"Pharaoh died, but his deeds live on" observed the articulate Ahad Ha'am, simply echoing Russeau from 1762, "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains." Was it a coincidence? Rabbi Akiva planned his struggle against the Roman yoke of oppression around Pesach time; it was on Pesach that young Warsaw Ghetto Jews rose up in a historic act of defiance against their own WW II taskmaster; cv the remnants of Adolf Hitler headed for Palestine on board Exodus '47; cvi years later brave Russian Jews found their liberation via Operation Exodus whilst Ethiopian Jewry were freed from their own bondage with Operation Moses. cvii It was the theme of Pesach that inspired the Bastille, the Fourth of July and Emma Lazarus' poetry carved into America's Statue of Liberty.

No wonder the Zohar calls matza "the bread of faith," based on the similarity between the words 'mitzva' and 'matza.' cix Some Jewish communities have used matza as a good-luck amulet charm, others hang it in their home, some carry it in their wallet or purse, whilst Italian Jewish women would bite into it during childbirth for good luck. cx When Rabbi Israel Spira led 70 Bergen-Belsen Jews to demand flour for baking matza, it was a demand so audacious in the SS Valley of Death that a stunned Adolf Haas, camp commandant, acquiesced. Before the Iron Curtain collapsed it was matza that visibly symbolized an individual's involvement in Judaism at a time when one dared not mention its name out of fear and referred to it as "diet bread." cxi In 1939 Rabbi Levi Zalman Schneerson, Ukrainian father of Menachem Mendel and chief rabbi of Dnepropetrovsk was sentenced to exile in Central Asia, where he died, for the "crime" of distributing matza.

What exactly is matza? The term is derived from the Babylonian ma-as-sa-ar-tum, which means barley, the first grain harvested in the Mid East that was replaced centuries later by wheat. It is crisp, flat and unleavened, made of flour and water, and baked before the dough has had time to rise. When I was a child matza was round, today it is square. Why? Because machine-made matzah is easier to bake and pack if it is square. It is preferable to eat the traditional round shape, a custom based on the Torah's description for cakes of unleavened bread (uggot matzot), wherein the root ug means "round" or "circular," and thus indicative that round matzot, symbolic of our forefather's "bread of affliction" is probably what our ancestors ate when they left Egypt. cxiv

The Egyptians are credited with "discovering" the first bread. At first they used to crush acorns, beechnuts, wheat or barley kernels, mix with water to make a flat cake (dough), then bake. One day the yeasts in the wind landed on the pre-baked dough and voila!, to the surprise of the world's first baker, a light, soft loaf appeared instead of the customary thin, hard cracker. And so they left the dough outdoors in the warm air to rise, and then put it in the oven. This mysterious "rising of the dough" quickly attracted the mystics and the weavers of superstitions who blamed the rise on the Angel of Death plunging his sword into the dough; causing families and neighbors of lost loved ones to throw out all the dough left in their homes. cxv

In their rush to leave this non-flat "bread" behind the Jews displayed a swift urge to get away from the radical Egyptian pageantry; a desire to leave it all, including the yeast, behind. cxvi This is why the Maharal of Prague compares matza with freedom, since matza is the most "simple" of all foods lacking any artificial additives, as freedom should be; a reminder of vigilance, since the only difference between chometz and matza is not the ingredients (they both have the same type and amount of flour and water), the method of baking (both cooked in the same oven) but Time (they are one second apart); in other words the freedoms we cherish can, as Jewish history proves, be snatched away from us at any moment. The difference in linguists is just as astute: the words chometz and matzah are apart only by a tiny fraction of a line, one small stroke of the pen, that turns a "hey" into a "chet." The moral? There is no way to make up for lost time: a second lost remains irreplaceable, forfeited for eternity, able to cause irreparable harm - something the Sage Nachum Ish Gam Zu found out to his dismay by leaving a hungry beggar waiting as he slowly unloaded his donkey. By the time the rabbi was finished, the poor man had died.

Matza qualifies as the primal Jewish fast-food; a flavor of flight, a bread of haste, its bumps and perforations indicative of the future agony and ecstasy of the Jewish experience. Perhaps this is another reason to celebrate Pesach? We went from eight days of eating slave "matza" to 3,000 years of chicken soup, gefilte fish, potato latkes, chopped liver…and bagels! Despite its entree into the Jewish kitchen as a bread of "affliction," Jewish women have managed to create exquisite Pesach cuisines by using matza as a flour replacement to get matza pie (a round meat lasagna with softened matza acting as the noodles); matza balls (kneydlekh); and matzo brei (gefrishte matzo). It has never ceased to amaze me: each year there are more inventive foods, wines and recipes for Pesach than all other Jewish festivals combined. With two full seders and many high-fat leftovers, dietitians recommend eating more fresh fruit 'n vegetables and less eggs 'n meat. Every year pharmacies in Israel report a 50% increase in the sale of digestive stomach medication during and after Pesach. Is Pesach fattening? Yep! A typical seder meal adds 3,000 calories: remember, one single matza is equivalent to 140 calories (the equivalent of 2 pieces of bread) even though its fiber content is much lower. Sweet red wine and grape juice are also fattening, with 170 calories per standard wineglass. The world of Pesach-kashrut can become very confusing: some Jews avoid cakes baked with matza, others are careful not to eat matza brei (fried matza soaked in milk and eggs), some request "no gebrochts" (gebrochts is yiddish for "broken") which refers to cooking or baking with matza or matza meal mixed with liquid (this is a concern that matza, although properly baked, may contain unkneaded bits of raw flour that, upon moistening, can become chometz).

If Judaism has a Pesach-mania, chometz is it. And if matza, being flat and, homiletically speaking, a symbol of lowliness (lechem oni means "bread of humility"), then chometz was a symbol of haughtiness and selfishness, and thus not only forbidden on Pesach, but its removal from the home, called bedikat chometz, required meticulous attention through every nook 'n cranny. This pre-Pesach procedure (summarized as clean, sell, hunt, annul, burn) is done the night before seder, and is mainly symbolic. Why? Because the house should already be "chometz-free." The head of the house uses a candle for light, a wooden spoon to gather the chometz and a feather to sweep it into the spoon. Accompanied by children the "search party" goes room by room seeking 10 (a symbolic number) pieces which have been pre-placed (technically, "hidden"). This is followed by saying bittul chometz, a legal formula in Aramaic which declares all chometz "ownerless like the dust of the earth." The final step is biur chometz, done no later than 5 hours after sunrise by burning the 10 pieces of chometz. But what exactly is chometz? I thought you'd never ask.

During the entire festival, chometz is assur bemashehu, "forbidden even for the smallest crumb." It cannot be eaten, owned or benefited from. cxxi The forbidden edible-fermented grain products are any one of the 5 species of grains (wheat, barley, spelt, rye and oats) although for some reason the grains themselves are permitted. Ashkenaz-rabbinic authorities later extended this prohibition to include the legume family of rice, beans, peas, maize and peanuts. The chometz fever is most apparent in Israel between Purim and Pesach. During a national cleaning frenzy stores sell more cleaning supplies than they sell all year round, drycleaners extend their hours, Municipal trash collectors work around the clock, Israelis air out blankets and rugs, hang mattresses over balconies, and donate old clothes and unwanted furniture to charity. Getting rid of chometz is an organizational challenge: from books, pockets, toys, cosmetics, medicines. Entire kitchens are taken apart and their screws, nuts and bolts are soaked in special liquids; whilst pots, pans, toasters, ovens and stoves are scrubbed of chometz - even the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo is thoroughly cleaned and the animals are fed only kosher-for-Pesach food.

The sole purpose of all Passover symbols is to prod, probe and provoke Jewish children, on "whom the world exists." cxxii Why? Because the Torah seeks active participants, not mute bystanders.

In order to ensure that this seder barter of ideas be a cathartic experience with, adds the Rambam, "all the eloquence we can muster," our rabbis, knowing that stories are the lifeblood of Judaism, mandated the concept of "up close and personal," known as the mitzva of maggid, of "story telling." This is an explicit Biblical duty for parents to engage in ve-higadeta le-vinkha, a creative dialogue with their children, for "When your son asks, what is this?" the reply must be long. Why? Because "the more a person dwells on the Exodus, the more praiseworthy it is." cxxv Even the plagues are stretched to ten so that "you should tell your son and grandson;" otherwise logic has it that the Heavens would have brought the tenth plague (makos) first and be done with it. The Torah itself, which is usually concise and parsimonious in its use of words, mentions "Exodus" 30 times, each time with an inherent passion and excitement. Even the word Pesach is a linguistic clue: in Hebrew pe means "mouth," sach means to "converse." The Targumic translator Unkolus adds that it is akin to the Hebrew word chos, which means to have mercy and pity. In other words, Pesach literally "speaks," mouthing the Jewish right to replace the Egyptian "dictatorship of the mind" with the freedom of self-expression, granted courtesy of God's mercy. And in reverse: the name Pharoah is spelt peh ra, meaning "a bad mouth," indicative of his deceit, defiance and false claims (eg: li y'ori, v'ani osisini, "the Nile is mine for I made it.") cxxvi

The seder is thus conducted in a disputatious question 'n answer format, derech she'eilah u'teshuvah, in order to get everyone involved. Listening is passive and stagnant; far better to inquire, probe and analyze. This creates an energy and enthusiasm that is fresh, jolting, interactive, invigorating, rejuvenating; emotions that Rabbi Zadok Hacohen of Lublin (the "Pri Tzadik") claims helps us shift gears from reality into the refined catacombs of memory. This oscillates from obligation to aspiration, between ritual and nonritual: the former confronting us with the juxtaposition of wealth (dippings, wine, reclining) and poverty-suffering (matzah, bitter herbs, etc); the latter a combination of such traditional activities as guilt (turning lily-white table clothes into wine-spilt stained momentos of clumsiness); cxxvii annual k'neidel cxxviii (matza ball) controversies (between grandmothers and mothers: it's too soft, too hard, too big, too small, not "bouncy" enough, too bouncy), and a rise in our cholesterol level as our dietary habits receive an onslaught from such gastronomic traumas as horseradish and beets, known in yiddish as chrain. I never understood why chrain had to be eaten with gefilte fish; surely one of the strangest anomalies of Jewish culinary art. Who takes sweet gefilte fish and then drowns it in a substance designed to destroy taste buds? Not I. cxxix Where does this word come from? It beets me! Perhaps from the Hebrew selek, which means "to get rid of," an inference of the conditions of the Exodus? cxxx

The "seder" of the Seder consists of 15 sections of spiritual awakening (hit'oreut), starting with kadesh (kiddush on the first cup of wine) cxxxi to nirtzah (singing "Next year in Jerusalem"). Our rabbis hoped that length would help restless children query, in order to absorb, the vast national drama of our inherited past. With a word-play on the Hebrew word oni, whose root meaning is "to reply," they turned the traditional matza's lechem oni, "the bread of affliction" into "the bread of answering;" even relying on such rollicking speed-driven melodies as Dayyenu, a 15-line poem that lists 15 boons which God bestowed on His folk. Why 15? Who knows? Answers range from the 15 steps that led up to the Temple, to King David's 15 Psalms of Ascents, to the 15 stages that lead the righteous to perfection. The "Dayenu" is one of the original parts of the Haggadah, penned by an unknown author from the Second Temple era. When it was first discovered in its present form in the early Middle Ages it was not an exclamation but a question: if God had only given us one good fortune, would it have been sufficient? - to which our answer is a resounding "yes!" Why? Because we must be thankful even for small mercies and not expect ongoing miracles.

The idea that ignorance is bliss is alien in a religion that believes every "why" invites a "because." Centuries of religious literature shows an overwhelming index of challenging questions and humble answers. To help prepare we are even encouraged to begin asking questions about the laws of Pesach thirty days before. "If the other does not know how to ask," teases the Haggadah, "ask for him!" Why? "Because the finest quality of Man is asking questions, since his wit is judged better by his questions than by his answers." cxxxvii

That is why the seder immediately opens with the first of four ma nishtana halayla hazeh mikol haleloth, "Why is this night different from all other nights?", sung in the same melody that students use when studying the Mishnah, in order to kick-start the inquisitive element of childish curiosity. These particular questions are only samples; in fact, the Mishnah lists only 3 questions, one of which is not included amongst the traditional four found in the Haggadah.

The obvious question is why the emphasis on the number "4," the most repetitive symbol of Pesach. We actually have 5, not 4, cups, if one includes the cup of wine for the prophet Elijah, known as Eliyahu HaNavi. It is here that Jewish mystics delight with gematria: the Hebrew word for cup is kos, whose gematria is 86, the same as "Elokim" (one of God's names). Five cups times 86 is 430, the gematria of nefesh, the human "soul," which happens to be the number of years the Jews were in Egypt. cxxxix Yet the number "4" predominates throughout the evening: there are 4 sons, 4 questions, 4 cups of wine, and 4 expressions of God's promise to redeem Israel (vehotzeiti, vehitzalti, vegoalti, velakachti). Why four? Reasons abound. The medieval Talmudists connected the number to the four "legs" of Torah known as Pardes, which means "orchard," a word formed from the acrostic of the four levels of understanding the Torah: Peshat (the straightforward, literal meaning); Derash (the midrashic-homiletic meaning); Remez (the allegorical, philosophical meaning) and Sod (the mystical, esoteric meaning.)

To infuse an atmosphere conducive to peek the curiosity of fidgety and impatient children isn't as easy as it sounds. This task has been the longest running laboratory in Jewish history, to see what works, what doesn't. A rare 15th century Haggadah suggests, by way of drawings, the following: suspend a curtain across the room, hold it up in two places from behind, letting it hang in three festoons, each at a different level to indicate openings to solve the "mystery" of Pesach on the other side of the curtain. Did this work? I don't know. Rabbi Akiva had a better idea: he would hand out candies in shul to keep the kids in good spirits. He even sent his entire Bet Medrash staff home early with the advice, "Now is not the time to review another halakhah, but to attend to your child, so that he or she will participate actively in the seder." cxli Rabbenu Manoah, a medieval commentator, was more aggressive: he got attention by starting the meal backwards. The sight of desserts first was a sure-fire attention winner, until the desserts were no more. A custom amongst Afghanistan Jews was to strike the person they were sitting next to with a green onion stalk during the singing of dayenu, which means "enough already!" This must have easily got the attention of aggressive children. In Iraq and Kurdistan Jews began their seder with a dramatic dialogue. One of the children goes outside, knocks on the door, and then answers a series of questions from the head of the household.

"Where have you come from?"
"Egypt."
"Where are you going?"
"To Jerusalem."
"What are your supplies?"

The child's final answer is reciting the Ma Nishtana.

Yemenite Jews perform a symbolic reenactment of the Exodus as the family head throws a knapsack over his back containing the afikoman, walks around the room leaning on a cane, and begins to reminisce on how he had just come out of Egypt. The Talmud offers up its own suggestion: that of akzrat hashulhan, which required removing the fully-set table from the room. Apparently this worked for little Abbaye who asks Rabbah, "why are you removing my table? We haven't eaten yet!", to which his uncle jubilantly replies, "You have freed us from the Ma Nishtana!" and then begins telling the story of the Exodus. cxliii

This is why the seder is designed to start with a series of unusual, and hopefully attentive steps. The head of the household drinks the kiddush wine sitting, after arranging pillows in order to eat derekh haseiba, in a "reclining" manner, freely as in an aristocratic style. He then washes his hands without a blessing and without leaving the table, and starts to dip (an unconventional table etiquette) assorted vegetables (lettuce, parsley, potatoes) into salt water. Just in case none of this has worked he then resorts to the can't-fail-formula of hide 'n seek, with prizes for the winner. The middle matza is broken in two and the larger portion (afikoman) is "hidden" for the children to find. The word is derived from the Greek Epi Komon, which means "after-meal deserts, songs, entertainment." cxlv The Rishonim were the first to use the term but disliked the whole "game" idea although they tolerated the activity under a different rational: "We snatch away the matza from the children, in order that they should not stuff themselves with it and become drowsy and then, no questions will be forthcoming from them." cxlviii By introducing the afikoman "game" at the beginning of the meal our rabbis kept the young awake, alert and interested enough to continue asking questions until the end of the meal, since the seder could not end until the afikoman was "found," a prize negotiated - and then eaten. But wait! What then? The seder is "rounded out" with songs and melodies that try and keep the young 'uns awake. My favorite was the delightful tongue-twisting Chad Gadya, the swansong of the evening that first appeared anonymously in a 1590 Prague Haggadah. Many Jews view this as some sort of light-hearted children's rhyme 'n riddle. Not so. The Kotzker Rebbe regarded the song as the holiest of all the Pesach piyyutim, tracing its theme, that life is a vicious circle, to Hillel's comment when he saw a skull floating on the water: "Because you drowned others, they have drowned you; and in the end they that drowned you shall themselves be drowned." cxlix

All these bizarre maneuverings had one purpose: to fulfill the halachik requirement to motivate Jewish children to ask questions, and ask them again, and again - and hopefully get answers. But what exactly is the message we're trying to "pass on" on Passover? Is the mission only to be celebatory, joyful, blissful? No. The Talmud insists that we begin with the unpleasant details and finish with the pleasant; from negative to positive, from ruination to salvation. To begin with the not so flattering, explains the Slonomer Rebbe, makes the story more potent, uplifting and liberating; which is why the Haggada opens with memories of Abraham's idol worshipping family and bitter recollections of slavery. cl

The seder tisch provides the main assault of symbols on our senses with a varied imagery of matzah, maror, karpas, zeroa-shankbones, eggs, salt water, dipping, haroset - and wine whose very color is regulated as being red, symbolic of the great quantity of Jewish blood spilt by Pharaoh. clii The town's wine seller once complained to the rabbi, "If I had been Moses, I would have improved upon the Passover arrangements. I would have given the Egyptians only four plagues and I would have provided for the Jews ten cups of wine."

The list of symbols and customs seems endless, continuous, even infinite, nevertheless the diversity is intended to make the whole equal to the sum of the parts.

The Hebrew word seder in seder tisch means "order," and although the Earl of Sandwich is credited with inventing the "sandwich," in fact it was one of our great Sages, Hillel, cliii who made the first sandwich by eating paschal lamb and bitter herbs placed between two pieces of matza. (According to Chaya Burstein's "Jewish Kids' Catalog", Roman Jews invented pizza when they put cheese and olive oil on matzah). Not surprisingly, more than any other Jewish festival, Pesach requires the most expenditure of time, money and effort. Halachists were so concerned at the costs of this yomtov that they positioned the law of kimcha depischa as an introduction to the Laws of Pesach (this demands that a communal charity assist Jews who could not afford such essentials as matza, wine, etc).

Like all other Jewish festivals, the seder begins with the kiddush, chanted in the same tune as the kiddush for the other two pilgrim festivals. Participants are informed, in the name of Rabban Gamliel, the obligation to discuss the lamb, matza and maror. Why these three? Because they represent the first seder in the land of Egypt.

What is maror? "Herbs" that commemorate the harsh conditions of slavery, consisting of either romaine lettuce or horse-radish (because of its sharp, bitter taste). According to the Magen Avraham if the numerical value of karpas (celery or parsley) is read backwards, we get the "60 myriads" of Hebrew slaves. clvi What does the shankbone symbolize? The Pascal sacrificial lamb, z'roa in Hebrew, that was slaughtered at the time of the Exodus: the z'roa netuyah being the "outstretched hand" with which God led the way. And the roasted egg? A symbol of the chagigah ("festival offering"). In my home we eat hard-boiled eggs right at the beginning of the meal. Why? I don't know. The egg is a religious symbol in nearly every culture and the Talmud even has a tractate called Betzah ("egg") which deals with the use of eggs laid on Jewish festivals. The size of an egg is often used as halachic guides to measures (eg; the kiddush cup must have the capacity of one and a half eggs). When my mother would shop in pre-war Poland she would search for a "betzah," an egg size of oil. Saltwater is a symbol of the tears that were shed, and a reminder that the first day of Pesach always coincides with Tisha B'Av. Dipping of green vegatables (karpas) into salt water at the beginning of the meal symbolizes hope associated with Spring, whilst haroset is a brownish relish (usually made of fruit, nuts, spices and wine) that is eaten with the maror, to symbolize the clay and mortar used to make bricks from the mud of the Nile

But why do we need a special "retell" meal if the Torah has already commanded us zekhirat yetzi'at Mitzrayim, to "remember the exodus from Egypt" every single day of the year? clvii Rav Chaim of Brisk is quick to answer: 'remembering' is a private act in contrast to 'telling' which requires a public presence, and a sharing with others (although this command is surprisingly absent in the Rambam's list of mitzvot.) clix

The interactive symbolism includes a cast of children, four to be exact, listed in descending order of intellectuality - the wise (and his mirror image, the wicked, who is clever but antagonistic), the simple (ranging from foolish to simply uninformed), and the one who does not know how to ask. This fourth son may be too young to ask questions, or perhaps an adult for whom the occasion is overwhelming and strange. From wise, wicked, simple and inexperienced…to for some, the sadly absent Fifth Child - the child lost to assimilation, to foreign cultures. The Haggadah contemplates no more than four brothers, including the one who knew not what to ask (included, as our yiddishists would say, because es is besser vi gornisht, at least it's "better than having nothing"). Today, it is more likely to find the father who knows not what to answer. Interestingly when the Haggadah tells the parent, at p'tach lo, "You open the subject for him," it uses the feminine tense for "you." Why? Because the command is addressed to the mother who is usually the child's first teacher and the greatest influence on his moral and Jewish awakening.

The Haggadah's pedagogic use of The-Four-Sons teaches us the importance of taking into account the knowledge, and personality, of the questioner in order to gear a befitting and respectful response. Remember: many a wrong demeanor to an innocent question has driven a Jew away from his Judaism. The great 20th century American halachist, Rav Moshe Feinstein, often pointed out the similarities in the questions asked by the wise and wicked sons, in order to highlight the fact that sometimes, in real life, it is hard to distinguish between the two. That is why Judaism is super sensitive and careful not to define the wicked son as "wicked," but as tinokos shenishbu, a "child captured and raised by non-Jews" - in other words, these children are not to be judged on their lack of knowledge since they were raised in Jewishly-ignorant homes. And more: a close reading of the text shows that the son who is "wicked" is not because he doesn't observe the commandments, but because of his attitude, language and tone of voice. "What is the meaning of this seder to you," implies "you" and "not me;" an exclusionary statement, one of division, making him an enemy of Judaic unity, a kofer be-ikar, a "denier of the foundations of Judaism." But wait: doesn't the "wise" son also use the same directive, "What are the testimonies which God has given you?" Our rabbis see a difference: the latter "you" is directed to the father by an underage boy not yet obligated to observe mitzvas; thus his is a sincere quest for knowledge, in contrast to the former's use of "you" as a tool for internal destruction.

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Chasman, the great musar teacher, does not see these "four sons" as four boys with distinct personalities, claiming that the traits the Haggada exemplifies the struggle within each Jew: one moment we are wise, the next wicked; in one instant we can become a laissez-faire simpleton, the next moment we are unable to ask. The Pri Tzaddik sees the inclusion of the wicked son as a sign that no Jewish child is ever irretrievably lost. Unfortunately, this is not so today. The chances are that the missing "fifth" son is irretrievable by his very absence. Rabbi Isaac Schneerson once compared the four sons to the history of American Jewry: the first "wise" son represented the first generation out of Europe (the learned father, or grandfather), the second son was the next generation ("wicked" in his desire to assimilate); they were followed by a generation whose son grew up confused (torn between father and grandfather), finally the fourth son suffers from amnesia (he doesn't remember his bubbe and zeida from Europe, and has no knowledge of anything). The fifth son, the one that is "absent," is so because, as the offspring of the fourth, he has totally assimilated and no longer even calls himself Jewish.

Strange, isn't it? Weeks before the seder, we meticulously prepare all the holiday symbols, except one. The most important one. The most precious one.

The one elementary Pesach requisite that no one prepares for in advance, yet whose absence is conspicuous at the seder, is the presence of a child - any child, for only Jewish children can accelerate the maggidization of the tale of the Exodus by their imaginative interaction.

In 1946, the first year following the liberation of Adolf's death camps, some of the U.S. Jewish military personnel stationed throughout the world found themselves in Germany over Pesach. A thoughtful U.S. government had provided everything for their seder, except for a Jewish child. Realizing that they had no one to ask the Ma Nishtana foursome, a frantic and agitated search throughout all of Berlin was launched. It failed. Adolf had been thorough, sweeping, determined. Whilst stalking the land of Europe he had gratuitously slaughtered millions of God's first, second and third born so there was not a single solitary Jewish child to be found. That missing Jewish-Germanic child (the "Fifth Child") had disappeared alongside one-and-a-half million other tortured European Jewish children into the deep black hole of history. At that particular time and place, any child would have been sufficient. Wise, wicked, simple, inexperienced - no matter. In the end, they settled on an American barmitzva boy who had just arrived with his father, a chaplain.

Pesach without children is like a cantor without a song; like an actor without an Oscar, or a storyteller without an audience. Why? Because Jewish children are the ultimate yomtov symbol. They represent victory over disaster. Their presence shouts destiny over destruction. They make Pesach both whole and wholesome; enjoyable and enduring.

I remember, as a child, that the best part of my father's seder tisch was not the songs, nor the food, nor the four cups of wine, nor the reclining. Not even the search for the "hidden" afikomen. The part that awed my sister Chanala and I came just before the thanksgiving prayer of Hallel.

Our childish imaginations were awed and stirred by the mystery of that omnipresent Fifth Cup; a goblet of wine, known as the koso shel Eliyahu, that just sat there all night, untouched by human lips. The cup belonged to Eliyahu Ha-Navi (which means "my God is God"), the invisible Prophet Elijah, a man of great mystery, a phenomenon sui generis, defender of God, and champion of monotheism, who lived during the 7th century BC in the northern kingdom of Israel. Elijah appears in the Bible out of nowhere and after years of revolutionary leadership persistently battling religious leaders and such monarchs as King Ahab and his foreign wife, Jezebel, for their worship of pagan gods, he is miraculously "taken" to Heaven "in a whirlwind," thus ending his incognito good deeds on earth as a nomadic protector of the underprivileged and oppressed. We never hear from him again until the very last words of Micah, the very last prophet, who promises Jewish history that Elijah will return as the unifier of generations, the reconciler of parents and children.

In the antique Mantua Haggadah of 1560, reflecting the iconographic minhag of German and Italian Jewry, a shofar-carrying Elijah is shown walking in front of the Messiah riding on his donkey, with men, women and children being carried on the donkey's tail. In a 15th century version, the illustration shows how grim were the times: next to the messianic expression of hope, "Next year in Jerusalem," is written, "or in Bruenn."

Elijah is not mentioned once in the Torah nor in the Book of Prophets clxi and, chronologically, has nothing to do with the Exodus since he lived some 600 years after the time of Moses. What then does he have to do with Passover?

When the rabbis of the Talmud couldn't agree whether Jews should drink four or 5 cups of wine, they decided to pour a fifth cup that would remain full - and defer the answer until the future when, according to tradition, Elijah, expecting to return before the Messiah, would prepare his way by settling all of history's open-ended rabbinic disputes. clxii (I imagine that his first answer will be whether his own cup should be drunk or not). Whenever these "hard questions" appear the Torah text concludes with the word teyku which is derived from the Hebrew root kum which denotes, "let it stand," or from tik, a "file;" thus the term teyku suggests, "File it away." Jewish mystics see teyku as the synonym of Tishbi y'taretz kush'yot v'bbayyiot, "Elijah the Tishbite will resolve all problems and difficulties" (Tishbite referring to Elijah's birthplace, the village of Tishbe in Gil'ad, north of the River Yabbok).

In the meantime, Jewish tradition had assigned to Elijah the task of upholding brit ha'drot, the "covenant between the generations," the unseen prophet-guardian of the people of Israel whose miraculous presence attests to this time being leil shimmurim, the "night of Divine watchfulness." It is in this role that the prophet injected tension, bated breath and anticipation into our seder. Would he show? Would he drink? From the filling of Elijah's cup to the entrance of the invisible prophet, our childish eyes remained frozen on the level of Elijah's wine. He was the enigma of Pesach; the conundrum of the wine-stained pages of the Haggadah. He was responsible for the sudden hush, the silence around the seder tisch, the anticipation. I watched my father strain his ears in the hope of hearing footsteps. My mother held back tears of hope that Judaic redemption was, finally, about to enter her home.

With such a near-impossible task in his portfolio, Elijah becomes something more than mortal, something larger than life. The prophet who will accomplish the miracle of warming the hearts of the generations to each other becomes endowed with even more qualities, with a range of universal to very personal implications. The figure of Elijah transforms into an invitation - to ultimate redemption, to peace and reconciliation in this pained world.

He is seen as the front-runner of the Messiah, the one who will announce that better days are coming for all of us. But his powers are not limited to that vast application. In talmudic literature, we see a figure who appears, inexplicably, in all variety of situations: a synagogue, a study hall, a rabbinic discussion. Always, Elijah acts as a wise man, a counselor to the rabbis, a dispenser of special insights. But Elijah's mysterious appearances do not stop there. Throughout our literature and lore, the prophet has been known to show up even in unlearned circles, in the streets, homes and businesses of the common man. Stories abound, granting him numerous cameo roles as mystery guest, miracle worker, guardian angel, agent of God. For thousands of years, mortals have encountered Elijah, realizing only after the fact that the quiet visitor, the beggar at the door, the magical man - often lining up help for the poor and suffering - was Elijah himself.

He is a richly textured and multidimensional character. Bringer of the Messiah and guardian of orphans. Many parts of a complex whole. But what's he doing at our seder? Jewish tradition imbues Elijah with the job of heralding the ultimate, worldly redemption. And Passover night, with all its sights, sounds, words and images, is a celebration of redemption. But there is even another reason for Elijah's nocturnal visitation. In the Talmud, when there are matters of debate that cannot be solved by mortals, Elijah is invoked: the Rabbis declare "Teiku," an acronym for words which mean "Elijah will someday come and resolve all difficulties and problems." Through Elijah, stalemates will end. Impossible questions will be answered. And the darkest recesses will be illuminated.

On Pesach, the night of redemption also is a night of questions. From "Ma Nishtana" through the song "Echad Mi Yodeia," the act of questioning, of pointing out problems and inconsistencies, defines the seder ritual. Questioning and redemption are two sides of the same coin. A sense of Israelite redemption can be experienced only through a process of rigorous asking, through hours of seeking. "Where is he?" my son wants to know. "When is Elijah coming?" Perhaps he is here already, happy to fulfill his many tasks as long as we seek him with our questions.

One could cut the tension with a knife when I was sent to open the front door (a task I demanded each year), and then rushed back to the dining room to watch the rim of the wine. It had to move. That was like halachah in my home. It was predestined, foregone, inevitable. And Elijah always obliged me, always; each year he would slip in and out, taste the wine, participate with us in our annual celebratory evening of freedom and birth as a holy nation.

The wine? Yep. It always moved. I saw it with my own eyes.

During his seder, Rabbi Menahem Mendel Morgenstern of Kotzk once opened the door to welcome Elijah. As he left the room one of his thirsty guests drank the wine from Elijah's cup. When the Rebbe returned and saw the cup empty, he turned to his guest and, not wanting to embarrass him, said, "My dear friend, both you and Elijah are welcome guests in my home. As the prophet did not appear to drink his wine, you are certainly entitled to it."

The punctual prophet honored our family with his imbibe drinking habits, with his majestic and mysterious presence; just as he had honored thousands of other Jewish homes for the past 3,000 years; invisibly passing over Auschwitz arches and through Gulag gates, blood libels, Christian stakes, task masters and slave lords all. clxvi

Eliyahu is closely tied to the unity of families, based on the verse "He will return the heart of parents to children, and the heart of children to their parents." clxvii This is why, since he is regarded as the protector of young children, a special chair (called kisse shel Eliyahu) is brought in at every circumcision for Eliyahu.

Relief was the highlight of my seder; a relief that Elijah was consistent in his zealousness to visit my family, my home, to sip from my, (sorry) his, goblet. His silent presence stirred my childish imaginations. His stubborn insistence at showing up each year, just at the right time, was reassuring. That is why so many yiddishe folk songs have been composed in his honor as the harbinger of unity, salvation and consolation, expressing love and longing, sung when the Pesach doors are flung open or at the closing of the Sabbath.

When the prophet exited our home he may have exited incognito but he left behind something very tangible: hope, a quality that if "deferred maketh the heart sick." clxix That hope springs eternal in the human breast is why Elijah's annual comings 'n goings left in their wake a contagious symbol of enthusiasm and expectation for a better world, for the light of liberty, for an indomitable Judaic optimism.

Hope, in the home of Holocaust survivors, was better than life; and it was "hope" that began our seders with hashatta avdei, l'shana h'ba'a benei chorin, ("currently we are subservient, but we can envision our liberation") yet also ended them, around midnight, via the soft lyrics of Nirtza that yearned for the swift arrival of Mashiach tzidkenu.

I confess: Sometimes, when I watched my four sons' eyes fixed on the full goblet of Isaiah, I bumped the table ever so slightly to make the wine move. I'm sure my father, my father's father and his father never resorted to such cheap trickery - and the wine still moved.

I feel guilty. I'll try not to do it next year.