The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon on Yom Kippur Eve. As we finish our dinner at an outdoor cafe in Verona’s Piazza Erbe, a heavyset gentleman with thinning brown hair that curls just below his ears walks through the tables and approaches one of the waitstaff.
“Maestro!”, exclaims the waiter with a flourish, bowing low before greeting him warmly and guiding him to a nearby table. He sips a beer while eating, and we notice a small velvet bag on the table. The Teenager wonders out loud whether he might be Jewish and on his way to the synagogue, and we muse over whether this is his final meal before the fast.
He’s still sitting there when we get up to leave, and we wander slowly in the general direction of the synagogue, hoping to watch the Jewish community come together and catch a glimpse of the building from the inside.
And when we arrive and slip past the armed Italian soldiers guarding both entrances to this tiny street in the middle of the old city, the gentleman from the restaurant is there. He hears us speaking in Hebrew and asks if we are from Israel. In halting English, he tells us that this is the only synagogue in Verona, and that it is Orthodox.
The affable young rabbi is from Milan, and in fluent Hebrew, he invites us in when we ask if we can look around.
“Of course,” he says with a gentle smile. “You are Jews, and this is your home too.”
He tells us about the local Jewish community as well as the one in Milan. We admire the intricately beautiful artwork that covers the walls and the ceiling, and read about Jewish history in Verona.
It is comforting to be taken in for a few moments by the local Jewish community in a place that feels vaguely familiar, even though we’ve never visited before. Fellow Jews wish us Shana Tova and Gmar Hatima Tova in Italian-accented Hebrew, and as we reluctantly step out of this home and into the night, I am overjoyed by the notion that simply by virtue of our identity as Jews, we are connected and welcomed like family.
This is my Judaism…
