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Retired cantor in East Bay tells tales of temples from Costa Rica to Denmark

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Message: If you are having trouble reading this email, you may view this article online at: http://www.jweekly.com/37733/full/37733/retired-cantor-in-east-bay-tells-tales-of-temples-from-costa-rica-to-denmar/ Retired cantor in East Bay tells tales of temples from Costa Rica to Denmark Wednesday, April 8, 2009 | by Several months ago, j. asked its readers for inspiring and interesting tales about being away from home during a Jewish holiday or Shabbat. Readers sent us a dozen or so “Not home for the holiday” stories, which have been running periodically. <div class="capDivLeft" style="width: 126px;"><img alt="SRnot home" class="left" height="175" src="http://dev.jweekly.com/images/uploads/z_photos_2009/zj_04_10_09/SRnot home.jpg" title="Sidney Kamil" width="126" /> <div class="caption">Sidney Kamil</div> </div> Recently, we received an e-mail from 89-year-old Sidney Kamil of Albany with two interesting tales. A day later, another e-mail arrived with a couple more stories. Then another. And another. “I hope I don’t bore you with some more memories,” the last one read. Not at all. In fact, because his tales are quite compelling, we decided to forego our 250-word limit and run them here. Kamil was a teacher in New York for 32 years, and also had a talent for singing. One day after a High Holy Day service, “an old man with a long gray beard approach-ed me saying that I was much better than the cantor, and he arranged for me to study.” Three years later, Kamil was a cantor, and he relocated to Long Island, N.Y., becoming a part-time cantor at several synagogues. He retired from the New York City Board of Education at age 56, and from the cantorate at age 61. Here are some of his tales: Quebec Côte Saint-Luc, Quebec, Canada. An impressive dark brick building that looks like a medieval fort. I went in on a sunny Shabbat morning dressed in my traveling clothes and was met at the tallit rack by a member of the congregation who informed me that I could not enter the sanctuary because I was not wearing a suit, white shirt and tie. When I explained that I was a tourist — and my suits, shirts and ties were back home on Long Island — he relented and told me to go up the staircase and sit in the women’s section. I felt like a second-class Jew, treated in this fashion. Mexico City What Frommer’s Guide Book called the Oriental Synagogue was huge when I saw it in 1988. I guess it had about 1,000 seats. The ner tamid above the elaborate ark was unusual — it was a five-gallon clear glass bowl filled halfway with clear oil and a lighted wick in a cork. There was a huge chandelier above the bimah, which was in the center of the hall. Wearing a suit, shirt and tie, I was greeted by a member who spoke English; he escorted me to an empty seat. There were hundreds of worshipers on an ordinary Saturday. I was unfamiliar with the prayers and heard strange congregational chanting. After the Torah was read and put into a hard, round case, two men descended from the bimah and walked slowly down the aisle of our section each holding a bottle of what appeared to be clear shaving lotion. As they passed each row, the men in the aisle seats held out their hands, palms up, and the men holding the bottles sprinkled a few drops their open palms. The recipients rubbed their hands together and also rubbed the lotion on their faces. When I returned to New York, I asked at least six rabbis what the meaning of this ritual meant. None of them had ever heard of it. Malaga, Spain In July 1983, we went to a synagogue mentioned in a guidebook, but when we arrived at the address, we found an empty storefront shop with a sign that read “Panaderia” (bakery) in gilt lettering. We thought that the guidebook was mistaken, but a European man approached, saw us standing there, and proffered his hand, saying “Shabbat shalom.” He opened the door and gestured us in. We walked toward the rear and found a dozen men and women seated on folding wooden chairs facing a small, unadorned wooden cabinet that contained a small Torah. There was no ner tamid, with unadorned walls all around — the bare walls of the previous bakery. Women were counted to make a minyan. There was no rabbi, no cantor. An old, knowledgeable member conducted the services and read the Torah. The residents were all Holocaust survivors from Eastern Europe. San Jose, Costa Rica In July 1992, we visited the synagogue, which was built on a square block surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. A fellow tourist and I approached an armed guard, who spoke no English and refused to let us enter. He didn’t budge, so we stood around for 10 minutes until a local Jew approached. I spoke to him in Yiddish, and he got us in. That sanctuary could have been in Brooklyn. The services were conducted by a congregant, and the rabbi gave the drash in Spanish. After the service, the regulars ignored us and went down to the basement hall for Kiddush. Uninvited, we trailed them. The minyan sat at one end of a 15-foot table, facing the rabbi, with their backs turned to us. We sat at the other end. Wine and cake were served to the group. We felt invisible and awkward. About five minutes later, one of the minyan, a transplanted carpet store owner from Brooklyn, turned to us, saw that we were sitting there like beggars, and told the server to bring us wine and cake. The minyanites treated us almost hostilely, as if our being there annoyed them. A few days later, in a souvenir shop, the owner (an ex-New Yorker) invited us to her Reform temple in the suburbs, assuring us that we would be warmly welcomed. But we left Costa Rica before that Shabbat arrived. Copenhagen, Denmark On a Friday morning in July 1969, I asked the concierge at our hotel for the location of the synagogue. He never heard of a synagogue and had no idea where it could be found, but referred me to the police station. The cops also never heard of a synagogue and suggested that I ask a taxi driver. Two taxi drivers didn’t know, but when I asked a third one, late in the day, I struck paydirt. My wife and I got into his cab, and he drove through the city to an industrial area, where we passed several warehouses and factories and stopped at a red brick wall with no identification on it. There was an unmarked metal door painted red to match the bricks. We got out, walked over to the door, saw no bell or handle, so I knocked on it, not knowing what to expect, thinking that maybe the cab driver “took us for a ride.” I knocked again, and the door was opened by a well-dressed man wearing a kippah. I told him that we were New York Jews, and he welcomed us in, speaking English. I think that the synagogue had been camouflaged to escape notice during World War II. We walked down a corridor and saw the interior sanctuary — what a contrast with the drab brick outside! The sanctuary walls were spotlessly painted white with blue highlights, and there was a balcony above. The cantor had a rich baritone voice, but he wasn’t Danish; there was no cantorial school in Denmark. He was Latvian. Ever had an unexpected or memorable Jewish holiday experience away from home? Send your “Not home for the holiday” story to <a href="mailto:andy@jweekly.com">andy@jweekly.com</a> or mail it to j., 225 Bush St., Suite 1480, San Francisco, CA 94104.

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