Highlander - Donna Lettow [61]
“Eggs? Where on earth did you find eggs?” MacLeod hadn’t seen an egg since entering the Ghetto.
“Isn’t Rivka amazing? Eggs are a tradition; they represent the triumph of life over death, and she was bound and determined that if there was nothing else, there would be eggs for Pesach. Oh, that reminds me, Rivka made me solemnly promise to say hello to you. So, hello.”
“Rivka did?”
“She’s got it bad for you, MacLeod.” Avram cracked the egg and began to peel it.
“Rivka?” MacLeod repeated. “She’s just a kid.”
“So? Tell me you didn’t have a crush on someone when you were twelve.” Avram thought way back. “Mine was Naomi, the glassblower’s daughter. She couldn’t have been more than three years older than me, but I thought she was the most beautiful woman in all Jerusalem. I broke more glass that year, just so I could go to their shop … I’m surprised my father put up with it.”
MacLeod had to smile. Sure, he remembered being in love when he was twelve, too. “I guess it’s harmless.”
”The poor kid’s got nothing left to dream about. She might as well have you.” The eggs peeled, Avram picked up the matzah and began to sing once again.
Boruch Ator Adonoi, Elohainu Melech hor-olum, ha-motzi lechem min hor-oretz.
The melody was haunting, Avram’s voice reaching toward heaven. Then he broke the pieces in half and handed MacLeod his portion. “Blessing for the bread, right?” MacLeod asked.
“You catch on fast, for a goy.” He picked up the wine bottle and filled one of the three cups, which he placed at the head of the blanket. MacLeod reached for it, and Avram swatted his hand away. “No-no-no,” he scolded, “that one’s Elijah’s.” He filled another cup and handed it to MacLeod, who looked at him quizzically. “One cup is set out for the Prophet Elijah,” he explained. “It’s said that Elijah will come to the seder to bring redemption and rescue his people from oppression and evil.”
“Well, if he’s coming, I think he picked the right night.” MacLeod raised the cup as if to toast, then stopped, setting the cup down. “But first, the blessing for the wine, right?”
“I’m so proud of you,” Avram beamed and began to intone the ancient words.
Boruch Ator Adonoi, Elohainu Melech hor-olum, borai p’ree ha-gorfen.
When he’d finished, Avram raised his glass to MacLeod, then took a drink. Following his cue, MacLeod toasted Avram. “L’chayim.”
“Showoff.” Avram laughed. “There’s one more. You want to try it with me?”
“Oh, no, no,” MacLeod declined with a laugh. “I’ll leave that to you and the angels,” and he sat hack to listen as Avram made another joyful noise unto the Lord.
Boruch Ator Adonoi, Elohainu Melech hor-olum, sh’-higee-yornu, v’kee-y’mornu, v’higee-ornu, lazman hazeh.
“So what was that one for?” MacLeod wondered.
Avram translated the Hebrew for him. “‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, Who has kept us in life, preserved us, and enabled us to reach this festive season.’ I thought it was appropriate.” He picked up a piece of the matzah and took a bite. “Go ahead, eat. Who knows when we’ll get another chance.”
The unleavened bread was much like the soldier’s hardtack MacLeod had known in a dozen campaigns. It was certainly better than the sea rations he’d known as a ship’s pilot.
He’d tried not to think much about food since coming to the Ghetto. As Avram had pointed out, starvation for him was a painful annoyance. For the others, it was a daily fight to stave off death. But as he bit into the egg, he realized it was possibly the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. No sumptuous banquet in a sultan’s palace, no culinary delight in the best restaurants of Paris had ever come close to the gratification MacLeod got from this one simple chicken’s egg. It and the wine were gone much too fast. He looked over at Avram, wondering if he was having a similar reaction, and then noticed that Avram was no longer eating. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the blanket staring into his cup as he moved it around, watching the light from the nearly full moon