February 23, 2012

One Shabbat

 

by Clifford Lamm

March 22, 2011

 

It was Shabbat, the morning service, as I sat and prayed. Everything was as expected: the air-conditioned temperature, the cushioned seats, the feeling of calm and communal warmth. The congregation numbered around fifty, all nicely dressed in suits, designer dresses, black kippahs and long woolen tallit. A typical Miami masonry structure, the synagogue was simple and practical without adornment.

 

Groggy and not quite up to the task, I recited the opening benedictions of thanksgiving. Praise the Lord; our souls yearn for the Lord; the congregation muttered along, dutifully, only beginning to engage. Seated around me, the people prayed, while one or two just sat and listened. My father prayed alongside me, his deep voice repeating the prayers.

 

As I sat, praying and swaying, I squinted, looking forward and eastward towards the Ark. The congregation began to blur, becoming an out of focus collage of tallit, kippah and beards. Walls of sheetrock blurred, light paint transforming to red brick and wood. The low ceiling of recessed lights vanished, exposing a towering, vaulted ceiling, capped with a magnificent chandelier.  Light emanated from a huge gothic rose window of colored glass imbuing the space with warmth, softness, and an inspiring holiness. From every view were intricate designs and beautiful carvings. Large wooden clustered columns rose to support a second floor seating area bordered by a wooden balustrade. The Ark now commanding the scene was gothic, resplendent with carvings and triangular formations rising to great heights. The air was different too, the humidity replaced with a crisp, cool air. Beneath me, the floor tiles had disappeared, replaced with wide board planks of oak.

 

The space was vast, awe inspiring and must have held well over a thousand congregants. People were everywhere, the room was packed. Their dress was respectful but shabby, full of poorly tailored woolen suits and dresses, all in shades of brown and grey. Seated on a wooden pew, my grandfather prayed alongside me as we recited the hymns of praise and the Song at the Sea.

 

The prayers were familiar, yet different; filled with crying, pleading and in a hushed undertone, the whispering of secrets. From the women’s balcony the wailing began, descending, gathering momentum as it drew in the men; the wailing now rising to a deafening crescendo. So many voices at once, calling out, asking, filling the air with sobs and tears – G-d help me; do not forsake me; make this a good year.

 

The synagogue was on New York’s Lower East Side, the historic ghetto, the place of new beginnings and a wretched past, the crowded world of pushcarts, sweatshops, theater and knishes; of mikvahs, mitzvahs, mezuzahs and yeshivas. Block upon block of tenements crammed with apartments and people, one atop another. A neighborhood held together by hope and bound by an eruv. Everywhere people, incessant noise and jostling; but also prayer and spirituality. Such was the place where light emanated from sacred texts, glowing amidst the drab, grey poverty and abject decay.

 

I looked forward and eastward as the scene blurred, the room changed yet again. The Ark was closer now, its’ gilded façade protected by a thick, embroidered, velvet curtain. The red brick walls had dulled to planks of rough hewn cedar and larch, while wooden posts and exposed beams supported a painted dome-shaped ceiling, the air suffused with the stench of decay even though it was winter. Mythical creatures -unicorns, gilded griffins and leviathans, elaborate handcrafted trees and richly embellished engravings adorned the ark.

 

Looking down, what had been an oak floor was now an unintended design of mud, dirt and footprints; a lithographic history of the congregant’s comings and goings. My shoes were now ragged, wet, encrusted with mud and bits of straw. The temperature had changed, the cool air replaced with a cold, frigid air; the windows now laden with frost, while icicles hung from the ceiling beams.

 

The congregation huddled together for the temperature was well below freezing, there was no heat. I sat, shivering, as we recited the Shema. Though the congregation was small, they davened fervently, with conviction, familiarity and deep piety.  Full of melancholy, their blessings were intensely sweet and beautiful, their prayers rich in heart and mind. They prayed in unison, yet each voice was distinct with its own cadence and personality, longing for connection. I could hear the same words spoken by different voices, utterances of Hebrew, gaining in strength as the voices blended, the words intertwined, the words and voices now sounds, the sounds now a harmony of souls. Their chanting was beyond words, incomprehensible to modern thought and unlike anything I had ever heard. Men shouted the words and women sighed, both men and women pleading, beseeching G-d with tears of repentance and cries of joy.

 

Shema Yisroel - their voices howling across the vast steppes of Russia; Hashem Elohaynu- the people’s longing from deep within the surrounding forests; Hashem Echod- they prayed for each other and they prayed for themselves, they prayed for those living and those of their past, and they prayed as one. Weeping and repentance gave way to holiness; longing gave way to oneness.

 

Eastward over the Atlantic, in a land of forest, meadow and marsh; sustained by broad rivers yet flooded with ample tears, were small villages of a bygone era, the subscribed area for the Jews of Russia - the Pale of Settlement. The Pale was a frightening land ridden with pogroms, dark terror and the unthinkable atrocities of the Tsar. We were in the Khotin District, heaven help us. There I sat in a ramshackle wooden synagogue of my great-grandfather’s shtetl, a land poor in home but rich in heart; a homespun land of spiritual splendor set amidst the stench of slop ditches; the comfort of community amidst the cruelty of Cossacks; of passion but pogroms, of magic but misery; a land filled with frightful fears and terrible upheavals floating, timelessly, to the sounds of the fiddler, to Torah and Talmud.

 

Again, I gazed towards the Ark, now covered by an enormous curtain of crimson and blue, wrapped in chains of gold and flanked by immense bronze pillars.  In front set a large table made entirely of gold and arranged with loaves of bread. To the left and right stood exquisite, golden menorahs. High walls of cedar overlaid with sparkling gold decorated the room, while doors of olive wood adorned with carved figures of angels embellished the entrance. The aromatic smell of incense and the acrid smell of burning flesh emanated from huge brass altars, while a golden light radiated outward towards the congregation. My feet now wrapped in sandals tingled, as tiny bits of sand blew across the gold covered floor in the hot dry air.

 

There were now many men, thousands upon thousands, standing shoulder to shoulder, praying, swaying and bowing. They prayed with an intense concentration, as if one in heart. In front of the assembly stood the high priest, resplendent, garbed in golden vestments and shimmering in holy regalia.  He lifted his hands high in the air as he began to recite the priestly blessing - Elohaynu Vay-lohay Avosaynu, as rays of light radiated outward from between his fingers and enveloped the worshippers in light and holiness.

 

I had ascended from one world to the next, climbing ever upward, finally reaching the gate, the place where heaven meets earth upon a hilltop in Jerusalem.

  

I looked forward, as the scene blurred, the surroundings all too familiar. The air conditioner hummed along, as I felt the cushioned seat, and looked at my black shoes on the porcelain tiles. The reading was completed, and the Torah was placed in the Ark. I thought of what has been written and what may be. 

 

Here we sit, survivors from the past, ancient ones, continuing to wander, from place to place, journey upon journeys; moving forward towards oneness and eastward towards redemption. As we journey, we carry the Torah, while the Torah carries us, forward and eastward, forward and eastward, forward and eastward.

 

 

 

Clifford Lamm lives in Miami Beach, Florida. He was born in Brooklyn, New York and earned a BFA from The San Francisco Art Institute. His writing has appeared in Eclectica Magazine.

 

 

Copyright Clifford Lamm/The New Vilna Review 2011.