The Rumbach Synagogue in Budapest

The Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867 marked not only a constitutional turning point but also opened up new political and economic opportunities for the Jewish population. In the same year, the Hungarian Parliament passed Act XVII, granting full legal equality to the Jewish religious community and lifting previous restrictions – for example, on participation in public life and the right to settle in cities.1 Parallel to this legal emancipation, and closely linked to it, the presence of the Jewish population in urban spaces increased markedly, particularly in . Following the unification of Buda, Pest, and Óbuda in 1873, and amid a period of rapid economic growth, the city evolved into a major metropolis. Non-Jewish society in Budapest was relatively open toward assimilated Jews – particularly when they adapted culturally, for example through language, dress, customs, and traditions, and did not appear as economic or social competitors.2 Yet this openness also brought a new kind of challenge: how to maintain a distinct Jewish identity amid growing assimilation pressures. Neither the receiving non-Jewish middle class nor the Jewish population undergoing assimilation formed a single, unified group. A large part of Budapest’s non-Jewish urban society came from immigrant backgrounds – mainly of German, Slovak, or Romanian origin – and their own pursuit of a modern Hungarian national identity often went hand in hand with Jewish efforts to integrate.3 Within the Jewish community itself, there were significant distinctions – economic, linguistic, and religious. After internal conflicts that came to a head in 1869, Hungarian Jewry split into three branches: the reform-oriented Neolog congregations, the strictly traditional Orthodox congregations, and those who adhered to the status quo, continuing to follow earlier forms of religious and communal organization.

These ambivalences were particularly evident in the community that lived around Rumbach-Sebestyén Street. Many of these people came from rural areas, where core religious practices were upheld, such as observing the Sabbath and keeping kosher.4 From backgrounds that mostly ranged from small-town roots to bourgeois households, they had successfully integrated into urban economic and cultural life, adopted Hungarian as their everyday language, and formed a distinctive social stratum within the heterogeneous synagogue congregation, which included Orthodox newcomers, neolog Jewish city-dwellers of Czech-Moravian origin, and devout believers, who adhered to tradition while also embracing modern life.5 Erecting the Rumbach Synagogue represented a key early expression of the congregation’s self-understanding. Completed between 1869 and 1872, the building served not only as a place of worship but also as a visible emblem of their cultural and social presence.

The commission to build the synagogue went to the 26-year-old Christian Viennese architect Otto Wagner, who proposed an orientalist design. At first glance, this choice might seem paradoxical. Seen in the context of the community’s complex identity dilemmas, however, it was a deliberate attempt to find an architectural language capable of accommodating the tensions between religious tradition, modern urban life, and Hungarian national belonging. In this way, the Rumbach Synagogue became a symbol of those complex self-conceptions that could not be reduced to a single affiliation, but were revealed through the interplay of various cultural and social reference points.

An orientalist architectural language was characteristic of 19th-century synagogue design in Europe, as exemplified by Gottfried Semper’s synagogue in Dresden (1838–1840), the Leopoldstadt Temple in Vienna (1854–1858), and the Great Synagogue on Dohány Street in Budapest (1854–1859), both of which were built according to designs by Ludwig Förster. Like many of his contemporaries, Otto Wagner integrated various architectural elements with deliberate purpose and intent. In the case of the Rumbach Synagogue, the primary considerations were the needs of a growing collective within a rapidly expanding city, as well as an unequivocal commitment to the material employed.

At first, only the main façade of the building is visible, since the structure stands in a narrow lane and is largely hidden from view (Fig. 1).6  The façade is articulated around a central risalit, flanked by two minaret-like towers named Jachin and Boaz – a biblical reference to the pillars of Solomon’s Temple.7 In the Jewish architectural tradition, these two motifs symbolize divine constancy and strength.8 Their incorporation lends the building a symbolically charged, identity-forming dimension. The ornamentation draws on orientalist elements that had been familiar and popular since the 1850s, while also including the architect’s own variations. The sculptural elements were executed in terracotta and light sandstone. The banding is partly brick and partly painted to imitate brickwork. The resulting joints create a light, vertical rhythm and an overall carpet-like pattern, which cleverly links the exterior of the building with the interior. Inside, Wagner used thin walls and slender columns to create the illusion of a spacious tent, designed to enhance the communal experience of the synagogue congregation (Fig. 2). In this way, the spatial design unites the tent and the temple as central sites of Jewish memory.

Although the building suffered severe damage in 1944, it continued to be used as a synagogue until 1959. In the 1960s, the congregation, facing financial hardship, ceded the right of use to the City of Budapest, after which the synagogue fell into decades of decay. In a prolonged bureaucratic struggle, the Budapest Office for the Preservation of Monuments fought to maintain the synagogue’s character and to prevent its conversion into an event venue or storage facility. In the 1980s, the building underwent partial renovation, but its use remained uncertain. It was not until 2005 that the congregation succeeded in reacquiring the property through a real estate exchange. Another ten years later, a government grant of 3.2 billion forints made a complete restoration possible.9 The guiding idea behind the redesign was that the diversity of religions and nations represents a significant value for society. The project’s initiators understand the site – also referred to as the House of Coexistence – as a representation of the structural relationships between Jewish and non-Jewish life across time and space.10 This coexistence is interpreted and fostered as a dynamic interaction. The complex therefore includes a museum, a café equipped for evening events, a conference room, and spaces for project work by artists and associations.

The complete restoration of the Rumbach Synagogue between 2018 and 2020 restored the building to its former glory. One of the most significant structural changes was that the women’s gallery, which in Otto Wagner’s design extended between the first and second floors, was not reconstructed. Instead, the space that was freed up now serves as an exhibition area devoted to the building’s history. In the upper zone of the former gallery – at the level of the second floor – a connecting bridge has been added, linking the right and left wings of the building. Architecturally, it bridges tradition and modernity, reflecting both the social transformation within the congregation and advances in construction (fig. 3). From here, visitors gain a comprehensive view of the fully restored synagogue interior and the newly established café. Along three of the window frames, the iron beam system has been exposed, revealing a central element of Otto Wagner’s innovative construction design – one that was ahead of its time and only became standard practice later (fig. 4). In addition, innovative technical and digital solutions have been implemented. The bimah, the reading platform, is equipped with an electronic lifting and lowering mechanism, allowing the synagogue’s main hall to be used multifunctionally for both sacred and secular purposes (fig. 5). Museum visitors also receive information on selected exhibits through an exhibition guide that activates automatically when they approach each object.

The annex of the synagogue, originally built as a residential house, served for decades as accommodation for rabbis and also housed the Jewish community’s girls’ elementary school. It, too, has undergone considerable transformation. Today, it houses facilities for public use. Together with the changes made to the synagogue itself, these functional transformations have lent the building complex a distinctly museum-like character. However, multifunctionality is by no means new to the site: from the outset, it has always been adapted to meet the diverse needs of its users – as a place of assembly, prayer, teaching, and residence.

Today, the synagogue brings together two types of functions that must meet very different expectations – those of a museum and those of a sacred space. The ability of the synagogue’s architecture to unite elements of representative display with those of individual appeal complements the museum’s goal of engaging a wide range of audiences. Like many museums as places of remembrance, the Rumbach Synagogue offers visitors the opportunity to engage with the historical, cultural, social, religious, and geographical dimensions of their own identity – aspects that shape both personal and collective self-understanding. At the same time, the project team faces the challenge of addressing potential conflicts typical of the museum context. Viewing objects can itself be a source of inner tension for visitors, prompting questions such as: Am I observing ‘correctly’? What am I meant to perceive here? What should I feel? Further potential for conflict arises within the Rumbach Synagogue’s faith community, where the adaptive reuse of the space has sparked debate: Has the atmosphere become too secularized? Does it still reflect the character of the original building?

These tensions are not inherently negative; on the contrary, they can stimulate productive processes of development – whether in personal reflection on one’s own identity or in the collective negotiation of shared memory. The question of forward-looking thinking and action is pertinent to the Rumbach Synagogue in two respects: as a building, it is itself a key medium of communication – linking older and younger generations, tradition and contemporary life, past and future. At the same time, as a newly established museum, it forms part of an international museum landscape currently undergoing a longoverdue period of transformation. In this context, participatory approaches and digital media – such as interactive displays, digital storytelling formats, and mobile applications – play an increasingly important role in actively involving the public in shaping memory and knowledge. For example, the project managers aptly observed in their concept paper that the notion of “living together” is constantly evolving. Accordingly, the museum itself cannot remain a static space.

The redesign of the Rumbach Synagogue and its architectural form influence one another, thereby touching upon the much-discussed theoretical question of the relationship between form and function. At times, this relationship is clearly apparent – for example, in the adaptable use of the synagogue hall, made possible by a bimah that can be raised and lowered, or, conversely, where the building’s spatial design itself becomes integral to the museum’s concept. When the expectations of the community are taken into account, however, the relationship between form and function becomes significantly more complex, as functional requirements intersect with social, religious, and cultural dimensions.

With the restoration and adaptive reuse of the Rumbach Synagogue, what has been lost cannot be returned, nor can the original atmosphere be recreated. What is possible, however, is to understand and respond to the needs of those who engage with the building – on the one hand as a work of architecture, and on the other as an experiential space – be they museum visitors, former congregants, staff, or members of the interested public. These needs can then be met, insofar as possible, through appropriate architectural forms and functions. Whereas the architecture of Otto Wagner’s time created a space for engaging with the social and religious questions of its own era, the task now is to harness the building’s potential to engage with the challenges and questions of the present and future – and for this to be an ongoing endeavor.

English translation: William Connor