The Little Shul in Manchester, UK

Aged five. The Sabbath.

     In the morning, we took a walk to the synagogue in Cheetham Hill  The Little Shul, as we referred to it. We lived in a three-bedroom terrace house in Sedgley Road, about two miles from the centre of Manchester.

      The houses surrounding the one in Sedgley Road had privet hedges out by the fronts, along with the damp look common to properties in the north of England. A few minutes away stood a huge Catholic Church on the main road.

      This building for whatever reason would conjure up images in my mind of fried cashew nuts whenever I passed by, and I was fascinated by the crucifix at the front of the building and the manse house attached to the church and the talk of nuns choosing to marry God  not exactly Jewish stuff.

      Nearby was a park and a couple of primary schools. Further on, an urban hill twisted up towards Harpurhey, Moston and Newton Heath.    

      It took my family roughly fifteen minutes to reach The Little Shul that morning, a single storey building with pew-like benches arranged around the Bima, a raised platform in the centre of the sanctuary. A barrier made up of welded ornate metal separated the women from the men, in accordance to Rabbinic tradition.

      During the long services, I would stare at the skilfully woven metal and think of angels in a heavenly court listening to the men's prayers in the presence of God. Religious Jews fear taking God's name in vain and refer to God as HaShem, The Name. This, too, added to the austerity, mystery and solemnity of those Saturday mornings at The Little Shul.

      A lay reader conducted the service in Hebrew from the Bima, chanting unfamiliar words in a plainchant style, words that rose and fell in centuries-old melancholy, capturing the soul of the troubled Jewish European past. In the sanctuary, light reflected off the benches, creating a tired, almost surreal, atmosphere that seemed to cause the room to dim continually. Often, I would fidget, bemused by the Hebrew lettering and the old musty prayer books that smelt strange.

      My ancestors had left Lithuania and Russia in the final decades of the nineteenth century to escape the persecution breaking out throughout regions such as Kovna and Vilnius. When the immigrants arrived in Manchester, many had settled in the Strangeways area, close to the famous prison that dominates the skyline with its tower. The immigrants met for worship in cluttered houses and helped one another find jobs during the week, sharing their difficulties over cups of sugary lemon tea, conversing in Yiddish or broken English.  

      A generation or two later, families moved the short distance to Cheetham Hill where they established a community. The Ultra-Orthodox, identifiable by their distinctive clothing and hair, settled in neighbouring Salford 7, or Broughton Park if they could afford the homes there, and formed separate congregations, often in houses.

      Several generations had passed, and the great-grandchildren of the original immigrants had left Cheetham Hill for the leafier suburbs of Prestwich and Whitefield in the north of the city, and Disbury to the east of the city. The Cheetham Hill community, though vibrant still, consisted largely of elderly people now.  

      We spent about eighteen months at The Little Shul before leaving to attend the Central Synagogue on Heywood Street, a street or two away.

      The Central was huge, and located in a former warehouse: damp-looking and imposing with steps leading up to a set of gigantic doors. In the main hall, two balconies faced each other where the women and younger children sat.

      The Cantor, or Chazzan, conducted the service in Hebrew from the Bima, chanting and singing those mysterious words, his powerful voice reaching crescendos that he always held perfectly. He'd come from Hungary and had probably trained as a professional singer.

      Aged in his late fifties, he was one of the most unassuming people I met, a devoted Manchester City fan. On one occasion, he even sang operatic style melody on the most solemn day of the Jewish year, Yom Kippur, punctuating the cadences with clear humour, despite the serious nature of the festival.  

      For me, his personality sent out one crucial message: you can have fun as well as religion.