Tales of Passover Mischief
My grandfather, Bouyi, as he was called by his children and grandchildren, was a good man, but extremely religious, to the point of being fanatical. He was an ordained rabbi, yet he refused to receive payment for his rabbinical work. If he did, he reasoned, he might be obliged to do things the congregation requested that would go against his ideals.
He endeavored to enforce his extreme religiousness upon his family. For instance, he decided that my father should become a rabbi. Instead of regular school, he had to attend the rabbinical school and go to synagogue on a daily basis. However, my grandmother and great grandmother wanted nothing to do with that idea. They were the ones who raised the children and ensured that the household ran smoothly. My great grandmother had married at the age of twelve. Her husband was sixteen years old. She immediately became with child. It was at the time of the great influenza outbreak had swept the world and greatly decimated its population. Alas, one of its victims was my great grandfather. He never got to see his daughter. Yemma never remarried, she had to live in her in-laws’ home until Ummi, my grandmother, married, at which point she moved out with her. My grandmother had been refused education by her father’s family. They did not believe it to be advantageous for a girl to be educated. She always felt extremely bitter and deficient that she had not been allowed to read and write, especially since her mother was literate. She fiercely desired her children to be well educated and would have fought to her last breath for their right to do so.
The two women sneaked him off to school without Bouyi’s knowledge. That was not an easy feat for my father, but he managed to do both at the same time for quite a long while. One morning, however, my father overslept. He had been studying late the night before for his exams. He failed to get up on time to go for the morning prayers. At breakfast Bouyi sarcastically asked him what was so important that he had not attended morning prayers. By then my father had enough of this double life, this cat and mouse game. Looking Bouyi straight in the eyes, he said, “I was up late last night studying for my exams.”
The conversation in the dining room stopped immediately. There was an uneasy silence throughout. They all waited for a reaction from Bouyi. They did not have to wait too long. ‘You dared to disobey me!’ he thundered. He took lad by the scruff of his neck and dragged him outside. Whereupon he set upon him and whipped him to within an inch of his life. My father was a spirited lad. As he straightened himself, he looked at his father with a steely expression. “You cannot force me to become a rabbi. In fact, I am swearing to you now, I shall never set my foot into a synagogue as long as I live!” he declared in pain and anger. He kept his word. My father did not step into a synagogue until his grandson’s bar mitzvah. When my grandfather passed away in 1958, my father set up prayer services for him at home.
One of my favorite stories about my father as a young boy is this. It was just before Passover. The house was in a happy frenzy with everyone rushing to get ready for the holidays. A thorough cleaning had to be done. Every nook and cranny had to be carefully cleaned and examined. Everything leavened was to be discarded. This was hard work and there were no shortcuts to be made.
My father and Bouyi had been at loggerheads over something, and Bouyi had punished him most unfairly. Instead of getting angry and feeling hurt, the young man knew exactly how he was going to retaliate. The night before the First Seder, Bouyi traditionally went through the house with a candle and a feather searching for leavened bread or ‘hametz.’ This ensured that the house had become officially koshered for Passover.
The night of the First Seder arrived. The house was in all its glory. It gleamed and sparkled. All the Passover fine dishes, silverware, and crystals were displayed on the snowy white linen tablecloth in the spacious dining room. Flowers were everywhere. Highly polished silver candlesticks twinkled up and down the dining table. The aroma of the many delicious dishes that had been prepared wafted out of the kitchen and permeated throughout the whole house. The family walked into the dining room dressed in their fineries. Bouyi sat at the head of the table looking splendid in his special holiday abaya, the long robe that was worn in those days by the men of the Middle East. Ummi and Yemma sat at the other end. The six children sat on each side of the table. Happy faces looked up to Bouyi to begin the telling of the Exodus from the Haggadah, the special book read from on Passover.
The story of the First Passover was told. The blessings were said over each symbolic item on the Seder plate: the hard-boiled egg, the parsley, the roasted lamb shank bone, the charoset, the lettuce, and the matzoh. Everyone had tasted each item. Everyone drank their required three glasses of wine. The young ones had kidoos, a delicious drink made from plump dried raisins made by Ummi and Yemma. The table was cleared for the main meal. The cloth was brushed clean.
There was a lull in the conversation. Everyone looked forward to beginning eating all the delicious food that had been so lovingly prepared. It was at that moment my father made his move. Very theatrically, he put his hand into his suit pocket. Then looking at his father with a slight smile playing about his lips, he withdrew his hand. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together over the white linen tablecloth. “Hametz,” he softly said, as he pretended to have sprinkled breadcrumbs on the table. He had just un-koshered Passover! He got the reaction he wanted. Pandemonium broke loose. He had just unnerved his father. He was satisfied.
This story became a sort of a legend in our family. They are all gone now, but the story is still being told to the countless younger generations. There still is an appreciative, gleeful, and delighted laughter from them. I can imagine my father looking down at us as the story is told. He has a twinkle in his eyes and a smile curling about his lips.
I wish you all a very HAPPY AND HEALTHY PASSOVER! I wish you much love and laughter around your Seder table. Tizkoo le shanim raboth!