Shabbat in Sofia, Bulgaria

By June Brott

During the year we lived in Bulgaria, Gene and I often attended Shabbat morning services in Sofia ’s beautiful Synagogue, the largest Sephardic synagogue in Europe. Built in 1903 in a Moorish-Byzantine style, it stands proudly in the city center, a short walk from a medieval mosque and Sveta Nedelia, a major Bulgarian Orthodox church.

In WW2 when allies bombed Sofia, the synagogue was damaged, and its library of Hebrew books destroyed, but many columns and exquisite ornamental wall designs have been restored.

Regular Saturday morning services (the shortest we ever attended) began at 10 a.m. in the small chapel, the vast sanctuary being too costly to heat). The women’s section, a narrow rectangular area, has a wood-frame machitzah hung with semi-translucent white curtains. Only about 25 women can be seated at four long tables, with chairs squeezed on both sides. The men’s section, more than twice as large, has several tables and chairs comfortably arranged around the bimah.

Most women sit at services without books although there were a few Hebrew/Bulgarian siddurim on a small table. The Torah was chanted at breakneck speed, and we couldn’t understand a word. So we began going online, printing out the Torah and Haftorah portions, and reading them during the service. While sharing the printout with Henny, my English-speaking friend, I saw many eyebrows raised. Maybe they thought I was a rude American reading her personal mail? But when I showed the text to several women, they were relieved, laughed, and even asked for copies.

My memories are so vivid. I still see the women sitting in front row, pulling back the curtains as the Torah is returned to the ark. They reach out and touch the Torah’s cover while those seated behind the tables just raise their hands. We conclude with “Ein Kelohenu” in Hebrew and Ladino, and then around 11:15, Sofka, a short, smiley retired physician, goes into the kitchen (adjacent to the women’s side) to get a stack of tiny plastic cups. When the man chanting Kiddush finishes, she goes to his side, and holds out one cup, which he half-fills with Kiddush wine. Back on the women’s side, Sofka spills a few drops of that wine into each cup, handing one to every woman, with a happy, hearty, “Shabbat Sha-LOM!”

Next she brings out two baguettes, pinching off a piece for everyone, with more “Shabbat Sha-LOMS!” (The first braided challah I saw appeared on Sukkot.)

For lunch, friendly Bulgarian women prepare and pass individual plastic plates filled with typical Sephardi food, starting with rakia (a clear, vodka-like drink). Then the menu might include brown-baked eggs, yogurt, grilled eggplant, leek croquettes, vegetarian ‘borekitas,’ pudding, or rice-stuffed red peppers, and a dessert. Men are served first and Gene often managed to sit with someone who speaks English.

Each Shabbat is different. Sometimes Lika and her sister Reyni sing nostalgic Ladino songs as Henny, Sofka, Rosa, and others join in, transported to an earlier time in their lives. Once, a recent widower joined the women’s section and began the haunting Adieu, adieu kerida, in memory of his Bulgarian wife. Once a professional singer, he returned to the men’s side, picked up a prayer book, and half-sang, half-wailed a mesmerizing Kaddish.

After one Shabbat Sofka opened her purse, took out a bottle of pills, swallowed one, then passed the bottle to Rosa. She took two and passed it to Henny, who took two and offered the bottle to me. ”It’s Valerian. It’s good to help you sleep,” she said, then whispered, “but if you take one occasionally during the day, it makes you feel really really good!” I didn’t need a pill, though, because I already felt really good just being together with them.