1992 - Kol Nidre
500 YEARS LATER
It begins as two small streams meandering out of the Swiss Alps. In the Black Forest near Scheveningen, the streams merge to form the second longest river in Europe. Along a 1776 mile course, it flows slowly through Germany, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Rumania, and Czechoslovakia. Growing wider and ever more imposing in its course, it serves for hundreds of miles as the natural border of several countries before spilling into the Black Sea. It is a dominating presence as it wanders right through the heart of such capitals as Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, and within a few miles of Bucharest. As it weaves its way from country to country its name changes – Donau, Dunaj, Duna, Dunarea, Dunav; and its color changes – now grey, now green, now brown, sometimes deep blue; and that's how we come to know it as ... the blue Danube.
Through its valleys, Huns then Magyars then Turks marched and conquered, plundered and settled as they pleased; their genotypes grafted on to the family trees of peasants who never invited them.
I
Three other streams also flowed out of the west. One took a short path through Spain to Brussels and Holland, flowing toward the benign safety of the Zuider Zee. A second stream moved swiftly across France to Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, and Turkey pooling in each of those countries as it flowed. But, the third stream took a more tortuous course – through northern France and the Rhineland, then east and northward through Czechoslovakia, Poland, and into the lands of Russia. This stream also flowed quietly and gently, growing wider as it moved. Of course, these were not streams of water, but rivers of Jews coursing an escape from the Inquisition – fleeing the death that the Spanish church promised to those who overstayed their welcome. And this is the 500th anniversary of the opening of those human floodgates.
So, like the Huns and Magyars before them and like the Turks who would come later, through the valleys of the Danube, Jews made their way ... quietly, apologetically, hopefully ... pausing only where prospects for trade or farming or even momentary tolerance were proffered. Some of those Jews on the move, probably ancestors of ours, made their way into the land of the Magyars – the Hungary of five centuries ago. There they met up with Jews who had been living there since the Roman conquest of Jerusalem in the first century, and with Jews who had moved there from the lands of Russia, and with Jews who had journeyed there from Poland decades or centuries earlier.
By 1492, Jews in Hungary had already been: protected by King Bela IV, founder of the Hungarian Empire, discriminated against by King Louis the Great, blamed for the Black Death by the bishops of the largest cities of Hungary, expelled and then reinstated and offered protection by King Matthais Corvinus, and then threatened again with death because of a blood libel. By the time Jews from Spain reached Hungary in the mid-1490s they were to receive protection from Emperor Maximilian in exchange for excessive taxation to finance his war against the invading Turks.
By the 16th century, Jewish communities dotted the Hungarian landscape. Rabbis joined the steady migration of Jews from Poland. Jews came from the Balkans during the Ottoman conquest, and they came from Vienna during the reign of the Hapsburgs. They fared well under the rule of the Turks and poorly under the rule of the Hapsburgs, but still they settled and in surprisingly large numbers on both the Buda and the Pest sides of the Danube.
In the mid-1700s, an enlightened King Joseph II authorized Jews to settle wherever they pleased in all of Hungary. The Hasidic movement, which was then in its infancy and gaining momentum, took root first in the village of Szatmar in northeastern Hungary, and then in Szighet and in Munkacs. As peddlers and tradesmen, the trickle of Jews into Hungary soon became a mighty river – 20,000 in 1735, 80,000 by 1780. Within a century, that river had become torrential – over 550,000 Jews were counted in Hungary's 1880 census.
Now, Jews were everywhere in evidence. They were in the arts and culture, in politics and journalism, they were in marketing and in the export of farm goods. They were bankers and lawyers and doctors ... they were even industrialists. In 1917, just 85 years ago, 15% of all estates in Hungary were owned by Jews; 50% of her contractors were Jews; 50% of her professionals were Jews; and wondrously, miraculously, incredibly, out of 10 million Hungarian citizens, at the beginning of World War I, over one million of her citizens were Jews. Yes, in 1917, over 10% of the population of Hungary was Jewish!
Some 30% were Orthodox or Hasidic, the rest were called Neologists – either Reformers or Zionists or socialists with a Yiddish kvetch.
When Russia occupied Prussia-Poland at the end of the 19th century, Jews from Galicia headed toward Hungary. As these new immigrants found jobs and land among their co-religionists, anti-Semitism, once a murmur there, now became a roar. Church fathers found a ready audience for old religious canards. And, these sounds of hatred and intolerance were echoed by a new voice from a now resurgent Germany ... as Nazi fascism made inroads into Eastern Europe.
The Austro-Hungarian Empire was split up after World War I. Still, by 1939, the eve of World War II, some 850,000 Jews lived in Hungary – half a million in Budapest alone. But, the infamous Arrow Cross did Hitler's bidding in Hungary. Nuremberg Laws concerning business and social relationships between Jews and Christians were enforced. The government was compelled to stiffen its policy against Jews. The Holocaust began slowly there: 20,000 Jews whose Hungarian citizenship was suspect were simply murdered by the Arrow Cross; then 50,000 Jews were conscripted to fight against the Soviet army, only a few survived. Miklos Kallay became prime minister in 1942. Through ruse and delay, he managed to keep the Nazis away from his Jewish citizens, time and again rejecting requests for deportation and evacuation. Kallay also conferred secretly with the West for the day when Hitler would be defeated.
Yet, ultimately Jewish-held farm lands and property were confiscated, and Jews were purged from political office and from professions. The Nazis lost patience with Kallay and in March of 1944 sent Adolph Eichmann to oversee the liquidation of Hungary's Jews. Kallay was replaced by a Berlin appointee – Dome Sztojay. With new laws in hand, the Nazis began the process of moving 150,000 Jews from the northeast, then 50,000 from the north, then came the roundup of Jews from the shtetl country in the south. All told, some 450,000 Jews were freighted by train to their death at Auschwitz.
Meanwhile, Jews in and around Budapest were ghettoized. A few Hungarian Jews managed an escape to Rumania; a few survived in hiding; several thousand got to Switzerland in exchange for trucks sent to the Axis powers – a deal that was made between Rezso Kasztner and Joel Brand and the Joint Distribution Committee and Eichmann; and a few thousand Hungarian Jews were spirited away from the strong arm of the Nazis by the awe-inspiring courage of such angels of mercy as Charles Lutz, a Swiss diplomat, and Raoul Wallenberg, of the Swedish legation in Budapest.
The Nazis were stymied when they tried to evacuate the Budapest ghettos. But just months before the war's end, the Arrow Cross seized power. In January 1945, it forced some 100,000 Jews to march from Budapest toward the Austrian border and from there to the death camps in Poland. Only a handful survived the march. And still another 100,000 Jews were to perish before an armistice would be declared. Of the 850,000 Jews in Hungary before the war, 575,000 were killed; 275,000 managed to survive.
II
I awoke just moments after sunrise on my first morning in Budapest, and walked out onto the balcony of my hotel room overlooking the grey Danube. Eight stately bridges spanned the half-mile-wide river, providing access to the southern or Buda side with its palaces and grand hotel and magnificent overlooks.
Traffic was light in this city of my ancestors; this place where Huns and Magyars and Turks and Nazis and Communists had often turned the grey river blood red. The people of today's Budapest seemed quite ordinary, perhaps a tad dowdy, wearing clothes that while fashionable were strangely dirty ... as if washing machines and dry cleaners had not come to post-Communist Hungary.
Andrew, by any standard, was a world class guide – knowledgeable and caring. Raised in a traditional household, he no longer considers himself Orthodox, yet still maintains a kosher home. His wife is chief of ophthalmology at the large hospital in Budapest. Both survived the ghetto of Budapest as well as the oppressive rule of the Communists. Their son now attends the local branch of Oxford University. It's the only affordable alternative for them since their joint monthly income, despite her professional position, is about $600. Under Communism he received a monthly salary whether he worked or not, now he gets paid only when he leads tours.
Our first stop was the Jewish soup kitchen where over 1200 meals are served every day. The women and men eating at tables were very well dressed and quite clean. "Are they poor?" I asked. "No, by and large they take a meal here once a day for the social aspect. They come to talk with other Jews." There were about 30 people there when we entered. They wanted to know about Israel. They asked about America; even about Bush and Clinton. I had expected lifeless Jews. I was amazed at their vitality and their interest.
In 1859, the Jews of Budapest had built the Doheny Street Synagogue. I had seen pictures. The structure was magnificent and enormous. We entered to find scaffolding from one end to the other, floor to ceiling. It was undergoing major reconstruction to the tune of $2 million dollars. Years of water damage from roof leaks had taken a toll, but it was obvious that this synagogue was worthy of a population of over half a million Jews.
There were other synagogues in Budapest. Some survive as museums; one or two are being restored for use by a community which just now, emerging from decades of subjugation, awakens to the rhythms of Jewish life.
In the streets behind the Doheny is a vibrant community of Szatmar Chasidim. Thousands strong, a brigade of baby buggies storms the streets, defying traffic. The two kosher restaurants of Budapest are found in this alley community in the heart of this bustling city.
I was standing in the street outside the Doheny Synagogue looking up at its Moorish steeples, when friends of mine from Israel casually walked up to me. "What are you doing here?" I asked as if only Americans are allowed to travel. "We're here with friends," they said pointing to some 20 other Israelis with necks craned up toward the synagogue's steeples.
On a gate outside the synagogue was a picture of Chaim Herzog, President of Israel, who had visited several years ago. We climbed the stairs of the adjoining Jewish museum. A small plaque on the wall proclaimed: Here Theodor Herzl was born, and in this community he lived and attended school until he moved to Austria at age 18.
Because of Herzl's efforts 95 years ago, Jews from Hungary were able to go to Israel 45 years ago – after the war. And now, those very same Jews, now Israelis, and their children return to Hungary to reconnect with their roots. God must love irony.
Hannah Szenes was born in Budapest. Before the war, she and her family escaped to Palestine. During the war, the Haganah wanted to help Hungarian Jews escape from the Arrow Cross. They asked for volunteers to parachute into Hungary and work the miracle. Hannah Szenes was one of 15 Hungarian speaking teenagers to go. All 15 were captured by the Nazis ... who executed her just a month before war's end. Her picture looked back at me from a museum wall. Her writings enfold us all:
Eli, Eli, I pray that these things never end;
the sand and the sea,
the rushing of waters,
the crash of the heavens,
the prayer of the heart.
In a public park dedicated to his name, I stood beside a massive statue of Raoul Wallenberg. Overshadowed by its size, I was also overwhelmed by the consummate integrity of its subject. I placed my hand in the hand of the statue. Was this how it felt to be protected by a man who had the audacity to say "No" to Eichmann? He kept the Nazis at bay, but it was the enemy of the Nazis, the Communists, who after the war put him to death. More irony.
Standing in the old ghetto area, the realization that Eichmann had stood right there made me shudder. In 1961, I was a reporter at his trial in Jerusalem. Day after day for four months I sat but a few feet from him; I in the open courtroom and he inside a glass walled booth. But at no time do I remember being so aware of his presence as I was standing in the erstwhile ghetto of Budapest. I wanted to run back to Wallenberg's statue for comfort.
III
We left Budapest heading south toward shtetl country. Our first stop was in Apostag. A thriving city because the Duna flows by, this was a major transport center of wheat and wine for Vienna, capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire of Maria Theressa and the Hapsburgs. The houses there are still painted yellow and black because those were the colors of the Hapsburgs. To this heart of Hungary's farmland, Jewish residents arrived in about 1760. Five years later, there were 17 Jewish food stores and 12 kosher butchers. A small synagogue was erected in 1765, but fire in 1820 destroyed most of the town. So, when the synagogue was rebuilt in 1822 for the 600 Jews living there at the time, they had an inscription placed over the Ark which reads: "V'hahar ba’ar ba'aysh al lev hashamayim - And the mountain burned with fire in the heart of the heavens."
We stood in that temple admiring the Bohemian architecture. Under a central arch supported by four columns was the bimah, facing the Ark on the eastern wall. A very old Bible lay open beside the Ark. Men, of course, used to pray in this main section and women in the balcony. A mikvah using thermal water is now sealed. The synagogue was completely restored four years ago.
In 1944, the Jews of Apostag had been taken away. Only 6 survived. Names of the deceased are engraved on tablets outside the synagogue. There had once been 2300 Jews in Apostag, some 30% of the entire population. Once it had been the third largest village community in Hungary; its Rabbis had been trained in Prussia and Bohemia. Now those Rabbis lay in seven unkempt tombs next to the synagogue ... awaiting a Ted Ruskin* to restore their dignity. The tour was given by a young lady who was not Jewish. The building, which won first prize for best religious building restoration, is now just a Jewish museum and library. Yes, even Hungarians have a sense of irony.
[*The head of our cemetery committee.]
An hour later, our bus pulled into Kecskemet, a one horse town about 150 miles south of Budapest. The synagogue was cared for by Mr. Reinhold, a man in his mid-70s. Fearing that he might die with treasure in hand, he had recently arranged for the transfer of a 300 year old hearse cart to Beit Hatefutzot, the Museum of the Diaspora, in Tel Aviv. The white synagogue building was empty when we arrived, and Mr. Reinhold's wife was expecting him shortly. Time enough to read the hundreds of names of Jews from this once vibrant community who were taken to Auschwitz. About 120 survived the war, but these were then transferred by the conquering Soviets to labor camps in the USSR. Mr. Reinhold was one of only three of those who survived.
He arrived to open the synagogue. A plain vanilla building with aged seats and prayer stalls and an Ark and symbols that could best be described as ... nondescript. "You're a Rabbi from America?" He was ecstatic that a real Rabbi would pay him a visit. I, on the other hand, was humbled in his presence. Dear Lord, I thought, here is a man who survived the Nazis and the Communists, a man who every day opens and maintains a living synagogue for the 28 Jews of this community, a man who davens (prays) with them and for them on holidays, a man who conducts their life cycle events, a man who worries about the survival of this Jewish community after his death?!
We spoke for a brief while. His English was about as good as my Hungarian, but somehow we understood one another. He insisted that I take a Machzor (prayer book) as a remembrance of the visit. Dated 1854 Prague, it contains children's scribbles on its cover page – a sign of use and of life. Printed on its last page is a prayer for the welfare of Franz Joseph I and his wife Elisabeth (“Sissi”). Mr. Reinhold also pressed a rare volume of the Mishnah into my hand, but I declined it.
"Keep it for the next Rabbi of this shul," I said with a wink.
"Come back on a Shabbos to daven with us," he said, "and I'll sing* “Lecha Dodi” for you." [*A song welcoming in the Sabbath.]
Finally, we headed toward the southern border town of Szeged, about 180 miles southeast of Budapest on the banks of the impressive Tisza River. A major university town, it boasts a population of 120,000, third largest in Hungary (Budapest has 2.5 million and Mishkoi 200,000). I was warned that when I saw the synagogue of Szeged I would not believe my eyes. I did not believe the warning, and the warning did not sufficiently prepare me for the synagogue. Built in 1890, it had been used during the war by the Nazis to store goods confiscated from the Jews of Szeged.
The Communists, who ruled from 1945 to 1988, left it a mess. But four years ago, monies given the Jewish community by the state went into the restoration of this incredible house of worship.
Marble in brilliant pink hues offsets the large pulpit area leading to Ark doors made of acacia wood imported from Israel. The pulpits facing the congregation and an enormous pipe organ emphasized that this was a liberal synagogue – while gold menorahs, lavishly designed stained glass windows, and a breathtaking dome of royal blue glass rising some 100 feet in the air showed that this was a very wealthy one.
Gothic, Moorish, and Romance elements merged in architectural harmony. Around the walls and ceiling, Jewish value words written in Hebrew added emphasis to what this sanctuary was about. Truly, I have never seen a more beautiful synagogue! In fact, I have never seen a more beautiful sanctuary anywhere in the world.
An old Jewish Community Center stands across the street from the synagogue. It houses about a dozen families and a food kitchen that serves 300 meals daily to the poor and the weary. There are 300 Jews in Szeged, led by an Orthodox Rabbi from Israel and an 83-year-young Hazzan named Kleinboche`. "There are three things I love," he says in surprisingly good English, "my religion, my God, and to sing songs to Him. And this is what I think God loves to hear ..." With that Kleinboche` proceeds to chant Kiddush and then “Kol Nidre.”
"A Rabbi from America can answer a question for an old Hungarian Jew?" He winked. "I am invited to sing at fourth anniversary of restoration of this synagogue in November. Should I? Is the voice still good for television?"
"Kleinboche` must sing," I answered, "not for television, but for God. And, I want to return for your 90th birthday to hear you sing “Kol Nidre” again!"
IV
For me, two streams converged in Hungary. One rising from my Sephardic maternal heritage – of Jews fleeing Spain exactly 500 years ago; and the other from my Ashkenazic paternal heritage – of Jews settling on the banks of the Danube and to the north and south in the shtetl and Transylvania territories. These two streams somehow, somewhere merged in the Black Forest of the soul to became as a river of questions and doubts and tears.
Once, perhaps a half-million Jews peopled Spain. They scattered and flowed outward. Today a few thousand remain. And once, a million Jews peopled Hungary. Today, 100,000 still live there. Despite some smatterings of anti-Semitism, Jews seem safe there, and after decades under Communism, now begin to reconstruct Jewish life. There are three Jewish day schools with over 500 children each in Budapest now. Synagogues are being refurbished; signs announcing Shabbat services grace walkways, Jewish prayer resounds in the streets; Jews are visiting from all over the world; Jews, regardless of age, gather daily to connect over bowls of soup; Jews serve in government; there is a nascent spark of political, social, and religious revival.
But still, I can't help wondering on this 500th anniversary of the Inquisition when all looks so much better for our people than it has in over 50 years at least: Why is it that synagogues become museums and libraries, but churches and mosques never do? Why is it that states confiscate Jewish property and rarely see fit to give it back save as a relic-like treasure of the state that stole it?
"Budapest will live again," observed a young girl who accompanied our party on tour, "but what about Apostag and Kecskemet? Aren't they proof that the Nazis really succeeded?"
I thought about that for some time before answering: "Budapest and Szeged and, yes, Apostag and Kecskemet are proof that we as a people could survive the Inquisition and the Shoah even flourish. And now as the two greater cities go on to recapture their former glory, the two smaller communities will no doubt disappear. But their spirit is refocused in dozens of newer cities sprouting up all over an Israel reborn and throughout the U.S. and Canada and Western Europe and in Moscow and the Ukraine and Odessa – places where Jewish life has been dormant for decades, even centuries. And, yes, even in Eastern Europe – Jewish life returns along the Danube.
If we put it into perspective on this night of insight and perspective, it was the Inquisitors who died, and the Huns, and the Magyars, and the Cossacks, and the Nazis, and the Communists – all of them are dead. But Raoul Wallenberg? He lives on; and Herzl, and Hannah Szenes, and Andrew the guide, they are all very much alive. And so is Mr. Reinhold whose Machzor is now re-circulated, and Hazzan Kleinboche` who loves his religion, and his God, and “Kol Nidre.” And for that matter, gratefully, most gratefully, so are we.
All 100 sermons in Forty Years of Wondering are available in softcover and digital versions. Click here.
If you want to learn about jewish history from the period after the Inquisition to the uprise of Fascism, this is for you. This text contains detailed information displayed in a way that not only makes interesting reading, but also arouses empathy by couching it in an extended metaphor. The fluctuation of the Jewish peoples is compared to the gentle weaving and wandering of the beautiful River Danube, at the same time contrasting it to the behaviour of the various uninvited invaders and persecutors. Ray Zwerin adds to our reading experience by including his own personal observations and emotions while visiting the area where he can overlook the Danube.