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This chapter investigates the world of Bobower hasidim. Those hasidim who had survived the Holocaust had taken with them their hasidic spirit, their customs, and their language, and moved to another geographic dimension. That which in Bobowa itself has become legend is in Brooklyn a physical reality. All of hasidic Bobowa is there, transferred across the ocean. However, the miracle-working tsadik and his court have remained, and so have the faithful hasidim, and their thoughts and prayers: the Messiah did not descend on to the splendid Bobowa soil, where he could have walked on a carpet of grass and herbs, but he will certainly come to the hasidim who await him on the pavements of Brooklyn. Access to content on Oxford Academic is often provided through institutional subscriptions and purchases. If you are a member of an institution with an active account, you may be able to access content in one of the following ways:. 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Each day I have spent there brought me something new. My curiosity is stimulated to such an extent that it could never be satisfied, only inspired. I could spend my entire life on journeys of discovery across the region. This autumn procession led me into a land that glowed green and gold. Windswept meadows, misty clouds, rugged hills, village spires reaching to the sky, all illuminated by a sun that resisted the slide toward winter. That feeling of awe I first felt returns to me each time I cross back over into the region. A succession of feelings so powerful that I carry them within me where I go. A kaleidoscopic series of images and experiences that memory has gifted me. The moments and memories often come back to me late in the evening. An uncontrollable human urge, an impulse so fierce and natural that I have little choice but to follow my heart back to Transylvania. Silent Tolerances — A Series of Observations Transylvania is all those memories that mean so much to me. The eye-like eaves on Saxon houses, the dog sitting atop a house in Sibiu. Dodging craters pockmarking the parking lot at Saschiz, hay bales climbing up hillsides high in the mountains, the menacing stoicism of a policeman patrolling the platform in Cluj, the sublime calmness of horse drawn wagon cart drivers on highways,. The rusticated colors of neglect on village houses, the clothes of old men who look like they have been wearing the same suit since the Second World War, the women with stares of sincerity, the roundtrip rail journey from Sibiu to Sighisoara that takes forever. The Roma sitting in a pasture by the railroad tracks just after dawn, the night trains reminding of the way things were, the border control reminding of the ways things are. The listless look of people walking to work. The low prices, the even lower wages. The villages without anyone in their twenties. The peaked caps, scruffy beards, and frosty mustaches. The worn faces, wrinkled clothes, and dark hands. The chatter that sounds like Latin has come back to life, the laughter that is its own language. The kindness of Romanians, the seriousness of Hungarians, the vanishing of Saxons, the stubbornness of the Szekely, the exoticism of the Roma. The legacy of Trianon that hangs over everyone and everything. The ancient enmities, and silent tolerances of all involved. The way people look past each other, the way people look into one another. Inside Out — Life Among The Transylvanians The speeding vehicles on rural roads, the melancholy of the villages, the suspicious stares at outsiders. Garden plots growing for centuries, the broken fences still standing, the rhythm of life everlasting. The plastic shopping bags on handlebars, the habits of pensioners, the indifference of stray dogs. The beautiful and lifeless town halls, the amount of cigarettes being smoked, the endless conversations in cafes and restaurants. The symmetry and beauty of Sibiu, the absence of Dracula, the violence of Vlad Tepes, the castles slowly collapsing, the manor houses hollowed out. The flaking of early 20 th century paint, the pretty pastel townhouses, the blood red politics of the past. The trains that never arrive on time, the buses that never leave on time, the people who learned to tolerate it. The random towers that still stand along city walls, the doors that should have fallen off long ago, the houses where no one has been home in years. The people walking without purpose, the wait for no one in particular. Those who could really care less and those who care too much. The dated splendor of a city center, the odor of a woman sniffing glue, the harmlessly belligerent drunks, the barely standing bus station, five days in Brasov. The modern tractor in one field and the horse drawn plow in the other. The benign look of rural poverty, the frightening look of urban depravity, the buildings that look like they should not be left standing. The dog that bit my pants on the run to Deva Castle and the apology from its owner. The autumn storm sweeping over a giant meadow, the corruption that will not sweep the streets. The smell of public places, toxic indifference. The idea that nothing will ever change. The people waiting for a handout, the people wanting out. The modesty of beggars, the pride of professionals, the frustration of the working class, the successful failures. The beautiful women who look unapproachable and lonely, the handsome men who look arrogant and insecure. The unseen elites who rule, run, and own everything. Those who do not have much and want for nothing. The women selling flowers whose smiles are worth so much more. The sturdy wooden doors and drawn curtains that an entire world lives behind. The empty side streets and crowded sidewalks. The pace of life, forever falling a step behind the times. The romance of elderly couples and the lust of university students. The adults who are full of ambition and headed for immigration. The Banffys, the Telekis, and all the other aristocrats that can never be brought back. The grand facades and less grand interiors. The palaces that look like nothing of the sort. The churches that preserve tradition, the silence within them that is their perpetual condition. The deepest love annihilates everything except for the object of affection. This is the way I feel about Transylvania. I count myself fortunate to have fallen in love with it. Even now, when separated by several years since my last visit, an indescribable feeling comes over me when my thoughts turn to Transylvania. Sometimes the trigger is a memory, other times an image. This served to remind me of the ecstasy I felt when seeing the sunlight illuminate the river. The purity, power, and promise of nature, the feeling of something you know to be so true that it is beyond question. It was like falling in love for the first time all over again. I never believed life could be this beautiful and knew that I would somehow have to learn to live without it. Time has no meaning in a timeless land. No other travels, even in my most beloved spots in Eastern Europe, could ever be held comparable. The integration of history and nature so dazzling, the rural and the urban so quaint, the beauty and the romance so spectacular, that I lost track of time, that I lost all inhibitions, that I lost and found myself in moments of immortality. I could not stop the seduction of lost highways, the darkness of forests, the village architecture that looks as natural as the land surrounding it, the small cities full of cultured rusticity, the faces of villagers weathered like the land, the Snuffleupagus like haystacks, the horse drawn wagon carts that outnumber cars, the bicycles which outnumber horse drawn wagon carts, the forest roads that lead to endless nirvanas of nowhere, the smoke that hangs over villages like eternity, the fields of wildflowers covering mountain meadows, the monuments that look older than the history they commemorate, the rhythm of life in lockstep with nature. To taste the purity of Transylvanian air as it pours into the passenger car as the train surmounts Kings Pass, to watch the medieval world rematerialize as your eyes scan the stones that form the Saxon church of St. This my Transylvania, the impossible dream of eternal romance finally achieved. They have no idea that another planet is located just a few flights and a train ride twenty-four hours away. At least it is for me. Accessing Transylvania through travel, is accessing the imagination. Transylvania has that quality of all great works of art, it creates a universe all its own. The usual rules no longer apply, because it has set a standard scarcely imaginable except for those who experience it. Magic has a way of altering the mind, redefining belief and creating a greater level of consciousness. This is the Transylvanian effect. I had suddenly landed on another planet. One that stood outside all my other travels in Eastern Europe. I always realized this when upon arrival or departure. Speaking of the latter, I felt a deep and abiding sadness that a secret love had been taken from me upon departure from Transylvania. A loss impossible for others to understand unless they have suffered from it. There is a deep grief that comes from an inability to remain in Transylvania. The kind of grief akin to losing a loved one. Imagine the loss of someone so close to your heart that it is painful to so much as speak of them. I remember arriving for an overnight stay in Timisoara after departing from Transylvania. Timisoara has many things to recommend it, eclectic architecture, fascinating history, and a clutch of astonishing churches. And yet, my post-Transylvania withdrawal was so acute that I could hardly stand Timisoara. The next morning, I could not wait to leave. I should have felt shame for giving Timisoara the cold shoulder, but all I felt was relief. The excruciatingly painful urge of immediately traveling back to Transylvania nearly got the better of me. I did not know when or if I would return. Just the idea of that nearly defeated me. Dark Charm — Enchanting Prospects I am not the only one, real or unreal to suffer this affliction. I have often thought how cruel it was for Jonathan Harker to survive his encounter with Count Dracula in Transylvania only to be nursed back to health in Budapest. No wonder his imagination was so fevered as he talked of unspeakable things that no one wanted to believe. They are one and the same. Seductive, supernatural, and sublime. Even the sinister in that part of the novel has a beauty about it. The dark charm of enchantment. That is the essence of the Transylvanian effect. It keeps me coming back for more. Though it was tiny compared to other Romanian cities, Szekelyudvarhely was an urban metropolis by the standards of the region. It ran counter to the popular image of the Szekely as a prototypically village people, their past and present shaped by those tiny tumbling wonderlands that so many of them call home. Villages are the hub of community, where the heart of Szekely culture beats slower, but stronger. If I was going to gain insight into Szekely culture, heritage and traditions than an exploration of their villages was a must. Beautifully Rugged — A People Like Their Land The villages were not difficult to reach as they could be found in any direction throughout the region. It did not take long for me to see just how different Szekely villages were from the small city of Szekelyudvarhely. Everything looked original with an indigenous quality of craftsmanship. The structures, whether homes, gates, or fences looked both vigorous and worn, much like the rough hewn people I saw plying the streets. Villages reflected the Szekely and the Szekely reflected the surrounding landscape. One that was beautiful in a deeply rugged sort of way. The weather was harsh, the terrain by turns hilly and mountainous. Life in Szekelyland was the opposite of easy. Luxury and creature comforts from the modern world looked to be in short supply. Many villagers earned their living in activities that could be classified as little more than subsistence level. The structures in Szekely villages, rustically colorful homes, tip wells and wood carved gates were symbolic of the people. Many of the villages looked on the verge of collapse, but somehow kept standing. I got the sense that these people were rich in a way that outsiders such as me would never really understand. Money was no match for tradition and culture in these villages. The rhythm of life was still based on the seasons, of which winter was the longest and most pervasive. I assumed that outside of automobiles which were in short supply , electricity and modern forms of communication, very little had changed in Szekely villages over the past several centuries. The Szekely had lived so long in trying circumstances, physical, political and economic that getting by was an accepted way of life. The faces of Szekely men and women were etched with stoicism. Physically they looked strong and stout, the kind of strength both mental and physical that comes from a lifetime spent trying to subdue less than hospitable terrain. Szekely stubbornness could overcome almost anything. Many of these were decorated with an amazing array of folk motifs carved into the wood with careful precision. Though many were decorated with carvings, they were not decorative like those to be found in Hungary. There was nothing new or polished about these gates. Szekely gates were made to be used and re-used thousands of times. Their antiquated, semi-decrepit rusticism as much a hallmark as their two doors, a large one for wagons and a smaller one for people. Many were faded from weathering, dusty and hard-bitten like the villages they stood within. The gates were original, historical and quite useful. There was no better place to look at these gates then the village of Marefalva Satu Mare, Harghita , a few kilometers east of Szekelyudvarhely. By one count, more than eighty Szekely gates fronted on the main highway cutting through the town. The majority of these could be seen from the main highway winding its way through the village. The gates were the pride and joy of Marefalva, a nod to collective individualism, a paradoxical pride on display for public viewing. A fine example of this was when my wife wanted to take a photo of one, a villager was standing on a ladder doing some minor repair work. He asked if she would like him to move, which he soon did. His face was an expression of pride as she snapped several photos. Then he placed his ladder back in the same place and continued with the repairs. The same quiet sense of duty could be seen in the faces of those who plied the village thoroughfares and rural byways in horse drawn wagon carts. Wagon drivers, almost always accompanied by a stocky accomplice, could be seen driving a couple of horses along at a ponderous pace. Unblinking, indifferent to those on foot or the dull whine of automobile traffic, they trotted on towards greener pastures or back towards home. The wagoneers seemed to exist outside the present, spirits of a former age that mysteriously arrived and departed with little regard to time. They were not in a hurry, there was no reason to be. Time was elastic, it expanded at the speed they set each day. The same speed decided centuries ago by hooves and horsepower. The wagons, drivers and passengers bore an uncanny resemblance to etchings in 19 th century ethnographic tomes. They had been summoned forth from parched pages as an anecdote to modernity. Spirits of a Former Age — One horsepower in Szekelyland. The homes, many of them little more than brightly painted cubes covered in a sheen of summer dust, were the humble dwellings of people who had learned to survive with a graceful indifference to the vicissitudes of life. In the villages I suddenly became aware of a class system inherent to Szekelyland. Survivors lived in the villages, thrivers in Szekelyudvarhely and a few other larger towns. There were many more survivors than thrivers, but no one looked like they had missed a meal. These were a people, like their land, richly endowed with everything they needed. They knew what the more populated outside world had yet to comprehend. Specifically, that getting what you need is more important than getting what you want. And what did these people need. Food, water, a roof over their heads, wood and livestock. Everything and nothing had changed in these villages over the years. Kingdoms, empires and dictators came and went, perhaps next would be the fall of nation-states, yet the Szekely always managed to remain. Seven years ago I arrived in the southern Hungarian city of Pecs. I can still distinctly recall my astonishment at the vibrancy, beauty and history of that provincial city. This was the first of many similar experiences in Hungary. It happened so many times, in so many different Hungarian provincial cities — Sopron, Szeged, Szekesferhvar and Szombathely just to name a few — that I almost forgot how wonderful the feeling could be. Repetition has a way of dulling even the most memorable experiences. That was until I arrived in the city of Szekelyudvarhely Odorheiu Secuiesc, Romania , the largest city in Szekelyland on a late summer day. I came expecting a down at the heel, provincial outpost. The only difference, Szekelyudvarhely was located deep in Romania, eastern Transylvania to be exact. Cut off from Hungary by long ago border alterations and most of Romania by the Harghita Mountains, the Hungarian speaking Szekely people of Szekelyudvarhely have created a wonderful city. Despite suffering grievous wounds due to the twin vices of the 20 th century, radical nationalism and vile communism, the Szekely have cultivated a thoroughly Hungarian city where I least expected to find it. Vibrant beauty — Interior courtyard at the Town Hall in Szkelyudvarhely. Not once in several days while staying in the city did I hear a word of Romanian spoken. I saw a Romanian flag flying over the Town Hall. Some shops had their names or functions written in Romanian. These were the only noticeable national reminders of Romania to be seen. Everything else was thoroughly Hungarian. The people looked and acted like Hungarians, with only one exception, they were friendlier than Hungarians back in the mother country. I soon discovered that favorite Hungarian language pastime, literature, was alive and well with the Szekely. I came across three bookstores in the space of 30 minutes and meters. I was forced to suspend disbelief, was this Szekelyland or Hungary? Public monuments in Szkelyudvarhely were no less conspicuous for their nod to Hungarian nationalism. In the town center, there was a large and prominent statue of a Honved Hungarian military soldier atop a towering pedestal. This was in memory of those Hungarian soldiers from the city who had been killed in World War I. A Hungarian War Memorial in the heart of Romania was a strange site indeed, since Hungary and Romania were on opposite sides in the war. The two had fought both during and after the war. Such incongruities and historical dissimilarities felt totally in keeping with the discombobulating Magyar aesthetic of the city. He is revered by Magyar nationalists as not just a Szekely, but also a Hungarian national hero for his ethnographic work. The best example of this trend was a sculptural garden in the city center with bust after bust of famous Hungarians and Szekely. Each figure had a ribbon in the color of the Hungarian flag tied around their neck. Such prominent placements of Hungarian heroes were to be seen across the city, a constant reminder that such historical personages are revered by the Szekely as true representatives of their heritage. Such overt national signs were everywhere, including in the realm of business. The restaurants, the shops, the accommodations all catered to Hungarian speakers. I soon began to wonder if there were any Romanians who lived in Szekelyudvarhely. In the absence of experiential evidence the question sent me to the latest census searching for answers. Those figures show the proportion of Romanians in the city is just 2. Hungarians make up Thus, the number of Romanians in Szekelyudvarhely is nominal. I imagine that most of them are only here as representatives of the national government. Perhaps from a Romanian perspective, this would be a hardship posting, working in a bizarre environment where they might feel like a foreigner in their own country. Szekelyland may be in Romania, but from what I saw there is hardly any Romania in Szekelyland. The difference between the two is more than a divide, it is a chasm. Several days in the city did much to change my mind. While their total numbers have dropped in Szekelyland, the Szekely are holding on tighter than ever to their ethnic heritage and what they consider their homeland. This adherence to Szkely freedom has been a boon to the economy, at least in Szkelyudvarhely which seemed to be doing remarkably well for a provincial outpost. There is an entire cottage industry of Szekely heritage tourism that brings a stampede of Hungarians each summer. Szekely villages attract tourists who stay for several nights or longer in Szekelyudvarhely. These tourists fill local coffers with the money they spend. Szekelyudvarhely may be a small urban center, but its continued prosperity depends to a certain extent on the nearby villages and heritage tourism they manage to attract. It was a marriage made possible by Hungarians back in the mother country longing for a land and way of life that does not exist back home. Szekelyudvarhely may be of Hungary, but it is not Hungary. This is part of its magnetic attraction for Magyars. Nothing in the future is likely to alter that fantastic feeling. Subscribe Subscribed. Europe Between East And West. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website.

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