Sally Leventhal turned away from the kitchen window. The first purple crocuses were pushing up through the last patches of crusted snow.
It always starts with the crocuses.
“Jesus Christ!” she thought. “The damn crocuses,” she said.
Hennie, her husband of eleven years, heard her and said nothing. He knew what was coming.
A wave of dread seeped up like marsh gas from the pit of her stomach. Hennie saw it in her face, that underwater look. His heart sank.
She hated Passover. The preparation. The work. The house cleaning. The changes of the dishes. The food to be thrown out. The food she must prepare.
She was a smart woman. Patient, rational and reasonable. She was Jewish, but not that Jewish. She knew the story. Slavery. Oppression. The persecution. The killing. “I get it,” she would say. But in the end she hated it in a way she could neither articulate nor explain.
Hennie, though, now felt that it was the right thing to do. His parents were not observant. They didn’t keep kosher. But he had been in the war. He had fought the Germans. Not in the actual fighting. But he would if they had sent him over.
The war changed him. He’d seen the skeletal faces of the Jews. The piles of bones. Everyone had. The evil men could do and could abide. He needed a way to bear witness. He too found it hard to find the words for it all but the Passover seemed a foothold.
For ten years, it was the same. Sally had her questions and complaints. And for each one Hennie had had an answer. “Please Hennie, just this one year can we simply wash the regular dishes in the dishwasher? The sterilize cycle? Twice?” she pleaded.
“Sally,” he said, “that is not what we were commanded to do, do you think they had dishwasher in Egypt?
“No, do you think they had two sets of dishes? Four, if you count the milchidik and fleyshik sets. Did they have Streit’s Matzohs, in three flavors?”
“Of course not. But we do. And we do this now because they couldn’t. And because of those who did it were killed for only that one reason.
“But Hennie, I don’t believe. You don’t either. This is your own crusade, not mine.”
“I am not asking you to believe. All I ask is that you do this for me, because I love you.”
“I know you do. But does that mean I have to turn this house upside down for two weeks? To show that you know that people have suffered? Been murdered? Have been enslaved? Spent forty years in the wilderness eating goats every night and manna every morning and drinking magic water? For what? So that we can eat cholent and drink Manishewitz, leaning on a pillow? There are other better ways… better ways to remember and to make a difference.
“We need to honor the suffering.”
“What? By making me suffer? I already know what that’s like.”
“Stop,” he said. “You’re sounding like your mother.”
“No, you stop. Don’t tell me about my mother. That’s your answer for everything. This is not about my mother. It is about me. Listen to me! I don’t want to do this. Not now. Not anymore. Why can’t you just hear that?”
Each year she gathered up the chametz, all the leavened food and whatever it might have touched. Cleaned the refrigerator, the freezer, the drawers, each room, each closet, the basement and the car and the donut crumbs, and the dog’s food, the cosmetics, burning it all in the trashcan on the porch.
And every year she stood at the bottom of the attic steps and Hennie handed down the cartons of green glass dishes with the fluted edges. And she soaked them clean and filled the cupboards she had scrubbed and lined with flowered shelf paper.
She shopped, chopped; horseradish, roasted the egg and the chicken neck, and the brisket, the burnt offering it represented and all the dead whose names she did not know.
“Don’t walk away,” she said, because that was what he had started to do. “Stay with me. Here. Talk to me.”
He turned back to face her. “Can we do it just this one more year, and then no more?”
“Because that way is meaningless,” she told him.
“How can you say that?”
“Hennie. You mean well but you read from the Hagadah words you don’t understand while your father falls asleep and the dinner gets cold and your niece’s fight over the afikomen for the dollar you will give them. And the next day we are no different from the day before. The symbols have become some self-congratulating abstraction. Do they ever make us feel better or change the state of the world?”
Her brown eyes were resolute. She had never talked to him like this before. He stood with his arms at his side.
“Pick one thing”, she said. “One thing that you can truly say means the most to you about Passover and I will pick one thing. But don’t pick the wine because that is what I want to pick. And that will be our Passover.
“Can I pick two?”
“Okay,” she said.
And on the first night of Passover, while his relatives gathered at aunt Ethel’s in Flatbush and hers went over to cousin Ida’s in Washington Heights, Sally and Hennie sat in their dark kitchen in the glow of two lit candles and ate matzohs that Sally baked from scratch and drank the wine that Hennie bought at the shop in town by the train station, and scooped up the warm charoses they made together.
And for the next seven days, in the evening, by the candle light, they read the entire book of Exodus, a little bit each night, reading each and every line and every single one of the footnotes, and talked very, very late into the night.
6 thoughts on “Reading Exodus in Scarsdale”
Beautiful! The writing, the history, the insight, and the epiphany. Thank you, Joe.
Sally’s perspective feels so true, and their resolution creative and refreshing. Clever story. I love your writing style – spare, yet every word counts, adds something important. Happy Passover!
Enjoyed Joe. An actual real deal resurrection in a sense. From centuries old historical celebrations of the never forgotten and the forever suffering, to the rebirth of today, this day; honoring those who trudged the way before us, through the love and personal sharing with those in our lives today. The Phoenix has risen. Rejoice. Peace.
One of your very best! You keep getting better!!!
Marvelous, touching. Wonderfully written.