“I guess we should knock,” Vera suggests.
It feels ridiculous to knock on this giant red door—you could bruise your knuckles. And nothing suggests anyone inside would even hear it. These doors look enormous, but none of this deters Rita. She bangs on the door with her fist, and we wait. And wait. Another knock, and we wait again. We can hear some distant noises from the other side, but it's unclear what they are. So, she bangs on the door once more. After what feels like several minutes, the door opens partially. Behind it stands a tall, skinny teenager, maybe fifteen, dressed in a white shirt and dark blue pants. He is wearing a kippah, so he’s definitely one of the tribe. Perhaps he even speaks some Hebrew.
“Shabbat Shalom,” Rita starts in her cheeriest sing-songy voice.
The boy nods solemnly from behind the door but says nothing.
“Can we come in?” Rita asks cheerfully, in English. “We want to see the synagogue.
The boy examines us, his expression somewhere between confusion and alarm; I can’t tell which. I can only say he is not opening the door to let us enter.
“Can we come in?” Rita repeats the question more slowly this time.
The boy turns back to glance inside, still blocking the entrance. He then gestures for us to wait and walks inside, closing the giant door behind him. Rita shrugs her shoulders and giggles. “What was that?” she asks the two of us, knitting her eyebrows together and shaking her head.
I hope it’s not her outfit that scared him. Her frizzy, bleached hair, which has seen better days, the leggings, and the piles of jewelry dangling from her ears, neck, and wrists might not exactly align with local customs. On the other hand, Vera and I, although strangers, look more like mainstream adult women. In short, we’re harmless.
“Don’t ask me,” I say. I’d rather be somewhere else now, where people aren’t closing a door in my face.
The door opens again to reveal two men in white shirts and dark slacks.
“Can we help you?” one of the men asks.
“We want to come inside and see the synagogue,” Rita says.
“Why?” he asks again.
“Because it’s Shabbat,” Rita says, unable to hide her bewilderment.
“Who are you?” the other man asks.
“I’m Rita. This is my mom,” Rita says, pointing at Vera. “And this is my friend."
“What are you doing here?” he continues.
“We are visiting Belmonte. We arrived two hours ago,” Rita says.
“Why do you want to come in?” the man asks again. He doesn’t sound hostile, but it is clear that he does not want to let us in. I wonder if I should enter the conversation to help Rita, because this situation is strange. Why are they so suspicious?
“We want to see the synagogue. We like to see Kabalat Shabbat,” she mixes a little Hebrew for effect, although I am not sure this is why we want to visit the synagogue. We just wanted to check it out and see it from the inside.
“We don’t let people enter the synagogue like this. It’s a private place, and the service is almost over,” he explains.
“We are from Israel,” Rita tries again. “We are Jewish and we speak Hebrew."
I have to admit that she is very convincing. We are not just anyone and are kind of from Israel, even though we don’t all live there now.
“We speak Hebrew,” Vera contributes her share, in Hebrew, to drive the point home.
“E Português também,” I say in my Brazilian Portuguese. Maybe that will convince them we are not here to harm them. I can live without seeing the inside of the synagogue, but since we are already here, why not?
“From Israel,” the main interrogator says, nodding his head.
“Yes,” Rita and Vera answer together. “We want to see the synagogue,” they add again, for effect. I think the begging is working. The suspicion on the men’s faces softens, and their bodies seem to relax.
“Okay,” the man says after whispering something to the other man, who whispers something back to him. “We will let you in, but we are closing soon. The service is almost over."
He opens the door wide, and they let us in. I feel awkward, forcing my way into this secretive synagogue. I’ve never experienced anything like this in my travels. When I backpacked around Peru and Bolivia in my twenties, I visited several Jewish community centers where people were happy to meet me. They offered to let me stay with them for free instead of paying for a hotel. In La Paz, they asked if I would agree to work in the local Jewish school and teach their children to read Hebrew. But here, they seem reluctant to let us in, bordering on the unfriendly. Maybe they suspect we are spying on them for the Inquisition. I have no idea what’s going on.
They send us to the women's balcony to observe the end of the service. We tiptoe up the stairs, Rita in front of me, trying to swallow some giggles. Vera slaps her hand, whispering “Shshshsh,” which makes her giggle even more.
There is only one woman on the balcony. She acknowledges our presence with a nod and invites us to sit next to her. Her friendly gesture makes me pause for a moment. After the uncomfortable encounter at the door, I didn’t expect it. I thought people would frown or ignore us. But she seems curious and welcoming. Maybe she’s also a foreigner—she certainly doesn’t look like a local, although I’m not sure what the local Jewish women look like. It might be her clothes or the colorful scarf covering part of her long, curly hair. In any case, she looks and acts like the total opposite of the men we met downstairs.
We join her in the front row and look down at the main hall, where a few men stand before the bima (stage), reading and praying quietly. A large Torah scroll is opened in front of them. Contrary to my expectations, the synagogue’s interior is beautiful. This is not the modest house of worship typical of small towns. It is grand and spacious—the ceiling soars high above the balcony. On the far wall, the Ten Commandments are embossed in gold beneath a chunky golden menorah, and the empty pews and the dark, polished wood railing surrounding the bima gleam under the light. The ark is covered in red brocade embroidered with two slender gold menorahs and Hebrew script. In short, the synagogue radiates affluence and prosperity—a stark contrast to the modest neighborhood in which it stands.