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For all his language knowledge, Liebgott's Hebrew is terrible.
The sounds are too rough for his throat, cling awkwardly to his tongue. The characters are all foreign and the words sound nothing like they should when translated.
But then, German and English do have common ground in their lettering. And being taught to speak a language from childhood and trying to scrape together a lesson in the few hours they have alone on sentry duty are two very different ideas.
Slow learner or not, however, Joe is good at listening. And even better at putting what he's heard into action.
Don explains Hanukkah to him in the back of a supply truck, moving them off the front. It's December 10th. The festival of lights starts the next day, though the bleak and sombre skies of Holland reflect anything but the spirit of the holiday.
It's not a long explanation, nor a particularly good one. A lot of vague hand gestures and fingers scratching at ginger hair. Liebgott listens all the same, nodding and humming occasionally. Making sure Malark knows he's heard him, knows that someone in the world can hear.
Can almost understand.
When Joe asks what he intends to do about candles, he's not surprised to hear Don snort with laughter.
"Where am I gonna get candles from?"
To his own confusion, it makes Liebgott a little sad to hear such a thing from the man. It makes Malark even sadder.
"But if you could get candles," Joes pushes, prying for more from the friend who'd been so patient with him, "How many would you need?"
The Irishman gives him a wary glance. Lieb merely distracts himself, avoiding the gaze by fishing a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He lights it with ease, the flame flickering as the truck bounces on the uneven road.
"Nine. At least." The answer is almost lost as the wind howls outside the canvas roof, bitter cold biting at the retreating division's heels, "One for each night, plus a shamash."
Joe hums noncommittally, nodding in understanding. Truthfully, he does understand, in a sense. He knows the story of the eight days of light and he can remember what the word shamash means.
He listens, and therefore; he learns.
Don steals the smoke from between his fingers, taking a generous drag for himself. This time, it's Lieb's turn to glare.
The truck rumbles to a halt. Voices fade into earshot outside, the crunch of boots bringing their little trivia lesson to a close. Malark gets up, ducking under the low ceiling as he clambers out the back of the jeep.
They meet eyes as Don leans over to hand the withering cigarette back to his friend.
"But lovely as the idea is, Joe," The smile on the redhead's face is a little strained, though the humour remains, "We don't have any candles. So I don't think there'll be any candle-lightin' this year."
They do light candles that year.
Liebgott knows Don's been lighting them every Hanukkah since he was born, and he'll be damned if he lets 1944 be any different. How he got them, he keeps a heavily guarded secret, no matter how loud Malark laughs when he sees them or how many times he asks between his gasps and curses of surprise.
Truthfully, pretending to be Jewish had once again worked strangely in Joe's favour. All he had to do was prod Luz a little, stir up some heated words with Guarnere, and suddenly he was face-to-face with Winters, demanding to know what was wrong.
Within the hour, Lipton was handing over a battered box of wax candles.
"Should be enough in there, right?" The favoured NCO had asked as Liebgott peeled back the lid.
They'd both held their breath as he'd counted. Joe wanted to whoop with joy when he'd tallied the last one.
Nine. Nine candles, exactly. The smallest of miracles.
He'd bid Lipton thanks and hurried away, trying not to seem too rushed or too excited. He had an act to keep up, after all.
On the 12th of December, sat on Joe's bunk in a make-shift troop-stop, him and Don ignite the first light of the holiday.
If anybody sees, they don't comment. Just another of Liebgott's public displays of Jewishness. They're on their way back to England, it seems only fitting that he celebrate accordingly.
Nobody cares why Malarkey decides to join in with him.
On December 16th, the German's launch their assault on the Ardennes.
It is the 6th day of Hanukkah.
They light their last candle in the same place they first spoke about it - in the back of troop truck, on the midnight rush to the front. It's the 18th of December, and this isn't how Don wanted such a quiet and usually peaceful festival to be spent.
But it's better than nothing, so he'll take it.
They reach Bastogne the morning after, on the 19th of December. Cold foxholes await them.
"It's more of a 'hhg' sound -"
"It's more of a bullshit sound, that's what it is!"
The laughter that echoes off the surrounding trees seems very out of place in the snowy forest. It's too musical, too joyous. A chime of bells where there should be only artillery's roar.
Somehow though, it manages to surface from within the icy foxhole, spilling out from the shallow ditch the two men huddle together in.
Amongst the gusts of steam from their mouths and tightly wrapped scarves, they manage to each have a grip on the tiny book shared between them - Pale hands support the brass cover whilst Malark takes a trembling finger to the finely printed characters.
"Well, what does this say?"
Liebgott squints menacingly at the Hebrew, written in a large and generously highlighted font across the paper. He struggles to make it out regardless, grunting in both frustration and gratitude as Don's hand moves to brush away the fresh layer of snow obscuring the words.
Another moment of heavy pause and the redhead decides he's tortured the other man long enough. He fears Liebgott's eyebrows are going to crush his eyes otherwise, the man is frowning so deeply.
"C'mon, you know this one." Malark laughs, though it's not a mocking sound. It's softer, encouraging in a sense.
A second shivering finger joins Don's on the page, jabbing aggressively at the second word in the line.
"That says Israel."
Though it may not seem like much, less than would be expected of a child, Malark feels his chest swell with pride. A disproportionate amount, he knows, with all the time him and Liebgott have had to sit and discuss such things. If they'd had the strength and the willpower, they could have learnt Hebrew thrice over with all the hours spent together.
If there wasn't a war blazing around them, that is. It really put a damper of tutoring when you had artillery barrages to worry about.
But the smile that blooms across Malark's face contains a burning sense of achievement all the same - his eyes crinkling with joy beside his pink nose. His grin reflects a sunshine reminiscent of Toccoa's hillsides, rather than the grey, loveless light that shrouds them here in Belgium.
It's cold and it's bleak, yet Don finds he can stand it.
The little things, it seems, have managed to get him through. Keep him going, in the smallest and most underwhelming ways.
Like having Skip rub a towel over his wet hair in England, when he'd returned triumphantly from Aldbourne's bakery. The lop-sided, truly pathetic loaf of Challah still warm to the touch when he'd torn into it - breaking bread between his friends and laughing at their surprised reactions. A sweet meal for a sweeter time.
Things like that. Tiny miracles in a world where miracles were seemingly the last hope of fools.
Things like Liebgott handing over those candles, which felt like an age away now, rather than a matter of weeks.
And Liebgott, Don realised, was becoming a prominent source of said miracles. A real God-send, some might say. He knew Joe would laugh at that description.
"Why y'laughin'?" The sharp words bring the redhead back to the present, "It don't say Israel?"
Shaking his head, Malark found an unfamiliar ache in his cheeks, the stiff muscles forced to move in way they hadn't seen in quite some time. "No, no, you're right. It says Israel."
"Then why you got that shit-eatin' grin on your face?"
There's no hostility to the question, though if it had been directed at anyone else there might have been. The voice that surrounds it is too quiet, without malice and all curiosity. Maybe even seeking praise.
Praise that Don wants to give, still smiling as he nudges Joe's shoulder affectionately.
"Just impressed is all." He can't recall a time he'd ever said that so earnestly. It's a little too raw a statement, so Don covers himself, "Now you're readin' is almost as good as a five year olds!"
Moments like that are worth more than any victory, Don finds. And he doesn't think any man out here, Jew or gentile, could disagree.
But like any victory, they are short-lived. And so, so fragile.
They last no longer than the snowflakes that fall across the Ardennes.
And are no harder to break than the beads of a rosary.