Nothing I saw in the architecture of Bukhara reminded me of the Italian renaissance. Near the marketplace was the blue-bordered Kalyan minaret, built in 1120. Its nickname was “the tower of death” because criminals were executed by being thrown from the top. “It was more than a ‘tower of death,’” my guide said. It also served as a watchtower to alert Bukharans to a foreign attack, a dust storm, or an approaching trade caravan. Now it stood as a mute symbol of a dead culture.
Nearby was another Registan, desperately in need of a facelift but easily the most impressive building in town. Like its parent model in Samarkand, it was built during Ulugh Beg’s rule to serve as a madrasah, or religious school, for roughly forty-five students at a time, each admitted for eight years.
“Can one study Islam now?” I asked.
“Of course,” the guide answered.
“Where?” I asked.
“Somewhere,” he replied. “Somewhere in Bukhara.”
“Can we go there now?”
“No,” he said, looking at his watch. “No time for such a visit.” As we walked away from the Registan, I noticed that Uzbeks were playing basketball in the back. In an adjacent building grain was stored.
I had heard much about the rug weavers of Bukhara, but for some reason, they, like the religion students, were “somewhere in Bukhara” and unavailable.
“What about the Jews of Bukhara?” I asked. “I have been told they are a thriving community here.”
My guide, uncertain about the party line on the Jews of Bukhara, mumbled, “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow we can see the Jews.”
I realized that my guide was not the most courageous Uzbek in town. If I was to see the Jews, I would have to make my own arrangements. I pretended to be tired and returned to the hotel, a decision so pleasing to my guide that his face broke into a wide grin. “Yes, and one must be careful about the sun,” he observed. “Too much sun, no good.” When we got to the hotel, he vanished, assuming, I guess, that I was going to take a nap.
But instead, after a half hour or so, I left the hotel and walked down Lenin Street, crowded with Uzbeks and Tajiks, Armenians and Russians, Germans and Jews, all hustling either to the market or home. I was at least a head taller than everyone else, and I was looking for a sympathetic face, someone who could tell me where the Bukhara synagogue, known to be one of the oldest in the world, was located. In this swirl of humanity, one such face miraculously materialized: it was dark from the sun but European in shape, and its eyes were amazingly blue. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he seemed to beckon for me to follow him. Not a word was exchanged. I followed him for a few busy blocks, all of them lined with brown clay buildings.
Then Blue Eyes stopped, turned to me and asked, in Russian, whether I was searching for the synagogue. “You are Jewish, aren’t you?” he asked.
I was absolutely stunned by his question. “Yes,” I replied, “I would like to visit the synagogue.”
“It’s right here,” he smiled, pointing to a nondescript one-story building consisting of three rooms around an open courtyard. “I knew this was where you wanted to go.” Blue Eyes’s eyes twinkled with special delight. He led me inside. Carved into the courtyard wall was a large Star of David. On both sides of the star was Hebrew script. I also saw three pages, apparently ripped from a prayer book, nailed to another wall.
“You see,” explained Blue Eyes, “we have only three prayer books in the whole community, and only very old people come here to pray.”
“What about younger people?”
“They rarely attend services, and we have no real rabbi, only an old man who has memorized all the prayers. He worries that soon there will be no Jews in Bukhara.”
He told me that there were two groups of Jews in Bukhara, one group that came here centuries ago and another that came in the early 1940s to escape the Nazi onslaught. They would all like to leave the Soviet Union, he said. “They are very, very unhappy.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Would you want to leave?”
“Oh, yes” he replied, “I would love to go to Israel, and now it’s possible.” His blue eyes teared up. “Maybe one day, maybe one day.”
Later, after dinner, I walked from the hotel to the park near the city center. What I saw blew my mind. Everywhere people were drunk, and hooliganism was widespread and unchecked. Gangs were fighting against other gangs, blood was being shed, but militiamen, observing the brawls, did nothing to stop the fighting, maybe because they were afraid to intervene. Drunks were staggering down Lenin Street, punching bystanders and fondling women. Everyone was singing and cursing. I wanted to watch this incredible scene like something out of Dante’s Inferno, but not get into any trouble myself. I sat down on a park bench. Nearby, on another park bench, a man was making love to a woman. A Russian sitting near me, possibly offended by the sight, tapped the man on his back. “There is a foreigner here watching you. Have you no shame?” he asked. “So what?” was the man’s response. “I’m a foreigner here, too.” He continued his lovemaking, and no one passing by seemed to pay any attention to it. It seemed as if everyone was letting off steam, and no one, most especially the militiamen, cared one bit.
By reading, rumor, and through the stories of other travelers, I had heard a lot about the Bukhara bazaar, an unusual marketplace about twenty minutes from the city center, and I wanted to visit it. Maybe I could see the city’s famed rug weavers there. I didn’t have much time. Later that morning I was scheduled to fly westward to Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, and then on to Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, by train; but because nothing in the Soviet Union ever went directly from one place to another, I would first have to fly eastward, back to Tashkent, before being allowed to fly westward to Baku. It was Intourist’s maddening way of distracting passengers from sensible pursuits and earning more money. The director of the hotel, who had unhappily learned of my discovery of the Bukhara synagogue the previous day, wanted to make sure that I would not wander off by myself once again. He assigned an official Intourist guide to be with me at all times and to make sure that I got to the airport in plenty of time for my Tashkent-bound flight. The director’s aim was to get me out of town as quickly and uneventfully as possible. It did not work out quite that way.
Instead of walking to the bazaar, we took a bus. The bazaar, with many broken-down stalls of fruits and vegetables, was open to the blazing sun. I asked the first tradesman I met if he could direct me to the rug weavers. His first instinct was to help, but the minute he saw my official guide he decided to say nothing. He just frowned and moved on. I turned to my guide. “Can you please help me? You know I don’t have much time.” Clearly under orders to be helpful, if necessary, he nodded and went looking for directions. While waiting, I pulled my camera out of my traveling bag and started taking pictures of the peasants selling watermelons and grapes. Almost immediately, as if waiting for a pretext, a militiaman approached and asked for my identification. I had no official document with me, because my passport was still back at the hotel. I told him that I was an American tourist. I told him he could check with my guide, who would be back in a moment. I continued taking pictures. The militiaman put his hand in front of the lens and then, rather abruptly, held my arm and “suggested” I go with him to police headquarters. Instinctively I pulled loose of his grip and informed him that I was about to leave soon for the airport. I did not have time to go with him. But suddenly I found myself surrounded by a dozen other militiamen, who must have been waiting nearby.