That was a Seder night I will never forget. I sat at my father’s bedside the entire night. It was only in the early hours of the morning that he was finally given a room. In the interim, I had covered the little stand in my father’s cubby with a napkin and placed the Seder plate on it. A kind nurse even arranged for some electric candles so that I might usher in the Yom Tov. I davened from the depths of my soul and called out to Hashem for His help. Then I took out the Haggadah and began to read aloud, but when I came to the familiar words “Why is this night different from all other nights?” I broke down and sobbed uncontrollably.
My question echoed in the cold, sterile room. I was holding my father’s hand but his eyes remained closed and no answer was forthcoming. What would I not have given to hear my father’s sweet voice? This was one Seder night there would be no “Happy birthday, mein heilige kind.” But as I went through the Haggadah page by page, saying each word loud and clear, I felt my father could hear me, and just reciting those timeless words infused me with renewed strength.
As the sun began to rise we were finally given a room, but my father’s eyes were still closed. There was still no response. But the mercies of Hashem are many, and as the second Seder night commenced, my father opened his eyes and his loving, beautiful eyes spoke volumes.
“Es iz Pesach, Tatie, es iz Seder nacht” I whispered. He nodded and made an effort to speak. The words came painfully and haltingly: “Esterke” – and then he tried to say something more. I strained to hear his words and I distinctly heard, “Lichtige kind, du bist doch geboren heint bei nacht – You were born on this night.”
That was a Seder I will never forget, when my marror turned into charoses.