Bright sun glared off the stark white exterior of the Shaare Shalom Synagogue as Morgan and Jake walked inside its gates. They passed palm trees and a well-watered garden as they headed toward the giant door.
It opened on their approach and an elderly black man walked out, wrinkles belying his age even though he moved with the sprightly ease of a younger man. He wore a kippah over his close-cropped white hair and beamed in welcome, holding out his arms wide. “Shalom, friends. I’m Desomond. Come on in.”
The synagogue had two levels of dark wooden seating either side of a central area where the Torah Ark stood on a raised dais. There was sand on the floor, echoing Ets Haim in Amsterdam.
Desomond noticed Morgan glance down and explained the custom. “It’s not a memento of the island’s beach
