I was only five years old in 1940. I remember how my family always ate Friday night supper in the dining room seated at the heavy mahogany table my parents had bought when they were newlyweds.

There were six of us back then. My mother and father, my two older sisters, my Aunt Nettie, and me.

The table had thick round carved legs that could bear the weight of our best china and all the platters of food that we used on Shabbos. The legs were huge. Fat as my waist. High as my elbows. I thought those pillars held magical powers. They were waiting to stomp on me if I wasn’t careful. It was a struggle I dreamed up to amuse myself at those silent meals. I used to climb into my chair, slide forward on the seat, hold on to the edge of the table, and let my legs dangle down as far as they could reach. Then I would swing them back and forth, again and again, each time with a longer, stronger arc until my toes found their target. I kept doing that until I had vanquished my foe and won the war.

On Friday night, as the sun was going down, my mother lit the Shabbos candles and we said the prayer to welcome the Sabbath Queen who brought us a day of rest and quiet contemplation. Then we all gathered around the table as if it were a magnet and we were pieces of iron that, willingly or not, would be drawn in and held tightly. We were caught. Who could resist that table laden with the special Shabbos dinner?

Every day of the week, my mother presided over the evening meal. But on Friday night, my father ruled supreme. First, he said the broche over the challah and passed pieces of that sweet bread to all of us. Then he said the broche over the wine and shared the dark sweet wine with my mother and Aunt Nettie. That done, we were ready for our meal. There was chopped liver and hot chicken soup.

There was roast chicken, and potatoes, and vegetables. It was the best meal of the week.

Conversation was sparse. My father looked tired. My mother seemed worried. Was it because the portions were so small? Even then, I knew there was very little money and many mouths to feed.

Dessert was never served until my father heard the news. He turned on the radio and adjusted the dial carefully so we could hear that solemn voice clearly. The one that gave such grim reports. Hitler advanced. The Allies fell back. Hushed words hinted at the disaster befalling European Jews. This war would not be easily won, if it were won at all.

On Friday night, we ate small plates of food with large cups of misery on the side.

But. Once each year, on Rosh Hashonah, supper was a completely joyous affair. That same table offered up thick red wine in crystal goblets, sweet round challah on silver trays, and apples dipped in honey served in a bowl from my great grandmother’s shelf.

My father raised his glass and we all followed him. He thanked the Lord our God, King of the Universe, for giving us the fruit of the vine and for bringing forth the bread from the earth. My father nodded and we all sat down to enjoy this century-old feast.

Rosh Hashonah ushers in the “Days of Awe.” During the next eight days, God decides our fate for the coming year. It is the time when we ask those we have wronged to forgive us for any wrongdoing we may have done them. Because, you see, without that forgiveness, God will not grant us forgiveness. Young as I was, it made me feel good. I thought things would get better. No more war. No more fear.

In some child-like way, Rosh Hashonah means the same to me now. And I smile when I remember those special meals.

I still continue to wait for the good times even though I believe they will never come. But I think of when I was a child, and sit alone on Rosh Hashonah “nostalgic for things that never were.”