|
|
Home
and Family
Silent Whispers
by Sheila Seigal
It is Friday night, after licht benschen. I walk
several blocks to Kazincy utca, to the big shul in Budapest.
During the week, only a small side room is used for
davening, but on Shabbos the main shul is opened. It
has recently been renovated, thanks to generous donations.
Repairs are still ongoing, since much of the building was
damaged during the war years. I climb up several flights of
stairs to reach the first level of the ladies' balcony. I am
struck by the sheer immensity of the shul. The high ceiling
lends a dignified grandeur to the already impressive room.
There is a five candled menorah motif painted on the ceiling
and walls. I notice a star design, as well, embellishing the
ornate walls. I select a seat near the mechitza. I peer
through the white curtain at the men below. Old men, mostly,
who look like native Hungarians. There is a large group of
chassidim in shtreimlach and white socks.
Israeli tourists stroll through the shul, admiring the
engraved aron kodesh and elaborate porochos.
The prayers begin, the low hum of voices joining together.
Hungarian, Yiddish, English and Hebrew accents blend into one
common tongue. I find myself moved to tears. My prayers have
the fervency and passion of ne'ila. I feel the
closeness of the mothers and grandmothers who prayed in this
shul years ago. I rub the wooden seat in front of me, worn
smooth by forgotten hands. I picture the women who peopled
this shul seventy and eighty years previously, women who
prayed with heartfelt tears for their families and for
themselves. I can almost see the little girls in their
beautiful Shabbos and Yom Tov dresses and tresses who giggled
and played in the aisles till they were shushed by stern
mothers. A hint of perfume lingers in the air, perhaps a
memory of those elegant, bejewelled women, splendid in their
Yom Tov finery.
The horror of the Holocaust ripped apart the fabric of their
world. Budapest, a city where fleeing Jews once took refuge,
became a target of the Nazis. Hundreds of thousands of Jews
died in the ghettoes, at forced labor, and in the
concentration camps. The magnificent Orthodox shul was shelled
and partially destroyed. Hungarian Jewry, which once figured
as one of the largest Jewish communities in Europe, was
devastated.
I sit in my plush, comfortable seat in the newly refurbished
shul and imagine the scene on Rosh Hashona of 1939. It seems
to me that the awesome power of those prayers must be absorbed
into the very walls of this building. Echoes of those tearful
cries still reverberate today, filling my consciousness.
I recall the story of the rebbe who once traveled to another
city, staying at a local inn. While he was in his room, he
davened mincha. Afterwards, he turned to the innkeeper,
a puzzled expression on his face. "Is there anything special
about the room you gave me? My prayers were so inspired and
elevated." Pointing to the corner where the man had stood, the
innkeeper informed him that it was no surprise, since a
saintly Jew had once prayed at that very spot.
The sincere prayers of generations of Jewish women in the
Kazincy shul evoked a powerful response in me that Friday
night, melding past and present. Those people are no longer
with us, but their prayers have surely survived.
|
