A post-Seder, pre-Seder calm had fallen upon the Levine home. Abe and Annie had gone to their room to grab a short nap. There was a sudden tap on the door, quiet but somehow bringing with it a sense of urgency.  Annie sat up in bed.

Yes, there it was again, tap, tap, tap.

Annie sometimes still felt a little dizzy when she got out of bed, so she rose slowly, put on her robe, and opened the door a crack.

Her eyes widened.

“Abe, wake up! It’s Malka!”

Since his days as a hospital intern and resident, Abe had learned the useful art of sleeping whenever he could, and getting up, wide awake, in seconds.

“Labor?”

“I think so. She’s in bed. Yoel woke me.”

He walked swiftly but calmly down the hallway and stepped into the guest room, while Annie waited outside, eyes closed, pulse racing.

Minutes later he walked out again.

“Well?”

“Definitely labor. She’s fine, a little early but nothing to worry about. I’m going to the Giovannis next door, and I’ll ask them to call an ambulance.”

“An ambulance, Abe?”

“Just a precaution. It’s a first baby, and it could be hours, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Abe walked downstairs, leaving Annie alone with her thoughts, dismal and frightening and overwhelming.

Childbirth. Can I go through it again?

Annie could feel her breath becoming shallow, labored; a flood of panic threatening to drown her. She slammed her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe deeply.

Stop it! This isn’t about you. This is about Malka, the sweet little orphan you raised. The girl whose mother died when she was so young, and who will now be a mother herself. Yes, it’s about Malka — and it’s about Malka’s baby.

Your first grandchild.

Months ago, when Malka first told them the good news, she had asked Annie to be present at the delivery. Of course, Annie had joyfully agreed. But that seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago, before Annie had her own baby to think about.

Abe interrupted her fevered thoughts, returning with the news that an ambulance would be there shortly.

Another deep breath, and a decision. “Abe, I’m going with her.”

Abe frowned. “Absolutely not. It’s too much for you.”

“Abe, Malka wants me — and needs me — to be with her. I promised.”

Ignoring Mutty and Artie, who’d heard the commotion and were now standing in the hallway, wife and husband faced each other.

“Annie, think about the baby.”

“I am thinking about the baby. Abe, I’m doing this responsibly. I’m off bed rest. I’ll sit down in the hospital, and keep my feet up.”

“And what about food? What about the Seder tonight?”

“We’ll pack food up now. And if she’s had the baby before the Seder, I can walk to my friend Susie and have Seder there. She lives just a few blocks from the hospital. Abie,” she said, her voice softening, “Malka is my baby, too. She’s been my baby since she was six years old. I won’t let her give birth alone, with no one but strangers around her.”

Abe was not ready to surrender. “You’ll be taking care of her, but who will be taking care of you?”

Mutty broke the tense silence. “I will,” he said. He turned to his father. “Mama can go in the ambulance. I’ll walk to the hospital with Yoel. It’s not such a long walk, we can do it in half an hour. I’ll make sure Mama gets what she needs, run any errands, and go with her to the Seder at her friend’s.”

Abe knew when he was licked. “Mothers,” he said, throwing an ironic but fond glance at his wife. “You’ve gotta love ’em.”

Annie smiled back and went to pack Malka’s suitcase.

This second Seder began much more quietly than the first. Dr. Levine read the words, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The twins kept up their usual chatter, and Artie’s sweet voice chanted and sang, but without Mutty’s harmonies, everything seemed flatter.

Mostly, though, Marjorie thought with a thrill of surprise, it was the empty chair across from Dr. Levine’s — where Mrs. L. would have been sitting — that cast a kind of pall on the entire table. Annie hadn’t said too much at that first Seder, but somehow — Marjorie couldn’t figure out how — her quiet presence seemed to make everyone happier.

Especially Ruchele. The little girl who’d so proudly asked her Four Questions last night, now said them tonelessly, so quietly that the others had to bend forward to hear her.  When she reached her third question, she was sniffing audibly — and by the time she was done the tears were running down her face.

Abe jumped up from his seat, grabbed his daughter from the chair she was standing on, and sat down again, placing her firmly on his lap. “Come on, Ruchele, we’re going to lead the Seder together.”

The tears still ran down her cheeks and she’d begun to hiccup. That’s when Marjorie had her brainstorm.

“Hey, Ruchele! Malka’s your big sister, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Malka’s going to bring home a baby, right?”

Now she had the little girl’s interest.

“Do you know what that makes you?”

“Huh?”

“It will make you an aunt! Aunt Ruchele!”

A moment of silence and then Artie smiled broadly at Majorie. “She’s right, Ruchele. And…” he said, singing a little tune, “there’s nothing that an aunt / can’t / can’t do / if that aunt is / you, you, you!”

The twins and Abie took up the jingle, and suddenly everyone was singing, Marjorie was clapping, and Ruchele was bouncing up and down on her father’s lap.

Happiness had returned, a welcome guest at the Levine Seder.

The meal was over, the afikomen had been duly found, and Ruchele, delighted, would soon be taking possession of a Barbie Dreamhouse. The family was just finishing bentshing and was preparing to greet Eliyahu Hanavi when the door opened and Mutty burst in.

“Mazel tov,” he gasped, panting, like one who’d run a long way. “It’s a boy!”

April 1964

“…kayem es ha’yeled ha’zeh…”

“Listen, Marjorie, they’re about to give the baby his name,” Perele Schwartz whispered.

Marjorie was standing on a chair she’d placed next to the mechitzah, so she could have a good view of this, the very first bris ceremony she’d ever attended. She watched, fascinated, as a couple carried the newborn (so teeny-tiny!) on a pillow, placing it on Reb Yeruchum’s lap. Then there was a huddle of men around the baby, a wail from the newborn, and Malka and Mrs. Levine hugging and crying.

“… v’yikarei shemo b’Yisrael … Yitzchak Chaim ben Yoel.”

More words recited, more smiles and hugs.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Marjorie noticed Artie. He wasn’t smiling. There was something about the expression on his face… something deep and unreadable and utterly unlike the pleasant, joking young man she’d seen until now… that caught her attention.

Transfixed, she watched as he walked swiftly toward the door of the hotel dining room, where the bris had taken place, and disappeared.

Hardly thinking, Marjorie jumped down from her chair and ran after him.

She found him outside, sitting on the porch stairs, hunched over, his face in his hands.

“Um…. Is anything wrong?”

No answer.

Tact was not one of Marjorie’s strong points. “Why in the world are you crying?”

Artie finally looked up, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Then he gazed at the sky, as if trying to find an answer somewhere in the clouds. “I don’t know. It’s just… my father — my real father — his name was Isidore. Everyone called him Izzy. And now the baby has his name.”

“Izzy?”

“Yitzchak. That was my father’s — our father, mine and Malka’s — Jewish name.”  He sighed and looked directly at Marjorie. “Rabbi Freed and the Levines, they’ve been so good to me and Malka. They were — they are — my Dad and my Mama. But sometimes, not often, but sometimes, I wish I could have known my real father and mother.  My mother was killed in the Blitz, my father was shot by the Germans. I was only four years old when I saw them last. But,” he sighed again, “you never really forget your parents.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 862)