It’s hard to say why this synagogue in Beregdaroc, the synagogue at the end of the world as I’ve been calling it, has become so important to me. A couple years ago, I didn’t even know it existed and now it’s become my anchor, rooting me in this village that my family — what was left of them — abandoned over 80 years ago.
Artifacts have energy, and this one is pulling me in.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in a ditch, and while scratching at the dirt, more comes loose. Eventually things start to fall into their rightful place. I just hope it doesn’t bury me in the process.
A few months ago, I stumbled on the Holocaust testimony of Ilona Klein — my grandmother’s cousin. It was the first time I heard anyone mention this synagogue, but she did in passing. The synagogue held a promise, it demonstrated that the Jews believed there to be a future in this village. I will scratch at the ground until I uncover it again.
Shana Tova everyone. May this year be sweeter than the last few. Please enjoy this poem by Yehuda Amichai that I keep taped to wall beside my desk:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
Poem Without an End Inside the brand-new museum there’s an old synagogue. Inside the synagogue is me. Inside me my heart. Inside my heart a museum. Inside the museum a synagogue. inside it me, inside me my heart, inside my heart a museum -Yehuda Amichai
The Synagogue at the End of the World
This is not a ghost story. But there is a ghost in it.
·
November 18, 2024
The apartment my mother, my uncle Andrew and Judy lived in in Nyíregyháza, now dilapidated and abandoned. That didn’t stop me from trying to break in. Poor Karesz is worried about what I might do next. I’m so grateful for all the readers following me as I recapture my grandmother’s story and muse about memory and Jewish identify in “The Synagogue at the…
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.