Although there is a large, active Jewish community in St. Petersburg, Russia, including many full-time Chabad emissaries, during the summer there is a greater influx of tourists, so we were recruited to assist them. We spent the majority of our days at the entrance to the 124-year-old Great Choral Synagogue, trying to connect with visitors and passersby.

Over the course of the summer, we put on tefillin with 606 men, gave out Shabbat candles to 252 women, had countless hours of conversation about Jewish life, and connected multiple people to their local Chabad center. Of the people who put on tefillin, 51 were first-timers, which we celebrated as their bar mitzvahs.

The majority of the bar mitzvahs were with St. Petersburg residents who were visiting the synagogue—a historic landmark, many of whom were denied a Jewish education back in the day, and therefore didn’t have much Jewish knowledge to impart to their children. In fact, we had a memorable father-son joint bar mitzvah, and another gentleman shared that he had spent his entire life searching for meaning, and realized he had finally found it. Four of our ‘bar-mitzvah boys’ returned every single weekday after their initial visit to continue putting on tefillin daily, and when we left we made sure to connect them with another Chabad rabbi. We have since learned that they are still at the synagogue every morning, and one of them has even purchased his own pair so that he will never miss a day.

Jacob, probably in his mid-seventies, was visiting from France. When we asked him if he would like to put on tefillin, he politely declined. An hour later, he was still studying the beautiful architecture, so we decided we would give it another shot. This time, he explained that his father had lived through the Holocaust, narrowly escaping execution at several death camps, and as a result raised his children without any Judaism. In fact, when he had turned thirteen, his mother had wanted to celebrate his bar mitzvah, but his father was adamantly opposed. “If I do put on tefillin now,” he said, “I feel like I will be disrespecting my late father’s memory.”

We expressed our sympathies, but added that his father is in the World of Truth now, where every mitzvah is valued so dearly. And while every mitzvah is important, putting on tefillin connects us with G‑d in a unique way. We talked some more and soon Jacob sat up straight and said he was ready.

We helped him wrap the straps on his arms and head, and slowly said the blessings together. Jacob’s entire demeanor changed. He was joyful and composed, and asked us to photograph this moment for posterity. We sang and danced together, and then Jacob got ready to leave. “Thank you very much for my bar mitzvah. You boys were right.” He pointed to his heart and continued. “I truly feel that my father is rejoicing with me.”

Americans are loud. We're brash and busy, and we like our Judaism that way as well.
Russians also have their bravado . . . but when it comes to religion, there is a certain simplicity, a certain wholeness of the heart and soul, which we Americans lack.

There has been much made in the press about Chabad's success in the Former Soviet Union. Whatever the cause may be, in part it is not just due to Chabad's own efforts but also due to the perception of the locals on how Judaism ought to be.

No matter their walk of life, or level of personal observance, many of the locals wish to see Judaism in its pure state – unadulterated by politics and agendas. They want Torahs and Tefillin, Schnapps and Herring, Hebrew and Yiddish.

Since I am an American, and thus gifted with that proud sense of pomp and bombast which our manifest destiny has blessed us with (and it's a good thing, don't doubt me), I immediately noticed the Americans who came into the S. Petersburg Synagogue.

I noticed the Israelis as well – they all had skipper caps and spoke in loud, thick Hebrew, asking questions but not patient enough to hear the answers.

I noticed the Mexican Jews as well: large families sporting spiked hair and Jewish bling – golden Stars of David and Hamsas, proud to be a Jewish minority in Mexico City – the most densely populated city in the world.

I would notice the British, the South Africans, the Australians and the Italians . . . and the French. How could one forget the French?

But of the Russian Jew, of the local who weathered the fire of Nazism, the ice of Communism, and then the gradual thaw (and resulting chaos) of the fall of a political system so great that none had fathomed that such a day would arrive in their lifetimes? Of this brave soul, sojourner of the cataclysmic tides of history of which he sat in the eye of the storm? Of him I sadly did not take notice.

At first.

But as time has gone by, when I've turned away from the questions of the Americans ('Is there Anti-Semitism?') and the Israelis ('Do You speak Hebrew?), I noticed the local Jews who come to their synagogue.

They come. The young – clad in western blue-jeans and stylish shirts, the old – with weathered jackets and battered caps or Babushkas, and they pray. They take out a book of Psalms, or a prayerbook, and they sit in the solitude of their synagogue – one that sheltered them during the German siege and was open during the darkest days of Communism.

They pray in silence, the silence of the soul that calls out to G‑d not in words, not pompous voices, or even roaring tears, but the utter silence of the soul as it communes with its Creator in a way so deep, so whole and so real, that words, even sacred ones, would pervert it as sacrilegious.

And when they are done, they kiss their prayerbooks, tucking them safely aside in the shelves behind the pews, and leave.

I notice them. And I am in awe.

When people enter the S. Petersburg Synagogue, if they're not being herded by the cruise tour-guide, they often approach me on their own. This approach is no ordinary 'Hello, how are you?' or 'Could you please help me?' No. This look is most similar to one an explorer would wear when approaching some newly discovered tribe in the uncharted jungles of the Amazon or Papua, New Guinea.

A typical conversation goes something like this:

Tourist:
Pointing to himself (though in truth I should say herself – due to an unforeseen quirk of chivalry, women are often the first to enter, while the menfolk hold the door open)
"Shalom."

Me:
"Hi. How are you doing today?"

Tourist:
"We -Americans. Amerikansky. Americans . . . Yes. We no speak Russian – No. English – Yes. Russian – No." -I almost expect someone to raise his hand one day and say 'We come in peace.'

Me:
"Yes, I see. I'm from Los Angeles . . . Where are you from?"

Tourist:
"No. We are not from Los Angeles. Los Angeles in California. We – Florida. Florida. Flo-Ree-Dah. Amerikansky."

Me:
"No, you see I am from Los Angeles. I was wondering where you were from."

Tourist:
"Well I'll be jiggered! I thought you spoke English rather well!"

More meaningful Conversation ensues...

The average Jew traveling Europe sees dozens and dozens of cathedrals and the like; often in places which he knows were formerly centers of Jewish life. There is something missing . . . he misses his own heritage.

The other day, for example, three families entered through the sweeping Moorish arches of the synagogue. One was affiliated with Chabad in D.C., while the other two were self described Reformed and secular Jews respectively (I told them that labels were for supermarkets, not for Jews).

As I showed them around the synagogue, I asked one of the husbands – we'll call him Ira (not that his name was Ira but I have yet to meet an Ira who isn't Jewish) –if he wanted to put on Tefillin. He demurred.

As the tour progressed, I asked another member of the group if he wanted to put on Tefillin. Though this individual was nervous, as he had never done so before, he agreed to go ahead and do the Petersburg Tefillin Express (as I have since dubbed the experience of putting on Tefillin here). After the third man, who as mention supported Chabad, got in on the deal, Ira decided to put on Tefillin as well . . . it was a truly moving experience.

The other day, a group of Farsi-speaking Jews came to the synagogue. Living in Los Angeles, I am rather familiar with Persian Jews and their various customs. In fact, I used to spend time visiting Persian merchants in LA's fashion district on a weekly basis, laying Tefillin with them. Thus fortified, I called the group over for little inspiration and spirituality.

Soon Shmuli and I had them all putting on Tefillin . . . Nothing out of the ordinary in the day's work of a Roving Rabbi. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar face – one of my close friends from Downtown LA!

Playing it cool, as it were, I waved to him, as if it was one of our weekly meetings in LA. He did a double take, his eyes almost popping out, and teared up with emotion.

One can not describe the joy and surprise of traveling half way around the world, only to see the face of a longtime acquaintance!

That evening, Chief Rabbi Pewzner recommended that we stroll around the city and visit the hotels, in order to locate various other vacationing members of the Tribe.

As we walked down one of main thoroughfares, passing the acclaimed Mariinsky Theatre, we stopped briefly in a 24 hour convenience store to pick up a calling card (Called Hallo Mama, it costs 150 Rubles and gives rates to call Palestine[sic], but not Israel). Besides calling cards, they sold fruit, bread and a sickening amount of alcohol . . . including these 3 liter bottles of beer (yuck!)

In the Astoria, one of Petersburg's nicest hotels, we met a lovely Jewish couple from Denver resting in the hotel's lounge after a long day touring the city.

Joining them, we spoke for a while about various topics of interest -Jewish history in Russia and S. Peterburg, the Holocaust, life in Colorado and the discovery of natural gas off the coast of Haifa.

Before Petersburg, they had been in Lithuania, where Colly, the husband, had roots. We spoke about the community there, what was, what could have been and the recent blossoming Jewish life after the Holocaust and Communism . . . Concluding that we needed to do something practical, I suggested putting on tefillin.

It was already 9:50 in the evening, but with the sun shining outside, it hardly could be called night.

Walking through the streets in the eerie evening light, everything took on a surreal, dreamlike state. My senses told me that I was tired from a long day's work . . . but it just seemed too bright outside. Perhaps, to some small extent I hope, things were just a little bit brighter due to our work.

I'm back in Russia, for the first time. An odd statement, I'm sure, but I can think of none better to describe what it's like to be here.

Most people, and you know who you are, seem to think I've been to Russia before. When I was growing up in Los Angeles, local Russian immigrants used to think I was Russian. An elderly lady from Odessa once asked me if I was practicing my English...which was surprising, as I didn't know a word of Russian at the time. But I digress.

People seem so convinced that I lived in Russia, because for a considerable amount of time, I lived around Russia – in Poland, Lithuania and Ukraine, all places associated with Russia (the latter two having large Russian speaking populations)...After that year in Eastern Europe, I left with a kasket (Russian style peaked cap) from Poland and a smattering of Russian from Lithuania, but having never stepped foot in Russia proper. I was thus more then intrigued when I was offered the chance to help out with the influx of summer tourists visiting the city of S. Petersburg (formerly Leningrad, formerly Petrograd, formerly S. Petersburg).

Which is why I'm back in Russia for the first time. On one hand everything feels very familiar, on the other everything is new.

Who ever says Communism is gone has never crossed the Russian border… My passport, admittedly well used, did have room for a few more stamps (ok, two, but that should have been enough to enter and exit a country), but a Russian Visa requires two empty pages. Thus off I went to Boro Park, where for the delightful fee of $60 for the additional pages, and $150 for a three day rush, my travel agent arranged the additional pages. When it was returned, my passport came decked out in a leather passport cover (they're all the rage in Lithuania), and a travel kit which includes a sleep mask, ear plugs and one of those fancy blow up neck pillows. I'm still debating if they were worth the cost.

All of this seemed like more then enough to enter the country, but upon reaching passport control, I was asked to fill out a "Migration Card", in duplicate, which wanted such details as my given name(s), birth date (in day/month/year format), purpose of visit and patronymic...which got me worried...I don't think I have a patronymic.

In any event, I managed to get through the border and was greeted by the sights and smells of the City of White Nights.