Anyone who remembers my family will remember that Pesach always meant one of my uncles from Switzerland spending the holiday with us. My father had two brothers who never married. One looked just like my father. He was known for his clown antics but was also very serious and private. The other was lively and talked quickly, but he also suffered from nervousness, which always made his life turbulent. He, too, liked to be funny and had a kind heart. With all of his challenges, he ran a children’s magazine called Kol Hano’ar, which was popular in Switzerland. (My father would receive it and share it with Rav Mantel’s youngest son, who was still a boy when the Rav came to New York.)

The experience was always memorable. Europeans always have an air of sophistication compared to us Americans. Their clothing seemed fine. There was always a hint of cigarette and cologne. Our home was suddenly filled with the Swiss language, coffee was served constantly, and loud conversations—sounding like heated arguments to one who doesn’t speak the language—ensued.

Then came the antics—burping competitions after the meal, silly pranks, funny faces, and my mother chiding her brothers-in-law. Her favorite beef was how they always came with Swiss chocolate bars for me. Since Schmerling was readily available in our local grocery store, she would scold them for their lack of originality. Of course, they were bringing a whole stack of chocolates, much more than we would have bought—so there’s that.

Those uncles have long passed, and my father is not here to fight with them either. Yom Tov will come in with its memories, which the family holds dear and cherishes. The Seder is a link in a chain of Seders past and times separated from us by many Afikomens.

Good Yom Tov!

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