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Published: September 30th 2009
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Our Dublin synagogue is sparsely furnished but has all the requisite parts. The wooden floor is worn, the pews creak, the prayer book has its usual heft. Most comforting are the faces: I am introduced to Max, wearing the face of my Uncle Buddy. Hillary is my Mom’s friend Ethel. Together, we flap the pages of our prayer books, weave back and forth in prayer and song, pretend that we are tuneful when we’re not.
We fast.
So here’s what’s different: The synagogue is at an undisclosed location, so we tell the taxi driver we’re going to a community hall. There are no obvious signs out front, just a street number by the gate. Inside, a teenage girl stands on a stool to light the candelabra. When she reaches up, her petticoat is visible below her hem. The choir is made up of five women and, for the whole of Yom Kippur, they sing like the angels. The final shofar blast blows us forward for havdallah. The rabbi chuckles as the youngsters drip wax onto the carpet.
In a tiny kitchen, an elderly man is brewing tea. It is hot and strong and goes well with the daffodil-yellow sponge cake. Our fists full of sponge cake, we are whisked away to break the fast. Somewhere in the suburbs, our hostess serves us homemade soup in china teacups and I get a lesson on how to poach a salmon, fresh from the Irish Sea. We exchange addresses, scribble down phone numbers, go out on a limb and invite everyone to visit us in Paris or Vancouver. I know you’re thinking that this never happens, but I have the strongest feeling otherwise.
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Ron
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Kudos to Liz for her fine way with words. I had a great time at the break the fast with David Goldberg, QC, of the Irish Defence Bar. (almost 40 years). Nice to trade war stories. He insists on sleeping on the floor of our Paris flat with his nice wife, Dr. Clara. Hi to everybody.