Seder under siege

In 1948 Jerusalem, one woman recounts a Passover Seder to the backdrop of the war of Independence.

By ZIPPORAH PORATH
A portrait of Zipporah Porath writer during her time in the IDF. (photo credit: Courtesy)
A portrait of Zipporah Porath writer during her time in the IDF.
(photo credit: Courtesy)
April 24, 1948 – Jerusalem Dearest Mother, Dad and Naomi, I must tell you how I spent Seder night in besieged Jerusalem.
It was a wonderful evening, a huge full moon floating in a bathtub of blue, with little sparklers of stars hovering close by. The Mediterranean sky defies description. It’s even more brilliantly star-studded than a summer night in Vermont. And at eye level, all this beauty is silhouetted against stark earthy rock and rugged hills.
We walked to town, marveling at the unexpected quiet. Not a shot to be heard the whole way. We were in high spirits, stopped off to bid “Hag Sameah ” [Happy Holiday] to mutual friends, sang loudly and waved to people sitting on their balconies enjoying the quiet and waiting for Seder guests.
Everybody has guests this year. There are about a hundred drivers in town who brought the last convoy to Jerusalem, stranded away from their families, and, of course, hundreds of soldiers far from home.
Seder night falling on a Friday eve in Jerusalem is doubly special. The holiday atmosphere is in the very air.
The only sign of the times was a thick security guard surrounding the chief rabbi’s home in Rehavia, a block away from where we were headed – Yehudah’s family Seder at an uncle’s house.
As we mounted the stairs, I was a little apprehensive at the prospect of meeting three generations of relatives, but my fears were allayed in no time. I discovered that I knew the sister from my first-aid course and her husband and I had once done patrol duty together.
There were several other guests, and reigning over all was a regal grandmother, whose withered hand we all had to formally kiss following Kiddush [the blessing over the wine]. There is a 105-year-old great-grandmother, too, but she was at Seder elsewhere because of the transportation difficulties.
The family is Sephardic in origin so, although the Haggada was read in Hebrew, the important passages were reread in Ladino for the benefit of the grandmother, with everyone at the table taking turns reading, as we do at home. Whenever the conversation lapsed into Ladino, the children – little chauvinists – were genuinely upset and demanded that only Hebrew be spoken.
As I was a special guest, they provided me with a Haggada which had an English translation. And, probably, because they thought American Jews have no traditional background, they took great pains and derived much pleasure from giving me instructions on what to do and how to do it. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I knew a thing or two about Passover Seders.
The herbs were truly bitter herbs, plucked from the fields, like the greens we now eat with our daily fare. The haroset [mock brick mortar] tasted every bit like the Egyptian bricks it was supposed to represent – although, in these times, there’s no way of knowing what it was made of. In essence, the Seder ceremony was the same as it is all over the world wherever Jews congregate.
Only one custom was strikingly different.
I rather liked it.
Instead of the afikoman being placed between two pillows, as we do, it was placed in a napkin, with its ends tied in a knot. [The afikoman is the halfpiece of matza that is wrapped and set aside until the end of the meal when, having been “stolen” by one of the children present, it is redeemed for a present]. Then the matza bundle was passed to each one at the table, who in turn slung it over a shoulder, and held it there for a bit, symbolizing the way the Jews must have carried their belongings out of Egyptian bondage.
When it came to one of the children, it miraculously disappeared and was only forfeited against the promise of a book.
A five-year-old boy, the youngest in the family, in lispy Hebrew that seems to characterize the speech of most Sabra children, didn’t merely recite the traditional four questions, but asked them, in the most natural way, as if inquiring, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” – his hands clasped around his knees, his head tilted to one side, as if he really didn’t understand and wanted to be told why a Seder in besieged Jerusalem was different from any other.
Despite the terrible food shortage, a meal of sorts was served, simple but plentiful, with kneidlach [matza balls] made from something that tasted like nuts. When the singing started, it was really sameah [merry]. I was asked to sing the melodies I knew, which were very different from theirs. But, judging by the way they all beamed, my performance must have been enjoyable and interesting for them.
We had to leave early because of the long walk home, but not before saying formal good-byes and kissing – you guessed it – Grandma’s paw with great ceremony.
We took a short-cut home to be out of the firing line from the Generali Building (the British Mandatory government office compound) and passed through the crowded Mahaneh Yehuda area, a very religious community.
At one house we saw by the flickering candle light in the window a large family group huddled around the holiday table, the youngsters’ earlocks dangling on the cloth, all singing with hassidic fervor, transported with joy. Their singing had a haunting quality I cannot convey. Every corner of the deserted cobblestone alley reverberated with the sound of it, echoed and reechoed from every house. We hit the open road near Romema and broke into song ourselves, joined by the guards we passed at the various check-posts and roadblocks en route.
This morning, Alizah and I made a matza omelette from our special Passover ration of one egg each.
It’s unnaturally quiet today. I hope it isn’t the quiet before the storm. Please plague me with letters. After April 30, when the British will discontinue all postal services, there is no way of knowing what will be... .
Happy holiday,
Love, Zippy
This excerpt is from the book Letters from Jerusalem 1947-1948. Copyright © 1987 by Zipporah Porath. All rights reserved. Copies available from zip@netvision.net.il; Amazon Kindle e-Book edition: http://bit.ly/LettersFromJerusalem.