He came upon it, a solid square building of stone with an Egyptic
facade and an architrave carved with a great stone flower set in an
olive wreath. Without was the proseuchae, paved with boulders now worn
smooth by the summer sittings of the congregation who gathered around
the reader's stone. The Maccabee stopped at the gate and unlacing his
pagan sandals set them outside the threshold.
Once over the stone sill with the imminent gloom covering him, he felt
the old sanctity envelop him with a reproach in its forgotten
familiarity. Old incense, old litanies, old rites rushed back to him
with the smell of the stagnant fragrance. He heard again from the
farther depths of the dark interior the musical monotone of a rabbi
reciting a ritual. The voice was young and low. Presently he heard the
responses spoken in a woman's voice, so tender, so soft and so sad
that he sensed instantly the meaning of the sympathy in the young
priest's voice. Out of the incense-laden dusk he found old custom
stealing back upon him. His lips anticipated words unreadily; gladly
he realized that he could say these formulas, also; he had not
forgotten; he had not forgotten!
In this little synagogue in a poor town there were no privacies;
communicants had to depend on the courtesy of their fellows for
uninterrupted devotion. The wanderer had not forgotten this.
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