Stories For Passover-2

A Passover in Siberia

By Nissan Mindel

A.N. was serving a ten year sentence for the crime of "harmful acts against the State." This, however, was a libel. The truth was that he was a religious Jew who had committed the "crime" of keeping his Yiddishkeit in every possible way he could, and encouraging other Jews to practice Yiddishkeit. When this was discovered, he was sent to a "Correctional Labor Camp" in Siberia for ten years, to be reeducated in the company of political offenders. On some other occasion it would be most interesting to learn about his experiences in this camp. Now, however, we shall tell you about a certain Passover he spent there. This was in the year 1943, the seventh year of his sentence. This is how he began his moving narrative: "A few weeks before Passover, I received a letter from my home, telling me they were sending a package with matzos and other Passover products as in previous years. This letter had first been addressed to the previous camp where I had been working, and then it was readdressed to my new camp. I wrote home at once to inform them of my new address, and hoped that the package would reach me in time. I gave my letter to David, a friend of mine, who was the manager of the Food Department in the camp. He, in turn, passed it on to someone outside the camp who was going to Moscow. I eagerly awaited this package of matzos and Passover products which would enable me to observe Passover properly, as well as strengthen me, for I had become rather weak and suffered from stomach trouble. One day, the woman who was the head of the "political division" of the labor camp came to see me. She was also the censor of letters and packages addressed to the prisoners. She was new to the job and came to ask me if I was still keeping to my religious beliefs and practices. Was I still abstaining from working on Sabbaths and holidays and not eating the meals served from the Camp kitchen? Incidentally, she also asked me: "What is matza?" I explained it all to her, then she asked: "When is Passover?" I replied: "In ten days' time."

"What will you do if your expected package of matzos does not come in time?" she asked. "I would just eat potatoes," I answered. "And if you don't get potatoes?" "Then I would have no choice but to go hungry." "For eight days?" she asked, wonderingly. "The Almighty will not forsake me," I replied. The conversation ended there, and she left. The first Seder night arrived. No package. No matzos. No Passover provisions. I had invited David and a Jew named Berkovitch to the "seder." We had covered the table with a clean sheet of paper to serve as a tablecloth. We had boiled a kettle of water. I poured out glasses of tea, which were to serve us in place of the four cups of wine we should have had. Then, to their unbelieving eyes, I produced three whole matzos! Thus, we observed the first seder. I recited as much of the haggadah as I could remember. The following night there were no matzos. We again had tea in place of wine, and three pieces of sugar completed our seder. I again recited the haggadah from memory. I then told my guests the secret of how I had the matzos for the previous seder. "Since I'm in the labor camps I always saved a few matzos from one Passover to the next, in case I'd have difficulty getting matzos for the following Passover. This year, luckily, these matzos were a blessing, and I was thankful that I'd had such forethought." David was very angry with me for not telling them that this year I had not received any matzos for Passover. "We would certainly not have eaten your last piece of matza last night had we known," he declared. "That is the very reason I did not tell you," I answered. "Every Jew is obligated to eat a piece of matzo at least the size of an olive on the seder nights. During the rest of Passover we must only refrain from eating chametz (leaven). One can manage with eating potatoes, fruits, vegetables, etc." I said. "You can forget about fruits, and it's not so easy to obtain potatoes either," retorted David. "How do you expect to survive a whole Passover?" he demanded, heatedly. "I was given a

blessing by my father that I will return home in peace, and, with G-d's help, I will manage," I replied calmly. David was not mollified, and left in a sulk. I saw him only a couple of times during the whole of Passover. He then tried to persuade me to eat chametz or, at least, have something from the camp kitchen if I did not wish to die of hunger! When he failed to convince me, he avoided me; he could not bear to see me suffering hunger, it seemed. On the third day of Passover I had an unexpected visitor: the woman censor. I was at work and she noticed that my hands were trembling. She realized that I was weak from lack of food. "I have brought you something to eat," she said, and brought out a freshly baked roll. The appetizing aroma made my head spin! I told her that we Jews are not allowed to eat that on Passover. I thanked her and refused it. She left without saying anything more. The next day she visited me again, and I was really feeling much weaker. This time she brought me some cookies made from white flour (a luxury). "I baked these myself," she said, "with sugar and oil. You must eat them, otherwise you will die of hunger! " I thanked her, but again refused. "You are probably wondering why I am so concerned about you," she said. "You probably have a wife and children who are waiting for the time when you will be free to return to them. I sympathize with them. I have no husband waiting for me. He was an officer in this camp and was sent to the battlefront. He fell in action, fighting against the Hitlerites. Now, do please take a cookie! It will do you good," she pleaded. "Thank you, no. I am sorry to hear about your loss, but please leave me alone." She went out, obviously annoyed at her failure to persuade me to eat anything she had brought me. I felt so weak, I had to lie down on my bed, and I had no more strength to get up. Berkovitch came to see me a few times and brought me some warm, sweetened water to drink. He left me, each time, in sorrow at my sad plight. On the morning of the last day of Passover he came and found me in a semi-conscious condition.

I asked him to pour some water over my hands and give me my siddur. This, he did, but the words swam before my eyes and my head spun. I then passed out completely. When I regained consciousness I found the head nurse of the hospital standing beside me. She had, apparently, given me an injection which made me feel very hot. "I don't know where this obstinate Jew gets such strength and resistance," I heard her say to David who was also present. She then left the room. David stayed with me until it got dark. "Passover is now over," he said. I tried, but was too weak to rtecite the evening prayers. He brought me some white rusks and some sugar. He dipped the dry rusks into some sweet tea, and fed me like a child. After my meal I fell asleep and did not awaken until the following morning. I was still so weak that David had to help me put on my tefillin. Two days after Passover Berkovitch came to tell me the good news that he had been freed, and would soon be allowed to return home. At the same time he told me that, whilst he was at the post office, he heard that, some time before Passover, a package had arrived for me from my home, but had been sent back by the censor. Now it was clear to me why she had been so upset when I refused to eat her food on Passover. She was afraid I would die of hunger, and my death would be on her conscience. The freed Berkovitch remained in town for two more weeks before leaving for home. Each day he brought me milk, potatoes, bread, some sugar, and once, something special--scallions! I gradually regained my strength. Meanwhile I was called to the office of the superintendent of the camp. Berkovitch was present. Also the woman censor. The superintendent told me he had learned that the woman censor had sent back my package before Passover and, she had, in fact, admitted doing so. Further investigation revealed that she had also withheld and destroyed two letters from my home, so that I should not know about the package they had sent me. The superintendent asked me to sign a complaint against the censor, saying: "I will personally make sure she is punished." The censor burst into tears and pleaded with the superintendent. "Have pity on me and on my orphaned children," she begged. "Their father gave his life for the Motherland," she sobbed.

"Don't ask me to have mercy on you. You must ask forgiveness from this man whom you have wronged so cruelly," he said. I told the superintendent that the woman censor obviously regretted her inhuman behavior and had tried, somehow, to correct her misdeeds. In addition considering that her husband had died fighting the Nazis and had left her with the responsibility of caring for the orphans, I was ready to forgive her. This, on condition that she would faithfully promise not to give an more trouble to the prisoners in the camp. The superintendent was visibly impressed with my declaration of pardon. He promised not to report the matter to the higher authorities. He did, however, have the censor transferred to a position where she would have less authority. Thus ended the matter. But that "foodless Passover" will remain in my mind all the days of my life. Thank G-d I am alive to tell the story... http://www.chabad.org/kids/article_cdo/aid/1615/jewish/A-Passover-in-Siberia.htm

The Seder Plate By Gershon Kranzler

Towards the end of the eighteenth century there lived in the city of Krakow a silversmith by the name of Yakovlev. Throughout the countries of Eastern Europe, masterworks of Yakovlev's art sold at high prices, and if the day had had forty eight hours, he still could not have produced enough to satisfy the demand for his cups, salt cellars, menorot, candlesticks, and spice holders. Yakovlev was a solitary man who spent half his day in prayer and study of the books of the Kabbalah, and after filling his heart and soul with inspiration from the ancient sources of knowledge and wisdom, sat down by his fire, anvil, and hammers to translate his thoughts and visions into form in precious metals. When evening fell, he stopped working and went to the synagogue, staying there till late into the night and immersing himself again in the mysterious worlds of Creation and the universe. Then, after midnight, having concluded the Tikkun Chatzot, Midnight Lamentations, with the melodies from King David's harp, he returned once more to his shop for an hour of concentrated work. For in this consecrated spell of inspiration he wrought his masterpiece, the crowning glory of a lifetime of creating beautiful objects of art. Yakovlev had made many a seder plate, but the one he was now working on was different. It portrayed the story of the exodus of the Jewish people from Egyptian bondage, translated into silver. Each of its parts conveyed the miracles and tales of Passover, like a precious Haggadah chiseled and wrought with the patience of love. It was Yakovlev's supreme effort to pour out his faith in his Creator, in the language he understood best. Yakovlev had been working on his seder plate for several years, and not a single soul had as yet set eyes on it. Even his only child, Dinah, a young girl of tender beauty who had inherited her father's deep faith and his appreciation of art, had not seen it, although he had dropped mysterious hints about his great work during conversation. Knowing her father and his strange ways, Dinah understood that when the time was right he would surely show her this piece of art which meant so much to him. "It will be my wedding gift to you, my child," said Yakovlev, his eyes dreamy. "For generations to come it shall convey my spirit to your children's children and teach them the mysteries of Israel's liberation from bondage. I will never sell it at any price."

Shortly after this conversation, the seder plate was at a point of near completion. Three slender columns held the compartments for the three matzot, and graceful dishes that fitted into each other were ready to receive the herbs and other ritual foods that tell the story of Passover. A tall cup graced the center, bearing the legend of Elijah the Prophet and of the Mashiach, the Messiah. On the day that he was to bring his masterpiece to its final perfection, YakovIev did not work at all. He spent the whole day in study and contemplation. Three times before the prayers he immersed himself in a mikvah. And then, in the middle of the night, after he had finished the last word of King David's Psalms, Yakovlev went to his shop, dressed in his holiday garb. He lit the flame and prepared to apply the final touch to his greatest creation. His mind lost all awareness of what was going on about him. He was only "soul," purified and sanctified to the service of the Lord to whom he had dedicated his art. He did not hear the sudden noises that interrupted the stillness of the night. Only when the drunken soldiers who had broken into his house began to batter down the doors to his shop, attracted by the light, did he look up. He saw a red, greedy face with bulging eyes and a sharp saber swinging overhead. With a hoarse cry he jumped up and shouted, "Back, you drunkard, do not touch my sacred work with unclean hands!" The soldiers only laughed louder, and, with coarse mockery, they bowed down before the large spread of artfully wrought silver vessels that made up the top of the seder plate. Seizing his largest hammer, Yakovlev bore down upon the soldier next to him. But before he had swung it through the air, several sharp sabers caught him and sliced bloody gashes into his body. Each soldier grabbed one part of the silver seder plate and then, as if somehow inwardly ashamed, they left the scene of their attack. When Dinah, awakened by the unusual noise, entered the shop, she found only the blood spattered wreckage and the lifeless body of her beloved father, dressed in his Shabbat garb. In his right hand he still clutched the hammer, but in his left he held the tall cup of Elijah, into which he had just finished inscribing the seven-fold name of the Lord which holds the secret of Redemption. Hot tears rolled down the young girl's face as she kissed the hand of her father, the hand that had created such beautiful masterpieces of art and of Jewish thought. She would never see his greatest work, the work meant to be her gift.

As if by magic, Yakovlev's hand opened and the large "Cup of Elijah" with its slender stem and the high chalice, decorated with scenes of the Prophet who would bring the Mashiach, rolled down before Dinah's feet. In her dazed anguish, she bent down to pick it up. Its exquisite beauty barely seen, she stood holding the cup as her tears continued to flow. Later she mused many times, "If this is but part of my father's gift to me, how beautiful must the whole seder plate have been." Far from the city of Krakow, in a small town of Poland by the name of Medziboz, sat the saintly Baal Shem Tov with the small circle of his close disciples. Late into the night they had discussed the secret ways of Providence that must lead to the Redemption of the Jewish people from Exile. Suddenly the Baal Shem Tov stopped talking; his wise eyes seemed to have turned inward, and a deep pallor settled upon his face. "The Mashiach will not come," he said after a painful silence, as beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead, "as long as the pieces of the seder plate of Yakovlev, the artist whose piety was matched only by his masterly skill, are separated. He had entered into the inner chambers of the Creation, and each part of the plate bears a

shem, a name, that can break the power of evil. Had they been all together they could have brought about the Redemption. "Go, do not spare effort or money. Try to get back the separate parts of the seder plate from the brutal men who have slain Yakovlev. Perhaps the Lord will have mercy on His people and cleanse the desecrated vessels, to make them into one complete whole again." Years passed, and gradually some of the beautifully chiseled, hammered and wrought items of Yakovlev's seder plate drifted back. For the Baal Shem's disciples had employed many agents to find these precious pieces of silversmith artistry that had no likeness anywhere in the world. "Give them all to the daughter of the man who created them," said the Baal Shem Tov whenever he heard of another piece being found. "They belong to her. They are her father's wedding present." Dinah, Yakovlev's sad, beautiful daughter, refused to marry although many noble and learned young men had asked for her hand. Around the "Cup of Elijah" she gathered the pieces of her father's wedding present. The columns and compartments for the matzah had been restored. But only half of the dishes that covered the top had been found.

One day, shortly before Passover, the Baal Shem Tov sent one of his trusted disciples to bring Dinah to him. "Come, bring the Cup of Elijah with you, that we may use it on our seder table," was his message to the artist's daughter. Large masses of people crowded into and around the house where the Baal Shem Tov celebrated the seder. Among the women sat Dinah, wondering why the saintly man had summoned her to come this far. But she was deeply impressed by the serenity and inner joy that seemed to grip all the people who had come into the atmosphere of the house. The reciting of the Haggadah was progressing very slowly. But no one, not even those who did not have a proper seat, would move to go home. Suddenly there was wild shouting. Commands were heard, and a group of soldiers, led by a young officer, pushed the crowd aside and rushed up towards the center of the large hall where the Baal Shem Tov and his followers were celebrating the seder. "Stop them! Stop them!" yelled the huge crowd, ready to overwhelm the soldiers by the sheer weight of their large numbers. But the Baal Shem Tov signaled them to allow the soldiers to pass through. "You are under arrest, by the governor's orders," said the tall young officer who led the patrol. But before he had finished speaking, a cold sweat broke out on his face. His eyes were transfixed by the tall, graceful "Cup of Elijah" from Yakovlev's seder plate. As if in a trance, he put his hands in his pocket and pulled out several precious silver dishes, the ones that were yet missing from the top settings of the center piece. "Here, take them from me, pray, Rabbi, take them from me," he mumbled, and, as if someone were choking him, he fell to the ground unconscious. The frightened soldiers picked him up and slowly made their way out as the crowd moved silently aside to make room for them. "Come here, Dinah," said the Baal Shem Tov, "take them. They are yours. With these restored, your father's spirit will find peace, and the masterly work of his creation will be complete to work the mystery of the Redemption that makes every seder night the opportune moment for the coming of Mashiach if not tonight, then perhaps next year in Jerusalem." Dinah married, and the seder plate of Yakovlev was the fabulous treasure of her descendants for many generations. It was a source of inspiration for all those who were privileged to look at its graceful perfection. But only a few great men were able to read the message of Redemption which its creator had wrought into it. http://www.chabad.org/kids/article_cdo/aid/1616/jewish/The-Seder-Plate.htm