I felt festive and full of light in my heart.
And the prayers could still be heard, and the voice of the chazan could be heard. I suddenly realized that he wasn’t reading, for his eyes were closed. Everything he was saying had been imprinted on his heart. Not only did he remember hundreds and hundreds of words, but he believed in their special meaning and special power. He believed that they were reaching the One to whom they were addressed. And he inspired us with his belief.
By the way, later I met this person, an emigrant from our parts. His name was Maksim. I had the opportunity to become more and more convinced of his piety and his wonderful abilities as a chazan.
I had many significant and profound impressions that day, and one of them, “the prayer that is read while standing,” remained in my memory. It was solemn yet quiet. The silence was broken only by the sound of pages turning. It was like the rustling of falling leaves you hear when walking across an autumn forest, without companions, all by yourself, alone with your thoughts.
And of course, Kaddish, the mourning Kaddish, the ancient prayer in Aramaic, over 2000 years old, remained in my mind.
In general, Kaddish, the prayer that is read every morning, afternoon and evening, is not associated with death. It extols the greatness of the Creator and ends with the hope that He will save the world in the future. Still, one of the versions of Kaddish (there are a few of them) is read to remember the deceased, and it is intended to help the soul of a deceased loved one. Even the wisest of sages don’t know why. This tradition is not as ancient as the everyday Kaddish prayer. It dates back to the Middle Ages. Perhaps it appeared thanks to the ability of Kaddish to heal emotional wounds. The reading of Kaddish as a mourning prayer is considered essential three times a day or at least every day for eleven months after a parent’s death. Why not a whole year of mourning? According to the Talmud, the souls of bad people suffer in Hell for twelve months. Those praying for their dear ones hope that their souls have evaded that lot, and they toss aside the twelfth month as a declaration of hope.
It was my first Kaddish. Perhaps, each succeeding one added something new, and all that merged together as happens when you listen to music that transforms your soul.
The worshippers were sitting. Only the mourners were standing. We pronounced the first words of the prayer along with the chazan, slowly and solemnly: “May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which He has created according to His will…”
This prayer staggered me in the Russian translation with its poetic nature. In general, all Jewish prayers are like poems, odes addressed to God, Kaddish in particular. For instance, one of its phrases is worth hearing, it goes like this in Russian:
“May great peace, life, plenty, deliverance, consolation, freedom, healing, liberation, atonement, broad expanses, and salvation be sent from Heaven to all the people of His Yisroel. And say Amen!”
How solemn and comprehensive it is, what a powerful rhythm related to the diversity of life.
And Kaddish sounds like music from heaven when read in Aramaic.
To my question about why Kaddish is read in Aramaic, the Rabbi told me an interesting tale. “We extol God in Kaddish so powerfully and beautifully that Angels may envy and be hurt because there are no prayers that extol Angels so beautifully. But Angels cannot hear Kaddish because Aramaic is the only language they don’t understand.”
I am not sure whether Angels understand Aramaic, but it is really very difficult, and at the beginning I was very surprised that people remembered Kaddish by heart. But the beauty of the prayer, the way it sounded, captivated me more and more every time I heard it.
Yisgadal vyiskadash shmay rabbo… Bolmo deevro chirusay… Omen
When you listen to such beautiful words, the difficult language begins to become clear, and the words, which you already understand, escape your lips on their own.
By the way, great Medieval Talmudic scholars translated Kaddish from Aramaic into Hebrew so Angels could read it and listen to it for many centuries. And I hope that, contrary to the tale, they are not upset but admire it.
I am not going to make the work of my soul seem easier than it actually was. Lofty feelings did not always seize me in the synagogue. I would get distracted. I sometimes stopped feeling the beauty and meaning of the prayer. I would become irritated when one of the members of the congregation made noise and behaved as if he were not in the temple. Sometimes, awakened by an alarm clock at 4:00 a.m. (I could have gotten up an hour later but I wanted, while attending the synagogue, to have enough time to do everything I had done before Mama passed away), or on the way to the synagogue in the piercing pre-dawn winter wind that chilled me to the bone, I had gloomy thoughts. “Why and who needs it all? Is it necessary to perform hard and incomprehensible rituals to prove love for the beloved person? Can’t I appeal to God? Or to my mama who is always in my heart and to whom I appeal all the time and hear her voice?”
I couldn’t find an unambiguous answer. I had no right to denounce the faith and rituals of many centuries. I could have drifted away from them, but something restrained me every time I did so. Perhaps the strongest pull was the simple thought that I was subjecting myself to a trial for the sake of a person who had been so close to me. Whether it proved anything or not was secondary. The most important thing was that I wanted to subject myself to that trial, that after overcoming the moments of weakness, fatigue and irritation, I could tell myself “Everything is going the way it should.”
Yes, the way it should, and perhaps to a greater extent than I had expected at the beginning.
Turning to religion opened the world to me, a world about which I had known inexcusably little before. I mean the Jewish world, the history of the Jewish religion and culture. I still had a lot to learn, but what was important was that my interest in it had been awakened.
The first thing that awoke my interest was the Torah.
While attending the synagogue, it was impossible not to pay attention to Torah, not to feel it, see it, and think about its significance.
At the beginning, this interest was superficial. The Aron Kadesh, in other words, the sacred ark, covered with the beautiful cloth, was where the Torah was kept. The solemn ceremony took place a few times a week – names were called, and the members of the congregation called approached the Aron Kadesh. The Torah, dressed like a queen in blue velvet with a silver pattern, was removed from the ark and carried around the temple.
Everyone bowed to it with respect and adoration, blessed it, and tried to kiss at least its hem. At last it was brought to the bema. Its velvet attire, the case, was removed carefully and respectfully, and the sacred text appeared for all to see. It had been written with a quill in black ink on a scroll made from the hide of a ritually pure animal, usually a cow.
I could also see that old scroll, which had been brought by someone from Uzbekistan recently. An experienced scribe, a sopher, had toiled without ceasing, rewriting the Torah for a whole year. I could visualize, I could imagine a hunched-over old man with a kippa on his head, his gray beard, the parchment lit by the flickering light of candles… How many times had he reread the Torah before finishing his work? There shouldn’t be a single error in the text.