Rachel feels, she must admit, a little hemmed in. A little trapped. Once she and Eema hid out from the Gestapo in a closet in Moabit after an SS crackdown during the race to call Berlin “Judenfrei.” She could see the Stapo men’s shadows pass by in the line of light from under the door. Hear the creak of the floorboards under their shoes. When she and Eema survived that ordeal, it felt like such a miracle. The Finger of God! They celebrated the Seder for the first time in years. Also for the last time. The two of them together in an attic of a bomb-damaged building with a rabbi’s son, creating their Seder out of nothing. A precious egg. A bit of horseradish and green onion. A scrap of chicken bone. A bottle of kosher wine gone sour.
Then, it had felt like a victory. The Nazis thought they were winning their war against the Jews? They thought they were obliterating all things Jewish? They wanted to declare Berlin “Jew-free,” but how wrong they were, because here were three Jews at the Seder table! Reciting the ancient blessings, singing the verses of history, alive, still keeping faith, still remembering the struggle against bondage as the angel of death stalked Pharaoh’s streets.
But now, at the table on Webster Avenue in Flatbush, Rachel feels like a stranger. If Elijah stepped through the open door with his scrolls and mantle, would he politely inquire exactly what she was doing here, sweetness? Rachel thinks of her eema’s blessing over the candles as she lit them in that bomb-wrecked hiding place, her recitation of the Shehecheyanu, how practiced and poised. Bubbe Perlman’s blessing isn’t exactly as graceful, but she spits out her Hebrew without hesitation as she lights the candles, like some ancient gristle she’s been chewing for years. Bubbe Perlman, hands gnarled and purple, her spine bent. Her glasses are as thick as cake icing, but the golden tears of flame dancing on the candle wicks shine in her lenses.
The Seder plate is the antique pewter that Miriam’s great-grandmother bundled across the Atlantic from the old country. Rachel’s mother-in-law places it in front of Aaron, who’s standing with stiff authority at the head of the table, wearing a black silk yarmulke. It’s so odd for Rachel to see him like this as he pours the wine from the silver pitcher, Aaron assuming his father’s presence. The white sleeves, the narrow black necktie. The stern concentration as he recites the Kiddush, the brightly polished chalice raised a careful nine inches from the table.
Her mother had a chalice that came from her husband’s side of the family, the artistry of a Berlin silversmith dating back to Bismarck. A gleaming relief of the ancient city of Jerusalem, the Temple of Solomon at its pinnacle. Gone now, of course. Lost. Temple and chalice melted down in the furnace of history.
Rachel breathes in and stares at her husband. Where did Aaron’s yarmulke come from? Was it the same one he wore for his bar mitzvah? Has Miriam kept it in a drawer ever since, along with a lock of his baby curls? Rachel is nearly positive that Aaron doesn’t have one at home. She puts his socks and boxer shorts away and has never come across anything of the kind.
She licks her lips and craves a cigarette. What would her own mother think of the people of Aaron’s family? Would she think them gauche? Vulgar? Gemeinbürgerlich? Or what would Eema’s beloved grandfather think? An observant man, Eema’s saba, come from a world of solemn worship, ritual baths, the separation of the women from the men. Come from generations of those who would not round the corners of their heads and who actively mourned the destruction of the Temple. Those who listened to the tinkling bells of the Torah crowns and yearned for the Messiah.
Would he, if he were to stand up from his grave, even recognize these Americans as Jews? Could he identify Cousin Sheila, who’s training as a beautician in Long Island, or her husband who sells refrigerators and washer-dryers, as members of God’s Chosen? Does Uncle Hyram study the Holy Book at night after he comes home from the scrap-yard office, or does he light a cigar and turn on