The day had finally come. Thirty-four years a member of the congregation, ten of those years in apprenticeship, and tomorrow — tomorrow! — I would finally become the shamash of the synagogue. The title was very old, and sounded grand, but it meant only “building manager”.
It was the rabbi’s task to guide and care for the people, the members here; it would be mine to care for the building. Like shamashim all over the world, I would be responsible for maintaining the security of the synagogue, supervising the cleaning crews and ordering and paying for maintenance and repairs. I would also be leading tours and giving lectures to tourists and visiting historians on the history and architecture of this ancient synagogue, tasks that were uncommon for a shamash. But being the shamash of the famous Altneuschule of Prague was different.
I parked my car in the space reserved for me and was amused to see old Mordecai’s aging Skoda in the space next to it. Mordecai was my mentor and predecessor, the old shamash who was retiring. He had asked me to come to the shul at sunset. I had assumed it was to help him pack the rest of his things in his car, but I saw that the back seat was already filled with boxes.
I locked my own car and gazed at the building in the fading light. The Altneuschule, with its high, steep, saddleback roof and plain, unadorned walls, looked like a thing from another time — which, of course, it was. My synagogue had been built circa 1270, one of the first Gothic buildings in Europe. It was still standing, intact and...
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