Shop window, Oxford Street
‘Do you do much of
this type of work? Catering?’
The woman looks up at
me from under tight gold curls. I am putting out Haggadot at a communal
Passover meal in London’s West End. To be honest, I didn’t even know there was
a synagogue here until Dan invited me – a synagogue here, between Top Shop,
Primark and the filthy grey streets.
I’m putting the Haggadot out because, frankly, I feel really shy. I know no one here apart from Dan – and he’s busy with last-minute stuff. I would rather help Dan and the Macedonian catering crew (‘Matzah – that’s like, the body of Christ, right?’) than stand awkwardly with this well-groomed crowd who are all, apparently, comfortable, and know exactly what to do.
‘Do you do much of
this – catering work?’ the woman wants to know. She’s stopped me to ask for a
‘better’ Haggadah – a larger one, with pictures in.
‘I’m not working. I’m here
for the Seder like you,’ I say.
‘I didn’t mean
anything by it. Come on, dear – sit by me.’ There's space next to her,
so I sit. Dan does too. He’s brought his own Haggadah – with hassidic
explanations in. We find the place, which I lose again when he goes back to the
kitchen to help out.
Nechama is 70. She has
bright, lapis-lined eyes and lives off the Holloway Road. She used to be a
prison officer – the only Jewish one, ever, in Holloway women’s jail. She stopped going to shul after the rabbi criticised her non-kosher pots. But
it’s Pesach, and her sister’s here from New York and she just wanted to,
somehow. So she came.
Nechama has crutches and finds it hard to stand. I fetch water so that she can wash for bread. ‘You’ll get a good place in heaven,’ she says. Her sister, Esther, helps serve the food. There are lots of people – maybe a hundred – and the Macedonian crew is finding it hard to keep up. I help serve too, when I’m not talking to Nechama, doling out bowls of watery soup with carrot and matzah meal. People lean back so I can put it down in front of them. They do not say ‘thank you’ or look me in the eye.
‘What’s this?’ says one
– a young American with pale blond hair. I look at her. I’m still holding out
the soup. She looks at me back. ‘Is this vegetarian? I ordered the vegetarian
option.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say,
holding the bowl out until she takes it. If Passover is about overcoming our
limitations, I realise, I’m not doing too well.
Back at the table, Nechama
and Esther have scoped the room out for potential mates – for me, that is, not
them. ‘What about him?’ asks Esther, through her teeth, nodding at a guy across the table.
‘I think he’s gay,’ I
say.
‘The quiet ones are always
best.’
‘Or him?’ Nechama says, of a South African to my right, who’s just told me he has a non-Jewish girlfriend
with three kids.
Nechama married young. ‘It didn’t work.’ She curls her lip. ‘But’ – she brightens – ‘when I was 40 I met a man. He was much younger – 25 – and we were together until he died. Sixteen years.’ She smiles. ‘Not Jewish,’ she adds, out of the corner of her mouth.
People are leaving.
The meal is done. I play with Mendel, the Rabbi’s son, in the kitchen where Dan
is. Then Mendel sits on his father's knee wailing for the closing prayers. Except it’s
not wailing – he’s crooning along with his dad’s niggunim. This is loud because
we’re all silent. A white-faced man with dark circles under his eyes winces as
he glances the baby’s way.
I think of the synagogue in Jaffa, near me. Sometimes I walk there on Saturday to hear them sing. Windows always open – raucous prayer flung out to the street. Colourful headscarves and khol.
Tonight, I listen to the Rabbi sing. I want his voice to reach heaven, and with it carry some of my prayers.
Nechama has to go – her ride is here. She can hardly walk but will accept no help. Rising onto her crutches, she begins the slow, painful ascent to the street.
