Tourism & Tradition
By Haim Shapiro

We had not intended to spend Rosh Hashana in Cochabamba, it just worked out that way.

Generally, I prefer to spend the High Holy days at home. I enjoy the special atmosphere of being with my family. I like the atmosphere of my own synagogue and since home is Jerusalem, I particularly appreciate being in a city where I feel the holiday atmosphere around me.

However, when I do find myself away from home, I like to plan my holiday in advance. I want to know where I will be and to assure myself that there will be a synagogue I can attend. Thus, as soon as I knew that we would be in South America, I began to make my plans accordingly.

Since we were going to be in Bolivia, I found that most Jews there lived in La Paz. I found the name of the rabbi and called him before we left. He sounded delighted that we were coming and assured us a warm welcome.

I even found that there was a restaurant in La Paz owned by an Israeli, who held a special dinner every year on the first night of Rosh Hashana. No doubt, I figured, we would be surrounded by young people half our age, but we would probably enjoy the experience.

All that was before we arrived in Cusco. It was in Cusco, a beautiful city in Peru, over 3,300 meters above seal level, that I collapsed. It was the day after we had returned from Machu Pichu, the hidden Incan city in the Andes. All day long I had felt weak. As I climbed the sites around Cusco, I found I could barely lift my legs. I could hear every breath I took.

By the evening, I could barely move. I could barely croak out to my wife to call a doctor. When he arrived, the doctor listened to my heart and listened to my lungs.

"Amigo, you have a problem," he told me.

The doctor's suspicion of bronchial pneumonia, compounded by altitude sickness, was later confirmed by the X-rays. Meanwhile, in his small clinic-hospital, an oxygen mask and massive doses of antibiotics put me on the road to recovery. Happily, I recovered, and I was even able to spend a week in Cusco enjoying the sights.

However, the doctor warned me very sternly that I must not go any higher. Specifically, La Paz 3,900 meters above sea level, was out of the question. I called the rabbi in La Paz, who told me that there were Jewish congregations in Cochabamba and Santa Cruz and gave me the names and telephone numbers of the heads of both communities.

We knew very little about either town, and I suppose that we chose Cochabamba as much for the resonance of the name as much as anything else. When we arrived, we found a Spanish colonial town in which it appeared as if not much had changed in centuries. Later, as we wandered through the quiet streets, we realized that it was near Cochabamba that Che Guevera, the Argentinian-Cuban revolutionary, whose image has remained an icon for youth all over the world, was captured and killed. Parts of Cochabamba appear to be shrines to his memory.

The morning service, the head of the community told me, would begin at 9:30. We set out early so as to be sure to find the place, but we found the synagogue quite easily. We arrived even before the appointed hour. The only problem was that it was all locked up.

The building was distinctive enough, with windows in the shape of the tablets of the law on the facade. We could see them quite clearly, if we stood across the street and looked up. But not only was the building quite silent, the doors were closed and the gate leading to them was securely closed with a chain and padlock.

Perhaps we had come too early, I thought. We walked around the block and came back. Again there was nothing. Then I thought that perhaps the threat of anti-Semitism was so severe in this little corner of South America, that the main entrance was kept locked. Perhaps there was a side entrance known only to the members of the Jewish community. Again we walked around the block. I even ventured through a muddy parking lot on the other side of the block to no avail.

Then I began to wonder if I had the right date. In Israel there is no problem knowing the date of Rosh Hashana. You can't miss it. But when you have been traveling in South America for several weeks it's a different matter entirely. Aside from my telephone calls, I had had virtually no contact with Jewish communities.

Our sole "Jewish" experience in South America until then had been a visit to the Museum of the Inquisition in Lima, where a guide had seemed to go out of her way to minimize the fact this institution was directed primarily against Jews. She spoke at length about priests who secretly married and about Indians practicing their tribal religion, but when we saw the statistics, we found that more than 90 percent of those burned at the stake had been "Judaizers."

After that, I could not help but wonder if the fears of the Inquisition were still present among the Jews of Cochabamba. Perhaps the services were not taking place in the synagogue at all, but rather in a secret place.

We wandered about listlessly, wondering if there was any point in our remaining in the area. We asked a few shopkeepers nearby if they knew anything about the synagogue, but they professed complete ignorance.

Then at about 10 a.m., we saw two men opening the locked gate. When we came up to ask them about about the service, they told us to come back in half an hour.

When we finally did come into the synagogue, we found that it was quite a large one, capable of holding a few hundred people. A hazan had been brought in from Buenos Aires, and it was a pleasant service.

When we spoke afterwards to the congregants, we learned that during the 1930s, when few countries were willing to take in any Jewish refugees from Nazi Europe, Bolivia opened its doors and thousands of Jews found refuge there. However, Bolivia is also the poorest country in South America, and as soon as they were able, many of the Jews went elsewhere to seek their livelihood. Those who remained were mostly the elderly. Indeed, in the synagogue itself, the older memorial tablets were in German, while the more recent ones had Spanish inscriptions.

Curious about the synagogue and its history, I wandered about to examine it after the service. In the eastern wall near the ark, a rough stone, about the size of a marble, was imbedded in the wall. An inscription underneath recorded that the stone had come from the ruins of a synagogue destroyed in Vienna.

The stone conjured up an image of Jews in Vienna approaching the ruins of the synagogue which they may have attended all their lives, picking up this small bit of rubble, perhaps even surreptitiously, pocketing it, and then taking it among the few possessions allowed to them. The stone had a message of sadness but also of hope.

"At a time when synagogues were being destroyed all over Europe, this synagogue was built," the inscription read.