I look at the shimmering blue Danube and all I can see is blood. In my head, faraway screams, whimpering children, takkatakkatakkatakka — gunshots, and blood
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I f there’s one thing that strikes me about Budapest it’s the silence. It rings.
Oh it’s busy full of tourists and beggars and honking cars. But still it’s silent.
Friday night in Budapest; something sad and beautiful and bittersweet riffles through the dry August air. We walk as the sky turns lilac then purple and people rush about oblivious to the soft whispers of an arriving queen. In shul we stand in the gallery and watch the varied group of men swaying and singing together a thin flute of voices echoing in a cavernous hall.
I start Lecha Dodi. It is Shabbos but still it’s hard not to cry. It’s so big in here high ceilings and large rooms and the women’s galleries two of them. Around me is a large gallery now filled with my friends usually silent. I look up and there’s another identical gallery… circling the entire shul cavernous and empty.
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