A Pesach Story
She screamed JAP, Jewish American Princess, from the flat suede pumps to the black taffeta rosette clipping back blonde strands of hair. She walked with poise, too; heading directly to the table in the centre of the room. Raizl watched the girl pile a plate high with cakes, selecting slices from each tray, layers of chocolate and mousse. She stifled feelings of annoyance. That little girl was acting as if she owned the place. She could only be nine, or ten, years old. Yet she strode around like a little queen. "She's only a child", Raizl told herself, but still the feelings came. Hatred was too harsh a word. Raizl kept track of the girl, as she circled the hotel dining room, backwards and forwards between tables, fetching drinks and desserts, bearing bounty back to the table where her family must be sitting. Resentment, perhaps. Yes, that was closer to the truth. Raizl resented the girl, with her perfect outfit and complete confidence. Raizl was a grown up now, a ...