To-day I was called to attend an old man who lives at the Flour Market,
almost opposite the "New" Synagogue. The messenger told me I could not
possibly miss the house, because the steps leading up to the old man's
rooms were built on the outside; and this is in peculiar contrast to the
modern architecture prevailing in the city. In fact, I do not know
whether another house so curiously constructed is to be seen anywhere
else in the place. And so I found it without much questioning. At any
rate, I knew of the New Synagogue. I have never entered it, yet a soft,
secret wave of religious feeling creeps over me each time I pass it, and
that happens frequently. The synagogue lies on the road to the extensive
factory quarter built up by one of the large manufacturers for his
employees. My professional duties often take me there.
The synagogue!--I always look at the simple structure, devoid of
ornament, with mixed feelings of veneration and awe. I hold tradition in
high regard. After all it counts for something that a man is the
offspring of a pious race, which cherishes learning and _Yichus_. How
does the Hebrew word happen to come to me? The synagogue keeps its grip
on what belongs to it--and on me, too! Yet I should not be able to pray
within its walls--although it was in such a place as this synagogue that
my father taught the word of God.
In fact, is it possible for us moderns still to pray? And then those
remarkable Hebrew words, unintelligible to most of us now--_Ovinu
Malkenu!_ The Church has converted them into the Lord's Prayer, the most
fervent of its prayers. _Ovinu Malkenu!_ I see myself a little chap
standing next to my father. How surcharged these words with belief and
faith and hope when spoken by him: _Ovinu Malkenu chosvenu be-Sefer
Parnossoh ve-Chalkoloh_--"Give us this day our daily bread!"
Synagogue and church! Hebrew or German or Latin? The shrill call of the
Shofar, or the soft sense-enslaving tones of the organ? I believe modern
man can pray only in the dumb speech of the heart.
It seems to me, if I were all alone in a synagogue, a devout mood would
come over me; I would pray there. In Florence this happened to me once.
It was very early in the morning; I was alone in a small church on the
other side of the Arno, Santa Maria del Carmine, whose frescoes, painted
by Masaccio, declare the joy and jubilation of man over his beauty and
greatness. But, I remember, the words were Hebrew that sprang up in my
heart, even if they did not pass my lips. So the dumb language of the
soul has its familiar tones, its words endeared by association.
Truth compels me to admit that it was Simon Eichelkatz who prompted me
to put these thoughts of mine down in writing.
My patient at the Flour Market! When I climbed the steep stairway,
thoroughly scoured and strewn with white sand, I little suspected I
should soon stand in the presence of one of the most interesting persons
it had ever been my good fortune to meet. The stairway led directly into
the kitchen. A long, lank individual received me there, and on my asking
for Herr Eichelkatz, he answered testily: "I guess he's in the floored
room." At the moment I could not imagine what he meant. Then I noticed
that the flooring of the kitchen was only of cement, and I realized that
he meant to convey that the room in which the patient waited had a
wooden flooring.
"Will you lead me there?" I asked politely.
"Lead!" with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders. "Why should I lead?
It's right here. They must be led. These new-fashioned people must be
led. Can't they walk by themselves?" At these not very friendly words,
he pushed a door open and bawled in: "The doctor is here--the Herr
Kreisphysikus. I should lead him to you, Reb Shimme. By himself he would
never find you. Reb Shimme, should I drive him in with the white or the
black horse? It's too far for him, Reb Shimme, the new-fashioned people
want to be led; they want to be announced by a vally. Whether they come
to a king or to Reb Shimme Eichelkatz, it's all the same, they must be
announced."
All this was accompanied by scornful chuckles; and he looked at me
angrily, quite taken aback, when I pushed him aside with a sweep of my
arm just as he cried out again: "Herr Kenig, the doctor is here!"
I stood in the middle of the room, the "floored" room, and, verily, I
stood in the presence of a kingly man, I stood before Simon Eichelkatz.