With six of our own American guests for Pesach, we decided
that instead of sending them away for the second Seder, we
would make our own. Of course, we never deamed at the time
that it would snowball into the grand affair that it
became...
The way it happened was that each of our guests simply asked
if he could invite a friend or relative whom he knew also
needed a second Seder. Of course our answer was, "Of course."
By then, word had leaked out and by the time the second night
of Pesach rolled around, we were expecting twenty total
strangers besides our own six guests.
The kitchen was all aflutter, as all cooked food had already
been consumed the first day of Yom Tov. Two of our guests
were making egg noodles, two were dicing carrots, two were
peeling potatoes for a kugel that I would bake. I was
preparing the chicken that would simmer in its own juice as
we read about the Egyptian exodus. And though I had declined
all offers of wine, I suddenly realized that I didn't have
enough of my own, and started sending children around to
borrow wine from our neighbors.
Hearing that we had so many guests, one generously offered to
let me use her hand grinder for the horseradish that was
bringing us all to tears. Strange people were piling in,
together with their Israeli hosts who'd made all the
arrangements, though we didn't know them, either.
Typical of Israel, the walls of the house were stretching to
accommodate everyone in comfort. My own ten children were
especially thrilled; they'd have so many afikomon to
steal!
Menachem, my sister's son who was learning in Jerusalem, kept
sniffing into the kitchen, very concerned with the progress
or non-progress, as might well be the case. He had heard what
a culinary whiz I was from way back; the story is still told
of how, as a young child trying to impress company with a
beautifully set table, I had pulled out all the silverware I
could find; giving no thought as to whether it was dairy or
meaty, weekday or festive. I had gotten compliments galore.
Mamma even said, "I never even knew I owned so much
silverware."
It took Mamma to get to the soup to realize what I had done,
and ever since, she'd always steer me away from the kitchen.
So I really couldn't blame Menachem for not having too much
confidence in my cooking talents. He simply wasn't ready to
take any chances.
The girl in the mini-skirt who'd been thrown out of Bais
Yaakov reminded me of my Irish nanny, Mary, who'd come to
help me whenever I had a baby. She kept raising all kinds of
technical halachic questions, as though to prove how
religious she really was.
There were gasps of pleasure as new girls arrived and found
friends they never dreamed would be there. One exuberant
young lady with a long ponytail, who never spoke in anything
lower than a high C, was gushing over everything and
everyone, making us all smile. Even my four-year-old Altee,
who takes a long time to warm up to strangers, gravitated to
her. "What's her name?" she announced loudly. "I like her.
She's funny!"
So Amy was gooing and gushing and telling everyone about
Neveh, the `college' for newcomers to Torah-Judaism. She was
starry-eyed, impressed by everything, most of all our taking
in a load of strangers for a Seder, that we ourselves, being
permanent residents in Eretz Yisroel, were not celebrating
any more.
My sister-in-law's niece was busy explaining the customs to
the girls. Her husband, Akiva, having finished a weeping
session with the horseradish, was helping her out. Girls who
had studied together in the States were recalling old times,
with gales of laughter and enjoying their unexpected grand
reunion.
The door opened. The two-day men were back from shul; later
than the others because as chassidim, at the close of the
prayers they'd danced and danced and danced.
"Hey, get a load of what just fell in!" Amy gasped,
retreating into the kitchen. She'd obviously never seen a
chossid before in all his holiday trimmings, fur hat and
all.
"Tone down!" the others hushed her. "What just fell in
happens to be our hosts."
With all the commotion that accompanied the men's arrival,
Amy's silence was hardly noticed.
Finally, the Seder began.
Uncle Shmil was supposed to be the Haggada master-of-
ceremonies. But being a humble soul, he always prefers
remaining in the background.
"Akiva!" he said brightly, in a tone that sounded like a high
pressure salesman, "you officiate."
"Nothing doing. You're the eldest."
"But you'll know what's necessary for this particular
occasion. For most of these girls, this is the first second
Seder they're attending. And they're still probably reeling
from the first..."
Although his words made sense, we suspected that Uncle Shmil
was simply embarrassed to preside over so many chattering,
giggling, oohing and aahing young ladies, despite the fact
that he'd virtually lived in a girls' dorm all his life, so
to speak, having been blessed with only daughters and their
constant flow of friends.
My own husband merely sighed with relief. It was one of the
few times that it paid for him to be an Israeli. Otherwise,
as the host, the job would have been his, regardless of
age.
The Seder began. The voices all mingled in the singsong
unravelling of the story of the Exodus.
"This is the bread of affliction that our fathers ate in the
Land of Egypt..."
The Neveh girls were having a hard time keeping pace and
place, but the others at the table were inconspicuously
helping them out. We had sandwiched them in between. The wine
was being consumed in cupfuls, hardly the delicate sipping
that we knew, and I couldn't help but marvel that nobody was
tipsy. There were explanations of important passages, there
was singing by the menfolk, and then came the meal which, to
Menachem's relief, had turned out delicious.
Uncle Shmil dozed off. The young people talked.
And then, Menachem started to sing. Under ordinary
circumstances, Menachem had to be begged and bribed, cajoled
and threatened, to get him to sing. But he was singing then,
without even being asked. He had sensed, as all of us, the
specialness of the occasion, the longing and the yearning for
something spiritual, that had suddenly become stifling.
He always had a beautiful voice, powerful, yet soft and
sensitive; the volume of a professional chazon and the
sensitivity of a heimishe baal tefila praying. He sang
the words that beseech a Heavenly Father to draw us unto Him,
for Him to give us joy in His service, to lift us up to His
will so that our soul might unite once more with its holy
Source of life.
Everyone was crying. Amy's eyes were red and puffy; the tears
squeezed out of her lowered lids. Her friend from Neveh, a
silent girl who, from the look on her face, which was old and
wise and suffering, seemed to be carrying a great weight on
her narrow shoulders, loudly blew her nose. Even the girl in
the mini had stopped chattering, and was pensively making
trails in the terylene cloth with her fork.
When the song ended, we were all silent.
I wondered if those girls' parents knew where they were. Did
they even knew that this second day was also a Jewish holiday
to be celebrated? Would they be happier thinking that their
daughters were living on some commune, or even kibbutz,
rather than, of all `stupid' things, that they had regressed
to religion?
Questions kept me up all night. I never figured out the
answers though I imagine they are linked to Menachem's
singing.
And though I'd promised Amy that I'd visit her in Neveh, I
still haven't gotten there...
