Extracts from the story written by Mrs. Solomon, who was born in 1921 and grew up in Calcutta.
My own introduction to religion starts at home with celebrating the Sabbath, looking up at daddy while he prayed at the head of the table before the Friday evening dinner. I saw him in an awesome new role, one that raised him above us ordinary mortals. It was only three decades later, standing together wih my own family around the table during Friday evening prayers that I heard my own childhood feeling put into words; it was when, during a moment's silence, my youngest son looked up at his father and said:
'Daddy, are you G-d?'
As a child, my first experience of going to the synagogue in walking with the rest of the family out of 81/8 Bentinck Street to a building not far from home. We are all dressed nicely, particularly my father who is wearing a suit and felt hat. He holds a small black book in his hand and remains silent and preoccupied until we reach the gates of Neveh Shalome Synagogue, the Abode of Peace. We separate here. Daddy and my brother go into a downstairs hall while mummy and my sisters climb to an upper floor, looking down on the assembled men from a gallery. A hum of prayers rises upwards as we open our own books and cover our heads to join in the service.
Neveh Shalome, the smallest and oldest of the three synagogues, had echoed with the voices of my great-great-great grandfather and the early Jewish settlers since the year 1826. A century later found the new Neveh Shalome risen from the ashes of the old after years of legal wrangling and jostling for survival with its grand rival next door - the Magen David Synagogue, as large and resplendent as ours was small and unassuming. I remember its quiet atmosphere and felt a sense of belonging within its walls from that very first day.
Today, no matter where I am, I recall little details of observance, or some aspects of family life during the festivals and Holy Days which still have the power to evoke tears, or laughter, or both. Like, for instance, the memory of a distant Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when Jews ask the Almighty to forgive their sins.
It was in the mid-thirties, and I had just joined the ranks of those fasting full day, basking in the importance of my thirteen years; but there were also disadvantages, as I was about to learn. The four of us had walked back home with daddy after the service on Yom Kippur Eve. It was a distance of almost two miles to Tottee Lane and we arrived hungry and thirsty, the thought of food and drink very vivid in our minds. In preparation for the long fast ahead we retired straight away and were lying down quietly, when an agonized, whispered cry from my sister Rahmoo's bed made us all sit up.
'I drank water! I drank water!,' she repeated over and over again, all the while wringing her hands. We choked with suppressed laughter, realizing what had happened. The nightly drink of water, an ingrained habit, had been repeated by mistake. 'Shh....shhhh... it does not matter,' we assured her, fearful lest my father should hear. But on Yom Kippur there was always that awesome feeling that not only daddy, but Heaven itself would frown on any infringement of penitential practice.
In our community, fasting on Yom Kippur was something every Jewish adult did, or tried to do. Not keeping a kosher home, or observing the Sabbath, did not seem quite as sinful as not fasting on Yom Kippur. Was this true? I agonized. Was not the Sabbath the most sacred festival in the history of our people? Eventually I came to the conclusion that Yom Kippur is very important because on that day each person communicates directly with his Maker. The Sabbath is for us all; Yom Kippur is more individual and, if observed, brings a sense of deliverance to the suppliant.
On looking back over the years, it is very easy to remember the sequence of events ushering in that Holy Day. It started with the night before the Eve when white hens were whirled over the heads of all female family members and white cockerels over the heads of my father and brother Sam. The shohet who performed kapparah prayed that the birds took on our identity, and therefore our sins, before they were sacrificed.
On the morning of Yom Kippur Eve we had a brunch of grilled lamb kebabs and a cup of early afternoon tea. In this way, we were able to eat an enormous meal of rice, chicken and vegetables followed by fruit, and the final drink of water before the trip to the synagogue at about 3.30 p.m. For this journey, the gharry had been ordered well in advance because arrival at the synagogue was essential before sunset. Heaven forbid that we ride after, because the horses' hooves, making contact with the tarred roads and producing sparks, was tantamount to breaking the Sabbath. By this same line of thinking, light switches could not be operated once the fast was under way, so the Muslim servant was asked to wait for us to return from the syangogue and do the needful until we retired.
The service on Yom Kippur Eve was one of the most well-attended throughout the year. As the wailing lilt of Lekha Eli set the mood of sorrow and repentance, I remember being dazzled by the heraldic appearance of the great hall. Velvet curtains in rich, dark hues and embroidered in gold and silver, some with Hebrew lettering, hung in rows from the ladies' gallery. Glittering chandeliers shone down on the men, wearing different colored kippas and swathed in prayer shawls, chanting and responding in unison to the rabbi, a veritable king on the central dias. The atmosphere was charged with excitement, and, after hearing the Kol Nidre I went hom happy to be a Jew.
In contrast, attendance on the following morning was perceptibly lower and the mood more grave. The color white was predominant, from the canvas shoes worn by the men, to the shroud-like gowns and head scarves worn by some of the traditionally dressed women.
I remember looking down from the gallery during the most poignant sections of the service when some men went up to the platform at the far end and held out their shawls in front of them, arms extended.
'They look like ghosts, who are they, mummy?' I whispered, feeling afraid.
'The Cohanim, descendants of the Biblical priests.'
I watched, fascinated, as the tzitzis, fringes, of thier shawls, swung as they turned from side to side in incantation. The hall reverberated with wailing, and most of the congregation were in tears.