Challah With Sardines

Once in a while, I walked with my father to shul on Shabbat afternoon for Seuda Shlishit, the third meal, which took place in the basement of a building named Weihburg.

I was a young girl, maybe eight years old, and the sensation of my father’s hand holding mine was a reward in itself.

While I waited for the men to complete the afternoon prayer, I watched an elderly man picking up bread crumbs from the floor. He carefully gathered each tiny piece with his fingers and explained to me that it was a sin to step on even the smallest crumb of bread.

That image has stayed with me until today.

But there was another bonus when I accompanied my father to shul at that particular time: the challah roll with mashed sardines, which my father handed to me through the mechitzah.

No ladies or other girls were present for Seuda Shlishit, but I did not mind at all. I had my father nearby, my challah with sardines, and somehow I felt that I belonged.

And that is exactly what came back to me yesterday when I walked to shul with my husband.

I developed this habit a few months ago, and I absolutely love it.

There is something very special about this particular time in shul. It is a smaller group of people who gather because they enjoy davening together and want to hold on to the last precious hours of Shabbat.

After my husband reads the first three perakim of the following week’s parashah and Mincha is completed, we head into another room where a festive table has been set for Seuda Shlishit.

We nibble on challah, a little tuna, and perfectly triangular slices of watermelon. After a short while, the singing begins. The beautiful tunes of Mizmor L’David and Nefesh fill the room.

The singing subsides, and Rabbi Dunner gives over a vort, or, better said, a Dvar Torah, which always includes a story. Birkat Hamazon is recited, and everyone returns to the shul to complete Shabbat with Maariv and Havdalah.

And there I am.

Just as when I was eight years old in Vienna, I am usually the only woman participating in Seuda Shlishit.

So much has changed. The basement in the building named Weihburg is far away. My father’s hand is no longer holding mine, and there are no sardines waiting for me on a challah roll.

But the feeling is still there.

I realized long ago that every minute of Shabbat is a special gift given to us by Hashem. Perhaps that is why, all these years later, a little piece of challah can still bring me back to my father, his hand in mine, and a Shabbat afternoon I never really left behind.