One Passover a Hundred Years Ago
My paternal grandparents had six sons and one daughter. My grandfather was a rabbi and a distributor of specialty cotton fabrics. I suppose being only a rabbi was not sufficient to provide for such a large family. My great-grandmother, who was barely thirteen when she had my grandmother, also lived with them. My great-grandfather was sixteen, three years older than his wife, when he married. She promptly became with child. A few months later she became a widow, for in the early 1900s, the influenza epidemic had spread across the world and decimated a large part of the world’s population. In doing so, it took away my great-grandfather as well. At the mere age of twelve, my great-grandmother, Rifka, was widowed. She had come to her in-laws’ house with a substantial dowry when she married. Now her in-laws were reluctant to relinquish that money. Because of that, she was never allowed to get married again. She and my grandmother lived with her in-laws until my grandmother, Rosa, married at the age of fourteen years. At which time part of her dowry was used to purchase a large home for them in anticipation of the large family it was foreseen they would have. Finally, my grandmother was allowed to leave her in-laws’ home. She accompanied her daughter and son-in-law to their new home.
My grandfather, David, was an extremely religious man. We called him Bouyi, which means ‘our father’ in Arabic. Bouyi was an extremely rigid and inflexible man when it came to his religion. He would not deviate from his beliefs even one iota. Before too long, the house was filled with children, for they were blessed with six sons and one daughter. They were all intelligent, inquisitive, and productive. Yemma, which means ‘mother,’ was what all of the children called my great-grandmother, was responsible for the household. Ummy, my mother, was what we called my grandmother, took over the care of the children. Classical music filled the air most of the time when the children were not at school. The love of classical music ran through the generations up to the present day.
With so many sons, Bouyi chose my father to become a rabbi, just like him. He was not to go to school but just study the Torah. That did not sit too well with Yemma. She was literate, but her in-laws had refused to allow Ummy to go to school. It was a bitter pill for her to swallow. Now that she was no longer under the thumb of her in-laws, she simply could not and would not tolerate the same thing to happen to any of her grandsons! Quietly and in secret, my father was sent to school without his father’s knowledge. Early in the morning he would go to synagogue, but afterwards he would go to school. For many years everything ran smoothly, but the time finally came when things came to a head. In school they were having exams. My father studied until late one night. He overslept the next morning and missed services. When his father questioned him why he did not go to synagogue that morning, my father admitted the truth. That enraged Bouyi. Right there and then he whipped my father. My father felt humiliated and angry, but he said nothing. He planned his revenge. It was just before Passover.
The household had been Passover cleaning for weeks on end. The night before Passover, Bouyi went through the house with a candle and a feather, carefully searching for hametz, unleavened bread, etc. After going through the whole ritual, he finally was satisfied that there was not a crumb of bread throughout the spacious house. At last, Passover arrived. The house looked magnificent! It sparkled and it gleamed throughout. From the kitchen drifted the delicious aromas of all the different dishes that had been lovingly prepared. In the dining room, the table was laid with a white damask embroidered tablecloth. The silverware gleamed and twinkled in the candlelight. The best dishes and cutlery were set upon the table. The matzah was covered with an elaborately embroidered linen square lovingly embroidered by Yemma. Decanters of homemade sweet kosher wine were placed up and down the long table. Bouyi majestically sat alone at the head of the table. Everyone was silent as he started to recount the story of Passover and say the different blessings. My father’s head was bent down towards the table. As his father enumerated the blessings, my father appeared to pick something between his fingers. He examined it closely. He rubbed his fingers together and softly said, “Hametz!” as he pretended to scatter bread crumbs onto the Passover table. Under his beard, Bouyi’s complexion turned ashen white, then purple with fury! He exploded with anger. I imagine him having the same habit as my father did when he got angry. Papa used to place the tip of his tongue between his teeth and pressed hard to control his temper. I can imagine Bouyi doing the same thing. But it was to no avail. All hell broke loose. Papa had gotten his revenge. Oh yes, and while he was at it, he also vowed never to set foot into a synagogue ever again. He did not do so for very many years. When Bouyi passed away many years later, he had to figure out how to honor his father without breaking his vow of never entering a synagogue. Thus, Papa had rabbis come pray for Bouyi’s soul at home as he sat shiva and mourned the loss of his beloved father.
Many years later, when my brother got married in a synagogue in Los Angeles, my father had to break his vow to witness his only son’s nuptials. For what is a man to do; how could he not attend his only son’s wedding?