Prague, Czechoslovakia

The capital city of Prague, Czechoslovakia, has one of the oldest Jewish communities in Europe. For over 900 years Jews have been living there with a history of both prosperity and persecution. They have built magnificent synagogues, influenced politics, culture and business, and been an integral part of the significance of Prague throughout the world.

When the Nazis entered Prague on March 15, 1939, there were about 56,000 Jews living there. Over the next six years more than 46,000 were deported, many to Teresienstadt. The city of Prague, though, has managed to endure as a center of Jewish cultural life. For half a century the remnants of the Jewish community has once again flourished.

Immediately prior to this dark period in Jewish history was a time when Jews enjoyed a great measure of success and acceptance. In 1883, Franz Kafka was born to an affluent Jewish family. Educated in German schools and the German University, Kafka established himself as a prominent writer, giving voice to the yearning in every soul. Some of Kafka's brilliant writings appear in notebooks he filled over his brief lifetime of 41 years. In one passage he asserts: "a book ought to be an icepick to break up the frozen seas within us."

Piercing the frozen tundra of the human heart is a challenge not only to every writer, but to every one who seeks connection. Indeed, there are times when our hearts are devoid of the warm feelings of human kindness. But the coldness of our facade may in fact be only that: a facade. Like the blanketing snows we have been subject to this winter, with ice covering the ground beneath us, we, too may be hiding the warmth of our hearts under the enveloping ice, perhaps requiring a pick to pierce the frozen seas within us. Yet we are not alone. We all wear masks at times, hiding the fullness of our emotions. Not to worry, though, for the wearing of masks is most appropriate for this season on the Jewish calendar.

March is a time to welcome the spring thaws. As Jews, though, we can anticipate more than the sun's increasing warmth. Spring reminds us that Purim is also nearing. Purim is a holiday known for dressing up, acting silly, and most importantly, wearing masks. The Hebrew word for mask is Masecha, and its three-letter-root is the same for the word Sukkah. Like the Sukkah, a frail shelter we erect in the fall, with its thin scattering of branches allowing the light to pass through, a mask is a thin veil, allowing us to peer through it, even as it provides a measure of protection for our true identity. On Purim we join in the festivities of Queen Esther's party, drinking, dancing and donning masks.

There is, though, another important connection between the Masecha, the mask of Purim, and the Sukkah. As a Sukkah is a temporary structure, so too, our mask is meant to be temporary. Purim, then, is not only a time for putting on our masks, allowing us to masquerade for a day, Purim is also a time when we must remove our veil. We acknowledge that there is a time for hiding -- whether it is to protect our Jewish identity from tyrants and despots who wish to destroy us, or to protect a deeper sense of self, one found in the recesses of the heart. The former may keep us safe from the gallows of Shushan or the transports of Europe. The latter, though, locks our unique contribution to the community and our human emotions beneath the frozen seas of cold indifference. Our Jewish calendar teaches us that Purim is also a time for revealing our true selves, for openly sharing our hopes and dreams, for honestly revealing our imperfections and working together to overcome our challenges, for taking off the mask behind which we hide.

On this holiday of Purim may we masquerade in celebration of a Jewish identity shared by Esther, Mordecai and our ancestors. And may we remember, also, at the end of the day, to take off our mask and reveal our truest self, toasting with one another: L'chai'im -- to the fullness of our life!