by Byron Citron

The supernatural is real to a child, especially to one looking for answers to family secrets or unexplained attitudes of his parents.

When my grandfather Citron was alive, he conducted the major holiday celebrations. I vividly remember 1925 Passover when I was about seven. The Citrons were seated around a large oblong table. My grandfather was at the head, my father, at the opposite end.  Next in order were my grandmother, Aunt Marie, Aunt Ada, Uncle Uri, Lotte Lafee Kellner, cousin Jessie, my mother, my sister Ula, and my new brother Bob, just one month old, and finally, an empty chair with a place setting for Elijah.

The Passover table was set with white, initialed linen napkins, water, and initialed crystal wine glasses, matzos, candles, and fresh flowers. The tantalizing aromas still almost overpower me. The serving, as in the past was very, very slow. The telling of the Passover story had to come first, terribly long but intended to engage everyone, especially the children, to participate in reading and singing. We children were at first fidgety but finally quieted down.

The seder began when the first matzos, carefully wrapped in a napkin, were broken. Then, after more passages of the Passover story were read, we began with the haroset.  The reading continued. The course endured with the children becoming more excited over the Angel of Death killing the first-born of the Egyptians and the violent sea engulfing the Kingdoms of the Egyptians and their armies. The Hebrew slaves were saved, and so were children--almost free!

At last the main entrée was served following a final prayer, songs, and a toast. The wine glasses were filled again, and the legendary arrival of the Prophet Elijah who heralds the messiah who is to come. The glasses were raised, and then unexpectedly the doorbell rings.  Who could it be, the ghost of Elijah? Could a ghost ring a doorbell?

I stood still, frozen hand on the door knob. A long moment of silence, and than a loud father's voice, "Open the door! "  Then again, "Open the DOOR, Byron!" my father ordered.  "Allow the spirit of Elijah to enter."

I reluctantly opened the door revealing a tall strange man and several children. It was Marcus Lafee, my mother's only living brother and his family. My mother had not seen her brother since her wedding. Years later, my mother suggested that Marcus had been opposed to her marriage to my father and especially to her having left San Francisco for a home in Los Angeles. Such are the slights and hurts that plague family circles.

I remember this "ghost story" each spring when I visit Sarah Atkinson Lafee, the eldest of Marcus' five children. Sarah is now over 90 years old, and we two are the last of that memorable Seder 85 years ago.

Byron Citron is a 3rd generation Californian; his grandparents left Russia in 1872  just after the California Gold Rush. He attended UCLA, and served with the 147th Infantry as back up of World War II First Marine Division at Iwo Jima. He worked for Union Labor Management, ILGWU San Francisco as a Time and Motion Engineer, as well as commercial construction and forensic analysis, and retired in 1998. He is currently a volunteer for hospice and lives with his daughter in Northern California, where he takes writing classes.

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