We decided to put some effort into local attractions today. Attractions meaning what guidebooks highlight as attractions. So… The Jewish Synagogue and The House of Terrors. Both, of course, housed terrors.
Mistaking a bit of knowledge for actual competence, we exulted in our ability to catch the right tram, exit at the right place, catch the right bus, and again exit at the right place. It helped that it was the bus’ last stop, but still…. Until we try something new and different, we are accomplished metro riders.
The synagogue is worth a visit. After reading through any number of advertisers telling us how important it is to hire them as guides, we decided to just pay for an entry ticket at the door and guide ourselves. Which is a little like saying we’ve mastered the metro. Unearned hubris, woefully inadequate.
The good news is that when we bought our tickets at the door for substantially less than any of the ads had advertised, we learned that a guided tour was included in the price, and an English tour would be starting in 10 minutes. Ten minutes goes by fast in that synagogue, where there is too much beauty to absorb.
Our guide was a young Jewish man with a cheerful sense of humor (he pointed out the irony of his name being “Christian”) and a wealth of knowledge or a well-memorized patter. Whichever, he was fascinating to listen to, and the history of the synagogue is fascinating to listen about. How did a Jewish synagogue end up looking so much like a Catholic church with a bit of Moorish flavor thrown in?
It’s a story too long for a blog. Suffice it to say that the Jews wanted to assimilate into Catholic Hungary, and the Moors fit in there somehow. The end of the story is a synagogue that a Catholic could walk into and feel somewhat at home. E.g. there are altars at the tops of spiral staircases. They are never used except by cameramen at special events, but there they are looking all Catholic-y anyway.
The strangest story has to do with the pipe organ at the front of the synagogue which is played during Sabbath services. It exemplifies just how tangled religion can get as it twists itself into knots. Two problems with the organ playing: 1) A synagogue doesn’t have musical instruments, An organ is way out of line. 2) Jews are not allowed to work on the Sabbath, and playing a pipe organ is considered work. Oh dear. What to do? How about this:
There is a sacred “ark” (small wooden box) at the front that holds the Torah scrolls. One side of the ark faces east toward Jerusalem. That side of the ark marks the boundary of the synagogue. Beyond the ark’s east side, it is just the rest of the building. So the organ could be built into the rest of the building without being in the synagogue. Cool.
But who would play it? Since a Jew couldn’t “work” on the Sabbath, a non-Jew was recruited. In a very strange and fortunate coincidence, that non-Jew comes in to play the organ at the exact same time the Sabbath services are being held, week after week. It’s almost a miracle how it all works out so precisely. Problem solved.
Each “pew” has a series of numbers on it, spaced about the width of a person. That’s because the synagogue was very expensive to build, so someone came up with the idea of selling seats. For a price you could be guaranteed your spot. Those seats became so valuable over time that they could be used as collateral for bank loans.
Humor can be found everywhere, but it fades fast when talking about how the Jews were treated through time. There were bright spots, but we all know the darkest days of humanity, when stomach-churning atrocities were committed against them in so many ways. One wonders how on earth they are still here, and thriving again. And yet, when I begin to believe that we are no longer capable of such actions, I have to wonder if my name would have been on the stone tablets with the list of people who sacrificed their own lives to save Jews. Would I rationalize looking the other way? Not getting involved? Participating in the cruelties? I think too many of us are capable of barbarity if it is presented to us in the right way.
We walked past a cemetery where marker after marker had a terminal date of 1945. They mark mass graves where hundreds of Jews were tossed in, nameless. Today the beauty of the space belies the tragedy of life in the ghetto without enough food, enough medicine, enough firewood, enough of anything to keep thousands of herded and contained Jews alive.
Then on to the tree of life, with leaves inscribed with names and two big black “tablets” behind it. The tablets have big holes in them, symbolizing the lawlessness of the time. And then the museum that gives insights into the Jewish way of life.
On our way out of the synagogue we passed a small shop with souvenirs for sale. Comic relief: a T-shirt read, “Technically, Moses was the first person with a tablet to download messages from the cloud.” I bought it. I needed a laugh.
We lunched at Tel Aviv Café to carry the day’s theme forward. It was… uhhhh… interesting. Good without apparently striving for excellence. It was an experience more than a meal. The waitress spoke very good English, so much so that I asked where she was from. She is a native and credits her third-grade teacher with getting her started in English. Amazing the impact of a third-grade teacher.
On, then, to the House of Terrors. This time it was about Russia moving into Hungary after WWII and clamping down on anyone who showed resistance to its dictates. Tortures, deportations by the thousands, executions, unbearable prisons, job losses, land losses. It’s not ancient history, given it happened in my lifetime. Okay, so I’m ancient history, but still.
The museum wasn’t a great experience due to crowds and the complication of an automated sound track via our headphones that was competing with loudspeakers and loud group guides in each room. Still, it was enough to get the idea.
When it was over I had wonder, How on earth are there any people left in this country and how on earth can they not be overcome with trauma? The Russians didn’t pull out until 1989.
We walked home slowly and made chicken soup for dinner. And now I’m sitting here thinking about the people in the world who are right now, tonight, suffering horribly because other people think it’s a great idea to make them suffer horribly. People of all ages, male and female, paying the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time through no fault of their own. Tortured, displaced, starving, separated, sick, and with no one to hear when they cry out. Will it ever end? Given the opportunity, would I help it end?
