Obuda O Boy

Zsolt and Nori took me to Obuda Synagogue, the oldest temple in Budapest, on Friday night. A tall square structure, the building’s interior ceilings were painted with Stars of David. A high bima, a stained glass window, and stunning chandelier adorned the room for the service. I was struck by the beauty and grace of this ancient building and wondered what my father would think to see me here. This was not his synagogue—he want to a Neolog (reform) syngogue on the Buda side. I think he would have been amused.

Renovations to repair and paint the ceiling, but they are slow in coming. Donations from charitable members and wealthy patrons from the United States have paid for many of the improvements, such as the stained glass window and the Torah.

This is an orthodox temple run by Lubavitachers. This is why there was a section for women and children and a separate section for men. The women’s area was covered with a sheer cloth, much like a bridal veil. I could see the young rabbi through the veil as well as the 40 or so men who attended the service. I was surprised to see so many young people (younger than 60), but I should not have been. I knew from my visit to Budapest two years ago that young Jewish people are bent on rediscovering their heritage after the Holocaust and years of communism nearly destroyed the Jewish community here.

The service was surprisingly brief and the young rabbi exuberant. He led prayers, sang songs, and gave a sermon. Dori knew when to get up, when to sit down, and when to open the veil. She pointed to the passage in the prayer book so I could follow along, and I was amused to see that the Hebrew had been phonetically translated into Hun-glish (Hungarian and English); I actually recognized some of the prayers.

After the service, we were led to a banquet room, elegantly set for the 80 or so in attendance. The rabbi led the prayers and songs to begin the meal, and Zsolt, who was sitting right next to me, surprised me with his beautiful and gusty baritone. He has been asked to study to become a cantor, but he is not sure he can make the investment of time and study. But he should! (Zsolt’s family is Hungarian and Ukranian, and like most European Jews, his family suffered the tragedies of the Holocaust. But Zsolt looks forward, not backward. He has embraced this synagogue because he likes the rabbi, and so does my cousin Nori.

The meal was delicious—at least five courses: tangy salads, soup, meat, bread, potatos, and several desserts. The conversation at the table was also interesting—several of the women spoke halting English, and of course, Dori and Zsolt helped me out. One scholar at our table gave us some information about Ujpest cemeteries that might prove useful later.

I was touched by the rabbi’s introduction of two families that were experiencing reunions at the Sabbath dinner that night. One family came all the way from Australia to meet their second cousins, and of course, Dori shared our family story as well. While I don’t know exactly what she said, I know she told it with eloquence and humor because of the audience’s rapt attention.

Next Friday night, we will attend the service at the Ujpest Synagogue, the beautiful little temple where my father was bar mitzvahed in 1938. Even though the Ujpest temple has a place in my heart, I must say that the warmth and spirit of the Obuda Synagogue shabbes will stay with me for a long time.