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Home
and Family
Of Synagogues and Shtiebels...
by Channi Katz, England
Having moved twice half way round the world, and belonging,
for various practical and tactical reasons, to several
shuls in the community where we now reside, I cannot
help feeling very much like the wandering Jew when I take my
place in the ladies gallery on the High Holidays. Many people
around me have davened in this house of worship from
their first, goodie-bag- clutching appearance, many years
ago, up to this very day, and cannot even fathom a different
nusach or alternative way of davening. But as
for me, I have been to so many places, seen so many varying
scenarios, that at times it tends to get a bit confusing. Is
it going to be Keser or Nakdishoch for
Kedusho today? Should I be ready to kneel down by
oleinu or ostensibly refrain from doing so and leave
it only to the men this time?
Not that I resent having been exposed to so many different
facets of the luminous prism of which Judaism is composed.
Each holy scene, each place, has in its own way left an
indelible mark on my personality. Enriched by the many
experiences, I try to weave all the different themes together
as my praying echoes with sounds and tunes from days gone
by.
It is hard to suppress a smile, despite the seriousness of
the hour, as my machzor balances precariously on the
vestiges of a gas-stove in the crowded little
shteibel, in reality a converted living room cum
kitchen. And my thoughts float back to the tall, magnificent
edifice of a Synagogue where my mother painstakingly tried to
inculcate in a restless little girl the beauty of the
tefilos. What a wondrous place that shul was,
with its ornate marble steps leading up to the imposing
oron kodesh, which was always adorned, according to
the season of the year, with one of the elaborate curtains
from the shul's collection. We children knew each
poroches as if they were all familiar old friends, and
anticipated each change with wonderful excitement. The white
silky one, that beheld the splendor of the Yomim Noroim,
would disappear after Yom Kippur to be replaced by the deep
blue velvet drape that accompanied us right through the
winter. Came spring time and in preparation of Pesach, the
shul basked in the brightness of dazzling red brocade,
in turn to make way for a reproduction of the Kosel when
Tisha B'Av approached.
It was a good thing we children were too engrossed in the
decorum to notice the emptiness of the shul. Old
timers would fondly reminisce how it had once been so packed
with worshippers that if one came a few minutes late on a
Friday night, they had to stand for the entire service. But
by courtesty of Hitler y'sh and his stooges, there was
now plenty of space, and had the mispallelim not
instinctively chosen to huddle together in a few corners of
the shul, each could have had a whole row of pews to
himself. Only on the High Holidays did the place fill up a
little more, somewhat diminishing the echo of the
chazzan's voice, and the presence of those Yidden who
only made an appearance on these Days of Awe, held the answer
to the tangible hollowness of all year round.
It was strange how these temporary residents would soon lose
their diffidence, and blend in naturally with the
surroundings. Although a big gap separated us regulars from
the sporadic visitors, they unmistakably belonged, and even
added mysterious dimension to the occasion which I could not
define as a child. Somehow they personified dos pintele
Yid, an affirmation of the eternity of Am Yisroel.
The center stage of the shul was occupied by the
venerable Cantor, clad in traditional black velvet robe and
matching beret, and appointed to his honorable position by
virtue of his resounding tenor and all around ability to
conduct the services. He would lead us on and together, we
would negotiate the landmarks of those holy days, sometimes
solemn, sometimes joyous, but always with a tinge of
yearning. Our fascination with the sholiach tzibur
would reach a crescendo when he earnestly intoned the opening
notes of Oleinu leshabeiach on Rosh Hashona. For the
elderly gentleman, wearing his full length robe, it was no
mean feat to kneel down and then straighten himself again
whilst keeping his feet together all the time. When he would
accomplish his mission, with some assistance of the very
officially acting shammosh, we would all utter a
collective sigh of relief mixed with pride.
Yet, despite all the pomp and officiousness, this same
chazzon would cry real, hot tears that moved his
congregants along with him to newfound depths in their
prayers. Typical for children, we were embarrassed and
confused by the tears of an adult, so rare a phenomenon in
our Western society. But somehow, those tears blended in with
the empty Synagogue, with the occasional visitors, with the
renowned heroism of the selfsame chazzon during the
Holocaust, and with the theme of repentance that reverberated
through the prayers.
The ceremoniousness of those early shul experiences
stands in almost ridiculous contrast with many of the
settings I was to encounter later on in life, yet at the time
it seemed as if the formality enhanced the davening,
inculcating awareness of Hashem's Kingship. Nobody would have
dreamt of giving their children anything to eat in
such an atmosphere, let alone to make the congregation put up
with the sounds and smells of edible consumption one has to
endure nowadays as a matter of routine. It was an unspoken
rule that only children who could conform with the dignity of
the surroundings were brought to shul, and this, in
turn, created an ambiance which prompted us youngsters to
behave.
I remember fingering and counting the pages of the
machzor impatiently, silently wondering how long the
service would still take. And my mother, reading my thoughts,
would softly whisper with a wistful expression, "Wait till
you get to my age, then you'll find that Yom Kippur goes by
all too fast." It was not really an admoniiton, yet
the unintentional reproach in those words brought home the
strange message that adults actually enjoyed
praying!
Many years have passed since I last stood in that hollow,
hallowed house of worship. The congregation, a handful of the
old-timers, has moved into far smaller quarters, the old
building more or less fittingly been transformed into a
Holocasut museum. When I went to learn in seminary in Eretz
Yisroel, it was a uplifting, unique experience to join one of
the large Litvishe Yeshivos, and the intensity and length of
the tefilos left a profound impression. Subsequently,
through one of life's unexpected surprises, I was privileged
to witness and join the moving scene of a highly esteed Admor
and his chassidim on the holiest of days. Then, settling down
in England as a young, housebound mother, I would make do
with whatever minyan happened to be in the vicinity,
be it old-style English or an impromptu shteibel,
finally settling down with a sincere congregation with a
distinct Hungarian flavor. Perhaps it was the experience of
going to shul in those busy years that taught me to
forego comparisons, but rather appreciate the value of a
place- of- prayer per se.
Catching just one small, precious part of davening in
between two nursing sessions, or by the grace of a
painstakingly worked out baby-sitting schedule with
neighbors, the immense impact of the holiness of the beis
haknesses would hit me immediately on entrance. I do not
need to evaluate any more which place suits me best. After
visiting so many different places and then finally making a
`comeback' to shul after numerous years of a home-made
davening, it does not seem to be an issue any more.
Each place might have its own distinct character and flavor,
but so long as the atmosphere is genuine, I can feel at home
anywhere.
Perhaps it is because as an adult, I actually enjoy
davening after all!
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