I used to love to sit and listen to the stories my mother-in-law would tell me about how women living in the Jerusalem shechunot would prepare for Pesach “back in the day.”
Every year in the weeks before Pesach, the moms would start checking to see if there was any leftover whitewash (paint) from the store of paint the dads had purchased at Tambour Paints in the shuk the previous year.
My mother-in-law used to say that my father-in-law wasn’t skilled at this kind of work, as in “he has two left hands,” because only she, who had taken a painting course near the Bezalel Art School, could whitewash the house properly.
My father-in-law had a clear role: negotiating and getting his price at the market (he was always negotiating, even when he came here, he tried to do it at Costco), subsequently taking an afternoon nap to re-charge, and then going to shul.
Everything else fell on mother-in-law, who did it with singing and dancing, and with a tiny bit of complaining.
Early in the morning, she would wake up the rooster, then go downstairs with her brushes and start painting the outside of the house.
There were rough lines marking where our house ended and the neighbor’s house began, usually determined by last year’s paint marks (back then they didn’t use surveyors). Maybe that’s why they whitewashed again and again—to establish boundaries.
Even the cat had to do his part, making sure everyone knew which wall was his.
My mother-in-law painted in blue, the popular color in the Old City, believed to ward off the evil eye (ayin ha’ra).
The neighbor next door had already painted yellow, and now the neighborhood looked like something out of Disneyland, with each house painted a different color with no harmony whatsoever. I tried to picture my mother-in-law with her apron and tichel making sure no paint got on her hair.
By midday, all the neighbor ladies would take a break for coffee. They would sit on the thick stone fences, each sharing what stage of the Pesach preparations they had reached. There was a silent competition among them—who had done the most, who was working the hardest.
Every now and then, another neighbor would pass by with groceries in hand (shopping was also part of the work), who would stop and look at the other women sitting and drinking coffee as if they were on vacation.
“How’s the market?” one of them would ask. And the expected response would come: “Everything is so expensive!” All the women would nod, and some would say “Mah Nishtanah” in agreement. Each woman sat with her apron stained with paint, as if they were at a painters’ convention.
I asked my mother-in-law, “So how does this convention end?” To which she responded, “You can never be the first one to leave because then you would become the topic of the conversation.” The compromise in this ‘parliament’ was that everyone left at the same time, declaring, “Alright, one last cigarette,” and only then would they all disperse. “I don’t understand,” I said, “Did women in the shechunah smoke in public back then?” “No,” answered my mother-in-law. “The widow Mevorach from downstairs started this. She was the feminist of our generation, G-d rest her soul. She would pull out her yellow Ascot cigarette pack and offer one to everyone. No one would challenge her, and she did not have to answer to anyone.” “But I didn’t think you smoked!” I said to my mother-in-law, to which she replied, “I don’t inhale!”
There was nothing like the weather in Jerusalem just before Passover—you couldn’t find such air anywhere else on earth. I always wished I could bottle some of that air and take it home with me. As I write these words, I can almost smell that air in a jar. I can hear the birds singing and the laughter of the children playing in the neighborhood. I can smell the aromas of food wafting through the kitchen windows.
I asked my husband Haim, “What did you do back then to help out?” He said, “Our only contribution as kids to the Passover preparations was to leave the house, eat outside, and not get in our parents’ way. This only applied to boys, though. The girls weren’t so lucky. They had to help their mothers. That was the way back then—it raised lazy men, except for Yaakov Armoza, who cleaned his house thoroughly back then and continues to do so till this day.”
He went on to tell me: “Pesach preparations also brought conflicts for neighborly clashes, especially among those who shared a balcony and stairs. The approaching Pesach fueled their disputes. They had spent many Fridays preparing for combat, and for the big showdown before the holiday.
“I will never forget the battle of pots flying through the air between Mrs. Katribas and Mrs. Kamchi, may they rest in peace. I believe the argument was over fresh dirt on the stairs after she had just finished washing the stairs.
“I remember the kids coming down to the neighborhood with matzah and charoset sandwiches. “Give me a bite,” they’d ask each other, eager to taste different charosets. If I recall correctly, we all made the same heavy charoset, thick as cement, made of dates, almonds, walnuts, and wine. My mom used to prepare Shabbat beginning on Tuesday, and if she had a little extra time left while preparing for Pesach, I’m sure she would have started preparing for Shavuot as well.”
Wishing everyone a happy and kosher Passover, with peace and serenity.
May all the hostages finally be released and finally come home to their family and friends.
Anessa Cohen lives in Cedarhurst and is a Licensed Real Estate Broker (Anessa V Cohen Realty with over 20 years of experience offering full service residential, commercial and management real estate services in the 5 towns of Long Island as well as the tri-state area. She can be reached at 516-569-5007 or readers are encouraged to send any questions or scenarios by email to anessa@avcrealty.com.
