Not everybody believed that Birobidzhan’s Jewish population had grown; official estimates put the number at fewer than 4,000. But Vasily Gurevich, deputy chairman of the Jewish Autonomous Region, opined that ultimately “numbers don’t matter. It’s the spiritual life of the town that matters. There may be fewer Jews, but we’ve created better conditions for those who’ve remained.
“Now the young people know what a menorah is,” he concluded. “They didn’t before.”
And if anyone still didn’t know, all they had to do was stroll down to Birobidzhan’s train station, which now boasted a giant menorah out front—one of many Jewish landmarks in the city, including a statue of writer Sholem Aleichem, as well as one of a fiddler in front of the Philharmonic Hall. Yes, Birobidzhan was still a small, swampy, economically challenged outpost, but it did seem in 2005 that the Jewish Autonomous Region would survive.
Ten years later, it was time to find out for sure.
The morning after my late-night check-in at the Hotel Vostok, I found a different woman seated behind the front desk. “Can you tell me how to get to the synagogue?” I asked her. I remembered that it was in the city center, which was small enough that I hadn’t thought it necessary in 2005 to write down the street address.
“Synagogue?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The Jewish… church?” She looked at me quizzically. “It was built in 2004,” I said, “not far from here…” I assumed that she wasn’t Jewish, as the vast majority of Birobidzhan residents weren’t, but did she really not even know what I was talking about?
“Ah, I think I know the place you mean,” she said at last. “Walk out of the hotel and turn left. Go past the Rodina movie theater and the World War II memorial. You’ll start to see some Jewish stars. It’s probably around there.”
I thanked her, then headed out into the early autumn sunshine. The street in front of the hotel had been turned into a pedestrian mall, though the first couple of blocks were bleak, littered with abandoned kiosks and flashing electronic billboards. Once I got past those, however, the city’s sidewalks were spacious and tree-lined, very pleasant for a morning stroll. With its sleepy pace and modest storefronts, Birobidzhan seemed to have changed little since I was here last.
Unlike Vladivostok, with its miles of waterfront, rolling hills, and winding streets, Birobidzhan was a flat grid. The center of town was a rectangle, bounded by the train station to the north, the Vostok hotel to the east, the Bira River and Philharmonic Hall to the south, and School No. 23 to the west. Within that rectangle were most of the local landmarks: the House of Culture, the World War II monument, the Regional Museum, and the synagogue.
Ten minutes into the walk, I turned onto Lenin Street and started seeing menorahs—not “Jewish stars,” but close enough. A long wrought-iron fence was decorated with them, and in front of that stood a silver statue of a Hasid blowing a shofar.
This marked the entrance to the synagogue complex, which was dominated by two large buildings: the synagogue and the Freud Jewish Community Center. The grounds were beautifully tended, with colorful flowers providing a backdrop to a stark black granite stone, a monument to victims of the Holocaust.
I walked into the synagogue’s lobby, but the inner door leading to the sanctuary was closed. Should I knock, or just go in? This was the start of Rosh Hashanah; were there religious reasons why I, a non-Jewish woman, shouldn’t enter? I walked back outside, momentarily stymied. Then it occurred to me that I could text Randi in Los Angeles to ask—she was Jewish; she’d know what to do. She texted back one word—“knock”—and at that moment, I looked up to see a little boy peering out the synagogue window.
I waved, and he waved back. Then a man appeared in the window, and he beckoned me in. “Rabbi Riss is arriving from Khabarovsk today,” he told me. “Come back in two hours.” So Mordechai Scheiner had moved on, but Birobidzhan had a new rabbi. This was a good sign.
With two free hours, I took a taxi to the old synagogue. Not only was the little building still standing, it also had a fresh coat of electric blue paint, clean white trim, and decorative iron Stars of David. Moving closer, I saw signs in the windows announcing that the grounds were protected by video cameras. No one answered my knock, though a plaque out front indicated that it should have been open since 10 a.m. I was disappointed no one was there, but happy to see that the place seemed well kept.
That afternoon, I returned to the new synagogue to meet Rabbi Riss, and to my surprise and delight he spoke English. “I lived in Brooklyn for a couple of years,” he said. “So that helped.” I asked him how he managed to go from bustling New York City to sleepy Birobidzhan, and he replied, “Actually, I was born here.”
Eliyahu Riss was born in Birobidzhan in 1990, and no, that is not a typo: two years into his tenure as the spiritual leader of the Jewish Autonomous Region, the rabbi was all of 25 years old. When he was still a baby, his family—like so many in Birobidzhan at that time—moved to Israel. They spent the next thirteen years there, but in 2004, Eliyahu’s father decided to bring his family back for a visit. Upon seeing the new synagogue and the flowering of cultural life here, he decided to return for good. So at age 14, Eliyahu found himself living once again in the city of his birth.
He left at age 16, moving to Moscow to study at yeshiva. At 20, he went to New York City for two more years of study; at 21 he got married, and at 23 he agreed to become Birobidzhan’s rabbi. “People told me I was crazy to do it,” he said with a wide smile. “But I consider this a mission.” He told me that Boris Kaufman had moved to Israel, and the old synagogue was essentially a museum now.
“We’re having a youth dinner this evening, if you’d like to come,” Rabbi Riss said. “You are still a youth, yes?” he added, smiling again. In fact, he never really stopped smiling: this rabbi radiated bonhomie. “We also have prayer services tomorrow, and the blowing of the shofar. It will be a big day!” I thanked him, and told him I’d see him that evening.
As I walked back to the Vostok, I felt exhausted. My nose had been running all day, and my head felt stuffed with cotton. At the end of my time in Vladivostok, Lusya had been suffering from a cold, and now, as I started sneezing, I knew I’d caught it. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and asked the dezhurnaya for my key, eager to collapse into bed.
“I must inform you that there is no hot water in your room,” she said. “There won’t be any all week. However, there is another room with its own water heater.” Ah, good, I thought. They’re moving me into that one. “Just let us know when you want to bathe,” she said. “And we will let you in to do so.” Apparently everyone on my floor would be using that one bathroom to shower, a revelation that was both irritating and, considering the state of the hotel’s customer service so far, not terribly surprising.
The young people’s dinner that night was eye-opening. About 15 people, most of whom appeared to be in their twenties, sat at a long table laden with plastic plates of salads, stews, and sliced meat. In honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year traditionally celebrated with apples and honey, the rabbi had brought Jim Beam Honey whiskey. He sat at the head of the table, smiling, making jokes, and talking about how we should feel gratitude for everything God has given us. Down at my end of the table, however, the mood was different.
The rabbi hadn’t introduced me to the group, so no one seemed to know who I was. After sitting silently for the first part of the meal, I decided to make small talk with the guy to my left, a dark-haired, broodingly handsome young man. “So, were you born in Birobidzhan?” I asked.