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The Seder in Apt 602
Contributed by Alan Spiro

  • TOP HAGGADAHS FOR 2023

The table was covered in the crisp white linen kept for special days. Wine stains reminiscent of past gatherings dotted the pure white cloth, each with a story to tell.  Candles flickered, reflecting in the glassy mint green dishes scavenged from many Duz detergent boxes. Clusters of grapes spilled over the side of the “cut glass” bowl from the five and dime, our Bronx answer to the Utopia of affluent suburban Jews. The matzo, bread of Jewish affliction, sat blanketed under a clean dish towel. Each piece was a perfect square, baked in ovens in our new country where everything was better with technology. The edges were not burnt, not touched by the flames of a distant pogrom. The charoset, a mixture of chopped nuts, fermenting apples, and Manischewitz wine, was in a dish looking unappetizing as always. We could savor its surprisingly sweet taste during the service. We would sandwich matzoh and charoset together as our ancestors had stacked the pyramids for Pharaoh.  Our “Passover peanut butter sandwiches” were the holiday equivalent of white Wonder bread smeared with Skippy’s.

 The tiny kitchen with pots of bubbling broth, soup, gefilte fish, and vegetables was the assembly line Henry Ford wished he had. Ruthie our hostess was the sergeant at arms, cooking the food and then supervising the well-orchestrated show. No one ever left hungry! The warmth of those comfort foods blanketed your soul as they filled your stomach. And our host Henry, like Moses, sat poised at the head of the table, ready to lead us out of the desert. The stage was set. The performance would begin shortly, and we the willing players were gearing up.

It was America in the 1950s, a place of promises, where Jews were beginning to weave into the American culture. Many had run a generation before into the open arms of Miss Liberty holding her book, her torch guiding them to the teaming shores of New York City.

This was their new history. Europe left behind; the pogroms, the ovens, the insults. Here we sang the songs aloud, tapped wine drops for each plague with our pinky fingers. It was really wine, not blood from the swords of the old country.

Here we sat, a puzzle of people who formed this extended family every year. Relatives, neighbors, hangers-on, basking in the warmth of that room, around that cramped folding table, knees touching, sharing wine, stained prayer books (never enough), sharing the food,  and sharing our lives and the promise that was America. We read from the Haggadah, the book that told the story of Moses leading the Jews through the desert, running from Pharoah, eating flat baked bread cooked on hot stones, no time to let it rise.  Moses led our ancestors over hill and dale. 

This was America of the 1950s, the real land of milk and honey. Moses should have come this way in the desert. When the Red Sea parted he should have swam towards Miss Liberty. We could have avoided all the crap that came between then and now. A lot more people would have been at that table.  

Magic in that little apartment

Magic in the freedom

What a country!
haggadah Section: Commentary / Readings

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