It is always deeply disturbing and heartbreaking to find remnants of the holocaust across Europe, especially in places of great beauty where the Jewish people once lived freely and prosperously for generations. Some stories never leave you, like little Anne Frank’s. Her bedroom is the saddest little room I’ve ever seen, here is where all her dreams died. Pages of her diary on display are so poignant and heartbreaking. You can read about my visit to her home

I haven’t been to Auschwitz yet, but I doubt I have the courage to go there and feel what happened. They say the energies are sad and filled with everything inhuman, yet there are tiny fireflies of human courage and hope. Dare I explore my strange affinity to holocaust horror?

I was in Budapest for a very brief blip in time in May, 2022. My city bus tour passed the Synagogue, the largest in Europe so I hopped off to explore the beautiful old building, the Dohany Square Synagogue.

Gazing at it from across the street, and imagining it in its heyday does little to soften the blow that the synagogue, once a thriving centre and filled to capacity with a gentile community, lived in peace with their fellow citizens for generations. They were the most prosperous and educated population in Middle Europe, there were no ghettoes back then.

At the synagogue, security itself is tough to get past, with strict procedures and metal detectors. They even ask me why I want to visit. To live in such fear, even today, tears at my heart.

The stonework is moorish and ornate, they could not agree on one single influence for the architecture. Polished wooden pews, frieze work metal and glass lamps, terrazzo floors are mute spectators of a bloody history where the entire Jewish population of Budapest was sent to concentration camps, reducing the synagogue to a mausoleum for the dead. Today it is alive once more, a place of resilience, hope and strength.

The main synagogue itself is an old town house that was made a synagogue. The hall vibrates with the spirit of its fallen people and stories echo in the silence. The hand-carved woodwork and  interiors are absolutely beautiful, ornate and colourful. This is my first Synagogue, other than a brief glimpse of the Ohiel David Synagogue in my hometown. I am spellbound.

As you walk deeper into the courtyard, a beautiful post modern stained glass mural of colourful, bright flames consuming a dark serpent stands tall opposite a tree made of silver, in the quiet sunlight. The tree is short, thick, a weeping willow. The silver sculpture bears numerous delicate fronds, each silver leaf bearing the name of a victim from the community. A slight breeze flutters and the leaves gently rustle in the afternoon sun, gleaming gold. I am ready to weep. Nearby is the cordoned off garden, a mass grave, yet another poignant reminder of the City’s bloody past.

Photo Credit: Marc Dufresne

In front of Budapest’s famous parliamentry palace is the most heartbreaking memorial of all: sculpted iron shoes facing the river. The Nazis lined up the Jews and shot them from behind, and the Jews fell into the river, dead, leaving their shoes behind in disarray.

Strangely, Austria-Hungary was not anti-Semitic until Herr Hitler came along and wrecked havoc, no, genocide, for six million people across Europe. There are stories of a thriving, highly educated community of businessmen, bankers and doctors whose forced absence affected the population badly during the war.

I chatted with the young gentleman in his kippeh, a volunteer, who showed us around the stone cellars and told us tales of his people. In the little cellar museum there is an photo exhibit of the history of the Synagogue and the Jews of Budapest. I wonder if my apology for his people’s suffering will make a difference, I have such a strong urger to hold his hand and say how sorry I am, how sorry humanity should be, how ashamed. But I just stand silently, my hand on my hurting heart. I wonder why I am so affected by what happened in another time and place, far removed from my birth and reality.

I buy handmade fridge magnets from the little shop, a young girl tells me they are made at home. I pray for lost souls I never knew in the beautiful old knave. I wonder what it was like at the height of its glory, all the pews filled and try to recreate the scene from my favourite Mrs. Maisel serial.

Dohany square still stands regal and proud, despite the decades that marched past, taking its toll on the entire country.

It is possible to revisit history and feel people’s pain and loss.

I prayed for a lost generation who were cruelly wiped out like they were of no consequence. And I look around me, the whole world is fighting similar fires.