I will never forget the day we took turns looking out of the
window, starting at six o'clock in the evening. Every so
often, one or two of us would chant, "Nu, when will we ever
get to go?"
We were scheduled to drive to Montreal from New York. Abba
had rented a van for this occasion so that all ten of us
would be comfortably seated and sleep throughout the eight-
hour drive. This trip was truly a momentous journey. It was a
sort of farewell to our grandparents residing in Montreal,
before embarking on a long one-way trip to Eretz Yisroel.
At eight o'clock, a shiny maroon van parked right in front of
our house. We all scampered down the stairs in a hurry to
explore our beds for the night. It was carpeted, cozy
looking, so very inviting. Three-year-old Shaya was jumping
up and down in sheer excitement. Eli and Avrami decided that
it was time to schlep the bulging suitcase down the metal
rimmed steps, causing quite a racket, as well as damage.
Aaron stood by with his finger in his mouth, watching the
scene.
In a twinkling, the keys were in Abba's hands. Before the van
driver climbed into the taxi, he added, "The engine purrs
like a kitten and smears the miles like softened butter. Have
a safe trip!" With a final wave, he was on his way.
Abba heaved a sigh of relief when all of the luggage was
securely attached to the car's roof. Then we climbed into the
van.
"I'm next to the window," shouted Eli in desperate need to
catch a glimpse of every single car in sight.
"But I said first..."
"Okay," said Abba, "whoever wants to fight is cordially
invited to stay behind." Abba always claimed that he was
allergic to screams and fights.
Somehow, things quieted down and everyone sat waiting for the
fun in store. Abba settled into his comfortable beige-colored
plush seat and maneuvered it forward to avoid falling asleep,
since we were leaving later than planned. We had hoped to
arrive in Montreal at one or two a.m. but at this rate, we
would have to spend the entire night in the car. Little did
we know what a long night lay ahead of us.
The background music lulled us passengers to sleep. Ima
switched seats with Eli, when she, too, became drowsy. Eli
was flattered and undertook to inform Abba of all changes on
the road. He took one look at the speedometer that indicated
75 mph and then at the sign post boldly proclaiming the
accepted speed limit of 55 mph and yelped, "Uh-oh!"
He did not have a chance to continue, for the very next
second we saw the once darkened road filled with police
lights. We were ordered to pull over to the roadside. We
obliged. Seconds later, two policemen, eager for action,
jumped out of their car and shone their flashlights into the
van.
Without a word, Abba handed them his driver's license and
waited for further instructions. They returned to their car
to register the information in the computer. Minutes passed
but they did not inform us of any details. Nervously, my
father began to drum on the steering wheel, preparing himself
for the worst. Worse was yet to come.
"Mister, your driving license is invalid. Your kids were not
wearing any seatbelts. Is their any other licensed driver in
the car?"
Abba calmly answered, "What do you mean, I have no
license?"
"Probably when your insurance lapsed, they informed Motor
Vehicles who then suspended your driver's license." Having
explained the situation, they were determined to get down to
business. "Since there is no other driver in this machine,
we'll have to discuss another option." They returned to their
car once again and contacted the station to be told how to
handle the situation.
Several minutes later, they returned, giving us the okay to
follow closely behind them. It was 2:00 a.m. We shivered out
of fright, despite the fact that the car was well heated. Who
knew what they were going to do to us?
The patrol car drove into a small settlement called Schooner
Lake.
The small brown sign on the road exit was not very welcoming.
The place was dark and dreary. An eerie silence enveloped the
town. We continued following the leading car until we arrived
at a low building lit up by a small lamppost in front. One
policeman came up to Abba and said, "We'll have to take you
to the judge. She'll take care of you."
"A woman judge..." he murmured. Before leaving the car, Abba
turned to us and said, "Please daven that everything
turn out all right."
Having second thoughts, he came back and told us all to climb
out of the car and accompany him in order to arouse some
mercy in the woman's heart. Drowsy, cold and frightened, we
left our warm abode and cautiously entered the courtroom. The
judge sat in her seat. No, she did not don her black cloak
but we had to rub our eyes to believe that we were actually
present at a court case.
The judge sat upright. Her gray hair was wound up in a bun
and with a white sweater draped over her shoulders, she
looked the very image of a homey grandmother. Our hopes began
to rise. She quietly began reading the charges through her
small spectacles while we stood by, waiting to hear the list
of offenses we had violated. Every so often, she politely
covered her mouth to stifle a yawn, which lent the scene a
very unprofessional air. All eight of us stood solemnly
around Abba. Even the baby seemed to know that this was no
time for whispering. We waited.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, she peeked over her
spectacles and strenly declared, "Do you plead `guilty' or
`not guilty' for having driven without a valid license?"
Abba: I don't know. I never received any letter of its
suspension.
Judge: Guilty or not guilty?
Abba: Not guilty.
Judge: I will schedule a hearing for April 24. Currently, you
are being fined $125 for speeding and $250 must be put up for
bail. Do you have the money on you?"
Abba: No, but I have a credit card.
Judge: Not acceptable. We will have to take you to the county
jail.
Abba: May I take someone along with me?
Judge: Absolutely not!
Shani called out, "But I don't understand. How can you expect
someone to carry around that much cash?"
"You can go to a motel, but your father will have to put up
bail," said the judge laconically.
We silently trooped to our van while Abba was led away by the
police into their car. I suddenly woke up at six o'clock not
believing that I had actually dozed off in this nightmare. It
took me a few seconds to remember where I was. The windows
were covered with a thin sheet of ice.
"Brrrr. I'm freezing!"
These words seemed to reecho as the rest of us woke up, some
in tears, shivering in the cold.
Eli began to fiddle with the key in the ignition but the
frozen system merely yielded cold air which blew in our
faces. The engine had frozen stiff. Ima shut the motor and we
looked at the rising golden sun, hoping that its rays would
offer some warmth to our trembling bodies and offer some
comfort for a more promising day. But despite the fact that
spring had been announced on the calendar, the winter sun was
helpless in melting the mounds of snow around us.
Shivering, we gazed out the window at a desolate scene, like
a ghost town. At 7:30, Ima left the van with half of us to
find some facilities and a phone to contact Zeidy. We felt
utterly disconnected; it seemed as if the world had come to a
total standstill.
Ima came back with the good news that Uncle Tzvi, also
visiting for Pesach, was on his way to drive us to Canada. I
led the second shift into town. We looked away from the
treife meat and I gulped, realizing that soon
chometz would also be out of bounds. No one seemed to
notice us or ask questions; we felt invisible, like
aliens.
We returned to the van for a final Pesach cleaning before
noon. We ached from having been cramped up all night, huddled
together for some warmth in the once comfortable van. I
initiated some songs to lift our spirits, beginning with
alef and going on. But after a while, we all became
impatient. How were we ever going to spend a two-day Yom Tov
under such conditions?
"That's it!" Eli announced. "We're going in to show that mean
judge what she did to us!" And so we did!
Easier said than done, because Ima had to beg the secretary
for permission to enter the building. It was mercifully warm
inside and we began to feel our fingers and toes again. We
then began davening, reciting the blessing of
mattir asurim with a personal note we had never
dreamed we would need.
*
Abba spent the night tossing and turning on a hammock
suspended from two chains in the dark cell. There was eerie
background noise from some mentally deranged prisoners. Abba
rang the bell for the guard and after what seemed like an
eternity, he heard some keys clanging. Someone shone a
flashlight into his eyes.
Momentarily stunned, Abba finally found his tongue and asked
to make a phone call to his brother.
"Hello, Tzvi. Listen, I'm stuck in jail."
"C'mon, don't play tricks with me," Tzvi said, slamming down
the phone on a brother who was known to enjoy an occasional
joke. But this was going too far!
It was almost midnight. Tzvi picked up the receiver once more
and heard a tearful voice. "Listen, Tzvi. You've got to come
and bail me out. This is no joke." Tzvi scribbled down the
details and began a chain of calls to find someone available
on Erev Pesach. Meanwhile, the guard snatched the phone away,
mumbling, "Where do you think you are, in a motel?" and
walked away.
Pesach, the festival of liberation, was less than twenty-four
hours away. Abba prayed, fully believing that he would be
redeeemed, too, and merit to relish the feeling of freedom in
its true sense. Feeling somewhat reassured, he turned to the
wall and dozed off to a fitful sleep.
*
The judge's stern face peeked out of her room. "If you won't
be quiet, I'll have to send you out. This is a communal
building, you know."
The little ones were impatient, having been caged up for
nearly ten hours and now, herded into the small corner
allotted us. We were grateful for the warmth, but knew we
were at her mercy.
Abba and Uncle Tzvi showed up at 12:30. We had almost given
up.
Seder night, Abba looked majestic in his while kittel.
We had to rub our stinging eyes which burned from tears and
fatigue to believe that this was actually true. Abba recited
Avodim hoyinu with fervor and related his story from
beginning to end.
*
When we finally kissed Bubby good-bye, we were accompanied by
a volunteer driver who took us to Albany to the Motor Vehicle
Department to clear the driver's license.
In less than twenty minutes, Abba came back grinning and
waving a white paper. He turned the key in the ignition while
explaining what had happened.
"The whole story was a mistake."
We all bent forward, flabbergasted. "Yes. The computers in
Schooner Lake were not updated." At this point, the van
refused to budge. "Oh, no!"
But this marked the end of the hapless Pesach trip, for
suddenly the car sprang into action. Abba drove calmly,
explaining that the judge would be instructed to forward the
money to our address in New York, clearing up the
misunderstanding which has remained a mystery to us ever
since.
Still, ever since, the Seder has held a much deeper
significance for the entire family, which was released from
bondage to freedom, and relives that unbelievable experience
year after year.
