Rosh Hashanah, when I was a child, was always the same. We went to our local shul, where we knew everyone in the small community. We looked for conkers along the way, and we felt odd in our smart new clothes, walking along the streets of our small town where there weren’t many Jews.
The adults prayed, and we kids congregated in the shul garden, playing the games we played every Sunday at cheder. In my memories it was always sunny. The service went on for hours. Sometimes I sat with my mum, and we sang the songs together. A man blew the shofar again and again and again. And at lunchtime we went home and ate cold chicken and potato salad, with honey cake to follow and it was always delicious.
I assumed that this would be much the same for my two children. My husband and I would find “our” shul. We’d know lots of people there. The kids would too. And the rhythms of the service would become part of them, and the relationships they built would be their gift for life. It didn’t work out that way.
Unexpectedly, and somewhat traumatically, we moved to Amsterdam when our daughter was two years old. We stayed there for eight years. There was much that we loved about our lives there. But Rosh Hashanah was always a low point.
At first, thinking we were only staying two years, we took a tourist’s point of view and celebrated the New Year at one of the most beautiful shuls in the world, the Portuguese Synagogue.
It felt quite thrilling to be walking into this historic site as a celebrant to be part of a history that stretched back to the 17th century. But alas, the ladies’ gallery was very high, and it was difficult to see anything from there. And try as I might, I could not locate my place in my Routledge machzor, given to me by my grandparents for my batmitzvah. The vowels, the tunes, the order of service, nothing was familiar. My heart sank. This was just too different to become “our” shul.
So then we went to the shul near our house, the large building in the Jacob Obrechtstraat, which is the biggest functioning Ashkenazi shul in Amsterdam. It was built in the 1930s for the community that had moved into the new suburbs in South Amsterdam. But, of course, in the 1940s, that community was decimated by the Shoah, and in the years after the war the Jews who were left moved into newer suburbs elsewhere.
As I sat in the ladies’ gallery and surveyed the empty pews below, the place summed up an eerie feeling of loss and sorrow that was just too much to contend with. What’s more, none of the tunes were familiar. We did not go there for Rosh Hashanah.
Nor did we try the main Orthodox synagogue which was further south, nor the one in Amstelveen that people said was good for families. My husband wanted to try the city’s Liberal shul. He was fed up with being by himself, downstairs among strangers, while we — his wife, mother and daughter — were all in the gallery above. “Can’t we go somewhere where we all sit together?” he asked.
So, to the Liberal Synagogue near Amsterdam’s RAI exhibition centre. A modern building overflowing with people, including people our age, and children too. There were children’s services — but they were all in Dutch. Our children didn’t speak Dutch. Nor did we. And this was our problem with the Liberal shul. The music was beautiful — recognisable tunes! — but a lot of the service was in Dutch. There were children everywhere, but our kids could not communicate with them. And, in our tight little family group, I had no chance to talk to other women, to try, tentatively to make friends.
So, the High Holy Days continued to be a focus for homesickness, for wistfully comparing the life I’d expected in London — kids in Jewish schools, a family-like community — and the one I had now. Actually, that life wasn’t bad at all. We all loved Amsterdam. We were part of an international community. We found a good teacher who taught the children Hebrew. Through her, I joined a Jewish women’s choir.
Our worst Rosh Hashanah was in 2005, not in the Netherlands but back in the UK. My mother-in-law died just a few days before the festival. We rushed onto a flight to Manchester, and went from funeral to shivah with various additional disasters — a sick child, a collapsed ceiling. By Rosh Hashanah we were all exhausted and sad. We went to shul with my husband’s uncle. His shul was large, damp and empty, serving an elderly congregation. I felt utterly bleak. But then someone touched my shoulder. It was my wonderful friend, up from London to spend the chagim with her family. She had no idea we were in Manchester. At that desolate moment, I found comfort in her presence.
Rosh Hashanah, I have realised, is not about where you are in place or time. For wherever I spend it now, I will always have my beloved mother-in-law with me, as I did for so many years in Amsterdam. I will always hear my mother’s voice in the songs, whether she is able to come to shul or not. And I treasure every time I am able to sit in shul with my daughter at my side. For this is what matters, not tunes or prayers or language. Just people, and the dual job of looking back over the year and readying yourself for whatever the future holds.
