyes studied the flames, dancing and flickering in the air. You remembered Quinn's story when he invited you to Mosher-Jordan five years ago. Hanukkah celebrates the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Jews had defended against the invading Seleucid army. When the Maccabees—your chocolate minters, if you will—entered the Temple, they discovered only a tiny amount of oil to light their menorah. Somehow, the oil lasted eight nights, enough time to produce more. That is why there are eight candles, and they're lit yearly: to commemorate the miracle G-d gifted to the Israelites.

Some force, Aphrodite or G-d—take your pick, forced you to take Quinn's hand silently. He didn't flinch but welcomed the gesture by rubbing his thumb over your hand, almost as if a secret wish had come true. The two of you sat in silent reverence as you watched the lights, unmoving. Quinn would have to return to Vancouver at some point, and you would be alone in Michigan again. However, this time, the thought of losing him didn't sting. In fact, your heart felt more resilient than it had in years. Yes, it would take some time for you two to figure out how to make your long-distance relationship work. But if the Maccabees didn't give up, neither would you.

That was the greatest Hanukkah gift either of you could have received, even better than pickles.

"Don't tell anyone, but that's as far as my Hebrew goes," Quinn finally said, breaking the tender moment.

You stifled a laugh. "I can see the headlines now: 'Quinn Hughes, Jewish Conundrum: Half-Jewish superstar only knows enough Hebrew to bless the menorah!'"

"Ha, ha!" he deadpanned as his eyes shifted to your conjoined hands. He then let out a sigh, that sigh. You know, the one when someone is about to have a difficult conversation. It was time to break the ice, to defrost your relationship. "You know, I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad I came, too. I know I've probably said this before. But I miss having you in my life, like physically here in the Midwest. Are you sure you don't have any interest in transferring to the Red Wings?" you replied.

"With all due respect to you and the Red Wings, I have two more years on my contact with the Red Wings, and I don't think Rutherford or Allvin plan on letting me go anytime soon. But when 2027 is up, I will consider it. For now, let's take it a day at a time. I will be here for a few months with my talented trainer." Quinn gave your clasped hands a shake—a gesture to signify you—causing you to smile. "I will say that I'm looking forward to what the future holds for us."

"Me too!"

"Also, I have the goods."

"The goods?"

Quinn walked to a nearby junk drawer and pulled out a blue package. As he approached, you realized that the package he was holding was the gelt—the very same gelt. He tore open the pouch and handed you a piece.

"I don't have to win it this time?" you asked.

"No, you already won my affection. I don't think the dreidel is necessary."

You dug your thumbnail under the gold foil and lifted the metal leaf to reveal the succulent chocolate inside. Ordinarily, the idea of eating a piece of gelt again wouldn't be that thrilling due to its lack of taste. This piece was sweeter, however. It would definitely knock the Swiss chocolatiers at Lindt on their asses, like Foreman knocking out Frazier, because it was a gift from your boyfriend.

As you savored the confectionary, Quinn gently kissed your cheek. They rouged in embarrassment and shock as you turned your attention to him. Quinn had a soft smile and a similar tinge on his cheeks, almost as if to gauge your reaction. After a while, realizing you didn't object to the gesture, his smile grew as he said, "Hanukkah Sameach!"

"Hanukkah Sameach!" you tried to repeat as you swallowed.

"You're cute for a Gentile," Quinn laughed. "Try again. Hanukkah Sameach!" He enunciated each consonant, leading you through the pronunciation.

"Hanukkah Sameach!" you said. This time, you purposefully butchered the word to tease him.

"We'll get there ... eventually. Hanukkah—"

As Quinn led you through an impromptu Hebrew lesson, the flames from the menorah watched, still undulating. The fear of the Maccabees was reasonable, not because of the oil scarcity but also because of the unpredictability of fire. It's a fickle thing; prepared to go out with a simple gust of wind. There's no telling what Hanukkah would have been like if the flames of the first menorah had gone out. But they didn't. They remained firm, passing down their wisdom and resilience with each generation of Jews that lit their shamash.

If fire could do it, so could you and Quinn.