The Passover Kid

                                                                 


It was only  a few weeks until Passover, and our home was buzzing with activity . Every member of our family was caught up in  the frenzy of moving, cleaning and cooking that swept like a giant wave through the house.

As a young boy,there were probably a million things I would rather have done than wash the tile walls in our kitchen. But, hour after tedious hour, I perched  on a step stool with a bucket full of hot soap suds, a sponge, and an endless supply of clean rags. Preparing for Passover in the traditional Jewish home meant hunting down and killing every trace of "chometz" or leavened products, including any that could have migrated to the walls. This was mega spring cleaning and in our house, it was all- out war against "chometz."  Just when I thought I was done,Mom would come over to inspect my work and utter the dreaded words,"You missed a whole section over there." . When I finally finished ,the yellow ceramic tile fairly gleamed. All done until next year!

Oddly enough,though, I  really loved my other task,  lugging crates and bushels of Passover dishes up from the basement.  Once they were on the back porch, I carefully unwrapped the newspaper from the plates, cups, saucers, glasses, pots and pans and began to catch up on what happened the year before. I guess you could call it Jewish microfilm. After reading the front page, comic and movie sections, the paper was discarded, but after Passover, fresh newspaper was wrapped around the dishes, and a new time capsule was created.

To my unbridled joy,the arrival of Passover at our house meant open season on seltzer and soda. For reasons only known to my parents, we weren't allowed to have soda in the house most of the year. I suspect it had to do with the high sugar content and the absence of diet soda in those days. But come Passover, suddenly cases of ginger ale and cola magically appeared, along with my favorite, seltzer in  old fashioned siphon bottles. I'm talking about the kind of bottles that clowns used to  squirted each other in a circus. Seltzer in siphons also  had major carbonation and could produce a burp heard in the next neighborhood. The best part about having soda was that, after Passover, we could return the empties and spend the deposits on comic books and baseball cards.

Closing my eyes, I can still picture our family seders. First, of course, there's Dad, who led every seder with a  consummate skill. born of long practice. He made sure we all had equal  parts of the Haggadah  to read. At the beginning of the seder, he hid the afikomen in impossible places and doled out rewards when we found it.
Sitting next to Dad, I see a much younger me. . As a Hebrew School student and a singer in the synagogue choir, I loved  doing the readings in Hebrew and singing the traditional songs.  Next to me was my brother, Bob, who, being the youngest, always got the honor of starting the seder with the Four Questions, that began the telling of the Passover story.
Across from Bob sat my sister, Judi, who was quite well schooled in Hebrew and loved to sing  all of the songs in the Haggadah.  When Judi lived in Chicago for a short while, her husband, Al came to our seders, as well as my nephew Paul, who was just a little guy then.
At the other end of the table, close to the kitchen, was Mom. She joined in on all of the singing and reading, but her specialty was the festive meal. Her chicken soup was heavenly, floating with matzoh balls and carrots. She also served us  gefilte fish in jelled sauce, tender roast chicken, sweet matzoh kugel, fresh steamed asparagus, green salad, and fruit cocktail in a fancy sherbet cup. Of course, there was always plenty of matzoh to go around, and lots of  dried fruit to counteract the dreaded  effects of matzoh. And, as I mentioned earlier, the ban on soft drinks was temporarily lifted.

 Next to my mother sat Nanny, my dad's mother. She liked to make jokes with my mother  about the matzoh balls. Every year, they were either too soft, or too hard.  Nanny had her own recipe for making gefilte fish because Manischewitz  from the jar would never do. As a concession to my mother, she chopped, mixed and cooked her homemade recipe in our basement.
  Sitting next to my grandmother was Tante, my wonderful  great-aunt Hattie. She always smiled quietly, taking everything in and reading every word of the Haggadah in Hebrew.

Passover seders were also a time when the family's treasured engraved  silver kiddush cups were taken out of the credenza, polished to a high gloss and used. These cups came from Austro-Hungary with my father's parents, and Israel from a trip Dad had made. My brother, my father and I each had our own cups.Four times during the seder, everyone drank a full cup of sweet kosher wine. Even though the kids portion was considerably smaller, we used the wine as an excuse to act silly, and later it made it hard to stay up past our bed time.

 In a place of  honor, in  the middle of the table, rested a large silver goblet reserved for Elijah. Near the end of the service, my mother opened the front door while Dad chanted a prayer . Tradition had it that the prophet Elijah visited every home and took a sip from his cup. We would stare intensely into Elijah's cup and will the wine to go down. I was absolutely sure the an inch or so of red wine was missing from the goblet and that Elijah had been at our seder.

In addition to the silver wine cups, our family had an antique gilt edged white Passover plate with Hebrew letters indicating the ceremonial objects. Every year, there sprang up  a fresh debate about what went where. The problem would be resolved by using a hagaddah as a reference, but then start up again with the question of which translation was correct.  Some years, potatoes won out over celery, some years we chewed parsley and made faces. The test always came when it came time to sample the horseradish. My dad insisted that we have the strong white variety ,and it always took the top of my head off.

Finally, next to the seder plate was an ornately  hand embroidered matzah cover that held the traditional three pieces of ceremonial matzah used during the seder. Half of one piece was reserved for the afikomen and hidden somewhere for the children to find after the meal . Dad was notorious for stowing the afikomen away in hard to find places,so we had to work hard to  get our rewards. One year, my brother and I were  very much caught up in the cowboy craze and managed to ransom the afikomen for Long Ranger cap pistols.
Somehow, I'm sure the Masked Man would have approved.

Our  seder ended with everyone joining in on traditional Passover songs.By that time, the wine had taken effect, and the kids were struggling to stay awake. When the last piece of matzah had been eaten and the last glass of soda had been consumed, we helped clear the table, wash the dishes and took our exceedingly full stomachs to bed.
The next morning, instead of going to work or  school, we went to services at our synagogue, and then repeated the entire process that evening for the second seder.

Slowly, inevitably, time marches on. Countless Passovers have come and gone.
Sadly,my grandmother Helen, great aunt Hattie, Mom, Dad, sister Judi, and brother-in-law Al have left empty seats at the seder table, with the next generation of our children taking their place, carrying on our  tradition for the many Passovers yet to come. The silver is gleaming, the candles have been lit.  It's time for me to begin the seder. 

Music for My Father

                                                                           

Music For My Father

Replica of Dad's antique kiddush cup

 Just before  the onset of World War I, my grandfather, Israel Marder,  left the little town of Brode in the Austro-Hungarian Empire to make a new life in America. My father, Sol, was very young at the time. He  and my grandmother, Helen,were supposed to join him when  Grandpa could afford money for their steamship tickets. Unfortunately, the war intervened, leaving family on both sides of the ocean, not to be reunited until 1920.

When Dad and his mother finally said farewell to Brode, they applied for a joint passport that recounts their trip across Europe to Le Havre, France where they planned to  board a boat for the United States.   At one border crossing, after learning that they were Jews, the guards  began to taunt them and shoot over their heads . Dad was immediately shoved down into a ditch and warned not to raise his head .Shots were fired  that sounded like bees buzzing.Heedless of the warning, a boy next to him got to his knees. With a cry, he fell over dead.

  The Polish Eagle  in Dad's passport is boldly stamped over an entry that documents their stay in a little Polish town  called Auswieczem. Twenty years later, it was the site of the infamous Ausweitz death camp.  Every time I look at this passport, I am struck with what would have happened if my grandmother and father had stayed there.

 Never-the less, they somehow  arrived at LeHavre.  Dad and Grandma Helen (we called her" Nanny") sailed across the Atlantic to New York City. The very first thing they saw was a little boy eating a banana. Right then and there, Dad decided he wanted one. Somehow, he was able to get that banana, but didn't know that it had to be peeled. After biting into the skin, he started to throw it away. People laughed at him, calling him a "greenie" or "greenhorn."They were right;.he had an awful lot to learn. After a  short stay on Ellis Island, both were finally cleared for the long  train ride to Chicago, where they were met by my grandfather.

The Marder family settled  a few blocks from the famous Maxwell Street Market,, a neighborhood already heavily populated by newly arrived Jewish immigrants. Like many others of their generation, my grandparents wanted their son to  learn English and become educated in the ways of their newly adopted country. Dad was soon enrolled in a school near  his home. One day, as my dad tells it, he got in deep trouble with his teacher over a remark she made about Grandma. Becoming incensed, Dad took off his heavy shoe and heaved it at the woman. As you might expect, that got him thrown out of school.

Instead of telling his parents, Sol secretly enrolled himself in another neighborhood school, where apparently he did very well .  Speaking Polish, Yiddish and German, my father soon added English to his list of languages, and began earning pocket  money by tutoring students after school.

As a high school student, Dad attended Harrison High , then Crane College. His goal was to become a physician. The untimely death of my grandfather, however, meant  he now needed to support his mother. Instead of  attending medical school, Dad chose to become a chiropodist (or as it is now called, podiatrist) because the course of study was shorter. He graduated from the Chicago College of Chiropody and proudly set up his new practice on the west side of Chicago, on the busy corner of Madison and Western. He shared an office space with a dentist with whom he traded professional services, fixing Dr. Stein's feet in exchange for free dental care.

It was about this time that my father met the beautiful, dark haired young woman that he would marry.There is a photo of my parents together at this time at a beach. Mom, slim and lovely, stands with her arm around Dad's waist. He is dressed in a light linen suit, with wavy, slicked down  dark hair and a hint of a stylish mustache. What a striking couple they were! Jean and Sol married in 1933 with the blessings of both families.

In 1939 my sister, Judi ,was born.Then, when the U.S entered the World War II, Dad was deferred because he was the sole support of his mother. He  felt compelled to do  something meaningful while his friends fought overseas, and so he volunteered to become a block warden. He patrolled the neighborhood with a helmet and flashlight, making sure houses were in compliance with air raid procedures, and was a first responder if medical attention was needed.

After the war, my parents decided to go into business for themselves. . Dad closed his practice, but wisely kept up his certification as a chiropodist. Mom had valuable experience working in her dad's clothing store.

Her youngest brother, my Uncle Maury, had just been discharged from the Army, and he generously helped Mom and Dad start a men's work and casual clothing store on the southwest side of Chicago.

One day, as my Grandmother Celia was making lunch for her son-in-law, she asked Dad to buy a raffle ticket. He declined, claiming that he'd never won anything in his life. Despite his protests, Grandma pulled out a dollar and bought the ticket for him. A week later, she was on the phone to my mother, excitedly telling her that Dad had won a new car. This was a big prize, new cars had been impossible to find during the war.
Also, it meant that my parents could drive across the city and visit my grandparents as often as they wanted.

For a number of years, my parents lived in an apartment in back of their store, with my grandmother watching my sister, Judi.  Dad and Mom were devoted to each other, but he also had very strong ties to his mother. At times, I know it must have been hard trying to please the women in his life. Eventually, my family moved to a larger apartment near their store, where hopefully there was more space and more peace.

The year I was born, Dad sponsored my great-aunt Hattie, enabling her to emmigrate to the United States. I'm sure it made my grandmother very happy to be finally reunited with her sister after so many long years. In order to accommodate his extended family , Dad and a friend  purchased the two story apartment building that would become our new home on Francisco Avenue. Together with my great-aunt, we now had six family members under one roof.

.As a little boy, I remember telling my dad  I had a sharp pain on the bottom of  my foot. He sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe and sock and carefully examined the sole of my foot. In very simple terms,  he explained that I had a plantar's wart and that he had a doctor friend who could fix it. The next day, I was introduced to Dad's friend, Dr. Zipperman, who treated me over the next few weeks. Every time I went there, Dr. Zipperman told me what a great doctor my father was. I was very impressed and extremely proud of Dad. That was the first time I knew that he was a skilled podiatrist.

In the early 60's, two seemingly unrelated events changed my father's career path.  Nearby Midway Airport closed, because its small runways couldn't accommodate the new  jets that needed to land there. This took away a large amount of business from my parents' store, because the Midway ground crews had always shopped there. As luck would have it, a nearby podiatrist announced his retirement and was searching for someone to take over his practice. Dad took a calculated risk and bought out Dr. Lloyd, who had a substantial patient following.  Dad's practice soon began to thrive. I know it meant a great deal to him to return to his chosen profession. My mother began to take on more responsibility, and  business slowly improved.


When I was a junior in high school, I was running on a cinder track in during gym class. Someone in back of me gave my back a deliberate shove and I sprawled on the ground. Because I used my hands to break my fall, they were the only things that were hurt badly. There were guys in my class no one wanted to mess with, so I said nothing to anyone. When I got to my parents' store, my mother took one look at the gravel embedded in my hands and told me to go to Dad's office.

This was the first time I became my father's patient, With infinite care, Dad  cleaned me up, then sat me in
his examining chair with a bright light above it. Pulling on rubber gloves, and using a  magnfier over his glasses, he began to pick out each  piece of gravel with a probe and a tiny pair of tweezers. After he finally finished, he applied an antibiotic cream and gave me a couple of aspirin for the pain. No one could have treated me with more skill or kindness. I saw Dad in a whole new light after that.

Like Mom, Dad was very involved in Jewish causes. He served on our synagogue board and was a charter member of the local B'nai Brith men's lodge . I have a vivid memory of Dad editing a  monthly bulletin on our dining room table that he mailed to  local members. He also served as an advisor to high school boys who belonged the Bnai Brith Youth. Eventually, he took office as president of the Midwest Region. Through Bnai Brith, my father worked  with prominent  Chicagoans like Mayor Daley and  Cardinal Joseph Stritch. One summer,on a mission to Israel, he was honored to  meet with David Ben Gurion. Finally, my father was always a  strong voice against anti-Semitism and an active member of the Anti-Defamation League.

While I've  inherited the love of good literature from my mother, I know Dad strongly influenced my passion for music.
 He loved to listen to Hebrew  recordings of Cantors Jan Pearce and Richard Tucker and  soundtracks from musicals like " Fiddler on the Roof."  Every Passover, Dad  led our family seders, chanting the songs from the   Hagadah in beautiful,  flawless Hebrew.I can see him now at the head of our dining room table, in a crisp white shirt and striped  tie, holding up his silver wine cup as he sings the holiday Kiddush. My place was always on his right, and as I got older, I was able to sing some of the service with him.


 Dad urged me to join our synagogue choir, made sure that I practiced my accordion in grade school, was delighted that I took up the bass clarinet and saxophone in high school, and really loved hearing me play guitar. When my first guitar was carelessly broken on a high school trip, Dad took me to  a studio in the Loop and replaced it  because he knew how much I love to play.   My junior year, with the help of my parents, our Jewish youth group organized a "hootenanny" or folk concert.
 When my two  friends and  I  appeared on stage sing  and play guitar, sure enough,there was  Dad sitting next to Mom. smiling and clapping along with the music.

There is much more to tell about my relationship with my father, but it's a story for another time and place.
When Dad's health failed, he moved to  a retirement home. He loved to take me to the old fashioned ice cream parlor there and treat me to a dish of my favorite coffee ice cream. When my daughter, Julie, was a toddler, Dad's eyes would light up when we took her to visit.

Just a week before the Jewish New Year in 1990, Dad passed away. Our rabbi wisely told me that, although I would be in mourning, he would allow me to sing in the High Holiday services, He said that it would help me get through the grieving period. He was right. The songs I sang were, as always, for my father.

Sing a New Song

                                                         

As a  young boy with a high voice, and a real  passion for singing, I tried out for  the choir at our synagogue. You  just needed to sing on key , carry a  tune  reasonably well  and do a passable job of reading Hebrew. A number of my friends were already  in the choir, so I was eager and proud to join them.

At first, I only sang at Friday night services, which were only a little over  an hour long . I thought it was fun  being up near the altar, singing my heart out in a  long black robe with a  funny white collar.  Our quirky choir leader, Mr. Squire,was an elderly man with a tuning fork and smelled like menthol He  muttered under his breath when we were out of tune. I belonged to the boy alto section;  Mr. Squire affectionately  called us  his   "little cockaroaches" if  we weren't on key or paying attention. Despite his grumbling, I think old Mr. Squire really like teaching us to sing. When we were at our best, he'd nod his head and smile.

To conclude each  Sabbath service, it was customary for a choir boy to chant the "Kiddush" or traditional  blessing over the wine. When it eventually was  my turn, I had to ignore  about a  million butterflies  in my stomach. Walking slowly from the choir section, I nodded to the rabbi who smiled and  handed me a  silver goblet brimming with  wine. I climbed up the step under the podium, then,.taking a deep breath, I began to sing into the microphone. Much to my amazement, my voice soared over the congregation. I looked up and saw my mom and dad beaming with pride.

I did a good job of completing  the prayer without a hitch, and then raised the full cup to my lips. As I took a  big gulp,  the fumes immediately went straight to my head. The congregation laughed  as my face and ears turned as red as the kosher wine. I put the cup down. The rabbi looked at me as if to say" Next time, ask for grape juice." Thanks, I'll remember that.



The year I turned ten , I became a member of  the select High Holiday choir. We  rehearsed during the last weeks of  summer, in preparation for the Jewish New Year in the early fall . Our synagogue was not at all air conditioned, so  we sweated as much as we sang.  Also, we never knew from year to year who the synagogue would hire as a cantor; we had to adapt to a new person's habits each time. One distinguished gentleman  sported a fedora and smoked foul smelling  black Parodi cigars, claiming they soothed his throat. Imagine someone doing that at choir practice today! Each cantor brought a special style to our choir and I learned something  from all of them.

 Singing for the holidays meant standing around a podium for at least three  hours on both days of Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur. Because it was often very warm, we were allowed to wear t-shirts under our robes. Even so, most of us came equipped with packets of Wet-wipes to cool us off. An even bigger challenge came on Yom Kippur, because upon turning thirteen you were obligated to fast from sunset to sunset.  Younger boys would rush home between the afternoon and evening service and grab a light snack to keep them going. For our efforts, the synagogue honored  us  with a small stipend ,depending on our years of singing in the choir. I honestly don't think the money made that much of a difference to me. I just loved  the intricate , sacred melodies and being part of the service.

Then, just before I entered high school, my high alto voice dropped an octave, and I  had to learn to be  a tenor. Mr. Squire had retired, and our leader was  Mr. Sher, a skilled choir master who had a more modern outlook. Instead of just using prayer books, he gave us complicated arrangements on sheet music. This took some getting used to, as  I struggled to gain control over  my new ,lower  voice. Thanks to my friend ,  Art, a tenor  with a beautiful voice and a college major in music, I was  soon able to sing the new part  with confidence. I  remained in Peter Sher's choir until end the of high school.

I regret to say that I never joined a choir in college; looking back, I guess I was too wrapped up in playing folk music on my guitar.It wasn't until much later,as an adult, that  I  once again lent  my voice to a synagogue choir. For a number of memorable years, I sang in the Sabbath evening and High Holiday choirs in  Buffalo Grove. We were led by a  cantor with a rich, beautiful voice, who had come to our synagogue complete  with his family of singers. Each of  his sons had real talent, and  Cantor Aberman  wisely built the choir around them.  Also, the cantor  was married to a woman with a gorgeous  voice. Even though our choir was all male, no one ever objected to Sandy's clear soprano from her seat in the front row.    Eventually ,each of the cantor's  sons  married,, had children and moved to the city. Finally when the cantor  and his wife moved to be closer to their sons and many grandchildren, the choir was disbanded.  I felt lost without a place to sing.

When our family considered  joining a new synagogue in Northbrook, one of my first questions was "Do you have a choir?" The answer was no, but that didn't deter me. I told the rabbi that I had some vocal experience, and he said that with practise, I could lead part of the Saturday services. After a few months, I thought I was ready, and we set a date for my debut as a soloist. Besides having to memorize all of the melodies, I had to be sure I pronounced the Hebrew correctly.

Fighting the old familiar butterflies, when the time came, I think I did fairly well.
Except, that is, when I had to return the Torah scroll to the ark while singing.
Leave it to me, I started to make a wrong turn and would have ended up singing to a wall, if it weren't for a friend who tapped me on the shoulder and turned me around.

One year, there actually was a holiday choir in the synagogue. We sang in the orthodox service, led by a cantor with a marvelous, high voice. Much to my dismay, this was a one time occurance. When the synagogue hired a new cantor, he sang by himself, but asked for volunteers to join him in the brief service that ended Yom Kippur.  A group of us came up and we had an impromptu choir. This tradition continued from year to year, but wasn't nearly enough to satisfy my passion for choral singing.

Just recently ,my wife suggested that I search for a real  choir to fill the void.. I scoured the internet for Jewish groups in our vicinity and found Kol Zimrah , a choral  group in the northern suburbs. Getting up my courage, I arranged for an audition. The  director gave me some scales to sing, asked me to read sheet music, then had me sing a song I had prepared from a prayer book. He must have liked what he heard, because a few minutes later he introduced me to the choir as the newest second tenor. I was delighted!

I sat down in the tenor section and immediately, the men on both sides of began to fill me in. Looking at a thick folio of music I was both impressed and overwhelmed at the complexity of the pieces I needed to learn.
Before I knew it, Richard, our director, raised his hands and fifty men and women instantly  filled the room their amazing voices. Michael, the tenor on my right, held up the score so I could see it and traced his finger over the notes he was singing. Slowly, I caught on, and before too long, began to softly follow his lead.
After a little while, I grew more courageous, and sang a bit louder. There was a tricky rest in one song that demanded everyone to stop singing for a beat. I , of course, blasted right through it. The director held up his finger as if to say, "that's one...."   After restarting the measure, I did it again. Richard shook his head and whispered, "That's two..."  The third time, I got it right. Everyone clapped, and, like a little kid, I pulled my kippah over my red face in embarrassment. From then on, I paid much closer attention to the director.

 Each time we began a new song, Richard  patiently worked with us to ensure we understood all the nuances in it:  rhythm, breath control, dynamics and the secret of blending into one beautiful voice..  This was hard work for me, but I really enjoyed it, and began to smile while I sang.

At the end of the evening, I was tired, but happy. As we packed up our music , a woman from the alto section came over to me. "Stuart, remember me?" she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. Her face was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. " I'm Myra...I sang at your wedding."  I laughed in amazement and hugged her.

When we were married in August of 1976, my wife's friend brought her guitar and her sweet voice to our wedding. Myra sang and strummed and softly in Hebrew as we walked up to the chuppah, adding just the perfect touch to our  wedding ceremony.
After Maxine left her job as a social worker, Myra assumed her position. The years went by, and we lost touch with her.  Now, a lifetime later, she was back and in the choir I had just joined.

I strongly believe that everything in life is for a purpose. I know that this  seemingly chance reunion with Myra is a sign  I've found a wonderful new place to sing,