Seder

“Stop! You’re going to spoil it.” Nahal grabbed Tovia’s hand.

“No, I won’t. It’s just that this spot here, it irritates me. Someone must have spilled water or something,” Tovia countered.

“Scratching at the photo won’t get the stain off. You need to take it to the photo-lab down the street. They’ll do a new one for you. There’s an advert in the paper; let me fetch it for you. They even re-work photos to remove people – or headgear! All you have to do is take a photo of the same person so they can match colour and length.”

“Nothing I couldn’t do myself with the Photoshop application on my PC. But this is the photo I want – the original one.”

“Oh, all right then. Why don’t you try wetting the tip of a cotton bud in water. That would be gentler.” Nahal sighed.

Nahal half-heartedly continued setting the items on the Seder plate. She was not looking forward to the ceremony-meal. She knew that her new sisters-in-law would take mental notes with which to rip her apart later, after they left her house.

Chazeret: check. Karpas: check.

To show off, Nahal had made a salad of carrots, celery, parsley, and potato.

Beitzah: check (the smell of the hard-boiled egg made her gag). Zero’ah: check. Charoset: check (and of course she scooped up some with her finger and licked it clean). In the centre hollow – maror and dates. I hope Irit and Mirele break a tooth on the seed. Expensive dentistry!

She also had not-so-fleeting thoughts about how she could accidentally-on-purpose spill wine on their clothes while pouring for them. But she quickly dismissed these thoughts as the action might cause panic and make a mess of her new carpet.

She knew white wine did not actually remove red wine stains, no matter the internet claims.

Nahal toyed with the idea of mentioning expensive wigs that looked much better than some people’s natural hair, as worn by those who were “not really” Orthodox. But she decided to wait and see whether Irit and Mirele had bought new ones for the occasion.

So much for the pure heart required of her. So much for the Ain ma’avrin al hamitzvot tenet (never pass over a good deed). Nahal threw up a little in her mouth.

Plate of extra matzoh: check.

And then, Nahal giggled. Irit had not yet realised that Nahal emphasised the “r” in her name to make it sound similar to the first two syllables of “irritating.” They all thought themselves so clever, didn’t they? But they didn’t get Nahal’s little joke.

Bottles of wine: check.  Grape juice for the children (and Nahal): check.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Tovia alternately blowing at the photograph and muttering. She watched as Tovia put the photo down and went to the dresser drawer where they kept the photographs they needed to sort out. Someday.

Tovia got out a huge manila envelope and upended the contents next to her on the couch. She fanned out the snapshots and selected a few.

Bowl of salt water: check. Would anyone notice that she had the used Mediterranean Sea salt sent to her by her friend from Malta and not kosher salt? Matzoh: check.

She placed the folded, starched, white, linen cloth on the Seder plate and laid a matzoh on it. Then, she carefully folded the cloth over the matzoh and folded the cloth again in the opposite direction. She laid the other matzoh on the cloth, and folded the cloth again, so that from the side it looked like a white zigzag.

Her husband had insisted she get the more expensive round, handmade super-duper-rabbinically-supervised shmurah matzoh; matzoh versus bread. Humility versus pride indeed.

It was obvious that he wanted to show off because no one really liked matzoh anyway. Most people just nibbled at it and crumbled it into oblivion.

As for eating the Afikomen for dessert as a reminder of the Passover offering, she could never see the point of that since she was a child. But whenever she questioned it, she was warned: “Don’t be irreverent! You will become a bad woman when you grow up.”

Her maternal grandmother had been obsessed with the question of pride, although, ironically she was proud to be Jewish, and even prouder, if that could be, of her cooking. She covered this up with false modesty but could not resist snide remarks about other people’s chopped liver and cholent and p’tcha if the occasion called for it – and she made sure that it usually did.

Their paternal grandmother, Bubbe Leah, however, always reminded Nahal and Tovia of the two slips of paper they should keep in their purse: one that said ‘I am dust and ashes,’ and the other ‘For my sake the whole world was created.’

Then, as the cherry on the cake, Bubbe Leah always recited the story about the slaves who rode behind Roman triumph tors, whispering into their ears that they should remember they were not gods but mere mortals.

Frankly, Nahal didn’t like the reclining-on-a-pillow-cushion thing, either, because it gave her a crick in her back. And the strong wine made her belch.

She had suggested they switch to white wine but her in-laws shot her down, saying that red wine alludes to the blood spilled by Pharaoh, the blood as part of the Ten Plagues, and the blood the Jews put on their doorposts. There was no gainsaying them, so she settled for wine diluted with enough grape-juice to make the taste of alcohol only just noticeable.  

In her heart of hearts, Nahal sometimes wished she wasn’t Jewish. But she was not prepared to do anything about it. In any case, she thought that her Catholic and Muslim friends had unusual religions and she knew she would not feel good with a religion that was not monotheistic.

Her parents would have kicked her out of the house if she reneged on the Faith and switched; and now that she was married, it was too late to have second thoughts.

It was already something that she got to set the Seder table herself; her husband came from a culture where this was not permitted, but she had finally persuaded him that it was more practical.

She just knew her snotty mother-in-law would ask who laid the table, just so she could find something to disparage, even if it was the hand-blown Mdina Glass bowl for the salt water, a new addition for this year’s Seder. 

Tovia gasped and shot up from the couch, yelling, “Look!” effectively bringing Nahal’s train of thought to an emergency stop.

“Now what?”

“This is incredible.”

“Will you stop the blather and just tell me what’s with you?”

“I was looking for another photo of Bubbe Leah because I spoiled this one,” she said, pointing to the ruined photograph. “And look! All these photos seem to have the same blemish, slightly to the right, above her head.”

Nahal wiped her hands on her apron, snatched the photos from Tovia’s hands, and spread them out on the kitchen countertop.

Bubbe Leah as a chubby child; Bubbe Leah growing up and becoming noticeably thinner and taller and the years went by; Bubbe Leah in her wedding finery; Bubbe Leah holding Nahal and Tovia when they were babies. Bubbe Leah at Nahal’s wedding.

In each photograph, there was that unmistakable slight discoloration – a blotch – call it what you will – which had led Tovia to attempt the removal of it in the first photograph.

Just to make sure that they were not imagining things, Tovia went to the couch and picked out a few random photographs. Bubbe Leah was in none of them – and there were no blemishes or marks in any of them.

Nahal shuddered. She wrested the cork from one of the bottles of wine and drank a few gulps straight from the bottle. Tovia blanched; she knew the adverse effect it would have on her twin. Ironically, she realised that Nahal had leant to the left and back, although she usually inconspicuously defied the instruction during the Seders proper, ever since they were kids.

“Nahal. Tovia. Chag Sameach!” The voice was unmistakably that of Bubbe Leah. But she had been dead for the last five years.

The twins looked around them, eyes wide with fear.

“There is no need to be afraid. Listen to me. I am here with you. It is permitted for me to speak to you because, albeit inadvertently, you have discovered the Angel Sephora, my Guardian Angel. She has decided to retire and pass the baton on to me, so that I can look after you both. Your angels have been reassigned to new babies who will be born tomorrow.

“She would not allow me to come and visit you until you had discovered her presence in the photographs. I had to find a way to put the idea of looking at my photographs in your head but I had to find a roundabout way of doing it. That is why I waited until you were preparing the Seder plate and Tovia would want to find something to do to keep out of your hair.”

“Bubbe Leah! Is that really you?”

“Of course it is! Who do you think it is? Zipporah, the wife of Moses? Or who?”

The twins remembered this type of fey humour so well. But still, it was not enough. They wanted proof. Real proof. After all, it could be a demon who was speaking to them pretending to be Bubbe, waiting to lead them to eternal perdition.

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. They heard it in their minds – or, more accurately, in their hearts.

“Oh come on, girlies!” She had always called them that when she was alive – she used to say it was not fair that one twin would be called before the other. “You do remember what I had told you about food that might have become tainted with honey, water, wine, blood, dew, milk, or olive oil, don’t you? You know what it means, spiritual uncleanliness, don’t you?”

“Yes, Bubbe,” said Tovia.

“Sure, Bubbe,” said Nahal.

“I have noticed that since you have grown up, you are not the sweet, innocent Jewish girlies you used to be. You have allowed your psyches to become contaminated with mundane things – money, unsuitable friendships, vanity, conceit, pride, anger, spite, sloth, arrogance, jealousy, possessiveness, avarice. All the traits that make me ashamed to be your bubbe.

“You, Tovia, not so much, perhaps because you are not yet married and so you do not feel the need to compete with a husband’s family. However, you, Nahal, you have become almost insufferable.

“I know what you were thinking, about date stones and spilled wine and wigs. You’ve managed to absorb and thrive in what your Catholic friends call the Seven Cardinal Sins, young lady.”

Nahal’s knees gave way and she would have collapsed onto the kitchen floor had not Tovia pulled out a chair and seated her on it.

“You remember when you were kids and you were in cahoots to steal the Afikomen before you realised it was a ruse to keep you from nodding off? One of you would pretend to throw a tantrum or choke on the matzoh and we always let you get away with it.”

“But what has that got to do with your presence here today, Bubbe Leah?” asked Tovia.

“I am about to fulfil the mitzvah of caring for your immortal souls so that the blessings of the Motzi Matzah-Maror will remain with you until you die, really and truly, emotionally and spiritually, and not just halachically.”

Nahal had begun hyperventilating while worry filled Tovia’s mind.

“Get her a drink of water, quickly,” Bubbe ordered. “Just as chametz and matzoh are different, so you can be a bad Jew or a good Jew. Chametz is full of itself, inflated with self-importance, as it were. Matzoh is humble. Write down the words and you will see what I mean.”

Tovia ran for a pencil and paper.

“See? The chet in chametz is closed at the top. The hei in matzoh has a small opening at the top. The rabbis tell us to take the letters as an example of sin that has entered the first letter and cannot escape; but the second one has a small opening that makes this possible.”

Nahal was listening intently, silent tears pouring down her face. Tovia leaned over her and hugged her.

“I see, girlies, that you have learned the lesson I was sent here to give you. Please share your goodness with others. Remember that your guardian angel is your Bubbe Leah.”

A fragrant warmth surrounded the twins, just for a moment, Aqua Manda, Bubbe’s trademark scent. And when Tovia gathered the photographs off the countertop, the sisters noticed that they no longer had the mysterious marks.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it! Quick, splash some water on your face,” Tovia said, flustered.

Ushering the guests into the kitchen, Tovia told them that Nahal felt a tad peaky.

“Yes, my dear sisters-in-law, I was hoping you’d turn up early to help me with the preparations before the men arrive. My, but you are both looking fantastic, Irit and Mirele!”

The two women looked at one another, shrugged, and smiled at the twins. They heaved an inward sigh of relief and rolled up their sleeves.

Nahal didn’t know it yet, but she was pregnant with a girl they would call Sephora.

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Need more great stories? Check out these fantastic reads from the MockingOwl Roost family.

• Utterance
• The Book
• Like Father, Like Son
• A Moment of Discovery
• Ripe with Anxiousness
• Epiphany (in Peaches)
• Light Hues of the Soul