Thursday, May 20, 2004
All photographs are by Willow Lawson.
"I'M HERE TO SEE THE JEWISH BATH"
There is no listing for Sicily in the index of A HISTORY OF THE JEWS. And Syracuse, a small city on the Sicilian east coast, isn't so much as mentioned in Paul Johnson's definitive historical survey.
So I was skeptical when, preparing for an Italian vacation, I stumbled on a scattering of internet references to a recently-discovered, Byzantine-era mikvah at Syracuse: Heralded by one web site as the best-preserved Jewish ritual bath in Europe, the mikvah was also—according to a fleeting reference at haddasah.org—perhaps the continent's oldest.
Still, Jews in Sicily? The phrase sounded more like a concept cooked up by a Hollywood producer ("think GODFATHER meets SEINFELD") or the premise of a new Zadie Smith novel than anything rooted in reality.
After searching several travel guidebooks, unsuccessfully, for references to the island’s Jewish past, I couldn’t help wondering whether reports about the mikvah were based on a misunderstanding or even a hoax.
And yet, deeper digging revealed that Jewish life had indeed touched down on Sicily for a fascinating, if little-heralded, 1500 year sojourn: Jews lived through enslavement by the Romans and second-class citizenship during Byzantine rule before enjoying a degree of commercial power under the Arab-Muslim Saracens.
Ultimately, when Sicily came under the sway of Spain’s 1492 Edict of Expulsion, the thousands of Jews on the island were given a stark choice: flee or convert. For the more than 500 years that have followed, Jewish life on Sicily has been essentially non-existent.
I arrive in Syracuse in mid-October.
A city of 125,000 and the one time home to Archimedes, Plato and Aeschylus, Syracuse boasts a slew of Greek and Roman ruins, gorgeous views of the Ionian Sea and moderate weather. There is plenty of graffiti and decay to be found in its ancient center—a gritty maze of centuries-old residences, restaurants and shops—but the place brims with a palpable, youth-driven vitality.
Scaffolding dots the landscape, restoration projects abound, and on Sunday night, fashionably dressed young Sicilians arrive on scooters, filling the waterside cafés and spilling out onto the streets. In short, you can almost smell the gentrification in the air.
Syracuse's craggy coast. A view once enjoyed by Archimedes, Plato and Aeschylus.
I head into the old Jewish Quarter, now one of the city’s less prosperous residential sections, and down a street named “Alley of the Jews #4.” By now I’ve learned about the peculiar circumstances of the mikvah's excavation: It was literally unearthed, I've been told, during the conversion of a medieval mansion into, of all things, a bed and breakfast.
Still, familiar as I am with the story, it's odd to find myself walking into the lobby of what is now a relatively plush hotel, approaching the front desk and announcing, "I'm here to see the Jewish bath."
The young woman behind the desk is unfazed, however. I pay my five euros and she guides me and two other visitors toward the rear of the hotel, then down fifty-six stone steps to a scene straight out of INDIANA JONES: We’ve entered a dark, cool, chamber carved entirely from rock.
The classroom-sized space, which has the feel of a cavern or crypt, features a low, vaulted ceiling, benches cut into the walls on three sides, and four large, square support columns. At the center of the room are three bullet-shaped, water-filled baths.
The guide, Daniela Zanghi, tells us that the site dates to the sixth or seventh century, and then moves quickly through accounts of the decade-long excavation, the spiritual cleansing role of the mikvah in Jewish life and the sad fate of Sicilian Jewry. Her well-meaning presentation is vague and speculative—she is short on dates and facts.
(She doesn't know to mention, for example that the sixth century dating of the mikvah is tentative and, according to Dr. David Cassuto, an Israeli scholar of Jewish ritual architecture, based on the bath’s structural features. Nor does she tell me, as does Dr. Anders Runesson of Lund University in Sweden—an expert on Diaspora mikvaot—that if dated correctly, the mikvah represents an early and important example of the emergence of rabbinic Judaism in the Diaspora.)
Syracuse's former Jewish quarter. (Literally, "Alley of the Jews #1).
Still, Zanghi does point out two private baths, in alcoves off the main chamber. She also notes that the baths are fed by a natural spring, that water is spread among them via low channels, and that the long benches, large enough to seat a few dozen at a time, speak to the size of Syracuse's Jewish community.
Zanghi grows flustered when I ask if the mikvah is available for use by visitors (it isn’t) and whether the site is landmarked (not currently). A similar thing happens when the subject of ownership comes up.
"The mikvah belongs to the Jewish community of Siracusa," she explains in halting English, elaborating that, because no such community exists, control reverts to the owners of the hotel upstairs. When I ask where the five euro entry fee goes (publicly maintained sites in Sicily charge $4.50) her answer is terse: “upkeep.”
The tour is over in less than twenty minutes, and soon Zanghi is ushering me toward the door. I thank her for her time, and she returns to what seems to be her primary occupation—running the front desk of the hotel.
On my way out, I'm energized by the thought of having walked around inside a piece of Jewish history that may be 1500 years old.
And yet there's something vaguely disheartening about what I've seen: Open for more than two years, the mikvah still doesn’t offer visitors any contextualizing literature; it charges $.50 more than the island’s government-run Greek temples and Roman ruins; it isn’t landmarked; the publicity campaign appears to be non-existent; the tour guide doubles as the hotel concierge; and the site is open for viewing a mere nine hours a week.
Standing outside, gazing at a modest, gelatto-spattered sign that is the site's only prominent marker, it's hard to avoid the conclusion that the mikvah—the only significant remnant of Jewish life in Sicily—is seen by those who operate it as something less than a cherished connection to the past.
The mikvah's only prominent marker.
And it seems more or less scandalous that what Cassuto calls the largest, most beautiful and perhaps oldest Jewish bath on the continent is in private, non-Jewish hands.
It's warm and sunny as I make my way along quaint, cobblestone streets back toward the center of town. Pausing to read a real estate flier, I remember Zanghi's remark about the absence of a Jewish presence in Siracusa.
Converting euros to dollars, I have visions, if only for a moment, of starting one.
--Dan Aibel
