The B'nai B'rith magazine · 1927-06-01 · 9 (6.1927) · p. Seite 385

WAYFARING IN PROVENCE 385 have trodden generations ago, when an edict of expulsion compelled them to seek a temporary asylum within the more hospitable boundaries of Carpentras. It led through the hamlet of Monteux, where probably lie the bones of the seventeenth century poet, Joseph ben Abraham, whose additions to the ritual of Provencal Jewry in the form of piyutim were welcomed by his contemporaries, and whose son, Saul, followed in his father's poetic footsteps. The whole region is rich with the names of scholars, poets and physicians, who illumined the annals of French Jewry for several hundreds of years. An air of lassitude seemed to possess the streets of Carpentras, as we inquired our way to the Place de l'Hotel de Ville. The square was silent and for the most part deserted. We approached the first bootshop and asked for the lady who had the key to the synagogue. We were shown to another shop further on, in front of which sat three women knitting stockings. They had distinct Jewish features and represented three generations, and, but for their needles, they might have symbolized the Three Fates presiding over the doom of Carpentras Jewry. I explained the object of our visit, whereupon the youngest of the trio hastened away and returned presently with a short, middle-aged man. He was a simple-looking person, with a dark moustache tinged with grey, whose shabby dress and cloth cap gave him a plebeian appearance. But the bunch of keys in his hand proclaimed that in him was vested the responsible office of sole guardian and controller of all that was left of Jewish memorials in this ancient city. "You wish to see the synagogue?" he queried. "And I suppose you have come a big distance. Strange, the Jews who live here don't want to see it at all." "How many Jews are there here now?" I asked. "About twenty altogether," he replied, as he conducted us across the square to the opposite corner. "But they are mostly bad Jews: they keep nothing at all—rien, rien." We stopped in front of a tall, wellpreserved building with three tiers of windows, which was not distinguished by the slightest visible token suggestive of a Jewish house of prayer. Our guide unlocked the great door, and we ascended a wide stone staircase, at the head of which was a landing leading to the body of the synagogue, and disclosing another flight that wound its way to the women's gallery. Within, all was sombre and forlorn. The air was stuffy and musty as in a sepulchre, the light of the perpetual lamp was extinct, the door of the Ark was undraped, and the dingy tone of the walls and the various appurtenances gave to the whole interior a dreary and melancholy hue. It was a lofty structure, built after the manner of one of the old synagogues in the Ghetto of Venice. There was a yawning emptiness in the center, as all the benches were ranged round the walls, while the Almemar was situated immediately above the entrance, on a level with the gallery, and was reached by a winding wooden staircase on either side. The panelling on both sides of the Ark and on the pillars supporting the Almemar had the grain and coloring of terra-cotta marble, but a rap with the knuckles evoked the unmistakable sound of common timber. But of all the curious features of the shrine, perhaps the most striking was a miniature chair perched aloft in a niche on the right of the Ark. "The chair is a real Louis Quatorze," said the guardian of the sanctuary. "It is called the 'Chair of Elijah,' and used to be taken to every house where there was a circumcision, but of course it is too small for anyone to sit in. The Ark has twenty-eight scrolls of the Torah, including those from the synagogue of Cavaillon, which is also closed." We followed him up the staircase to the Almemar, and as I turned over the sere and yellow pages of a ponderous prayer-book on the Reader's desk, he explained that the building dated from the middle of the eighteenth century and had been restored about twenty-six years ago. It stood on the same site as the first synagogue, which was built in the thirteenth century, when, the Jews signed an agreement in which they acknowledged themselves as vassals of the Bishop and pledged themselves, not only to pay all sorts of taxes and tallages, but also to provide sheets for the Bishop's guest-beds and to give him all the tongues of the cattle that they might kill. Despite their punctilious observance of the contract, the Jews were expelled in the following century and the synagogue was replaced by a church; but after an interval of twenty years another Bishop allowed them to build a new shrine in return for a yearly contribution of six pounds of spices, three pounds of ginger, and three pounds of pepper. These condiments, however, were not acceptable to a later lord of the Episcopal See, who demanded an annual tribute in money, and the Jews were obliged to continue paying Episcopal imposts until the liberation brought about by the French Revolution. "We are free now from all such taxes," said our guide and philosopher. "And you see the result," he continued with an eloquent sweep of the hand through the musty air. "It is six years now since we have had any service here. There is a Mikvah in the basement, but I don't remember when it was used last. The Jewish population has dwindled little by little, and most of those who have remained do not care. For Yom Kippur we used to go to Avignon, but I am thinking this year of calling together the few who still have a spark of Judaism and holding a service again—with myself as cantor." He. took us into an adjoining room, in which there was a small library of modern Jewish literature, mostly in French, and showed us a number of documents relating to episodes in the history of the community; and then we followed him into another chamber on the ground floor, where there was a motley collection of Hebrew prayerbooks and Bibles, many of which had been printed in Carpentras in a more religious age, together with some phylacteries rotting in their little bags. Most of the hooks were faded, stained and tattered, and lay about in a state of confusion, but when I asked if I could take one—or even buy one—of which there were duplicates, he bristled with zealous vigilance. "No, I cannot let anything go," he said firmly. "There is a complete inventory, and I am responsible. Once I lent a couple of books to an American Rabbi who promised to return them, but so far he has not sent them back." "Does not the Grand Rabbi interest himself in this synagogue?" I inquired. "No," he replied, with a disparaging shake of the head. "He is interested only in celebrating rich marriages. I closed the synagogue some time ago in Cavaillon and brought the Scrolls of the Torah here. Now I am wondering what may happen when I am no longer here to look after this synagogue. Perhaps it may become a museum." He conducted us down the stairs and out into the street, and locked the great door behind us; and as we passed out of the square we caught a final glimpse of the three women who, sitting so grave and unperturbed, seemed, in the distance, to be more suggestive than ever of the Three Fates. (To be continued)