A Little-Known Rabbi Doctor and his Exceedingly Rare Medical Diploma
Leon Cantarini- AKA Yehuda HaKohen Katz Me-HaHazzanim (University of Padua, 1623)

Rabbi Edward Reichman, MD

Professor of Emergency Medicine, Albert Einstein College of Medicine
Isaac and Bella Tendler Chair of Jewish Medical Ethics, Yeshiva University

 

“He obtained a degree in medicine and philosophy on 31 October 1623, as can be seen from his original diploma which has been perfectly preserved despite the destructive effects of time.” (translated from the Italian)

Marco Osimo 1875

Original Books and manuscripts of past centuries known to historians throughout the ages have sometimes been lost forever to the ravages of time or war. Every so often, these works disappear from the public eye and are preserved in an intentional or accidental state of hibernation, only to reappear centuries later.

In late 2024, Manfred Niekisch, a German biologist, nature conservationist, and former director of the Frankfurt Zoo, died at the age of 73. He left a vast archive covering a wide range of topics, including taxonomy, ecology, behavior and reproduction of reptiles, amphibians and birds, not a place one would expect to find any items of Jewish interest, let alone of importance.

In April 2025 I was contacted to assess the historical significance of a single item from Niekisch’s massive collection. A thematic outlier, it is a small leatherbound volume, the contents of which comprise a seventeenth century medical diploma, and for a Jewish student, nonetheless. I was enlisted to address whether this item has any unique value or contribution to Jewish or medical history. This article constitutes the substance of my response. We will attempt to breathe a little life into this comatose medical document, resuscitate some long-forgotten and little-known archives, and perform at least a preliminary examination of the life of a remarkable, if little-known, Jewish medical graduate of the Early Modern period.

 

The Graduate- Leon Cantarini

The name of our graduate is Leon Cantarini. Leon, the son of Shmuel Cantarini, was one of eight children and a member of a prominent dynastic family in Early Modern Italy. Leon was also known as Yehuda HaKohen Katz Me’ha-Hazzanim. The synonymous Italian and Hebrew family name purportedly derives from family members having led the synagogue services as the hazzan, or cantor. Standard literature searches, including main search engines, library databases (such as the National Library Israel), or archival records (such as Internet Archives and Haithi Trust) yield next to nothing about our graduate. The few brief biobibliographical entries for him are scant, inconsistent, and often error filled.

Much of what we know about Leon is found in a comprehensive nineteenth century Italian biography of the Cantarini family by Marco Osimo, himself a medical graduate of Padua centuries later in 1851. This work was seemingly inaccessible or unknown to many of Leon’s biographers. In this essay we draw on the work of Osimo, correct some earlier biographies (including Osimo), and add much important previously unknown archival material to flesh out the existing skeletal biography of Leon Cantarini.

 

Dates of Birth and Death

Confusion abounds regarding the dates of both Leon’s birth and death. We begin with his date of death, as Leon’s birth date is inferred therefrom. The Jewish Encyclopedia entry for “Cantarini, Judah (Leon) ben Samuel Ha-Kohen,” authored by Louis Ginzberg and Israel Berlin, reads, “Italian physician and rabbi; born about 1650 at Padua; died there April 28, 1694.”[1] While the description is clearly of our graduate, the dates are grossly in error. Perhaps they confused Leon’s date of death with his date of birth. These dates were unfortunately perpetuated by others.[2] Osimo, the definitive biographer of the Cantarini family, places Leon’s date of death in July of 1651 based on a decree from July 20, 1651, announcing the election of Leon’s pupil to a community position, replacing his mentor upon the latter’s death. While this proves that Leon had already died by this date, it does not pinpoint his date of death.

There is a single unexpected, unimpeachable source that states the exact Hebrew date of Leon’s death. Leon’s relative, Isaac Hayyim Cantarini, also a rabbi and graduate of Padua’s medical school, engaged in a correspondence with the Christian theologian Christian Theophil Unger from 1717 to 1719. The exchange was first published by Shadal in his Otzar Nehmad in 1860.[3] While scholars have studied these letters for obvious reasons, they also contain a wealth of biographical information about the Jewish Italian scholars of this period. In a list of the dates of death of a number of prominent members of the Italian Jewish community, we find the following

The date of Leon’s death is listed as 26 Nisan 5410, corresponding to April 27, 1650. He is buried in the ancient (Via Wiel) cemetery of Padua,[4] though his tombstone does not remain.

There is one non-Jewish source, published in 1728, which correctly lists the exact date of Leon’s death.[5]

This is because the Christian author was familiar with the letter exchange of Cantarini and Unger, unlike his Jewish counterparts who only learned of it through the journal of Shadal published over a century later.

There is no independent source confirming the day or year of Leon’s birth. What is known with certainty is that he died at the age of fifty-six, a fact recorded in multiple sources, including a memorial book for the Jewish community of Padua.[6] Since Osimo dated Leon’s death in 1651, he placed his date of birth fifty-six years earlier, “around 1595.” The year 1595 is widely quoted as Leon’s birth year, based on Osimo. Since we now know the exact date of Leon’s death as being in 1650, we would revise his date of birth to “around 1594.”

Leon’s Father’s Name

The name of Leon’s father was Shmuel. Yet, he is also referred to as Simon, including on Leon’s medical diploma (see below). Simon (or Simeon) today is the English name for Shimon. What is the origin of this alternate name. The answer is surprisingly found in the aforementioned letter exchange between Isaac Cantarini and Christian Theophil Unger.

Among the numerous questions posed by Unger to Cantarini is why, for example, Rabbi Menahem Porto is called by the first name Emanuel instead of his Hebrew first name.[7] Cantarini answers that while all Italian Jews have a given Hebrew name, many have an additional secular or vernacular “translation” or substitute for their Hebrew name. He provides two examples. One is the name Mandolin for Menahem. The other is the name of one of his own children: “In my home I have a young child whom I named Shmuel, but in la’az (vernacular) he is called Simon, which is (synonymous with the Hebrew) Shimon.” This analysis of Isaac Cantarini’s child’s name provides direct insight into the double name of Leon’s father, after whom this child was likely named. It appears that while today our English correlate for Shmuel is Samuel, and for Shimon is Simon, at that time Simon was the accepted latinized form for Shmuel.

Leon’s Relationship to Isaac Hayyim Cantarini

The historical record of Leon Cantarini is dwarfed by his more famous relative, Isaac Hayyim Cantarini,[8] whose writings contribute to Leon’s biography as well. Isaac, a physician, rabbi, poet and orator, is one of the towering figures of Early Modern Jewish history. How were Leon and Isaac related? Nepi and Ghirondi identify Isaac as Leon’s “nekhed.”[9] While this typically means grandchild, perhaps they were using the term to mean descendant. Leon was in fact Isaac’s uncle, the brother of Isaac’s father, Ventura Yaakov Yitzchak. Isaac, born in 1644, would have been only six years old at the time of Leon’s death, precluding any substantive personal relationship. Nepi and Ghirondi state that they viewed a eulogy written by Isaac for his uncle Leon.[10] It is unclear to me when this eulogy would have been written, given Isaac’s age at the time of Leon’s death, though perhaps he wrote some form of eulogy when he was older to commemorate his uncle’s yartzheit (anniversary of his death). Isaac clearly had great reverence for his uncle Leon, always referring to him in a highly praiseworthy fashion. In his historical work, Pahad Yitshak, Isaac refers to Leon twice describing him as expert in both Torah and medicine.[11]

Leon Cantarini the Rabbi

Leon obtained his rabbinic ordination in 1618, at the age of twenty-four.[12] Rabbi Judah Saltara, who would later serve as a witness for his medical graduation (see below), was one of the granting rabbis. In the Padua community archives (pinkassim) for the years 1603-1630, his name appears on two occasions (October 28, 1621, and October 31, 1625) in his rabbinic capacity serving as judge for routine community matters.[13] Leon founded a yeshivah in the Ashkenazi synagogue, where he taught Talmud. He also officiated as preacher and delivered sermons and eulogies in both Padua and Venice.

I am aware of only one published responsum from Leon,[14] which he penned to Yaakov ben Yisrael Levi dealing with a dispute between three sons regarding the disposition of their father’s estate after their father had left very explicit and equitable instructions. Leon was clearly well versed in rabbinic literature, citing multiple references to support his position, and dealt among other issues with the propriety of bypassing the biblical requirement to grant a double portion to the firstborn.

Osimo was in possession of numerous rabbinic related manuscripts of Leon in varying stages of completion, the whereabouts of which are unknown to me. These manuscripts include sermons, biblical commentaries, philosophical and theological treatises. As Osimo was not versed in rabbinic literature, he forwarded Leon’s Jewish related manuscripts to a Rabbi Benedetto Levi of the Rabbinical Institute of Padua for evaluation of their content.[15] The text of Rabbi Levi’s response is provided where he comments on Cantarini’s familiarity and facility with rabbinic literature and philosophy and the areas where his work may or may not have exhibited originality. Osimo bases his laudatory comments in his work on Levi’s analysis.

Leon Cantarini the Physician

Leon’s medical degree was from the University of Padua. This university, over 800 years old, plays a prominent role in Jewish medical history.[16] As the first, and for some time only, medical school in Europe to officially admit Jewish students, it was the hub of Jewish medical training from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, during which some 400 Jewish students attended.

Leon graduated from Padua on October 31, 1623. We would be remiss if we did not mention that Leon wasn’t the only Cantarini to walk down the aisle of the Aula Augustiori (Grand Hall) that day to receive his medical diploma. Caliman, his younger brother by two years, graduated right alongside him. These two Cantarini brothers would be the first of a total of eleven members of the Cantarini family who would graduate from Padua over a span of some one hundred and twenty years. There is even an entry in the Padua University Archives which includes both brothers, Clemente (Latinized form of Caliman/Kalman/Kalonymus) and Leo, together.

Leon maintained a large practice among both the Christian and Jewish population of Padua. He is also recognized for his exemplary treatment of the poor, visiting them up to three or four times a day without receiving compensation.

Osimo was in possession of multiple medical manuscripts of Leon, the whereabouts of which today are unknown to me. The medical material he notes as summaries or comments on the works of Hippocrates, Galen and Avicenna, the latter explicitly mentioned in Leon’s diploma, as discussed below, and copies of his medical school lectures.

An entry in the archives of the Venetian Senate mentioning Leon reflects on the challenges and discrimination facing Jews and Jewish physicians at that time. Jews in Italy were obligated to wear distinctive clothing to identify them as members of the Jewish faith.[17] This included a specific color hat, sometimes red, sometimes yellow. This would preclude Leon, or any other Jewish physician, from wearing the black hat (biretta or cappello) which was granted them upon graduation from medical school and associated with the medical profession.[18] On May 15, 1643, Leon requested permission from the Venetian Senate to be exempted from the prohibition against wearing the black cappello on the basis of his medical degree. While Leon’s request was granted, and he was permitted to wear the black cappello both during the day and at night without any hindrance,[19] the Venetian Senate was generally conflicted about whether Jewish physicians should qualify for this exemption.[20] Other Jewish medical graduates of Padua often petitioned for similar exemptions.[21]

Leon Cantarini’s Marriage

On March 10, 1628 Leon married Mindele, daughter of Yosef Kohen Rofeh De Datolis (Tamari). They had three children.[22]

Impact of the Padua Plague of 1631 on Yehudah and the Cantarini Family

Any biographical discussion of Leon would be woefully inadequate, both literally and figuratively, without discussion of the impact on his life of the 1631 Plague in Padua. Indeed, this is exactly how Nepi and Ghirondi introduce his brief biography:[23]

The plague’s toll on the Jewish community of Padua was profound with around a fifty percent fatality. The plague was assiduously chronicled by Abraham Catalano, a physician and one of the administrators of the plague for the Jewish community, in his Olam Hafukh. One of the many remarkable aspects of this unique plague chronicle is Catalano’s scrupulous documentation for posterity of the names of all those involved, including each one of the victims. Catalano includes a passage about the Cantarini family where he singles out our graduate:

After recording the death of Leon’s brothers in the plague, Catalano writes, “May my mouth speak the praise of God[24] that their brother the physician, prominent leader (aluf), Rabbi Yehuda Katz was not present in Padua during the plague, having married a woman from Venice and settling there. He provided aid and assistance (during the plague).”

Though the impact of Leon’s family losses during the 1631 plague is inestimable, there is likely one loss that affected him differently than others. Leon’s brother Caliman was also a physician, having graduated together with him on the very same day. Caliman was living in Padua during the plague and served as a physician for the Jewish community. Acutely aware of the raging and highly fatal epidemic in Padua, and concerned for the welfare of his dear physician brother on the medical battlefield, on July 18, 1631, Leon penned a letter to Caliman, advising him of some effective remedies recommended to overcome the dreaded disease, as well as appropriate precautions to prevent the contracting or spread of the infection.[25] Leon specifically recommended the use of emeralds, which since the Black Death had been considered a cure for plague. Leon emphatically warned his brother to exercise extreme caution and diligence in order to preserve his health. It would be only twelve days after the writing of Leon’s letter, on July 30, that Caliman succumbed to the plague at the age of 38. Below is a record of Caliman’s death in the Libro De Morti, the Padua City Death Registry.

His death is recorded in the city death registry alongside his profession, which was unusual for these records. He is also identified as “ebreo.

In order to fully assess the nature of the impact of the plague on the entire Cantarini dynasty, one would need to carefully read every line of Olam Hafukh and to note every time a member of the Cantarini family is mentioned. It turns out that this work has already been done already, by none other than Isaac Hayyim Cantarini. Isaac painstakingly transcribed the entire manuscript of Olam Hafukh by hand. While this manuscript, housed at Columbia University, is well known to Jewish scholars and historians, there is one “key” factor which has gone overlooked. For every mention of a Cantarini family member in the work, Isaac added a notation shaped like a key, akin to an asterisk, referring the reader to the margin, where he noted how the individual was related to him. Below are some examples:

Shmuel Katz MeHazanim, Isaac’s maternal grandfather, died from the plague 8 Tammuz

Menahem Katz MeHazanim, Isaac’s paternal great uncle died on 22 Tammuz

During the plague Leon lost his father, three brothers and many additional extended family members.

Leon Cantarini and the Venice Plague of 1630

While Leon’s absence from Padua during the 1631 plague is recorded for posterity by Catalano, it is not as if he completed evaded the impact of the Bubonic plague. The impact on his life of the Venetian Plague, which preceded that of Padua by just one year, has gone unnoticed. It is unappreciated that the very same bubonic plague, on its way to Padua, devastated Venice in 1630,[26] where Leon was living at the time.

We know from other sources that a young Jewish physician by the name of Isaac Gedalia served as the physician for the Jewish community of Venice during the plague. This is the same physician who wrote a poem in honor of Leon’s graduation, and Leon would certainly have been in contact with him. Tragically, Gedalia met the same fate as Leon’s brother Caliman, and succumbed to the plague. Gedalia died in 1630 at the age of 32 and is buried in the Lido Cemetery of Venice. His epitaph, composed by Rabbi Yehuda Aryeh Modena, reflects his service as a physician to the Jewish community during that time.[27] Below is the epitaph in the autograph of Modena,[28] followed by the transcription of Berliner.[29]

 

We have not known, however, what medical role if any Leon played in the Venice plague of 1630. Was he simply a bystander, or perhaps worked side by side with Gedalia, his fellow Padua alumnus. Leon’s diploma, discussed below, sheds new light on this question.

Leon Cantarini’s Graduation Diploma

Leon Cantarini’s magnificently bound and meticulously calligraphed medical diploma was ceremoniously placed into his hands on October 31, 1623 accompanied by the traditional pomp and circumstance of the University of Padua graduation. He put it to good use during his lifetime. Over three hundred years later, we find Leon’s diploma in the possession of Marco Osimo, a Padua-trained physician. In his definitive history of the Cantarini family he writes regarding Leon: “He obtained a degree in medicine and philosophy … and his original diploma … has been perfectly preserved despite the destructive effects of time.” The renowned Hungarian Jewish historian David Kaufmann recalled that he had viewed Leon’s diploma at Osimo’s home.[30] The Cantarini biography was published in 1875 and Osimo died in 1881. As the family biographer, Osimo likely procured the diploma from members of the Cantarini family. While details of the journey from Osimo’s home to that of Professor Manfred Niekisch, whose collection contained Leon’s diploma, are unknown, it appears that no one, not Osimo nor Kaufmann, has previously carefully examined Leon’s diploma.

One of the archival items that reflects the unique historical chapter of Jewish medical training at the University of Padua is the medical diploma.[31] Prior to reviewing Leon Cantarini’s diploma, I had identified, in libraries, museums and private collections, eighteen extant diplomas of Jewish medical graduates of the University of Padua, the earliest of which was 1647.[32] One of these is the diploma of Gershon Cantarini (1703),[33] Leon’s grandnephew. Below we review the features found in our “new” graduate’s diploma, as compared to those of his fellow Padua alumni.

Form

Leon’s diploma is a bound quarto booklet with a red Italian tooled leather binding consistent with the typical Padua diploma of this period.

In its original form, a pair of wax seals would have been attached to the binding, as pictured in the diploma of Emanuel di Jacob (Del) Medigo de Dattolis (Menachem Kohen Rofeh Tamari)[34] from 1686,[35] a member of Leon’s wife’s family.[36]

The text is written in period calligraphy appointed with periodic gold leaf lettering. The text of the diploma, written with generous font size and spacing, as well as wide margins, occupies ten double sided pages. This is unusual, as the typical diploma text usually fills four to six sides. 

Content

The diplomas of Jewish medical graduates of Padua contain some deviations from the standard issue. As the standard Padua diploma contained a number of Christian references, the university accommodated the Jewish students by allowing certain alterations or emendations:

1. The invocation was changed from “In Christi Nomine Amen” to “In Dei Aeterni Nomine Amen.” Leon’s diploma conforms to this pattern:

2. The convention for writing the year of the graduation invariably contained a Christian reference, such as anno Domino, anno Christiano, or anno a Christi Nativitate. In many Jewish diplomas this reference is omitted. Here we do not see an alteration of the date and it retains the Christian reference, Anno Christiano.

3. The graduation for the Christian student was held in the Episcopal palace, a religious venue. This is mentioned in the text of the diploma. The graduation for the Jewish student was convened in a non-ecclesiastical location, a fact reflected in the diploma text. Leon’s graduation was held in the “Aula Augustiori” (grand hall) of the university, the largest hall in the university at the time and not designated for religious use.[37]

4. Many diplomas contained ornate illustrations and images, typically of a Christian nature. If the Jewish student diploma were illustrated, it would be with flora and fauna and devoid of any Christian imagery. This diploma has no added illustrations.

5. The identifier “ebreo” or “hebreus” was added for Jewish students. This was a convention followed consistently in Padua, and less so in other European universities. This was not specifically requested by the student, nor was its presence a reflection of antisemitism.

6. Witnesses were required to attest to the graduation. Jewish graduates often enlisted Jewish witnesses. Leon’s three witnesses were Jewish.

The above changes are not found uniformly or consistently in every Jewish student diploma, and Leon’s diploma contains all but one of them.

General Diploma Observations

Chronological Precedence

This is the earliest extant diploma for a Jewish medical graduate of the University of Padua of which I am aware. Previously the earliest extant diploma of this type was from 1647.[38]

During the early centuries of the University of Padua Medical School, doctoral degrees were granted exclusively by the Sacred College of Philosophers and Physicians in a Catholic religious ceremony. Non-Catholics who received training at the university could obtain medical degrees through a different pathway outside of the university walls, granted by specific individuals known as Counts Palatine, who received their authority from the Holy Roman Emperor. These ceremonies were held privately before a notary and witnesses.[39] It was only in 1615 that the Collegio Veneto was established to serve the purpose of granting formal degrees to non-Catholic students and essentially replaced the Counts Palatine. Leon was the fifteenth Jewish graduate after the procedure changed.[40]

Faculty Support for Graduation

In order to graduate, a student required the support of a number of faculty to promote his candidacy. Names of the faculty members promoting the graduate are listed in the diploma. One such faculty member identified in the diploma maintained a unique relationship with Leon and the Jewish community regarding an important aspect of the educational experience of the Jewish medical students.

Caesar Cremonin was a Professor of Philosophy in Padua, as philosophy at this stage of history was an integral part of medical training. In fact, the medical diploma for each graduate, including Leon, certified a degree in “Philosophia et Medicina.”

We know from historical records of the Padua Jewish community that Professor Cremonin served as a university representative to the Jewish community on a matter of utmost significance. Since the expansion of the anatomy curriculum during the tenure of Vesalius in the mid sixteenth century, and the subsequent construction during the time of Fallopius of the first historical dedicated anatomical theater, the demand for cadavers for teaching at the university exponentially increased. The university turned to the student body, including the Jewish students, to provide cadavers from their respective communities. As this request ran counter to Jewish law, which prohibited the desecration of the corpse after death, the Jewish community negotiated a compromise arrangement whereby a fee would be paid to the university in exchange for an exemption to provide cadavers.[41] The following entry appears in the Padua Jewish Community Archives from April 19, 1624.[42]

In that the spirit of God has enlightened the esteemed philosopher Senior Caesar Cremonin to declare freedom (from dissection) for our deceased, through the continued annual designated payment to the College of Arts, generation after generation. As a result, they are obligated to allow us to properly bury our dead during the season of dissection. Any violators will be fined, and they have coordinated with us to obtain from the government permission for a required fine for all who violate this agreement in a way amenable and sufficient for our needs.

The continuation of the archival entry mentions the Jewish community member delegated to negotiate with Cremonin. It is none other than our graduate.

The aforementioned Master Caesar and Yehudah Katz have already spoken on this matter and have begun discussion regarding the amount the Jewish community is willing to pay for this privilege.

The archival entry is dated just a few months after Leon’s (Yehudah’s) graduation, and he was an ideal representative for the community given his preexisting relationship with Cremonin, one of his medical school professors and graduation promoters.

Curriculum

The diploma contains a list of the student’s professors and course subject matter. For example, Leon was taught the works of Avicenna by Professor Francisco Bonardo.

Avicenna (980–1037), known in Hebrew sources as Ibn Sina, was a Persian physician of great renown. His main work, The Canon, was considered the authoritative work on medicine for many centuries and is quoted extensively by rabbinic sources. The only extant Hebrew medical incunabula is a copy of Avicenna’s Canon (Naples, 1491). Many Hebrew manuscripts of Avicenna were found in the Cairo Geniza.[42]

The Identity of the Witnesses

Two of Leon’s witness were prominent local rabbis and are known to us from other sources.

1. Rabbi Jacob Alpron (also known as Helipron or Heilbronn)[44]

Alpron was a Talmudic scholar, author, and translator, most known for his popular work, Mitzvot Nashim,[45] a Hebrew translation of an Italian work on the three mitzvot specific to women, the laws of niddah, hallah, and lighting of Sabbath candles, which, if not observed, “are the three transgressions for which woman die in childbirth” (Shabbat 31b).

2. Rabbi Leon (Yehudah) Saltaro da Fano (1505-1629)[46]

Saltaro was one of the rabbis who granted Leon his rabbinic ordination five years earlier.[47] It must have been meaningful for him to serve as a witness for his student’s medical graduation.

Saltaro authored a work, Sefer Sha’arei Gan Eden, attempting to identify the location of the Garden of Eden.[48] In his Mikveh Israel on the laws of the ritual bath, inter alia, Saltaro provides insight into the Jewish education of students attending the medical school in Padua. He mentions Avtalyon miModena, the uncle of Yehuda Aryeh da Modena, who in addition to his medical studies at the University of Padua, learned Torah in the Yeshiva of Rabbi Meir Katzenelenbogen (Maharam Padua).[49]

In fact, the Jewish Ghetto of Padua was and remains mere steps from the University of Padua campus, and other students over the centuries pursued Torah study with the prominent rabbis of Padua while enrolled in the city’s famous medical school.

Addenda to the Diploma- New Evidence of Leon’s Medical Involvement in the Venice 1630 Plague

It is not uncommon to find handwritten records appended to Padua diplomas documenting subsequent academic or clinical experiences. Occasionally, a student would present his diploma as part of his application for a medical position and the institution would inscribe acceptance or approval on the diploma itself. We find such an entry in Leon’s diploma that sheds some light on his clinical role in the Venice plague. On the inside of the back cover appears the following entry dated August 1630:

The diploma was presented to the Officio di Sanità in Venice (Provveditori e sopraprovveditori alla sanità) and “admesso” (accepted). This was required in order for Leon to practice in Venice. Until now, we have had no evidence of Leon himself practicing medicine during the plague. These few lines reveal that Leon was indeed providing medical service during the Venice 1630 plague, and like his fellow Padua graduates, including Gedalia and his own brother Caliman, put his life at risk in the process. While the latter two succumbed to the plague, Leon was fortunate to survive and to live for another twenty years practicing medicine and teaching Torah.

Congratulatory Poems for Leon’s Graduation

In seventeenth century Italy it was common for Jews to compose celebratory or commemorative poems for a variety of occasions, such as weddings or funerals. One such occasion that precipitated a poetic response was the graduation of Jewish students from the medical school of the University of Padua. I have identified over one hundred such poems written in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, most of which are extant. Rabbi Yehudah Arye Modena compiled an entire book of collected poems in honor of Joseph Hamitz, a fellow graduate of Leon from Padua in 1623.[50]

Sometimes the poems were composed by fellow students or alumni. Isaac Gedalia, a Padua medical graduate of 1622,[51] composed two poems for our graduate, one in Spanish and one in Latin.[52] There is also a record in the Padua city medical archives from April of 1625 of Gedalia treating a number of Jewish patients,[53] one of whom was Jacob Alpron, a witness for Leon’s medical graduation.

April 20 1625
Giacob Alpron Rabi Hebreo di anni 85 in circa ammalato giorni 15 di mal di muchi visitato dall’Ecc.mo Gadilia Hebreo nel ghetto.

Giacob Alpron Rabi Hebreo aged about 85. He was ill for about 15 days with a sore throat [?]. His Excellency Gadilia Hebreo examined him in the Ghetto.[54]

 

A Diploma for a Rabbi Doctor

Leon was a rabbi by the time he graduated medical school and he is identified as such in his diploma. Just how rare is it find a medical diploma for a rabbi doctor? Throughout history there have numerous attempts to create institutions or formal curricula combining the study of both Torah and Medicine.[55] These initiatives, well intentioned as they may have been, were of only limited duration and success. It was thus left to the individual physician to navigate his Torah study independently, something most physicians did informally. Some however sought more formal training. The Haver degree, a lower and less rigorous form of rabbinic ordination, was one such option. Unlike rabbinic ordination, with its expansive requirements to master specific areas of practical Jewish law, there was no uniform curriculum for the Haver degree.[56] Each location designed its own program. The student would be required to spend a period dedicated to Torah study and display basic competency, as well as character traits consistent with Torah values. Those deemed worthy would receive the title Haver within a few short years or less, typically bestowed by local rabbinic authorities.[57] A number of Padua alumni chose the Haver option,[58] including Leon’s fellow graduate, David Morpurg.[59] We have record of one Padua graduate receiving his Haver degree on the very same day as his medical graduation.[60]

A select few physicians throughout Jewish history chose the more advanced and labor-intensive course of study to obtain rabbinic ordination. These physician-rabbis have garnered the attention of scholars such as Holub,61] Sergei,[62] Epstein,[63] Margalit,[64] Salah,[65] and Steinberg.[66] Of this elite group, a large number received their medical training through apprenticeship, especially prior to the sixteenth century, when, with few exceptions, Jews were barred from university training. There is thus no official diploma to be found for these rabbi doctors.

As the University of Padua was the first European university to officially admit Jewish students and remained a major center of Jewish medical training into the late eighteenth century, many of our rabbi doctors in this period are counted among its alumni.[67] Leon, though less known and not mentioned by the aforementioned scholars, was one of these university-trained rabbi doctors.

Even among this relatively small group of rabbi doctors from Padua, most obtained their rabbinic ordination after completion of their medical training. The average age of the Jewish medical students upon entry to medical school was late teens to early twenties. This would have been too young to obtain rabbinic ordination, which was not typically granted to students of this age.

In 1651, the community of Padua, set specific age requirements for both the Haver and Rabbinic degrees.[68] For unmarried men, the age requirement for Havrut was twenty-five and above, while for married men it was age twenty and above. Rabbinic ordination was restricted to those thirty and above irrespective of marital status, though I am unsure if these age limits were either in force or enforced prior to this date. It is thus rare to find a Padua medical graduate who was already a rabbi at the time of his graduation.

Leon Cantarini is one such example. Born in 1594, Leon obtained his rabbinic ordination in 1618,[69] around the age of twenty-four, and had already been an ordained rabbi for five years by the time he graduated medical school at the (atypical) age of twenty-nine. In his diploma, he is identified as “Rabbi” Leon Cantarini throughout the entire twenty-page text of the diploma.

Of note, in the university records of his graduation, maintained to this day in the archives, he is not identified as a rabbi.

Leo Cantarinius hebreus[70]

Leon’s own brother Caliman, two years his junior, also obtained rabbinic ordination, though we do not know when.[71]

While it was indeed rare for a medical graduate of Padua to have already been a rabbi, another example happens to be one of Leon’s fellow Class of 1623 graduates, Moises Uziel.⁷² We do not possess Uziel’s diploma, but in his archival record, unlike Leon, he is identified as a rabbi.

Rabi Moises Uziel hebreus

Leon’s however is the only extant Padua medical diploma for a rabbi, and I have not seen any other medical diplomas elsewhere where the graduate was identified as a rabbi.

Conclusion

In sum, I hope our resuscitative efforts have been successfully for both Leon Cantarini and his diploma. Leon’s diploma is the earliest known extant diploma of a Jewish medical graduate of the University of Padua, and I believe it is the only extant diploma (of any kind) granted to a rabbi who is identified as such in the text. Furthermore, it possesses nearly all the alterations, accommodations and features that can be found in the diplomas of the Jewish medical graduates of the University of Padua. Moreover, an addition later appended to the document fills an important historical lacuna in Leon’s biography and established his role in the Venice plague of 1630.

While Leon Cantarini’s diploma may be one of the least artistically adorned of the Jewish Padua graduates, it may also be one of the most historically noteworthy. A rare unicum of no mean significance, this diploma sheds light on one of the greatest chapters in Jewish medical history and its resurfacing has afforded us the opportunity to explore the life of a prominent Early Modern rabbi physician. I look forward to the reawakening of other diplomas and archives from their state of hibernation.

 R. Moshe Zuriel, the Aderet, Sonya Diskin, and ChatGPT

Marc B. Shapiro

1. It is hard to believe that more than a year and a half has passed since R. Moshe Zuriel was taken from us. At the time of his passing, I intended to write a lengthy appreciation of him, but I was never able to get around to it. Still, I feel compelled to say something about R. Zuriel, if only to express my hakarat ha-tov for all that I learned from him. Although we never met, we exchanged numerous emails. It reached the point where, whenever I had a question about a passage in R. Kook, I would turn to him. I was also happy to arrange for three of his posts to appear on the Seforim Blog—see here.

Although R. Zuriel was my senior both in age and certainly in wisdom, he honored me by treating me like an old friend. Here is just one sample from an email he sent to me.

Your reference to Rabbi Hirsch’s praises for Schiller’s writings is a Godsend for me. I am elated at his words.

I myself was born in Frankfort am-Main, and consider myself an avid follower of his teachings, which strike a chord in my heart. The expressions in this Memorial Speech are something fabulous. Thank you again for bringing this to my attention. Rav Kook too speaks many a time about Universal Values, which are evident here and there in the Gentile Communities. We must have a link to our fellow humans.

Before we started communicating by email, we sent old fashioned letters. Here is one letter from December 2003. R. Zuriel followed Rav Kook’s approach—discussed by me in The Old Will be Renewed, the New Will be Sanctified—that the Sanhedrin will be able to actualize new moral and religious insights that have become apparent. These moral and religious insights should be viewed as Torah truths that were revealed gradually over time, meaning that we have advanced from the morality at the time of the giving of the Torah. The Sanhedrin will have the final say as to when we are dealing with authentic Torah values vs. non-Jewish values that people are trying to insert into Jewish life.

 

Here are two other letters from R. Zuriel where you can see his strong religious spirit.

Here is the final part of another letter he wrote me.

I first heard of R. Zuriel when I was a student at Beit Midrash le-Torah (BMT) in 1984–1985. I happened to find his sefer, Beit Yehezkel: Hilkhot Deot, on the shelf. I knew nothing about the author but found the book interesting and began to go through it. I never told R. Zuriel that this was the first sefer I ever went through. In school, we studied Chumash and Gemara, but I had never before picked up an independent sefer and tried to work through it on my own.

One day, while I was learning the sefer, someone noticed and mentioned that there was something controversial in it—namely, that R. Zuriel praises kippot serugot. Even then, I was interested in controversial texts, and I carefully combed through the book, unsuccessfully trying to find the page where he offered this praise. I later heard this story on other occasions as well, so I assumed that the volume I had been using had been censored and that the provocative passage had been removed. That was undoubtedly my first experience with what I thought was a censored text. Maybe that moment planted the seeds that would only come to fruition decades later in Changing the Immutable.

It was only many years later that I learned R. Zuriel had published two books under the title Beit Yehezkel, and lo and behold, I eventually found the passage about kippot serugot on p. 194 of the first edition.

Incidentally, I think many will be surprised to learn that R. Zvi Yehudah Kook—whose yeshiva and followers became such an important force in the kippah serugah world—actually preferred a black kippah over a kippah serugah, not just for himself but for everyone. It is true that he did not make a big deal about it, but we need to be honest about his opinion. Even when presented with two students, one wearing a small black kippah and the other a large kippah serugah, he expressed his preference for the black kippah.[1]

In fact, R. Zvi Yehudah would have even preferred that students at Merkaz ha-Rav wear a hat and jacket, though he never made an issue of it. He did, however, tell at least some of his students who became rabbis that they should wear rabbinic garb—which today generally means a black suit and hat. He wasn’t entirely consistent in this regard, and I suppose that explains the varied styles of dress among his rabbinic students: some look no different than haredi rabbis, others wear a kippah serugah along with a hat, and still others wear a kippah serugah without a hat.[2]

For those who want to learn more about R. Zuriel, his website can be found here. It is truly remarkable to see the vast array of books he published, covering so many different areas of Torah.[3] You will also find there the three volumes of writings by Naftali Hirz Wessely, including material from manuscript, which R. Zuriel published. Interestingly, his name does not appear in these volumes as the one who prepared them for publication. Instead, he used pseudonyms—likely to avoid becoming embroiled in controversy. Yet it is worth noting that, in the years before his death, he began writing about Wessely under his own name and openly defended his decision to publish Wessely’s works. See here.

Missing from his website is his first edition of Wessely’s Sefer ha-Midot, which was published in 2002. The site only includes the later edition, which incorporates previously unpublished material. Yet the first edition is extremely valuable and deserves to be uploaded as well. This is because it contains a lengthy introduction that establishes the religious acceptability of Wessely, citing numerous great rabbis who referenced him positively. (For examples of censorship involving Wessely in the reprinted works of R. Moses Schick and R. Samson Raphael Hirsch, see my post here.) This introduction is significantly different from the one that appears in the second edition. While most of it is also found in the introduction to R. Zuriel’s edition of Wessely’s Yein Levanon (written under the pseudonym Yaakov Segal), for some reason, the version of Yein ha-Levanon on the website omits this entire introduction. Also missing is R. Hayyim Druckman’s haskamah and a letter from Wessely that originally appeared in the first publication of Yein Levanon (Berlin, 1775).

What is particularly noteworthy is that the first edition of Sefer ha-Midot includes a haskamah from R. Zuriel himself, in which he seeks to establish the legitimacy of Wessely. I don’t know—and unfortunately never asked R. Zuriel—why, if he was willing to write a haskamah for Wessely’s book, he wasn’t also willing to identify himself as the editor. The haskamah is formally addressed to “Rabbi Hayyim Lifshitz,” the supposed editor of the book—but Lifshitz is a fictional figure, and the lengthy introduction attributed to him was, in fact, written by R. Zuriel.

When it comes to an author providing a haskamah to his own work published anonymously or under a pseudonym, we do have precedent. R. EliyahuDavid Rabinowitz-Teomim (the Aderet) did this with the only two, of his over 120 works, that were published in his lifetime. In 1889 he published Zekher la-Mikdash (on Hakhel). Here is the title page from the first printing (later printings include the Aderet’s name). In his autobiography, the Aderet mentions writing the book.[4]

On the title page, instead of an author’s name, it states: חובר מאת פלא“י. This is clearly intended to evoke Judges 13:18, where the angel says to Manoah, “Wherefore askest thou after my name, seeing it is hidden (פלאי)?” What’s puzzling is that the title page spells it as פלא“י—with an apostrophe between the last two letters—rather than the more straightforward פלאי. It has been suggested that the final three letters allude to the author’s name, “Elijah” (אלי), and that the פ stands for Pinhas, since Pinhas is traditionally identified with Elijah.[5] But to me, this interpretation feels far-fetched.

Here is the haskamah which is followed by the Aderet’s many notes to the book, as if he is commenting on someone else’s sefer.

In 1893 the Aderet anonymously published Aharit ha-Shanim (on the law of Vidui Ma’aser). Here is the title page of the first printing (subsequent printings include the Aderet’s name).

This book is also mentioned in the Aderet’s autobiography.[6] Unlike in Zekher la-Mikdash, in Aharit ha-Shanim there is a hint in the Aderet’s introduction to his authorship (emphasis added):

ע“כ העלמתי שמי והליטותי פני באדרתי לבל ישאו פני

Furthermore, anyone who looks up the biblical verse which is the origin of the expression והליטותי פני באדרתי will find that it is in 1 Kings 19:13 and describes Elijah wrapping his face in his mantle. The Aderet’s first name is Elijah, so this is obviously also an allusion to the author’s identity.

Here is the Aderet’s haskamah to this book. As with Zekher la-Mikdash, the haskamah is followed by many pages of notes to the book, under the heading Devar Eliyahu.

I assume the Aderet must have felt somewhat awkward referring to himself as ha-ma’or ha-gadol (המאוה“ג), yet everyone understands that such honorifics are expected in haskamot. In fact, had he not used this kind of language, he might well have been accused of failing to show proper respect for the author—since people did not know that he himself was the author.

In 2005, Aharit ha-Shanim was reprinted by Ahavat Shalom, and they were fortunate to have access to the Aderet’s own copy, which contains many additional marginal notes. These were included in the new edition.

I found another case where the author wrote a haskamah to his own book, but as you can see, the haskamah is not a typical haskamah.

Here is the title page of R. Yaakov Goldman’s Peret ve-Olelot (Jerusalem, 1930).

Here is the haskamah.

Speaking of the Aderet and haskamot, here is a chance to deal with a report that has assumed legendary status in the Merkaz ha-Rav world. R. Zvi Yehudah Kook claimed that the lengthy haskamah of the Aderet for the Chafetz Chaim’s Likutei Halakhot was actually written by R. Kook.

Here is the haskamah:

 

The story told by R. Zvi Yehudah and recorded by R. Moshe Zvi Neriah in Sihot ha-Re’iyah, pp. 123-124, is as follows: R. Kook visited his former father-in-law, the Aderet, while the Aderet was serving as the rav of the city of Mir. During this visit, a letter arrived from the Chafetz Chaim requesting a haskamah for his new book, Likutei Halakhot. He wished to have the haskamah sent as soon as possible, even on the very day his letter arrived, and included some portions of the book. The Aderet was very impressed and showed R. Kook what the Chafetz Chaim had sent. Due to his busy schedule, the Aderet was unable to write the haskamah that day, so he asked R. Kook to write it. R. Kook wrote the impressive haskamah that was later printed.

After R. Kook wrote the haskamah, the Aderet read it over and was ready to sign it. However, he stated that he could not take credit for a Torah explanation suggested by R. Kook, so he altered the text of the haskamah, attributing the explanation to R. Kook, the rav of Bausk. This haskamah is the very first one in Haskamot ha-Re’iyah (Jerusalem, 2017).

It is a very nice story, but is it true? Let me present a source that seems to contradict what R. Zvi Yehudah reported. In the Aderet’s autobiography, Seder Eliyahu, p. 100, the Aderet recounts how, due to a dispute in his city, the Chafetz Chaim came there to try to make peace. The Aderet then writes that a couple of weeks later he wrote the haskamah for Likutei Halakhot.

אז נתתי הסכמתי על ס‘ לקוטי הלכות להגה“צ בעל ח“ח שליט“א

Presumably, it was when the Chafetz Chaim visited the city that he gave the Aderet his work. If R. Kook had written the haskamah, wouldn’t the Aderet have mentioned it in his memoir? Furthermore, in R. Kook’s Eder ha-Yekar, p. 47, he says the following about his father-in-law:

כל הספרים הרבים שנתן עליהם הסכמתו, עבר עליהם מראשית עד אחרית וברוב העיר עליהם הערות

According to R. Kook, the Aderet would not give a haskamah unless he had read the entire book. However, the story as told by R. Zvi Yehudah suggests that the Aderet gave a haskamah without having gone through the book.

Based on the two points I have mentioned, I think it is legitimate to raise questions about the story told by R. Zvi Yehudah. It would make more sense to assume that the Aderet wrote the haskamah while R. Kook was in Mir and that the Aderet discussed the haskamah with R. Kook (which would explain the mention of R. Kook in the haskamah). But it is hard to reconcile R. Zvi Yehudah’s story with the Aderet’s own testimony in his memoir or with R. Kook’s description of how the Aderet would study a book before giving his haskamah.

A completely different version of the story involving the Aderet, R. Kook, and the haskamah was told by R. Kook’s nephew, R. Refael Kook. In his version, the haskamah was written by R. Kook for another book by the Chafetz Chaim, Nidhei Yisrael. Here is the story as found in Simcha Raz’s An Angel Among Men.[7]

When the Chafetz Chayim zt”l finished writing Nidchei Yisrael, he came to the Aderet (R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim) to receive a letter of approbation for the book.

The Aderet kept the book’s proof sheets in order to look through them before writing his approbation. Unfortunately, however, he came down with pneumonia and was quite ill for several weeks. During that time, the Chafetz Chaim came back to receive the approbation he so anxiously waited for. The Aderet’s doctor, however, forbade him to exert himself in any way; so he was unable to write the letter.

The Chafetz Chayim was very disappointed, having made the trip just for the approbation. Don’t worry,” said the Aderet. “I just married off my daughter to R. Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, who is greater than me in many areas. He will write the letter, and I will sign it.”

And so it was: The Rav wrote an approbation for Nidchei Yisrael and the Aderet signed it, thus forging a strong bond of friendship between the Chafetz Chayim and Rav Kook.

In this version, the Aderet says that R. Kook had just married his daughter. This is obviously incorrect as the Aderet’s haskamah to Nidhei Yisrael is dated 1894. Yet R. Kook married his daughter in 1886 and she passed away in 1889. In 1894 R. Kook was married to the niece of the Aderet, the daughter of his twin brother, R. Zvi Yehudah Rabinowitz-Teomim.

Here is the haskamah to Nidhei Yisrael.

In the Torah journal Me-Avnei ha-Makom 15 (2003), pp. 15-17, a section from the Aderet’s still unpublished 1878 work Oznei David appears. The Aderet notes that the Chafetz Chaim spent Shabbat with him and records some of their Torah conversations. One of the points he mentions is that the Chafetz Chaim asked him how one could eat at various Jewish inns, which were places where Jews would stay while traveling. The issue for the Chafetz Chaim wasn’t kashrut. In those days, people trusted other religious Jews, and the notion that an outside hashgachah was required in such circumstances had not yet been introduced.

What concerned the Chafetz Chaim was that most of the owners of these inns did not tovel their utensils. How then could people eat there? The Aderet explained—and he sees this as a novel view—that it is only forbidden for the owner to use utensils that have not been toveled. Yet there is no problem for others to make use of these utensils. What is of particular historical interest here is that we see that laxity regarding the toveling of utensils is not a recent phenomenon, but was even seen among religious Jews in nineteenth-century Lithuania.

Regarding the Chafetz Chaim and the Aderet, the tradition is that when the Chafetz Chaim writes, והעירני א‘ מחכמי הזמן, in his discussion about Birkat Kohanim in the Diaspora[8], the unnamed scholar he refers to the Aderet.[9] With one exception, the Chafetz Chaim never mentions contemporary scholars by name in the Mishnah Berurah. In Orah Hayyim 585, in Beur Halakhah s.v ve-tov, he refers to R. Meir Simhah of Dvinsk. The story here is that they had a dispute at a rabbinic conference and the Chafetz Chaim thought that his language was perhaps too sharp.[10] As an apology of sorts, he broke with his convention and mentioned R. Meir Simhah by name.

It is widely reported how the Chafetz Chaim admired Rav Kook and refused to allow anyone to speak negatively about him.[11] Among the various sources cited in all the discussions I have seen, no one has referred to R. Yosef Zussman, Mi-Behirei Tzadikaya, pp. 168, 176, that when R. Zvi Yehudah Kook was together with the Chafetz Chaim he was afraid to mention who his father was, out of fear that the Chafetz Chaim would express some criticism of Rav Kook. In the end, his fear was unfounded, and the Chafetz Chaim, upon finding out who he was, told R. Zvi Yehudah that R. Kook was a good friend of his.[12] This anecdote was included in two separate letters from R. Zussman to R. Moshe Zvi Neriah. While R. Neriah used other information from these letters in his own writings, he did not include the detail of R. Zvi Yehudah being worried that the Chafetz Chaim would criticize his father.

I know that it is difficult for opponents of R. Kook to deal with the fact that the Chafetz Chaim had such positive feelings for him. I wonder if they would adopt the approach of the Brisker Rav, R. Isaac Zev Soloveitchik. When asked why the Chafetz Chaim showed respect for a certain Zionist rabbi (not R. Kook), the Brisker Rav replied with the following critical comment: “This is what happens when you don’t listen to lashon hara!”[13] In other words, sometimes it is important to be aware of negative reports about certain individuals so you know how to properly relate to them.[14]

2. I recently played around with ChatGPT and found some incredible things. First, its translation ability is at a very high level. I put in some sentences from nineteenth-century Haskalah literature and the translations that came back are excellent. There are times that ChatGPT gets it wrong, and you always need to carefully review its translations. Yet it seems that we have entered a new era when it comes to translations. Going forward, should translators just insert Hebrew texts into ChatGPT and then check for accuracy and edit the translation? Perhaps this is already being done, which would be a major development.

I also became aware that you can put an article, even a PDF, into ChatGPT and it will give you a summary. Look what happened when I put Haym Soloveitchik’s “Rupture and Reconstruction” in and asked for a summary.

Summary of “Rupture and Reconstruction” by Haym Soloveitchik

Thesis & Central Argument:

Soloveitchik examines the transformation of Orthodox Jewish life in the modern era, particularly the shift from a mimetic (lived, experiential) tradition to a text-based halakhic culture. This shift, he argues, resulted from the sociocultural disruptions caused by the Holocaust and modernization.

I. The Loss of Mimetic Tradition

Traditionally, Jewish practice was absorbed through daily life rather than studied in texts. Children learned religious conduct by watching their parents and community rather than through legalistic study. However, this mimetic tradition began to break down due to several historical forces:

Modernity and Migration:

Jews who emigrated from Eastern Europe to America and Israel found themselves in new environments where religious life was no longer reinforced by communal structures.

In America, the pressures of assimilation and middle-class life further eroded informal religious transmission.

The Holocaust’s Impact:

The Holocaust annihilated the communities and individuals who had embodied and passed down the mimetic tradition.

The post-Holocaust Orthodox world was largely composed of religious survivors and their children, who lacked an organic religious upbringing.

As a result, Jews turned increasingly to written texts to reconstruct religious life, rather than continuing a naturally transmitted tradition.

II. The Rise of Text-Based Religious Life

With the breakdown of mimetic tradition, Orthodox Jews sought religious guidance in texts rather than communal precedent. Several key shifts occurred:

Stringency (Chumra) and “Maximum Position Compliance”:

Halakhic observance became more rigid, as Orthodox Jews increasingly sought the “most correct” way to perform rituals based on written sources rather than communal norms.

Practices that had previously been instinctual or lenient were now analyzed and subject to stricter interpretations.

Proliferation of Halakhic Literature:

The 20th century saw an explosion of halakhic texts, guiding every aspect of Jewish observance in meticulous detail.

Religious practice became more standardized and universalized across communities, rather than based on local custom.

The “Ritualization” of Daily Life:

Previously intuitive religious behaviors, like eating matzah at the Passover seder, were now measured and standardized (e.g., precise “shiurim” for halakhic measurements).

This shift emphasized precision and rule-following over natural, community-based observance.

III. Broader Sociological Implications

Soloveitchik argues that this shift reflects a broader pattern in Jewish history:

A Response to Cultural Erosion:

The disappearance of traditional Jewish life and the rise of middle-class acculturation created a need for stricter religious boundaries.

As Jewish life became more indistinguishable from non-Jewish life, Orthodoxy sought to reinforce distinctiveness through increased textual rigor.

The Influence of the Holocaust on Jewish Memory:

The Holocaust left Orthodox Jews without direct cultural transmission from past generations.

In response, they “reconstructed” an idealized version of pre-Holocaust Jewish life, one that was more rigidly text-based and uniform than the reality of Eastern European Judaism.

The Decline of Jewish Asceticism:

Historically, Jewish tradition included a strong ascetic streak, which emphasized self-denial and wariness of physical pleasures.

However, as Orthodox Jews became more integrated into middle-class life, this asceticism waned, replaced by an emphasis on ritual precision rather than self-denial.

Conclusion:

Soloveitchik describes a fundamental transformation in contemporary Orthodox Judaism: the replacement of an organic, mimetic tradition with a text-driven, rule-oriented religious culture. This shift has led to increased religious stringency, a focus on halakhic literature, and a reconstruction of Jewish memory that aligns with contemporary Orthodox practice rather than historical reality.

* * * * * * *

[1] R. Zvi Yehudah Kook, Piskei Rabbenu, ed. Aviner, Orah Hayyim, p. 31. R. Shlomo Aviner recently published a book titled Pesikah ke-Halakhah. It consists of “strange pesakim” by unnamed rabbis, and R. Aviner’s response. On p. 169 the “strange pesak” he records is that someone who goes to movies should do so in another city, not where he lives, and replace his black kippah with a kippah serugah. This “pesak” is obviously based on Moed Katan 17a: “If a person sees that his evil inclination is gaining control over him, then he should go to a place where he is not known. He should wear black, wrap his head in black, and do as his heart desires [in private] and not desecrate the name of Heaven in public.”

There are those, such as R. Chaim Kanievsky, who have ruled that it is preferable to pray by oneself with a jacket and hat, than pray with a minyan without these items. (E.g., if you are in a situation where if you run home to get your jacket and hat you won’t be able to pray with a minyan.) See R. Yair Yanai, Nekiut ve-Kavod bi-Tefillah, p. 208. Yet see ibid., p. 98, that R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach and R. Yosef Shalom Elyashiv ruled that prayer with a minyan is more important than wearing a jacket and hat. See similarly R. Meir Mazuz, Makor Ne’eman, vol. 3, no. 151 and R. Yitzhak Ratzaby, Olat Yitzhak, vol. 3, Orah Hayyim, no. 36. See also here at minute 18 where R. Reuven Feinstein strongly rejects the idea that it is better to pray by oneself with a hat than pray with a minyan without a hat. The entire video is noteworthy. Following the exchange about praying with a hat, R. Reuven is asked at what age should a boy be taught to wear his tzitzit out. He responds, “at no age”, and elaborates on why there is no reason to wear tzitzit out. See also at 34:55 where the questioner wants to know what to do about students who are brought up with an ideology that leads them to want to join the IDF. R. Reuven replies that if they want to join that is fine, and the army will probably turn them into a mensch.
[2] See R. Zvi Yehudah Kook, Piskei Rabbenu, ed. Aviner, Orah Hayyim, pp. 31-32.
[3] I remember how surprised I was when R. Zuriel published his Masoret Seyag la-Torah. My surprise was due to how R. Zuriel chose to deny that Jacob ben Hayyim Ibn Adonijah, the masoretic scholar and editor of the first Mikraot Gedolot, later apostatized. See my Limits of Orthodox Theology, p. 93 n. 14, where I write that it is remarkable that a book could be published in modern times referring to Jacob ben Hayyim as one of the great scholars of Israel. For R. Mordechai Breuer’s harsh review of the R. Zuriel’s book, see Megadim 20 (Tamuz 5753), pp. 91-96, available here.
[4] Seder Eliyahu (Jerusalem, 1983), p. 82. On p. 106 he mentions it among the books he wrote. Moshe Reines on his own figured out that the Aderet was the author. See his Mivhar Ketavim, ed. Eliezer Brodt (Ramat Beit Shemesh, 2018), pp. 31, 605. I thank R. Eliezer Brodt for calling this to my attention. He also pointed out that R. Yisrael Dandrovitz discusses the Aderet’s haskamot in his book Hayu Devarim Me-Olam, vol. 2, ch. 22. The chapter is titled: מחברי ספרים שהסתתרו כמסכימים
[5] Akivah ben Ezra, Minhagei Hagim (Tel Aviv, 1963), p. 314 n. 7, cited in R. Yehudah Zoldan, Malkhut Yehudah ve-Yisrael, p. 451 n. 17. I write “Akivah” because the author spelled his name עקיבה. The standard way of spelling the name is עקיבא, yet Maimonides always spelled it עקיבה.
[6] Seder Eliyahu, pp. 102, 106 (including it among the books he wrote).
[7] Trans. Moshe D. Lichtman (Jerusalem, 2003), pp. 368-369.
[8] Mishnah Berurah, Sha’ar ha-Tziyun, Orah Hayyim 128 (following no. 136).
[9] See e.g., here.
[10] One version of the story is found in R. Elazar Shakh, Shimushah shel Torah, p. 159. In a future post I will discuss this incident.
[11] See e.g., here. Here is a letter from the Chafetz Chaim’s son-in-law, R. Aaron Cohen, which appears in Iggerot la-Re’iyah, pp. 565-566.

[12] More than thirty years ago I spent Shabbat at the home of the late R. Zev Neuman, who was a very close student of R. Zvi Yehudah and involved in the publication of writings of R. Kook and R. Zvi Yehudah. (See here for various articles about Neuman.) At one of the Shabbat meals, Neuman took out a manuscript of one of R. Zvi Yehudah’s talks and read it to us. R. Zvi Yehudah described how he stayed at the Chafetz Chaim’s home and the Chafetz Chaim personally set up the bed for him. This passage, which made such an impression on me that I still remember it vividly so many years later, has unfortunately not yet appeared in print.
[13] Zvi Yavrov, Ma’aseh Ish, vol. 2, p. 85. See R. Michel Zalman Shurkin, Meged Givot Olam, vol. 2, p. 78, who quotes his father that near Radin lived a great talmid hakham who was a member of Mizrachi. The Chafetz Chaim stood up for this rabbi even though he also spoke very strongly against Mizrachi. The city of Radin is close to Lida, so I wonder if the unnamed Mizrachi rabbi was R. Isaac Jacob Reines, who actually founded Mizrachi.

It is of interest that the Chafetz Chaim’s son, R. Aryeh Leib, who assisted him in writing the Mishnah Berurah and later became the rav of Radin, publicly supported the Mizrachi. This fact is never mentioned by Haredi writers. Yet it is also noteworthy that although R. Aryeh Leib was a member of the secret Hovevei Tziyon society in Volozhin, his public identification with Mizrachi only occurred after the death of the Chafetz Chaim. It seems clear that, out of respect for his father, he refrained from publicly identifying with Mizrachi during his father’s lifetime. See Entzyklopedia shel ha-Tziyonut ha-Datit, vol. 4, cols. 273ff.

See R. Michel Zalman Shurkin,, Meged Givot Olam, vol. 1, pp. 48-49, that R. Mendel Zaks, the son-in-law of the Chafetz Chaim, preferred the biography of the Chafetz Chaim written by R. Meir Moshe Yosher over the volume written by R. Zaks brother-in-law, R. Aryeh Leib. He explained that Yosher’s volume just gives the facts, while R. Aryeh Leib also gives reasons for various actions and practices of the Chafetz Chaim, “and we do not have permission to give reasons for the actions of gedolei Yisrael.”
[14] See also Yavrov, Ma’aseh Ish, vol. 7, p. 94, that the Chafetz Chaim wrote that there is no enjoyment from telling lashon hara, and the Hazon Ish commented that apparently the Chafetz Chaim never told lashon hara, or he would have seen that one can indeed get pleasure from this.

Regarding lashon hara, see also Yavrov, Ma’aseh Ish, vol. 5, p. 31, where the Hazon Ish is quoted as saying that it is not lashon hara to say that someone does not know how to learn, as we need to know who is learned and who is not. Since there is a purpose in knowing who is a gadol be-Torah, therefore it is permitted to say that someone is not a gadol. This approach explains how it is not uncommon to hear people saying about various rabbis that they are “not so great in learning”. But I assume that the Hazon Ish was referring to rabbis making these judgments about other rabbis, not that laypeople would offer such comments. See also ibid, vol. 7, p. 94, where it records that on Kol Nidrei night the Hazon Ish told the students that we will now speak “kosher lashon hara.” He proceeded to speak about a rabbi who imagined that the Hebrew University was the Third Temple. He then turned to heaven and declared:

נו, רבונו של עולם, מספיק בשבילו מה שכבר קלקל עד כאן!

This can only refer to R. Kook, but as is well known, the notion that R. Kook compared the Hebrew University to the Temple, or that he applied to it the biblical verse, כי מציון תצא תורה, are complete fabrications by the enemies of R. Kook which misled even many great Torah scholars. See Moshe Alharar, Likhvodah shel Torah (Jerusalem, 1988), which is devoted to the slander directed against R. Kook.

Ten Commandment Representations in Hebrew Manuscripts & Books: Artistic Approaches to Theological Issues in Judaism

Dan Rabinowitz

Today, the Ten Commandments or Decalogue[1] are among the most prominently featured symbols associated with Judaism. The Decalogue is represented by two tablets, generally connected and rounded at the top. This representation occupies a central place within synagogue architecture, often displayed on the exterior or interior of the edifices and frequently above the ark itself, which is regarded as the most sacred element within the building. However, it is noteworthy that these practices only began to emerge in the 16th century. The exact origins of this practice remain unclear, but it is likely that they were influenced by the Christian adoption of the Ten Commandment tablets in art as representative of Judaism. Some scholars suggest that this may not be an instance of benign cultural exchange but might have its roots in anti-semitic legislation, which mandated that Jews wear badges shaped like the Ten Commandments with rounded tops. This imposition may have influenced Jewish consciousness, potentially resulting in eventual self-association with this symbol.[2]

Historical evidence indicates that the ancient Jewish community used of other symbols such as the lulav, shofar, menorah, ark, scroll, and etrog, but not the luchos. The absence of the luchos is unsurprising when one considers the inherent difficulties of accurately replicating them. There is substantial ambiguity surrounding the exact proportions and shape of the tablets. Consequently, accurate reproductions were improbable, preventing their adoption as a common, recognizable symbol. Apart from the Israelites in the desert who witnessed the Sinai revelation, the tablets were not publicly displayed but remained housed within the ark. The fact that the luchos were kept in the ark and never removed suggests that they were intentionally not intended for public display.

In contrast to other Temple implements that are meticulously described, the details of the luchos are only generally mentioned as being made of stone and numbering two. This lack of elaboration has resulted in uncertainty even regarding the inscriptions on the stones and their shape. Today, it is widely accepted that each tablet contained five commandments and can be sourced to the Mekhilta DeRebi Yishmael, Yisro (Horovitz-Rabin, 233-234); however, according to the prevailing opinion in the Talmud Yerushalmi (Shekalim 6:1; Sotah 8:3), each tablet contained the entire Decalogue. Additionally, Rav Saadia Gaon asserted that one tablet recorded the version given in Exodus, while the other contained the version from Devarim.

It was not until the early rabbinic period that there was an explicit discussion regarding the shape of the luchos. The two Talmuds are inconsistent as to the exact dimensions and shape of the tablets (and both versions appear in midrashic literature). According to the TY, the tablets were rectangular, six tefachim in length and three in width. The TB describes them as square, six by six. Some attempt to reconcile the two Talmudic versions, there is clearly no consensus are single traditional regarding the shape.[3]

Beyond the challenges in determining and reproducing accurate divisions and shapes, there is a theological concern with their display. The Mishna records that the recitation of the Decalogue was part of the daily service in the Beis haMikdash. Evidence of this practice is found in the Nash Papyrus, dating between the second and first centuries BCE. In that document, the Ten Commandments appear before the Shema. Although the Nash Papyrus is likely either tefillin or a mezuzah, it seemingly confirms inclusion in the liturgy even outside of the Temple.[4] Nonetheless, the liturgical practice was abolished by Rabban Gamaliel II of Yavne. The rationale for the abolition was that some sect, the Minim, had elevated the Decalogue above the rest of the Torah, and the continued public recitation might imply acceptance of that position.[5] It is worth noting that even when the Decalogue was incorporated into the liturgy, there is no mention of it being displayed.

None of these sources mention the most common shape, tablets with rounded tops. According to one theory, this shape was borrowed from the Roman writing tablet, the diptych, which consisted of two tablets hinged together. Regardless of the original source, the rounded-topped tablets became the standard in Christian art from at least the 12th century. Since Jews adopted the luchos as a symbol much later, roughly in the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries, they chose the most commonly recognized version, which features rounded tops.[6] 

The earliest extant depiction of the luchos appears in the Dura Europos Synagogue fresco, where Moshe is holding a scroll. While Dura Europos does not settle the issue of the shape of the tablets, it does begin to reveal some details about how the luchos iconography has evolved over time to address what can be referred to as the “minim conundrum.” The conflict between the Torah recording God delivering just the Decalogue at Sinai, whereas Jews believe that the entire Torah was given at Sinai.

Illuminated Manuscripts and the Ten Commandments: Resolving the Issue of the Minim

Many manuscripts, including Haggadahs, prayer books, and Bibles, feature imagery related to the Decalogue episode. Beyond merely illustrating the text these illustrators intentionally depicted the scene to address and resolve the minim issue and link the delivery and reception of the Decalogue with the entirety of the Torah. For example, many Ashkenazic Haggadahs include the Decalogue scene, typically accompanying the Dayenu, although two include it later in the liturgy. [7] The earliest, known as the Birds Head (dating to the beginning of the 14th century), depicts two fingers emerging from the cloud, presenting two rounded-topped tablets to Moshe. Immediately below, Moshe appears again transferring the tablets, now five, to two figures, presumably Aaron and/or Yehoshua. The dual tablets have been converted into five, referencing the Five Books of the Torah.[8] The Birds Head Haggadah’s metamorphosis during the transmission process of the two tablets into five is the only example of this solution in any Jewish (or non-Jewish) manuscripts.[9]

Figure 1: Birds Head Haggadah, fol. 23r, Israel Museum

A similar rereading of the Giving of the Law occurs in the thirteenth-century Parma Machzor. Unlike the Birds Head, which transforms the two tablets into five in their delivery, the Parma Machzor, however, depicts God giving Moshe three tablets, presumably alluding to the three books of Tanakh, the entire corpus of the Torah.[10]

Figure 2: Parma Machzor (Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2887)

Beyond transforming the tablets into more than the two mentioned in the Torah, other forms of iconographical methods were used to address the minim issue. Writing material underwent significant changes throughout the centuries. It was initially etched onto stones, like the luchos, then papyrus (like the Nash), and eventually, using animal skins that are much more resilient than papyrus, it was transformed into scrolls. Finally, “the most revolutionary invention in the history of the book” – the codex – was created at the beginning of the Common Era and became commonplace by the third century CE.[11] The codex, which we recognize as a book today, consists of individual pages written on both sides and addresses the major limitations of the scroll: the difficulty of quickly moving from one section to another and the fact that only one side could be used. Christians were the first to adopt this form sometime in the third century CE. Jews, however, adopted the book or codex much later than most other cultures, likely only in the ninth century.[12] This is unsurprising, as the scroll was not merely a device for Jews, but was imbued with special holiness.

These two forms, the scroll and codex, were used to address the minim issue. In these instances, they assumed the role of the entire torah as contrasted with the tablets, recording just the Decalogue. Scrolls are substituted for the tablets in at least two Haggadahs from the late fifteenth century (c. 1470-1480): the Nuremberg II and the Yahuda.

Figure 3: Second Nuremberg Haggadah (Center for Jewish Art)

Figure 4: Yahuda Haggadah (Center for Jewish Art)

In both, Moshe holds up an open scroll with wooden poles in a manner familiar from the hagbah ceremony. Likewise, in the well-known illuminator Joel ben Simon’s c. 1470 Machzor, now referred to as the Rothschild Weill Machzor, Moshe lifts the scroll. In a later Haggadah, known as MS 1388 Paris (1583), Moshe is holding a partially open scroll, though it is not raised like the other examples.[13] 

Figure 5: Rothschild Weill Machzor (Center for Jewish Art)

A similar image appears in the Ulm Machzor, c. 1430; however, Moshe is receiving it directly from God, echoing the approach of the Parma Machzor that there was no transformation, rather the delivery itself was the entire Torah.

Figure 6: Second Darmstadt Haggadah 9v (Center for Jewish Art)

The codex is similarly employed to address the minim issue. In the Second Darmstadt Haggadah (here), Moshe appears at the top right, beneath the shofar. He is holding two connected rectilinear tablets, hinged at the bottom. A man, dressed differently than Moshe and likely Aaron or Yehoshua, appears at the bottom right holding two separate rectilinear tablets, which are clearly sourced from Moshe. Finally, a group of Israelites appears in the bottom center of the page. The leader is now holding a book. This transforms the tablets into a book or Torah. The connection between the tablets becomes clearer as the person holding the book points to Aaron/Yehoshua and the tablets, indicating that the book’s source is the tablets and ultimately what Moshe received directly from God. Therefore, collectively, the page illustrates the transmission and transformation of the Luchos, from the ten into the Torah – received from God by Moshe, which was then handed off to Aaron and finally to the Jewish people.

Figure 7: Detail Second Nuremberg Haggadah (Center for Jewish Art)

There is perhaps another example of the codex that addresses the minim issue. In the Laud Machzor, c. 1290, the illustration for the piyyut recited on Shavous, Adon Ammani, the upper register has an angel delivering two separate rectilinear tablet while on the right side the Israelites receive a single item with a loop at the bottom. Unlike the Birds Head or other manuscripts that has the transformation into the Torah during the transmission stage; here, the only item the Israelites received was this single item with the loop. What is this unusual single panel with a loop? It may be a a codex. Manuscripts and codices were originally kept in cabinets, armaria, but in the late 13^th and early 14^th centuries they were more commonly placed on desks, and the practice of chaining books to prevent theft began (see here). Perhaps the loop in the Laud Machzor is a ring of a chained codex and another provides another example of using the codex to address the minim issue.

Figure 8: Laud Machzor 127r (Bodleian Library, MS Laud Or. 321)

Hebrew Book Illustrations & Anti-Jewish Representations

Illustrations in printed books, however, do not appear to be concerned with solving the minim issue. To the contrary, some iconography in printed books can be read to diminish or even undermine not only the torah’s transmission but even the continued applicability and viability of the Decalogue. Printed illustrated Hebrew books depict either Moshe receiving or transmitting the tablets or simply Moshe and the tablets without context. Of the four printed mother Haggadahs that served as models for nearly all subsequent printed illustrated Haggadahs, only one, Amsterdam 1695, depicts ma’mad har sinai. Unlike the other illustrations in that edition, which are modeled after Mathis Merian’s Bible, this illustration was borrowed from other Amsterdam Hebrew prints. As we have previously discussed, while the engraver clearly used Merian as a model he deliberately altered the images to suit the Jewish text rather than their original Christian source. Merian’s imagery for ma’amad har Sinai was entirely at odds with the Jewish view, and therefore, the illustrator sought an alternative source. Merian only depicts the sin of the Golden Calf and not the delivery or transmission of the Decalogue/Torah. That aligns with Christian theology that focuses on the sins of the Jews, rather than the monumental and exceptional example of God speaking directly to the Jews and imparting his Torah.

Figure 9: Amsterdam Haggadah, 1695 (Center for Jewish Art)

The Amsterdam Haggadah used the imagery that first appears on the titlepage of the 1679 Amsterdam Humash and reused on many subsequent editions of the Humashim from Amsterdam and other cities. Here, the mountain is in the middle and Moshe is still on top, receiving the tablets. They are square, and one is held in each of his hands. The illustration does not depict Moshe delivering the Torah or tablets; therefore, it does not address the tension between the Decalogue and the torah. Nonetheless, arguably implicitly, the inclusion of the image on a title page of a Humash, obviates the need to include additional imagery for the minim issue – Moshe receiving the tablets is literally attached and is the precursor to the entire Torah.

Figure 10: Humash, Amsterdam, 1679 (Gross Family Collection)

While the Decalogue scene does not appear in the other mother Haggadahs, Moshe with the luchos is used as one of the border figures in the Venice 1609 Haggadah. Moshe is carrying two connected round-topped tablets and has a light emanating from his forehead. This illustration of Moshe and the luchos is among the most common title page illustrations in Hebrew books.

Figure 11: Title Page Shu”t Rashba, Hanau, 1610 (Gross Family Collecdtion)

It first appears adorning the titlepage of Shu”T Maharil, Hanau, 1610. However, that image was clearly borrowed from a non-Jewish source. Moshe has horns, with rounded topped tablets, and is flanked by Aaron wearing a bishop’s mitre and holding a censer.[14] There is another nuance to the image that may also specifically Chrisitan, and more important theologically than whether Moshe had horns or light emanating from his head. Unlike the Jewish sources discussed above, Moshe does not hold the tablets aloft. Rather, they are standing on the ground, his hand on top. This aligns with the Christian view of the Decalogue; after Jesus, it was relegated to a secondary role or was even superseded by the New Testament. The depiction in Shu”T Hashiv R’ Eliezer, published in 1749 in Neuwied, Germany, presents a particularly striking variation. In this volume, Moshe’s hand is shown flat, seemingly serving to drive down the tablets into the ground rather than grasping them, as seen in the Hanua prints. Additionally, unlike other works that either show some of the text on the tablets or leave them blank, Hashiv depicts the tablets filled with lines, effectively obscuring or erasing any text.

Figure 12: Shu”t Hashiv Reb Eliezer, Neuwied, 1748

The unique nature of Hashiv’s title page is amplified when compared with to similar title pages, one may have even served as the a model for Hashiv. Critically, that title page includes subtle yet significant modifications. For example, David Gans, a disciple of Maharal, in his work Sefer Nitzahon, published in Altdorf in 1644, created one of the most exquisite Hebrew title pages. It features a similar depiction of Moshe as seen in Hashiv, with his hand resting atop the tablets that include some lines, resembling Hashiv. However, these tablets prominently display the Hebrew “Aseres ha-Dibros,” clearly underscoring their importance.

Figure 13: Sefer Nitzhon, Altdorf, 1644

Another contrary example is Yefeh Anaf, by R. Shmuel Jaffe, Frankfurt a.d. Order, 1696, which depicts a Jewish Moshe with rays emanating from his head, holding round-topped tablets with the beginning of each directive in Hebrew.

Like the three manuscripts discussed above, there is another title page that features Moshe with a scroll instead of tablets. This title page, which appears in a number of different Amsterdam books, for example, Sefer Shenei Luchos ha-Bris, Amsterdam, 1698, Yad Yosef, Amsterdam, 1700, and Eshlei Ravrevei, Amsterdam, 1711, is an amalgamation of four biblical figures, each symbolizing one of the four crowns: Torah (Moshe), priesthood (Aaron), kingship (Dovid), and a good name (Shlomo).

Figure 14: Shnei Luchos ha-Bris, Amsterdam, 1698

A later Amsterdam edition of the Humash combines all three Amsterdam illustrations on the title page. The 1827 Amsterdam Humash features Carl Christian Fuchs’s engraved title page. At the top is the image of Moshe accepting the two square tablets. Moshe appears below on the left, holding round-topped tablets with lines representing the text, and in the center is a crown of Torah. Fuchs includes another Amsterdam illustration at the bottom of the page, this one from the 1695 Haggadah, which depicts the temple.

Figure 15: Humash, Amsterdam, 1827

There is another unique depiction of the tablets on an early 19th-century title page. In the third edition of Mendelsohn’s Humash, Fürth, 1801-1803, Moshe and Aaron flank the title page. However, Moshe, with rays, holds only his staff. In the central image, the ark of the covenant is present, and the two tablets, with rounded tops, are superimposed in the foreground.

Figure 16: Derech Selulah, Fürth, 1802 (Gross Family Collection)

One printed book, however, R. Yosef Ergas’ Shomer Emunim (Amsterdam, 1736), may be a unique example that specifically addresses the minim issue. This work, which discusses the legitimacy of Rabbinic Judaism, includes a representation within a circular design surrounded by laurel leaves at the center of the upper register. Initially, the figure appears to be Moshe holding the luchos. However, the accompanying legend identifies the figure as “Rabbenu ha-Kodesh,” Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nasi, the compiler of the Mishna and a key figure in rabbinic Judaism. This suggests that the Mishna – Rebi Yehuda’s text – is synonymous with the luchos.

Figure 17: Shomer Emunim, Amsterdam, 1736 (Moreshet Auctions)

This interpretation is further supported when compared to the title page model for Shomer Emunim, David Nieto’s Matteh Dan, Kuzari ha-Sheni, (London, 1724). This work also defends rabbinic Judaism and depicts the figure labeled “Rabbenu ha-Kodesh” encircled in the upper register, but he is holding a book with the inscription “Mishna.” The printers of Shomer Emunim modeled the title page on Matteh Dan, yet went further in visually equating the Mishna with the Decalogue.

Figure 18: Matte Dan, London, 1714 (Moreshet Auctions)

Except for the Amsterdam prints, title page illustrations consistently show round-topped tablets, unlike Hebrew manuscripts where tablet shapes vary. This likely stems from printing developing after Christian art standardized the round-topped representation. Table 1 summarizes twenty-two manuscripts depicting the tablets, with no consistent shape linked to a specific era or region. In one instance both rounded and rectilinear shapes in the same manuscript.[15] In the Sarajevo Haggadah, the tablets appear on two separate panels (panels 30 and 32): once when Moshe receives and conveys the Decalogue, and a second time in the scene depicting what may be the Tabernacle, Solomon’s Temple, or the Messianic Temple.[16] In the first instance, the tablets are rounded, while in the second, they are rectilinear. It is conceivable, though admittedly improbable, that the original designs were rounded and depicted in the first panel. However, in the second panel depicting the temple, when the decision was made to construct the ark with a square shape, the tops may have been removed to ensure a better fit.

The Ultimate Message of Har Sinai

One final manuscript illustration is notable not only for the shape or material of the tablets, but for the broader message it conveys. The entire nation was present at ma’amad Har Sinai, including men, women, and children. The Dresden Machzor, circa 1290, depicts Moshe receiving the tablets on the upper right of the panel. On the left side of the top register, Moshe delivers them to a kneeling woman, with no men depicted. This representation indicates that the Torah was given to and applies to everyone equally. The shape itself conveys a universal message. The luchos feature rounded tablets within a rectangular frame, symbolizing that everyone fits within Judaism’s broad parameters.

Figure 19: Dresden Machzor, c. 1290 (MS Dresd. A.46A, 202)

Table 1: Manuscripts & the Shape of the Tablets

	Square/Rectilinear	Rounded	Scroll
1.	Laud Machzor (Southern Germany, c. 1290, Bodleian, Laud Or. 321, fol. 127v)	Birds Head Haggadah (Southern Germany, c. 1300, Israel Museum, MS 180/57, fol. 23)	Nuremberg II Haggadah (1470-1480, Schocken Library, MS 24087)
2.	Rothschild Machzor (Florence, 1492, JTS, fol. 139)	Sarajevo Haggadah (Spain, 14th Century, Sarajevo Museum)	Yahuda Haggadah (mid 15th century, Israel Museum, MS 180/50)
3.	Tripartite Machzor (Southern Germany, c. 1320, British Library, MS. Add. 22413, f. 3r)	Parma Machzor (13th century, Western Ashkenaz, Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2887, fol. 101v)	Rothschild Weill Machzor (c. 1470, NLI, MS 804450, fol. 203)
4.	Schocken Bible (Southern Germany, c. 1300, Schocken Library, MS. 14840, fol. iv)	Dresden Machzor (1290, Mscr. Dresd. A.46.a, fol. 408)	MS 1388 Paris (1583, Bibliothèque Nat., MS 1338, fol. 14r)
5.	Regensburg Pentateuch (Regensburg?, c. 1300, Israel Museum, MS 180/52, fol. 154v)	Ulm-Treviso Siddur (1450-1453, Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2895, fol. 271)
6.	Sarajevo Haggadah (Spain, 14th Century, Sarajevo Museum)	Floersheim Haggadah (1502, Zurich, Floersheim Collection, fol. 15).
7.	First Leningrad Bible Egypt, (?) 929, fragment (Leningrad Public Library, MS II 17)
8.	Parma Bible (Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2710, fol. 3r)
9.	King’s Bible (Catalonia, Spain, 1384, MS King’s 1, f. 3v)
10.	Catalan Bible (Catalonia, Spain, third quarter of 14th century, MS Add. 15250, f. 3v)
11.	Harley Catalan Bible (Catalonia, Spain, c. 1350, MS Harley 1528, f. 8r)
12.	Darmstadt Haggadah II (Universitäts-und Landesbibliothek, Darmstadt, Cod. Or 28, fol. 9v)

Review of Rav Zvi Hirsch Grodzinsky’s Taharas Yisroel

By Shmuel Lubin

Shmuel Lubin is a doctoral candidate in biology and creator of “The Rishonim” podcast.

ר‘ צבי הירש גראדזענסקי טהרת ישראל, הלכות נדה, לראשונה מכתב יד, ע“י מכון תפארת צבי, [נדפס ע“י מכון עלה זית], תקסח עמודים

The publication of a new sefer on Hilchos Niddah is not necessarily cause for celebration in the often-saturated world of halachic literature.[1] But when such a publication is based on an early 20th century manuscript from the American heartland, it at least merits a glance; if the author happens to also have a rather famous rabbinic last name, talmidei chachamim may take interest even without knowing anything about the sefer’s content. All this can be said about Sefer Taharas Yisrael on the laws of Niddah, written by Rav Zvi Hirsch Grodzinsky zt”l. Born c. 1857 in Lithuania, where he learned be-chavrusa with his more famous second-cousin, Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinsky zt”l, he then spent most of his adult life serving as the chief rabbi of Omaha, Nebraska for almost 60 years (1891-1947). [2] As intriguing as his biography is, once one begins studying Rav Grodzinsky’s Sefer Taharas Yisrael, such details quickly fade into insignificance, washed away by a torrent of Torah brilliance. This review will therefore focus first on judging the newly published work for what it is: a book on the laws of Hilchos Niddah (Family Purity).

Photo of Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Grodzinsky from approximately the time he arrived in America. (From Rosenbaum and Wakschlag, 1994)

Probably the most succinct way to describe the style of the Sefer Taharas Yisrael is to say that it does for Hilchos Niddah what R. Avraham Bornstein’s (the “Sochatchover”) Eglei Tal does for Hilchos Shabbos: it is a book of halacha that also provides the background for the laws through detailed conceptual analysis of its sources. In the center of the page is the halacha, which is usually a direct quotation from Shulchan Aruch, Rama, or similarly standard halachic works. This main text is flanked by two sets of notes: “Mekoros,” or citations, and “Biurim,” elaborations.

Because the main body of the text is often an exact citation from a standard halachic authority such as the Shulchan Aruch or Rama, sometimes these formulations do not precisely reflect the halachic consensus as Rav Grodzinsky understands it. Despite its name, therefore, the “Mekoros” section not only provides citations for the main text, but also serves more generally as ‘footnotes’, including brief but important clarifications or qualifications of the cited halacha. Together, this allows for the Sefer Taharas Yisrael to be useful as a work of practical guidance, like so many other summary works on Hilchos Niddah available today, but at the same maintain the voice of the classic authorities such as the Shulchan Aruch.

The vast majority of the sefer’s text, however, is comprised of the Biurim, wherein Rav Grodzinsky engages in classical rabbinic interpretation of halachic texts, analyzing their language and logic, raising questions, proposing interpretations, and refining his (and his readers’) understanding of the earlier textual sources. These sources used in the Biurim focus primarily on the Gemara and Rishonim, as well as the major poskim throughout the generations both “on the page” of the Shulchan Aruch and in other classic (and sometimes not-so-classic) works of She’eilos u-Teshuvos and halacha. Despite his remote location, especially relative to the Torah centers of Europe and America, Rav Grodzinsky amassed an extraordinary library of seforim, as attested to by the roughly 200 books of She’eilos u-Teshuvos that he lists in the introductory pages of the reference work that he published during his lifetime, “Likutei Zvi.”

Part of Rav Grodzinsky’s library which was housed by Otzar ha-Poskim in Jerusalem. (From Rosenbaum and Wakschlag, 1994)

Nevertheless, in Sefer Taharas Yisrael, Rav Grodzinsky focuses more narrowly on the classical commentaries printed in now-standard editions of the Gemara, Rambam, Tur and Shulchan Aruch.[3] Of course, not all of these were always so “standard”; for example, Rav Grodzinsky makes use of the Tosafos ha-Rosh that had been “newly printed on the side of the Gemara” (p. 42), referring to the now ubiquitous Vilna Shas published by Mrs. Deborah Romm and her sons during Rav Grodzinsky’s lifetime (while he was still living in Eastern Europe).

A few other observations are worth noting about Rav Grodzinsky’s use of sources. Although he does reference the responsa literature, aside from references to the Noda BiYehudah and Chasam Sofer, the total number of those citations is probably only a few dozen (which is certainly impressive, but does not reflect the more extraordinary breadth of his reference work, Likutei Zvi). Rav Grodzinsky also quotes heavily from both the Chochmas Adam of R. Avraham Danzig, and from the Shulchan Aruch “HaRav” of R. Shneur Zalman of Liadi, whom Rav Grodzinsky invariably – and uniquely – cites as the “the Rav, the Gaon, the Chassid.” These seforim have become standard works of halacha that are frequently cited in the literature of the past century, but in several places, Rav Grodzinsky also quotes from another book of halacha that is rarely if ever cited today, the “Ikkarei ha-Dat” of R. Daniel Tirani (18th century Italy), which is noteworthy for also including what would be considered “medical” information along with the halacha (see p. 38).

Among Rav Grodzinsky’s many sources are also non-halachic texts, such as the Midrash Vayikra Rabbah or R. Eliyahu Mizrachi’s supercommentary to Rashi on the Torah. Another noteworthy reference is Rav Grodzinsky’s discussion of a comment by the “Besamim Rosh,” (p. 215) attributed to R. Asher b. Yechiel (“the Rosh”) but now widely accepted to have been forged by Saul Berlin.[4] This is especially interesting because among Rav Grodzinsky’s unpublished manuscripts is an expansive 11-volume work on the (authentic) responsa of R. Asher b. Yechiel. Given his expertise in the works of this particular medieval authority, it would be very valuable to know whether (or to what extent) he believed that positions expressed in the Besamim Rosh fit with other known statements of the Rosh. In an important responsum on the topic of annulling a marriage, published by Rav Grodzinsky at the end of his commentary to Maseches Berachos (published in 1923), he briefly mentions a “sevara meshubeshes” [distorted reasoning] quoted in the name of the Besamim Rosh, and says that the book was not available to him at the time. In Sefer Taharas Yisrael though, Rav Grodzinsky raises no objections to the book per se.[5]

Sometimes the “Biurim” are merely quotes from earlier compendiums, such as the Beis Yosef, or summaries of some of the major discussions of later commentaries such as the Chavos Daas and Sidrei Taharah (and those who have read through extensive comments of the Sidrei Taharah will acknowledge that extracting the main points from his lengthy pilpulim is itself a great service). In what may be the most difficult topic of Hilchos Niddah, Rav Grodzinsky excuses himself for deviating from his usual brevity to enumerate the various rabbinic positions and their halachic consequences for the benefit of someone struggling through the dense halachic details in question (p. 114-117).

Usually, though, Rav Grodzinsky goes far beyond mere quotations or summaries of earlier commentaries. Whether he is discussing the Gemara, the Rishonim, the Shulchan Aruch, or later commentators, Rav Grodzinsky’s novel elaborations upon these sources of the halacha are extraordinary in their clarity, profundity, and creativity. Most of these biurim are brief, consisting of a single question-and-answer, an additional proof to the position cited in the main text, or the like, but written in a lucid style that stands in stark contrast to other ‘short’ halachic commentaries such as the Shach and Taz.

The vast majority of Rav Grodzinsky’s novel contributions are in explicating a single, very precise detail of a halachic discussion. He does not engage in the type of high-level conceptual categorization (inventing ‘lomdishe chakiras’) that is common in contemporary yeshiva study.[6] Instead, his approach involves a close examination of the original sources, on occasion proposing alternative readings or explanations to resolve questions or demonstrate proofs to the halacha in the Gemara, Rishonim and early Acharonim.

Rav Grodzinsky’s creativity is especially evident in defending positions of Rishonim (and sometimes Acharonim) from the challenges of later commentators. As he writes (p. 257 and 343), “it is a mitzvah to resolve the words of the Beis Yosef from whose waters we drink constantly.” This tendency is not at all limited to R. Yosef Caro who, as the author of the Beis Yosef and Shulchan Aruch, is one of the main pillars of halachic decision-making. Rav Grodzinsky writes similarly regarding the authors of Knesses Yechezkel (R. Yechezkel Katzenellenbogen, p. 68-69), the Perisha (R. Yehoshua Falk Katz, p. 260), the Panim Meiros (R. Meir Poznan/Eisenstadt, p. 318), and many others. In fact, Rav Grodzinsky appears to be especially motivated to defend opinions that are rejected as erroneous by the majority of other commentators, saving them from potential dishonor.

As Eliezer Brodt discussed in his review of Sefer Beis ha-Yayin, Rav Grodzinsky is at times willing to attribute difficult passages to printers’ errors, but is wary of making such suggestions too frequently.[7] However, he sometimes solves difficult positions of Rishonim or explains why groups of Rishonim will disagree with each other by noting that they likely had different versions of the Gemara’s text.[8] In a similar vein, Rav Grodzinsky is adept at demonstrating how a dispute among Rishonim or Acharonim is dependent upon a dispute found in the Gemara (or at least earlier sources; e.g. on p. 185). He is particularly sensitive to rabbinic authors of differing opinions and has a keen eye towards finding a “le-shitaso,” explaining how deciding one particular halacha is dependent upon understanding a different halacha. He applies this method to many Amoraim, Rishonim, and Acharonim. These types of explanations demonstrate how Rav Grodzinsky was deeply attuned not just to nuances of the Talmudic sources, but also to the specific personalities behind each opinion voiced by the various commentators and authorities. Relatedly, Rav Grodzinsky will sometimes remark upon the general tendency or style of a Rishon, noting, for instance, “it is surprising to me that the Rosh did not mention that the position of the Tosafists diverges [from his own view] and dispute their words, as is his custom in every place” (p. 211).

Within the context of halachic discussion, Rav Grodzinsky is not averse to suggesting fresh and often creative interpretations of the Gemara that appear to be at odds with the major commentaries. Usually, his reinterpretations of primary sources are in response to some problem raised by the commentators, but this is not always the case. To take one relatively simple example, the Gemara (Niddah 9b) states:

וכמה עונה אמר ריש לקיש משום רבי יהודה נשיאה עונה בינונית שלשים יום ורבא אמר רב חסדא עשרים יום ולא פליגי מר קחשיב ימי טומאה וימי טהרה ומר לא חשיב ימי טומאה.

And how long is a typical cycle? Reish Lakish says in the name of Rabbi Yehuda Nesia: the average cycle is thirty days. And Rava says that Rav Ḥisda says: It is twenty days. [The Gemara clarifies:] And they do not disagree. One counts [i.e., includes] days of impurity and days of purity. And the other does not count the days of impurity [i.e., the seven days of niddah plus the three days of possible ziva sightings]

The Gemara is fairly explicit in saying that the two rabbis cited as opining upon the average woman’s cycle do not disagree with each other. Yet, Rav Grodzinsky (p. 130) believes that the Gemara would not have expressed their opinions in different ways if their positions were truly identical, and so he suggests that they do, in fact, disagree, but the Gemara simply means that they both hold that the average cycle is approximately 30 days, not that their opinions vary so widely as to differ by ten whole days.

Notwithstanding his frequently bold and creative suggestions, Rav Grodzinsky is very hesitant to utilize those innovations in practice. Instead, he writes, “I will permit the audacity of boldly writing what has come into my net [arhiv be-nafshi oz lichtov mah she-alah be-metzudasi], but I am writing only for the purposes of study and not le-halacha, considering only as a student considers before his master” (p. 20), or “for even if this [novel explanation] answers many questions, it is against many Rishonim and Acharonim who are so much greater than I” (p. 389). When it comes to the practical implementation of halacha, Rav Grodzinsky’s humility prevents him from issuing a pesak that is against what he views as the mainstream position of the earlier poskim.[9] His determination of this “mainstream” is complex; Rav Grodzinsky does not appear to be working within a rule-based system such that, for example, if there is a dispute between the Shach and Taz he would always decide in favor of the Shach.[10] Instead, Rav Grodzinsky takes all the commentaries into consideration and appears to decide according to his considered majority, but many times both opinions will appear in the main body of the halacha in the center of the page, as yesh omrim [some say] one way or the other.

Even without consciously pushing the boundaries of pesak halacha, however, sometimes Rav Grodzinsky’s assessment of the halachic consensus is nevertheless important where later or contemporary rabbinic authorities continue to dispute certain halachos. Hilchos Niddah may be a “well-trodden path” (much more so than, for example, the laws of yayin nesech, the subject of Rav Grodzinsky’s book published in 2011), but there are numerous issues where contemporary poskim differ, and Rav Grodzinsky can thus serve as an important source for deciding halacha. To take just one example out of many, Rav Grodzinsky believes that there is no reason to follow the stricter opinion of the Or Zaru’a in considering a veses [expected period] to last for 24 (instead of 12) hours.[11]

Most of Rav Grodzinsky’s responsa remain unpublished, but from the few that are available it is clear that he did not shy away from tackling even the most complex of modern issues. In an undated manuscript that was probably written around 1941, for example, Rav Grodzinsky wrote what may be the first full-length discussion of the halachic implications of artificial insemination.[12] Some of Rav Grodzinsky’s previously published works also include fascinating asides or observations pertaining to his role and experiences as a rabbi in early twentieth century America.[13] However, there is almost no topic in Sefer Taharas Yisrael that was not discussed in the older, classical works of halacha. As far as I could tell, there is no hint to the fact that the sefer was written in 20th century Nebraska instead of 18th century Prague, even though there are many instances where one would think that the different American context might have an impact upon halacha. Perhaps this is because Sefer Taharas Yisrael was written earlier in Rav Grodzinsky’s lifetime, or maybe he simply wanted to maintain its classical style without discussing new questions in this context.

If Sefer Taharas Yisrael were published in pre-war Eastern Europe, it would have undoubtedly been popular among rabbinic students who recognized Rav Grodzinsky as a fantastic talmid chacham.[14] In (nearly) all of his writings, Rav Grodzinsky’s intended audience was certainly his rabbinic colleagues in Europe and Israel (then British Palestine), not his own congregants in the city of Omaha, Nebraska. In terms of his vast Torah knowledge, Rav Grodzinsky must have been worlds away from his neighbors and community. It is hard to imagine what he knew or thought about the city of Omaha when he was 33 years old, living in Vilna, when he accepted the invitation to become its rabbi in 1891. By the time Rav Grodzinsky arrived, there were (at least) two main Orthodox synagogues – a “Litvishe Shul” (Congregation B’nai Israel, founded 1883) and a “Russishe Shul” (Chevra B’nai Israel Adas Russia, founded 1884), with a third Hungarian Shul dedicated a few years after. As Omaha’s Orthodox rabbi, Rav Grodzinsky gave weekly sermons, led daily Mishnah studies, counseled congregants, answered halachic questions, and supervised kosher slaughter, but it seems inevitable that a great chasm would have existed between him and his community. He refused to speak English, even to his children, and seems to have avoided participating in the committees and social obligations that were becoming typical of American rabbis (although he did participate in the founding of Agudas ha-Rabbanim in 1902).

The majority of even Rav Grodzinsky’s most devoted congregants who may have purchased their rabbi’s books as a mark of respect could probably hardly read them, and his neighbors surely had little appreciation of the talmudic genius living among them. The salary provided by the shuls of Omaha, initially a modest honorarium of $25 per month from each synagogue, was hardly enough to make ends meet. When the two larger Omaha shuls hired Rabbi Yechiel Michel Charlop in 1923 (who stayed for two years before moving to the Bronx), he was offered an annual salary of $3,500. Meanwhile, Rav Grodzinsky at the time earned about $200-400 and was forced to supplement his income by providing various other functions such as selling Matzah for Passover and traveling annually to Sacramento, California to certify kosher wines. A few decades after his death, nobody in the community even remembered where he was buried.[15]

Instead, Rav Grodzinsky poured unimaginably superhuman efforts into producing scholarly Torah writings. His first book, “Mikveh Yisrael,” a commentary on the laws of ritual baths, appeared in 1898 with the approbation of his rebbe R. Yitzchak Elchonon Spektor zt”l. Starting in 1896, he contributed numerous articles to respected Torah journals, engaging in scholarly debates on a wide range of halachic issues with the rabbis of Europe, Israel, and elsewhere in America. The vast majority of Rav Grodzinsky’s prolific output, however, remained in manuscript form at the time of his death (at about 90) in 1947. Shortly afterwards, his personal library and unpublished writings were shipped off to the Otzar ha-Poskim institute in Jerusalem, as per his instructions prior to his passing.

A newspaper article from 1945 reported that Rav Grodzinsky (then at the age of about 87) was “planning the publication of additional works in the field of Rabbinics,”[16] but the word “planning” is a woefully inadequate description of the amount of effort and care that Rav Grodzinsky put into preparing his writings for publication. Many seforim aficionados will be aware of R. Akiva Eiger’s directions to his sons that they should publish his responsa using large clear lettering on the finest paper available. Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Grodzinsky went quite a bit further, taking an unusual, perhaps even unique step towards ensuring that his halachic works would be published as beautifully as he imagined them to be: with his clear handwriting, he would copy over his ready-to-publish manuscript into bound notebooks in the precise page layout that he intended for it to be printed, with the main halacha in the center flanked by citations on one side and elaborations on the other.

Despite the incredible lengths Rav Grodzinsky went to in preparing his manuscripts, they languished in their boxes (and were even tied up in their original ropes) for many decades before any of these previously unpublished works were actually printed. The saga of their publication is the subject of a 2015 Mishpacha magazine article[17] with additional updates included in the Introduction sections of more recent publications. In 2011, R. Shalom Jacob zt”l published Rav Grodzinsky’s work on Yayin Nesech, and a few years later published a collection of his writings on the holidays under the title Mo’adei Zvi vol. 1 (2016). This newly published work, Sefer Taharas Yisrael on Hilchos Niddah, the third in the series of Rav Grodzinsky’s works published from manuscripts, marks a bittersweet occasion, coinciding with the first yahrzeit of R. Shalom Jacob, whose dedicated efforts in publishing Rav Grodzinsky’s seforim have been continued by Rabbi Myron Wakschlag through Machon Tiferes Zvi, a nonprofit organization dedicated to publishing Rav Grodzinsky’s works. This new volume includes tributes to R. Shalom Jacob by Rabbi Yisroel Dovid Schlesinger of Monsey, by R. Shalom’s father, and by R. Shalom’s friend and partner-in-publication, Rabbi Wakschlag.

The publishers have lived up to Rav Grodzinsky’s high expectations admirably; Sefer Taharas Yisrael is handsomely bound, typeset in large lettering, and with the sections clearly laid out and formatted according to the author’s handwritten notebooks (even if maintaining the exact pagination would have been impractical, if not impossible). As expected for a work of this size and complexity, it is not entirely without typographical errors, although these rarely impede understanding.[18]

Particularly helpful is the Source Index, which contributes to making Sefer Taharas Yisrael more user-friendly for someone studying either Maseches Niddah or Shulchan Aruch (although Rav Grodzinsky’s own sefer does mostly follow the organization of the Tur). Without this index, the sefer would be much more difficult to be studied by someone following a classic yeshiva or kollel curriculum. However, it should be noted that the index, while useful, is not entirely comprehensive, especially for sources beyond the Gemara and Shulchan Aruch commentaries. For instance, there is no reference to “Ra’ah” (R. Ahron ha-Levi of Lunel) or his work, Bedek ha-Bayis despite being quoted several times.[19] However, as it currently stands the index is already 49 pages long(!), and these minor deficiencies do not substantially detract from its overall utility (and certainly do not impinge upon the quality of the sefer as a whole).

There is no question in my mind that this work will be an invaluable resource for anyone engaged in serious study of Hilchos Niddah, as Rav Grodzinsky’s scholarship deserves a place on the shelf of every kollel beis medrash. Hopefully, this publication will serve as a catalyst for the financing of more publications from Rav Grodzinsky’s writings; a list of manuscripts being considered for future publication and other information about this project can be found on the publisher’s website. Aside from the benefit that this serves “le-hagdil Torah u-le-ha’adirah,” publication of his responsa and sermons in particular will likely provide fascinating insights into the rabbinic engagement with new technologies and social realities of early 20th century America.

Moreover, the quality and depth of Sefer Taharas Yisrael should further solidify Rav Grodzinsky’s place among the gedolim of his generation, and the sefer is a fitting tribute to this giant who was largely under-appreciated by his own congregants of Omaha, Nebraska. In the commentary to Maseches Berachos that Rav Grodzinsky published in his lifetime, he explained the rabbinic ‘blessing’ that “you should see your world in your life, your end in the World to Come, and your hope will be for generations” (Berachos 17a):

“That you should be recognized and desired in people’s eyes in this world… that is “your end in the World to Come,” and “your hope,” meaning, your hope that your lips will speak from the grave through others speaking your sayings in this world, as the Gemara says in Yevamos (97a), “will be for generations,” meaning, for many generations after you, people will continue to cite your teachings in this world. (Milei de-Berachos p. 187)

May this blessing be applied posthumously to Rav Grodzinsky as fulfilled through the further study and publication of his works.

For sample pages of this work Email Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

The Mother Haggados: Models for Modern Analysis of Printed Jewish Illustrations

There is a long tradition of illustrating Haggados, dating back to at least the early Middle Ages. Likely only a small portion of those manuscripts has survived. However, most have been reprinted, and their imagery has been meticulously analyzed and cataloged. These manuscripts can broadly be divided into two categories based on their places of origin: Sephardic or Ashkenazic countries. The former includes the creation cycle and the Exodus story prior to the Haggadah text, while the latter incorporates the imagery into the text. Within these categories, and with the exception of “brother” or “sister” manuscripts, no single manuscript necessarily influenced subsequent ones. Of course, common manuscript imagery appears in many of these manuscripts, with the hunting scene being the most ubiquitous.

Illustrations in printed Haggados, however, are different. They can be traced back to four “mother” Haggados, each the first in its respective region, representing the three main geographical areas of Jewish settlement and centers for printing Hebrew books: Prague, 1526 (Eastern Europe); Mantua, 1560 (Italy); Venice, 1609; and Amsterdam, 1695 (Western Europe). These specific Haggados were reprinted many times, with the illustrations, motifs, and themes appearing in them—sometimes collectively and at other times singularly—finding their way into nearly all subsequent illustrated Haggados. Some of these illustrations reflect influences from manuscripts, and all three were impacted by the broader non-Jewish culture and geographical iconography (though not directly related to the text itself). For example, an Italian Haggadah shows Avraham crossing a river in a gondola, while Prague incorporates Gothic architecture for the Egyptian cities. Additionally, we can sometimes identify specifically Christian iconography or direct borrowing from Christian sources in these and later Haggados. Occasionally, this involves using an image that carries no specific Christian connotations, while in other instances, the usage is clearly identifiable as specifically and uniquely Christian.

While these Haggados are discussed by many scholars, at best they analyze a few images, and even in many instances, they fail to fully account for the nuance of the images. Instead, they focus on external influences or some exotic element of the images. This form of analysis is no longer in vogue, and as it relates to Hebrew manuscripts, it has seen a substantial correction, most notably in the recent works of Marc Michael Epstein and Katrin Kogman-Appel on Hebrew manuscripts.[1] We hope to make a small contribution to redirecting the narrative regarding the imagery of printed Hebrew Haggados. What follows is not intended to be a comprehensive analysis of all printed illustrated Haggados. Indeed, we do not discuss Prague 1526, as we have dealt with that edition on a few previous occasions (here, here, here, here, here, here, and here). Rather, we hope it serves as a minor contribution in applying the current methodology used for Hebrew manuscripts to the Hebrew book.

Mantua 1560: Many Cooks in the Kitchen

The Mantua 1560 Haggadah is the first Italian-illustrated Haggadah, published by Giacomo Rufinelli and it is available here from a copy in the Braginsky Collection (the NLI recently exhibited the manuscripts from Collection, with a companion book, Encounters with Beauty). The woodblock images were overseen and possibly even executed by Yitzhak ben Shmuel Bassan. However, since they are unsigned, the artist is uncertain. Yet, however, as we will see, there may have been multiple artisans involved in creating the woodblocks. Bassan served as the shamash in the first synagogue established in Mantua by Yitzhak Porto.

Mantua 1560 is the first illustrated Haggadah to include a title page. The convention of title pages became standard in Hebrew books only in the early middle period of the 16th century; see our discussion here. Like many Jewish and non-Jewish title pages, it frames the page with architectural elements, such as arches and pillars. These pillars are unique. They are not traditional columns but helical (twisted) pillars, referred to as barley-sugar pillars.

While at first blush, Rufinelli’s incorporation might seem associated with a distinctly Christian structure, closer examination reveals that the printer’s usage served a different purpose, one explicitly aligned with his publishing house. This style is most well-known for its use in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, which was constructed in the 4th century by Constantine the Great and this style is claimed to be derived from the famed pillars of the Solomonic temple, the yachin and boaz pillars (although no Jewish sources describe these as helical). These pillars supported the dome above the main altar. The original Basilica was demolished in the early 16th century and rebuilt at the end of that century. It was most famously reproduced by the school of Raphael in “The Donation of Constantine,” completed around 1524, and adorns the ceiling of Sala di Costantino, one of the four Raphael rooms within the Vatican Palace. Nonetheless, Rufinelli most likely used these pillars not to evoke St. Peter’s but for a more local reason, specifically to identify his books as Mantuan in provenance. The local Cortile della Cavallerizza in the Palazzo Ducale in Mantua, designed by Giulio Romano and completed around 1540, predates Rufinelli’s incorporation of these pillars in his books (they appear in the Haggadah and others). The second elevation is notable for its barley-sugar pillars, an early example of the Mannerist school of architecture and among the Palazzo’s most unique and recognizable features.

Cortile della Cavallerizza

Perhaps, in Rufinelli’s mind, these pillars symbolized Mantua, and he treated them as akin to a printer’s device expressing familial or other aspects of the printer. Indeed, while Italianate books in the 16th century regularly incorporated architectural elements into title page designs, we have not located any books that utilize the Solomonic pillars, despite their history and symbolism in Italy, other than Ruffinelli’s Mantuan prints.[2]

Another image from this Haggadah originates from the Vatican Palace: the depiction of the prophet Jeremiah that Michelangelo painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Jeremiah, seated in a contemplative pose with his hand on his beard and legs crossed, is used to illustrate the wise son in the Haggadah. Nevertheless, the image takes on a unique Jewish twist in the Haggadah version. Jeremiah is no longer bareheaded; instead, he wears a Pileus Cornutus, or Jewish hat, the cone-shaped headgear commonly mandated by Christian law.

Mantua, 1560

The first edition of the Maxwell House Haggadah (we discussed the history of the first edition here) also reproduces a well-known Renaissance image of Rembrandt. It includes Rembrandt’s Sacrifice of Isaac, now in the St. Petersburg Museum.

Maxwell House Haggadah, New York, 1932

The illustration of the final son, the one who cannot ask, is also of non-Jewish origin. In this instance, it comes from a biblical illustration by the noted illustrator, Hans Holbein the Younger, and appears in Icones Historiarum Veteris Testamenti, first published in 1538 (page 88). The image is used in a different context, Psalms 53:2, for a fool, but in the Haggadah, it illustrates the son who does not even know how to ask.

Mantua, 1560

Holbein, Icones Historiarum Veteris Testamenti

Determining the source of the remaining images, as well as the number and identity of the artists involved in the production of this Haggadah, is challenging. A close examination of the style and quality of the images suggests that at least three artists contributed. Artist A’s work features detailed, technically accurate German-style drawings, while Artist B’s illustrations resemble almost childlike line drawings that lack perspective and depth. The third artist, Artist C, produces illustrations that are not as crude as those of Artist B, as they possess a sense of perspective. Yet, they are also not executed as well as those of Artist A.

Artists A and B appear on the first page of the Haggadah. In the upper right-hand corner, there is a detailed and precise depiction of a man searching for hametz, dressed in a Germanic style, belted and wearing a beret, with the ceiling and fence rendered with perspective. At the bottom center left is a simple line drawing of the matzah baking scene. The men and women wear Italianate clothing, with the men in unbelted tunics and cloth caps covering their ears or in flat hats, and the women in low-cut dresses with exaggerated shoulders. There is no depth, as the men on the far left overlap on the same plane as the women kneading the dough. Similarly, the two people at the table in the right-center, using the “redler” (dough docker) to mark the matzah, also lack perspective.

 

Artists A and B are again juxtaposed on facing pages, featuring two images depicting the killing of Jewish babies. On the right page, we see the midrashic image of Pharaoh bathing in the babies’ blood, while the left page shows the act of casting the babies into the water. Here, as well, the illustration on the right side portrays the participants with realism, whereas the left displays simple line drawings. The woman on the far right of the left page, with her hands raised, contrasts sharply with the despondent woman at the far right of the right page, where the anguish of having her child torn from her arms is powerfully conveyed.

Artist C demonstrates intermediate technical skills between those of Artists A and B. Two similar images of the family at the seder demonstrate the distinction between Artists B and C. Artist B’s work consists of line drawings, offering little to no shading or depth on a single plane, whereas Artist C’s piece presents a crowded scene where each figure wears a unique dress, showcasing multiple perspectives and well-rendered depth of perception.

A comparison between two figures, both seated in similar chairs and holding comparable objects, effectively represents the distinct styles of Artists A and C. Rabbi Eliezer, characterized by a disproportionate head and a simpler chair. The king image, however, holds a topped goblet with filigree on the bottom and is seated beneath an elaborate copula. All of the features are well-proportioned and executed within a smaller and more challenging format. These distinctions suggest that the two seated men cannot be the work of the same artist.

Artist C is evident in Moshe leading the Israelites out of Egypt. The large group of Israelites is well drawn (no Artist B line drawings), but Moshe, particularly his head, is not rendered as well as the figures in Artist A’s works.

Similarly, the most recognizable image from this Haggadah, which shows the Messiah on a donkey with Elijah following, displays the hybrid style of Artist C. The Messiah, donkey, Elijah, and especially the figure with the bow and arrow are clearly less refined than those of Artist A, but not as simplistic as Artist B.

None of the Haggadah’s images are signed. One clue to the influence of Artist C is seen in his illustration of Avraham crossing the river. His boat of choice is a gondola, suggesting that Artist C may have Venetian origins.

The gondola also makes a brief appearance in another of Artist C’s images, titled “Building Pitom and Ramses.” There is a small gondolier crossing the river visible at the top center of the image.

Artist A’s city of origin, or where he may have spent time, cannot be determined from his drawings. The wise son, Jeremiah, is depicted by Artist A, but, despite the origins of this illustration in the Sistine Chapel, we cannot identify Artist A as Roman, nor confirm that he viewed the image firsthand in Rome. It is more plausible that he encountered the images only through drawings, whether printed or otherwise. A comparison of the beard in the Haggadah, with its long, wavy hairs, aligns much more closely with this drawing, now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, printed in Mantua (although its dating is disputed), rather than with Michelangelo’s bushy, untamed beard in the Sestina.[3]

 

If, indeed, there are three artists, we can tentatively associate the images with their artists as follows:

Artist A: King on chair (p. 2, 3,36, 37, 42, 70), Jeremiah (p. 9), praying man (p. 9, 14), four sons (p. 10-11), Rosh Hodesh (p. 11), Pharoh bathing in blood (p. 20), Aaron with staff (p. 24), angel with sword (p. 24), R. Yosi (p. 26), King pointing finger (p. 27), Israelites escaping Egypt with Egyptian pursuing (p. 28-29), Paschal lamb (p. 32), matzah (p. 33, 40), maror (p. 34, 38, 40),.

Artist B: matza baking (p. 1), family seder (p. 4, 42), children thrown into the river (p. 21).

Artist C: hare hunt (p. 3), enslaved Israelites building (p. 6, 35), Avraham on gondola (p. 13), young woman (p. 18), Pitom and Ramses (p. 19), R. Eliezer (p. 28), Egyptians drowning (p. 31), Moshe leading the Israelites (p. 38), family seder (p. 41), Elijah entering Jerusalem (p. 45).

Venice, 1609 An Egalitarian Haggadah?

The third “mother” Haggadah was conceived by Israel Zifroni, a printer, editor, and typesetter, and published by Giovanni di Gara in Venice in 1609 (briefly discussed here and here).[4] The images are unsigned and it is unclear if they were executed by Zifroni or he just oversaw their production. There were three editions: in Judeo-Italian, Judeo-German, and Ladino.⁵ On the title page, Zifroni invokes the verse from Psalms 148:12: “‘Youths and maidens, elders and boys, will praise the name of the Lord,’ who inspired me, Zifroni, to bring this crown of beauty to light, so that no eye will be satiated by its forms. Here, one can always find novelties; these were not done in vain, but with intention and purpose. These will prolong the story, for your eyes withhold my glory and my deeds related to it.” In this epigraph, Zifroni alludes to two unique aspects of the illustrations in his edition: its egalitarianism, as it is for everyone, and the deliberate nature of the illustrations, meant to provide additional commentary to the text and fulfill the obligation that “whoever adds in the retelling is praiseworthy.”

While Zifroni surely intended that the Haggadah be used for all age groups, one of the “novelties” in the illustrations is a focus on a female audience. This inclusivity, emphasizing images depicting women, repeatedly appears throughout the Haggadah. Additionally, there are scenes that do not include women, in previous Haggadahs, and it is unclear from the text if women participated. Nevertheless, Zifroni incorporates them into the narrative.[6]

Zifroni’s intentional and distinct approach is already evident from the title page imagery, which contains six images divided between the processes of searching and burning hametz and matzah baking. The people depicted conducting these processes are exclusively women, with no men present. This gendered approach sharply contrasts with the Prague 1526 and the Mantua 1560, which depict a man searching for Hametz.

Mantua, 1560

Prague, 1526

Similarly, while the baking scene at the bottom of the page is very similar to that of Mantua 1560, nearly all the men depicted are now women. Aspects of the process in Mantua were entirely male, whereas in Zifroni’s they are now exclusively female.

Venice, 1609

Mantua, 1560

In Mantua, the kneading depicts three men, while in Zifroni’s there are three participants as well, but one is a woman. Mantua shows two men mixing the dough, whereas Zifroni’s features two women. Mantua has two men shaping and puncturing the dough, while in Zifroni’s there are two women. Even in the scene at the top of the page depicting the harvesting and checking of wheat, where the heavy labor involved could easily be portrayed as exclusively male, Zifroni still includes one woman at the table checking the wheat.

Zifroni’s biblical scenes, when possible, include women. For example, in the scene above depicting Avraham crossing the river in the Prague and Mantua Haggadahs Avraham is shown alone, accompanied only by the rower in Prague (second image below) and the gondolier in Mantua (third image below).

This aligns with the verse in the Haggadah, “that I took Avraham your forefather over the river,” which does not mention anyone else. By contrast, in this seminal scene in the formation of the Jewish people, Zifroni did not limit himself to the literal text. His illustration references the biblical story that includes Sarah. Thus, she is portrayed in the gondola, along with two other women at the dock about to board, while no other men, aside from Avraham, are present, not even Lot. This multitude of women sharply contrasts with the scene on the right, depicting idol worship, where the genders are reversed; here, there is just one woman, and the rest are men.

Another “novel” illustration related to the Israelites time in Egypt. The Talmud offers two reasons why women are obligated to the same degree as men in reciting the Haggadah: they too were included in the Exodus miracle, and, according to Rabbi Avira, they were not just participants, they were the catalyst for the Exodus (Sotah 11b). There are at least three episodes that demonstrate the integral part women played: Shifrah and Pu’ah, women’s roles in the exponential reproduction of the Israelites, and Pharaoh’s daughter saving Moshe. All three feature prominently in Zifroni’s images. While infanticide is illustrated in Prague and Mantua in two panels, one showing the gruesome murder to drain their blood for Pharaoh’s bath and the other showing them being cast in the river, neither Haggadah shows the multiplication of the Israelites. Yet, in Zifroni’s work, in addition to one panel of the babies being cast in the river, he includes two that illustrate the population explosion, specifically highlighting the unique and nearly exclusive role of women.

The first shows four women nursing and raising the children, both alluding to the midrash teaching that Jewish woman in Egypt birthed sextuplets. On the right, one woman is nursing two children while another four are clamoring for sustenance. In the middle, the three other women tend to six children. Two men appear far to the left, only partially depicted with most of their bodies cut from the scene (perhaps alluding to their male parts, their only relevant part in the story). Additionally, as we previously discussed in the article, “Separate Beds,” this printed Haggadah is unique in representing Jewish abstinence. Like the other images, it displays an awareness with rabbinic literature. 

Indeed, this scene is repeated and expanded upon on the next page. Again, a woman nursing six children, this panel now incorporates the earlier part of the story, which emphasizes that the women encouraged their husbands, even after a brutal day of enslavement, to spend time together. This alludes to the Talmudic passage that uses the verse in Shir HaShirim (8: 5), stating that they procreated under the apple tree. The Nile River is included in this scene, not to illustrate infanticide, but to show the women bathing in preparation for their meeting with their husbands.

Even the panel that depicts infanticide is unique in that the largest and most prominent portion of the scene shows Pharaoh’s daughter saving Moshe. Additionally, Shifrah and Pu’ah appear before Pharaoh on the left, unlike any earlier illustrations that omit them entirely.

Contrasting the earlier Haggadahs illustration of the scene with the Israelites safely on the side of the sea and the Egyptians drowning highlights the central role that women play in Zifroni’s version.

In his depiction, the center of the frame shows Miriam playing instruments and singing with the women, while Moshe and the rest of the men are relegated to the right of the panel. In Mantua, (the two images below) Miriam is merely part of the larger group, identifiable only upon close examination.

In Prague, the scene is exclusively male. Likewise, in the scene of the Israelite encampment in the wilderness, Zifroni was careful to include Miriam and her well.

Another scene where there was no need to include women is Avraham meeting Malki Tzedek, where a woman appears at the far right of the panel.

There are other scenes where women take center stage. When eating the matzah, the women at the center distribute it to the men, seemingly indicating that the women are leading the seder. Both Prague and Mantua, show only a lone man.

Mantua, 1560

Women are central in the scene of the Four Questions. Their prominence is particularly noticeable as the image on the following page depicts Rabbi Eliezer and other sages, with him in taking center stage.

Similarly, when Avraham greets the three angels, both he and the angels are shifted to the left of the frame, while Sarah, in the tent, occupies the center.

Finally, most radically, although it is not entirely clear as the top of the head is obscured behind the letter, the wise “son,” upon close examination, it is perhaps a woman. Unlike the other “sons” this child is wearing a skirt whereas the men and boys are in pants!

In conclusion, one prominent and exceptional thematic element in Zifroni’s illustrations is the significant role of women. This leaves little doubt that he intended to portray and elucidate the Haggadah through deliberate images that appeal to and highlight both the feminine and the traditional masculine role in the Exodus.

Amsterdam 1695, A Judeo-Chrisitan Haggadah or an Exemplar for Haggadah Illustrations?

One of the most striking examples of Christian iconography in the Hebrew book is the 1695 Haggadah printed in Amsterdam and illustrated with copperplates by the convert Jacob Bar Abraham. This marks the first use of that technique in a Hebrew book, which allows for a much more refined and precise presentation of images. The Haggadah also includes a fold-out map, though it may not be the first example in a Haggadah.[7] Bar Jacob was originally from the Rhineland and may have even been a Christian preacher.[8] He was not the only convert involved in Amsterdam Jewish printing. According to Yaari, there were at least six others.

These images were used as a template for at least four 18th and 19th-century Haggados in Amsterdam, as well as hundreds of editions printed in Germany and Eastern Europe, and even as far afield as Iran, India, and North Africa.[9] There are at least five 18th-century manuscripts that also utilize Bar Jacob’s images.[10] Despite their popularity throughout the European Jewish world, the source of his images is non-Jewish. Thirteen of the fourteen illustrations in this edition, and six of those on the title page, do not come from any of the three other “mother” Haggados. Instead, these illustrations are sourced from the biblical images created by the Christian artist Matthaeus (Mathis) Merian the Elder.[11] They first appeared in his Icones Biblicae, published in Basel in 1625, and were subsequently incorporated into the most popular Bibles in the Rhineland

Bar Jacob’s source was first identified in 1931, a fact acknowledged by subsequent analyses of this edition. Some critiques are highly critical of Bar Jacob’s model, with one scholar going so far as to assert, without any corroborating evidence, that “there was fierce opposition” to Bar Jacob’s edition.[12] These scholarly critiques generally question the appropriateness of using Christian biblical imagery, the lack of direct relevance of this imagery because it was not designed for the Haggadah, and the failure to follow the “traditional” imagery found in other “mother” haggados. Despite the great scrutiny to which this edition was subjected, the most obvious Christian element that appears in just one of the fourteen images went unnoticed scholars.[13] And in fact, upon close examination, these scholars’ complaints are easily refuted. While Bar Jacob’s source was Merian, he transformed those images to fit the Haggadah, and with one exception, they fall well within the bounds of accepted Jewish imagery and further enhance and clarify the text of the Haggadah.

The six biblical images at the top of the title page predate the Exodus story, which triggered some complaints of them being non-conformist and irrelevant.[14] Yet, this criticism fails to acknowledge the widespread Sefardic manuscript convention, dating back at least to the 14th century, of prefacing the Haggadah with biblical imagery that documents the precursor events to the Exodus. The Sarajevo Haggadah but one of many examples. Indeed, most Jews in Amsterdam in 1695, particularly the wealthier individuals who were likely the target audience for what was presumably an expensive Haggadah, were of Sefardic origin. Some scholars identified examples of borrowing images and motifs from Medieval manuscripts in other “mother” haggados, but they overlook this when it comes to Bar Jacob.

Perhaps the most consistent criticism relates to the disconnect between biblical images and the Haggadah liturgy. Since Merian’s images were designed for the Bible, they do not necessarily correspond directly to the words of the Haggadah. While some parts of the Haggadah reference the biblical story, Merian did not illustrate those specific narratives. To address this limitation, Bar Jacob discovered alternative images and adapted them for the Haggadah. Importantly, Bar Jacob did not merely “cut and paste.” He modified Merian’s images as needed to align with and, crucially, to clarify through illustration the Haggadah and its themes. Since these subtle modifications do not align with traditional scholarly criticism, most remain unmentioned. Although we lack the space to cover all of Bar Jacob’s images and his distinct approach, we will revisit this later. One scholar points out that “the most egregious” example is Bar Jacob’s illustration of the rabbis in Benei Brak. Being that this story post-dated the Bible by many centuries, none of Merian’s images were intended for this scene. Instead, Bar Jacob used Merian’s image of Joseph and his brothers, provoking this scholar’s ire.

From the Gross Family Collection

This is another example of a surface-level examination of printed illustrated Haggadah images. A close look at the image demonstrates that, rather than being an egregious usage of Merian, it perfectly illustrates Bar Jacob’s approach to transforming the image to suit the Haggadah and express the nuance of the text. In adapting Merian’s image, Bar Jacob modified it in three significant ways, all of which render it especially suitable to clarify the text of the Haggadah.

The purpose of the story of the rabbis in Benei Brak is to provide a historical example of people meaningfully discussing the Exodus story all night. The rabbis were so engrossed in conversation that they were unaware that the time for this obligation had ended, and that they were now required to express the Exodus in a different and common format, reciting the Shema. The nocturnal nature of the story is a central element. Thus, in Bar Jacob’s version, the chandelier, which in Merian’s version is unlit, is lit. To further emphasize the fact that this took place at night, Bar Jacob includes two lit candles in the foreground.

Second, the Benei Brak story is predicated on the fact that the rabbis were unaware that the sun had risen. Thus, as opposed to Merian’s version, where Joseph and his brothers are dining in a room with large open windows, Bar Jacob’s version has opaque windows, indicating that the rabbis became aware that the sun had risen only when their students interrupted the discussion. The windows also allow Bar Jacob to avoid the visible church with a cross atop the steeple that is seen through the large opening in Merian’s version.

Third, Bar Jacob has removed the two dogs, a common Christian artistic motif, from the foreground. The Talmud is anti-canine. Indeed, Rabbi Eliezer, one of the sages listed in the Haggadah, stated that “one who breeds dogs is like one who breeds pigs!” Needless to say, it would be highly inconsistent with the text of the Haggadah to retain dogs in the illustration.

The final modification is in the participants’ headgear. In Merian’s version, only Yosef’s head is covered, with a royal turban. Bar Jacob’s version has all the rabbis wearing head coverings. Beyond a possible Jewish halachic requirement to cover one’s head while engaged in Torah study, a close examination of the headgear fundamentally changes the scene’s dynamic. In Merian, the brothers genuflect to who appears to be an Egyptian royal figure. In the Haggadah, all the rabbis are equal in their obligation. This is made clear in the previous statement of the Haggadah, which states that all, whether wise, knowledgeable, and even those proficient in the entire Torah, are equally obligated to discuss the Exodus story all night. Bar Jacob retained a figure at the head of the table, yet his importance is deemphasized because he wears the same hat as the rabbi on his left.

Bar Jacob’s awareness of the limitations of Merian’s illustrations is evident in the one illustration in the text that is not from Merian. Merian’s illustration of Moshe receiving the Torah depicts Aaron meeting Moshe and the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. Thus, Merian’s focus is on sin rather than the spiritual importance of receiving the Torah. Therefore, Bar Jacob chose a different image, one that appears in many Amsterdam Bibles (see here, here and here), showing the Israelites celebrating the event.

Yet, there is, one image that seemingly includes an obvious Christian element: a cross. While somewhat unclear due to its minuscule size, Bar Jacob’s depiction of the Temple appears to have a cross on the front of the building’s roof. Bar Jacob did, however, modify the image in another way to clarify the text. Marien’s version features many people outside and inside the Temple. But the text of the Haggadah discussing the Temple is a prayer for the future, and Bar Jacob presented the Temple as empty, symbolic of the fact that Jews today do not have a Temple to visit. We pray that in the future, we will all be among those in its courtyards.

From the Gross Family Collection

Surprisingly, this is not the only instance of a cross in a Hebrew book. For example, in the 1747 Hamburg edition of Mahram Schiff, the bottom image includes two prominent crosses. Likewise, the bottom left image of the 1668 Amsterdam edition of Nahlas Shivah, which uses “Moshiach Bar David Ba” to denote the year, shows a cross in the background.

Finally, we must discuss two additional Haggados, both of which have been repeatedly praised as beautiful examples of illustrated printed Haggados. Unfortunately, upon close examination, they clearly display Christian iconography in an entirely unnecessary and highly problematic manner. The first, Basel 1816, praised by Steinschneider and described as containing “pleasing” woodcuts is the most troubling. In 1997, this edition was even reprinted and colorized to mark the centennial of the first Zionist Congress held in Basel. For centuries, some have claimed a connection between Jesus’ Last Supper and the Pesach seder. Yet, Jews today would reject the notion that they are reenacting the Last Supper. But in the Basel Haggadah the text regarding the three items that one must eat on Pesach is illustrated with the image of Jesus at the Last Supper, surrounded by the Apostles!

The final “Christian Haggadah” is described by Yerushalmi as “undoubtedly the most distinguished illustrated edition produced in Europe during the 19th century,” and the images “welcome a freshness of design.” Alexander Marx praised its “refined artistic taste,” and that the illustrations are “dignified and pleasing and make this edition outstanding among its contemporaries.”[15] Despite these compliments, in truth, most of the images are not fresh but are copies of previous images from the “mother” Haggados, specifically the 1609 Venice Haggadah. In many instances, this “distinguished” edition eliminates the nuance and meaning of those earlier images. In some cases, the images are nonsensical. Finally, many of the designs suffer from blatant non-Jewish imagery.

From the Gross Family Collection

For example, the Venice Haggadah uniquely enhances the image of the Israelites’ encampment with Miriam and her well as part of the theme of emphasizing women’s role in the Exodus. In the Trieste Haggadah, Miriam and a group of women appear in the bottom far right. However, the women seem to be worshipping her as some sort of deity, with one woman bowing to her. The Venice Haggadah includes the scene of Yaakov meeting Lavan after fleeing Lavan’s home. It features four tents in the background, each with one of Yaakov’s wives, as they play a critical role in that story – Lavan’s complaint is that he did not have the opportunity to say goodbye to them, and then Rachel has a calamitous interaction with Lavan. Yet, in the Trieste Haggadah, there are five (!) empty tents.

Finally, in the most egregious image that is not modeled after any of the prior Haggados, Moshe appears before the burning bush, with God depicted as a man with a beard. Of course, direct depictions of God are prohibited. Unfortunately, this is not the only example in Hebrew books depicting God’s face. The title page of the first edition of Minhas Shai, 1742-1744, also includes such an image. However, it appears that, unlike the illustrator of the Trieste Haggadah, the illustrator of that title page was a non-Jew. This is evident from the fact that the artist was unfamiliar with Hebrew, as the letters are crude and obviously copied. Likewise, since the illustrator of the Kaufmann Haggadah was a non-Jew, in the scene with the burning bush God is depicted as a man.[16]

From the Gross Family Collection

The Moss YaKNeHZ: History and Historic Imagery

The four “mother” haggados are not the only examples of thoughtful illustrations in printed haggados. A contemporary work by David Moss, who remains active with his studio in the Artist Colony in Jerusalem, is an exceptional piece that creatively combines the history of illustrated Haggados in both manuscript and print. The original manuscript has been recently acquired (at Sotheby’s auction) and donated to the National Library of Israel, where it is now on display (see here). If one cannot visit, they can still enjoy it in the comfort of their home. Originally, a small number of exact reproductions were produced; however, those are long out of print. Still, copies of a beautiful two-volume reproduction remain available—one volume contains the manuscript, while the other offers explanatory notes. This edition is admittedly missing a few original elements, but it retains many of the most critical aspects, including the papercuts and fold-out pages, leaving most of Moss’s genius still apparent. One version merely reproduces the Haggadah in a flat format, and we recommend splurging for the two-volume version.

As this year’s Pesach begins on Saturday night, we will use Moss’s accompanying illustration of the procedure unique to that evening as an exemplar of his approach. This procedure, referred to by the Talmud by the acronym YaKNHaZ, translates to the order of operations for the blessings: Yayin (wine), Kiddush, Havdalah, and Zeman (the Shehechiyanu blessing). Moss depicts this section with 12 boxes, 11 containing coins adorned with eagles, and the final one showing a hare jumping out of the frame. This illustration references manuscripts, one of the “mother” haggadot, and its subsequent expression, Jewish history more broadly.

Upon closer inspection, the hare makes an appearance not only in the final box but also is present in each of the boxes with eagles, where it is grasped in their talons. The scene of a hare hunt is common in both non-Jewish and Jewish manuscripts, yet in many instances, it is simply aesthetic and disconnected from the text. However, in the Prague 1526 Haggadah, it becomes directly associated with the text. YaKNHaZ sounds similar to the German phrase “Jagen Has,” which means chasing or hunting hares. The Prague illustrator includes an image of hares fleeing from the hunter and seemingly running headlong into a net. In the next illustrated Haggadah, printed in Augsburg in 1534, which mainly uses the Prague illustration, the hare hunt appears on two panels, transforming the narrative from merely evocative of the procedure to becoming symbolic of the Exodus story. The first panel is a copy of the Prague illustration; yet, rather than the hares succumbing to their pursuer, the second panel shows them jumping over the net to safety. The hunter is no longer just a hunter, and the hares are not mere animals of prey. Instead, the hunter symbolizes those who seek to persecute the Jews, while the hares represent God’s promise that the Jews will ultimately prevail against their adversaries.

Moss’s research uncovered that many historically anti-Semitic governments employ the eagle as their symbol. The eleven panels reproduce these symbols. To illustrate those governments’ animosity toward the Jews, the hares are clutched in the birds’ talons. Yet, akin to the optimism of the Augsburg illustrator, the final frame depicts the hare escaping.

In the accompanying commentary, Moss explains that this image proved to be the most controversial in his Haggadah because eagle imagery is not limited to the past. Instead, it is now most associated with the United States. Until recently, one could comfortably distinguish the United States from its eagle predecessor, as it uniquely granted Jews equal rights from its inception. However, during these unprecedented times, one hopes that Moss’s imagery does not turn out to be prescient.

On the History and Development of Nirtza

By Yaacov Sasson

Yaacov Sasson is a musmach of RIETS, and author of the recently published ספר שש אנכי, available here.

Nirtza is the conclusion of the seder, and as most commonly recited in the Ashkenazi tradition, consists of the following components: the recitation of L’shana Habaa B’Yerushalayim and Chasal Sidur Pesach, followed by the piyutim Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla, Va’amartem Zevach Pesach, Ki Lo Naeh, Adir Hu, and then additional piyyutim such as Chad Gadya and Echad Mi Yodea; the latter two are of later vintage.[1] Nirtza remains somewhat enigmatic, and an analysis of the historical development of Nirtza is helpful to understand its function within the structure of the seder.

The Leket Yosher, a student of the Trumas Hadeshen, records the Trumas Hadeshen’s simanei haseder, which are more detailed and elongated than the popular “Kadesh Urchatz” simanim. The Nirtza of the Trumas Hadeshen is similar to the current day Nirtza, with one very noteworthy difference. For the end of the seder, beginning with the washing of mayim acharonim, the Trumas Hadeshen’s simanim read as follows:

The Leket Yosher goes on to explain each of these simanim in more detail, and writes[2]:

As such, the Leket Yosher already had the components of L’shana Habaa, Chasal Siddur Pesach, Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla, Va’amartem Zevach Pesach, Ki Lo Naeh, and Adir Hu. However, the Leket Yosher has the piyyutim of Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla, Va’amartem Zevach Pesach, and Ki Lo Naeh before the drinking of the fourth cup, whereas the common practice now is to say these piyyutim after the cup and after Chasal Siddur Pesach.

The recitation of these three piyyutim before the drinking of the cup seems to indicate that, fundamentally, the Trumas Hadeshen and Leket Yosher considered these piyyutim to be part of Hallel, as the fourth cup was instituted over the recitation of Hallel. The content of these piyyutim is mostly hallel and shevach, so it seems reasonable that these piyyutim were originally included in the seder as a part of Hallel, and this is also indicated by the Trumas Hadeshen’s language of “Mosif B’Shvachos Ha-el”, indicating that these piyyutim are indeed a hosafa to Hallel. Thus, within the structure of the seder, these three piyyutim do not function as part of the conclusion of the seder; rather they are actually part of Hallel.

The Leket Yosher places L’Shana Habaa, the piyyut Adir Hu, and Chasal Siddur Pesach after the fourth cup. The distinction between these, which are placed after the cup, and the aforementioned three piyyutim, seems to be that the elements placed after the cup are thematically forward looking, toward the future geula, rather than hallel on past miracles. As such, they are appropriate for Nirtza, which, as mentioned, functions as the conclusion of the seder.[3] While Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla and Va’amartem Zevach Pesach do end with bakashos for the future geula, they are by and large shevach and hallel for past miracles, and thus were considered a hosafa to Hallel.

It is also likely that Chasal and Adir Hu were later additions to the seder, which might constitute an additional reason why they were split from the three earlier piyyutim.[4] It appears from Leket Yosher that Chasal Siddur Pesach was originally a local minhag, so that certainly became widespread later than the three earlier piyyutim. And in the hagada of Rav Yitzchak ben Meir of Dura (author of Shaarei Dura), the seder ended with L’shana Habaa after the final cup, with no recitation of Adir Hu or Chasal.[5] This would indicate that Adir Hu and Chasal became standard later than the three earlier piyyutim, which are included in the Shaarei Dura’s hagada.[6]

As noted earlier, the widespread practice today is to recite the three piyyutim (Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla, Va’amartem Zevach Pesach, and Ki Lo Naeh) after the drinking of the fourth cup.[7] Maharshal (Shu”t Maharshal 88) objected to the recitation of these piyyutim before the drinking of the cup, because the closing bracha of Hallel should immediately precede the drinking of the cup.[8] Maharshal states that the piyyutim should be recited after the cup, unlike the Tofsei Machzorim that have the drinking of the cup after these piyyutim. Maharshal is cited by the Bach (siman 480), and the Magen Avraham (siman 480) writes that the piyyutim should be recited after the cup, as they are only a minhag. Although Maharshal and the Magen Avraham provide reasons why the piyyutim should come after the cup, it is possible that they fundamentally agree that the piyyutim are an extension of hallel, albeit with technical reasons why they should be recited after the cup.

It should be noted that the Magen Avraham also cites from the Tashbetz (99) that Maharam would recite the piyyutim before drinking the fourth cup, so as not to be thirsty when going to sleep, and this is what is printed in Siddurim. My impression is that, although he brings both opinions, the ikar halacha according to the Magen Avraham is like the opinion of Maharshal, that the piyyutim be recited after the cup.

As noted by Maharshal and the Magen Avraham, the order printed in the Tofsei Machzorim and Siddurim in their time was the recitation of the three piyyutim before the drinking of the cup. And while Maharshal, the Bach, and the Magen Avraham ruled as early as the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries that the piyyutim should be recited after the drinking of the cup, this ruling was largely not followed for hundreds of years.[9] In my informal survey of printed hagados available online, virtually all printed hagados that I saw through the eighteenth century followed the old order, with the piyyutim before the cup, as presented in the simanim of the Trumas Hadeshen.[10]

To show just a few examples, this hagada printed in Amsterdam in the late 1700s places the piyyutim directly after the concluding bracha of Hallel, before drinking the cup[11]:

As does this hagada printed in Fuerth in the late 1700s[12]:

There were few hagados in the early 1800s that placed the piyyutim after the cup, with more in the later 1800s, as this practice grew modestly. But even by the end of the nineteenth century, the majority of hagados placed the piyyutim before the drinking of the fourth cup. (Aruch Hashulchan (480:3) also writes regarding the placement of the piyyutim before the cup, that it is so in the Hagados, confirming that this was the standard order through the nineteenth century.) The major shift to placing the piyyutim after the cup took place in the twentieth century, and very much accelerated in the second half of the twentieth century, to the point that today, it is difficult to find a hagada that places the piyyutim before the cup.

The Maxwell House hagada is the most widely used hagada in America, and has been used by millions of Jews over the past 100 years. Maxwell House also placed the piyyutim before the cup, as late as its 1994 edition. (Below is an image from the 1964 edition.)

However, by the 2015 edition of the Maxwell House hagada, the order was changed, and the piyyutim are now placed after drinking the cup.[13]

Some other new editions of older hagados have also moved the placement of the piyyutim to after the cup. For example, in the 2001 Ahavas Shalom edition of the Shelah’s hagada, they have moved the piyyutim to after the cup, but do inform the reader of the original placement of the piyyutim.

One popular hagada that still places the piyyutim before the cup is the Ktav Publishing House (red and yellow) hagada.[14] This placement is so out of the ordinary in current day hagados, that it leads to questions like this one[15]: “The semi popular Passover Hagadah by Rabbi Nathan Goldberg strangely puts drinking the fourth cup at the seder after starting a couple of songs from nirtzah. I’ve never seen this in any other haggadah, and it seems wrong. The fourth cup was established to go with hallel, and it would make sense then to drink it at its conclusion, and not make an interruption with a couple of unrelated songs. Is this a mistake? Is there some source for this “change”?”

The pendulum has swung so much to the Maharshal’s order, that the questioner is unaware that this was the order in the majority of hagados until a century ago, and that the change went in the other direction; the order more common today is the result of a change. The language of the question is also noteworthy, as “drinking the fourth cup at the seder after starting a couple of songs from nirtzah” would indeed be strange, as would be an interruption of “unrelated songs”. However, if we understand that these piyyutim are actually intended to be part of Hallel, as noted above, the question falls, as the question is based on the assumption that these piyyutim are intended to be part of Nirtza.

Similarly, the Mesivta (Nusach Ashkenaz) Hagada (p.792) singles out Rav Reuven Margoliyos’s hagada (Be’er Miriam) in noting that Ki Lo Naeh appears there before the drinking of the cup, seemingly also unaware that the majority of hagados were printed that way until the twentieth century.

An interesting question arises: why is it that the ruling of Maharshal and the Bach were largely not followed until the twentieth century, and the custom in the twentieth century shifted so dramatically that the prior custom is now nearly unheard of? One possibility is that this is a “Rupture and Reconstruction” phenomenon, and reflects the shift from mimetic tradition to book-learning halacha due to the rupture in Ashkenazi society caused by the holocaust, a result of which was the de-emphasis of the mimetic tradition. This larger trend was noted by Dr. Haym Soloveitchik in his seminal article in Tradition.[16] A modification of Dr. Soloveitchik’s hypothesis was put forward by Rabbi Yehoshua Pfeffer, who suggested that the shift to book-learning halacha was a result of the explosion of yeshivos and kollelim in the 20^th century.[17] R. Micha Berger has argued that the changes noted by Dr. Soloveitchik began in the 19^th century, and “less than a discontinuity that occurred in the mid-20^th century, the reconstruction was a long process that was forced to a hasty close[18]”, which seems to fit the phenomenon we have observed here.

Another factor to consider is what R. Joseph Tabory has written, that “the custom eventually disappeared from the eastern European tradition, although it still appears in some haggadot of the western Ashkenazic tradition[19]”, although he does not note what precipitated the change, when the change occurred, or that it has further accelerated in the last century with the demise of Eastern European Jewry.

An additional explanation for the dramatic change in common practice was suggested by my good friend Dr. Josh Lovinger, who noted that the halachic codes themselves may have tended more towards Maharshal’s position as time has gone on. The Magen Avraham, for example, brought the position of Maharshal, as well as the practice of Maharam. However, the Shulchan Shlomo (480:1) requires the piyyutim to be placed after the cup, and the Aruch Hashulchan (480:3) also endorses Maharshal’s position unequivocally.[20] There are however, counter-examples, as Chayei Adam (Klal 130: Hallel) presents both options as legitimate, and Mishna Brura, following Magen Avraham cites both positions. It is possible that the acceleration of this shift was a result of a combination of all of the above factors.

Assuming the three piyyutim are to be recited after the cup, as according to Maharshal, what then is the proper sequence after the cup? Based on the above, that the piyyutim were originally part of Hallel, it would follow that the three piyyutim should be recited immediately after the cup, and before Chasal. Although the piyyutim ought not be recited before the cup for a technical reason, it is reasonable that the piyyutim be placed adjacent to Hallel since they were intended to be part of Hallel. Chasal Siddur Pesach means that the seder is complete, so it would be inconsistent to declare that the seder is complete and then go back to reciting Hallel. As noted above, the three piyyutim are primarily hallel-themed, while Chasal is forward looking, and as such seems to belong after the piyyutim. Additionally, as mentioned above, Chasal was added to the seder later than the three piyyutim, which might be another reason that Chasal was originally placed after the cup. This might be additional reason to recite the piyyutim before Chasal, as they were incorporated into the seder earlier.

This order, with the three piyyutim after the cup but preceding Chasal, is in fact found in the hagada of Rav Yozfa Shamash, available in manuscript online via the National Library of Israel.[21]

This section is also included in Machon Yerushalayim’s edition of Rav Yozfa Shamash’s Minhagei Vermeiza, in the hagahos to siman 77:

This is also the order presented in Rav Yaakov Emden’s siddur Shaarei Shamayim, with the three piyyutim after the drinking of the cup, and preceding Chasal.[22] Here is Chasal following the completion of Ki Lo Naeh:

However, this order is not the prevailing practice, and is almost unheard of in present day hagados.[23] Although R. Joseph Tabory notes that “Others of the western tradition have…retained a vestige of the western Ashkenazic custom by retaining the Hasel Seder Pesach after the additional songs, rather than immediately after drinking the fourth cup[24]”, it is unclear to me who he is referring to in the present day that has retained Chasal after the additional songs.

The only hagada that I have seen printed in the last 100 years that places these piyyutim after the cup and before Chasal, is the hagada Todas Yehoshua of the Monastryshcher Rebbe, printed in 1935.[25] (There might be others that I have not seen, but they are certainly very few and far between.) Here is how the piyyutim appear in the Todas Yehoshua, with Vahehi Bachatzi Halalya after the cup, and Chasal after the end of Ki Lo Naeh.

The Monastryshcher was one of the earlier Chasidic Rebbes to emigrate to the United States, and OU Press recently published a volume about him, entitled Hasidus Meets America: The Life and Torah of the Monsatryshcher Rebbe, by Ora Wiskind.[26] I contacted the Rebbe’s descendants to inquire why his hagada placed the piyyutim before Chasal, but did not receive a clear answer. However, his great-grandson Rabbi Nachum Rabinowitz pointed me to the Rebbe’s hanhagos, printed in sefer Erkei Yehoshua, and his own practice was not as printed in his hagada. On the first night, he recited the piyyutim after the cup and after Chasal, as is the common practice today. On the second night, he recited the piyyutim before the cup, as was the old minhag. So his personal practice was different on each night, but neither night was consistent with what he printed in his hagada.

The prevailing practice nowadays is to recite the piyyutim after the cup, and after Chasal. The earliest hagada that I have seen with this order is the hagada of Rav Shabsai Sofer (published from manuscript over 20 years ago), that has the three piyyutim after the cup and after Chasal.[27] The vast majority of hagados with the piyyutim after the cup follow this order, and virtually all hagados printed nowadays follow this order. It is not clear to me how this order became dominant. Most published halachic codes, when they state that the piyyutim belong after the cup, do not specify whether they belong before or after Chasal. Shulchan Shlomo appears to be the exception, as it specifies saying the piyyutim after Chasal. This might have contributed to this becoming the prevailing practice, although it is not clear that this would be sufficient to carry the day so decisively. It is possible that the order of Chasal being recited immediately after the cup stuck, even when the piyyutim were moved to after the cup.

Aside from the question of how this became the prevailing practice, there is also the question of whether this practice is reasonable. If the piyyutim are seen as a part of Hallel, then it should make sense to recite them before Chasal, not after. Part of the explanation might be that the recitation of Chasal is intended to connote the end of the formal halachic seder, and as such should follow the drinking of the last cup, and not additional piyyutim which are a hosafa to hallel. However, as noted above, thematically these piyyutim are more similar to Hallel, while Chasal turns the focus towards the future geula, so the placement of these piyyutim remains somewhat ambiguous, and as such is a matter of dispute between different authorities, as noted above.

In summary, the Trumas Hadeshen and Leket Yosher place these three piyyutim (Vayehi Bachatzi Halayla, Va’amartem Zevach Pesach, Ki Lo Naeh) before the drinking of the fourth cup, as part of Hallel. This was the Ashkenazi practice for hundreds of years. Maharshal, Bach and other poskim objected to this practice and required the piyyutim to be placed after the cup. This ruling was largely not followed the twentieth century. If the three piyyutim were intended to be part of hallel, it would seem to be reasonable to recite them before Chasal, but the common practice is to recite them after Chasal.

Let us conclude with a Nirtza bakasha found in a hagada manuscript from Baghdad in 1776[28]:

,נרצה כל מי שעושה זה הסדר יזכה לשנים רבות
,נעימות וטובות, לשנה הבאה בירושלים
שמחים כפלי כפלים בקבוץ גלות יהודה ואפרים אמן

[1] See R. Daniel Goldschmidt’s chapter 3, and Hagada Shleima (R. Shmuel Ashkenazi and R. Menachem Kasher) siman 36.
[2] https://hebrewbooks.org/pdfpager.aspx?req=8860&st=&pgnum=155

[3] The 1526 Prague Hagada also contains a version of Adir Hu in German, printed in Hebrew letters, beginning “Almechtiger Gott”.

https://braginskycollection.com/portfolio/prague-haggadah
Hagada Shleima suggests that perhaps the German is the original and the Hebrew (Adir Hu) is a translation, but I have not seen any evidence to support that assertion. Versions of this German Adir Hu also appear in various later hagados, some of which include the refrain “Nun Bau”, for example in the 1725 Herlington Hagada.

https://braginskycollection.com/portfolio/herlingen-haggadah/

This German version is still recited by some in the Yekke community to this day. This version also appears in the Hagada in the original printing of the Shaar Hashamayim siddur with the commentary of the Shelah. (The 2001 Ahavas Shalom edition of the Shelah Hagada has removed the German version.) This German version of Adir Hu did elicit some opposition, such as in Beis Eivel Uveis Mishte (pp18b – 20b) by Rav Shmuel Palaggi, and Kos Yeshuos by Rav Naftali Hertz Fleish (excerpts printed in Min Hagenazim, vol. 3, 1975, p. 96.)
[4] See R. Daniel Goldschmidt’s Chapter 3, where he also notes that Chasal and Adir Hu were later additions.
[5] https://www.loc.gov/item/2022397713
[6] Interestingly, the Shaarei Dura hagada has the recitation of borei nefashos after the fourth cup, in the image shown. This is certainly a scribal error, as a few pages before, when detailing the halachos of the remainder of the seder, it says explicitly that al hagefen is to be recited after the fourth cup. Also noteworthy is that this hagada includes our standard simanim of “Kadesh Urchatz”, but with the addition of a siman “Notel”, denoting mayim acharonim before birkas hamazon.
[7] I am told, anecdotally, that some in the Yekke community still recite the piyyutim before the fourth cup.
[8] Regarding the closing bracha of birkas hamazon, and the recitation of harachaman before the cup, see my Sos Anochi (siman 26).
[9] My assumption in this statement is that people’s practice generally followed what was printed in their hagados.
[10] One exception that I saw in print is in the siddur of Rav Yaakov Emden, which will be shown below. There were also several exceptions in manuscript that were printed only more recently, such as the hagados of Rav Yozfa Shamash and Rav Shabsai Sofer, also mentioned below.
[11] https://hebrewbooks.org/4889
[12] https://hebrewbooks.org/10550
[13] My attempts to determine who decided to make this change to the Maxwell House hagada were unsuccessful.
[14] https://ktav.com/products/goldberg-passover-haggadah-box-of-50
[15] https://judaism.stackexchange.com/questions/102127/fourth-cup-after-starting-nirtzah
[16] “Rupture and Reconstruction” by Dr. Haym Soloveitchik, in Tradition 28:4.
[17] In a Symposium on “Rupture and Reconstruction”, Tradition 51:4, specifically pp. 83-84.
[18] https://www.torahmusings.com/2019/08/rupture-and-reconstruction-at-25-years/
[19] The JPS Commentary on the Haggadah, p. 60. My thanks to Dr. Josh Lovinger for bringing this reference to my attention.
[20] Interestingly, Mishna Brura cites both positions, while the Aruch Hashulchan endorsed Maharshal unequivocally. This is somewhat of a departure from what we would expect based on Dr. Soloveitchik’s presentation in “Rupture and Reconstruction”, in which the Aruch Hashulchan typically attempted to justify common practices, while the Mishna Brura tended to value common practice less than did the Aruch Hashulchan.
[21] https://www.nli.org.il/he/manuscripts/NNL_ALEPH990001671700205171/NLI#$FL15383925. This hagada was recently published by under the title Hagada Likutei Yosef.

https://kollelashkenaz.org/publications/haggadah-shel-pesach-the-yosef-yusfa-haggadah/

[22] https://hebrewbooks.org/pdfpager.aspx?req=22619&st=&pgnum=92&hilite=

My thanks to Dr. Josh Lovinger for bringing this reference to my attention.
[23] I would expect that Hagada Likutei Yosef should follow this order, but have not seen a copy thus far.
[24] The JPS Commentary on the Haggadah, p. 60.
[25] https://hebrewbooks.org/2712

This hagada was printed as a fundraiser for Yeshiva R. Chaim Berlin.
[26] https://oupress.org/product/hasidus-meets-america/
[27] My thanks to Dr. Josh Lovinger for bringing this reference to my attention.
[28] Hebrewmanuscripts.org/hbm_712.pdf