A Jewish Wisconsinite’s report, from an ornate 1870 synagogue
Andrew Franklin at the Great Synagogue in Sweden, built in 1870.
This spring, I was excited to start a new legal job for a company with roots in Sweden. After my team went through a reorganization, a team meeting was scheduled at our European headquarters, in Västerås, Sweden, to start the day after Yom Kippur!
Attending, which I felt was a necessity, would create huge logistical issues because Sweden is seven hours ahead of Central time. Staying for Yom Kippur in Milwaukee would mean I’d be late to the meeting. Flying ON Yom Kippur didn’t sit well with me.
The only solution was a one-time compromise. With my wife’s blessing, I would spend Yom Kippur in Sweden.
It was a bigger undertaking than I realized. The closest synagogue to my meeting was in Stockholm, in a synagogue built in 1870 known as the Stora Synagoga, or Great Synagogue. Once I had a semblance of a plan, I reached out to every rabbi I knew, in Milwaukee and otherwise, for assistance. Rabbi Jessica Barolsky was able to provide me with the local progressive shul’s contact information; Rabbi Moishe Steigmann actually knew the Stockholm synagogue’s rabbi.
Yet the hurdles to make the plan a reality were significant. With no family or friends in Sweden, I needed to apply for permission from the community, which was a process. European Jewry has been on alert due to a rise in global antisemitism, fallout from Oct. 7 and its aftermath, as well as the current situation in Iran. There was also an attack on a different synagogue in the Swedish city of Gothenberg several years before. My application required a biography, my reason for travel, rabbinical references, and a copy of my passport for a background check – all of this without any real assurances that I would be approved. Communication was understandably slow and measured. Eventually when I was approved, I had to send payment for a ticket via wire transfer. It totaled about 180 Swedish krona, a multiple of chai that I took as a good omen.
Stora Synagoga, or the Great Synagogue, was built in 1870.
A week later I received a letter welcoming my visit. Only then did I first allow myself to become a little excited about the trip. But it was still not easy. Leaving meant it would be the first time I was apart from my family for High Holidays. Meanwhile, my kids were observing in college and my wife remained at home.
As plans paved way to reality, I wondered about the community – a historical synagogue and a Jewish population connected in some way to the “Old World.” Having been to Spain earlier in the year, I had come to accept that so much Jewish history had been eradicated from Europe. What could be left in Sweden? Nevertheless, the opportunity to engage with other Jews and witness historical architecture nudged me forward.
Stockholm’s Jewish community dates to 1774, when the de facto founder of the Jewish community, Aaron Isaac, was the first Jew allowed entry. He was permitted to establish a community whose chosen center was a small building in what is now known as Gamla Stan, or Old Town. The community remained there for 100 years, eventually leaving that building for the Stora Synagoga when it was completed in 1870. The original synagogue changed hands but eventually became home to the Stockholm Judiska Museet (Jewish Museum) in 2019.
Many other connections to Jewish history remain in the city—HaBajit (the House of Jewish Education and Culture), akin to a JCC, a Jewish-style restaurant known as “Schmaltz,” a Jewish home, and various historical markers.
Inside Stora Synagoga, a historic shul in Sweden.
On the Sunday of Kol Nidre, HaBajit was closed, but I was able to visit the museum. I was fascinated by its memorabilia, including an original pulpit dating back to the 1800s, once lost and later rediscovered and returned to its original home. My admission ticket included a sizable book on the Jewish history of Stockholm. A museum employee introduced himself and offered a brief tour, describing the Jewish history of the city and museum. He was a younger man, wearing a shirt in Hebrew that appeared to be for some type of youth group or camp. After, with time ticking away until sundown, I raced back to the hotel to prepare. Fortunately, my hotel was next door to the synagogue.
The Great Synagogue is part of a complex consisting of several buildings, a courtyard, a Holocaust memorial, central offices, and the Synagogue itself, and is adjacent to Raoul Wallenberg Torg (Square), named for the Swedish diplomat who helped orchestrate the rescue of thousands of Hungarian Jews during World War II. The Jewish Community of Stockholm coordinates services together, particularly at the Holidays and Chagim, and there is a strong sense of connection among the various movements of the community — progressive, traditional, and orthodox. The Synagogue is Masorti (traditional); but a Modern Orthodox congregation also meets inside the central offices.
During Yom Kippur, police were present to guard the entrance, along with private security. Presenting my passport as identification was a sad reminder of the current state of affairs, as well as a somber callback to darker times in Europe.
When I arrived for Kol Nidre, I followed the crowd from the courtyard to the inside, only to discover that I had mistakenly followed the crowd to the sizable Orthodox minyan taking shape. But mistakes are often serendipitous. As I tried to get my bearings, I met a gentleman who used to live in Chicago. He and others invited me to stay. Though tempting, I had invested much time in visiting the main building and had corresponded with Rabbi Ute Steyer, who leads the Great Synagogue. Thus, I found my way out in the dusk to the main sanctuary, not realizing what I was walking past in the dimly lit corridor.
The next day I discovered that the walkway between the two buildings was lined by a Holocaust memorial. The memorial consists of columns against exterior walls that list the names of Holocaust victims who were relatives of Swedish Jews. What first caught my eye in that walkway were the stones. Hundreds of large stones left by mourners and visitors lined the path, a palpable reminder of the enduring pain and legacy of the Shoah.
The walkway ends at a series of steps leading into the Synagogue. The Great Synagogue is certainly worthy of its name. From the exterior of the Synagogue, the sanctuary’s giant stained-glass window projects outward like an ornate six-petaled flower. As I stepped up to the entrance minutes before sundown, the foyer’s golden-orange glow beckoned me. The foyer’s doors open directly into the sanctuary, another moment of awe. The rectangular sanctuary has two primary levels, with dozens of rows of pews on each level. Multiple domes line the ceiling. I’m not sure if they were once skylights or not. On a third level is a smaller balcony where a resonant grand organ is encased and from where a small choir projected their voices. The pews certainly appeared to be (and to my back felt like) over 100 years old. Seats and backs were flat, wooden, and unpadded, perhaps a not-so-subtle encouragement to enjoy those long periods of standing during Yom Kippur. Rising from seats created loud claps of wood that echoed in unison across the cavernous space. The harsh, repetitive sound was jarring at first, especially given the security concerns of attendance, but eventually the noise faded to my ears.
The entire space holds about a thousand people, and it was packed.
I went to grab a machzor and a tallis. In some comforting way, the rack of tallises was not unlike those at any other synagogue. But the machzors were quite different.
I knew the service would be in Swedish and Hebrew, not English, and I wanted to be prepared. I read online that the community used the same texts that Beth Israel used. Before leaving Milwaukee, I grabbed my copy of the Machzor Lev Shalem. But alas, Stockholm used their own books. I briefly toyed with the idea of using Google Translate to follow along but recalled the sign I passed when I walked in, admonishing congregants to refrain from electronic devices. The sign, in English, read, “The only type of communication device you should use during services.” Beneath it was a picture of two tin cans tied to a string. “Different country, same challenges,” I mused to myself.
The people I spoke with before and after services were friendly. While certainly dominated by an adult population, people of all ages attended, from young to old. On Kol Nidre, I struck up conversation with an older couple behind me who welcomed me and asked about my journey. The gentleman gestured to a person in front of me, whom he identified as the Israeli ambassador to Sweden. After services, I saw her security detail guide her out – agents wearing noticeable earpieces and baggy windbreakers.
Overall, the services were comfortingly familiar. I found the inability to read in Swedish was actually liberating. Although I didn’t understand the Rabbi’s sermon, I perceived the plain-spoken sincerity and moral conviction she projected, like countless other rabbis across the globe that day. And I was able to enjoy the cantor, the organ and choir accompaniment, and the nuance of mixing the familiar with the new. I found myself repeatedly wanting to turn to my wife and kids, regretting I could not share this unique experience with them.
As I left Kol Nidre for the cool evening breeze, I ran into the same museum guide I had met hours earlier. He was excited to see me and hear my impressions. As I reflected on my experience with him, I realized that while my journey began with much trepidation, it would end on a note of optimism. The next day I left Stockholm for my business meeting with a deep sense of gratitude and hope, grateful to have shared the blessings of this vibrant community and already eager to return.
