7-9 Minute Read

​

Introduction

In the shadowy alleys of 19th-century Manchester, a quiet revolution was unfolding—one not of politics or power, but of perseverance and prayer. As the century waned, a wave of Jewish immigrants surged into the UK, driven by fear, poverty, and dreams of a safer tomorrow. While cities like Leeds drew tightly clustered communities from the Baltic, Manchester became a mosaic of Jewish life, enriched by threads from across Eastern Europe and the Levant.

​

Among these threads were the Romanians. From the towns of Jassy, Vaslui, Roman, and Negresti, they arrived with little more than their faith, language, and a deep-rooted tradition: Nusach Sefard, a Hasidic liturgy misunderstood by the mainstream German-Jewish congregations already established in the city. Though many Romanians joined these congregations, others felt adrift—strangers even among their own. So they did what immigrants across the world have always done when confronted by the unfamiliar: they created a space of their own.

​

1888: A Corner of Home in a Foreign Land

On 1 November 1888, in the heart of Strangeways—just 200 yards from Victoria Station—the Romanian shtiebel was born. Nestled on Bridden Street, this modest sanctuary became more than a synagogue; it was a haven. Not far from it stood a Romanian kosher restaurant, a reminder that this was not just a place of worship, but the centre of an emerging world.

​

Just a year later, their efforts were formalised with the consecration of the New Rumanian Synagogue (Kenesses Beis Yaakov), a humble yet bold declaration of presence in a city still learning their names.

​

Integration, Identity, and the Ironies of Belonging

By 1902, the congregation had appointed a Secretary for Marriages—a sign that they were no longer merely surviving, but integrating. Yet within just a few years, internal rifts gave rise to further synagogues, echoing the diversity and dynamism of the community itself. The Hay Shop, so nicknamed for its Waterloo Road location, became one of these splinters.

​

Eventually, the branches reunited. In 1914, they moved to Ramsgate Street in Lower Broughton and built the New Roumanian Synagogue (Beis Hakenesses Beis Yisroel), a spiritual home carved from stone, memory, and unity. When it was consecrated in 1919 by none other than Haham Moses Gaster—a Romanian himself—the community celebrated not just a building, but a triumph of identity.

​

The Architects of Legacy

Their first official Rabbi, Jacob Shachter, brought both charisma and scholarship. A prodigy from Frumusica, he established daily learning groups and expanded the synagogue’s physical and intellectual structure before moving on to become Chief Rabbi of Northern Ireland.

​

The building itself, redesigned in the early 1920s by Peter Cummings—later famed for his cinema designs—stood as a proud architectural statement. The synagogue now seated over 350 worshippers and stood shoulder to shoulder with Manchester’s major Jewish institutions.

​

Struggles, Survivors, and Spiritual Stalwarts

But as with all immigrant communities, time brought change. The 1930s to 1950s witnessed a migration northward to Prestwich and Broughton Park, leaving Lower Broughton—and the synagogue—quiet and nearly empty. Only about 60 members remained. And yet, unlike many synagogues that folded or lost their spirit, this community endured.

​

Some credit goes to Reb Zyshi Golditch, a humble man with unshakable devotion, often seen in traditional Hasidic garb—the first to do so publicly in Manchester. His son, Dayan Isaac Golditch, carried that mantle during the synagogue’s lean years.

 

An Unlikely Rescue in Toronto

In 1940, Rabbi David Ochs—an eloquent scholar who escaped Vienna’s flames—took the pulpit. But in a twist of fate, he visited Toronto in 1946 and so dazzled the congregation there that they refused to let him return. The story goes that his travel agent was paid not to book his ticket home.

​

New Beginnings on Vine Street​

In 1953, thanks to a generous member, the community moved to Vine Street, transforming a former kosher caterer’s banqueting hall into their new spiritual home. Though they changed their name to the North Salford Synagogue—a wartime adjustment after Romania joined the Axis powers—they never abandoned their customs. The benches, the bimah, even the minhagim (customs) travelled with them.

And though the architecture may have disappointed some, the soul of the community endured.

​

A Renaissance Under Rabbi Rabinowitz

In 1961, a new chapter began. Rabbi Lippa Rabinowitz, a homegrown scholar with deep Rabbinic roots, became Rabbi and principal of Manchester Jewish Grammar School. Under his leadership, the synagogue blossomed into a vibrant community of working professionals (Baalei Batim) deeply committed to Torah, community service, and education.

The musical soul of the synagogue flourished too, with beloved cantors like Shimon Cutler and Shlomo Chrysler leading prayers that echoed with joy, sorrow, and hope.

​

Today: A Hidden Gem with Deep Roots

Since 2008, under Rabbi Elozor Stefansky—a Canadian-born scholar with deep connections to the Whitefield Kollel—the synagogue has seen an influx of young families. Though many now refer to it simply as Vine Street, few realise its roots trace back to Romanian towns half a world away.

​

In an age of labels, the synagogue defies categorisation. It is not quite Chassidic, not quite mainstream. It is proudly Nusach Sefard, proudly obscure, proudly itself.

​

And that is what makes Vine Street Shul extraordinary.