Covering the matzoh plate with the gold satin coverlet, stained by Mogen David wine drops from Passover Seders past, was the last thing that had to be done before the Seder could officially begin.  That, and waiting for the guests to arrive and the sun to set.  Sarah had watched her mother, Shana Gelb, drape the matzoh plate with that same coverlet for the last 24 years.  Attending to details attracted Sarah to Passover.  She loved this holiday because of its order and traditions.  Sarah imagined that this must be how her old friend Lolly Dillon feels like when an angel doll is placed on top of their family Christmas tree every year.  It must also be how her new “friend,” Richard Martello, who was on his way to his first Seder must feel when Rosa, his mother, tops their Christmas tree.

Sarah’s mother had been working away for days to prepare for the Seder.  Matzoh balls the size of small grapefruits made puffy because of Shana’s seltzer-instead-of water recipe floated and bobbed in a vat of chicken soup.  The oven aromas of cholent with potatoes stewed to a color of brown gold mixed with the sweet tzimmes, carrots and honey stewed to perfection.  Gefilte fish carefully arranged on an oval plate with homemade chrain, chopped liver accompanied by half-sour pickles, and a fat and fattening matzoh farfel kugle lined up the kitchen counter eagerly awaiting to be served after the Haggadah was read and the service was over.  Sarah believed with all her being that she could smell these smells nowhere in the world.  It wasn’t just the food, but it was the fact that her parents prepared them with so much thought and detail.  Her father, Harry Gelb, oversaw the entire feast as the royal tester suggesting “…a bisseleh salt” and “a bisseleh fat” to just about everything.  Chopping and cutting and cooking and baking went on for days to create this unique, personal smell. Sarah’s mother would lecture on why kids were growing up without a sense of family.  TV dinners and golden arches drive-in cuisine did not fill a room with the right kind of aromas.  It was not the way Sarah was raised.  “A house just doesn’t smell like a home anymore,” Shana would say.  A home, to Shana, meant baking your own challah for Friday night kiddish and not buying chazzerai from the grocery store.  Sarah never argued her mother’s a-house-just-doesn’t-smell-like-a home theory.  In fact, she thought it was brilliant.  Sociologists and psychologist pontificate for days on what has become of the American family, its values and morals.  Just ask Shana and she’ll tell you that the root of all evil can end in the kitchen if people just didn’t buy canned soup made from diseased chicken parts giving off such an unappealing smell that kids retreat to their rooms and hide!  

As Sarah set the table, she felt a tension that was usually not there on her favorite holiday.  She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t the fact that she had invited her Italian boyfriend to the Seder before asking her parents if they approved.  What was she thinking, or not thinking when she asks a stranger, a goy to attend a holiday meal.  It’s not that the Gelbs would disapprove because there wasn’t an extra plate of food for a guest - He who is hungry come eat.  It wasn’t even the idea that the Gelbs disliked Richard because they had never met him.  Sarah carefully kept her family and her love life parted and separated like Moses did the Red Sea.  The guttural reaction to hide from and exclude non-Jews from their personal lives came from a self-preservation instinct in the Gelbs.  They had images of pogroms and holocaust and hate that only a people segregated and ghettoed in Europe for hundreds of years could understand.  Ironically, Sarah was always taught that she should not hate anyone because of their religion – just don’t marry them! 

“He’s gonna feel terrible,” Sarah’s father pleaded.  “What’s he know from Seders!”   

Her mother topped off the disapproval, but-what-can-we-do-now conversation with, “And …he’s never going to like my cooking.”  If she had known the poem, Shana would agree that her Seder would not conjure up visions of sugarplums dancing in Richard’s head! 

To invite Richard to the Seder or not to invite, that was the question.  Sarah felt stuck two weeks before Passover.  She had been dating Richard, who had invited her to all of his Christmas and Easter dinners with his family, for the last year.  But all she had to do at the Martello table was say no thanks to the ham and discreetly pick out raisins from the stuffing.  The raisins were not a religious preference, just a culinary one of not wanting sweet items mixing in her “real” food.  Shana Gelb would never think of putting raisins in stuffing.  Fried onions a must, raisins not a chance.  But for Richard, it was another story.  He was about to step into 5,000 plus years of living and dying and suffering.  As Harry Gelb would always remark, “Es iz shver tzu zein a Yid” (It’s tough too be a Jew). A hard life for Harry and Shana was an understatement.  Both barely survived the Nazi slaughter of World War II Poland.  In 1945, Harry was the only member of his family that was alive. Not a single relative survived; not a cousin, aunt, in-law would breathe after Hitler marched through their tiny piece of the world.  Two entire families of hopes and dreams and fears gone up in smoke or shot to death in mass graves.  So Sarah felt like she was betraying the parents who lived through the war by some one-in-a-million miracle only to break their hearts by not marrying a nice Jewish boy.  She debated with herself how she could not ask Richard, and not offend him.  Or, ask him and not offend her parents.  When Richard invited himself, the debate quickly came to an end.  It was not her doing; it just happened.  She felt off the hook, he asked for it.  Hope the gefilte fish agrees with you!   

Sarah was almost finished setting the table when the doorbell rang. Her parents looked at each other as Sarah looked at them.  To everyone’s delight, it was Sam, Sarah’s brother with his wife Helena, and 7-year-old niece Jordan. For now, the tension eased because the perfect Jewish mathematical equation had just arrived: nice Jewish guy + nice Jewish girl = nice Jewish child. Sarah was never quite good in math, and was not doing well in the marriage category either according to her parents, not to mention the voice inside her head.  Jordan’s glee lifted the tension like sun melting fog.  You could see it and feel it as Jordan laughed and played with her Zayde in the den. 

Sarah tried to slip into the kitchen when Sam and Helena quietly asked with an air of elder sibling disapproval, perhaps disbelief, “You told Mommy and Daddy that he was “half “Jewish?  How could you?  What is ‘half’ Jewish?”  Sarah was a bit speechless.  It was a ridiculous statement, and she knew it even as she told her parents when explaining the guess-who’s-coming-to-dinner routine.  She thought it could soften the blow for her parents.  The Martellos were Italian and Catholic.  For her parents, visions of Al Capone-like men in dark suits was not the same as Hassidic men in their dark suits. 

“Sarah, that’s a lie.” 

“I know, I was desperate.” Sarah tried to move out of the room feeling as if she were slithering away in shame and embarrassment.   

“Do you think they believe you for a minute?”  She felt stupid and stuck like a fly on the brown paper strips that used to hang in the basement.

“Just tell them the truth and deal with it.”  

Easy for them to suggest, since they never had to actually do it themselves.  But she knew they were right.  How could she ever explain her forbidden attraction to a Christian to parents who saw what being Jewish could buy you by the hands of those who were not.  Romance in 1940s Poland was very clear, segregated, and non-mixed.  Thirty years later, Sarah was not so clear.  Tonight, in an attempt to hurt no one, Sarah would probably end up hurting everyone.  How could this happen on her favorite holiday?  The evening brought a new meaning to the question in the Haggadah, “How is this night different from all other nights of the year?”  Another round of “how could you” was probably in order when the doorbell ding-donged again.  Sarah ran off as if her life depended on getting out of the dining room. 

Richard arrived toting a bottle of kosher for Passover wine. Sarah was actually glad to see him, but nervous.  Introductions were civil and perhaps a bit suspicious on both parts.  Harry pushed a yalmeke in his daughter’s hands literally passing the task of explaining what this little cap was and why Richard had to wear it at the Seder to Sarah.  She was going to explain more to him about the yalmeke, but Jordan insisted on another round of hide ‘n seek before the Seder began.  She hoped Richard would figure it out it himself. Doesn’t a priest wear one?  Improvise for God’s sake!  Again, she felt her brother’s “How could you.” 

Shana guided all the guests to their assigned seats.  The Seder, meaning order, would begin and end in a very organized, predictable manner.  How many cups of wine and when to drink were pre-determined.  Sarah’s father would begin at the first word in the Haggadah and end on the last, pausing at the very same pages and paragraphs like clockwork just as his father had done.  Everyone would follow as he read in Hebrew, fast and almost undecipherable until he was about to approach the “big numbers.”  At this point his voice would get louder and the words clearly enunciated, almost as an announcement to all that a biggie is coming.   

The first big number was the asking of the Four Questions – usually delegated to the youngest at the table. Jordan had been practicing for weeks in Hebrew school.  She stood up and sang away the questions about the meaning of Passover that leads to the 20-page answer that leads to dinner. Why is this night different from all other nights? Sarah’s father beamed with nachas at Jordan’s talent in Hebrew and singing.  After Passover, this would no-doubt lead to a new toy for Jordan! Sam interjected English explanations and interpretations to explain to all (or maybe to one person) what was going on.  Sarah needed no explanation because she knew the Seder inside and out; this was in her blood.  She should have sat down and explained more to Richard in advance. How could you!   

Sam noticed Richard eyeing the Seder plate and volunteered to explain the symbols of Jewish slavery in Egypt: egg = rebirth, salt water = tears, horseradish = bitterness, lamb bone = sacrifice and Charoseth (nuts/wine) = mortar for pyramids.  Sarah felt bad about abandoning Richard in 5,000 years of Jewish history.  She knew all too well what it feels like to be the one in a crowd that isn’t like the rest of the crowd.  In first grade, she was the only child who didn’t proudly raise her hand when Mrs. Mott asked the class, “So, who believes in Santa Claus?”  In fourth grade, Carlo Lacko surprised her with the “Why did you kill our God?” question as they walked home from school.  Ironically, this was the second time Sarah had been asked this unique question in her short life.  In kindergarten, she was accused of the same heinous crime having no idea what god-killing was all about.  She sat on the bus going over her kindergarten day trying to remember if she trampled an ant or swatted a fly.  What else could a kindergartener have been able to kill?  When it happened again in fourth grade she was better prepared to tell Carlo “Did not.”  If Sarah could deal with Carlo Lacko, Richard should be able to deal with matzoh ball soup! 

Jordan’s giggling ended Sarah’s trip down memory lane.  Her niece had been sampling wine drops becoming a bit shikker.  Now Jordan was ready to sing her next Hebrew school selection, Pharaoh let my people go!  Her grade school rendition of Moses demanding the release of the Jewish people to Pharaoh would earn her another toy from her grandparents. The Seder proceeded with more prayers, cups of wine, blessings of food, and finally dinner.  

Sarah, feeling that she had apparently survived most of the evening, enjoyed her meal and even had a second bowl of matzoh ball soup.  Conversation between Richard and the Gelbs was stiff and overly civil.  Lots of “thanks you, it’s great” and “have some more to eat” banter.  Richard looked a little more at ease now that the conversation was mostly in English, heavy accents and even a word or two of Yiddish, but still English.  Sarah wanted him to enjoy the holiday and appreciate her religion, but could he ever really feel it, smell it, and taste it. 

Dessert of prune and pear compote with a flat Passover sponge cake ended the long and detailed meal.  Stomachs were full, but doubts and questions that evening remained underfed.  Who would accept who and who could understand who would not be settled that evening?  Moses led the Jews to the promised land, but never actually set foot in the promised land himself.  You can’t always get what you want; you don’t always get what you need.   

As the prayers following the Seder began, Sarah thought of what she was thankful for in her life.  Most of it was right there at the table.  But, where exactly did she belong?  What side of the fence?  Both sides of the fence?  Love is all you need…  She didn’t think so; she was raised that a girl should get married and have children, but that she needed to have her “own” life as well.  Giving up her family and religion and traditions was not an option.  Losing Richard was not a pleasant thought.  Keeping both worlds in neat little packages was unlikely.  As the prayers continued, her mind wandered from thought to thought like Elijah’s Passover trek from house to house. 

As the Seder came to an end, Jordan simultaneously ran out of speed and fell asleep on the living room couch.  Richard took the opportunity to thank Sarah’s parents and politely moved towards the front door.  The Gelbs told Richard that they hoped he had enjoyed the Seder.  They were gracious for Sarah’s sake, but sharing future meals was not mentioned.  Sarah walked him to the door - a bit proud of him for surviving, but a bit disappointed that she had to worry all night.  Everyone would be doing lots of thinking about this evening long after the dishes were washed, the matzoh coverlet put away until the next Seder, and long after Jordan was dreaming of the new toys that her Zayde would buy her the next day. 

This story was previously published in an anthology called "Family Gatherings," Outrider Press Publishing, 2003.  I think the publisher will like the "plug," if it's OK with you.