Peddling away on the health club’s stationary bicycle, I create mental lists of tasks that lie ahead. It is the beginning of April, so I think of Passover, a big to-do in my household.

The seder is one of the few occasions when my entire family gathers at my table. There will also be friends, dressed in their finest. We will pray, sing, laugh, and eat.

To reach that stage, however, I will need to make many trips to the basement to bring down our regular dishes and bring up the Passover dishes. I need to clean the house, superclean the kitchen, dispose of all leavened foods, and buy special Passover food. I will complain about my aching back and sore hands, and be very busy.

My early youth memories come back as a little girl in Poland, excited about the coming Passover. My Passover participation then consisted of new dresses and shoes.

It was always the same ritual. I’d try the first pair of shoes and claim that they fit perfectly. I refused to try another pair. The shoes were usually too small, so by the first day of Passover I limped in my new shoes and would have to return home to change into my old shoes. The new shoes were then given to a less well-off family.

My comfortable, untroubled life came to an abrupt end when World War II began. I was eight years old. After being expelled from our town, I ended up in hiding, first alone, then joined by my mother and sister.

The kind and brave woman who offered us shelter was illiterate; we had no access to a newspaper or a calendar. We did not know what month it was, or even what time of year it was. It is inconceivable how primitive we lived.

One day my mother told us that the next day was the start of Passover. We had almost no money and lived on bread and potatoes. For the next eight days we ate potatoes three times a day, never touching bread. It was our only taste of Freedom.

After the liberation, it took time until we returned to normal life. Ten years later, my mother passed away, and I was living in Western Europe. At an international book fair I met a Prince Charming -- a young man with the bluest eyes in the world, tall and handsome, with impeccable manners. The man was of a different faith, yet I was young and in love, and didn’t think of the consequences. On my birthday, he sent me beautiful roses. His calling card was imprinted with his family crest, some European nobility. Even my father was impressed.

The young man proposed, and I was ready to accept. His mother wrote me a letter, inviting me to spend the Easter holiday in the family's villa in Nice, France, to get acquainted. Young and excited, I accepted the invitation and started to pack for the holiday. I wanted to impress the mother, a very elegant lady, so I asked my best friend, Vittoria, to help me pack.

After filling the suitcase with my most precious outfits, I also packed a box of matzah. That year Easter and Passover fell at the same time. Vittoria, who was not Jewish, asked with surprise, "What is that for?"

"I never ate bread during Passover before, and I do not intend to do so now," I answered. Vittoria was appalled. "You intend to spend your life with that fancy family, and eat matzah during Easter?"

That moment I remembered my late mother and her Passover. I realized that my roots were stronger even than my romantic desires. I did not go to Nice.

Soon afterward I left for America, where I met a Jewish prince. A young man, tall and handsome, with impeccable manners. We celebrate Passover in our home and to this day, I’ve never eaten bread during the holiday.