In The Bosom Of My People

I am lost. When I reach the Arno River I know that I have walked in the absolutely wrong direction. There is something about the swirls of the map, the way street names change at every corner, the non-geometric lay-out of the city of Florence and my own shortcomings that make it impossible for me to form a plan with the map as guide and walk straight to my destination.

Joe has written out for me an emergency script, which goes from simple request to desperate plea. For directions from strangers I am to say: “Dov’è la sinagoga?” If I ever get there and eventually locate the heavy-set Rachel Ianello of the dark-curly hair, I am to say: “Sua madre mi ha invitato a cena.” (Your mother invited me to dinner.) If I never find her and have no idea how to get home, I am to say to any stranger: “Come si fa per ottenere un tassí?” (How can I find a taxi?) or “Ho bisogno di un tassí.” (I need a taxi.) When and if I get a taxi, I am to say to the driver: “Abita al vicino a Via Aretina,” or “Abita al vicino al supermercato Conad in Via Aretina. La mia casa è in Via Venosta.” If all fails and I find no taxi at all, I can always say to any passer-by: “Dov’è la stazione?” or “Dov’è le fermata d’autobus per la stazione?” Once at the station I am certain to find the #14 bus which goes to our neighborhood in Bellariva.

I pray I never get to this moment—for once I get the on bus heading home, how will I know where to get off it? If I do get off in the wrong neighborhood (and if Joe is likely to be back from Pisa) my instructions are to find a public phone and ask anyone: “Come si fa per usare questo telefono?”

This exercise in “what if” catastrophes is giving me a massive headache. I look ahead and see a nice looking stranger approaching me. I hold out my map to the young man, posing my shortest question: “Dov’è il sinagoga?”

He points ahead, to the right, to the left, and then makes a little swirl with his fingers. A half hour later, I wander into a bakery. Two women behind the counter, seeing me come at them with a map in hand, turn their backs, and continue their conversation. I wait—politely—as they ignore me—rudely.

Finally, drenched in sweat and exhausted, I pause in front of a store whose sign reads: “ANTICHITA—Fratelli Faini.” Two enormous stone lions grace the window. A man toward the back of the shop, handsomely suited and with a kind round face beckons me inside. I step over the threshold and see all manner of antiques—towering wardrobes, carved tables, china lamps bright with pink and gold cherubs, bronze urns with ear-shaped handles. I know this world; my father had an antique shop in every place we ever lived.

“Per favore,” (I remember this from the lost laundry episode), “Dov’è il sinagoga?”

“Aah!” the gentleman cries, running forward toward me. “La sinagoga! Shalom! Shalom!” He grasps my two hands in his and says “Lansman!” which (in Yiddish) means “countryman.” Indeed, we hold onto one another, happy to have discovered we are relatives in this land of Popedom and Christendom.

A conversation ensues of which I understand little, but I say at some point “Sono Californian,” and he answers, “Aah, ricchi, eh?”

“No,” I say emphatically, “I am not rich,” but add, “Mio padre, anche antiquario.”

So we have another round of handshakes to celebrate this miracle of connection. He bows and gestures to the back of the shop—does he want to show me his wares, or has he more romantic notions in mind? He may be Jewish, but he’s also Italian. I indicate my wrist watch—“I must get to il sinagoga,” and he understands: my religion calls. He bids me farewell (I think he invites me to come again soon)—and again I’m on the street, walking in the direction he pointed out to me. I see the same bakery I passed before. After a while I stop one more woman; she is eating a gelato and seems to be in good enough spirits to be interrupted.

“Scusi, dov’è il sinagoga?”

She steps back and points skyward. There above our heads rises the majestic green dome for which I have been searching.

“Grazie! Grazie!”

I keep my eye on the dome and round the corner. There I see a military tank and armed guards at the gate waiting to welcome me to the house of worship.

There’s a line waiting to pass through the open gate. “Let me see your ID,” a woman barks at me as I approach her. When I open the zipper of my backpack and dig inside, my camera comes into view. The woman thrusts her face at me. “A camera! You are Jewish? And you bring a camera to the synagogue? What kind of mother raised you?”

“I’m sorry. I always have it with me. I’m going somewhere later where I’ll need to have it…”

“You Americans,” she sneers. “You’ll have to leave your camera outside.” She gestures to a bare wooden shelf near some bushes. It’s clear that once services begin no one will be out here to protect my camera.

“I can’t,” I say. I hardly think it needs an explanation. Would I leave my wallet unguarded on that shelf? My infant child? Why would I put at risk my new, expensive camera that already contains irreplaceable pictures of Florence, my apartment, my kitchen, my bed? It doesn’t matter that we are here among celebrants of a religious holiday, or even that they are Jewish. Religious thieves exist, and so do Jewish ones.

“If you don’t leave it then you can’t go in.” She pushes me out of the way and gets ready to interrogate the next foreign visitor to the synagogue.

“Sono americana,” I say, meaning that I come from a free country, that no one can dictate to me in this way, that I will not be treated like a criminal. My back to the machine guns, I push past her—camera and all—into the house of worship, where I feel fully entitled to be.

The women are required to go upstairs to the balcony whereas the men, of course, enter the downstairs sanctuary as is usual in an orthodox congregation. I am aware of the great ceiling, the hanging lanterns, the marble floors and pillars, the intricate designs of this awesome structure, but my state of mind is such that I am not in the tourist mode of admiration.

As I take a seat in the high balcony, what I do respond to—and not with appreciation—are the wrought iron bars that rise from just in front of the first row of seats, making it seem as if the other women and I are enclosed in a cage. Some of the women go to stand at the bars in order to look below. I follow to see what I can see—but whatever the men are doing down there, chanting and praying, handling the torah, they are out of the range of our vision. So I see nothing, and what I hear is as good as nothing, since the sounds rising from below are totally unlike the prayer sounds I recall from the synagogue of my childhood.

The women around me seem frankly indifferent. They are not reading from prayer books or sitting silently with respect and humility. In fact, several are shielding their eyes from the badly aimed lights that are designed to illuminate the sacred area below, but are blinding to those sitting in the balcony. A few at a time, women migrate out to the hall where I can see them standing around with their children, talking pleasantly to one another. This event seems not so much a religious holiday as a pleasant social occasion to which they can wear their best clothes and exchange news and gossip.

For some reason, tears rise to my eyes, surprising me. In the place where I thought I would be welcome, I feel most alienated. Anger and disappointment surge through me as I feel again, like a slap, the sense of humiliation I felt at the gate, the meanness of the guard, her fascist orders, her intent to make me feel worthless and criminal.

I might as well fulfill her expectations. Very quietly I unzip my backpack and take out my camera. Moving forward toward the rails, holding the camera low and hidden, knowing this is against all tradition, all good manners, all fair behavior, and surely against my better judgment should I later reflect on this act, I open the shutter, point, and unreligiously photograph the bars that—on this important night—keep the women isolated from the men, who below us are invited to pray to God while their women chatter and admire each other’s jewelry.

When I find Rachel Ianello at the close of the services, she is not the “heavy-set girl” her mother described to me, but a gorgeous, voluptuous Italian beauty who looks like Cecilia Bartoli, the young opera star who shares the same lush radiance and beauty that emanates from Rachel. My “Dov’è Rachel Ianello?” brings instant results. I am led to her by a kind woman. Rachel greets me with open arms and a hug for the new year telling me she has been waiting to find me. She and her brother, the handsome Pietro, and their father, the even more handsome Doctor Ianello, escort me to their car and drive us all to the celebratory dinner. At last, after being lost so long, I am found.