Got a zahbel keh? (match)

Zoog mir in Yiddish

By Sol Awend, GenShoah SWFL

It’s that time of year, and it’s hard to believe that Pysec’h (Passover) is just around the corner. If you’re Jewish and remotely celebrate Passover, memories just seem to percolate to the forefront of one’s mind about everything the holiday represents: freedom, joy, spring ... a new beginning.

Me? Ich geh denk (I remember) the time I burned up our backyard.

The fact that I didn’t burn down my Jewish neighborhood was a miracle. To me, that was as close as the miracle of God parting the Red Sea. I was eight years old and attended Talmud Torah. Not that I was anything of a star pupil, but I did try my best to put what I learned into practice.

As is common knowledge, searching for C’hoometz (any food that contains leavening agents and is made from grains) the night before Deh Seideh (the Seder) is of prime importance.

According to ritual, pieces of bread are dispersed around one’s house. One lights a candle and looks for telltale culprits of leavening. To be honest, me walking around with that lit candle became a cause of concern, as my mom shrieked, “Voos tist dee!? D’est fah breneh deh shteep!” (What are you doing!? You’re going to burn up the house!) She was right, of course. Thank God my dad wasn’t home. It’s not hard to say what might have happened.

Talk about miracles ... following my search, I wrapped up the bread morsels and spoon. Falling asleep, I thought about the upcoming burnt offering. The next morning, my mom was busy preparing for Deh Seideh. She didn’t notice that I got zahbel kehs (matches) and was headed downstairs. I figured she had her work, and I had mine.

St. Louis, where we lived, had not yet welcomed spring. Backyard lawns were still brown, but that didn’t concern me. I laid the bag of bread in the center of the lawn, said the prayer, struck a match and started a fire. What was a religious experience turned into a disaster. The lawn started to burn.

I had no one who could help me, and the thought of becoming a part of the burnt offering was becoming an actual reality. The fire was hungry and beginning to spread.

“S’ot alles geh brent!” (Everything was burning!)

“Vee nooc’h lesht mehn oss?!” (How do you extinguish it?!)

“Vee iz doo vaaseh?!” (Where is there water!?)

“Leebeh Goht in Himmel! Rah teh veh neec’h!” I prayed. (Dear God in heaven! Rescue me!)

Frantic, I looked at the back of the two-story apartment, which also was made of wood siding. Gratefully, I noticed there was a hose connected to a faucet. Running over, I uncoiled the hose and turned it on to full blast. Thankfully, water gushed out as I shlep’t deh kishkeh, (pulled the hose) and began spraying the fire. Gratefully, I put the fire out in the nick of time.

Not only was the chometz burned to a crisp but so was half the lawn.

Coming back into our apartment, my mom asked, “Fah voos shmeks’t dee fin royec’h?" (Why do you smell like smoke?)

In a shriek, she answered her own question and looked outside at the smoky lawn. “Voos ost dee geh teyen?!” (What did you do?!) Tearfully, I told her my maaseh (story) and made her swear silence to you-know-who.

That was some 70 years ago, and I knew why I was not allowed to light the menorah candles on the following Chanukah.

I extend my best wishes to you, for a Freilec’hen Yonteff, (happy holiday) and suggest you keep an eye out about what your grandkids might be doing while looking for chometz. This is not the Festival of Lights!