Passover

“Baruch ata Adonai,” Mr. Morgan said. He struck a long wooden match and lit the candles with much fanfare. “Elohaynu melech Ha-olam, asher kideshanu be-mitzvotav, ve-tzinanu-le-hadlik ner shel Yom Tov. Welcome, Sylvie, welcome, Stuart. We’re so happy to have you!”

Her father was clearly determined to give Sylvie and her dad, who had never been to a Seder, the best Seder ever. He was being so dramatic Veronica felt like they were in a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Ugh. “Passover,” he explained, “tells the story of the Jewish people’s journey into freedom. But tonight we use Egypt as a metaphor for conflict because we live in perpetual yin yang. Freedom, for example, is an undisputed right, yet human rights are exploited all the time. We crave stability. We seek reliability. And yet many also feel a pull, a need to wander, to explore. And the conflict of all conflicts: pain. Without pain we cannot understand joy.” He looked over at his daughter as he raised his glass. She thought of Cadbury, who had left behind a memory so tender and so raw. “Oy,” he said. “Let us raise our glasses to the perpetual paradox called the human condition.” Veronica and Sylvie drank red grape juice, while the adults drank dark red wine.

Mr. Morgan held up a ramekin of salt water and Passover 101 continued. “And what we do is, we take a little piece of vegetable off the seder plate and dip it in the salt water. The salt water is a symbol of sweat and tears. Because we want to remind ourselves that although Jews were freed by the Pharaoh, Egyptians suffered for that freedom and all around the world today, people are still enslaved.” Mr. Morgan dipped a piece of celery in the salt water and indicated for everyone else to do the same. Veronica chewed and swallowed years of affliction. She loved how Passover was both symbolic and actual, legend and current events.

“In the center of the table we have a nice stack of matzoh,” Marvin said with obvious pleasure. “Veronica, my firstborn, why do we eat matzoh on Passover?”

Veronica decided not to point out that she was her father’s only born child. “When the Jews were escaping to freedom,” she said, “they didn’t think they had time to wait for bread to rise. So this is what they came up with. Matzoh.” She pointed at the matzoh like a contestant on a game show. Behind this curtain: a new car!

“Precisely,” Mr. Morgan said with tremendous pride. His brow was wet and his jacket was a little tight, but he looked so moved by the sight of his wife, his daughter, by Mary and by their guests, Veronica thought he might cry. He flipped through his Haggadah and talked himself down. “Okay, matzoh, poverty, affliction, slavery. Check. I’m lost, Marion. Where are we?”

“Page fifteen,” his wife said. Veronica looked at her mother, convinced they saw the same emotion in her father.

“Okay,” he said. “Page fifteen. Traditionally, the youngest at the table asks the Four Questions. But, Sylvie, we’d be honored if you would.”

Veronica had been the youngest at the table for so long she realized tonight she took that honor for granted. It was with bittersweet pleasure she sat back and listened. She felt like all the girls in her class who say Morning Verse every day but may not actually hear what they’re saying.

“Why is this night different from all other nights?” Sylvie asked. “Why on this night do we only eat matzoh, but on other nights we eat bread or matzoh? Why on this night do we only eat bitter herbs and vegetables? Why on this night do we dip our herbs not once, but twice? Why on this night do we eat in a reclining position?”

“One of my favorite parts about Judaism,” Mr. Morgan said, “is the importance of questions. There is no other religion I am aware of that invites argument and discussion the way we do. We love it.” He looked at his wife and daughter as though all they did was argue. “I love it because being able to ask questions means you’re free. And as long as you have someone to ask, it means you aren’t alone.” Mr. Morgan adjusted his yarmulke.

He certainly had a lot of knowledge and love for something he pretended not to care about. Why did he try so hard not to care? So many things about his heritage seemed to make him happy.

“Next on this page: the Four Children, page sixteen.”

Veronica turned the page in her Haggadah. Sometimes the Seder felt like it lasted for twelve hours and no one could stop their stomach from growling and their mind from wandering. Sylvie and her father seemed totally engaged, and Veronica was relieved.

“Now, if I may confess: this was the part of the Seder I struggled with year after year,” Mr. Morgan said. He was really on a roll tonight, riffing and improvising, and Veronica tried not to smile because if she did, she might laugh. “My younger brother always asked the Four Questions, and so year after year, I had to talk about the Four Children. The wise child was characterized as good because he believed in God and Passover, the wicked child was an atheist and unworthy of the freedom granted to the rest of the Jews. The simple one was boring. And the last one was so dumb, he didn’t even ask a question. I knew my father didn’t think I was the wise one. I was supposed to be one of the other three, and I didn’t like any of them. Was I the fool? The wicked one? The simple one? I always felt set up.”

Veronica knew her father’s side of the family was pretty religious, but her father’s parents had died before she was born and he didn’t discuss them much. Her uncle actually lived in Israel and rarely came to the United States.

“So, as an adult Reform Jewish psychiatrist and a father in my own house,” her father continued, “I offer this: we are all the Four Children represented at Passover. Sometimes we’re clever, sometimes we’re evil, sometimes we’re curious, sometimes we are so content we don’t need to ask anything.”

Marion smiled warmly at her husband. They had met at a Seder in college. Veronica really hoped they weren’t going to talk about that.

“The yin and the constant yang is itself a very Jewish idea. It’s why you break a glass at a wedding: to remind yourself that even in the midst of celebration, somewhere someone is suffering. Oh boy,” he said. “I’ve lost my place again, and said personal things, and we were supposed to have had the second glass of wine by now. Marion, where the hell are we? All right, everybody drink.”

After Sylvie and her dad left and all the dishes were washed and the candlesticks were put away, Veronica brushed her teeth and got ready for bed. The Seder resonated with her tonight in a way it never had before. She thought about the Four Children and about being capable of all kinds of behavior. This year alone she had embodied so many emotions. She had been shy. She had been daring. She had been glad. She had been miserable. She had experienced extreme love. She had been overtaken by intense grief. She had behaved badly. She had behaved heroically. She had done all this and she was just one small person.