Reconciling myself with the German language on Yom Kippur in the Rykestrasse Synagogue in Berlin

I’ve avoided Germany like the plague for many years. World War II history poisoned any touristic desires I may have had to see the country. I’ve traveled and even lived in nearby countries, but have made a conscious effort not to spend time in Germany, save for some short layovers at the Frankfurt airport. Last year, I stayed in Germany for about 10 days because I was attending the Frankfurt book fair and decided to visit some parts of the country. Berlin left such a great impression on me that I had to go back. This year, before presenting my books at the bookfair, I ventured to Berlin again and partially reconciled my aversion to the German language.

Tired and jet-lagged, I make myself take various Berlin trams to traverse from the southern part of East Berlin in Friedrichshain to the northern part of East Berlin in trendy Prenzlauer Berg. I’ve just landed in Germany’s capital a few hours ago from California. It’s slightly cold, but nothing like last year’s chilly and rainy 9 C weather. The night is coming as the sunlight stops shining on the colorful and gorgeous autumn leaves and ivy.

I get off the tram and ask a woman in my Tarzan-like German if she speaks English. “Nein, portugues,” she responds. I didn’t think I would have to use my Portuguese to in Berlin to find the synagogue on Yom Kippur, but stranger things have happened to me.

Probably also taken aback that I speak to her in Brazilian Portuguese, she kindly walks me to the synagogue. I ask the Israeli security guys if I may enter and they ask me for my passport.

I knew I should have brought my passport with me! I left it at the hotel. Luckily, they accepted my California drivers’ license as sufficient identification. The service already started 20 or 30 minutes ago.

I walk through the courtyard to the high ceilinged synagogue. A woman in her early 50s is taking of her coat and going toward the doors. I ask her for help and quickly realize from her accented German that she’s Russian. She tells me in Russian that men and women sit separately in the synagogue. We walk in together to the women’s area. She looks at the prayer books and tells me that the only Russian language books are not for the High Holidays. She takes a German language prayer book. Since I speak almost no German and can barely read Hebrew, I decide to go without a book.

The newly remodeled synagogue is the site of the 1938 Kristalnacht massacre when the Nazis set 200 synagogues ablaze in Germany on November 9–10, 1938. That night, 92 Jews were murdered, and 25,000–30,000 were arrested and deported to concentration camps. The name means “Crystal night” or the Night of Broken Glass.

Standing in the synagogue, I am shocked to hear the rabbi speak in German. Yes, I know I am in Germany, where the official language is German. But, I have only ever heard the German language in a negative association with Judaism in Holocaust movies. I can’t get used to hearing the language used in a synagogue when not by SS officers. I look around and nobody else seems to be bothered by the language. Though there might be other non-German speaking tourists like me, everyone else seems to be following along quite well. I am the only one with this problem.

The cantor or khazan leads the congregation to sing several prayers whose melodies and verses I recall from my childhood. I can barely open my mouth to sing along. My eyes are filled with tears. I am overtaken with emotion. Everyone here is Jewish and they are praying in German.

It’s Yom Kippur, the time of forgiveness in Judaism and without my consciously deciding so, I am making amends with the German language. Though I am still acoustically averse to the harsh sounds of the language, it doesn’t bother me as much anymore.
Unable to stay awake, I have to leave the service early. I walk back to the tram on the cobblestone streets and think about what I just felt.

I return the following evening and am again struck by how teary I am when listening to the Hebrew prayers. At the break of fast (meal after a one-day fast), I approach the rabbi.

“Rabbi, I would like to share something with you.”

“Yes,” the 40 year old man says.

“Have you seen the German movie, Nowhere in Africa? I ask

“Yes”

“At the end of the movie, the German Jewish lawyer [who had been living in Kenya during World War II] says that he has to return to Germany after the war to work as a lawyer. He says, ‘Even though most of my family was killed in the Holocaust, I want to go back to my country. I am a German. If I don’t feel comfortable living in my country, then I am realizing Hitler’s dream that German Jews can’t consider themselves German and won’t feel at home in their native country.’

I feel like you, by leading the service in German, are like the man in the movie. You are not letting Hitler’s dream be fully realized. You are creating a safe place for German Jews to practice their religion in their language.

Thank you”

He looks at me in silence for a few moments and says that sometimes he has similar thoughts.

After speaking to the rabbi, I go to dinner at a local Italian restaurant with some people I meet at the break of fast meal. A Scottish Jewish woman invites me to join her non-Jewish German boyfriend (with an Indian name) for dinner. We go with a woman whose mother is a South African Jew and father a German. She is accompanied by her non-Jewish German boyfriend. All of them fasted for the holiday, including the two non-Jews. I was the only one who hadn’t restrained from eating all day.

P.S.
Though I’ve never studied German, I seem to understand quite a few words and expressions through their similarity to English or other languages. I noticed that last year, I could understand a lot more than I had imagined just because I was paying attention to context and people’s expressions.

Susanna Zaraysky emigrated from the former USSR when she was three years old.