The B'nai B'rith magazine · 1927-06-01 · 9 (6.1927) · p. Seite 383

jAviqnotv pytiacfocf- ' ' : ■ ■ ■■ . ' " ' ' BitSilft^ :'- ' UiW* ■ ^^'"JM^r . ~ 'V,*, ^l^^^i&M^^S^i.;-- ■■■■^r*, W^W^SWIftW BPRSHHBHHHHHHI jaf *" Wayfaring in Provence (Part I) By Israel Cohen r AViqfUorv I PSp&l P&lbce^ I Ifrom whichm&ny; decrees uJere issued Sgoiinsk ihe Jev\/s-- Avignon F ALL the hosts of seekers after pleasure or fortune who stream through Avignon on their way to the famed resorts of the Riviera, comparatively few even note the name of the city, as the night train from Paris rumbles into it in the early morning. They are either still wrapt in slumber or too weary from lack of it to be concerned about anything but the end of their journey. Even those who may be awake are hardly likely to recall the historic importance of the city, unless in their youth, they were made to study the annals of the Popes, or in their middle age they have pored over the prospectuses of tourist agencies. And even of those who appreciate the part played by Avignon in mediaeval Europe, few are tempted to make a halt and explore the wealth of medieval memorials that still exists both within and without its imposing ramparts. Yet such a visit of inquiry will richly repay the traveller in the store of romantic interest and charm that he will find, whether it be in pacing the impressive chambers of the Papal Palace, which swayed the Catholic world for seventy years; or in contemplating from a pleasant garden restaurant on the Rhone the old broken bridge that is glorified in song; or simply in watching the military bugler, posted on the modern bridge, sound a shrill blast whenever he espies a barge come steaming down the swirling river, which reverberates for miles through the peaceful country; or in just sitting at an open-air cafe in the old marketsquare and ruminating on the relations with the city of personalities so varied as the poet Petrarch, the tribune Rienzi, and the economist, Stuart Mill. And if the traveller be a Jew, his mind will be stirred by memories of the tribulations of his people, who have been settled here—so it is believed— for eighteen hundred years, and whose chequered story inevitably provokes a train of reflections. The first settlement of the Jews is reputed to have been on a site on the bank of the Rhone, facing the Papal Palace, whence so many intolerant edicts later were launched against them, despite their great service to the Popes as treasurers and stewards; but since the thirteenth century their communal life has been centered in the heart of the city, close to a square that is named, fitly enough, Place Jerusalem. It was there that they had their Ghetto, known as Carriere, which was shut off from the outer world by two ponderous gates. Within the Ghetto they exercised a form of autonomy, assessing themselves in taxes not only for the maintenance of their own institutions but still more to meet the rapacious demands of the Popes and all their covetous satellites and servitors. The archway leading to the Ghetto is still preserved; but of the synagogue that was built in the thirteenth century, and in which the Jews on their Sabbath were compelled to listen to conversionist sermons by Jesuites or Dominican monks, there is now unfortunately no trace. It was burnt down in 1844. On the original site there is another shrine, which some of the local Jews actually believe dates from the thirteenth century, and describe simply as "restored." In point 383 of exterior it is the most un-Jewishlooking place of worship that I have ever seen. It is an unimposing corner building of stone, square and squat in design, and with a single cupola in the form of an undersized cylinder—a style that I saw repeated in one or two other parts of the city. It has two doors facing the street, but these are very rarely opened. Admittance "is obtained through another door at the side. It was a Friday evening when we came to the synagogue, curious to know whether there would be any sign of life. I pulled a bell, and after a few minutes there emerged a little grayhaired woman in black. She was so small and frail, and yet so graceful, that she looked almost like a doll, except that dolls have no grey hair. In response to our request she readily opened the side-door, and we entered the house of prayer. The interior was a strange contrast to the exterior, for it was absolutely circular. The ladies' gallery rested on fourteen equidistant pillars, and the roof was supported by a similar number. Apart from these features, there was nothing particularly noteworthy, the Almemar being in the center, and a pulpit of modern design facing it from the left. But on one of the pillars was pasted a written notice stating that conversation was forbidden, as it disturbed the prayers— whence it was permissible to conclude that worshippers still assembled here. Suddenly there entered the figure of a young priest. At least, I should have thought from his attire that he was a priest had I not been told a few moments before by the little dame that the Rabbi would be coming in very