On Pesach, we went to Zeida Duvid for the Seder. The long
hall that led into the narrow dining-room looked somewhat
less severe in candlelight. and in the dark, we couldn't see
the gloomy backyard, with sagging lines of faded laundry,
rusting fire-escapes and hunch-backed alley-cats screeching
and bellowing like mourning women.
Though Zeida Duvid patted my head, his patriarchal figure
forever intimidated me. Maybe that was because Mama made me
hide around the corner whenever I ate ice-cream, lest he find
me indulging in such luxuries; of the cursed promised land,
that the struggling misplaced immigrant couldn't and wouldn't
make peace with.
But on Pesach night, peace reigned. Babika would smile
unenthusiastically and kiss each of us with a weary sigh,
hardly able to hide her exhaustion after preparing for the
holiday. The house had been rubbed and scrubbed for Passover
and Mamma warned us beforehand not to dare touch, look, or
even breathe, if we could help it. But we did, anyway. When
Babika wasn't looking; she was forever fussing in the
kitchen, we went through all the bureau drawers in her musty-
smelling bedroom; and tried on all of her funny blossom-
print, lace-bordered night-caps. As all their immigrant
neighbors in the overcrowded slum, Zeida and Babika also
lived in poverty, But at the Seder, we all felt like kings.
The table was covered with a white damask cloth, and red wine
sparkled in a cut-crystal bottle. The table was set with the
finest china and silver; each piece longed for and saved for
from the day they'd emigrated to di goldene land, in
search of a better life.
There were always beggars at the table. They had nowhere else
to go, and Zeida Duvid, as shammos in the She'aris
Yisroel shul, and the last to leave, would bring them
home with him after locking up. Pappa was very uneasy
whenever we visited his parents and was always very
respectful in his father's presence. He would keep looking at
us with warning glances, lest we misbehave. For surely, that
would start a round of discussion on 'the spoiled American
child'. But though it was the children they talked about, it
was the wives that they really meant.
For most Orthodox immigrant families, the tragedy was that
their children were marrying Americans and were slowly
discarding age-old Tradition. Although that was not the case
with Mama, her sin was that she was of Galician lineage and
not Hungarian, which, in those years,was enough to make her
unacceptable in Papa's family. But, on Pesach, all that was
forgiven and the spirit of freedom and generosity
prevailed.
Though I might have longed to sleep, with the red wine of
Kiddush surging through my body in an almost frightening
force, the mystical aura of the Seder kept me awake. The
Seder night was something no child would miss — with
its traditional chant of the Kiddush, the Four Questions, the
explanations of each symbol and custom, and the ever-
excitement of stealing the Afikomen which included the prize
offerred for its return . . .
After the Seder, we'd walk back home. In some houses that we
passed, the holiday candles still burned, in others we could
see families still gathered round the Seder table. In one
house, the doors had been thrown wide open, and voices
shouted into the stillness of night, "Sh'foch chamos'cha
al hagoyim asher lo yedo'ucha." How determined they
seemed that the messenger of Peace already come to proclaim
redemption for downtrodden Jews.
And then back home. Up a ricketty staircase, past the toilet
in the hall that the tenants on the floor had to share with
the homeless strays who wandered in; and into our own happy
haven, which was doubly blessed because it was to the front
and on the sunny side of the street. And though, when we
opened the door, the first thing that hit us was the ugly
black pot-belly stove that took up most of the space in the
kitchen., we turned our eyes to the window, instead, to
Mama's freshly starched and ironed white organza curtains,
and rejoiced that our home was no less beautiful than a
king's palace.
Mama's holiday candles still burnt, though the fire in the
stove had already gone out. And as we said our bedtime
prayers, she reminded us to kiss the mezuza, which we
could only reach standing tiptoe by the doorpost. Then, hand
touching the holy box, we'd call out, real loud and in deep
concentration: "Shulum oif di ganze velt. Peace upon
the whole world."
Kiss
"A refua shlayma, a speedy recovery for all those who
are sick."
Kiss
And lastly, "Leshono habo'o biYerusholayim: Next year
in Jerusalem!"
Kiss Kiss Kiss
Such are the memories that I love to share, because, though
filled with strife and poverty, they have enriched my
life.
