West End Synagogue: Mel Scult: A Shabbes in Mea Shearim

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A Shabbes in Mea Shearim
Mel Scult

We were quite anxious because it was ten after six, only a little before sundown, and we needed to get a cab from our apartment near the King David to the heart of Mea Shearim. Images of stone-throwing haredim raced through my mind as we frantically searched for a taxi. The Rehaviah taxi which we regularly used didn't respond; shut down for the Sabbath, I thought. Finally, we found an Arab taxi driver. "Forty shekels," he said. It was a fifteen shekel ride at most, and we bargained him down to thirty, perhaps just to keep our self-respect as knowledgeable travelers. We got in.

My son, now in his thirties, has been haredi for a long time. When I asked him about his reaction to Rabin's assassination, he told me that he thought Amir was misusing the halacha and that he (my son) was so far right he had fallen off the "platform."

We arrived at my son's house just in time. No stone throwing hasidic types -- just very quiet streets, without cars, people going about their business before Shabbes. When we arrived, my five little granddaughters were all washed and dressed in their Sabbath best and looking more stylish than we had ever seen them. I had never spent a Shabbes with my son, fearing I might transgress some basic commandment and offend him. So we arrived without the cell-phone or wallet or video camera -- just our selves and our expectations.

We spent some time playing with the children, a rare pleasure because we live so far away. It was such fun although every time we visit it takes a day or two until they get adjusted to us. The children were fascinated by my wife's nail tips which are very ordinary in New York but quite exotic in Mea Shearim.

My son and I then went to synagogue. I thought my wife would like to experience the service even if it she had to sit behind a screen, but alas the custom was for women to stay home on Friday night, and additionally my granddaughter explained that this particular synagogue didn't have a women's section.

It was still a little before sundown as we made our way to synagogue. There was a therapeutic peacefulness in the streets which made Shabbes almost palpable. No cars, no buses, no shops open -- only Shabbes wherever we turned.

We arrived at the synagogue a bit late. The Kabbalat Shabbat service had just ended. The synagogue was old, according to my son -- but then one has the feeling that most things are old in Mea Shearim. The room was well lit, with paintings of curtains on the wall. I was surprised that it was not crowded, but then there are so many places to pray that perhaps few are filled. There seemed to be many small boys running around playing. No one paid much attention to them as they ran up to the ark and pulled the curtain -- very different from what we are used to in our quiet liberal synagogues. Most of the men wore streimals; these fur trimmed hats are often mink and always expensive.

The davvoning was quite unexpected. I am used to the orthodox who race through the service barely pronouncing each word; they pray as if the train were leaving in thirty seconds. These men were different. They lingered, praying thoughtfully, and no matter how slow I prayed they always finished after I did. I found my self lingering and getting more involved in the prayers than I usually do. The experience was quite special. Nonetheless there was an incongruity for me. I am a very liberal Jew -- a Reconstructionist , although I certainly looked frum with the beard I had grown specially for this visit. Understandably, I felt quite other than the strange-looking men with their streimals, black coats and sidecurls, but we were all praying the same words and the words were mine as well as theirs, words that I used in my own Reconstructionist synagogue back home. So I was one with them, but other at the same time.

Rabbi Hirsch was there. The head of Neturei Karta, the most extreme of the religious groups, and a mentor to my son, he smiled when he saw me and greeted me warmly. We had met earlier in the week; our discussion was very informative for me. Talking with this affable gentlemen was surprisingly enjoyable despite our deep ideological differences. He and the Neturei Karta reject Zionism as a secular movement which has taken over the holy land; they look forward to an arrangement they can live under with a political system which is completely "nonsectarian," as he put it. They do not want to live in a Jewish state -- one that is not Jewish by their standards. Rabbi Hirsch is the Minister for Jewish affairs under Yassir Arafat and was present at the White House ceremony involving Rabin and Arafat. Rabbi Hirsch grew up in the United States, and so our problems of communication were minimal. It was our ideas that divided us, not our language.

After the service we said "gut Shabbes" to all and made for home. My son wanted me to see the apartment of Rabbi Hirsch's daughter. It was quite beautiful; the furniture was old fine wood, and the rooms had low vaulted ceilings which gave a distinctly Middle Eastern feel. There were covers with hanging tassels that reminded me of antique sephardic dresses I had seen in the Israel Museum. It was spotless and very beautiful. We wished Rabbi Hirsch's daughter a "gut Shabbes" as the rabbi played with his infant grandaughter on the couch.

We were quite hungry when we arrived back at my son's house, and I was ready for a hefty meal. We had been out shopping Friday afternoon, and I was quite surprised at all the prepared Shabbes food one could buy, including a wonderful tcholent, or stew, that my wife and I ate later. I had never spent a Shabbes at my son's house, so I looked forward eagerly to the meal. It was familiar of course: the washing of the hands and the kiddish, the two loaves of halla, a custom which went back to very ancient times. After the "Shalom Aleichem," a very familiar song to every type of Jew, my son made kiddish.

I enjoyed the universality of our shared liturgy but was brought up short by the fact that my wife was not singing. I fumbled with the siddur looking for the words when she whispered to me that my eldest granddaughter had told her that the women do not sing at the table. I noticed that my granddaughters were not singing. I was disturbed. The commandment says that the voice of a woman [kol isha especially singing] shall not be heard. So my son, his three-year-old little boy and I finished the song welcoming the Sabbath angels. I must confess I enjoyed the singing despite my misgivings.

The meal was unlike any other Sabbath meal I had ever experienced. First of all, it was served very slowly, almost painfully so. Each course lasted about twenty minutes. Not that there was that much to eat, but my son spoke about the portion of the week while we ate. I was surprised at his self-mocking quality when he realized that his erstwhile little students were nodding off. After a time I noticed my granddaughters lying on the floor on blankets they brought from the bedroom. It was really quite funny.

The weekly portion contained the verse stating that a person should not put an obstacle before someone who is blind. I thought my son gave quite an interesting interpretation as he explained that blind here meant not only literally blind but also those whose understanding was blunted and could not see because of their limitations. It was important not to present such people with an obstcle by leading them astray with false or fraudulent ideas. My son spoke in English, and I enjoyed his obvious erudition. He later told me that often on Friday night he has no one to speak to, because the kids nod off, and his wife, in putting them to bed, sometimes forgets to come back to the table. So our learning droned on through the courses -- at times the discussion becoming quite spirited -- with my wife taking issue with my son. I particularly enjoyed the discussion because, though I remarried some twelve years ago, my son does not speak easily with my wife. As he told me years ago, in the frum community talk between men and women is limited at best.

It was ten-thirty before we finished the meal, benched, [said the grace after meals] and began making our way back. The streets were quiet, though a fair number of people were still out at this late hour. We chanced upon some young people, obviously not local residents, who came seeking the strange and the exotic.

My anxieties about spending a Shabbes with my son evaporated in the quiet atmosphere of Mea Shearim -- quite a memorable experience.