Florence's Jewish history offers less well-known sites for tourists.
The synagogue dome, a placid copper peak in a sea of terra-cotta tiled roofs, keeps quiet watch over a way of life that refuses to die. On the edge of the old city, the Jewish Synagogue of Florence is the lone sentinel of Florence's Jewish past and present. The number of Jews living here today barely scrapes 1,000, leaving a scant few to tell the story of how this once thriving enclave built a small settlement on the Arno into an international commercial crossroads. Jews lived in the various Italian principalities long before Florence became an important Renaissance city: letters and contracts dating to the sixth century detail the deals cut and promises made between Jews and Gentiles. But the importance of Jewish bankers in early Christian times pales in significance to the role they played as financiers to Florence's leading family, the Medici. This wealthy merchant clan that spawned popes and dukes alike began its reign over the Florentine republic in 1430, and owed its success and stability in large part to Jewish fiscal ingenuity. The Jewish community's own safety, however, was by no means secure. Despised as usurers and non-believers by Christians, especially by those who owed debts they couldn't repay, Jews were subjected to ridicule and violence. Their fortunes waxed and waned with those of their powerful patron, and when in the middle of the 16th century the last of the great Medici, Cosimo, petitioned the pope to grant him the title of Grand Duke of Tuscany, the Jews' luck ran out. Cosimo impressed Pope Pius V by instating antisemitic policies, a virtual carte blanche to the general population to persecute the Jews. They were forced to wear distinguishing badges, forfeit their banking licenses, and live in a separate neighborhood, the ghetto. While the ghetto protected the Jews from outside acrimony, its protective walls did more to alienate than to shield. The relegation of the community to a small urban quarter further segregated the Jews from the local people, ultimately promoting Gentile fear, envy and contempt. The next two centuries brought the Jews little relief. Finally, the enlightened rulers of the House of Lorraine, the French family that ruled Tuscany beginning in the late 18th century, began to ease the restrictions, but it wasn't until Napoleon's armies swept through the region in 1808 and established fair governance for the Jewish community that the situation truly began to improve. The balance of the 19th century brought slow but sure progress, giving birth to a renaissance that continues today, centered on the activities at Florence's synagogue. The religious and cultural complex at Via Farini 4 includes a temple, museum and bookshop that sells admission, volumes on Jewish art and history and souvenirs. Next door to it is Ruth's Kosher Vegetarian Food, a restaurant that features Middle Eastern specialties made mild for the Italian palate. Together they are a revenue-producing oasis for the tiny Jewish community in an endless expanse of Christian attractions, and although the synagogue cannot compete with the world-famous cathedral or Michelangelo's "David," it does draw 40,000 tourists each year. Predictably, most of them are Jewish; most non-Jewish tourists either aren't aware of the temple's existence, or don't realize its historical significance. "We have an exquisite collection of ritual objects in the museum, artworks that anybody, Jewish or not, would appreciate," says Emmanuel Viterbo, secretary of the Florentine Jewish Community. "But it is mostly the Jewish tourists who come to Florence who end up here. Most of them are Americans and Israelis who visit during the summer, although we sometimes get Italian students who come by to learn about the Jewish culture. It would be great if everyone who toured Tuscany would come to see this place. But there is so much to see in Italy and people have limited vacation time, so the synagogue gets overlooked." But no one with an eye for beauty could fail to notice this magnificent temple structure. The architects who built the "new" synagogue more than a century ago - Marco Treves, Mariano Falcini and Vincenzo Micheli - decided that the temple should celebrate Judaism's ancient Near Eastern origins, an aim that's apparent in its exotic exterior. Tapping into the 19th-century penchant for mixing historical styles, they produced a building with a soaring Byzantine vault and intricate Moorish decoration, a combination that stuns the senses and dazzles the imagination. At first glance, you might take it for an Eastern Orthodox church in an olive grove, or a North African mosque in a garden. But the synagogue's appearance does more than conjure a mysterious atmosphere; it parallels the situation of those who worship within. The building embodies the Jewish community's dilemma of cultivating a minority faith in a Christian land. Foreign, beautiful and misunderstood, it celebrates the uncompromising strength of the Jewish faith, and revels in the ties that make its congregation a distinct but integral part of the Italian people. Other than the synagogue complex, there is little visual evidence of this powerful bond in the Florentine cityscape, making it easy to understand why Jewish history ranks low on the typical tourist itinerary. Many sites that once harbored Jewish life simply no longer exist. Whereas Prague's ghetto survived the centuries to become a virtual pilgrimage site, Florence's fell victim to the municipal wrecking ball in the 1860s. Florence was then the capital of the newly formed kingdom of Italy, and in a fit of nationalistic fervor, the city demolished the decrepit 300-year-old Jewish quarter and erected the pretentious Piazza della Repubblica in its place. Pricey hotels and bustling boutiques now stand where generations of Jewish families once lived. The destruction of the ghetto was a move toward liberation: no longer did the Jews have to live in a segregated city sector. But when it was razed, important landmarks of Jewish history were irretrievably lost. Gone were two synagogues, one Italian and one Levantine, schools, a kosher market, a bathhouse and several charitable organizations. Cemeteries dating to the 16th century and plaques commemorating tragedies of the 20th are the only physical records of the community's presence. They are fascinating but reserved reminders of a resilient people, far too concise to tell a complete story, and far too cool to fuel the fire of revival. Although the existence of the temple complex may hardly seem extraordinary to the seasoned traveler, history insists that this case is special. Centuries of strife lie behind what the outsider may see as small steps that the Jewish community has taken to reestablish itself. But considering that Jew and Gentile now voluntarily stand side by side while touring the sacred precinct, heads covered out of respect for the God they share, intent on honoring the lives of people whose faith and determination preserved an exquisite perspective, it's clear that this Jewish community has made great strides in rebuilding its civic presence. What stands at Via Farini 4 is a miracle of faith that soars to the sky with the strength of the human spirit, a feat of love that honors so much more than Florence's famed skyline.