The best part of shul was walking home hand in hand with my father

Decades have flitted by, but I can still smell the distinctive scent of the first shul I knew as a girl.

Was it the variety of well-used siddurim and seforim with brittle yellowing pages bequeathed to the motley shelves by heirs who no longer opened them? Or was the worn magenta upholstery on the seats and the thick tasseled curtains covering the closed windows the source of the aroma? Maybe it was the faded velvet cloth on the amud or the matching royal blue paroches, donated in memory of someone’s beloved parents; was that it?

I always sat close to the tall mechitzah, behind the front row of cloyingly sweet-smelling old ladies, longing to see, not just hear, what was going on. There were no young women in shul. Just the three of us kids: the chazzan’s twin daughters and me, the rav’s daughter. The old ladies — perhaps no older than I am today — seemed ancient as they chatted in Yiddish, which we only sort of understood.

We had difficulty following the Shabbos davening, but embarrassed to intrude on these older women’s prayers, we managed as well as we could. At nine years old, I was the oldest of our trio, and I’d try to catch the echoes of familiar words and locate them in our siddurim.

The best part of shul was when we left, and I walked home with my father. I walked close to him as he held my hand. We were usually accompanied by other congregants. Sometimes they engaged in heated discussions in Yiddish about halachah or the parshah, and I couldn’t follow. I’d busy myself trying not to step on any ants or on the cracks in the sidewalk. My father would then squeeze my hand hard to convey he hadn’t forgotten about me, and I’d feel secure and loved.