Of all our Yom Tovim, it is Pesach that has a special hold on every Jew – not only because it is the celebration of the birth of our nation, our liberation from bondage, but because that exodus led to the ultimate fulfillment of our lives: Sinai.
Pesach is also special because, more than any other holiday, it is a Yom Tov that bonds families and generations: “Lema’an tesaper…so that you may relate it to your son and your son’s son.” Finally, Pesach is treasured because no other time of the Jewish year demands such arduous and extensive investment. As it is written: “L’fum tzara agra…the reward is commensurate with the effort put forth.” And the efforts that Pesach preparations demand are enormous.
Pesach has an added special importance to me because it is my birthday as well. I was born on the first Seder night, and as far back as I can recall, at every Seder my father, HaRav HaGaon HaTzaddik Avraham HaLevi Jungreis, zt”l, would regale us with stories of my birth.
“We were just sitting down to the Seder,” he would begin, “and Mommy, may she be healthy and well for many long years, told us, ‘I think that this is the night the baby will come.’ ”
My father loved to tell how he quickly dispatched our housekeeper to fetch the midwife ( in those days in Hungary, babies were born at home and delivered by midwives). So it was that the Seder proceeded with intense prayer and trepidation.
“Then,” my father would recall with a smile, “when we opened the door for Eliahu HaNavi, a cry was heard from the bedroom and the midwife announced, ‘Mazel tov, Rabbi Jungreis! You have a beautiful little girl!’ ”
Whether or not I was really born at the specific moment the door was opened for Eliahu I cannot say, but it sufficed for me to hear my father tell the story that way, and he never grew tired of telling it. Even on those dark nights when we were trapped within the walls of the ghetto or in Bergen Belsen, when our table was bare, when the saltwater was made with our own tears – even then, my revered father related the story and made me feel special.
When we reached these blessed shores after our harrowing Holocaust experience, my parents enrolled me in Bais Yaakov elementary school. I didn’t speak the language, and with hardly any schooling behind me I had to start with the basics. Then one day it was announced that Barton’s candy company was running a contest for the most meaningful essay on Pesach and the winner would be rewarded with pounds and pounds of chocolate.
To me, coming from the concentration camps, it sounded like a dream. Chocolate was a luxury we could hardly afford. But how could I, with my limited, broken English, possibly win?
Nevertheless, with the encouragement of my teacher I tried, and wrote the story of my Pesach birthday, and about how, even in the nightmare of the Holocaust, my father never forgot to speak of the moment he opened the door for Eliahu and heard my cry.
Amazingly, although my teacher had to make many corrections in grammar and spelling, I won that contest, and my brothers and I were ecstatic with joy. We had a chocolate feast second to none and happily shared our bounty with family and friends.
All this occurred so many years ago, but the sound of my father’s voice lovingly relating the tale has not faded from memory. As time passed, I married and became a rebbetzin, and it was no longer feasible for me to return to my parents’ home for Pesach. The manifold responsibilities of our congregation demanded that my husband and I celebrate the Seder in our own home. We would invite widows and others who were alone, as well as those who came from assimilated backgrounds and had never experienced a real Seder.