The Blind Beggar's Passover Feast

Tales of the Chelm First Ward

On the first night of Passover, all the families in the Chelm ward held seders in their homes, but on the last night, they gathered to the meetinghouse to enjoy the beggar’s largesse. Zusa Cohen came along with her grandparents to see what was happening. And oh, what a feast their new people prepared! With help from Heschel’s eager eyes, Lazar the blind beggar had purchased ingredients for a vast spread of brisket and salmon, potato kugel and baked apples, beet salad and brussel sprouts, matzo ball soup and macaroons. If the children of Israel had eaten in Egypt like they were about to in Chelm, they would have rolled across the parted Red Sea. 

But before the supper could begin, they had to wash hands and break the unleavened bread and tell the story. Even if we were all sages, the sages say—even if we were all as discerning as a President Gronam or as ponderous as Zalman the Learned, as widely-browsed as Menachem Menashe or as clever as Gretele—it would still be a commandment upon us to tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt. And the more one dwells on the Exodus from Egypt, the more is one to be praised. 

Zusa sat with her friends, at a table claimed by the ward’s daughters within a certain age range. There were Bluma and Bina Levy, who were far less rebellious than a bishop’s offspring are apparently supposed to be; Chava Gottstein-Kleiner, who was happy to make up for them; Golda Fischer, who was already bracing herself for the night; and Little Breyndl Fischer, who was used to the much simpler Passovers her mother and father kept at home, zipping through the story to get to the fish, and just wanted to know what was going on. Zusa also wanted to know what a Passover with Chelm’s Mormons would look like, but she did not even know where to begin asking questions. 

It started in a way that was normal enough. At the table in front, Bishop Levy lifted a piece of matzah and said, “This is the bread of affliction, which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. All who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are in need, let them join in the Passover with us.” And then different ward members took turns reading the story from the haggadah, adding a comment here and an interpretation there, while the girls at their table kept up a whispered track of commentary of their own. Zusa kept her ears perked up to listen: she expected that this night would, in fact, be different from all the others she had known. 

The story of the Exodus from Egypt, of course, does not begin in Egypt. The telling at Passover begins generations before. After all, those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, which makes the past like a busy laundromat, with time just turning and turning while God tries to clean us up. By the time of the whole run-in with Pharaoh and the plagues and the blood on the doors and the running from law enforcement, cycles of captivity and deliverance and wandering around afterward were all old news. Take Abraham, who was delivered from idols and Egypt and Sodom and still got into that weird bind on the mountain with his son and had to be delivered once again. Or his grandson, the original Israel, who got caught in a series of bad contracts with his father-in-law. (There’s so often a little Egypt in the fine print.) Go and learn what Laban the Aramean sought to do to our father Jacob, the Passover Haggadah says.

But while, at the table in front, Zalman the Learned advanced theories on the nuances of Aramean contract law, the girls of the Chelm ward began a much more advanced discussion. It started simply enough: “Who is Laban again?” Little Breyndl Fischer asked the older girls at her table. 

“He’s the one who tried to kill Nephi,” Bina Levy said. “Now pay attention! I don’t want to miss this law stuff.”

Zusa had never heard Nephi mentioned during Passover before. Maybe there was more Haggadah in the Book of Mormon? 

“But what does Laban have to do with Jacob?” Breyndl asked. 

“He was Nephi’s little brother,” Bluma said. With far more patience than her sister, she tried to catch Breyndl up. “He wasn’t born yet when Laban was trying to kill everybody. But that doesn’t mean the younger brothers aren’t part of the story. After all, if the Lord hadn’t delivered his older brothers, then Jacob and Joseph would have been in trouble, too.” 

“Joseph?” Breyndl asked. 

“You know Joseph,” Golda said. “He’s the singer. With the coat, the technicolor dream coat.”  

“And it got torn up by a mob,” Chava added. “They tarred and feathered him and threw him in a pit and sold him into slavery. Which is what happens to all little siblings who brag too much.” 

“Shut up, Chava,” Golda said. “Don’t scare her.” 

“They made him a slave?” Breyndl said. “Is that why he wanted the gospel to be restored?” 

“Well, first they went to Missouri,” Bluma said. “That made Pharaoh nervous, so he started to exterminate all the babies. Except Jesus. Joseph and Mary hid Jesus.”

Zusa’s head was spinning. How did Jesus end up in this? Mormons certainly liked to sprinkle him in weird places.  

“Joseph hid Jesus?” Breyndl asked. 

“They put him in a manger in the river. Next to Moses. And Mary followed them,” Bina said. “Until they landed at a place called Nauvoo.” 

Chava passed Breyndl a note. It said: Golda only said not to scare you so you’ll let your guard down. Watch out!

“What about the wise men?” Breyndl asked.

Zusa tried to remember them. There were the wise midwives, Shiphrah and Puah. But they were women. Why would you add men to a scripture story that already had perfectly good women?    

“The wise men?” said Bina. “Oh, it’s really lucky that they came. They arrived right when Pharaoh’s daughter was trying to figure out why the babies were crying—”

“She was going to throw them back in the river,” Chava interjected. “Because sadly, that’s what people often do when little kids make too much noise.” 

“She was not going to throw them back in the river,” Golda said. “At least, not yet.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know if she was going to or not,” said Bina. “Her dad was the Pharaoh! But the wise men showed up, and they explained that the babies were hungry—” 

“And since there were two babies and just one woman,” Chava said, “they lifted up the sword of Goliath and offered to cut her in half! It was about to be very bloody—” 

“But Solomon solved it and kept the peace,” said Bluma. “And then Pharaoh’s daughter sent Moses back to his mom for feeding, and the wise men took Jesus and dropped him off to the temple when he was twelve. And then Miryam came looking for him—” 

“Don’t you mean Mary?” Breyndl asked.  

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

“Oh my gosh, this is stupid,” said Golda. “When do we eat?” 

Zusa wondered the same thing. Normally it was so long, telling the story and talking about the story, and her mother had to slip out to the kitchen sometimes to make sure the food was still hot while her dad and Grandpa Cohen got into another argument. She had never imagined that the story might be even more complicated somewhere else. But at least she was with friends. And the food smelled delicious, if they ever made it there. 

Next to her, Chava began to scribble another note. 

“Anyway, Mary brought him down to Egypt,” Bina said. “So that’s where our ancestors were slaves. And the Lord heard their groaning, and he had respect, and he said, Out of Egypt have I called my son. And that’s why we still do the story.” 

Golda is planning to sell you, Breyndl. Your sister is going to throw you in a pit and sell you to Egypt, because every generation has to act out the story. I’m sorry you had to find out like this, the note said. 

Around the time Breyndl read the note, Bluma Levy noticed that she looked a little uneasy. And so (like Pharaoh’s daughter noticing a baby adrift in the Nile with no way to steer) Bluma took pity on her. She pulled a pen out of her pocket, spread out a napkin, and prepared to draw some diagrams. Just a quick flow chart to help Breyndl orient herself in the universe. “We should explain what this all means,” Bluma said. She drew a circle. Zusa leaned forward to look. “Egypt is the telestial world, or the world in which we live. And slavery is basically everything bad that ever happens to anyone. Including, but not limited to, actual slavery. Which is also called iniquity, because all men were created equal. But then: look around.” 

“The whole world is Egypt?” Breyndl asked. “Are we really going to be slaves? Why do they keep talking like we’re slaves? I thought the point was: you ate the bread for the affliction, someone spilled juice, the plagues, the songs, and then came the salmon. ” 

“It’s not literally Egypt,” Golda said. “That’s just what they say tonight. It’s like grown-ups playing dress-up, all right? And the slavery thing is not that bad—I mean, it’s bad, being a slave is obviously really bad—but it’s a thing we remember so we can learn to be nice to people. Just don’t worry too much and it’ll be over soon and we can eat.” 

Chava lifted her eyebrows and looked over at Breyndl. She pointed down at the note. 

“So we’re not in Egypt?” Breyndl asked. 

“We are, we are,” Bluma said. “Now we’re slaves, next year may we be free. Now we’re in Egypt, next year in Jerusalem. It’s a whole thing.” 

Now that was exactly how they celebrated Passover at Zusa’s house. Maybe Mormon Passover wasn’t so strange. 

“The point is,” said Bina, “that we got out.” 

“How?” Breyndl asked. “At my house, we always kind of speed through this part because everyone is getting hungry.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Golda said. 

“Obviously, the plagues,” Bina explained. “Blood and hail and fire and frogs. All the stuff. Very dark stuff.” 

“Then fire came down and hit a bush,” Chava said. “But then it didn’t burn up. Creepy, right?” 

“The bushes and trees were full of light,” Bina said, “and God spoke. We call that the First Vision.”  

“In the book of Exodus,” Bluma elaborated, drawing another circle on her diagram, “the fire is because God lives in eternal burnings. That’s the celestial kingdom.”

Zusa didn’t understand how they’d moved so quickly away from anything she understood again.  

“But how exactly did we get free?” Breyndl asked. “I remember Pharaoh said no and then God was going to help but the salmon is going to get cold and then my mom just says they made it to the promised land.”

“That’s pretty much the story,” Golda said. 

“There was some smiting first,” Chava said. “Moses would do a plague, and Pharaoh’s magicians would do the plague. So it was like a double plague, which was kind of dumb, but it’s still cool that they could do actual magic tricks.” 

Bina shook her head. “Plagues are not a magic trick, they’re a miracle of cursing,” she said. “And God always gives a warning before he curses anyone. Moses counted to three, and there were plagues, and he counted to three again, and there were more plagues—” 

“One time he wiped the dust from off his feet and it turned into lice,” Bluma added. “Which is why missionaries aren’t supposed to do that anymore.” 

“—and eventually he got all the way to ten,” Bina said with finality. “And Pharaoh kicked them out. But then he chased them. And the children of Israel went out across the sea on dry land.” 

“I thought it was ice,” said Bluma. “Didn’t they cross the river on ice?”  

“Anyway,” said Bina, “they came into the wilderness and the Lamanites murmured and at last Moses said this is the place and that is why we eat such dry bread and recline from exhaustion after the long journey across the plains and drink four cups that no longer contain wine to remember the four books of scripture. Amen.” 

“Can we please eat?” Golda asked. “Are we ever going to eat?” 

“Why don’t we drink wine anymore?” Breyndl asked. 

Zusa perked up again. She knew her dad was disappointed when his parents didn’t drink the Passover wine. It didn’t seem like a big deal to her, since she didn’t get the wine yet, either. But she still wondered. She just didn’t know how to ask. It was so hard to find the words and work up the nerve to ask a question. 

“That’s a whole different story,” Bluma said. “That came later. When Moses received the Word of Wisdom and carved it into the golden plates he made from melting down this statue of a calf . . .”

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Artwork by David Habben.

Tales of the Chelm First Ward: Introduction