The synagogue hunt

One throwaway line in my Turkey guidebook about the "Jewish heritage" of Izmir sparked my quest to track down the city's ancient synagogues. According to that one tantalizing sentence, a number of old, old synagogues still existed somewhere in the city – just where was not clear – and I was determined to find them. I don't know whether my ancestors prayed at those particular temples. But even if not, they prayed somewhere similar, and nearby. Those rumored synagogues felt like a link to my past and I wanted to see just one. 

The guidebook suggested the name of the neighborhood to start the hunt – Kemeraltı. So I did the only smart thing: I misread the name and spent an entire day wandering in the wrong area. I saw a sign for "Kadifekale" – hey, it starts with K, so it must be the same! – and I followed it. I followed it up, and up, and up, and up. And up and up. I climbed for hours and hours. I silently cursed my ancestors for building their temples in such a shitty, inaccessible place. It would have been so hard to have a temple a little closer to the beach, for God's sake? 

But Kadifekale turns out to be the name of an ancient fortress, built by Alexander the Great at the very top of the tallest hill in the city. When the phantom temples turned out to be this giant fortress, and I stood there in the late afternoon, covered in sweat, fuming at my own stupidity, looking again at the guidebook and realizing that my people did, in fact, build their temples near the water – well, I yelled out some words that do not bear repeating. Let's just say that some wild cats nearby seemed startled and ran away. 

Truth be told – that's a bit of an exaggeration. I was plenty pissed off, but it was very short-lived, because the neighborhoods I climbed through were beautiful and fascinating. Those were most of the pictures I posted yesterday, and the photos don't do justice to the style of that area. I'm not sure I would have had the heart to do all that vertical exploration without the phantom temples motivating me. 

So, early the next morning, I plunged into the real Kemeraltı. This is the oldest part of Izmir, and just like in Paris (and New York), the oldest neighborhoods are the most labyrinthine. Tiny streets interconnected at every strange angle, built hundreds of years before Toyota Land Cruisers and other whale-sized vehicles were first dreamed of. 

Now those mazed streets are the perfect hosts for Izmir's central bazaar. Again I wandered around and around. I asked countless strangers about the synagogues and received countless blank stares. At one point I bought some lemonade from a guy, but it turned out to be pickle juice and I came this close to spitting it out explosively right in front of him. I choked it down and nearly cried, it was so nasty. Then I plunged on. 

And right around the corner, there it was, Bet Ilel synagogue. I was elated – for three seconds. Then I looked closer –  

It was a long-abandoned ruin piled high inside with every kind of garbage imaginable. But now I knew I was on the right track. And I knew the word for synagogue in Turkish, which sped up the search process considerably. 

I found three more synagogues in quick succession. I had finally located Havra Street, the street of the ancient temples, buried deep inside the bazaar. All three synagogues… 

  

…were closed. The Shalom synagogue was tucked in next to a shoe shop. My hopes shot up when the shoe man unlocked the door and scurried inside, but he blocked me when I tried to follow. The courtyard of the temple was filled with shoes.  

I reluctantly left Kemeraltı. I had a lead on one more place – the Beth Israel temple on Mithatpaşa boulevard, in Karataş. I was less enthused about this place, because it is a 20th century temple, brand-new just when my great-grandparents were leaving the country. Again I wandered off in the wrong direction, and again I uselessly walked uphill for hours. And again, I walked through beautiful neighborhoods and saw many interesting things, and again, my stupidity proved worthwhile. 

I saw a giant elevator that they built back in 1907, when elevators were new and cool. 

I rode it up and had a beer at the top. The view was lovely – that's Mithatpaşa boulevard down below. 

And voila, there's the temple, right at the foot of the elevator. They probably built it so the Jews who lived at the top of the cliffs had no excuse to miss shul down below. I zipped back down and found the temple in short order.

 

This one was bigger, more beautiful, and even more spectacularly locked and barricaded away.

I asked to come in, and the guard literally slammed the door in my face. The day was sliding away from me, my last day in Izmir. The quest to see the inside of an ancient synagogue verged on failure. In desperation, I headed back to Kemeraltı for one last try. (This time, I took a cab). 

And wouldn't you know it – the door of the Sinyora stood open.

I entered the courtyard. It was breathtakingly beautiful in the late afternoon light.