Of course, as a Jewish historian the main goal of this trip was to once again try and make sense of the locations I visited as the loci of significant, modernizing Jewish populations at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century. In so doing, it is impossible to avoid encountering the ways in which the small remnant -- both of people and of sites -- as they exist today. I have to admit, this encounter gave me a great deal more to think about that I expected.
The Jewish world of Prague, it goes without saying, is so dimished as to not even qualify as a pale reflection (or whatever cliche you like) of what once was. A city that boasted one of the oldest continuous Jewish settlements in Europe (although, if you want to be technical about it, it was interrupted very briefly in 1744 -- thanks for blowing the perfect game, Maria Theresa!), Jewish Prague is as old, and arguably older, than the idea of Prague as a municipal center itself. It is certainly older than this comparatively recent phenomenon known as a Czech national identity. But so it goes everywhere...this is not intended to be a comparative claim polemic.
Sufficed to say, the Jewish world of Prague -- and indeed of the Czech Lands in general (Bohemia and Moravia) was deep and broad. Keep that in mind as I describe what is left.
In Prague itself, there are two primary bodies that continue to represent some aspect of the Jewish world of Prague in its original loci of the central city, the official Jewish community of Prague (Židovská obec v Praze [ŽOP]) under the leadership of Rabbi Karel (Ephraim) Sidon and the Prague Jewish Museum authority. Please note that this is a somewhat impressionistic account: in fact, a liberal/Reform organization, Bejt Simcha, is also present and, because of its enterprising founder/tourguide, serves as a frequent interface both among American Jews visiting Prague and Czechs with an interest in Judaism. A Chabad, not surprisingly, is also present. But by and large, that which is officially "Jewish" in Prague falls under the auspices of these two organizations.
This division is a telling indication of the state of affairs. Judaism in Prague is in fact a relic, a museum, and even in its active life more a placeholder of a former world than a living creature. I say this not to disparage (although more about that below), but to observe. I'll discuss each in turn.
First the kehilla. Toby and I, because of the convenience of our identity as shomer Shabbat Jews, were able to have an unmediated and extensive encounter with what survives as a religiously-active Jewish Prague. We spent all of Shabbat in and out of the Altneuschul, what seemed to me to serve as the central location of Shabbat life (although it appears that the Jerusalemska synagogue is also functioning for Shachrit services on Shabbat, although I was unable to find any clear indication of it being open at all -- the policemen posted in front of it at all times were not very illuminating on that score).
The Altneuschul thus is the de facto locus of the main "Orthodox" community (although officially there is no other community; the kehilla doesn't recognize Bejt Simcha). Rabbi Sidon, it turned out, was there, as were other men who were clearly regulars, including the gentleman who was our liason for the apartment, Jacob Shvab. There was a hasidic gentleman (I assume was the local Chabad emissary), three or four older gentlemen (one of whom turned out to be the gabbai rishon, the others clearly "machers" in the shul), and a few others, some of them clearly ba'alei teshuva or, as is more likely, converts. One family I whom I became briefly acquainted with through Toby (he has the most amazing knack for making friends without speaking their language -- Toby spoke not a word of Czech, the kid he played with all Shabbat not a word of English) who seemed to be regulars didn't even live in Prague, but 100 km outside, and rented an apartment in Prague for Shabbat and holidays.
Without exception, the community was warm and welcoming -- even the Czech security guards, once they recognized you as a shomer Shabbat person and stopped grilling you every time you tried to enter. And I have to say, there is something awesome about being able to walk past the throngs of tourists who are standing around the entrance, forbidden from entering on Shabbat, and walk in the door without a second glance. After Kabbalat Shabbat and Shacharit the next day, Toby and I returned for Mincha. We were then able to enter the
other main Jewish sight under the administration of the kehillah, the Jewish town hall (see the picture: it is the building with the clocks next to the Altneuschul). Here we enjoyed a small seudah shlishit (third Shabbat meal), with most of the regulars from the synagogue in attendance. Oh -- one other thing -- I was given an aliyah during Shacharit. Now, those who know me know I'm not the most sentimental when it comes to religion, but I think that after having an aliyah in the Maharal's synagogue, just a couple of meters from the seat in which he and his illustrious predecessors and successors sat, has pretty much made any future aliyah superfluous. I came away from Shabbat really on cloud nine.
My ecstasy was quite completely punctured by my encounter with the other institutional body, the Prague Jewish Museum authority. All of the other Jewish sights of the town center, including the cemetery, the Maisel synagogue, the Pinkas synagogue, the Hevra Kadisha hall, and the Spanish synagogue are under the administration by the PJM. None of the sights functions in any way as a sacred site anymore, all have been turned into museum space and tourist attractions.
When Toby and I paid the exorbitant fee to enter these sights (500 crowns for the two of us; higher than any other tourist sight we visited on the trip), I will readily admit that my mood was swinging towards irritated. But that was just the beginning. Entering the Spanish synagogue first, we encountered a fantastic example of late 19th century neo-Moorish style, ornamentation that was among the most extensive I've ever seen in a comparable building of the period. It was both gaudy and fantastic. Of course, as I am writing an article on these buildings, I needed to take notes on it. Everywhere were hung signs that forbade photography...so fine, I thought, I'll take notes with the recorder in my I-phone. I happily went my way, walking around commenting on the details of the shul, respectful of the ridiculous injunction against photography (because it actually is ridiculous, and cynical, to forbid photography inside; the excuse is that flash photography would damage the site somehow -- although I never use a flash; the real reason is that the PJM wants to have exclusive monetary rights to any images of the buildings). The museum exhibitions were somewhat interesting but poorly executed and arranged.
As Toby and I were making our circuit of the building, the ugliness began. While holding my phone/recorder, a Czech woman, in her late 70s if not older, accosted me loudly: "No photographs!" I showed her the recorder, invited her to examine it, and said, politely, that this was a phone recorder, not a camera. "No photographs!" she yelled louder and with undisguised hostility. I protested, again, that it was not a camera. Her response: "It is camera. No photographs!" Now I was mad. Clearly, she didn't understand enough English for me to explain, so I simply said, "I'm an academic, this is a recorder, I'm following the rules, so please go away," and turned my back. She followed me for a few minutes, and then went away, apparently satisfied that she'd done her job when no flashes emanated from my phone.
Now, I wouldn't make more of this, as much as it annoyed me, were it not for the next day, when Toby and I went to the second synagogue that has been desecrated by the PJM association to form the other "half" of the museum exhibit, the Maisel synagogue. I had gotten over the previous day's irritations. Toby and I walked around the main floor of the building, and once we had seen everything, we looked up, and saw clearly that there were more exhibits in what had been the women's gallery, and also that there were other museum patrons walking around up there. To this day I don't know who they were. Toby and I looked around the building trying to find the access point to the gallery. Having no success, I approached this building's own old Czech woman sitting to make sure no one was (gasp!) taking a picture, and asked, politely, how one got to the gallery, gesturing in case she didn't understand me. "No upstairs!" she yelled. Yelled -- I do not exaggerate. I looked up, and saw people up there, and began (for some reason...I still don't know why I bothered) to protest that there were people up there. With indignation that would have been appropriate if I had vilely insulted her mother, she looked at me, "NO!" she actually shouted again. And again, "NO!" I could not help myself; I said with a smile knowing that she likely did not understand me, "Could you say that once more? I didn't hear you the first three times," and turned on my heel...I heard her muttering in Czech at me so that I could hear as I walked away. Had I really been quick I would have turned around and yelled "Rozumim cesky!"[I understand Czech] at her to see if it would cause her any embarrassment to think I understood her mutterings, but to be honest, I was shaken, and couldn't think that far out of the situation.
Now, I can stomach many things. And while I am neither a patient nor a particularly thick-skinned person, one thing I do take very seriously is being a guest in another country. I go out of my way to cooperate, to not make myself stand out, to be polite, to respect that I am visiting another culture and another society, and that I should comport myself as such. It is a point of pride for me.
And because of that, I can tolerate many things. I can stomach seeing these beautiful buildings, once a vibrant part of Jewish daily life (or even not-so-daily, but at least present life), rendered sterile, mothballed relics. I can stomach the fact that the artifacts on display in these shuls, as Toby very keenly and sadly noticed again and again, were taken away from the people who used them and now can't be used the way they're supposed to be (I am so proud of my boy, by the way), and are now in the possession of an institution that indicates no sense of their living meaning. I can even, barely, stomach that I am being charged for the privilege of going into a synagogue, with the money NOT going towards the support of a living Jewish community, but an institution that whose raison d'etre is to see the sites remaining, for all intents and purposes, tombs (and in the disturbing case of the Pinkas synagogue, as close to a real tomb as one can get without actual bodies).
But I discovered that there is a limit for me. And that limit is being made to feel like an intruder, a bother, a disturbance in these very sights, which was exactly the aim and attitude of these pitiful Czech women. And I am not comforted by my awareness that they knew Toby and I were not only foreigners, but Jewish foreigners (Toby's tsitsit were out, and we both took off our winter hats while inside the shuls -- even though we were careful not to wear our kippot outside, I felt that I had a right to be Jewish in a goddam shul!).
And I have to say, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Never have I been so clearly aware that I was most certainly NOT welcome. Oh, sure, I was welcome to pay my 500 crowns, walk quickly and quietly and for God's sake NOT take any pictures and then get the hell out, but I was not welcome.
I have a hard time processing this feeling. But I guess if I had to, it would go something like this: I am offended at the pure, unadulterated chutzpah (for lack of a better word) of being treated like this in a Jewish place, a Jewish building built by people whose descendants, had they not been sent on a train to Terezin and then to Auschwitz, would have not only probably been happy to see me spending Shabbat in their community, but likely invited me for Shabbat dinner some of them. I am offended -- I am outraged -- that these two Czech women, both without a doubt alive to see these same Jews who lived and worked and worshiped in these buildings put on said trains (when there were trains, and watched them walk out on foot when there weren't), felt they had the right to make me and my son feel like nuisances and an intruders.
I know I'm probably reading too much into it; here are two little old ladies who have to deal with hundreds of tourists every day, and who don't have a lot of patience for anything from any one individual. They just want to get their paycheck, not be bothered too much, and go home to their apartments and knedliky. In other words, it's nothing personal.
But when was it ever? And if one can't expect a modicum of decency in places like these, where such decency would at least convey a degree of respect for the place (which I doubt these women have either), where can one ever hope for it?
Actually, outraged doesn't quite cover it.
much mind until we crossed the street, and then I saw even more, as well as a several-meter-long banner, compliments of the KPO, which featured portraits of Communist heroes. And it was wild. Are you ready for this? In left-to-right order, the portraits were: Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin and Mao. Yes. STALIN and MAO. I actually could not believe it. There they all were, tons of folks, young and old (mostly, I'd say, college-aged), from all different groups (including, quite prominently, the Turkish communist party -- I guess of Austria), marching behind banners of two of the biggest mass murderers of the twentieth century.
me. "Vielleicht der erste Mai," said the woman with a resigned shrug. "Walla," I replied, in what has by habit become my catch-all Arabic response to just about any news.
st (in its time) shocking buildings of Adolph Loos (see pic), the apartment house on Michaelerplatz, and I actually appreciated why it was such a dramatic and controversial structure, even today, surrounded by Baroque grandiosity.
