Orientation, part 4

When I arrived in Madrid in late August I knew that Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, was coming soon, and though I was not a very observant Jew, I thought it would be great to attend services at the lone synagogue in the city. Mike had made a call for me and learned the address of the building and the times of the services. He had also been told that I should bring my passport with me, because security would be tight.

The kids had been in school just a few days when I drove into Madrid to attend Rosh Hashanah services. I found the street where the synagogue was located and noticed that there were no cars parked there. In fact, there was no parking allowed in that block, ever, to prevent anyone from setting a car bomb near the synagogue.

I showed my passport at the door and found my way to the women’s gallery of the sanctuary. The synagogue followed the Orthodox practice of separating men and women during worship. There were just two other women upstairs with me, both American college students spending their junior year in Madrid.

The service was long and difficult to understand. There was an array of prayerbooks available, but I wasn’t sure which one was in use. The language of the service was Hebrew—no Spanish was spoken, and no page numbers given. Nevertheless, I was fascinated to see the service, the elaborate motion the men used to put on their prayer shawls, the fashionably late arrival of the elegantly dressed Spanish ladies. Though most American Jews are, like me, Ashkenazim (European), the Spanish Jews are Sefardim—the original Spanish and Portuguese Jews who spread into Northern Africa and the Middle East after being expelled from the Iberian Peninsula in 1492. There had been no Jews in Spain from that year until after World War II, I learned. After the war some Jews who knew their origins to have been Spanish came back to reestablish their families in Spain. There was even a Spanish Jewish partner at Price Waterhouse.

Interesting as the service had been, I didn’t feel like a part of it, so I didn’t return after the first day. But when I left the synagogue, I saw down the street the little bagel shop I’d seen advertised in the American Women’s Club newsletter. It was the first bagel shop in Spain, and it had just opened. I bought a dozen bagels to bring home, and the family verdict was that they were dreadful. The bagel shop was out of business in less than a year.