I have had a complicated relationship with my Jewish heritage. Growing up on the south shore of Long Island, an hour’s drive to Manhattan, I thought all the world was Jewish or Roman Catholic. My family was secular, celebrating the holidays. I never went to Hebrew School. But I was surrounded by Jewish culture in New York. I am, as my parents used to say, a member of the Tribe.
I loved decorating our school Christmas tree despite the fact that our elementary school was predominately Jewish. I didn’t feel left out of the holiday: I got presents for the eight nights of Chanukah. I went to countless Bar and Bat Mitzvahs in middle school although I never had my own. My high school yearbook was filled with Baumsteins and Rabinowitzes, several Lombardis and Virgilios, and a few interloping O’Keefes and Kurczewskis. I didn’t have a Protestant friend until tenth grade. I went to college on the Island as well, where about half of the students and faculty were Jewish. It was easy to be a Jew in New York.
After I got married, my husband, Paul and I moved to Virginia, where it wasn’t quite as easy to be Jewish. We couldn’t get good bagels. It was the first time someone asked me if I were trying to “Jew them down.” We both felt out of place, in need of a Jewish community, which we found in a local synagogue. After our children were born, we even became kosher, not because we believed in the rules of kashrut, but, rather, as a reminder to our children of their Jewishness. In time, I would become the director of a Jewish summer camp, whose motto was “Jewish camping builds Jewish identity.” Camp most certainly developed my identity as a Jew.
Jews have existed all over the world, sharing traditions going back over 5,700 years. I turned my globetrotting into a Jewish scavenger hunt for its history and culture. These tales, originally part of Collywobbles, explore Jewish sites I have encountered on my travels. Some were destinations and some were surprising, accidental finds! By no means is this an exhaustive list of Jewish sites. These are limited to the places I have discovered on my globetrotting. I wil continue to add sites as I travel.
The decision was made not to include Israel in "A Wandering Jew" since the country needs and deserves its own page, and I am certainly not an expert on Israel.
I loved decorating our school Christmas tree despite the fact that our elementary school was predominately Jewish. I didn’t feel left out of the holiday: I got presents for the eight nights of Chanukah. I went to countless Bar and Bat Mitzvahs in middle school although I never had my own. My high school yearbook was filled with Baumsteins and Rabinowitzes, several Lombardis and Virgilios, and a few interloping O’Keefes and Kurczewskis. I didn’t have a Protestant friend until tenth grade. I went to college on the Island as well, where about half of the students and faculty were Jewish. It was easy to be a Jew in New York.
After I got married, my husband, Paul and I moved to Virginia, where it wasn’t quite as easy to be Jewish. We couldn’t get good bagels. It was the first time someone asked me if I were trying to “Jew them down.” We both felt out of place, in need of a Jewish community, which we found in a local synagogue. After our children were born, we even became kosher, not because we believed in the rules of kashrut, but, rather, as a reminder to our children of their Jewishness. In time, I would become the director of a Jewish summer camp, whose motto was “Jewish camping builds Jewish identity.” Camp most certainly developed my identity as a Jew.
Jews have existed all over the world, sharing traditions going back over 5,700 years. I turned my globetrotting into a Jewish scavenger hunt for its history and culture. These tales, originally part of Collywobbles, explore Jewish sites I have encountered on my travels. Some were destinations and some were surprising, accidental finds! By no means is this an exhaustive list of Jewish sites. These are limited to the places I have discovered on my globetrotting. I wil continue to add sites as I travel.
The decision was made not to include Israel in "A Wandering Jew" since the country needs and deserves its own page, and I am certainly not an expert on Israel.
Hungary
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Donahy Street Synagogue and Holocaust Memorial
Budapest, Hungary
My friend Carolyn and I visited the Holocaust Memorial, this one in Budapest. Imre Varga’s The Emanuel Tree, or Weeping Willow, sits in Raoul Wallenberg Memory Park behind the Dohány Street Synagogue, the largest synagogue in Europe. We were traveling with two of my former staff from camp – Spela, a young Christian woman from Slovenia, and Tamás, a Jewish young man from Budapest; the two of them had become close friends. We gathered around the weeping willow, a tribute to Emanuel Schwartz, father to Bernard Herschel Schwartz, a Hungarian Jew better known as the American actor Tony Curtis.
We walked through the black iron gates into the park, named in honor of the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, who saved almost 10,000 Jews in Nazi-occupied Hungary. As the special envoy in Budapest, Wallenberg issued protective passports, or a schutz-pass, indicating that they were Swedish citizens, allowing them the freedom from being marked as a “Jew” and, subsequently, deported to the ghetto or a concentration camp. Wallenberg is a ubiquitous name in Holocaust Memorials.
As we got closer to the tree we could see the inscriptions of the names of some of the 30,000 Hungarian victims of the Holocaust on its silver leaves. Turning around, I caught a glimpse of Catherine with tears in her eyes as we symbolically stood witness to the countless Hungarian Jews killed in the war. Tamás explained that if we turned our heads upside down, we might see the shape of a menorah in the tree. I don’t know if I lack a certain imagination, but I didn’t see it.
Tamás translated the Hebrew inscription: “Whose agony is greater than mine?”
Tamás had never spoken about his family outside of his mother and father, who were very much alive. I thought this might be an appropriate time to broach the subject.
“Tamás, what happened to your family during the Holocaust?”
“I don’t know. My parents didn’t like to talk about it.” He answered in perfect English; he also spoke Hebrew, having studied at a World ORT School for vocational training in Israel.
I persisted. “Is there any part of their story you do know?”
“My mom told me she survived because she had papers saying she was Christian, but I don’t know how she got those papers. She was born in 1944, so she was a baby.” Many Hungarians were able to obtain forged baptismal certificates from priests.
Catherine asked about his grandparents.
“Both of my mom’s parents were killed. I know her father died at Mauthausen, but I never learned what happened to her mother. I don’t think she knows. But my mom understood she was Jewish, so if she was hidden by Christians during the war, she went back to her Jewish family afterwards.”
He knew even less about his father’s parents, who also perished in the war. “But I don’t think they were killed in the camps. I heard stories that they were partisans, hiding and fighting in the woods.” I later read that since Hungarian partisans were not well armed, most of their resistance included bribery and forgery; perhaps that is how Tamás’ father survived – with illegal papers like his mom. I wondered how two children of Holocaust victims found each other. Now I wonder if any Hungarian Jew is not a child, grandchild, or great-grandchild of the Holocaust.
Tamás, like me, no longer goes to synagogue, but his family used to belong to the Dohány Street Synagogue, or Great Synagogue of Budapest. The synagogue was built in the mid-nineteenth century as a house of Jewish worship, but it looks more like a Moorish temple with an onion dome atop each of the two towers. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it until I returned home and showed my photos to some of my friends. The Central Synagogue in Manhattan, built just a decade later, is almost an exact replica.
Anxious to see the interior in all its opulence, I was overwhelmed upon entering the massive structure with its almost 3,000 seats. The synagogue was originally divided like all orthodox synagogues, with women in the upper gallery and men below. The ark on the bimah, or altar, held several Torah scrolls, each one dressed in rich colored velvets embroidered in gold.
Having visited the synagogue many times, Tamás and Spela noticed something new: an exhibit of works by the Italian Jewish artist, Amedeo Modigliani. I was glad to see the art exhibit; Catherine, an artist as well as a poet, hadn’t had many opportunities to visit galleries on our holiday. The four of us delighted in the iconic elongated faces, neck, and bodies of his subjects. The beauty of the women complemented the majesty of the Great Synagogue.
We walked through the black iron gates into the park, named in honor of the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, who saved almost 10,000 Jews in Nazi-occupied Hungary. As the special envoy in Budapest, Wallenberg issued protective passports, or a schutz-pass, indicating that they were Swedish citizens, allowing them the freedom from being marked as a “Jew” and, subsequently, deported to the ghetto or a concentration camp. Wallenberg is a ubiquitous name in Holocaust Memorials.
As we got closer to the tree we could see the inscriptions of the names of some of the 30,000 Hungarian victims of the Holocaust on its silver leaves. Turning around, I caught a glimpse of Catherine with tears in her eyes as we symbolically stood witness to the countless Hungarian Jews killed in the war. Tamás explained that if we turned our heads upside down, we might see the shape of a menorah in the tree. I don’t know if I lack a certain imagination, but I didn’t see it.
Tamás translated the Hebrew inscription: “Whose agony is greater than mine?”
Tamás had never spoken about his family outside of his mother and father, who were very much alive. I thought this might be an appropriate time to broach the subject.
“Tamás, what happened to your family during the Holocaust?”
“I don’t know. My parents didn’t like to talk about it.” He answered in perfect English; he also spoke Hebrew, having studied at a World ORT School for vocational training in Israel.
I persisted. “Is there any part of their story you do know?”
“My mom told me she survived because she had papers saying she was Christian, but I don’t know how she got those papers. She was born in 1944, so she was a baby.” Many Hungarians were able to obtain forged baptismal certificates from priests.
Catherine asked about his grandparents.
“Both of my mom’s parents were killed. I know her father died at Mauthausen, but I never learned what happened to her mother. I don’t think she knows. But my mom understood she was Jewish, so if she was hidden by Christians during the war, she went back to her Jewish family afterwards.”
He knew even less about his father’s parents, who also perished in the war. “But I don’t think they were killed in the camps. I heard stories that they were partisans, hiding and fighting in the woods.” I later read that since Hungarian partisans were not well armed, most of their resistance included bribery and forgery; perhaps that is how Tamás’ father survived – with illegal papers like his mom. I wondered how two children of Holocaust victims found each other. Now I wonder if any Hungarian Jew is not a child, grandchild, or great-grandchild of the Holocaust.
Tamás, like me, no longer goes to synagogue, but his family used to belong to the Dohány Street Synagogue, or Great Synagogue of Budapest. The synagogue was built in the mid-nineteenth century as a house of Jewish worship, but it looks more like a Moorish temple with an onion dome atop each of the two towers. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it until I returned home and showed my photos to some of my friends. The Central Synagogue in Manhattan, built just a decade later, is almost an exact replica.
Anxious to see the interior in all its opulence, I was overwhelmed upon entering the massive structure with its almost 3,000 seats. The synagogue was originally divided like all orthodox synagogues, with women in the upper gallery and men below. The ark on the bimah, or altar, held several Torah scrolls, each one dressed in rich colored velvets embroidered in gold.
Having visited the synagogue many times, Tamás and Spela noticed something new: an exhibit of works by the Italian Jewish artist, Amedeo Modigliani. I was glad to see the art exhibit; Catherine, an artist as well as a poet, hadn’t had many opportunities to visit galleries on our holiday. The four of us delighted in the iconic elongated faces, neck, and bodies of his subjects. The beauty of the women complemented the majesty of the Great Synagogue.
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Shoes on the Danube Promenade
Budapest, Hungary
I was wondering why I missed the Holocaust Memorial, Shoes on the Danube Promenade, on the Pest side of the river until I started to research the site. I visited Budapest in 2001 and 2003: the memorial was created in 2004. I look forward to another visit to Budapest. The monument consist of 60 pairs of 1940s-style shoes made of iron. The design was created by Can Togay, a film director, and Gyula Pauer, a sculptor. Memorial plagues along the promenade read in Hungarian, English, and Hebrew: “To the memory of the victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944–45. Erected 16 April 2005.”
Bulgaria
Central Synagogue of Sofia
Sofia, Bulgaria
Before we had connected with Spela and Tamás in Hungary, Carolyn and I had started our journey in Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. We were invited, or, rather, we responded to an open invitation. Kathy, one of the secretaries in our school, was leaving to follow her husband to this Balkan country with a fascinating but obscure Jewish history. Her husband, James Pardew, had been appointed ambassador to Bulgaria. We celebrated her new adventure, and she offered her appreciation.
“Everyone is invited to come to Bulgaria! You can stay with James and me at the ambassador’s residence.” I don’t think Kathy assumed anyone would take her up on the offer.
A year later Catherine and I wrote to Kathy, accepting her invitation. She responded with fervor: she would host a poetry reading for Catherine at the embassy; she would secure an invitation to the home of the poet laureate of Bulgaria; and she would share the history of the Jews.
The patron saint of Bulgaria, Saint Sofia, looms large over the city, 72 feet from the ground to the top of her head. A martyr in the Eastern Orthodox Church, she holds an owl, a symbol of wisdom, in her left hand and, in the right, a laurel wreath of peace. Replacing a figure of Lenin in 2000, the statue reflects a sensuous Sofia wearing a diaphanous dress that accentuates her voluptuous breasts and long legs. She looks down on the only street to house both a mosque and a synagogue. The 16th century mosque, Banya Bashi, was closed, so Kathy, Catherine, and I walked towards the Central Synagogue of Sofia, a Sephardic temple built in an Arabic style, emulating the Sephardic temple in Vienna, ravaged by the Nazis in World War II.
My eyes were drawn to the sumptuous brass chandelier with over 400 six-pointed stars; small crowns capped the light fixture, like the ones atop the Torah scrolls. Four immense menorahs sat on the bimah; this time I needed no imagination to see them. What intrigued me was the sanctuary, different than any other place I had worshipped or visited: the intricate, colorful decorations on the walls, columns, and ceiling were painted in colors I have never seen in a synagogue – lime green, orange, yellow, and fuschia – the detailed work of Italian masters. The ceilings of the domes were painted the color of the sky with bright gold stars shining down on the balcony where the women would traditionally sit. Small rays of light streamed into the dark building from the triangle of windows over the ark, a Star of David filling each one. I wondered what it would be like to worship here. I regretted not hearing the sound of Jews singing in prayer.
We took time to wander on our own, and, as we made our way out of the synagogue and into the courtyard, we discovered a story of the Holocaust that neither Catherine nor I had never heard before. Sitting in front of the museum adjacent to the synagogue was a large, white memorial tablet with an inscription written in three languages: Hebrew, English, and Bulgarian.
In Memory of
Boris III, King of Bulgaria
1894-1943
And in Honor of
Queen Giovanna
A Tribute to Their Contribution to
The Rescue of Bulgarian Jews
During the Dark Days of the Holocaust
“What happened to the Bulgarian Jews in the Holocaust?” I asked Kathy, assuming in her role as the ambassador’s wife she most certainly would have studied Bulgarian history.
“I actually have a tape of a documentary back at the residence,” added Kathy. She would gift me that tape at the end of our visit.
Although Bulgaria aligned itself with Germany in World War II, they refused to follow the Third Reich blindly; they would not expel their Jewish citizens. Under occupation by the Ottoman Empire for five hundred years, the majority Orthodox Christians understood oppression; they would protect their Jewish neighbors. As the first train to Treblinka was readied for transport to Poland, hundreds of congregants joined the Bishop of the Orthodox Church in blocking the train. King Boris III heard of the protests, as well as others around the country, and agreed to protect Jewish Bulgarians. Sadly, just a decade later, most Bulgarian Jews left their now Communist-controlled country, unable to worship openly. Only about a thousand Jews continue to live in Bulgaria, but they persist in maintaining their house of worship as well as their history.
Czech Republic
Jewish Prague
Prague, Czech Republic
The Jubilee Synagogue, also known as the Jerusalem Synagogue. Built in 1906, it was named in honor of the silver Jubilee of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria. It moniker as the Jerusalem Synagogue stems from its location on Jerusalem Street.
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The Spanish Synagogue reflects the Moorish Revival style. It is the newest synagogue in old Jewish Prague, built in 1868. A statue of the famous author, Franz Kafka, sits in the adjacent park.
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Carolyn and I left the Pardews in their adopted country and continued our trip with a visit to Prague/ I had visited Prague on a camp staffing trip a decade earlier, and with little time for sightseeing then, I had spent most of my time in Jewish Prague, a complex of synagogues, community centers, monuments, and two cemeteries.
I cry at peculiar situations. The water works commence any time two people declare their love to each other on the screen. I cry at a dog in despair. However, a visit to a Holocaust Museum raises fury rather than tears. My therapist insists there is nothing wrong in my weeping patterns; in fact, she claims that there are no wrong emotions or thoughts, only useless ones. There would be tears in Jewish Prague.
I slowly moved through corridors and narrow streets on my own, taking time to enter each of the buildings on my punched ticket. Perhaps it was bewilderment that I felt as I entered the Pinkas Synagogue. I had not been aware that the synagogue had been transformed into a memorial with 77,297 names painted on the walls, all Czech victims of the Nazi terror. The family name and first letter of each person was calligraphed in red with a larger letter than those that followed, bringing attention to families and as well as each individual. Next to the name, written in a mixture of Roman and Latin Numerals, was the lifespan of the victim. Pavel 3. III 1942 – 7. III 1943, a baby boy, born on the third of March in 1942 and died on the seventh of March in 1944, one of eleven members of the same family. I was overwhelmed by name after name swathing the interior in testament to those who perished, bringing me to quiet tears until I couldn’t breathe anymore. After reading as many names as I could in remembrance of those who perished, I walked out into the cold air and into the cemetery.
Unfortunately, when I returned ten years later with Carolyn, the Pinkas Synagogue was closed for renovation, but the two of us moved through the rest of Jewish Prague together. Catherine called me her “scholarly guide." I was nothing of the sort, but I could explain Jewish tradition and ritual, facilitated by an initial stop inside the Jewish Museum in the Maisel Synagogue.
Carolyn was particularly moved at the site of the oldest Jewish cemetery in the world, with over 12,000 tombstones, the earliest dating back to 1439. Bodies are buried on top of each other with stones haphazardly strewn throughout, some leaning on others, all inches apart. The original lot was not sufficient for the Jewish dead, forcing the burials in layers until entombments came to a halt before the start of the 19th century. The entirety of the gravestones, with the knowledge that many more laid under our feet, generated a muted visit.
“I thought that Jews only leave rocks at a grave, something that will last as a remembrance.” Catherine had noticed coins and notes left on a few of the grave markers.
I shared what I knew. “I have heard different theories, but I was taught that we leave stones because they don’t die like flowers do. They are a missive that someone visited, just like you said. Other customs include leaving coins at the grave, and since people visit from all over the world, I guess it makes sense that we see coins as well.” Catherine nodded in agreement.
“The notes remind me of the Western Wall where people shove written prayers into holes in the wall, hoping that they will be answered in this holy place. A cemetery is also consecrated land, so maybe they are messages to the dead or to God,” I added. Most of the grave markers were too damaged to leave anything; many had round arches or a spike at its apex.
After our visit to the cemetery, Catherine and I took a reprieve from dark tourism with a visit to the gallery of esteemed Jewish artist Michael Slutsker. Both of us purchased a piece of art. Ironically, Catherine chose a skillful rendering of an old rabbi that still graces the entryway in her home, while I chose a watercolor of a stylish woman wearing a large flowered-adorned hat, hiding most of her face except for her enigmatic smile. With her vintage style, she sits in my art deco bedroom. We both took home a part of Jewish Prague.
I cry at peculiar situations. The water works commence any time two people declare their love to each other on the screen. I cry at a dog in despair. However, a visit to a Holocaust Museum raises fury rather than tears. My therapist insists there is nothing wrong in my weeping patterns; in fact, she claims that there are no wrong emotions or thoughts, only useless ones. There would be tears in Jewish Prague.
I slowly moved through corridors and narrow streets on my own, taking time to enter each of the buildings on my punched ticket. Perhaps it was bewilderment that I felt as I entered the Pinkas Synagogue. I had not been aware that the synagogue had been transformed into a memorial with 77,297 names painted on the walls, all Czech victims of the Nazi terror. The family name and first letter of each person was calligraphed in red with a larger letter than those that followed, bringing attention to families and as well as each individual. Next to the name, written in a mixture of Roman and Latin Numerals, was the lifespan of the victim. Pavel 3. III 1942 – 7. III 1943, a baby boy, born on the third of March in 1942 and died on the seventh of March in 1944, one of eleven members of the same family. I was overwhelmed by name after name swathing the interior in testament to those who perished, bringing me to quiet tears until I couldn’t breathe anymore. After reading as many names as I could in remembrance of those who perished, I walked out into the cold air and into the cemetery.
Unfortunately, when I returned ten years later with Carolyn, the Pinkas Synagogue was closed for renovation, but the two of us moved through the rest of Jewish Prague together. Catherine called me her “scholarly guide." I was nothing of the sort, but I could explain Jewish tradition and ritual, facilitated by an initial stop inside the Jewish Museum in the Maisel Synagogue.
Carolyn was particularly moved at the site of the oldest Jewish cemetery in the world, with over 12,000 tombstones, the earliest dating back to 1439. Bodies are buried on top of each other with stones haphazardly strewn throughout, some leaning on others, all inches apart. The original lot was not sufficient for the Jewish dead, forcing the burials in layers until entombments came to a halt before the start of the 19th century. The entirety of the gravestones, with the knowledge that many more laid under our feet, generated a muted visit.
“I thought that Jews only leave rocks at a grave, something that will last as a remembrance.” Catherine had noticed coins and notes left on a few of the grave markers.
I shared what I knew. “I have heard different theories, but I was taught that we leave stones because they don’t die like flowers do. They are a missive that someone visited, just like you said. Other customs include leaving coins at the grave, and since people visit from all over the world, I guess it makes sense that we see coins as well.” Catherine nodded in agreement.
“The notes remind me of the Western Wall where people shove written prayers into holes in the wall, hoping that they will be answered in this holy place. A cemetery is also consecrated land, so maybe they are messages to the dead or to God,” I added. Most of the grave markers were too damaged to leave anything; many had round arches or a spike at its apex.
After our visit to the cemetery, Catherine and I took a reprieve from dark tourism with a visit to the gallery of esteemed Jewish artist Michael Slutsker. Both of us purchased a piece of art. Ironically, Catherine chose a skillful rendering of an old rabbi that still graces the entryway in her home, while I chose a watercolor of a stylish woman wearing a large flowered-adorned hat, hiding most of her face except for her enigmatic smile. With her vintage style, she sits in my art deco bedroom. We both took home a part of Jewish Prague.
Holocaust memorial inside the Pinkas Synagogue. It includes a list of names and dates of the 77,297 Jewish victims from Bohemia and Moravia.
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A rabbi stops to pray at the most visited grave, that of Rabbi Loew and his wife Perl, around 1601.
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Russia
Grand Choral Synagogue
St. Petersburg, Russia
My travels have taken me to many other historic synagogues, including the Grand Choral Synagogue of St. Petersburg, where I was not only able to see and touch, but also to hear the sounds of Judaism. The synagogue, only second in size to the Dohány Street Synagogue in Budapest, reminded me of the Moorish style of the synagogue in Sofia. Its walls were painted a soothing yellow, as though they were lit up by the sun.
Then the magic happened. Our group took a seat in a small chapel that was soon filled with the sound of prayer. The synagogue’s cantor chanted the daily Hebrew prayers for our group of gentiles and me. I observed my travel partners, many hearing the prayers for the first time. Most listened intently, and a few looked out into the sanctuary with an uncomfortable gaze, as though looking for an escape from the musical liturgy.
I was in the part of the world from which my ancestors fled from the pogroms at the turn of the 19th century. I was in the former Soviet Union, just fifteen years after its collapse. Like most religious houses of worship, the building had been closed under the Soviet government. Now Jews were openly worshipping in their extraordinary synagogue, consecrated just as my ancestors were starting to flee Eastern Europe. It was the second time my Judeophilia brought me to tears.
Then the magic happened. Our group took a seat in a small chapel that was soon filled with the sound of prayer. The synagogue’s cantor chanted the daily Hebrew prayers for our group of gentiles and me. I observed my travel partners, many hearing the prayers for the first time. Most listened intently, and a few looked out into the sanctuary with an uncomfortable gaze, as though looking for an escape from the musical liturgy.
I was in the part of the world from which my ancestors fled from the pogroms at the turn of the 19th century. I was in the former Soviet Union, just fifteen years after its collapse. Like most religious houses of worship, the building had been closed under the Soviet government. Now Jews were openly worshipping in their extraordinary synagogue, consecrated just as my ancestors were starting to flee Eastern Europe. It was the second time my Judeophilia brought me to tears.
Our tour group listening to the cantor from the Grand Choral Synagogue.
Poland
Old Jewish Quarter of Warsaw
Warsaw, Poland
Warsaw, Poland
We arrived in Warsaw in the late afternoon. The air was cold and there was a light snowfall, but a small group of tour directors from the Jewish Community Camps wanted to explore the Warsaw Ghetto before it became too dark to make our way through the streets. None of us knew what to expect, but with a map in hand we were able to locate the marked entrance to what is left of the ghetto. Little of the wall remains. Without a guide, we were dependent upon signs and our own knowledge of the ghetto and the uprising to make meaning from our visit. However, as we arrived in front of the only remaining synagogue in the ghetto -- the Nozyk Synaogue -- a gentleman who stood outside the doors willingly gave us some history in English. There were over 400 houses of worship in Warsaw before the start of the war, all destroyed, mostly with the loss of the Warsaw Uprising in 1943, killing around 7,000 Jews while another 7,000 were deported to concentration camps. The Nozyk Synagogue, which was built at the end of the 19th century, was badly damaged, but it was restored and reopened in 1983, before the fall of communism in 1989. That surprised me since I thought that the Communist party did not favor religion. Our informal guide explained that, in fact, I was correct. Anti-semitism rose during communism and, around 1968, most of the remaining Jews emigrated. When we visited in 1998 there were about 700 Jews left in Warsaw; the population is beginning to grow to include Poles who are discovering their Jewish roots.
The next morning we had a brief walking tour of the city before our camp staffing fair. We stopped at the Ghetto Heroes Monumen, honoring those who lost their lived in the Warsaw uprising, led by Mordechai Anielewicz. The memorial stands between Karmelicka and Zamenhofa streets. It was designed by sculptor Nathan Rappaport.
After a camp fair in Warsaw, a couple of representatives from the staffing company took us out for dinner. With words I never thought I would hear, we were told that we were going to a Jewish restaurant in Old Town Warsaw, a city with fewer than 700 Jews. I wondered what would be on the menu. Perogies? Borscht?
Walking into the Jewish Quarter of Old Town reminded me of visiting a Native American reservation. Vendors lined the streets selling wooden carvings of a lost Jewish people, some dressed in religious garb and others going about everyday business. I bought a figure of a Hasidic rabbi. But if I looked closely I could see the stereotypical figures -- faces with long noses, merchants and bankers holding money, statuettes that the Poles call Zydki, or “little Jews.” I thought of the Indian doll I had bought my children many years ago, an effigy of an almost-lost people. However, it isn’t just the tourists buying these wooden statuettes; we saw them in numerous stores, supposedly bringing luck in the form of money to the establishment. I almost felt guilty enough not to buy one, but Judeophilia is a strong inclination, and my figure currently sits on my wall unit with other souvenirs from around the world.
Walking into the Jewish Quarter of Old Town reminded me of visiting a Native American reservation. Vendors lined the streets selling wooden carvings of a lost Jewish people, some dressed in religious garb and others going about everyday business. I bought a figure of a Hasidic rabbi. But if I looked closely I could see the stereotypical figures -- faces with long noses, merchants and bankers holding money, statuettes that the Poles call Zydki, or “little Jews.” I thought of the Indian doll I had bought my children many years ago, an effigy of an almost-lost people. However, it isn’t just the tourists buying these wooden statuettes; we saw them in numerous stores, supposedly bringing luck in the form of money to the establishment. I almost felt guilty enough not to buy one, but Judeophilia is a strong inclination, and my figure currently sits on my wall unit with other souvenirs from around the world.
Paradoxically, Warsaw has more kosher restaurants than Washington, DC, where I spent most of my adult life. Our guide led us into a small restauracja, its walls lined with old photos of Jewish Poles before the war. Capping the photos was a sign explaining that, although the restaurant was not owned by Jews, the current proprietors honored their loss by offering Jewish cuisine. My fellow camp directors and I perused the English menu. Among the appetizers was “Jewish fish.” Although it seems obvious to me now, at the time I couldn’t imagine what “Jewish fish” might be. I ordered it, finding myself enjoying delicious homemade gefilte fish, a ball of minced carp, pike, and perhaps some other fishes, an acquired taste to those who didn’t grow up on it, but deliciously familiar to my taste buds.
Sherri, from the Jewish Community Camp in New York, was just as confused about the menu as I was. “Jewish caviar? Maybe it’s something new we could serve at camp.” It was fried chopped liver with eggs and onions. It was just as delicious as my mother’s, but it was nothing the campers would eat. Charles rounded out our appetizers at the table with gesi pipek, a dish made out of the skin of the duck’s neck stuffed with potatoes and onions. I declined to taste it. My mother always referred to our belly buttons as the Yiddish word, pipek, and I didn’t want to eat anyone’s belly button.
DENMARK
Danish Jewish Museum
Copenhagen, Denmark
I wrote about the Danish Jewish Museum in chapter 7, "Lost," when I found a Jewish couple on my tour to follow to the museum, which turned out to be a marvel of architecture, designed by Daniel Libeskind. The museum tells the story of the Danish Jews, including the saving of most of their Jewish citizens. For detailed information about the architect's mission and design click the button to the right.
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FINLAND
Helsinki Synagogue and a Jewish Deli
Helsinki, Finland
Helsinki, Finland
My Jewish stomach wasn’t as lucky in Helsinki. As our motor coach arrived at our hotel, I was flabbergasted to see a large Star of David on a small restaurant across the street, marking a kosher Jewish deli. As our motor coach pulled into the back of what is now the Radisson Blu Royal Hotel Helsinki, I noticed the synagogue to the right of the deli with its large red dome and faded yellow façade. Three small round windows filled with Stars of David flanked the trio of arched windows on what looked like a second floor. After getting my room key from our tour director, I ran out in search of Helsinki’s Jewish life. Unfortunately, the restaurant was only open one day a week, and it wasn’t Thursday; the Helsinki Jewish Congregation was also closed.
During our city tour the next morning, I asked our British tour director about the Jewish Community in Finland; she claimed ignorance. I followed up with some research, reading that Jews didn’t dwell in Finland until after 1809, when Russian Jewish soldiers, or cantonists, were allowed to settle here after their service, with more Russian Jews emigrating after the Russian Revolution. As an enemy of the Soviet Union, Finland fought with the Germans in World War II. According to Frank, the Finns do not consider themselves as part of the Axis, but as “co-belligerents” with German in their fight against the Soviet Union.
Finland, like Bulgaria, refused to hand over its Jews to Germany, and the country became a sanctuary for Jews fleeing the Nazis. Finnish Jews celebrate Field Marshall Carl Mannherheim, Commander-in-Chief of the Finnish forces during World War II and the sixth president of the country, for saving its Jewish population. Today Finland has double the number of Jews living in Poland, including a small influx of Israelis, who bring their own cuisine to Helsinki and Turku, the original capital of the country. The Jewish Deli I saw closed soon after, but a new Israeli restaurant opened a few years later in its place.
During our city tour the next morning, I asked our British tour director about the Jewish Community in Finland; she claimed ignorance. I followed up with some research, reading that Jews didn’t dwell in Finland until after 1809, when Russian Jewish soldiers, or cantonists, were allowed to settle here after their service, with more Russian Jews emigrating after the Russian Revolution. As an enemy of the Soviet Union, Finland fought with the Germans in World War II. According to Frank, the Finns do not consider themselves as part of the Axis, but as “co-belligerents” with German in their fight against the Soviet Union.
Finland, like Bulgaria, refused to hand over its Jews to Germany, and the country became a sanctuary for Jews fleeing the Nazis. Finnish Jews celebrate Field Marshall Carl Mannherheim, Commander-in-Chief of the Finnish forces during World War II and the sixth president of the country, for saving its Jewish population. Today Finland has double the number of Jews living in Poland, including a small influx of Israelis, who bring their own cuisine to Helsinki and Turku, the original capital of the country. The Jewish Deli I saw closed soon after, but a new Israeli restaurant opened a few years later in its place.
England
When I was traveling to London and Manchester with Camp America, I talked my 16-year old son into visiting the Manchester Jewish Museum. We had a day to see Manchester after the camp fair before heading to London. As Josh and I explored some of the neighborhoods on foot, including Cheetham Hill Road, lined with churches, synagogues, and mosques. The terraced houses that lined the narrow side streets offered Josh unique architectural pictures. As we made our way up Cheetham Hill we came upon the Manchester Jewish Museum, located in an old Spanish and Portuguese synagogue. The red brick building is relatively modest in size, but the decorative columns, stained glass, and round arch above the door add to its exotic character. Inside the museum is an exhibit of Manchester’s Jewish history, but the original chapel was most captivating. Above the ark on the bimah, or podium, sits a stained-glass window with a menorah of gold against a blue background. The Moorish style of architecture is also evident in the horseshoe-shaped arches and windows. While Josh humored my wish to visit the museum, he was glad to get back out to the streets of Manchester.
The British Library
London, England
The British Library was established as part of the British Museum in 1753, but, since 1973 it has become it own entity in its own building on the north side of London in the Bloomsbury District, less than a mile from the British Museum. Of particular note for wandering Jews is the Hebrew Library containing written materials from ancient Palestine. Probably of most importance is the Balfour Declaration, calling for a "national home for the Jewish people." The Balfour Declaration was met with a great deal of conflict in Great Britain, but it ultimately led to the establishment of Israel with Chaim Weitzman as the first president. It was Weitzman who inspired Lord Balfour to write the Balfour Declaration.
Ireland
Irish Jewish Museum
Dublin, Ireland
On a quick trip to Dublin with my camp friend Fran, we visited The Irish Jewish Museum, a diminutive museum opened by Chaim Herzog, then President of Israel, who was born in Ireland. A synagogue was first opened in 3 and 4 Walworth Road in 1916 and was used for regular worship until the early 1970s. With a steep decline in the area’s Jewish population, the two houses were turned into a museum in 1985. The Jewish population of Ireland has dwindled to about 2,000, with most living in Dublin. The museum pays homage to their history. Located in the once highly Jewish populated area of Portobello, around the South Circular Road, the small museum was filled with a variety of exhibits, but the section with the bema, the elevated platform from which services were conducted, as well as the table set for Shabbat were of particular interest. I loved on one of the chandeliers hanging from the painted ceiling.
In 2013 the museum purchased three additional terraced homes adjacent to the synagogue, but local fought the expansion, noting that the expansion “does not respect the existing character and context” of the area. Although the plans to raze all five structures and build a new museum were approved, it doesn't look as though there has been any movement on the expansion.
In 2013 the museum purchased three additional terraced homes adjacent to the synagogue, but local fought the expansion, noting that the expansion “does not respect the existing character and context” of the area. Although the plans to raze all five structures and build a new museum were approved, it doesn't look as though there has been any movement on the expansion.
Spain
Old Jewish Quarter of Barcelona
Barcelona, Spain
Sometimes I find a Jewish site accidentally, like the medieval synagogue in Barcelona. My camp friend, Betty, and I visited the Catalonian city, spending most of our time exploring the peculiar realm of Antoni Gaudi and La Familia Sagrada. Betty, a speech pathologist who moonlighted as a Hebrew School teacher during the school year and the ropes course specialist at camp during the summer, shared my interest in learning about the Jews of Barcelona, so, after a brief visit to the Roman cemetery, we walked around the old Jewish Quarter, not really knowing what we might find. Our guide was an Eyewitness tour book which stated that the only surviving part of the Jewish Quarter, or the Call, which was destroyed in 1391, a hundred years before the inquisition, was a Hebrew inscription in memory of Rabbi Samuel Hassardi unearthed in 1920 during the demolition of a building.
As we strolled down the Carrer del Call, the Street of the Ghetto, we veered off the main street into a maze of narrow alleys leading into the Gothic Quarter. Betty, who spoke both a little Spanish and a little Hebrew, noticed a small sign in both languages; this was a medieval synagogue that was unearthed and restored just three years before our visit. I nervously followed Bea down a narrow flight of stairs: the street level in the 13th century was significantly lower, a few feet below the current pathway. The ancient synagogue was claustrophobic with only 650 square feet, but a light shone through a simple stained glass window of a Star of David filled with bright colors of red, yellow, blue, green, and orange and surrounded with clear glass breaking the light into small pieces with its lead lines, definitely a modern addition.
Our outdated tour book revealed nothing of the medieval synagogue, now a small museum of medieval Jewry, so it wasn’t until I got home with my dark photos of its interior that I learned of the massacre that took place on August 5th, 1391 with the looting of the Jewish Quarter and the killing of over 300 Jews. Survivors had only two choices: flee from Spain or convert to Christianity. Subsequently, the synagogue was permanently closed, only to house a laundry and storage facility until it was restored in the 21st century, over six hundred years later.
Today, Barcelona is home to about 3,500 Jewish persons and has four active synagogue, a day school, a senior home, and an annual Jewish film festival.
As we strolled down the Carrer del Call, the Street of the Ghetto, we veered off the main street into a maze of narrow alleys leading into the Gothic Quarter. Betty, who spoke both a little Spanish and a little Hebrew, noticed a small sign in both languages; this was a medieval synagogue that was unearthed and restored just three years before our visit. I nervously followed Bea down a narrow flight of stairs: the street level in the 13th century was significantly lower, a few feet below the current pathway. The ancient synagogue was claustrophobic with only 650 square feet, but a light shone through a simple stained glass window of a Star of David filled with bright colors of red, yellow, blue, green, and orange and surrounded with clear glass breaking the light into small pieces with its lead lines, definitely a modern addition.
Our outdated tour book revealed nothing of the medieval synagogue, now a small museum of medieval Jewry, so it wasn’t until I got home with my dark photos of its interior that I learned of the massacre that took place on August 5th, 1391 with the looting of the Jewish Quarter and the killing of over 300 Jews. Survivors had only two choices: flee from Spain or convert to Christianity. Subsequently, the synagogue was permanently closed, only to house a laundry and storage facility until it was restored in the 21st century, over six hundred years later.
Today, Barcelona is home to about 3,500 Jewish persons and has four active synagogue, a day school, a senior home, and an annual Jewish film festival.
Montjuic (Spanish), Montjuich (Catalan), or Mountain of the Jews
Madrid, Spain
I understand enough Spanish to know that mont is mountain and juic is Jewish, so when I saw that Montjuïc was on our city tour, I wondered why it would be named as such. I didn't get that question answered on tour, so I had to do a little digging on my own. According to in his book, Travel Guide to Jewish Europe, the area in Barcelona between two hills -- Montjuïc and Tibidabo -- is home to most of the Jewish history in the city. The height of Jewish Barcelona was in the 11th and 12th centuries. In the high middle ages, Jews were not allowed to be buried in the city, so a Jewish cemetery was established outside the boundaries of the city and stands as the only reminder of Jewish life in the area, although most of the Jewish graves have been lost to time. After an attack on the Jewish quarter (Call) in 1391, tombstones were destroyed and materials were repurposed for other buildings. The ancient Jewish cemetery housed the final resting place of notable members of the pre-expulsion Jewish community, but is not preserved today and forms part of a city park. It is managed by Cementiris de Barcelona S.A who offer guided tours. Excavations have discovered many inscriptions and tombstones that now sit in the Museum of Jewish History in the city center of Girona, an hour and a half drive from Montjuic. Unfortunately, we did not have the opportunity to visit.
Rising almost 600 feet above sea level, Montjuïc offered a significant defense against invasion. Today it serves as home to a few sites not related to its Jewish moniker. The National Palace of Montjuic houses the Catalonia Museum of Art, sitting majestically atop the hill, with a beautiful garden and waterfalls that reminded me of Meridian Hill Park in DC. Unfortunately, since it was February, the water was turned off. We also visited the Fundacio Joan Miro for a look at some of his amazing pieces; the museum sits in the center of Montjuïc Park. The Olympic Stadium is also atop the hill.
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Synagogue of Santa Maria la Blanca
Toledo, Spain
Before taking an excursion to Toledo from Madrid, I knew that the city had an extensive Jewish history. In the late 14th century, at the height of Jewish Toledo, the city had ten synagogues and more than five Jewish schools, or yeshiva. At the time of the Spanish Inquisition and the expulsion of the Jews in 1492 there were five grand synagogues behind the walls of the city. Two of those grand buildings still survive: the Transito, which is now the Sephardic Museum, and the magnificent Santa Maria La Blanca. Mindy and I didn't have time to visit Transito, but we were able to experience the Synagogue of Santa Maria la Blanca. The synagogue, which became a church after the Inquisition, kept its Christian name.
Italy
Jewish Ghetto
Venice, Italy
I have had the privilege of visiting Venice a number of times, first as a high school student. Carolyn, Spela, and I spent a very hot day in Venice while we were staying with Spela's mom in Nova Gorica, on the border with Italy. The last time I was in Venice was as a chaperone for a student tour. A local guide walked us along the narrow streets and alleyways, over many of the bridges over the canals. He stopped at the Ghetto for a quick lesson. Venice was actually the first "ghetto." The word is derived from an old Venetian word meaning "foundry." The site of the ghetto was on an abandoned 14th-century foundry. The Venetian government created the ghetto in 1516, forcing the Jews into the segregated area. When Bonaparte occupied the area in 1797, he forced the dissolution of the ghetto. Today the ghetto remains the center of Jewish life in Venice, although most of the 450 Jews live outside of the area, mostly because of the high cost. We saw several Orthodox men, women, and children eating in various, small kosher eateries.
Basilica of Santa Croce
Florence, Italy
I was very surprised to see the Star of David atop a basilica on our student tour of Florence. Since it was a meeting point before catching up with a local guide, I had the chance to theorize its meaning. The most obvious answer to me was that the building was once a synagogue, but, the truth was otherwise. The Basilica of Santa Croce was built in the late 13th century and stands as the largest Franciscan church in the world. Niccolo Mattas, the architect who designed the building's facade, was Jewish, and it was he who worked the Star of David prominently atop the basilica. Like the other architects, Matas wanted to be buried inside the church. However, since he was Jewish, he was buried outside, right under the threshold. An inscription marks his burial.
The Basilica stands in the large Piazza di Santa Croce, near the Duomo. In addition to the architects, it is the burial place of many important Florentines, including Michelangelo, Machiavelli. Rossini, and Galileo. For this reason, the basilica is also given the name of the Temple of the Italian Glories. Michelangelo, of course, sculpted the famous statue of David that sits in Florence's Accademia Gallery.
Croatia
The Old Synagogue
Dubrovnik, Croatia
Janet and I made plans to visit the Old Dubrovnik Synagogue, which is also a museum, and our travel buddy, Carolyn, enthusiastically joined us for a lesson in Croatian Jewish history. The synagogue was established in 1352 by the local Jewish community and serves as a place of worship for the High Holy Days and special occasions, such as marriages. We were met at the entrance by a local Jewish resident who offered us some background about the synagogue as well as a little history of the Jews in Croatia.
The various styles in the Sephardic synagogue is evidence of the many renovations in its long history. It suffered great damage in an earthquake in 1667, during World War II, and, finally, in the 1990 War of Independence. The synagogue that we were visiting was reopened in 1997 after repairs were made to restore it to the original design. Few Jews remain in Croatia, with 78% of the population perishing in the Holocaust. The synagogue, originally built in the Baroque style of 14th century Italy, is on the third floor of the building in the old Jewish Quarter. Today, the Jewish community consists of about thirty individuals.
Mirogoj Cemetery
Zagreb, Croatia
My camp friend, Spela, and her partner, Nadja, met Carolyn, Janet, and me in Zagreb and showed us around the city on our free day. Spela, who is not Jewish, became very interested in the religion to two summers she worked in camp. She and Nadja took us to the Mirogoj Cemetery which has a large Jewish section. As the Jewish population all but disappeared, many of the gravesites were sold to Christians, so it is one of the few cemeteries where Jewish and Christian graves sit side by side. A monument commemorating the Holocaust depicts Moses holding the Ten Commandments.
The cemetery opened in 1872. The main building, with its interesting arcades, was designed by Hermann Bolle. Five years after our visit, in March 2020, a major earthquake in Zagreb damaged many of the gravesites as well the main building.
Split Synagogue
Split, Croatia
After our tour of the Diocletian Palace, we had some time to wander around the area. I discovered a menorah carved into a stone wall indicating the synagogue. Carolyn had gone back to the boat because she was a little under the weather, but Janet and I were able to visit the second oldest synagogue in Croatia, with the first in Dubrovnik. The synagogue is located on a narrow street, Zidovski Prolaz, or the Jewish Passage. In order to enter the synagogue which dates to the early 16th century, we had to go up a flight of stairs. The synagogue was purposefully hidden in the walls of the palace for the safety of the Jews who had escaped Spain and Portugal.
We also found the entrance to the Old Jewish Cemetery open. The cemetery, for the most part, has not been kept up, but it was interesting strolling through the old gravestones. The last burial in the cemetery took place in 1945; there is a new cemetery a little outside of the city in Lovrinac. A little over a year before Janet, Carolyn, and I visited the cemetery, it was vandalized. Three graves were opened and some headstones were damaged.
Greece
Old Jewish Quarter and Kahal Kodesh Shalom Synagogue
Rhodes, Greece
A search for another Jewish Quarter, this one on the island of Rhodes in Greece, was inspired by my relationship with one of my assistant directors at camp, David Alhadeff, a name essential to the story of Jewish Rhodes. After my failure to conquer my acrophobia on the ramparts of Rhodes, I meandered through the narrow streets of the medieval city, shooting an entire roll of film on the last of my analogue cameras. I wandered into the Square of Jewish Martyrs, also called Seahorse Square for the lovely fountain in the center. The fountain had three seahorses on top of a pedestal adorned with blue tiles etched with scenes of marine life. Surrounding the fountain were various coffee shops and restaurants, offering a perfect opportunity to relax and sip a fruit smoothie before searching for the Alhadeffs and the Jews of Rhodes
A small six-sided marble column in the square memorializes the 1,604 Jewish residents of Rhodes and the small island of Cos who died in the Holocaust, each side bearing witness in a different language: Greek, English, Hebrew, French, Italian, and Ladino, the Jewish language of the Spanish Jews who escaped to Rhodes during the Inquisition. Glancing from the memorial to observe hundreds of tourists and locals enjoying the pleasing weather and scenic square, I spotted a sign for a jewelry store: Anna Cohn. Noting the Jewish name, I walked into the store filled with modern designs in silver and stone.
“Kalimera.” We had learned how to say “good morning” in Greek on the ship, and it was an easy word to remember because I thought it sounded a lot like “calamari.”
Anna answered in perfect English, “Good morning.”
After explaining my pursuit of finding my friend David’s family roots, she spoke wistfully of a Jewish life in Rhodes that had all but disappeared. “There are only seven Jewish families left on the island. This square used to be filled with Jewish merchants, but we are the only shop that remains. Have you visited the synagogue?”
“Not yet. I passed it earlier this morning, but it doesn’t open until 10. I’m just heading in that direction now.”
“Usually you can find someone at the synagogue who can tell more of the story: there is an elderly woman who opens the doors and greets guests. She doesn’t speak a lot of English, but she might be able to tell you a little more.”
I asked her about the Alhadeffs.
“They were a prosperous Sephardic family; one of the major banks before the war was Alhadeff and Sons. I think one of the Chief Rabbis was also Alhadeff. When you visit the synagogue, you will see a plaque to the families who were victims of the Holocaust. Alhadeff is on the list.” I wished I had asked David more about his family. Were they bankers or rabbis?
“You know, the park right here is named for the Alhadeffs, and the street that runs through it is called Salomon Alhadeff Street, dedicated before World War II.
“Kalimera.” We had learned how to say “good morning” in Greek on the ship, and it was an easy word to remember because I thought it sounded a lot like “calamari.”
Anna answered in perfect English, “Good morning.”
After explaining my pursuit of finding my friend David’s family roots, she spoke wistfully of a Jewish life in Rhodes that had all but disappeared. “There are only seven Jewish families left on the island. This square used to be filled with Jewish merchants, but we are the only shop that remains. Have you visited the synagogue?”
“Not yet. I passed it earlier this morning, but it doesn’t open until 10. I’m just heading in that direction now.”
“Usually you can find someone at the synagogue who can tell more of the story: there is an elderly woman who opens the doors and greets guests. She doesn’t speak a lot of English, but she might be able to tell you a little more.”
I asked her about the Alhadeffs.
“They were a prosperous Sephardic family; one of the major banks before the war was Alhadeff and Sons. I think one of the Chief Rabbis was also Alhadeff. When you visit the synagogue, you will see a plaque to the families who were victims of the Holocaust. Alhadeff is on the list.” I wished I had asked David more about his family. Were they bankers or rabbis?
“You know, the park right here is named for the Alhadeffs, and the street that runs through it is called Salomon Alhadeff Street, dedicated before World War II.
I thanked Anna for her brief history lesson and walked back to Kahal Kodesh Shalom on the corner of Dossiadou and Simiou Streets, the only extant synagogue of the five that served the community before the war. The five-hundred-year-old synagogue had been beautifully restored, but, unfortunately, with such a small population, services are rarely held unless they can get a minion, the minimum of ten Jewish adults required for worship. Although the synagogue and its museum were open, its wooden double doors with four Stars of David outlined in gold was locked. I knocked, and a diminutive woman, around the age of 80, slowly opened the door to reveal the Moorish interior painted in the blue of Jews: “Because blue resembles the sea, and the sea resembles sky, and the sky resembles God’s Throne of Glory.” (Rabbi Meir, Talmud) The main floor had been recently renovated with pristine white columns outlined in a blue and gold design. The paint in the women’s gallery above still showed signs of aging and disuse, peeling in large clusters. Crystal and gold chandeliers surrounded the bimah in the center of the sanctuary in the Sephardic tradition.
Seeming more disgruntled than welcoming, one of the last congregants stood hunchbacked in a blue paisley dress. She waved me in, encouraging me to follow her deliberate steps to the bimah. Disappointed that I spoke neither Hebrew nor Ladino, she handed me a brochure in Greek, so I was on my own to interpret my experience until I could get back to my guide book that I left back on the ship.
Back in the garden of the synagogue, I was surprised to find a plaque in French in memory of the congregational families who were victims of the Holocaust. Despite being an abysmal French student in high school, I could read the memorial erected by a French descendant of La Juderia, Ladino for Jewish Rhodes: “In memory of the two thousand martyrs of the Jewish community of Rhodes and Cos annihilated by the deadly Nazis in the concentration camps in Germany 1944-45. May their souls rest in peace.” The first name listed was “Alhadeff.” In a heart-rending twist of faith, the great great granddaughter, Alyssa Alhadeff, was one of the casualties of the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting in 2018.
Seeming more disgruntled than welcoming, one of the last congregants stood hunchbacked in a blue paisley dress. She waved me in, encouraging me to follow her deliberate steps to the bimah. Disappointed that I spoke neither Hebrew nor Ladino, she handed me a brochure in Greek, so I was on my own to interpret my experience until I could get back to my guide book that I left back on the ship.
Back in the garden of the synagogue, I was surprised to find a plaque in French in memory of the congregational families who were victims of the Holocaust. Despite being an abysmal French student in high school, I could read the memorial erected by a French descendant of La Juderia, Ladino for Jewish Rhodes: “In memory of the two thousand martyrs of the Jewish community of Rhodes and Cos annihilated by the deadly Nazis in the concentration camps in Germany 1944-45. May their souls rest in peace.” The first name listed was “Alhadeff.” In a heart-rending twist of faith, the great great granddaughter, Alyssa Alhadeff, was one of the casualties of the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting in 2018.
Turkey
Menorah on the Steps of the Celsus Library
Ephesus, Turkey
Turkey is still on my bucket list. I only stepped into the country for one day on a cruise of the Greek Islands and Kusadasi, Turkey, the closest point to the ancient city of Ephesus. On our guided tour of Ephesus, we stopped on the steps leading up to the Celsus Library, of which only about 15% has been excavated. Carved on one of the marble steps is a menorah, a seven-branched candelabra. The first Jews are estimated to have settled in the area, known as Anatolia ,in the 6th century B.C.E., making the Jewish community in Turkey one of the oldest in the world. We learned that as many as 10,000 Jews lived in Ephesus during the Hellenistic Period, although they were very much integrated into the Hellenistic society. Paul, who was a well-to-do Turkish Jew before becoming an apostle of Christ, preached in the synagogue here in Ephesus.
Turkey became a haven for Jews escaping Spain and Portugal as well as other European countries. They began to emigrate from Turkey in the later 19th century, most of them making their way to America. Today the Jewish population is around 100,000.
Austria
Jewish Museum Vienna
Vienna, Austria
I met Jane, the camp director of an Easter Seals program, on a camp staffing trip with Camp America. When I mentioned that I was going to the Vienna Jewish Museum, Jane, who was not Jewish, asked if she could join me. We visited Judenplatz in 1998; the second museum opened five years earlier in 1993 in Palais Eskeles in Dorotheergasse. The original Jewish museum was the first in the world, opened in 1895, but it was closed by the Nazis in 1939. Some of the articles were safely removed to other locations in the city, and some were used in Nazi anti-semitic propaganda, but most disappeared. Today the exhibit contains many of the items that were recovered from a collection the Nazis were amassing for a museum to a "lost" people. What I remember most are these exhibits, a poignant reminder of the fragility of our existence.
I was glad to have Jane's company; it gave me the opportunity to share the significance and meaning of many of the articles, but it also slowed down our limited time in the museum. But I enjoy being able to share my heritage with others who are genuinely interested.
I was glad to have Jane's company; it gave me the opportunity to share the significance and meaning of many of the articles, but it also slowed down our limited time in the museum. But I enjoy being able to share my heritage with others who are genuinely interested.
Judenplatz Holocaust Memorial
Vienna, Austria
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The Holocaust Memorial in Vienna sits in the Judenplatz, the town square that was the center of Viennese Jewish life in the Middle Ages. Designed by British artist, Rachel Whiteread, the memorial is also known as the Nameless Library. It looked like a miniature library, made of concrete with books carved into the edifice, each without a title, hence, the "nameless library." The volumes of books serve as a reminder of the victims of the Holocaust, all unfinished stories. The memorial sits in the center of the plaza that is also home to the second Jewish Museum, which I did not have the opportunity to visit: Museum Judenplatz Museum, part of the Museum of Jewish History of Vienna, with remains from excavations from a medieval synagogue. I think a return visit to Vienna, longer than 24 hours, needs to be on my bucket list for travel.
The Holocaust Memorial in Vienna sits in the Judenplatz, the town square that was the center of Viennese Jewish life in the Middle Ages. Designed by British artist, Rachel Whiteread, the memorial is also known as the Nameless Library. It looked like a miniature library, made of concrete with books carved into the edifice, each without a title, hence, the "nameless library." The volumes of books serve as a reminder of the victims of the Holocaust, all unfinished stories. The memorial sits in the center of the plaza that is also home to the second Jewish Museum, which I did not have the opportunity to visit: Museum Judenplatz Museum, part of the Museum of Jewish History of Vienna, with remains from excavations from a medieval synagogue. I think a return visit to Vienna, longer than 24 hours, needs to be on my bucket list for travel.
Germany
Dachau Concentration Camp
Dachau, Germany
Dachau, Germany
Unfortunately, exploring the history of the Jews can be a sorrowful affair. The term dark tourism, travel connected to death, disaster, and tragedy, was coined in 1996 by two professors of tourism at Glasgow Caledonian University. The Nazi death camps are a conspicuous example of dark tourism. On our 1977 student trip to Europe, Norman, offered to accompany our small student group on an excursion to the Dachau Memorial Site.
As we entered the Dachau Concentration Camp, I was captivated by the chilling sculpture in front of the museum. Designed by Yugoslav artist and concentration camp survivor, Nandor Glid, the tangle of human bodies, victims of starvation and disease, reach out to form what looks like barbed wire. The silence of the onlookers was palpable; the art aroused our emotions while the graphic photographs in the museum provoked anger and disbelief. The museum stands as a memorial to the over 41,000 people who perished at Dachau.
Language created a bit of a barrier to our appreciation: the museum labels did not include English, an obstacle that has since been removed. Norman led us through the museum, translating as much as he could as we attempted to comprehend how humanity can be so utterly cruel.
Carolyn, whose family was originally from Germany, was very moved by the visit. “Being of German descent isn’t easy,” Catherine confessed. “I cannot ignore my roots and confront the horrors we have just seen. As a young girl, I remember my father telling me I should be proud of my German heritage. I was until the day a friend accused me of being kin to Hitler. I can still see her tiny lips pursed as she spoke: Anyone with a German name like Kreiter must be kin to him!”
Carolyn remembers her experience at Dachau in a poem that she wrote after returning home. “Leaving a Country Behind” is based on a dream she had: “an image of her father on a flight home to Munich, staring into the darkness, his aunt coming into view out of memory.” Catherine’s narrator is an unnamed speaker remembering Dachau when he was six years old; years later, his memory returns to the graphic museum and Glid’s sculpture:
Drive twelve miles northwest,
the villager said, pointing
the way to the death camp.
I was six years old,
and today my mind returns
to Dachau, to the barbed
wire, ovens, and wooden bunks,
to iron bodies writhing
in a sculpture displayed
for the world’s children.
(from "Leaving a Country Abroad," by Carolyn Kreiter Foronda, printed with permission from the poet)
Carolyn, whose family was originally from Germany, was very moved by the visit. “Being of German descent isn’t easy,” Catherine confessed. “I cannot ignore my roots and confront the horrors we have just seen. As a young girl, I remember my father telling me I should be proud of my German heritage. I was until the day a friend accused me of being kin to Hitler. I can still see her tiny lips pursed as she spoke: Anyone with a German name like Kreiter must be kin to him!”
Carolyn remembers her experience at Dachau in a poem that she wrote after returning home. “Leaving a Country Behind” is based on a dream she had: “an image of her father on a flight home to Munich, staring into the darkness, his aunt coming into view out of memory.” Catherine’s narrator is an unnamed speaker remembering Dachau when he was six years old; years later, his memory returns to the graphic museum and Glid’s sculpture:
Drive twelve miles northwest,
the villager said, pointing
the way to the death camp.
I was six years old,
and today my mind returns
to Dachau, to the barbed
wire, ovens, and wooden bunks,
to iron bodies writhing
in a sculpture displayed
for the world’s children.
(from "Leaving a Country Abroad," by Carolyn Kreiter Foronda, printed with permission from the poet)
St. Stephan's Chagall Windows
Mainz, Germany
I often depend on tour directors and offered excursions for "free time" on tours. The night before our arrival in Mainz, Germany, on our Christmas Markets cruise, I perused the ship’s daily list of suggestions of things to see in Mainz. I read about the Collegiate Church of St. Stephan’s blue stained-glass windows by the Jewish artist Marc Chagall. I wondered why a cathedral would choose a Russian Jewish artist to design its windows. I had seen the magnificent Jerusalem Windows at Hadassah’s Medical Center in Israel as well as his Peace window at the United Nations in New York, in memory of Dag Hammarskjöld, the UN’s second secretary general who was killed in a plane crash in 1961. I welcomed a chance to get away from the Christmas Markets for a brief visit to St. Stephan's to see the windows.
With good internet access when docked, I grabbed my iPad and did some investigation. According to the official website of Mainz, Monsignor Klaus Mayer reached out to Chagall in the early 1970s, persuading him to create the windows as a symbol of peace between the Jewish and Christian people. It would be his last work: Chagall died shortly after the last window was added to the cathedral. The hard rain that morning had tapered off, and I asked the ship to call a taxi.
The windows tell tales of the Bible, the Old Testament in Christianity. With lights of indigo blue shining through, despite the dreary weather, the windows were awesome in the true sense of the word. Interspersed with bright colored figures of yellow and red angels, the windows tell the story of Creation. Adam and Eve, Moses, and Abraham and Isaac reveal biblical stories; Chagall included some New Testament stories including Mary cradling the baby Jesus. I sat down on one of the pews, listening to the rain on the roof becoming almost deafening in the silence, despite sharing the cathedral with many other tourists. I sat and observed the eighteen shades of blue until the rain slowed enough for me to catch a taxi back to the ship, fulfilled with a sense that I had witnessed something remarkable.
Marc Chagall, who became an honorary citizen of Mainz, but never got to know the city, completed his final window shortly before his death at the age of 97.
Holocaust Memorial Plaques
Coblenz, Germany
Coblenz, Germany
Sailing further north on the Rhine, we arrived in Coblenz. As we followed our tour guide through the narrow streets, someone noticed small bronze plaques on the cobblestones: “Hier Wohnt. Olga Daniel. JB 1880. Deportiert 27.7.1942. Theresendiadt. Ermordet 19.9.1942 Treblinka.” Here lived Olga Daniel, born in 1880, deported on July 27, 1942 to Theresendiadt, died September 19, 1942 in Treblinka. The plaques sat in front of the last home of Simon and Olga Daniel, victims of the Final Solution.
Netherlands
Jewish Memorial Nijmegen
Nijmegen, Netherlands
On our last port of call in Nijmegen, the oldest city in the Netherlands, dark tourism arose again in the form of an intimate Holocaust Memorial, one tucked away on a narrow back street of a residential neighborhood. As we walked under a small archway on Anthonispoort, I saw a statue of a woman in despair, holding her bowed head with her right hand. Next to her is a headstone topped with numerous rocks of all shapes and sizes. Its inscription is in Dutch. She and the headstone are surrounded by a low iron fence with a large Star of David in front of the grieving woman. Our tour guide stopped, gathering us around the fence.
“This is a statue of Kitty de Wijze, who was murdered at Auschwitz on December 15, 1942.”
Kitty De Wijze and her three sisters, Elly, Joke, and Tini, were victims of the Holocaust. In March 1941, Nijmegen was home to 522 "full Jews" out of a population of about 100,000 people. 433 Nijmegen Jews did not survive. Fifty years after the liberation of the Netherlands, local schoolchildren unveiled a monument to the murdered citizens on the square near the synagogue of Nonnenstraat. The square was given the name of one of them -- Kitty de Wijzeplatts -- as a tribute to all the victims whose names are engraved on plaques surrounding the statue.
Scarlett, our community rebel and humanitarian, put her arm around me as we listened to our tour guide for the last time on our cruise. “Kitty represents the 400 Jewish residents of Nijmegen who perished in the Holocaust. She stands close to the old synagogue.” Scarlett started to cry; I knew that these tears were not coming only from remembering one of the darkest times in modern history, but also for the hatred that she is fighting in our own. I couldn’t read the inscription, and our tour guide didn’t translate, so I took a photo and used Google Translate: “Tonight come with stories of how the war has faded away and repeat them a thousand times: I will weep every time.” The poem, I would later learn, was written by Dutch-American poet Leo Vroman who escaped from the Netherlands right before the Nazi occupation and would eventually become an American citizen. Scarlett would weep with Vroman.
Anne Frank House
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Amsterdam, Netherlands
I have been to Amsterdam several times, with three visits to the Anne Frank House spanning over four decades. Technology, modern architecture, and overtourism transformed the experience over the years. On our “If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Amsterdam” tour, Carolyn and I escorted our students through the Secret Annex in the original warehouse whose exterior remained mainly unchanged in the thirty-four years since the Franks were captured. Having read Diary of a Young Girl and played the role of Anne’s sister, Margot, in a community theater production of the play, I was most looking forward to our visit to the famous attic where eight Jews hid for most of the war. In the play by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, Margot says very little, yet she is almost constantly on stage, giving me time to observe, almost becoming one with the very small living space. Our production was in a local elementary school: the small stage heightened the sense of claustrophobia. As I stepped into the real attic, I was ironically overwhelmed with the sense of space, despite its compactness, especially considering it was home to a family of four, another family of three, and a lone dentist.
Carolyn and I entered the room that Anne shared with the man she called Albert Dussel, a dentist whose given name was Fritz Pfeffer; his moniker translates to “idiot.” The walls are still covered with pictures that Anne hung in an attempt to make the space hers.
Carolyn took my arm. “I am so sorry.”
I was confused. “For what?”
“That people could do such horrible things to people like you.” There was a long silence, and the two of us just stood there for a few minutes, arms linked. The experience was surrealistic: I felt as though I was transported into a place that was familiar, but not mine. Here, in the real secret annex, with the photos and “scratches on walls,” Anne Frank’s words were resurrected.
Carolyn captured the visit in her poem, “The Anne Frank House at Prinsengracht 236.”
Its secret told has been a burden on the stairs,
floors, the rooms behind the hinged bookcase.
When workers restore the house, they must not change the dim light, the scratches on walls.
All alone, she turned words into flight.
My second visit to the Secret Annex was about fifteen years later with Jane, the Easter Seals camp director who had also accompanied me to the Jewish Museum in Vienna. We walked up to the original façade of the brick row houses and bought two admission tickets to visit the hiding place.
When I walked into Anne’s room the second time, I remained mesmerized by the original posters and magazine clippings hanging on the wall, rehung and enclosed behind glass for protection when the Secret Annex was restored to its original state in the late 1950s. The room was wall-papered with freshly painted teal trim. There was a six-paneled frosted window looking out from Anne’s room into the hallway. I stood spellbound, grieving for the lost hope that was their hiding place and their home.
I pictured Anne, although she looked a lot like our young Anne Frank in the play, looking out the window with Peter as she said one of her most iconic lines: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” At fourteen Anne wrote of her optimism for mankind: “I think that it will all come right that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.” I thought I felt her spirit; upon exiting and finding a life-size statue of Anne in front of the house, I tried to see what she was looking at -- the spire of the Westerkerk Cathedral, the heavens, or at a future that did not include her.
When I walked into Anne’s room the second time, I remained mesmerized by the original posters and magazine clippings hanging on the wall, rehung and enclosed behind glass for protection when the Secret Annex was restored to its original state in the late 1950s. The room was wall-papered with freshly painted teal trim. There was a six-paneled frosted window looking out from Anne’s room into the hallway. I stood spellbound, grieving for the lost hope that was their hiding place and their home.
I pictured Anne, although she looked a lot like our young Anne Frank in the play, looking out the window with Peter as she said one of her most iconic lines: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” At fourteen Anne wrote of her optimism for mankind: “I think that it will all come right that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.” I thought I felt her spirit; upon exiting and finding a life-size statue of Anne in front of the house, I tried to see what she was looking at -- the spire of the Westerkerk Cathedral, the heavens, or at a future that did not include her.
My last visit to the house over twenty years later was the embodiment of overtourism. I had learned from friends that it was necessary to purchase tickets to the house days, if not weeks, in advance; I secured one online before leaving home since I was traveling by myself on a Rhine River cruise from Amsterdam to Brussels. Looking for the restored brick home I had visited many years ago, I was taken aback by a glass structure that was entirely out of place, a visitor center with a museum, ticket booth, and information desk. Visitors had to go through the modern edifice, with its ticket line that wound its way around for blocks, in order to enter the Secret Annex, and, upon exiting the Frank’s hiding place, step back into the museum part of the new building. Perhaps if not for the first two more intimate visits, I wouldn’t have been so disoriented by the out-of-place architecture, the lines of people, and the videos that are part of the exhibit. It was considerably more difficult to find Anne’s spirit in the house.
Happily, I encountered the surviving Jewish spirit of the Dutch when I had lunch with two of the counselors whom I had hired on my second visit, Chava and Sarah, who made the journey from their small town in the Netherlands to meet with me in the big city; they were traveling with their Jewish friend, Gideon, who might have been interested in working at the camp in the States. Their pride in their heritage – both Dutch and Jewish – was evident in their wide smiles and enthusiastic demeanor. They had found a bit of their Judeophilia in the little town in the Catoctin Mountains of Pennsylvania, just as I had discovered so much of my birthright on my travels.
Morocco
Mellah of Fes
Fes, Morocco
Fes, Morocco
On our way to the Medina in Des we walked though the Mellah, or the old Jewish quarter, in Des el-Jdid. The district no longer has a Jewish population in the area, but there are several signs of a past Jewish life. The first sign was above the entrance of the Jewish cemetery, written in three languages -- Arabic, Hebrew, and English. The gates to the cemetery were locked, so we continued our walk to the main entrance to the Mellah, settled by Jews in the 15th century. The Fes Mellah, which actually means "salt marsh" in Arabic, was the first Jewish quarter established in Morocco. The term was not mean as derogatory; instead, it reflects the imposing architecture. The fortification of the Mellah was for the protection of its citizens.
South Africa
South Africa Jewish Museum
Cape Town, South Africa
Rachel and I visited the South African Jewish Museum in Cape Town, built, as many of the Jewish museums around the world, around the old synagogue. The museum houses the first synagogue in South Africa, appropriately called “The Old Shul.” Nelson Mandela had a complicated relationship with Jews and Israel. Mandela held strong friendships with many Jews on a personal and political level, but he was loyal to the Palestinian Liberation Organization and Thirteen of the thirty anti-apartheid activists arrested for treason in 1956 were Jewish, and abhorred Israel's support of the South African apartheid government.
Mandela opened the Jewish Museum in 2000. A large poster on the wall of the museum quotes his 1998 autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom: “In my experience I have found Jews to be more broad-minded than most whites on issues of race and politics, perhaps because they themselves have historically been victims of prejudice.”
United States
There are over 7 million Jews in the United States as of 2020, although that only represents about 2% of the population, but more than the number of Jewish people who were murdered in the Holocaust. Jewish immigrants arrived in waves, with the first group of Sephardic Jews coming between 1654 through the colonial period. Most of these new Americans were from Brazil, Spain, and Portugal. The second wave of Jews came primarily from Germany, escaping anti-Semitic regulations and laws starting in the 1840s
New York
I grew up in New York, but I never really saw the city nor the state until I moved away after I got married. The Jewish sites listed here are all the places I have visited since moving out of the state in 1975. Although less that 2% of the United States identifies as Jewish, the Jewish population of New York State is almost 10%, making it the state with the largest Jewish population in the country. Over 1 million of the 2 millions Jews in the state live in one of the five boroughs New York City. I grew up in Nassau County, where 17% of the population is Jewish, giving me a skewed view of the universe.
Museum of Jewish Heritage: A Living Memorial to the Holocaust
New York, New York
I visited the Museum of Jewish Heritage down in the Battery on Christmas Day. I was staying in the apartment of one of my son's friends for a week while she was away, and there wasn't much open on that day, so I braved the freezing winds for a visit. A vast number of other Jews made the same choice, creating a surrealistic experience when I encountered over ten people I knew, many of them of the D.C. area who were visiting New York during the holidays. Before my visit, a friend mentioned not to miss the top floor for a amazing view of the harbor and the Statue of Liberty.
The Tenement Museum
New York, New York
I also visited the Tenement Museum on my Christmas stay in Manhattan. Almost twenty years later, on a trip to Cuba, I discovered that the family of our tour escort, Marissa Schimmel, lived in one of the buildings that makes up the Tenement Museum. The Rogarshevsky family, a Jewish American family from Lithuania who lived in 97 Orchard Street in the 1910s. Two sides of my family can be traced to what is now Lithuania, making their way to Brooklyn by way of Ellis Island. The Tenement Museum offers several different tours of the house as well as the area. Unfortunately, considering the close quarters of the interior, the museum had to close indefinitely. Donations continue to come in to support the reopening of the museum. In the mean time, the museum offers virtual tours and interactive programs on their website: www.tenement.org.
The Jewish Museum
New York, New York
Yes, there are two Jewish Museums in Manhattan. The Museum of Jewish Heritage is dedicated to the history of the Jews, with emphasis on the Holocaust, while the Jewish Museum, the Museum Mile, houses cultural artifacts and art. Carolyn and I visited the museum during our stay in the city in 2002, one of many that were on our itinerary including el Museo del Barrio for an exhibit on Frieda Kahlo and Diego Rivera. The museum's collection, which includes permanent and temporary exhibits, offers a wide range of art and artifacts from painting to ritual items.
Temple Emanuel
New York, New York
I was particularly interested in visiting Temple Emanuel in Manhattan because my family's Long Island synagogue, also Temple Emanuel, was sponsored by the first reform temple in New York City. Interestingly, the Long Island version leaned a little more toward Conservative, although we did have an organ. Temple Emanuel, in all its glory, still stands as an active temple. Unfortunately, the East Meadow Temple Emanuel was demolished in 2019.
I visited Temple Emanuel with Carolyn on our New York trip, where we also went to the Jewish Museum. Although there were Jews in New York from the beginning of the colonial era, the large immigration of Jews escaping the programs in Europe, many from Germany where the reform movement began, led to the foundation of Temple Emanuel. The first congregation of 33 Jews met in a second-floor loft in the Lower East Side until the Moorish-style building opened in 1845. Today Temple Emanuel is an active congregation with about 2,250 members.
I visited Temple Emanuel with Carolyn on our New York trip, where we also went to the Jewish Museum. Although there were Jews in New York from the beginning of the colonial era, the large immigration of Jews escaping the programs in Europe, many from Germany where the reform movement began, led to the foundation of Temple Emanuel. The first congregation of 33 Jews met in a second-floor loft in the Lower East Side until the Moorish-style building opened in 1845. Today Temple Emanuel is an active congregation with about 2,250 members.
Ellis Island
New York, New York
Ellis Island isn't exactly a Jewish site, but a majority of Jews came through Ellis Island when they immigrated to America, including two of my grandparents and all of my great grandparents. During my eight years of leading student tours, I took many student groups to the museum at Ellis Island, often getting frustrated when students would spend the entire time in the cafeteria which featured a lot of food associated with Jewish Culture, so I tried to give them some direction -- perhaps a scavenger hunt or a question that required them to personalize the experience: How do you think you would have felt as am immigrant coming through Ellis Island. The museum follows the immigrant experience upon arrival. For older students I might ask whether we should open our country to all immigrants.
The largest numbers of Jewish immigrants, approximately 2 million, arrived between 1881 and 1914, when World War I broke out. In the latter year alone, 138,051 arrived from Eastern Europe, although the outbreak of WWI soon reduced the flow dramatically. My grandfathers arrived in
Computers allow you to search for family or friends who came through Ellis Island which, from 1892 to 1924, processed about 12 million arrivals from all over the world. After 1924 the facility served as a detention center for migrants and, during both world wars, for prisoners of war. Ellis Island opened to visitors in 1976, but the main building as well as some others, were fully renovated and opened officially in 1900. Ellis Island is only accessible by the Statue of Liberty Ferry that leaves from both Liberty State Park in New Jersey and Battery Park in New York. Our student tours often left from New Jersey since it is usually less crowded.
Rhode Island
Touro Synagogue
Newport, Rhode Island
I visited the oldest surviving synagogue building in the United States – twice. The Touro Synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island is a colonial structure completed in 1763. Its Palladian architecture is in stark contrast to the Neo-Gothic Mickve Israel in Savannah in its simplicity, its brick exterior painted in a cream color with dark chocolate wood trim. My first visit was on a trip to visit a college friend in Providence; my Judeophilia would not allow such a close distance to a significant Jewish site go unvisited, so I rented a car and drove the forty miles by myself to bear witness to the fact that Jews have been here since before we were a country: we belong.
Housed in the Touro Synagogue is George Washington’s letter to the congregation, read aloud every year as a call to religious freedom: “…every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid. For happily the Government of the United States gives to no bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.”
I read the letter on that trip in 2007 and again seven years later. Yet, when I read it in preparation for writing my story, it has left me with a grave sorrow. It makes me long for Washington and Lincoln and Obama. Sadly, bigotry has existed throughout our history. People have chanted “Send her back!” not only to people of color, but also to the Jews, including the over 900 people on the M.S. St. Louis, who were turned away from our shores. Americans have committed mass murder in the name of hatred. In my naivete, I do not understand.
On my first visit, the interior of the synagogue was not open, but I could stand on the other side of a stanchion to peek inside. It reminded me of colonial Episcopalian churches – the Old North Church in Boston and Old Christ Church in Alexandria. Although there was a large sign posted “No Photos Allowed,” I wasn’t leaving without a photo of the sanctuary with the altar in the center in the Sephardic style. I turned my back surreptitiously to see if anyone was looking. There was. A volunteer docent was keeping her eye on the only visitor – me. I waited patiently until I thought the elderly female sentry was bored with her visitor and snapped my camera. Moving like someone half her age, she approached me with disdain: “You cannot take pictures of the interior, just the outside of the building.” She didn’t confiscate my camera and she didn’t make me erase the photo.
On my next visit we were able to tour the synagogue. Even though their letter from General Washington spoke of tolerance, the past had not been kind to Jews. The Spanish Inquisition was not a distant memory; it didn’t end until 1834, after most of these colonists were dead. That fear is evident in a small trap door on the floor of the bimah, leading to safety if the congregation was attacked. Some historians do not agree with that assessment of the trap door, uncovered during the 1958 restoration. One of the rabbis of the Touro Synagogue claims it was a symbol of their freedom, their ability to pray in the open. It makes a lot more sense to me that it would have been an escape route. Still others say it was merely a crawl space for storage. Perhaps. The Jewish Press even suggested it was part of the Underground Railroad, although the synagogue was not in use at the time. I love a good mystery, but I am going with the escape route; if slaves used it to get to freedom, all the better.
South Carolina
Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim Synagogue
Charleston, South Carolina
When Wendy and I visited Charleston in 2006, we signed up for a private tour of Jewish Charleston. On the walking part of the tour, we stopped at Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim, founded in 1749, and one of the oldest Jewish congregations in the United States. The congregation is nationally significant as the birthplace of American Reform Judaism. The Greek Revival building withs it colonnade was constructed in 1840 and was built with the assistance of enslaved people. The 1794 Georgian building that housed the congregation burned down in 1838,
When George Washington became President of the United States of America, there were six Jewish congregations. Three were located in Northern cities: Newport, Rhode Island's Touro Synagogue, New York’s Shearith Israel, and Philadelphia’s Michveh Israel. Three were located in the South: Charleston, South Carolina’s Beth Elohim, Richmond, Virginia’s Beth Shalome, and Savannah, Georgia’s Mickve Israel. I have visited three of those: Touro, Mickveh Israel, Beth Elohom, and Mickve Israel. On our visit in Charleston the doors to the synagogue were closed, so we were not able to visit the interior. The wrought iron fence that fronts the building on Hasell Street dates back to 1819.
Charleston Holocaust Memorial
Charleston, South Carolina
The first time I saw the Charleston Holocaust Memorial was on the trip to the city with Wendy; once I started doing tours of Charleston, I was able to visit a couple of times each season. The memorial, designed by Jonathan Levi, was completed in 1999. The center of the memorial is a discarded tallit, the Jewish prayer shawl. Cast in bronze, the tallit lies on the floor of a rectangular space surrounded by a wrought-iton fence. There are different interpretations of the fence, including a shell of a synagogue, or possibly a gas chamber. The tallit indicates prayer and life cut short, but also the denial of a proper burial.
Historic Coming Street Cemetery
Charleston, South Carolina
We also visited the Historic Coming Street Cemetery is the oldest surviving Jewish cemetery in the South. The cemetery is the final resting place of nine congregants from Beth Elohim who fought in the American Revolution as well as six soldiers from the War of 1812, and 21 Civil War participants, eight of whom were Confederate soldiers. Also buried here are six rabbis of Kahal Kodesh Beth Elohim and 18 past presidents of the synagogue. The oldest identifiable grave is that of Moses D. Cohen, the first religious leader of the congregation, who died in 1762.
I discovered an interesting engraving on one of the gravesites of two hands making the symbol of the Jewish priest or Kohanim. To some it might look like the Vulcan hand gesture, which, in fact, it is. Leonard Nimoy, who was familiar with the gesture, made it a part of his character.
I discovered an interesting engraving on one of the gravesites of two hands making the symbol of the Jewish priest or Kohanim. To some it might look like the Vulcan hand gesture, which, in fact, it is. Leonard Nimoy, who was familiar with the gesture, made it a part of his character.
Georgia
Mikve Israel
Savannah, Georgia
Savannah, Georgia
I rarely had Jewish guests on my tours; an exception to this was on a tour of the South: Charleston, Savannah, and St. Augustine with a small group of Jewish women from Long Island. One woman in particular was a very unhappy camper, often constrained by her poor health. Charlotte liked to dominate the other women in her group, telling them where to sit at meals and which excursions to take.
We don’t walk much on these tours since the average age is over 60 and many of my guests had limited mobility. However, the streets of historic Savannah are restricted to motor coaches, so we made a brief tour on foot to experience the iconic Forsythe Fountain and some of the notable homes, including the notorious Mercer Williams House, made famous in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. This group of women from Long Island were my first Jewish guests. Naturally, I assumed that they would want to see the unique synagogue, the only Gothic synagogue in the United States: Mickve Israel, housing two of the oldest torahs in the United States
We don’t walk much on these tours since the average age is over 60 and many of my guests had limited mobility. However, the streets of historic Savannah are restricted to motor coaches, so we made a brief tour on foot to experience the iconic Forsythe Fountain and some of the notable homes, including the notorious Mercer Williams House, made famous in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. This group of women from Long Island were my first Jewish guests. Naturally, I assumed that they would want to see the unique synagogue, the only Gothic synagogue in the United States: Mickve Israel, housing two of the oldest torahs in the United States
Pennsylvania
National Museum of American Jewish History
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The National Museum of American Jewish History that sits on Independence Mall opened in 2010; however, the museum dates back to 1976, originally housed in the historic Congregation Mikveh Israel, established in 1740 and called the "Synagogue of the American Revolution." Benjamin Franklin and Robert Morris both contributed to the original building.
The first time I visited the National Museum of American Jewish History I was still a camp director, and I was most excited about finding an exhibit in Jewish camping. As part of the small exhibit they had a computer screen to look up specific Jewish camps. I was thrilled to find Capital Camps along with some photos. The exhibit explains the importance of camping in Jewish history. The first Jewish summer camp was founded in New York in 1893, and with the rise of Jewish immigration, hundreds more sprung up as a way to get children out of the cities and help acclimate them to American culture. I noticed that one of the many old photographs was from Camp Airy, where my son went to camp for two summers at ages eight and nine. Since that first visit I have been to the museum twice more, including a reception when training to be a Philadelphia tour guise.
Of course, this small exhibit on Jewish camping in the gallery of sports, is a tiny part of the museum which traces the history of the Jewish people in America. The permanent collection includes a Jewish Hall of Fame, "Foundations of Freedom," "Dreams of Freedom," "Choices and Challenges of Freedom," and the "Only in America" gallery.
Statue of Commodore Levy and Congregation Mikveh Israel
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
I took the above photo in 2014 during my training to be a Philadelphia Tour Guide. The statue of Commodore Uriah P. Levy sits in front of Mikveh Israel on Independence Mall, the oldest synagogue in Philadelphia, and one of the oldest in the United States. Levy, who served in the War of 1812, was the first Jewish Naval Commodore. Uriah Levy had his Bar Mitzvah at Mikveh Israel in 1807.
Eastern State Penitentiary
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Most famous for one of its notorious prisoners, Al Capone, the Eastern State Penitentiary is now a popular tourist site. On a visit to the penitentiary, my sister and I were surprised to find a synagogue inside the prison. Eastern State’s synagogue was most likely the first built in an American prison, completed in 1924 and used continuously the penitentiary was closed in 1971. After its closure, Eastern State was left to ruin until the decision was made to convert it into a museum. The synagogue marks the first truly restored space in the penitentiary, restored to its 1959 original appearance, becoming a part of the tour in 2009. There are wooden benches surrounding the room for the prisoners to worship It also contains an ark, a reader's table, a plaster Star of David, and an eternal flame. Local rabbis would visit the penitentiary to lead worship and counsel the prisoners.