“The Prophet Elijah,” my mother continued, more to herself than to me, “is a guest whom we shall need to-night as never before.” Even while she spoke, a stone was hurled against the shutters, the concussion breaking several window-panes.
“Mother!” I cried in great fright, “are you sure that the prophet will come?”
“I am quite sure he will come,” she replied, “although I have never seen him.”
I did not ask any more questions, for I knew her heart was heavy and I could see that she was not far from tears. She now lighted the candles, thanking God that He had thus commanded, and then went to look after affairs in the kitchen; for prayers and Psalms were to alternate with delicious soup, fish, and roast lamb with all its accompaniments. At least a week is spent in preparation for the Jewish Passover. The home must be cleansed from cellar to attic, that even the slightest particle of leaven be removed. House cleaning before the Passover is an exacting religious ceremony, a marvellous provision for an Oriental people to which personal cleanliness came as the fiat of Heaven.
My mother was a daughter of Israel, who “looked well after the ways of her household,” but as she lighted the match to set fire to the gathered leaven, I heard her say the usual prayer with great fervour. “We praise Thee, Lord our God, King of the whole world, for commanding us to burn the leaven.”
At last my uncle came, his three sons with him, and breathlessly they told of the gathering mob and of stones crashing through the synagogue windows. Yet in spite of all this apprehension, my uncle put on the robes of his priestly office, girded his loins and praised God loudly for having delivered His people out of the bondage in Egypt. As we praised Him in prayers and hymns, so we praised Him in eating of the food He had provided; for were we not protected by the invisible guest, the Prophet Elijah? Was not his goblet filled, although his chair was still empty?
Clearly and triumphantly my uncle sang the jubilant notes of Israel’s redemptive journey from Egypt to the Promised Land while the rest of us timidly chanted the amens and hallelujahs. The villagers, attracted by the service, had gathered in front of our house in increasing numbers. Stones began to fly against the shutters and a crowbar was being applied to the bolts and hinges; yet undisturbed, my uncle, this high priest of Jehovah, continued the service, while we, more and more frightened, tremblingly murmured our parts.
At a certain point in the service, just before drinking the wine, a door is opened to the Prophet Elijah. This was my task and I always felt it a somewhat awful one. Now when the critical moment came, I could not move. I seemed petrified by fear, for the crowd, growing impatient, was making a fierce assault upon our front door. Then, at the moment of greatest suspense, the miracle occurred.
“Hello, good Christians!” cried a strong, resonant voice. “Is this your Easter celebration? Is this the way the risen Lord has taught you to treat your neighbours?”
“Your Reverence,” we heard one of the mob reply, “they have slaughtered Anushka, the daughter of the stone-mason, and they are now drinking her blood out of silver goblets. We want to avenge her death.”