One Hundred Philistine Foreskins by Tova Reich Page B

to usher in Elijah the prophet, herald of the Messiah. In response, there was only a still, small voice as by the flickering lights of the floating wicks a black shadow seemed to flit into the room and vanish deep within the bowels of the hospital. But by far the greater number of our people rose up clapping and dancing in greeting and lifted their voices fully to welcome Miriam the prophetess with her song, “Sing to the Lord because He has triumphed so mightily, horse and rider He hurled into the sea,” as a white bird flew into the hall through the open door, setting off a panic in the welcoming committee and among many others in our congregation as well, who ducked down, covering their heads, shielding their eyes, swatting at the bird with their hands and napkins and assorted utensils as it whirled disoriented above them. “Rejoice,” Ima Temima said. “It is the spirit of Miriam-Azuva-Snow White. It is the live bird that the high priest sets free when the ‘leper’ is cured.”
    The bird was throwing itself against the walls in confusion and terror as it sought wildly for a way to escape back to the open air from this cell it now found itself trapped in, squirting out the green glop of its excrement and scattering the debris of its white feathers as it smashed into the stone walls again and again and then dropped onto the floor that was also our table, a forlorn little heap in a puddle of spilled wine. Cozbi’s lapdog Abramovich dove out of his mistress’s cleavage in excitement, panting and leaping and circling comically, scampering with his tongue hanging out toward the deflated morsel now that it had crash landed—only to be frustrated by Rizpa, who swiftly gathered up the throbbing little parcel in both hands and carried it to Ima Temima, setting it down on the very spot on the reclining mattress where she too had sought comfort earlier that evening. Ima Temima stroked the bird exactly as Rizpa had been stroked, and from the depths cried out the prayer of Moses Our Teacher when his sister Miriam the prophetess, the original girl babysitter who had looked after her little brother so faithfully when he was only an infant in a basket drifting on the water, was stricken with“leprosy”: “ El-na, refah-na la ! I’m pleading with You God, heal her, I beg of You!” The bird raised its head to gaze at Ima Temima with defeated eyes, then lowered it again, tucking it into its own breast, and surrendered. With arms lifted and furious emotion, our holy mother called out to the heavens above to awaken the quality of mercy for all of us lowly and rejected and shunned and despised “lepers” of this earth, echoing with fierce conviction the words of the holy society upon completing the ritual preparation of the dead for burial: “She is pure! She is pure! She is pure!”
    I T WAS close to three in the morning when our Seder came to an end, but, because of the injunction that the more one tells the story of our liberation the more praiseworthy it is, Aish-Zara and I, despite our profound exhaustion, were honored beyond what we might ever have thought we were worthy of to be invited to Ima Temima’s apartment in the secluded garden on the northern side of the “leper” colony to continue the discussion until daybreak, like the five sages in Bnei B’rak who reclined around the Seder table so engrossed in recounting the exodus from Egypt through the night that it required the barging in of their students to remind them the hour for morning prayers had arrived. Ima Temima requested that we bring along with us a few bottles of wine and some glasses to lubricate our conviviality, as wine gladdens the hearts of all people, women not excluded, and, in any case, Ima Temima said, the directive to stop all eating or drinking by midnight or after partaking of the last bit of afikomen matzah, whichever came first, applies only when children are present