* * *

Our synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not changed either, not by so
much as a hair. Not a single detail was different. Only the walls had
become a little blacker; the reader's desk was older; the curtain before
the Holy Ark had drooped lower; and the Holy Ark itself had lost its
polish, its newness.

Once on a time, our synagogue had appeared in my eyes like a small copy
of King Solomon's Temple. Now the small temple was leaning slightly to
one side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, and the holy splendour
of our little old synagogue? Where now are the angels which used to
flutter about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark on Friday
evenings, when we were reciting the prayers in welcome of the Sabbath,
and on Festival evenings when we were reciting the beautiful Festival
prayers?

And the members of the congregation were also very little changed. They
were only grown a little older. Black beards were now grey. Straight
shoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday coats that I knew so
well were more threadbare, shabbier. White threads were to be seen in
them and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as beautifully as in the
olden times, years ago. Only today his voice is a little husky, and a
new tone is to be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He weeps
rather than sings the words. He mourns rather than prays. And our rabbi?
The old rabbi? He has not changed at all. He was like the fallen snow
when I saw him last, and today is like the fallen snow. He is different
only in one trifling respect. His hands are trembling. And the rest of
his body is also trembling, from old age, I should imagine. Asreal the
Beadle--a Jew who had never had the least sign of a beard--would have
been exactly the same man as once on a time, years before, if it were
not for his teeth. He has lost every single tooth he possessed; and with
his fallen-in cheeks, he now looks much more like a woman than a man.
But for all that, he can still bang on the desk with his open hand.
True, it is not the same bang as once on a time. Years ago, one was
almost deafened by the noise of Asreal's hand coming down on the desk.
Today, it is not like that at all. It seems that he has not any longer
the strength he used to have. He was once a giant of a man.

Once on a time, years ago, I was happy in the little old synagogue; I
remember that I felt happy without an end--without a limit! Here, in the
little synagogue, years ago,