The Order
The Bronx April 1938
A faded green housedress and flannel slippers was her dress uniform for the day.
For pennies cheaper she bought yesterday’s vegetables. To save fifteen cents, she flikt (plucked ) the chicken she bought at Jennings Street Market.
“Do you want hamburger meat, Mrs. Wolfe?” asked Brodsky the butcher.
”Who knows what you put in it. I’ll grind it myself.”
From a handicapped man she bought at a reduced price eggs, whose shells were slightly cracked. She called them krex. She walked three miles to get t Dugan cupcake returns; two packages for five cents. For dinner, she never left a portion for herself; she ate the leftovers.
Passover was on the threshold. The year round dishes, cutlery and glassware were stored away. All breadcrumbs were in the garbage pail, and Ma made sure that all the food remaining in the refrigerator was eaten. The time had arrived when Pa’s Concord grape wine in a crock reached maturity.
Now, from the pool of our poverty during the Great Depression, hardly any expense was spared for The Order .
I went to the cellar of our tenement and located an abandoned baby carriage. It had four wobbly rotating wheels. Its crib was battered. It appeared as if it collided with a bus. So what? It was able to hold The Order.
Since Pa was trying to solve the Jewish crisis in Europe with his unemployed garment workers around Crotona Park Lake, Ma asked me to accompany her to get The Order.
Weaving the carriage through holiday shoppers at Jennings Street Market, Ma led me to Mr. Feuer who had the “best prices”.
She began with The Order:
“Ten pounds of Manischewitz’s matzohs and they shouldn’t be cracked.
A box of Manischewitz’s matzoh farfel for my matzoh kugel. Forget it. I’ll make it from the matzohs.
Three boxes of Manischewitz’s cake meal for my special sponge cakes. I’m surprised they stand. They’re light as a feather.
Two boxes of Manischewitz’s matzoh meal for the matzoh balls with schmaltz in my chicken soup. You never had matzoh balls like mine.”
Mr, Feuer chimed in,
“Horowitz-Margareten is a little cheaper than Manischewitz’s. Do you want to try Horowitz’s?”
“No. I heard their matzoh tastes like bread.
A pound of mixed nuts. Not too many mandlen (almonds with shells). My husband nearly broke his tooth on their shells last year.
A can of Planter’s High Hat peanut oil.”
“Do you want Chrain (horseradish)?”
“No thanks, I make it myself. Since you just said chrain, you reminded me that I need honey. A jar; not too big.”
With The Order complete, I wended my way back to 1540 Seabury Place in the Bronx.
My father, a victim of the horrible working conditions and salaries in the Garment District, turned from Orthodoxy to Socialism, therefore; we did not have a traditional Seder for Passover, but we observed the kashruth (kosher laws) as he and Ma interpreted them.
On the eve of Passover, I helped my brother set the leaves into our folding table, and then placed our special blue cotton tablecloth over it.
Next, four heavily chipped white enameled kitchen chairs and three living room chairs were placed around the dining room table. Occupying them would be my mother (temporarily), my father, his brother Izzy (who lived with us), their sisters Fanny and Rosie, my brother and me.
My mother entered and dropped the cutlery at the center of the table.
“Pick what you need.” was the mantra throughout the year so why should it be different for Passover?
Pa spoke briefly about the significance of Passover followed by the delicious matzoh balls wading in the chicken soup.
“Wait!” said Pa. He rushed to the bathroom where his Concord grape crock was waiting.
Yohrtzeit glasses (emptied and cleaned memorial candle glasses) were partially filled with Pa’s vintage. Pa nearly filled his glass with his handiwork. He said the prayer over the wine then we filled our mouths with what I thought to be a classic vintage. How was I to know that wine from Concord grapes could only be made palatable by adding a mound of sugar. It was tasty, it was sweet, it made my head, and I suspect everyone else’s head spin.
My father, who had nearly swallowed an entire glassful began his story which we heard for the past two Passovers, but due to the alcohol content in his yohrtzeit glass he failed to complete it. He went on.
“In a small shtetl, a bride was dressing for the wedding ceremony. In the room with her was the family’s lamb. As she stepped up on a stool facing the mirror to see how the fit, she farted.
She pleaded with the lamb not to tell the groom’s side of the family…”
Everyone around the table including my father was alcoholically hysterical as we were in the previous years. But at this point, as in Passover’s past, he became so intoxicated he could not continue. I tried to create an ending with a hilarious potential, but to this day, I have failed.
The Order continued until most of the residents of the neighborhood had either died or moved out. The streets were occupied by felons. Jennings Street Market was abandoned. Jake the Pickleman was murdered. How could we celebrate?
Pa passed away, The Order passed away, but, in a peaceful, sober and loving atmosphere. my daughter celebrates Passover with her family in Toronto, and my son, with his family celebrates Passover in New Jersey.
The incomplete story of the bride in the shtetl has been passed on to a new generation. Maybe someone in the family will have the creativity to complete the story. With their Order complete, and the bride’s story complete, Passover will be complete.