We gathered around a table laden with things that only I had seen before: bitter herbs, chopped eggs and liver, glasses with sweet wine.

"Sean," Mr. Feldman said, handing me a small paper, "will you honor my house?"

"Why is this night different from all other nights?" I began.

I could almost feel the passage of the angel's wings that night as I took the place of a young Jew who had fallen into a glory that knew no nationality.

We ate the Passover meal. We shared the cup and we dipped our bitter herbs. Mama and her six Irish sons.

I was home on furlough from the Navy when Mr. Feldman became very ill.

"He's going, Sean," Mrs. Feldman told me as I entered the small bedroom. Mr. Feldman lay propped on pillows.

I approached the bed. Mr. Feldman recognized me and held out his hand.

"Sean," was all he could say. He had difficulty breathing. Mama, who was standing on the side of the bed with her arms around Mrs. Feldman, indicated that I should stay and let him hold my hand.

"Sean," he said again after a few minutes, "I would be honored if you would say Kaddish for me."

I looked puzzled and Mrs. Feldman gestured that she would explain later. I held tightly to Mr. Feldman's hand and looked at him, hoping that he could see me.

"I will say Kaddish for you," I told him, not even knowing what it was. He smiled and held his other hand out. Mrs. Feldman took it in hers.

He died that morning.

Later that day, because Jews do not have wakes like the Irish and usually bury their dead before sundown, I arrived at the synagogue. We were all there: Tommy, who was now a lawyer; Billy, the fireman; David, home for Easter from graduate studies at Notre Dame; Kevin, also a fireman; Danny, who was studying accounting; and me, the sailor. Six Irish lads had come, along with their mother, to share the grief of an old Jewish woman.

We gathered in the back of the synagogue because we didn't really know what to do. A man had handed us each a small black skullcap as we entered. When I reached for mine, he said I should keep my white Navy "Cracker Jack" on. Mrs. Feldman spoke with one of the men and he came to me.

"Please come with me," he said, and led me to the front of the congregation.

I stood that day with nine Jewish men to say Kaddish, a prayer recited when someone dies. I needed to lift my voice one last time for a friend.

"Hear, O Israel," I recited, ". . .Our God is One."

A bearded man put a prayer shawl around my shoulders and I continued praying in a pronounced brogue, oblivious to those in the synagogue. I knew God didn't mind if the words were spoken without a Yiddish accent: "You will love your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength."

The words in the mezuzah. I saw Judaism and Catholicism in those words. But most of all I saw Mr. Feldman in them. And I prayed for his safe passage to glory and for the expectation of seeing him again when I, too, would make that passage. CD