The car raced at high speed through familiar countries, passed more than once, taking me to France, to a large city in Alsace, to Strasbourg.
Not that there were any important things or business meetings waiting for me there. Not. The son of my St. Petersburg friend, after completing his postgraduate studies in St. Petersburg, went to improve his education in Strasbourg. Since he was a smart boy, the French state gave him such a scholarship that he could easily live and study. For some six years, Arthur studied French and English almost perfectly, and began to successfully communicate in German. Arthur was a gifted and diligent boy. It was he who invited me to visit him in his new city for a couple of days. Since there was nothing to do with the general crisis, after long delays, I nevertheless took advantage of his invitation.
Quite quickly, having overcome these 500 kilometers with a small tail, separating his home from mine, I drove into the midnight city filled with lights, to the station square. I don't think the city itself amazed me that much. He was solemn, a little pompous, elegant. Maybe because I had already looked enough of such cities, it seemed to me a little out of place in this embellished stiffness of his. Having dealt with the map and address of my friend, I parked the car with some difficulty and rang his doorbell. Arthur had taste and ambition, he rented his apartment in one of the most expensive areas, in a villa where representatives of embassies and even an English baron lived. Quiet respectable area adjacent to a large park and police station for a calm sense of security. Even if the apartment was in the basement of the mansion, with a tiny kitchenette and a shower stall right in it, with two tiny single beds, but here there was such a necessary isolation and remoteness from all these representatives of the former colonies-"republics" like Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia that Arthur was really happy with this "basement" at the mansion.
We sat at the table and talked excitedly about our life, tried to finish a bottle of red wine that I bought in Luxembourg, and this evening first turned into night, and then into morning. We went to bed at five, and at eight, having already prayed and took a cold shower, I stood and waited for Arthur to wake up. How he felt my arrival and just before my arrival he bought a large pack of green tea. I already brewed and drank a couple of cups, went to wake my friend. After a lean but healthy breakfast, we left the house, passing into the power of this monumental and solid Strasbourg. We walked in the middle of the Victory Alley, it was a mild and a little gray October day, the trams of the future were moving left and right – absolutely futuristic, which the city residents were so proud of.
Before my arrival, Arthur insistently asked me to bring him a kippah, and now he proudly and without hesitation walked in this little black velvet cap, the ritual headdress of the Jewish people. In the very center of the city, as it seemed to the boy, there were no manifestations of anti-Semitism, and Arthur could clearly and with pleasure feel like a Jew.
Due to his lack of life experience and his slight euphoria, he did not notice such subtleties as oblique Moroccan-Algerian views.
In addition to the languages listed above, Arthur also knew the holy language – Hebrew, which he learned voluntarily and with great desire. The level was such that he could freely communicate and write in this language. Arthur's family was completely Russian or Ukrainian, nothing religious was imposed or instilled on him. Only, perhaps, the surname somehow connected this young man with the mysterious people to which Arthur was so eager. Translated into Russian, she sounded like a Camel. One way or another, everyone wants to find their roots and understand themselves and their souls, and I think that Arthur was on the right track and his inner compass did not deceive him.
Arthur, having lived long enough in this city, quickly got enough of the walk. I, having seen many such cities with their abundance of shops and stone idols, also lost interest in fruitless walking. We decided that now we must definitely visit the local synagogue.
In the middle of the old district, surrounded by luxurious mansions, pressed sides to each other, among the brown greenery of late autumn, she stood. Although, if you give free rein to fantasy and present the events allegorically, I would write that this huge building, which served as a cult and cultural institution, did not stand, but squatted down, with its head sucked into its shoulders from uncertainty. On the head rested an old dilapidated kippah, which was a bronze dome of this building, green with time and worries.
There were numerous fences around the synagogue, and by their labyrinth we were led to the central entrance. We were not allowed inside. “For members only” was the short answer in French. I, brought up in the spirit of Soviet Jewry, according to the slogan “the synagogue is the home of every Jew”, kept up with Arthur so that he would continue to translate my questions until some clarity was obtained. Arthur, a shy boy, did not contradict me, and in the end we achieved the fact that in about an hour and a little more we could come to Mincha – the afternoon prayer. We left the synagogue, which was entered and exited by various people and schoolchildren in multi-colored kippah caps. I knew this type of synagogue, which in my eyes was nothing more than a Jewish club, rather than a House of Prayer. From my experience, in such places everyone is more busy with themselves and one cannot count on special warmth and hospitality.
We again wandered towards the center, thinking how to occupy the unoccupied time before the beginning of the prayer. I didn't really want to go back. Is that out of interest and desire for impressions. Having made another flaccid circle in the center, Arthur and I again slowly approached this gnarled stone giant with a green bale. At the last intersection in front of our target, waiting for the green signal of the traffic light,
on the other side of the street, a white-bearded man in a black frock coat was approaching. I asked him in Yiddish:
– Is there another synagogue besides this one?
“Follow me,” this man, who turned out to be a rabbi, dropped in response.
Another synagogue found itself on the same square, almost opposite the central building, standing inconspicuous in a row with its neighbors. Arthur did not know about her. And no matter how I tried to prove to him that there should still be a community, he just shrugged his shoulders.
