Postcard image of Hagenau from the Weil Family Scrapbooks featuring the distinct “half-timbered” architecture.
Life in Alsace
Costume and Faith
We are looking at a dirt road in Hagenau, the small town in Alsace where the ancestors of Charles Weil are buried. The Weils’ home was nearby, in Surbourg, an even smaller village. Both are just west of the Rhine.
Perhaps the women are coming from market—one woman appears burdened with a large pack. The woman closest to the camera appears to be holding her Siddur (prayer book). Everyone is dressed in black. It is a somber scene; the daily costume of this region appears dour and severe.
I have yet to find a description of the daily dress, but on Shabbes (the Ashkenazic, Alsatian spelling for the Sabbath)
“the men wear loose black trousers that nearly cover their big oiled boots, a huge but very short blue frock coat, with oversized lapels and a massive collar, a hat that is narrow at the base and widens towards the top, and a shirt of coarse but white fabric. The shirt bears two white collars so tremendous that they block the face entirely, and so starched that these fine people must turn their body to look left or right. The women wear a dark gown and a large red shawl adorned with green palm leaves, and a tulle cap laden with red ribbons. A band of velvet takes the place of their hair, which has been concealed since their wedding day.”1
On holidays, the women spruced their costumes up with colors and ribbons. The distinctive and remarkable clothing of Alsatian life was not limited to Jews. Catholic and Protestant women wore caps with outlandish, large black bows framing their faces.
I wonder what it was like to wear these clothes with their blinder-like qualities. While the Jewish men’s collars required them to turn their bodies in order to see, the women’s bows must have been similarly imposing. Perhaps these limitations helped to maintain one’s spiritual focus, to not be distracted by life’s peripheries.
How hard must it have been to launder, starch and iron the men’s stiff collars. What resolve and patience, just to get dressed and move about. The formality of the costume mimics (and fortifies) the formality of religious ceremony. Their unity extends from their uniform. Looking back in time to this isolated and small community of faith in the Old World, I’m struck by the vulnerability of the wearer of these costumes and how the Ashkenazi Jews depended (and relied upon) the safety of their holy spaces. Yet from this comes their strength.
Maybe we perform something similar when we close our eyes in prayer. During blessings in large rooms filled with people, I do feel vulnerable when I close my eyes, like I am giving something up. I know it is in exchange for building and connecting with my spirituality, but I can’t resist opening my eyes just to peek, maybe to find someone else curious like me. I’m wondering who, besides God—if we believe in God—is watching. Usually nobody is, because looking is a little like cheating, a violation of trust with the people who have obediently shut their eyes.
Closing one’s eyes in a moment of prayer is a posture of the faithful, and this submission, in a community setting, joins us with others.
But when we do this, who and what are we shutting out? I was raised Catholic, and when I said my prayers as a child I didn’t know where to stop. Didn’t the whole world need God’s help? I resorted to a blanket statement.
When I am in a room listening to a Christian-led prayer I am thinking of the Jews. I have rarely heard Jewish prayers, but recently I attended a function with some Jewish cousins. I didn’t know the Hebrew words or the traditions of prayer, but I did recognize the actions of the faithful.
In our mixed-up, global world of multivalent faiths and cultures, the traditions that cross all divides include eyes closed in reverence and the words of good will.
It was tradition, as my Ashkenazi ancestors passed one another, to speak the classic greeting, Sholem Aleichem (Peace be with You), which was returned with Aleichem Sholem (Peace be with you, too). When I imagine how these words were spoken by those walking the street in this old photo, the somber mood lifts and I see the women’s robes as a calm peace blanketing their lives.
Thanks for reading this free newsletter, a side project featuring research from the book I’m writing:
A Guera’s Guide to Ranch Life: Lessons My Father Never Taught Me is a memoir plus offering a humorous, refreshing look at South Texas history, including one of Texas’ first Jewish cattle ranchers and his wife who raised eleven children. Atwell, questioning why her father became a dentist instead of a rancher and why she never knew she was part Jewish, takes readers on a scavenger hunt across South Texas and the centuries, uncovering hidden truths and awakening the magic of this seemingly barren geography. At a time when America is more polarized than ever, Atwell’s book is a rare and playful take on dichotomies such as Christian/Jewish; blonde/brunette; and city/country.
Stauben, Daniel, and Steven Capsuto, trans. Scenes of Jewish Life in Alsace: Village Tales from 19th-Century France (Between Wanderings Press, 2018), 2.
Such a beautiful description! I love how you weave vulnerability, holy space, and the strength that must have come within this community.