Suzanne Belling

Reflecting on Pesach seders

One year, we actually did, after she slipped while carrying a huge pot of tzimmes and, unperturbed, scooped it off the floor with a ladle. Nobody was any the wiser and she had proved a point in favour of house proud housewives.

Just about everyone we knew kept kosher. We lived in a couple of streets near the shul, where the elders of the congregation ruled undemocratically. There was self-imposed apartheid at the seder tables and no one had even heard of gender equality.

The story of the Exodus was told without a peep from the little ones, even to the detriment of their bladders. It was obvious that, while the menfolk, plumper than the Jews from the Heim and plumped up on their freshly laundered white pillows, had absorbed the Pesach story from their Eastern European fathers, the womenfolk and children didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Those were the mutter-mumble seders. Imagine yourself as if you were coming out of Egypt, it is said. The women and children imagined very well. Nothing was explained – they were in an emotional desert, save for the food and copious amounts of wine which elicited a remark from one of the little ones: “I feel like a wibble wobble.” They did not think of substituting grape juice in those days – if we even had it.

The women perpetuated the Exodus by wandering in and out of the kitchen, returning periodically to report to those not taking part in the façade on the progress of the turkey/duck (which seems to have disappeared from the kosher freezers in supermarkets today) and chicken roasting in the oven. Those seders inspired many present-day vegetarians.

Of course, there was a temporary respite – Ma Nishtanah and a dispute among the bobbas and mothers over whose little darling was going to be the chosen child to ask the questions and bring them naches. But the children fought among themselves to avoid taking centre stage.

When the victim rose three foot high from his chair – girls were usually left out of this contest – the mother of the Pesach king anointed her son – with smothering kisses – as the Wise One of the four sons in the Haggadah.

The others could hardly wait to eat, but they had to hang on. The men had not finished their muttering. The dinner became increasingly dried out. The only condiments were apple sauce, fresh tomatoes and salt and pepper. Running to the toilet became a favourite ploy for the younger generation to leave the table and avoid the mutter-mumble.

Sure, finding the Afikomen was fun but there was no reward of chocolates – none were manufactured for Pesach in those days. There were only nuts, pletzlach and ingberlach, which were full of ginger to burn the tender palates.

There was sometimes humour, when the door was opened for Elijah and the family dog walked in. But fear prevailed when Elijah’s cup wobbled and the kids were spooked.

How different it is today. Seders are for the children to learn from their fathers – and their mothers. Difficult questions are asked about the meaning of freedom, the story of the Exodus itself and its relevance to politics today. Children, going to Jewish schools or nursery schools, now compete to ask the four questions and to sing the songs. Much of the Exodus story is repeated in English. And explained.

Today, we cannot pass a bush fire without one of the youngsters asking: “Is Hashem in that burning bush?”

The 10 plagues are the highlight of the night. Plastic frogs, lice, beasts, boils, hail, locusts, dying cattle, skeletons, bottles of “blood” and whatever favourite plague is commercialized, appear on the table – and often in the soup, competing with the kneidlach. The plastic plagues are widely advertised – craft kits, puppets and 10 plagues on a stand.

I think the only similarity between the seders of yore and those of today is the inevitable indigestion from overeating and reflux from eating late into the night.