Photo prompt © Roger Bultot
“We used to go in through that side door,” Mama said.
I stared at the narrow wooden portal. “Because you are a girl?” I knew that Jewish traditions relegated women to a separate area in the synagogue, sometimes a designated entrance.
“No,” Mama’s voice shook and I reached for her hand. Her tears surprised me.
She seemed reluctant to cross the street. I couldn’t blame her. The building looked forbiddingly cold, sealed shut.
“No,” she repeated, a note of defiance in her eyes. “So no one knew services were held. They’d have come for us if we were found out.”