The Deserted

Rosie thought about father—a repressed anxiety that never disappeared altogether and lingered as a dark shadow behind a light and joyful life, like the pale backdrop to a colorful stage—but she did not remember Seder night for a moment. It had completely vanished from her memory, because she had never truly paid attention to the preparations, the activities preceding it. The evening before she had dutifully unpacked the goods from Amsterdam, had dutifully stood there when father burned the bread that morning, had dutifully listened to his admonitions and carried out his instructions.

Those days before Pesach had once been the loveliest of the year—performing every ritual and observing all the rules had brought her great joy and delight—but last year she had sobbed and sobbed as she did her duties, because the joy and delight were gone. Now there was no more joy, nor was there any more sadness; now only cold impassiveness remained, dull indifference toward all that was previously sacred and reverent, a hollow helplessness—it did not merit any feelings of irritation or rebellion. It neither delighted nor vexed her; it simply no longer concerned her. There was nothing aside from her love, and no thought could exist within her that did not involve him.

And after the fight with Debora, when she closed the door behind her so hard that it slammed, she no longer thought about Seder night. No semblance of memory arose within her, throughout the day and night.

She stayed with Rudi, she let him cherish her like a child.

They dined together by candlelight, at a table decked with flowers, and Rudi plied her with champagne. Without understanding why, she had cringed before the housekeeper and had blushed and looked down under the cold, hard gaze, which she felt was constantly on her, as the old lady set the table slowly and carefully.

Then there was a knock on the door . . .

“Father,” thought Rosie, startled. In the brief moment between the perplexing knock with contrived modesty and Rudi’s hoarse “yes,” she felt as if she was being strangled. The lady entered with Debora’s letter.

“For you, Sir.”

Rudi tore it open at once and read the few words. For a moment he was suspicious: had the child already talked? And who was Debora? Were they pulling his leg?

He handed the enclosed note to Rosie.

“Can’t figure this one out . . . it looks like it’s for you . . .”

Rosie read it, let the paper fall to the floor and burst into tears. “Remember Seder night.” She had not remembered Seder night. She had left father all alone on this night . . .

“Rudi . . . Rudi . . . I must go home.”

Her voice was smothered by uncontrollable sobs.

“Not that way. Tell me first. Tell me everything first.”

There was little to tell. Rudi had never heard of Seder night. Amid her fear and sorrow, Rosie was astonished for a moment. Never had she imagined that she would love a man, who had never even heard of Seder. And now . . . now . . . how did it move her . . . what did all this matter to her anymore? There was no more Seder, there was no more Faith. It had fallen lifeless, beside the living love.

Only father . . . poor, old, good father. Dear father from long ago . . . whom she had left alone on this night so holy to him, she, his only remaining child.

“Rudi . . . Rudi, I must go, I must leave.”

“I will go with you . . . now, straight away. Together, we will talk to your father.”

In the chilly rainy evening they walked silently, quickly, arm-in-arm, to the little old house in the neighborhood.

With great difficulty, the old man had prepared the Seder things, set the table according to rule and regulation. Groaning and moving with difficulty, he had gone from the wall cupboard to the table and with his cracked, trembling fingers had first folded the white napkin over three times and then placed the three brittle matzos between the folds, symbolizing the three estates of the Old People: the Priest at the top, followed by the Levite Temple servant, and after him, the common man. And so the entire People stood as a strong foundation underneath the round dish, symbolizing the story of Exodus and Redemption, the everlasting hope of the Jewish exile, and the sweet comfort of the oppressed. It was bittersweet, abundance and deprivation, past and future, exile and liberation, gathered on a single dish.

The old man, who for many years had celebrated the festival of the exiles, the festival that includes the most consecration of all festivals and is the most meaningful, he did not think about it, as he arranged the tray with his clumsy fingers, shakily positioned on the three Pesach loaves. He thought of nothing. His head was completely empty, his hands went about their duty as they had for many years. He no longer thought about Rosie.

Rosie was gone, so it seemed, he was acquiescent, he was already used to it . . . after all, the others had also left and not returned, so why should she have stayed? The awareness that she was gone now and would not return sank in painlessly; he was too tired and too old to feel sorrow, too defeated and too numb for rage; he could only arrange the Seder and narrate to himself from the Exodus from the old, yellowed picture book that had belonged to his father.

In the silent, abandoned room—the only sound came from wind and rain outside—beneath the peaceful lamp, he sat down at the table.

In solitude he prepared to celebrate the most magnificent Jewish family holiday. The full dish—colored by green-red-white radish and lighter lettuce and knotty long, drab bitter herbs and next to that the shank bone, with the egg smeared with ashes—the dish that the entire family lifts, showing each other bitter and sweet, joy and suffering, opulence and deprivation, the dish that in years gone by had been lifted by six hands, high above the base, that dish now touched his lonely, trembling hand, without the strength lift it, and he recited to himself the words intended for a family.

“See, this is the unleavened bread!” and he drank his wine, leaning on his left arm, as tradition prescribed, and began the story.

“We were slaves in Egypt, . . . but the Eternal One, our God, has redeemed us,” the long, pious tale, filled with the wisdom of old rabbis, filled with noble gratitude and pious humility . . .

His hand lay helplessly on the table, his tired head bowed toward his heaving chest, his lips trembled in his deeply grooved face, drawn with sorrow.

His mouth fell silent . . . the hour had come . . . He knew that the hour had come, and that he would die in solitude.

Very slowly his head sank onto the white table, his beard, his chin, his mouth . . . sluggishly, helplessly sank down . . .

He felt the stifling pain cramping his heart, the cold sweat that broke out from his skin, he felt his fingers stiffen, his arms grow rigid . . .

Once more his lips parted in a final effort to speak, to stammer the supreme words of the prayer of death that he, abandoned, wanted to recite for himself . . .

“In Your hands . . . O, Lord . . .”

His head, slowly, tilted to the side and lay there, his long gray beard flowing over the white tablecloth, his pointed nose, protruding bright white up from dark shadow grooves, in light of the lamp.

Rudi and Rosie observed him this way, when they entered.