Old Devotions
Sarah was a better Jew than her, Agatha knew. She knew the prayers by heart. She knew the days of devotion, the holidays. She knew when to fast and when to break the fast– only when three stars in the sky shone bright. Agatha was never observant. She knew some things just because they were part of her daily life at the White House, but these practices were never intuitive to her. She was keenly aware that she was only half Jewish.
Sarah, in contrast, had a Jewish mother and a Jewish father. Agatha often thought that was where her observance came from—it was in her genes. Agatha envied that. It seem to give her a strength that Agatha could never find.
“My rabbit,” sighed Sarah, when she found Agatha asleep on the floor again. Sarah gently tapped Agatha with her toe. “Get up my rabbit,” she said gently, grabbing Agatha by the arm. “Tonight, you will come with me to services at Neue Synagoge.” Agatha tried to protest, but Sarah’s grip on her arm was firm.
It was a twenty-five-minute walk to the Neue Synagoge. The whole time Sarah’s held Agatha’s arm tight. Sarah talked endlessly about her classes, Hans, the Bratwurst, Mutti and Herr Finkham, and her excitement for the end of the war. Agatha was mute.
At shul, Sarah guided her to the proper place to sit, gave her a siddur, and then let her be. Agatha realized that Sarah must spend time here. Everyone greeted her. She looked at home.
When the service started, Agatha looked to Sarah. When Sarah prayed, she moved her lips. When Sarah stood, she did too. When Sarah sat, Agatha returned to her seat. The services seem to give Sarah so much comfort. Afterwards Agatha shyly asked, “Sarah, why are these words so moving to you?”
“For five thousand years, people have said these prayers, Agatha. And, Jews still walk the Earth. Imagine the wars they faced in those five thousand years. The blockades. The hunger. We are the daughters of Sarah. L’dor vador. From generation to generation. We survive.”