By Janis Kelly
On the eve of the Jewish holiday known as “Simcha Torah” I went along to my local conservative shul (synagogue) out of curiosity. I had heard that all the scrolls are taken out and carried around the synagogue on that day, and I wanted to see the one they call the Holocaust scroll.
That scroll normally rests in its own special cabinet in the back of the sanctuary, with a light burning over it. It was one of the rescued scrolls after WWII from the mountains of looted treasures taken by the Nazis from destroyed Jewish communities. This congregation had raised the money to bring the scroll here and had built it a lovely home. It rests there partly visible, sheltered, and honored for most of the year, but it is kept well back from the light and is hard to see.
I knew that Simcha Torah is a festive holiday, so I wasn't completely surprised that the rabbi greeted me wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a kippa with palm trees on it, or that somebody had put an arrangement of giant sunflowers up above the ark. Or that there were lots and lots of brightly dressed children waving little flags with various Jewish symbols on them, and adults in bright clothes. Or that there were a lot of extraordinarily colorful and fanciful tallit (prayer shawls) draped over the railing, ready for people who would be taking turns carrying the scrolls.
What I did not expect was that the first procession around the sanctuary would feature not the six or seven regular scrolls in their splendid embroidered velvet covers, but the Holocaust scroll all alone.
It was carried by a survivor, a small, elderly man elegantly dressed in coat and tie. He was escorted in his circuit of the sanctuary by another survivor, who had arrived for the service in a wheelchair. She rose up to use a walker for this occasion.
The scroll itself was wrapped not in the velvet and silver crown of the scrolls used for regular readings but in a plain tallis. As it passed, I could just see its simple, worn handles over the shoulder of the man bearing it carefully and defiantly around the temple.
The two survivors were followed by every single child in the synagogue, walking slowly to accommodate their halting pace. As I looked across the room at the frail old pair and their Book, at the long flow of Light, vitality, and singing children behind them, my heart caught in my throat. This was truly the Ocean of Light that overcame the Ocean of Darkness.
The Holocaust scroll was returned to its case, and the other scrolls in their magnificence were walked and danced around the temple, first by Aaron's descendants (inspiring a voice from the back to sing, "If your daddy was a cohain come on up!" to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.") then by others.
At some point the rabbi called for "sure-footed Jews" to carry the scrolls, and all of the attenders who were relatively mobile followed the scroll-carriers out the side door, down the steps, into the starlit, warm autumn night. They sang and danced the scrolls all over the street and sidewalks.
The dancing grew more enthusiastic, and the two lines of Torah scrolls and their carriers segued into a sort of contradance under the streetlights. The scrolls looked like they were dancing together, perhaps celebrating their rare excursion into the out of doors.
Over the course of the evening one older father handed a scroll to his stunningly beautiful teenaged daughter, whose faced beamed as she danced with it. Another passed a scroll and the tallis he had been wearing to his nearly grown son. A young mother danced the Torah round the sanctuary with her small daughter holding tightly to a corner of her tallis. L'dor va-dor, from generation to generation, indeed.
Finally back inside, the rabbi called for "tall Jews" to come forward. All of the children were gathered around the table, framed by the doors of the open ark above and behind them. Four really tall guys stretched a tallis up high over all of them. Various adults unwrapped one of the scrolls and laid it carefully on the table.
The man who then came up from the congregation, in tallis, kippa, jeans, and flowing shirt, had a mane of wavy silver hair descending over his collar,. This is the only time the Torah is read after dark, I think, and he chanted the final section in Hebrew so clear that even I could understand a word or two. The tinier of the children stretched up to watch over the edge of the table as he moved the silver pointer from word to word.
From the back of the sanctuary the whole group looked like a grand and rooted old tree, a living illustration that scripture is the "tree of life" for all who cling to it.
Janis Kelly is a member of Ithaca (N.Y.) meeting. She is grateful to be numbered among the friends of Jewish Friends every summer at Friends General Conference.
On the eve of the Jewish holiday known as “Simcha Torah” I went along to my local conservative shul (synagogue) out of curiosity. I had heard that all the scrolls are taken out and carried around the synagogue on that day, and I wanted to see the one they call the Holocaust scroll.
That scroll normally rests in its own special cabinet in the back of the sanctuary, with a light burning over it. It was one of the rescued scrolls after WWII from the mountains of looted treasures taken by the Nazis from destroyed Jewish communities. This congregation had raised the money to bring the scroll here and had built it a lovely home. It rests there partly visible, sheltered, and honored for most of the year, but it is kept well back from the light and is hard to see.
I knew that Simcha Torah is a festive holiday, so I wasn't completely surprised that the rabbi greeted me wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a kippa with palm trees on it, or that somebody had put an arrangement of giant sunflowers up above the ark. Or that there were lots and lots of brightly dressed children waving little flags with various Jewish symbols on them, and adults in bright clothes. Or that there were a lot of extraordinarily colorful and fanciful tallit (prayer shawls) draped over the railing, ready for people who would be taking turns carrying the scrolls.
What I did not expect was that the first procession around the sanctuary would feature not the six or seven regular scrolls in their splendid embroidered velvet covers, but the Holocaust scroll all alone.
It was carried by a survivor, a small, elderly man elegantly dressed in coat and tie. He was escorted in his circuit of the sanctuary by another survivor, who had arrived for the service in a wheelchair. She rose up to use a walker for this occasion.
The scroll itself was wrapped not in the velvet and silver crown of the scrolls used for regular readings but in a plain tallis. As it passed, I could just see its simple, worn handles over the shoulder of the man bearing it carefully and defiantly around the temple.
The two survivors were followed by every single child in the synagogue, walking slowly to accommodate their halting pace. As I looked across the room at the frail old pair and their Book, at the long flow of Light, vitality, and singing children behind them, my heart caught in my throat. This was truly the Ocean of Light that overcame the Ocean of Darkness.
The Holocaust scroll was returned to its case, and the other scrolls in their magnificence were walked and danced around the temple, first by Aaron's descendants (inspiring a voice from the back to sing, "If your daddy was a cohain come on up!" to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.") then by others.
At some point the rabbi called for "sure-footed Jews" to carry the scrolls, and all of the attenders who were relatively mobile followed the scroll-carriers out the side door, down the steps, into the starlit, warm autumn night. They sang and danced the scrolls all over the street and sidewalks.
The dancing grew more enthusiastic, and the two lines of Torah scrolls and their carriers segued into a sort of contradance under the streetlights. The scrolls looked like they were dancing together, perhaps celebrating their rare excursion into the out of doors.
Over the course of the evening one older father handed a scroll to his stunningly beautiful teenaged daughter, whose faced beamed as she danced with it. Another passed a scroll and the tallis he had been wearing to his nearly grown son. A young mother danced the Torah round the sanctuary with her small daughter holding tightly to a corner of her tallis. L'dor va-dor, from generation to generation, indeed.
Finally back inside, the rabbi called for "tall Jews" to come forward. All of the children were gathered around the table, framed by the doors of the open ark above and behind them. Four really tall guys stretched a tallis up high over all of them. Various adults unwrapped one of the scrolls and laid it carefully on the table.
The man who then came up from the congregation, in tallis, kippa, jeans, and flowing shirt, had a mane of wavy silver hair descending over his collar,. This is the only time the Torah is read after dark, I think, and he chanted the final section in Hebrew so clear that even I could understand a word or two. The tinier of the children stretched up to watch over the edge of the table as he moved the silver pointer from word to word.
From the back of the sanctuary the whole group looked like a grand and rooted old tree, a living illustration that scripture is the "tree of life" for all who cling to it.
Janis Kelly is a member of Ithaca (N.Y.) meeting. She is grateful to be numbered among the friends of Jewish Friends every summer at Friends General Conference.
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