Women’s Wisdom

1946. I was 12 years old. I wore my prettiest dress and ever-present white gloves. With my mother, father, and brother, we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house for my first Passover dinner. Clutching my Manishewitz  booklet, I stared at the English words. I didn’t understand the other language at all. My mother whispered, “It's Hebrew”. “So what?”  I thought, “who cares?  Not me for sure. I can’t even understand what the English words mean. And where’s the food, anyway? I’m starved.”

As I twitched with boredom, my mother nudged me.  “Sit still”, she said.

I tried to sit still. I started to yawn and thought that falling asleep would be worse than twitching. I could poke my brother but then I’d really be in trouble. I stared at my grandfather. As usual, he wore his black suit and hat and brown sweater, talking in Yiddish – or was it Hebrew. No matter. I never understood him or my grandmother when they talked to me. They only spoke Yiddish; not English.”

Suddenly, my grandfather pointed at me.  “Harriet, come here.”  Panicky I got up,  “Had he seen me squirming with boredom?”

Timidly I went to him.  He smiled at me.  “You a good girl.  Smart, I heard.  Here, a present.  Just for you.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of money. “Here,” he said proudly.  “Ninety dollars.  What do you say?”

“Oh”, I blurted out.  “Oooh, ninety dollars.  I never had so much money.  Oh, thank you very much.”

I never really knew why he gave me so much money.  My mother said it was because someone told him I was a good student in school.  Maybe.  I don’t remember any more Passover dinners with the family.  Perhaps there weren’t any more.

Ten years later, I met and married Ken.  In the interim years, I had been looking for G-d here and there without much success.  Ken wanted to keep kosher and Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Pesach.  “Perhaps”, I thought, “I can finally find G-d, the Jewish G-d...”  I agreed, “Sure, kosher and holidays.  Why not?”

With the advent of Passover, we slowly started climbing upward toward Jewish observance.  I cleaned the house in my usual fashion, bought new dishes and special Passover foods.  I was quite pleased with myself and Ken was pleased with me.

Ken’s religious friend came over.  “Nice”, he said.  “You’re keeping Passover”.  He looked around.  “Hey, what’s that on the wall?”

“Oh, that”, I replied.  “That’s our breadbasket.  We hung it up on the wall.  Now that we’re not eating bread this week, we shook it out and hung it up so it wouldn’t be in the way.”

“Well, um, uh, I think you should take it off the wall.  You’re not supposed to have bread holders, even without bread, on display in the house during Passover.  And, by the way, after Passover, let’s go out for some pizza.”

Continuing to climb, we enrolled our oldest son in the Orthodox Day School.  The rest of the children followed suit.  We didn’t want them or us to be very Jewish.  We just wanted them to know what being Jewish meant.  Our intentions were clear to us but, somehow, fell down the drain. We started becoming quite Jewish, even Orthodox.

Shabbos superseded Saturday.  Passover become Pesach.  I learned how to really clean for Pesach and lock away such offending articles as our breadbasket.  Kashrus became a way of life and, because there was no kosher restaurant in town, pizza after Pesach vanished from the scene.

We invited family and friends for the Sedarim.  Unlike us, they had not found Pesach.  For them, it was still Passover, replete with the famous Manishewitz Haggadah.  We had moved to the Goldberg Haggadah and Shmurah matzos.  For the next two years, we were hosts to a variety of fiascos.

The school had a new assistant principal.  We liked him.  Although secular, he was interested in Passover.  Several times during the Seder, he stood up and walked around the table, holding his matzos on his shoulder and singing.  We never learned what the songs were.  The children stared at him as I had once stared at my grandfather.

The following night we had close friends.  Jewish liberals.  They were fighters for women’s rights, black liberation, gun control.  They had come from traditional homes but had dispensed with anything very Jewish. Jewish issues were the last thing on their minds and in their mouths. They weren’t very interested in the Haggadah but did like singing the songs.

After the two nights were over, the children asked that we no longer invite friends, unless they were Orthodox.  Ken and I agreed.  “Next year we’ll just invite family.”
Next year was a nightmare.  By then we knew much more about Pesach.  Ken was eager to lead the Seder and the children had lots to say about the Haggadah.  We waited for the first Seder excitedly.  I was even excited enough to stay awake after the heavy-duty pre-Pesach preparations.

Family came to the first Seder.  After a few minutes, we knew we were in for trouble.  The husband insisted upon leading the Seder.  He whipped out his Manishewitz Haggadah and proceeded to drone rapidly through the pages.  No one wanted to listen to our children. Their oldest child drank a full cup of wine and went around the table tasting her parents’ wine to see if it was better. She finally became nauseated and sick and fell asleep on the couch. Our melodies for the songs were not to be sung.  “We like our melodies better”, they demanded.  We were all crushed.

While the second night wasn’t so humiliating, it certainly was no Seder.  Other family members came: a cousin with his non-Jewish wife and pet cat.  Shortly after we started the Seder, the cat got loose, ran out of the door, across the street, and climbed a neighbor’s tree.  The rest of the evening was spent trying to get the cat down.

When everyone left and we were all on the verge of tears, we agreed that we would never again have friends or family who weren’t religious, who didn’t love Pesach.  “Never, never again!”

And we didn’t.  For the next several years, it was just my mother and us.  My mother was not religious but she loved us and whatever we wanted to do during the Seder was a blessing for her.  Well, whatever she saw.  After drinking the first cup of wine, she excused herself, saying, “Good night, children.  Good Yom Tov.  Have a wonderful time.  Enjoy yourselves.”  We did enjoy ourselves and cherished her annual blessing.

As we climbed higher, our Seder grew longer.  The children had learned more and had more to tell.  They sang louder and more beautifully.  As our family expanded, our table grew.  Children and grandchildren joined us.  We felt free - free to be servants of Hashem, members of His army.  Our one regret was that my mother was no longer with us to add her special brand of love to Yom Tov.

The years flew by, leaving in their wake only a dim memory of those first rungs on the ladder.  Eventually my husband, now Akiva, and I, Hinde, moved to Yerushalayim.  Our families remained in America and we accumulated surrogate families to fill our Seder table with holiness and joy.

A variety of guests come.  They all love Pesach.  Our table is filled with Torah.  We rejoice as we tell over how Hashem miraculously redeemed our brethren from Mitzrayim.  Every year is better than the previous one as we continue to climb the ladder of Yiddishkeit. 

And, after many years, we look back at my first Passover dinner and my grandfather.  Most likely he never had a real Pesach after his childhood.  His parents were poor and he went to work rather than cheder.  Eventually he married my grandmother, had children, continued to be poor, and eventually escaped from the Czar’s army by running away to America.  What was he to learn in the “golden medina” where Jews ran away from Yiddishkeit as quickly as they could?  He knew only what he saw in his hometown but didn’t understand.  He gave as much as he could.  He gave his love.  He had no Torah to give.

Every year we thank Hashem for freeing us from the bondage of Mitzrayim, from the world of materialism.  We can never thank You enough for Your gift of Pesach.  Thank You, Hashem.