Budapest Great Synagogue

As the semester is winding down, the last few field studies have allowed us to explore bits of Budapest that we haven't ventured to yet. This past Wednesday, we visited the Dohány Synagogue in the Jewish quarter. The synagogue is an enormous display of Byzantine-Moorish style architecture. Two identical dome-topped spires are meant to symbolize the two columns of Solomon's Temple. The synagogue is the largest in Europe, and the second-largest working synagogue in the world. It was built in the mid-1800's and has born witness to much of Hungary's tumultuous history. (Like those in Parliament, Dohány stained glass windows were taken from their panes and hidden to protect from Soviet and Hungarian bullets.)

During WWII, a ghetto was established in the Jewish quarter. In essence, it was a waiting room - meant to round up the Jews before deporting them. Many found refuge in the Dohány, but the harsh winter of 1944 took many victims. Bodies were discarded in the synagogue's courtyard. Under Jewish tradition, cemeteries and synagogue's are built a distance away from each other. The dead and the living need to be distinguished from each other. In the dire circumstances, though, the discarded bodies were buried directly next to the synagogue. Many traditions, both of Jews and other persecuted people, must be put aside in times of desperation and destruction.

The inside of the synagogue is astounding. It seats about 3,000 people, so the sheer size

made me feel absolutely insignificant. Light from the rows of small chandeliers cast a glow on

the rows upon rows of pews. The Star of David is hidden among the architecture, in the stained glass windows, on the ceiling. The inside resembles more of a church than a synagogue. The pews are set up in rows, facing a pulpit at the front, instead of gathered around in a circle. An organ decorates the main wall - with an interesting history. Saturdays, or Shabbat, are a day of rest, according to Judaism. Jews are not meant to work on Shabbat. Ordinarily, I wouldn't consider playing the organ to be work. In the Catholic church I attended as a kid, most of the organ players were volunteers. In Dohány, though, they have to bring someone to play the organ, someone who doesn't practice Judaism.

Somewhere in our travels, we heard about Kosher elevators. Since Jews are not meant to use electricity during Shabbat, they cannot press any buttons on an elevator. To get around it, there are (very few) Kosher elevators, which stop on every floor and eliminate the need to press any buttons. The use of an outsider for the organ is a similar set of circumstances. I've never been a very religious person - raised Catholic, now agnostic - but the entire topic of religion is incredibly intriguing. At times, religions seem like a relic, since all the holy writings and instructions date back hundreds or thousands of years. In a world centered around technological development, though, it sometimes seems that religion is constantly struggling to adjust. The holy scripts were written in a time so incredibly different from the present, and there is really no way to rework them with changing times. Perhaps similarly, law has a tough time keeping up with technology as well. In contrast, though, laws can be discussed, revised, updated (slowly...). It's a realization that hadn't struck me until I walked through the synagogue's aisles.

We also visited the connecting Jewish museum on our trip. A guide took us through a collection of incredibly old Torahs, scrolls, menorahs, and other objects used by Jews in their religious practices. The last room commemorated all that the Jews endured during the Holocaust. I figured that, after visiting Auschwitz and Birkenau, nothing could phase me anymore. I couldn't have been more wrong. One case displayed a black and white dress, and three round objects made from paper. Our guide explained that not only did the Nazis terrorize individuals, but they objectified sacred objects of Judaism. They confiscated Jewish prayer

shawls, cut them into patterns, and sewed them into dresses. The crumpled papers are torn-out pages of the Torah, used to line drums. The next display case held an even more sickening "ware - a single bar of soap, once white but now mottled. It's made from human fat. Our guide also informed us that the Nazis stretched skin to make lampshades. The ideas disgusted me, as they would to most humane people. I will never be able to wrap my head around the events that this place has seen. I will never be able to understand how one tangle of people can rule over another, how they can put their lives so high and put others so low. I will never be able to imagine how the world, how Jesus or God or Allah, how fate allowed these people to be herded from their homes and into chambers that destroyed them. I will never be able to understand how a heart can hold that much hate. Seems like it would just shatter after the first victim, and disappear after the following thousands. I will never be able to understand that these events weren't fiction. It will always feel like some elaborate story, no matter how much I tell myself it was real.

Places like this, though, will help. The further away these events disappear into the past, the more little pieces will be forgotten. The one who does not remember history is bound to live through it again, I remember the sign at Auschwitz. If we do begin to forget, we'll only be fated to replay the morbid scenes. Maybe not in ten years, but maybe a hundred. It's places like Dohány - and the steel willow memorial, the cemetery beside it, the ragged dress and the mottled soap - that remind us of what we cannot bear to forget. It's places like this that will save us.