I try to pull myself together, when I hear it. Somebody outside, strains of song. I open the window and a voice carries inside. “Mah nishtanah halaylah hazeh, halaylah hazeh…”

As told to Rivka Streicher

"Can’t we just cancel Pesach this year?” she asked me.

I would’ve laughed, if I weren’t almost in tears.

It was two weeks into COVID, and only a handful of us essential workers were still coming into the nursing home, stretching ourselves thin to fill huge gaps.

Fear stalked the hallways. A million-and-one new safety considerations, which no one could wrap their head around. As activity director, I was trying desperately to keep things going while the legislation poured in — six-feet distance, masks in public places, full lockdown.

And oh, I was charged with making Yom Tov.

Pesach is a huge project in the nursing home. Cleaning, kashering, the food, and keeping track of everything, down to the chometz medication some residents need to take.

We hold a huge Seder and try to accommodate everyone’s minhagim. Gebrochts, non-gebrochts; square matzos, round matzos, spelt matzos. Haggados in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. Every type of karpas. It’s a Yom Tov that holds so much significance to our residents, whatever their religious level, whatever their faculties. And often, when there’s so little left, Pesach means even more.

And now this non-Jewish staffer wanted to know why we couldn’t push off Pesach.

“The show must go on,” I tell her.

By Erev Pesach, several residents aren’t feeling well; we label them “COVID patients” and confine everyone to their rooms.