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September 3, 2010
Travel through prayer, memory
Visiting an abandoned synagogue rekindles the author’s recollection of her community.
JENNY WRIGHT
As children, the walk from our home to the synagogue on Ryhope Road every Saturday, always seemed eternally long. We would dilly dally past the homes of friends and relatives, occasionally picking up our cousin, Ruth, on Queen Alexander Road. Sometimes we would peer through the glass into local sweet shops, wishing we had some pennies to spend, but on the Sabbath we were not permitted to touch or spend money.
Then, we would shortcut our way through beautiful Backhouse Park to the synagogue. The park was notorious for attracting some rather strange people, so we always had to be accompanied by a friend or cousin.
Recently, some 45 years later, I retrace my footsteps. I begin at the top of my street and head for Queen Alexander Road – unaccompanied.
There is no inkling that a Jewish community existed here. Unlike so many years ago, there are no mezuzot on the doors to give them away. Perhaps only a handful of Jews remain today in the town of Sunderland, England. As I walk along, I am unable to make out precisely which are the homes of my friends and family that I played in so many times as a child.
The only indication that a thriving Jewish community once existed in Sunderland is visible at the Bishopwearmouth Cemetery. The northeast corner is the Jewish section and there are roughly 950 tombstones. My grandmother, father and countless relatives and friends are buried there.
While walking along the road, I notice a mezuzah on a door whose owner happens to be heading to his car. He looks at me curiously, wondering why his house is attracting my attention. When I tell him, he explains that the home used to belong to Sophie Cohen. He had not felt a need to remove the decorative wooden mezuzah, which had been designed by a local artist.
It was comforting to find a small trace from the past. Sophie had been a friend of my mother’s and a well-known member of the community.
I walk through Backhouse Park between the trees, catching the first glimpse of the red brick arches of the Ryhope Road Synagogue. Underneath the roof is an arch with the Hebrew words “Ma tovu ohelechah Ya’acov, mishkenotechah Yisrael” (“How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel”). These words are considered to be a welcoming prayer, expressing appreciation upon gathering. It’s also one of the first Jewish prayers I was taught at the Hebrew school adjacent to the Ryhope Road Synagogue.
Excitedly, I reach for my mobile and call my sister and we say a prayer together.
The large iron gates at the front are locked but there is a sign of life around back where some gardeners are clearing brush and planting flowers. I peep through the gate and am filled with memories that I didn’t know even existed. The back garden reminds me of carefree days, childhood and of the B’nai Akivah youth movement. I recall sitting in a circle, singing and playing games with our madrich (counselor). Next door was the cheder building, the Hebrew school, which played a large role in my Jewish education.
The gardeners allow me to take a photograph but I am not permitted on the property. I return to the front gates of the now-dilapidated building and push my camera through the gates for better shots.
Over the years, I have visited several times, but have not stepped inside since I was a teen. Many of us watched the gradual decline of the synagogue and the dwindling membership, with waning interest. This time, however, it strikes a chord. Perhaps because I’ve reached the age that my parents were when they were active congregation members? Or, maybe, it’s because my religion and beliefs have become more meaningful.
Recently, I had a vivid dream that I returned to the synagogue to visit. The community was flourishing and my family and I were watching a celebration take place. This, too, must have motivated my longing to return.
Sunderland is a four-hour journey from London. My sister and I have come here to be together and to visit our father’s grave, but now I have this great desire to go inside the building. A man walks by and begins talking to me. I tell him that I only have a few hours left in town and wish so desperately that I could go inside. His name is Michael. He is friendly and helpful. Michael informs me that he just so happens to be the uncle of the young gardener and that he is acquainted with the synagogue’s new owner, a fairly affluent man named George. He goes on to say that George purchased the property “for a song,” and that perhaps he can reach him by phone. “If you sweet talk him and listen to him, perhaps he will let you inside the building,” he says.
Michael’s nephew contacts the owner and within 30 minutes a somewhat short, middle-aged man arrives. Northeast English people are nicknamed “Mackems.” They tend to be warm and hospitable and George is all of these things. With a deep Mackem dialect, he begins talking about his most recent acquisition. In some odd way, he reminds me of my late uncle, Leon – a wonderful man with a loud bark and no bite.
Michael and I listen quietly as George tells us the appalling stories of what has taken place since he purchased the synagogue. His intent was to create a recreation centre for a group of children with disabilities. However, the damage to the building was so extreme, George is doubtful if he will ever be able to accomplish his goal. The adjacent cheder had mysteriously burnt down and was being converted to flats that would assist with future building repairs.
Troublemakers had continuously vandalized the synagogue and stolen any remaining artifacts. Drug addicts were regularly squatting inside and George showed us numerous boxes of used needles. Pieces of stained glass were broken and valuable iron had been removed from the interior.
Police were called out regularly but little was done, so George took matters into his own hands. He installed security lights and alarms and hired someone to live in the small flat adjacent to the synagogue. It seemed to me preposterous that the local authorities could turn their backs on a magnificent heritage building
I ask if we can go inside and George forewarns us that it is somewhat hazardous. Michael and I gently cajole, assuring George that we will be cautious and hasty and, finally, he is persuaded. I sense that he is glad to be sharing his struggle with us and might actually welcome our support.
We first enter the synagogue community hall downstairs – or should I say what is left of it. It is beyond recognition and looks to be more of a construction site than a hall.
This little Sunderland hall had once hosted several famous television personalities. A flashback came to me of shaking hands with singer Helen Shapiro, a favorite teen idol. I even remember asking her if she bit her nails like I did and if she had a boyfriend. The stage where my friends and I used to perform stands empty and damaged. It was here, at age 10, that I sang my first solo. And that was only because Mrs. Bindman, the theatre director at the time, did not find me suitable for the alley cat dance.
Then there were the regular grand afternoon teas that my mother and other synagogue members prepared for the seniors from the Jewish aged home. I would come straight from school and assist with serving tea and playing bingo with the seniors. George then points out the steps to the woman’s mikvah (ritual bath). It is still in place but the walls, ceiling and floor are ruined.
When we finally enter the sanctuary, I am stunned. What was once a holy space is now destroyed. Addicts sabotaged the walls, floors and windows. The bimah still stands and George informs me that the Torah scrolls have been safely donated to another community. The women’s section upstairs is still in view and I recall how many childhood Sabbaths were spent there alongside my mother and sister. I can still visualize the competitive display of fashionable hats worn by my mother and her friends.
Seeing the black swastikas on the walls is alarming, particularly a large one that was painted close to the bimah. Antisemitism appears to be alive and well in this northeast corner of Britain.
As I wipe away tears, George picks up a prayer book, hands it to me and says, “Here is a souvenir for you.”
I knew then that he was a kind person and that the synagogue had fallen into the right hands. I also knew that George needed help and support. I resolve to try and help by telling the story and raising people’s awareness of the synagogue’s plight.
Some of the men’s benches still remain and I recognize many names on the plaques. As I stand in the entrance, I think of all the leaders and prominent members of this once-important community. The synagogue had played host to births, memorials, bar mitzvahs and a multitude of celebrations.
It is an important fragment of history that has given many of us our present-day identity. The Sunderland community may be gone but the beautiful brick architecture with the welcoming “Ma Tovu” façade will remain a permanent fixture for future visitors. A reminder perhaps, that this tent will provide comfort and protection for many more years.
Jenny Wright is a singer, music therapist and freelance writer.
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