2
Everything I had been told turned out to be true. It was a fascinating evening even though I got lost frequently in the narration. My book said that the youngest child present would ask the four questions, but it turned out that every child present asked them, and when the last had taken his turn, I could practically repeat the Hebrew words myself. The gist of the questions was why tonight was different from all others, why a different kind of bread was eaten, why bitter herbs were eaten, why the herbs were dipped in salt water and something I could not pronounce, and why this special dinner was held. As the children recited, I glanced at the Haggadah of the man sitting next to me and saw that his English translation was not the same as mine and that his book started from the right and not from the left as mine did.
After the questions, Mr. Grodnik, who sat at the head of the table, began to read in Hebrew. I followed my translation, which was the explanation of why we celebrated tonight, how God had delivered the Jews from Egypt. The reading then passed from one guest to another on the other side of the table, some of them reading in Hebrew, others in English. It began with the questions four different kinds of sons might ask: a wise son, a wicked one, a simple one, and one unable to ask anything. And then the story began, Jacob going down to sojourn in Egypt. Time passed, the Jews multiplied, and the Egyptians treated them badly, to the point where their male children were slain. It was a bloody description, which I read as the people around me chanted the story in the ancient language.
Finally, God retaliated against the Egyptians with ten plagues, the last of which was the slaying of Egyptians’ firstborn sons. At the recitation of each of the plagues, wine was spilled to commemorate it.
“You know what’s going on?” Mr. Grodnik asked, leaning toward me.
“Pretty much. At least I get the big picture.”
“The big picture, that’s good. That’s all you need tonight. You want to read something when it comes around to you?”
“Sure,” I said gamely. “As long as it’s in English.”
“When it’s your turn, I’ll show you where to read.”
I read a short paragraph about the Paschal Lamb and how the Lord spared the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt by passing over them, giving me an understanding of the name of the holiday. Then we continued to the meaning of the matzoh and the bitter herbs.
During all of this, very little was eaten, and the children, who were sitting at a separate table, were getting restless. A couple of the mothers left our table and went to placate them. I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine and they were probably pretty hungry by then. I thought of Jack, who might not have eaten for many hours, and hoped he would get here in time for more than a dessert. And just as I began to feel some hunger pangs myself, we reached the point of eating what my Haggadah described as a festive meal.
It was more than festive; it was magnificent, as though Mel had considered everyone’s tastes and desires and catered to all of them. It was a huge meal beginning with a wonderful soup, then continuing with turkey and beef, many vegetables, plenty of matzoh instead of bread, and side dishes I had never seen or heard of but which I tried and enjoyed.
“You know,” Mr. Grodnik said after passing turkey to me, “among the Conservative and Orthodox, this seder is repeated tomorrow night.”
“You do all this again?”
“Everything, all the prayers, all the food, all the songs.”
“I know that some Jews celebrate holidays for two days, but I’ve never really understood why.”
“Why is simple. A long time ago, when the Jews lived mostly in Europe, they weren’t sure if the day they celebrated was the same as the day the holiday was celebrated in Israel, so they celebrated twice, just to be on the safe side. In Israel they celebrate one day because they know what day it is, and here, the Reform Jews celebrate one day because time isn’t a secret anymore. But for the Conservatives and the Orthodox, it’s part of the way they practice.”
“What do you do?”
“At my age, I do what the family wants. I have a son that does it two days, a daughter that does it one day. Tomorrow night I go to my son’s house, I see some other parts of the family, I have another seder. It makes it easy when you have a big family; you don’t have to see them all at once.”
I sensed he was only half joking. In my life there is no difficulty with having too many relatives; I have practically none at all, having been an only child orphaned at fourteen. My only living relative now is my cousin Gene, who lives nearby in a residence for retarded adults. Besides being his guardian, I am very close to him and always have been. He’s the person responsible for my nickname, Kix, a corruption of Chris when we were very young. And it is his mother’s house that I inherited and now live in, his mother having been my father’s sister. But they are all gone now, and it pleased me to look around the table and see all these people related by blood and marriage, all happy and eager to come together to share a holiday. It made me feel once again that I would like to continue the families that Jack and I come from, that I was already a couple of years into my thirties, and the time to do so might well be now.
When the meal was over the service continued and eventually the cups were filled for the fourth time, although I had barely drunk one full glass of wine.
Hal, Mel’s husband, stood and said, “I’ll get the door,” and as he walked away, a woman at the other end of the table gasped.
Mr. Grodnik put his hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about anything,” he said, as though there were something to worry about. “Hal is opening the door now for Elijah, and we pour a glass of wine for him.”
“Here’s another glass, Grandpa,” Mel said, bringing one over. “How’s it going, Chris?”
“I’m eating it up.”
“That’s the best way. This glass is for Elijah.” She set it on the table in front of Mr. Grodnik.
“The prophet?”
“That’s right. All over the world, Jews are opening their doors for him and pouring him a glass of wine.”
“Have you ever seen him?” I asked.
“Not so far, but it doesn’t mean he’s not here.”
Hal had returned to the table and the reading continued, but the table had thinned out. One young woman was carrying her child on her shoulder, the child fast asleep. Others seemed to have left also, probably with their young, sleepy offspring. And from somewhere off to my right, I could hear the sound of weeping.
There was a slight stir, a woman on one side of the table and a man on the other pushing back their chairs and hurrying to the weeping woman. Mr. Grodnik’s hand tightened on my forearm as though he were watching a play that he had seen before and he knew exactly what scene was coming up, exactly what the next move would be. The weeping woman was helped to her feet, and the three of them left the table and walked out of the room. A kind of sigh of relief settled over the remaining guests. People looked at each other, but nothing was said. Mr. Grodnik looked down at his Haggadah and then up at the table. Just as he began to chant, a very clear child’s voice called out, “Are you Elijah?”
I turned along with everyone else toward the doorway to the dining room where my husband, Jack, had just made a spectacular entrance.
After the crowd, the house seemed almost too empty. Mel’s children were up in bed, everyone but Jack and me was gone, and Mel and I were getting the dishes into the dishwasher.
“Your flowers were so perfect, Chris. I’ve never had an arrangement like that where it kind of crept down the table.”
“It was a beautiful table. Everything was wonderful. And your little nephew will never forget that he went to the seder that Elijah visited.”
“That was too much. Jack couldn’t have timed it better if he’d had a stopwatch. I hate to say it because it’s mean of me, but I’m almost glad he came late.”
“You made up for it. He was starving when he walked in, but I don’t think he’ll eat again till tomorrow night.”
“How’d you like that compote?”
“I’ve never had anything like it. What’s in it?”
“Just apples and bananas and pineapple and cherries and cinnamon and sugar and orange juice and a little Grand Marnier.”
“Just?” I laughed. “When I say ‘just’ it’s followed by one paltry item.”
“A little poetic license.”
“Your grandfather told me he wanted to be a poet.”
“He’s quite a guy, isn’t he? I knew you’d get along. If he’d been born fifty years later, he would have been a man of letters, maybe even a great poet. But when he came to this country, he had to work as soon as he was old enough. He has a wonderful mind and he’s kept it fresh and open.”
“Is he well?” I asked.
Her face changed. “Why do you ask?”
“Something he said. Maybe I misheard him.” I said it because she looked both shocked and distressed.
“I’ll have to check with Mom. My grandmother died several years ago, and the family’s kept pretty close tabs on him since. I know he’s thin, but I thought he was in good health.”
“Your mother looked wonderful as usual,” I said, to change the subject.
“Yes.” Melanie’s thoughts were clearly still on her grandfather. “What did he say to you?”
“He felt he was failing.”
“Well, I can tell you he isn’t. He’s just fine and he’s all there.” She smiled. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the great scene?”
“You mean your aunt? You told me it would happen. It was just exactly the way you said it would be.”
“Aren’t you curious? The first time Hal saw it, he asked me a hundred questions.”
“I assume something sad happened at this season and she was just remembering it.”
“It was more than just sad,” Mel said, turning off the faucet finally and wiping her hands on a towel. “It was ghastly and horrifying. Come. We’ll sit in the living room. It’ll be nice and quiet and you can have a drink or a cup of coffee or anything that pleases you.”
“A glass of your fizzy water,” I said. I was late coming to the bottled water scene. To me it was still something special.
“Me, too,” Mel said. She got a bottle out of the refrigerator, put some ice in two glasses, and we went into the living room and sat in two comfortable chairs. “That feels good,” Mel said. “I should have put sneakers on after everyone left.” She pulled a shoe off. “Ouch. Cooking is hard on the back and the feet.”
“It was lovely, Mel.”
“I was there the night it happened,” she said. She had drunk half her water and put the glass down on a coaster. “It was a long time ago, maybe sixteen years. I was in college at the time and I flew home for the seder. Grandpa made a big fuss over me, I remember. He was pleased I was going to college and really happy that I had come home. My grandmother was alive and we all went to their apartment for the seder, which we did every year. My grandmother was an unbelievable cook, an instinctive cook. She could taste something in the pot and know exactly what it needed.” She stopped, the memory overwhelming her.
“My grandfather had a lot of brothers and sisters; I don’t really know how many there were because some died in infancy or childhood. Some were born in Russia, some here. The last one was Iris and she was much younger than Grandpa, fifteen years maybe, maybe even more. She was very pretty, petite, she laughed a lot, she loved the kids, she had a wonderful personality. We all adored her. But she never married, and I never really understood why. Men loved her. She was a natural flirt. She could walk in a room and every man would stop what he was doing and look at her. I used to hear that Aunt Iris was going out with this one or that one, but nothing ever lasted. At least, that’s what I heard.
“Anyway, she was always at Grandma’s seder along with everyone else, and she was there that night. More water?”
The offer jarred me. “No, thanks. Go on.”
“As you can imagine, I’ve thought about it a lot since that night. And I can’t remember one thing that was different or unusual or new about that night. The usual people were there, the usual food was served; everything was the way it always was. We were all much younger, but that goes without saying.” She looked troubled in a way I had never seen before, as though once again she was forcing herself to review the details of a night she would rather forget. “We all got there—the early ones early, the late ones late—and we talked and helped in the kitchen and sat down later than expected. Just like every year. Nothing at all was different.”
I said nothing. I had no idea what was coming, what terrible event was about to transpire in her narrative.
“We ate the Passover meal the way we always did, and I helped clear the table, and then we all sat down again for the rest of the service. Grandma had a special cup, it was silver and very ornate, that we always used for Elijah, and Grandpa filled it and Aunt Iris said, ‘I’ll get the door,’ and she got up and left. And what happened was, she never came back.”
“She walked out the door and disappeared?”
“When she didn’t come back to the table, we called her and then we went looking for her, and when we realized she just wasn’t in the apartment, Grandpa said, ‘Call the police,’ and we did.”
“Did they come?”
“Right away. I guess whoever called—it must have been my father—said she’d been grabbed and taken away. That wasn’t true—or at least, I don’t think it was true—but that got them there fast.”
“How do you know it wasn’t true?”
Mel took a deep breath. “Because one of the cops asked what color coat Aunt Iris was wearing, and when we looked for it in the closet, it wasn’t there. And her purse was gone, too.”
“So you think she took the opportunity to run away.”
“It really looked that way. I remember she was eager to open the door. I can still hear her saying, ‘I’ll get the door.’ And then she jumped up and left the table.”
“I suppose you couldn’t see the door from where you were sitting.”
“It was an old building and the apartments were laid out in such a way that there was no view of the door. It was around a corner and she had a bit of a walk to the door.”
“Where was the coat closet?” I asked, interested in this story in spite of myself.