Jewish Culture and its Heritage in Slovakia after 1989: Urban sites of remembrance in Košice and their meanings

Among the residents of Košice there is a distinct interest in the history and culture of Judaism in their city. One proof of this is the popularity of the guided tour “Jewish Košice” operated since 2005 by the Košice City Information Center. These tours are conducted twice a year and, according to a city guide I interviewed, they are more popular than any other tour offered by the Center because they give a unique opportunity to see the interior of the buildings belonging to the Jewish community. Notably, some of these buildings were inaccessible to the public in the past. When the tours take place the other Orthodox synagogue on Pushkin Street becomes a site where the strange encounters the familiar: visitors learn about Jewish history and culture and approach this authentic place as if it were some exotic curiosity.

During my field work, I interviewed some inhabitants of Košice and found that the majority hardly knew anything about the synagogues in the city center. Neither were my interviewees aware of the Jewish community or its cultural activities. Yet, even if it remains outside the orbit of everyday life of the non-Jews in the city, it can be assumed that they possess at least some knowledge about the community thanks to the publications in the local media.

My research in the archives of local newspapers revealed that they did not only regularly cover the history of the Jewish community, but also informed readers about the situation with the synagogues as regards problems with their restitution and renovation. In the early 1990s, when the press began to show interest in the Jewish community, the journalists focused on the Jewish holidays and days of commemoration. In 1994, for example, there was a report on objects of commemoration headlined “The history of Judaism in Košice dates back to the 15th century” (Duchon 1994). Headlines, such as, “The State returns destroyed property” (Hriadelová 2000), or “The Jewish community goes to court over the House of Art” (Hriadelová and Jurkovičová 2001) testify that, in the last few years in particular, the media have been reflecting upon the current conflict of interests over the ownership of buildings with complex history.

I conducted online interviews with the current mayor, who has been in office since late 2010, and with his predecessor. Both said that the Jewish community and its traditions constituted an integral part of the city’s culture, and so people highly value the contribution of the community to city life. The Club of National Minorities and the Commission of Churches, both municipal organizations, represent the interests of the Jewish community vis-à-vis the city council. Besides, the Jewish community is a member of the Ecumenical Church District which also closely cooperates with the city council. The Jewish community is an active participant in an important cultural event—an annual Festival of Sacred Art which brings together people of various creeds. Finally, associations run by members of the Jewish community organize various public cultural events, such as concerts, exhibitions and recitals. Big events are always attended by official representatives of the city administration. On closer inspection, I noticed that these events were frequented by the same group of people. Later, the organizers confirmed my observation.

There is ample evidence that the media and the city are interested in the Jewish cultural heritage. As the sociologist Maurice Halbwachs states, no memory is possible outside a shared social framework (Halbwachs 1967, 2). The social framework embedding the past and present of the Jewish community can be traced in Košice. However, it is maintained by a relatively small group of citizens and some sections of the media. It seems that the Jewish Community fails to reach the wider public. On the one hand, it does not advertise the events it organizes frequently enough, and the scope of publicity remains limited. On the other hand, not all inhabitants of the city are capable of accessing the social and cultural memory of the city. In sum, as results of my field work demonstrate, the Jewish cultural heritage remains in some people’s functional or “canon” of memory: the type of memory characterized by its relatedness to, and its presence in everyday life. Yet, for the majority, things are different: the Jewish cultural heritage is located in their “memory-archive”, which is latent and constitutes an unconscious, hardly accessible archive of recollections (cf, Assmann 2006, 56; and 2010, 37).

I am now moving away from the discursive frames of memory and will take a close look at the synagogues and their current role in the life of Košice. My aim is to allow the spaces of remembrance to “speak”.

“Restoring the past by connecting it to the present”

But synagogue restoration in Eastern Europe is not truly about plaster and drywall. It is about restoring the past by connecting it to the present. Such continuity, such processes of transition, however, cannot be undertaken effectively. The historical disjuncture is too great. It is, nonetheless, precisely this historical disjuncture that can be sutured and repaired, if not restored (Bohlman 2000, 68-69).

In the case of the synagogue on Pushkin Street, it has proven difficult to connect the past to the present and ensure that the marks of history remain visible in the restored appearance of the building. This synagogue, the newest one in town, is one of the few buildings that remained in the hands of the Jewish community in the socialist era. Its members have used it continuously for religious purposes. One of my interviewees, an expert employed at the Office for the Protection of Historical Monuments, remarked that everything in this synagogue had been “liquidated”, including “the ornate windows and stained glass”. It was reopened in September 2009 after a laborious process of renovation that took six years.

Designed for 800 people, the synagogue on Pushkin Street is an impressive edifice which stands out against the adjacent old buildings, most of which need restoration. The wall next to the entrance carries a memorial plaque dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust. The interior decoration of the building absorbs visitors, whose eyes are immediately captured by a well-chosen combination of wood, metal, textile, and stone. The clear-cut structure, soft light and a balanced color range contribute to the atmosphere of opulence. However, a closer look reveals that here and there the newly renovated brickwork is blemished. In the left- and right-hand corners of the building, next to the Torah shrine, one can easily notice large stains on the light painted wall. The stains look as if they could be caused by leaking water and, according to the representative of the Office for the Protection of Historical Monuments, drainage pipes behind the walls should have been inspected and replaced but were not, which might cause further damage. Both members of the Jewish community and employees of the Office for the Protection of Historical Monuments say that they did not always find it easy to communicate and cooperate with each other. The Jewish community has to carry out all the renovation and restoration work needed, and this work has to conform to the guidelines of the Office for the Protection of Historical Monuments. But it is the community that is solely responsible for funding the project. Since the money allocated by the Ministry of Culture for restoration of old buildings is insufficient to finance all the renovation projects, the Jewish Community failed to get significant support. Even though the restoration processes were partly funded by Košice City Council and a number of foreign foundations, the Jewish community was forced to sell the ‘Kasino’ and the Talmud and Torah school in order to rescue both Orthodox synagogues. The struggle for saving the buildings is accompanied by disputes and conflicts of interests between the client and contractors. One example is emergence of marks on the brickwork which prove that restoration work was done inadequately, threatening the future of the buildings.

On the wall with the water stains in the synagogue on Pushkin Street, there are signs of the Holocaust. These are four messages written in pencil by Jews who were held in the synagogue shortly before their deportation in April 1944. Two of the messages are identical. They read: “I am here, I don’t know where they will take me. 21.IV.1944. Lily”. One of the messages was signed by Lily’s small son. For her elder son, a survivor, these messages are the only visible memory of his family from the period. The inscriptions were discovered during the restoration of the building and were sealed and protected with the help of a special technique. Hidden behind the back of long benches placed in front of the wall, the inscriptions become visible only when small doors in the wooden benches are open. Otherwise, the benches completely cover up the messages.

According to Aleida Assmann, such “traumatic places” are “multi-faceted, ambiguous, and associated with different memories and interpretations” (Assmann 2006, 221). Besides obvious signs of the past, visitors discover many others that are mere hints and are hardly visible. Whenever the rabbi explains what is special about the synagogue on Pushkin Street to the ever-expanding groups of people visiting it during the guided tours of “Jewish Košice”, he shows them the messages on the wall. At this point, at latest, he will start talking about the synagogue as a witness to crimes against humanity during the Holocaust. According to Wolfgang Benz, there is no place where remembrance crystallizes “in a more terrifying and imposing way than at the historical site, at the places where things shaping memories and determining commemoration happened” (Benz 2005, 197).

Following Aleida Assmann, the synagogue should be seen as a palimpsest or as a traumatic place containing palimpsests. “Despite the fact that in this place, a certain history has culminated and found its catastrophic conclusion, history is continuing even here and presents itself in the form of a “stratified’ space” (Assmann 2006, 225).⁶ In the synagogue, history has not stopped: the signs of history and trauma have been preserved and are passed on to younger generations. Moreover, new signs have been created that threaten to destroy old ones, as exemplified by restoration work breaching the guidelines. But how is the Jewish community using this space?

Religion and Tradition: The synagogue as a space for collective and individual negotiations over history and identity

The synagogue is an ethnographic site, not just a place to experience community but a liminal b o r d e r space where one crosses into the sacred spaces of the past. The synagogue is also a narrative space, where the texts that narrate ritual and ritualize history concentrate time and the experiences of being Jewish (Bohlman 2000, 46).

In the course of my fieldwork I spent some of the Jewish holidays with a Jewish family, my interviewee Lea and her mother. During Rosh ha Shana, the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, I observed the ceremonies in the synagogue, afterwards recording the account of events and my impressions in my ethnographic diary.

While we are sitting down on the benches reserved for women, Lea’s mother takes out her lace shawl and covers her head. This indicates that she is married, and some other women in the synagogue also wear lace shawls. Around us, prayers are underway. The cantor is singing, and the rabbi standing in the center of the synagogue is calling up a number of men, one after another. All of them wear kippot (skull caps), tefilin (phylacteries), and prayer shawls. One by one they walk up to the shrine, read out passages from the Torah, touch the dark red velvet curtain in front of the shrine and return to their seats. I am captivated by the liveliness of the ceremony, the singing of the young cantor flown in from Israel for the occasion, and the devout atmosphere around me. Apart from Lea and me, there are only three young women present. Only a few of the older women pray in Hebrew. Lea’s mother has brought a prayer book. She tells me that it belonged to her late mother, but she is unable to read it. Her mother died recently, and as they had been very close to each other the daughter adopted some of the Jewish traditions observed in her home: she lights a candle on Shabbat, fasts on Yom Kippur and prepares traditional dishes for each of the holidays.

The synagogue evokes memories of the past in the people who visit it. This is also evident in a statement by one of my interviewees. During a concert in the synagogue, this man is showing me a chair in one of the rows in front of the Bimah (a pulpit located in the center of an (Orthodox) synagogue). This is where his father used to sit. At this point, the individual and family memories activated in this space become connected to the ritual practices of the Jewish community. In turn, this connection contributes to the development of identities of the actors involved (cf, Assmann 2006, 208 ff.).

At first sight, it is hardly noticeable that only a few of the people present are able to join in the prayers. Most others appear to be listening, with the exception of Lea and her mother who are having a lively conversation. I keep on watching the people around me and notice that many are not praying but talking to each other in whispers. In fact, only a small group is actively participating in the service. When asked afterwards, many of my interviewees confirmed this observation. They go to the synagogue in order to commemorate deceased family members, revive the family tradition or just to meet their friends and acquaintances.

The synagogues may symbolize Jewish religious life to outsiders but, in actual fact, very few people observe the Jewish religious tradition. Due to the Holocaust, there was a rupture in the Jewish religious life in Slovakia. So far, it has not been possible to revive it, partly due to the ban on religion in the socialist era, which created a gap of knowledge and a gap between generations. At present, there are no young Jews left in Košice Jews to keep up the religious traditions. This is both a product of a lack of interest and of labor emigration to the West after 1989. Hardly any of my interviewees, members of the Jewish community, are religious. People are motivated to observe the tradition and go to the synagogue because they want to commemorate and pay respect to their Jewish roots and ancestors. One example is the decision of Lea’s mother to wear a lace scarf in the synagogue and to fast on Yom Kippur. The rabbi confirmed my observations: “My attempt to guide these people to religion is like a single drop in the ocean”.

Conflicting palimpsests

Spaces of remembrance and memory, relics and marks of the recent and the long-gone past are located close to one another in urban space, and they are closely interwoven. Cityscapes are like palimpsests on whose surface signs overlap, intersect and communicate with one another (Binder 2009, 15).

Beate Binder suggests that we should “read” cities. I have tried to decipher the content of the narratives connected to some places and spaces of the Jewish community in Košice, as well as their partly overlapping, partly conflicting, meanings. My impression is that after the repressive regimes of the past, the citizens of Košice and the Jewish community are only step by step learning how to handle the Jewish cultural heritage of their city. First and foremost, this is reflected in the existence of “conflicting palimpsests” in which different layers of the city’s history interact and interplay. Sometimes this leads to conflicting interpretations as manifested by the “inheritance dispute” between the city council and the Jewish community, and by talk about the problems caused by restoration work at the synagogues. These current discourses merge with the diverging, partly traumatic, memories of the actors, members of the Jewish community who are in the process of negotiating their strategies of handling tradition and, thus both individuals’ and group identity of the Jewish community of Košice.

Wherever past and present meet, there emerge almost irreparable ruptures in the brickwork of memory archives and of (hi)stories inscribed in them:

A place is everything one seeks in it, everything one knows about it, everything one associates with it. As much as it is concrete and physical, it appears multi-faceted if looked at from all the different perspectives (Assmann 2006, 225).

Translated from the German by Alexander Gallas