The Anatomy of a Mystery: Kohanim, Dissection, and Medical Training Throughout History

Rabbi Edward Reichman, MD

In September of 2024, I accidentally opened the portal to a priestly mystery. While searching for references to the first Jewish students to attend the University of Gottingen Medical School, I came across an antisemitic work published in 1753 about the general dishonesty of Jews and Jewish oaths.[1] Therein were a few disparaging references to Jewish physicians,[2] one of whom was named Lehmann Isaac Kohen. A parenthetical footnote,³ likely precipitated by the student’s last name, caught my attention. The author references an entry in a German newspaper from 1750 regarding Jewish members of the tribes of Aaron and Levi, ritual defilement upon exposure to the dead, anatomical dissection, and the training and practice of medicine.

Further research revealed that the antecedent to this 1750 reference was a brief entry in an earlier issue of the same German newspaper, Braunschweigische Anzeigen, from 1748,[4] posing a query for the readership:

Can one prove from the Old Testament, as well as from the Talmud, or other Jewish scribes, that a Jew from the tribe of Levi or Aaron cannot or may not become a doctor? And whether God has expressly forbidden this in the Old Testament?

It would be eighteen months until a response to this query was published:[5]

In chapter 21, verses 1-11 of the second book of Moses, it is written: The LORD spoke to Moses saying: Tell the priests, Aaron’s sons, and say to them: A priest shall not defile himself by contact with the dead among his people. If, therefore, the Levites are not permitted to approach any dead person and defile themselves thereby, it follows that they are not allowed to observe dissections of corpses or participate in such procedures. And since they are thus prevented from studying anatomy, which is the very foundation of medicine, it also follows that they cannot properly learn medicine and become true medical practitioners.

Brückmann. D.

As to the precipitant for this query, I can only conjecture. Was it perhaps an encounter of the editor with a Kohen who informed him of this idiosyncratic Jewish law as he contemplated attending medical school? I suspect not, and there is no evidence of such. While the city of Braunschweig (AKA Brunswick) did not have a medical school, there were numerous medical schools in Germany where, by this period in history, hundreds of Jews were attending.[6] More likely, it was a hypothetical academic theological question, albeit with some confusion and conflation of the tribes of Kohen and Levi, untethered to any specific reality.

Introduction to a Priestly Mystery

You may wonder why I draw your attention to this passage, which hardly seems novel. Anyone remotely familiar with medical halakha, or Jewish law in general, is certainly aware of the basic laws of purity as they relate to a Kohen. Yet, what is most extraordinary about these few lines, buried in an obscure German eighteenth century local newspaper, is that as far as I was aware at the time, this was the only reference to the issue of Kohanim, anatomy, and medical training in the pre-Modern era. Prior to the discovery of this passage, I had not encountered a single discussion specifically addressing Kohanim training in medicine in either Jewish or non-Jewish sources prior to the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries.

The issue of anatomical dissection in medical training is a staple of contemporary medical halakhic discourse.[7] The first halakhic references to general anatomical dissection are in the late eighteenth century, with the famous responsa of the Nodah biYehuda and Rabbi Yaakov Emden, yet they contain no discussion about Kohanim.[8] I have recently uncovered clear evidence that the Jewish community of Padua was dealing with the halakhic issue of cadaveric dissection already since the very time of Andreas Vesalius (16^th century), long before the days of the Noda biYehuda, but also no specific reference here to Kohanim.

The question of Kohanim, dissection and the practice of medicine has been amply discussed in modern rabbinic literature.[9] Male members of the priestly tribe (Kohen-singular, Kohanim- plural) are proscribed from exposure to ritual impurity, the human corpse being the archetypal example. The prohibited exposure entails not just direct contact, but even being under the same enclosure as a corpse (tumat ohel). As hands-on human anatomical dissection, involving direct and prolonged exposure to a corpse, is a sine qua non of current medical training, the anatomy lab serves as a potential impediment for a Kohen interested in becoming a physician.[10]

Due to these halakhic concerns, numerous rabbinic authorities prohibit outright a Kohen from entering the medical profession, though others offer halakhically acceptable options. Indeed, when the Albert Einstein College of Medicine was established by Yeshiva University, the issue of offering admission to Kohanim was raised.[11] In an article written on the occasion of the first graduating class of Einstein, Myron Kolatch addressed the complex interplay of religion and medicine at the institution:

Frequently cited as an example of how the medical school violates the Torah is its willingness to accept students of priestly descent, kohanim. Leviticus, 21: 1-4 states: “And the Lord said unto Moses: Speak unto the priests the sons of Aaron and say unto them: There shall none defile himself for the dead among his people…

Clearly, the issue has never been settled beyond dispute, and Yeshiva’s policy that each kohen who wants to take up medicine must determine his own course, certainly does not indicate a blatant disregard for the Torah.

Some sixty years hence the halakhic landscape regarding Kohanim and medical school remains largely unchanged. There have been and continue to be Kohanim who attend medical school under halakhic guidance, with varied unique modifications.

Here I do not revisit the detailed halakhic analyses but address the historical contours of the discussions. According to Rabbi Bleich, one of the first halakhic authorities to raise the issue of Kohanim physicians and the prohibition of tumah was Rabbi Isaac Shmuel Reggio in 1854.[12] The context of the case was a Kohen physician who was tasked with confirming the death of a patient who was previously pronounced dead by another physician.13] This particular query was made in the historical context of a Western society that collectively questioned the ability of physicians to accurately diagnose death. As such, it was legislated in many European countries that after the initial preliminary diagnosis of death, a physician was legally required to confirm the diagnosis with serial exams over the next few days prior to burial. [14] In the aforementioned case, the physician chosen for this job happened to be a Kohen.[15]

In addition to this unique case, halakhic discussions regarding Kohanim and medicine have largely addressed two issues: 1) The propriety of a Kohen physician attending to a critically ill patient (gosses)[16] given the high probability of the patient’s demise and subsequent conveyance of impurity. 2) The permissibility of a Kohen physician, who in the course of his practice violates the prohibitions of tumah exposure, to participate in Kohen-specific religious ceremonies, such as bestowing the priestly blessing (nesiat kapayim). Even these discussions only begin in the halakhic literature of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, with nary a trace prior, and are limited to Kohanim who were practicing physicians. Contemporary halakhic discussions on the Kohen in medical training proceed with an analysis of primary sources and do not cite any responsa or any other references from the premodern era about a Kohen medical student.

If Jews have been training as physicians for millennia, with presumably many Dr. Cohens among them, how could it be that this halakhic topic seems to have escaped serious rabbinic or any historical treatment until so recently? How do we explain the conspicuous silence in the historical record?

As this source from the Braunschweigische Anzeigen seemed purely academic, is found in a non-Jewish secular periodical, and provided no additional references, it contributed little to our mystery. The portal to the priestly mystery had opened a crack, but no wider.

While this source was discovered serendipitously (i.e., hashgachah), surely a fresh dissection of the halakhic and historical literature today, given the expansive and easy access, would reveal many previously unknown sources addressing Kohanim, dissection, and medical training in the premodern era. Or perhaps not. After an extensive search, to date, I have identified exactly one single additional relevant source before the nineteenth century, albeit of significance.

This passage also derives from a non-Jewish source, the work of Carl Wilhelm Friedrich Grattenauer (1770-1838), a German lawyer and anti-Semitic publicist, though it records a Jewish exchange.

In 1817 Grattenauer published a work devoted entirely to the tribe of Aaron,[17] where in the context of ridiculing the archaic Jewish laws related to Kohanim, and lamenting the “obscurantism” of the Rabbis, we find the following passage:

The previous Chief Regional Rabbi Joseph Jonas Frånkel in Breslau, a generally recognized learned and scientifically educated man, had heard that the medical student HI, who also came from the tribe of Aaron, was preparing anatomy here[18] and was thereby contaminating himself according to the ritual law. He therefore summoned him and asked him whether he wanted to give up this anatomical activity, which was contrary to ritual law, or renounce his privilege as a Kohen to give the blessing. The student replied: I renounce this privilege. I would rather acquire a thorough knowledge of medicine and become a sufficient member of civil society. The Rabbi dismissed him… For 20 years, Mr HI has been one of the most skilled local doctors and he is still a Jew [despite the pronouncements of a fanatical Rabbanite].

Rabbi Joseph Jonas Frankel (1721-1793) served as the Silesian district rabbi. Assuming the veracity of the story, this remarkable exchange raises a number of questions: Was this a rare encounter, or did other rabbis engage in the same practice? Does this reflect Rabbi Frankel’s unique opinion, or the halakhic consensus of the time? Was there any room for leniency with respect to Kohanim training in medicine? HI was approached by Rabbi Frankel to address his halakhically concerning practice. Were there other Kohanim who proactively sought rabbinic consultation before applying to, or attending medical school? Was the response of HI typical of other Kohanim who encountered potential halakhic obstacles to medical training, or perhaps a reflection of the cultural milieu of his time.

All told, we have a grand total of two sources before the nineteenth century referring to Kohanim, dissection and medical training, both found in non-Jewish sources, and one of which is essentially irrelevant. I have yet to find any Jewish historical or halakhic sources. The priestly mystery thus still remains- How do we explain this historical “anatomical” anomaly? In this “priestly offering,” I suggest historical and halakhic reasons for this lacuna. I hope my offering will be accepted.

A Suggested Historical Solution

An understanding of the history of medical training, and in particular, of the training in human anatomy throughout the centuries, might assist us in providing an explanation for this glaring omission.

Apprenticeship versus University Training

Universities developed as educational institutions in Europe in the Middle Ages. With respect to medical training in general, in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, Jews were generally barred, with few exceptions, from admission to European universities, which were under Catholic auspices. Jewish physicians were therefore trained almost exclusively through apprenticeship. Postmortem dissection was not a part of apprenticeship training. As such, there would have been no specific halakhic problem for the Kohen medical trainee, and we would not expect to find any such reference in the literature.

Rav Moshe Feinstein, zt”l, in his discussion of medical training for the Kohen, posits a similar, though variant, explanation of the training of the Kohen physician in the past.[19] Rav Moshe prohibited the medical training of Kohanim today, unexceptionably, is it involved required exposure to tumat met. One parenthetical line in his responsum sheds light on our discussion.

ולא יקילו ממה שמצינו מרבותינו הראשונים שהיו כהנים והיו רופאים שהם בכוחותיהם הגדולים למדו כל חכמת הרפואה במסירת כל דבר בעל פה אף בלא שום ראיה והסתכלות במתים ולא נגעו במת מעולם ולא היו באהל אחד עם מתים, אבל בזמננו שא”א זה לכן ודאי אסור

And do not think to be lenient based on the fact that we find among our rabbis of earlier generations those who were both Kohanim and physicians; their exceptional powers enabled them to learn the entirety of medical knowledge orally without the necessity of even gazing upon a human corpse (i.e., practical anatomy lab). They never touched a corpse nor were they ever under the same enclosure as one. Today, however, when it is impossible to train in medicine [without the direct exposure to a human cadaver] it is prohibited.

Rav Moshe preemptively addresses a possible refutation of his position. If it is prohibited for a Kohen to train in medicine, how is it possible that we have a record of Kohen physicians in the past? Rav Moshe suggests that these Kohanim possessed exceptional abilities which allowed them to study medicine without resorting to the dissection or observation of human cadavers (and its resultant tumah exposure). Medical history supports this general idea. Indeed, all Jewish physicians through the Middle Ages, whether Kohanim or not, studied medicine through apprenticeship, without the need to dissect or even be under the same enclosure as a human cadaver.[20]

Priestly Physicians Throughout the Centuries- The Many Dr. Cohens

Who were these Kohanim physicians that Rav Moshe references? Zimmels[21] and Jakobovits[22] identify numerous Kohanim physicians throughout history, starting from Talmudic[23] times. Some of these priestly physicians provided medical care for kings, doges and popes. In fact, we have ample historical evidence of numerous Kohanim who practiced medicine over the centuries. Nathan Koren in his expansive registry of Jewish physicians has over fifty entries with the names Cohen, Coen, Cohn, Katz, Kohen, Kohn, Kahn, or Sacerdote (priest) ranging from the 15^th to early 19^th centuries.[24]

How did these Kohanim navigate their medical training? A simple explanation is that the majority of Kohanim, along with other Jews who were barred from the universities, trained through apprenticeship, effectively bypassing any halakhic concerns for anatomical dissection. Though there are no available statistics, despite the increasing acceptance and attendance of Jewish students at universities beginning in the sixteenth century, apprenticeship likely remained the predominant mode of medical training for Jewish physicians until the mid-seventeenth to early eighteenth centuries. As apprenticeship training involved no dissection, this would account for the absence of halakhic queries in the literature for this group.

Some Jews however elected to pursue a university education. Jews occasionally attended universities from the Middle Ages onwards, usually requiring special Papal or governmental permission.[25] While anatomy was clearly always part of medical education to varying degrees, and anatomical dissection was performed sporadically across the centuries, the introduction of systematic dissection of the human body as a required part of medical training fully developed only in the sixteenth century. Until this time, even if a Kohen wished to attend medical school, there would have been little halakhic concern.

The status quo would change in the sixteenth century under the guidance of Andreas Vesalius, a young Professor of Human Anatomy at the University of Padua. As divine providence would have it, the very university at which Vesalius established the field of anatomy was the first institution to officially allow, beginning even before the times of Vesalius, Jewish students to train in medicine. By the sixteenth century hundreds of Jews flocked there for this historically unprecedented opportunity.

Given the introduction of systematic anatomical dissection into the medical school curriculum in the 16^th century, how could a Kohen now navigate a university medical education? From this point in history, we would expect to see halakhic discussions about Kohanim attending medical school.

One might suggest that Kohanim, being knowledgeable in the potential halakhic pitfalls, simply refrained from becoming physicians once dissection became an unavoidable aspect of medical training. Indeed, Rabbi Jakobovits maintains that less Kohanim entered the field of medicine in the eighteenth century, a statement he buttresses with reference to articles about the matriculation records of some German universities (Frankfurt and Duisburg), and the low number of those with a priestly name as compared to the percentage of Kohanim in the general population: “Even today, the usual proportion of Jews bearing the name “Cohen” alone (others, too, may be of priestly descent) is at least 2-3%.” He adds that this lower percentage of Kohanim in medical school “can only be explained as reflecting the growing misgivings with which the choice of medical career by students of priestly descent was generally viewed.”[26]

While this may have been true in Germany in later centuries, the archives of the University of Padua reveal a different statistical reality. The archival record of Jewish graduates of the University of Padua from the early 16^th to the early 19^th centuries includes nineteen graduates with the last name of Coen or Sacerdote.[27]

Even if we concede that not all those named Coen, or derivatives thereof, were necessarily Kohanim, many certainly were. Below is the family crest of Samuele Coen as it appears in his Padua medical diploma from 1702.[28] Notice the image of the hand configuration used by the Kohen during the Priestly blessing.

In addition, there are eleven members of the Cantarini family, a family of Kohanim, who graduated as physicians from the University of Padua during this period. Below is the front page of the medical diploma of Grassin Cantarini (1703),[29] here again we find the Kohen’s symbol.

The percentage of Kohanim who attended Padua’s medical school, roughly thirty out of a total of some 350 for this period, is significantly higher than the average percentage of Kohanim in the general Jewish population.[30] How then do we explain the absence of discussion in the literature? It is certainly possible that these relatively few Kohanim, despite their high percentage of the total, simply did not inquire of rabbinic authorities. Alternatively, the few inquiries that did occur where not committed to writing, or did not survive the ravages of time.

More problematic is that some of the Kohen Padua graduates were outstanding Torah scholars and prolific authors, such as Isaac Hayyim Cantarini,[31] Tuviya HaRofe (AKA Tuviya haKohen),[32] and Abraham Sacerdote (AKA Avraham HaKohen).[33] Oe mnight have expected at least one of these scholars to address this issue somewhere in their writings. Yet, there is no mention in any of their extensive writings of any concern with their participation in the anatomy course. Indeed, while Tuviya fondly recalls his medical training in Padua in the introduction to his Ma’aseh Tuviya, there is no mention of any challenge with performing dissection as a Kohen. Cantarini, in his Pahad Yitzhak, devotes a section to a tragic case where a Jewish body was kidnapped by non-Jewish students for the dissection table. Again, no mention of any concern about Kohanim and dissection. In addition, we have an account of Cantarini bringing Abraham Levi, a visiting scholar to Padua, to see the anatomy theater to showcase the highlights of Padua.[34]

 

While we may not find the names of these three Kohen student scholars etched into the wooden planks of the structure, they all likely took their seats,[35] along with their other non-Kohen Jewish classmates, in the famous anatomical theater at the University of Padua, which was inaugurated in 1595 as the first permanent structure devoted to anatomical dissection, and is still standing to this day.

I suspect that the answer to the conspicuous omission lies elsewhere, based on the history of anatomical training in general, and at the University of Padua in particular.

The Nature of Anatomical Teaching in the Pre-Modern Era

A mention of anatomy lab today evokes an image of a small group of students huddled over a body with dissecting instruments in hand. We also often find reference to the anatomy students designating a name for their cadaver, as they dissect one body for the entire course. Unlike the anatomy labs of today, in pre-Modern times body preservation technologies were not available, and a corpse was only usable for a few days to weeks. The dissections or yesteryear were held in an “anatomical theater.”[36] The format of anatomy teaching involved the professor alone performing the dissection and teaching over the body while others merely observed. Students did not perform any hands-on dissection, partially because there was little time until the decomposition of the body, and thus had no direct contact with the corpse. This can be seen in the frontispiece of Vesalius’ classic work:

This is also reflected in the design of the anatomical theater in Padua, which was built shortly after the tenure of Vesalius, and can be visited today.

There is a central oval table surrounded by coliseum-like concentric rows of progressively elevated platforms. This basic architectural design was copied for other anatomical theaters across the world, such as those below:

University of Bologna: Anatomical Theater (est. 1636)

University of Leiden: Anatomical Theater (est. 1594)

This illustration is from 1610. Parenthetically, the Keeper of the Anatomical Theater of Leiden from 1617-1650 was Professor Otto Heurnius.[37] Heurnius was the promoter for the medical graduation of David de Haro,[38] the first Jewish medical graduate of the University of Leiden.

By the mid 1600’s Jews started attending the University of Leiden in higher numbers. We have numerous matriculation records of Jews with the name Cohen.[39]For example:

Samuel Cohen from Hamburg matriculated to the medical faculty (M) in September 1646.

A Pure Solution

As a medical student in the anatomical theater served only as an observer, and performed no actual dissection, there would have been no concern for impurity conveyed through direct contact with a corpse. The only potential concern for a Kohen in the anatomical theater would have been tumat ohel, whereby impurity is conveyed by being under the same enclosure as a cadaver. While there is general halakhic consensus that impurity conveyed by direct contact applies to the bodies of both Jews and non-Jews, there is a halakhic debate regarding whether a non-Jewish corpse conveys tumat ohel.[40] It is certainly possible that the Kohanim who attended the lectures in the anatomical theater of Padua (and in anatomical theaters at other universities at this time) relied on the permissive position that a non-Jewish corpse does not convey tumat ohel. This would have allowed them to attend dissections without violating any halakhic precepts.

However, there still remained at least a theoretical possibility that the cadaver would be Jewish, in which case the permissive option would no longer apply. For a unique historical reason, this concern was non-existent for the anatomical dissection course at the University of Padua. In fact, the university struggled to provide cadavers for the course and turned to each community represented on campus, including the Jewish community, to provide bodies for the dissection table. However, the Jewish community adamantly refused, citing religious concerns with postmortem dissection. While there was continuous tension about this issue, the Jewish community arranged an agreement to provide large sums of money annually to the university for the privilege of releasing the Jewish community of this obligation. This general agreement, with periodic reassessments and renegotiations, essentially remained in force for some two hundred years.[41] Thus, all the Coens and Cantarinis who attended the University of Padua did not have to worry about the possibility that the cadaver under the scalpel of Vesalius or Fallopius was Jewish.

The Architectural Design of the Padua Anatomical Theater

Moreover, a unique structural feature of the Padua anatomical theater may have further mitigated any potential halakhic concern for a Kohen wishing to study medicine at Padua. The original anatomical theater had a retractable roof[42]  which was opened during dissections to release or eliminate the foul odors of a progressively decaying cadaver. Thus, even tumat ohel may have been a non-issue as in the absence of a roof there would have been no halakhic enclosure to convey impurity. This would have virtually eliminated the halakhic obstacle for a Kohen medical student.

An Alternate Solution for Kohanim

What of a Kohen desirous of a university medical education who would not rely on a permissive ruling regarding tumat ohel and the non-Jewish cadaver? By the 17th century, medical schools struggled to acquire enough cadavers to meet the growing demand of anatomy students. The need to provide a nonperishable substitute led to the production of highly accurate anatomical wax models that were sculpted through direct observation of dissected cadavers. Such models had distinct advantages, as they neither decomposed nor emitted foul odors and were continuously available. They proved essential to the education of generations of medical students who would otherwise, due to the short supply of cadavers, not have access to the anatomical education gleaned from human dissection.[43]

Spectacular wax models were produced throughout Europe, especially in Italy and England, from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, some of which can be seen to this day in Museums in Florence (La Specola), Bologna and London.[44]

This seems to me to be an ideal solution for a Kohen who wished to train in medicine in the Early Modern period. The use of wax models, with no human cadavers involved at all, would pose no halakhic problem whatsoever. While I am unaware of any Kohen medical student who ever took advantage of this option, the modern iteration of this concept, as we discuss below, may entirely replace cadaver dissection.

Kohanim in Medical School from the Eighteenth Century Onwards

From the eighteenth and into the nineteenth century, apprenticeship became less accepted and university training was often required for licensure. As a result, Jewish admission to medical schools increased exponentially throughout Europe and the United States. In addition, the anatomy labs began to transition to hands-on dissection for all students. This was simultaneously accompanied by a major cultural movement in Germany, the main location of Jewish medical training at this time, known as the Haskala. This movement was associated with the decreasing religiosity of at least a percentage of the Jewish university students, not to mention the conversion of some to Christianity. A family name of Cohen on a matriculation record in this period, even if identified, is certainly no guarantee of a student knowledgeable or concerned with the issues of tumah.

How would a Kohen navigate medical training in this milieu? The student encountered by Rabbi Frankel in Breslau was training precisely in this context, at the end of eighteenth century. Was the student known by his initials “HI” training in a medical school where he was required to perform hands-on dissection, and this is perhaps why Rabbi Frankel ruled as he did; or perhaps the medical school still had an anatomical theater, as many still did, and Rabbi Frankel did not accept the permissive ruling that tumat ohel does not apply to a non-Jewish cadaver. Was “HI” influenced by the newly forming Haskala movement in Germany at that time, which led him to be less deferential to rabbinic authority?

Two additional examples of Kohanim and medical training from the nineteenth century are illustrative. We have at least one record of a “Cohen” in the early nineteenth century refusing to go to medical school because of the required anatomical dissection. A young Albert Cohen, originally from Paris, describes his initial encounter with anatomical dissection in Vienna in the early nineteenth century:[45]

I went to Vienna, where I pursued my studies at the grammar school and university from 1826-1834. Being now nineteen years old, it became necessary to decide what profession I would adopt. Hitherto all young people of my native place who devoted themselves to literature studied medicine; this was then the only profession open to me. To please my parents, I would have followed the same career, had I ever been able to prevail upon myself to dissect a corpse. Several times I entered the anatomical theatre, but each time I was seized with unconquerable disgust. I therefore requested my parents to allow me to follow my own taste. Henceforth I devoted myself to the study of Oriental languages.

I suspect the parental conversation about his career change may have been a bit more dramatic than reflected in this passage. Nonetheless, we learn that it was anatomy that turned this young Jewish Kohen student away from a career in medicine, though it does not appear to have been halakhically motivated.

Around the same time, Sigismund Cohen, a native of Lower Silesia, the area of modern-day Poland and the rabbinic domain of Rabbi Joseph Jonas Frankel a few decades earlier, attended the University of Viadrina (Frankfurt), graduating in 1846. The topic of his dissertation- Talmudic Medicine:

For a Jewish medical student to write a medical dissertation on a Jewish topic was quite uncommon, to say the least.[46] It is somewhat ironic that a thorough analysis of Biblical and Talmudic law might have led Cohen to the realization that there was a potential halakhic issue with his training and may have preempted the necessity for Cohen to write this dissertation in the first place. Nevertheless, as this dissertation is remarkable on many levels, I offer a few comments.

From a medical and medical historical perspective, Cohen acknowledges his professors by name, one of whom was Jan Evangelista Purkinje, who taught him human physiology. Purkinje, a Czech anatomist and physiologist, was one of the most famous scientists in Europe and his discoveries included the so-called Purkinje Cell in the cerebellum and the so-called Purkinje fibres in the electrical system of the heart, structures familiar to any medical student today.

This dissertation also has great significance in the field of Jewish medical history. While we do not know with certainty the nature of Cohen’s Jewish knowledge and religious observance, the dissertation includes a brief biography as an appendix. An excerpt about his early education is below:

While we find reference to the study of “Pentateuchi origine” and “grammatice Hebraica,” Talmudic study is not specifically mentioned, and there is clearly a strong educational focus on secular studies. The 28-page dissertation itself however contains a wealth of Talmudic references.

I also draw attention to three specific sources cited by Cohen, one from a century earlier, the others contemporary.

1) Benjamin Wolff Gintzburger, Medicina ex Talmudicis, inaugural Dissertation 1743

Benjamin Wolff Gintzburger was one of the first Jewish graduates of the University of Gottingen. It was my search for references to Gintzburger that precipitated this contribution.[47] His medical dissertation, referenced by Cohen, is one of the first works written on Biblical and Talmudic medicine.[48]

Apropos our discussion about dissection, Gintzburger is better known in the halakhic world as the questioner of a (now famous) teshuva to Rabbi Yaakov Emden about performing anatomical dissection on Shabbos.[49]

2) Abraham Hartog Israels, Tentamen hist.-med. Exhibens Collectanea Gynaecologica ex Talmude Babylonica (Grongen, 1845)

Israels graduated from the University of Groningen in 1845, just a year before Cohen, and the topic of his dissertation was obstetrics and gynecology in the Babylonian Talmud.

This dissertation gained notoriety for its fourth chapter, on Cesarean section, which suggests that the rabbis of the Mishnah were able to perform cesarean section with maternal survival, something not recorded in secular medical history until around 1500. This was based on an interpretation of a Mishna in Bechorot.[50]  Cohen discusses this chapter in his dissertation.

3) Eliakim Carmoly, Histoire des Médecins Juifs, Anciens et Modernes (1844)

Carmoly served as the major work of reference in Jewish medical history for this period. Selections were translated into English just one year after publication.[51] While the reliability of Carmoly’s work was called into question by critics,[52] it nonetheless contains a wealth of valuable information.

Returning to our student, regarding Cohen’s presumptive status as a Kohen training in medicine, he devotes a chapter of his treatise to anatomy and cites a passage in the Talmud where dissection was performed.[53] More relevant, in his bio, he includes mention and thanks to those who assisted him during his studies in the anatomical theater:

Anatomical dissection did not appear to be an impediment for this Cohen. However, there is one observation, admittedly a possible over-read or mistranslation, which may indicate specific accommodations for Sigismund in his dissection course.[54] In his lengthy list of professors, Cohen simply mentions the subject and the professor. In his mention of the anatomical theater, he adds, “in the anatomical theater there were guides for me….” Could this possibly be an allusion to specific accommodation provided to Sigismund? Perhaps his professors performed the dissection while he observed but did not touch the corpse directly.

Conclusion: The Opening and Reclosing of the Priestly Portal

Halakhic references to a Kohen attending medical school are noticeably absent from rabbinic literature before the nineteenth century. We have suggested plausible explanations for this anomaly. For much of history, Jewish physicians trained through apprenticeship where formal anatomical instruction was not required. As such, there would have been no halakhic issues for a Kohen, as noted by Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. When Vesalius introduced the comprehensive anatomy course into the medical school curriculum, dissections were performed in anatomical theaters, where students never touched the cadavers. At least some Kohanim may have relied on the permissive ruling that non-Jewish cadavers do not convey tumat ohel. When hands-on dissection became the norm, as Rabbi Lord Jakobovits suggested, it is certainly possible that many religiously observant Kohanim elected to bypass medicine as a career choice, or were perhaps discouraged to do so by local rabbis like Rabbi Frankel. Of the Kohanim who opted for a medical career, some may have sought rabbinic approval, though no records exist. Others, whose priestly-sounding names appear in university matriculation records of the period, may have been less Jewishly educated or less religiously observant. Hence no halakhic questions would have been generated from this latter group.

The portal to rabbinic discussion on this topic only fully opened in the twentieth century. In the modern era we have a diverse halakhic landscape regarding the training of Kohanim in medicine, including discussion about the permissive ruling of tumat ohel, as well as creative solutions to potentially allow direct dissection. I leave these discussions to each Kohen student and his posek but leave you with a final thought.

Given current advances and changing perspectives in anatomical training, we may again soon see the portal close to the corpus of responsa related to the Kohen medical student. Some five hundred years after Vesalius introduced anatomical dissection into medical training, which was accompanied by the exhumation of bodies from their graves, we are now on the cusp of the (re)burial of human anatomy lab and its associated cadavers. With advances in imaging technology and simulation, coupled with the ethical re-evaluation of body procurement methods and preservation, the expansive year-long anatomy course with full body dissection is rapidly becoming a relic of medical history.[55] The classic dissection table is gradually being replaced with the likes of the digital Anatomage table:

If this is not sufficient, it is now possible to produce life-like anatomical models with the use of 3D printing.[56] Even dissection of the model may be possible.

These conceptual descendants and updated versions of the Florentine wax models may soon replace cadaveric dissection altogether.[57] The list of medical schools eliminating or significantly curtailing human anatomy lab courses is continually expanding.

While the impact of the diminution of human dissection on medical education remains to be determined, if phased out, it will certainly have a significant halakhic impact and it may return us to the days of the earlier generations mentioned by Rav Moshe Feinstein when students “learn the entirety of medical knowledge without the necessity of gazing upon a human corpse.” This would potentially open the door for Kohanim to attend medical school (at least for the pre-clinical years) with halakhic impunity.[58] We may notice a commensurate rise in the number of Dr. Cohens in hospital registries. The medical halakhic textbooks may no longer include a chapter on “The Kohen in Medical School,” and the halakhic discussions on this topic may again fall silent. If future scholars at some later stage of history ponder the priestly mystery of the intermittent silence of the historical record on Kohanim, dissection and medical training, I suspect their search engines will direct them to this article.

Appendix:

The Importance of the Study of Broadsides in Jewish (Medical) History – The Kohen Physician Today and the Diagnosis of Death

In June of 2024, I participated as a speaker in a conference entitled, “The Role of Broadsides in Jewish Ritualistic and Cultural Space,” organized by Professor Avriel Bar-Levav of the open University of Israel and held at the new National Library of Israel. It was the first conference of its kind, dedicated solely to the integration of Broadsides into the study of Jewish history. Taking a single printed page (the definition of a Broadside) out of Avriel’s playbook, I briefly share an example of the value of Broadsides for the study of Jewish medical history, as it relates to our topic.

As mentioned in the article above, one of the earliest halakhic sources relating to a Kohen and the practice of medicine addresses the case of a Kohen physician who was asked to confirm the death of a patient in order to facilitate burial. The question was asked in the nineteenth century, in the medical historical context of a generation concerned about the misdiagnosis of death and the resultant institution of a three-day delay in burial to medically confirm a patient’s demise.

While the prolonged delay in burial may be a relic of the past, the necessity to confirm death remains a part of modern medical practice. As such, similar halakhic cases of a Kohen physician involved in the confirmation of death occur to this very day. I share one example here which reflects yet another fascinating and complex chapter in Jewish medical history, evidenced by a broadside found in a miscellaneous collection of broadsides in the Library of Congress.

In 1976 Rabbi Moshe Lemberger was asked about the case of an observant Kohen physician who witnessed a cardiac arrest of a man on the street.[59] The person did not survive. While it is generally prohibited for a Kohen to come in contact with a corpse, if this physician were to officially declare death of the person on the scene, and attest to the absence of foul play, the deceased would be transferred directly to the funeral home for immediate burial.

As per the questioner, if the Kohen physician refused to intervene, the patient would be transferred to the hospital. Burial would certainly be delayed, and in addition, there would be a high likelihood of autopsy, with organs often removed from the deceased without consent. Rabbi Lemberger concluded that this would constitute a case of met mitzvah (a deceased person with no one to attend to their burial), and due to these extenuating circumstances, the Kohen could expose himself to impurity to prevent the delay of burial and likely desecration of the body.

This comment “and often organs are removed from the deceased without consent” reflects a reality in Israel at this time.[60] When Israel established its own hospitals and medical system in the early twentieth century, it struggled to navigate a halakhically acceptable path for the allowance of autopsies, an integral part of standard medical practice. While detailed guidelines for the performance of autopsies were established with rabbinic guidance, many members of the medical community rejected any restrictions on their practice. Despite the legislation, the medical establishment flagrantly disregarded the laws and were known in many cases to perform autopsies, including organ removal, without patient or family consent. This evolved into a notorious autopsy scandal in the young State of Israel, which shattered faith in the medical establishment, with reverberations felt to this day. This ultimately resulted in the reformation and greater enforcement of the law.

I recently discovered a lone broadside buried in a miscellaneous collection housed in the Library of Congress,[61] which though undated, was likely printed around the time of the above responsum.

This Broadside was clearly intended to be posted in a cemetery and is divided into two sections.

On the left side is an accusation that the deceased more likely than not underwent an autopsy upon their death, and that the remaining relative, the likely reader of the broadside, did nothing to prevent it.

Dear Brother,
You are now standing beside the grave of your relative who was dear to your heart and whose flame of life was suddenly extinguished.
We wish to ask you if you have considered the possibility that your loved one has undergone extensive dissection [autopsy] and while the body is here, who knows the location of the internal organs of the body. Perhaps they never merited to a proper burial (more than 50% of bodies are dissected in Jerusalem).
What did you do to prevent this from happening?
As you stand beside the grave, the deceased beseeches you to repent for this. How will you answer?
The answer:
Accept upon yourself to protect your loved ones in the future. With all your power and capability seek to prevent the forced dissection by pathologists done merely for personal advancement.
Do this for the honor of both the living and the dead.
Committee for the protection of the honor of man

On the right side of the broadside is a text to be recited by the remaining relative asking forgiveness from their deceased loved one for allowing them to undergo an autopsy.

This unique broadside contributes to the study of the history of autopsies in Israel, provides valuable information possibly not attainable elsewhere, and adds to the relatively few items of material culture in Jewish medical history.

Yaakov Mark and Two Episodes from Vilna’s Great Synagogue Related to Yom Kippur

David Livni was born in Vilna in 1870. He was educated in traditional Orthodox schools and joined the proto-Zionist Hovevi Tzion movement. In 1906, he and his wife and five children moved to Israel. The children were among the first students of Herzliya Gymnasium, and David was one of the founders of Tel Aviv and its Great Synagogue. He served on its board until he fell out with its leadership regarding financial matters. Construction of the synagogue began in 1920. Delays, design challenges, and a lack of funding caused the construction to proceed at a snail’s pace, well behind schedule. According to Livni, a significant issue was the board’s leadership. In a pamphlet he self-published in early 1927, Binyan bet-ha-keneset ha-gadol be-Tel-Aviv: ṿe-taʻalule ha-gabaʼim, he accused the chairman and his son-in-law (who was also on the board), of gross mismanagement and even misappropriation of construction funds. Additionally, Livni alleges that the chairman filled the board with “yes men” and could rule unchecked. Construction was finally completed in 1930, although with all the changes, the resulting building is a hodgepodge of architectural styles.

Courtesy of the Hebraica Section of the Library of Congress’ African and Middle Eastern Division

In 1928, he began publishing a series in Ha’aretz newspaper describing the Vilna that he remembered. These were eventually collected and published in book format, Yerushalayim de-Lita, in 1930, in two volumes (available here and here). On September 23, 1928, the day before Yom Kippur, his article, “Yom ha-Kippur in Vilna Over Forty Years Ago,” appeared in Ha’aretz. He describes a unique custom of the Great Synagogue of Vilna. The Magid Mesharim would give a sermon the night before Erev Yom Kippur. Livni relates one of those occasions when “R. Yankel Charif (the Gaon R. Yaakov Yosef),” delivered the sermon. R. Yaakov Yosef is best known for his later sojourn to the United States to take up the position of the “Chief Rabbi of New York,” he initially served as rabbi in three Lithuanian towns and, in 1883, was selected as Vilna’s official Maggid, preacher. The moniker “charif” referred to his quick mind and was bestowed upon him during his time in Volozhin Yeshiva.

Title Page of Yerushalim de-Lita from the copy Livni gifted to Dr. Moshe Glickson, the founder and editor of Haaretz, where the articles originally appeared.

Jacob Mark, in his collection of biographies from 1927, originally in Yiddish, Gedoylim fun unzer tsayt: monografyes, karakter-shtrikhen un zikhroynes, and partially translated into Hebrew in 1957, Bi-meḥitsatam shel gedole ha-dor : biografiyot, sipurim, imrot ve-sihot holin shel gedole Yisraʼel ba-dor ha-kodem, devotes a chapter to R. Yosef. According to Mark, by the time R. Yosef arrived in the United States, he was well into his decline, and when he arrived, he had “lost his harifus, the power of his sermons, and his power of Torah.” Mark, therefore, limits his discussion to R. Yosef’s European years.

Mark knew R. Yosef personally. They met when R. Yosef moved to Zhagory and assumed the position of the town’s rabbi where Mark lived. R. Yosef was a student of R. Yisrael Salanter and “among the first young rabbis to spread R. Yisrael’s approach – that a rabbi’s purpose is not to decided legal issues and engage in intellectual debates with scholars – rather to relate to the people and improve their character and bring them closer to Judaism; in fact, this might be [the rabbi’s] fundamental purpose.” Consequently, R. Yosef devoted considerable time honing his sermonic skills and deliberately sought out the commoner. Mark suggests that R. Yosef was particularly suited for this role because he did not come from a rabbinic lineage. Instead, his family was poor and seeing his father struggle to make a living and yet spend freely on R. Yosef’s education impressed upon him that simple Jews have a special love of the Torah and sacrifice even more than middle-class Jews. R. Yosef incorporated these themes in his sermons.

R. Yosef published some of his sermons in 1888 in Vilna. But they are of the more traditional rabbinic type and do not necessarily display the unique nature of his speaking style. However, the Erev Yom Kippur sermon Livni recounts preserves an example of R. Yosef’s oratory emphasis on the people and expresses his love and appreciation of them.

Rabbi Yaakov Yosef’s Sermon on the Eve of Yom Kippur

Livni begins by describing R. Yosef’s humility and that he conveys that despite his lofty position, he is uncertain of his worth,

and is not sure of his life, like our brothers. The Israelites in Romania and Morocco (he means Russia) are not sure of their lives; they make a living like a dog picking up bones under the table of strangers, rolling in the garbage, being deported, and being beaten like dogs.

At that moment, it was as if the spirit of God was hovering in the space above the synagogue, over the crowd of three thousand heads, all turned and lifted their eyes toward the speaker. They were crowded and glued side by side, standing on their feet and swallowing every word from Rabbi Yankili’s mouth. And Rabbi Yankili is standing next to the Aron Ha-Kodesh, his palms outstretched towards the people, his eyes closed, his mouth producing pearls, … his sharpness dripping from his mouth like pure gold, worshiping the heart, going down the stomach chambers, coming out of the heart and entering the heart sometimes like hot coals, sometimes like life-giving dew. At that time, he appears like Ish Elokhim – his face is holy. Rabbi Yankili does not provoke the people to revenge, and he does not sow hatred toward the nations of the world, who shed the blood of Israel like water. He neither absolves them from sin for money nor pecuniary reward….

Yom Kippur itself is the most reliable bill of forgiveness and atonement for transgressions between a person and a guarantor – Erev Yom Kippur is the surest deed for transgressions between a person and his friend. All the fasts, ha-chagim, ha-mo’adim, whether of Shabbat or Shabbat Shabbaton – Yom Ha-Kippurim – [pale in comparison to Erev Yom Kippur]. No nation or language can imitate one day a year – the eve of Yom Kippur.

Morai ve-Rabbosai! The world’s nations reconcile with each other and ask for forgiveness through fire and blood, through the war between themselves. And us? – Through asking for forgiveness between a man and his friend on the eve of Yom Kippur. The world’s nations accepted the statement: “By your sword, you will live!” And we: “ve-chai bahem,” “and live by them,” and you shall not die by them. Morai ve-Rabbosai! It is written: ‘ve-amcha kulum tzadikim‘ ‘and among you all are righteous,’ and who is called righteous? The one who annuls the decrees of the Almighty! The Almighty decrees on the human beings: that they will starve for bread, that they will get sick, that they will die of hunger [], that their children will roll in the streets without the Torah, that their babies and their sucklings will wallow in the open air, that their sons and daughters will be subject to another people, to an immoral culture. The Almighty decrees, and the righteous person comes and cancels: he distributes his bread for hunger, builds a hospital, a nursing home, Talmud Torah, yeshivot, children’s homes, and evening classes for craftsmen. The man who sits within the four cubits of the Halacha, wrapped in a Talis crowned with tefillin, is not called a righteous person but a hasid. Tzadki HaShem be-kol derakhav ve-hasid. He starts as a tzaddik and eventually a Hasid. Every Jew is considered a Tzadik. Who is the Jew who has not given and will not give charity to people experiencing poverty tomorrow? Who is the nation, and what is it, that distributes charity in one day, in a quarter of a day, like the Jewish nation on Erev Yom Kippur, with a generous hand and pure heart?

Rabbi Yankili stands and pleads and calls the people to repent of regret for the past and to accept the future; he does not demand asceticism, does not impose fines, does not decree haramos, does not step on the head of the people with arrogance or ego. He stands and beseeches for the good of the people of Israel before our Father in Heaven, like the Kohen Gadol in his time, in the holiest of holies. He asks for mercy on behalf of the people of Israel – a life in which there is no shame and a dignified livelihood, neither by smuggling the border customs nor by despicable and dangerous businesses, which blacken the face of the Israeli nation like the rim of a cauldron, a year of salvation and comfort without the pain of raising children.

Morai ve-Rabbosai! Hear our voice, God and God… the voice of the drowning son in a sea of ​​troubles, troubles from the outside: persecutions, evil decrees, riots in Romania and Morocco (that is, Russia), and internal troubles: the pains of raising children, hatred for nothing, seeking honor, whistleblowers.”

Morai ve-Rabbosai! Rather than asking our holy Torah to advocate on our behalf, we will ask for forgiveness from her for hurting her honor. Morai ve-Rabbosai! We will bow our heads before our Torah, our Mother, the Mother of all religions and teachings. We will appease our Mother with our Torah, have mercy on the only son, on the people of Israel, and grant that we may fulfill all the Torah’s commandments, including those that depend on the land. And we will be able to return to our country and renew our days as before, as before, as before”!!!

Lately, I must ask for forgiveness from you, teachers, and gentlemen: I woke up and woke you up from your deep slumber like the sun with its hammer that makes the summer sleepy and awakens the sleepers. How bitter, how many vain words I poured over your heads, like vomit. As Kohelet repeats: “This too is vanity, and this too is striving after nothing,” saying and repeating and saying: “vanity vanity vanity vanity.” Why does he have to repeat several times vanity, vanity, all vanity? Wasn’t it enough for him at the end of the book: “Vanity, vanity said Ecclesiastes everything is vain!” Because the sum of zeros, whether one or many, is still zero. But there is a big difference between one zero and many if you add one number before them – all of the meaningless things, the zero, can be elevated and become significant when you add “the One” before them. Ultimately, everything is heard (all of the zeros) – fear God!

Livni finishes by saying, “When Rabbi Yankili Harif opened the Ark of the Covenant, a loud howl erupted in the audience, and the entire building was filled with courage and trembling.”

Cholera and Yom Kippur: 1848

Some forty years earlier, another dramatic event occurred in Vilna’s Great Synagogue, this one on Yom Kippur itself. Like the one above, we are indebted to Yaakov Mark and his book. In this instance, it provides the only eyewitness account of an episode that, in its various retellings, underwent unverifiable and imprecise metamorphoses.

There were at least four major cholera outbreaks during the nineteenth century in the Russian Empire. One of the most severe began in 1847, and by the time it subsided in 1851, it killed over one million in the Empire. By 1848, it had reached Vilna, and the question arose of whether one should fast on Yom Kippur. The structure of the first two major surveys of Vilna Jewish history are biographies of significant personalities interlaced with historical research and expositions. The first, Shmuel Yosef Fuenn’s Kiryat Ne’amanah, published in 1860, with an introduction and extensive endnotes by R. Mattityahu Strashun, and the second, Hillel Noach Steinschneider’s Ir Vilna, published in 1900. Steinschneider’s begins where Fuenn’s ends. Fuenn’s second wife was among those who perished of cholera in 1848.

Imaging of the podium at the Great Synagogue of Vilnius, İmage: UAB Inlusion Netforms.

An archeological team recently uncovered the floor of the Bimah.  See here for a description of their find as well as earlier findings. Loïc Salfati produced a full-length documentary on the history of the Great Synagogue and the excavations.

The 1848 episode first appears in Steinschneider, and he provides that before Yom Kippur, broadsides were posted throughout Vilna proclaiming that one can eat on Yom Kippur, the piyyutim should be shortened and that people should spend time outdoors to get fresh air. According to Steinschneider, on Yom Kippur, after Shachris, in the Great Synagogue, where there were some three thousand congregants, R. Yisrael Salanter ascended the Bimah with a piece of cake and made the boreh mineh mezonos blessing and ate it. In a footnote, he records that one of the congregation’s leaders objected to R. Yisrael’s unilateral decision to publicly violate Yom Kippur without the consent of the leading Rabbis. Despite Steinschneider’s general reliability, this is one instance where the details are apparently incorrect. Steinschneider does not cite anyone or any source for his retelling of this episode. Indeed, the description is internally inconsistent. If the widely distributed broadsides before the holiday explicitly declared that “one should not fast on Yom Kippur,” what was the objection to R. Yisrael’s behavior and the rationale that the Rabbis did not otherwise agree? Moreover, even one permitted to eat on Yom Kippur generally can only less than a shiur, pachos pachos, and Reb Yisrael allegedly ate “a cake” without regard to size.

Mark, unlike Steinschneider, presents the episode differently, which is more consistent with the legal details and, most critically, from an eyewitness. Mark acknowledges other versions — including Steinschneider’s — and argues that these “are not factually accurate,.” They are only “legends.” Mark’s source was R. Shimon Strashun, a prominent member of Vilna’s Jewish community (and a distant relative of R. Shmuel Strashun), “who was an eyewitness in the shul.” Strashun told Mark that “prior to Yom Kippur, Reb Yisrael, with the agreement of the Moreh Tzedek, placed broadsides in all the shuls, that because of the cholera epidemic, they would not say the additional piyutim and, instead sit outside in the fresh air. In the foyers of the shuls, they should put out small amounts of cake, less than a shiur, to use when necessary. On Yom Kippur, after Shachris, R. Yisrael ascended the Bimah of the Great Synagogue and announced to the congregation that anyone who feels weak does not need to ask a doctor and may go to the foyers to eat, but to only eat with breaks [i.e. pachos pachos] and avoid violating the Biblical prohibition. Immediately after R. Yisrael descended from the Bimah, the chief Moreh Horaah, Reb Betzalel, went up to the Bimah and protested, in the name of the Moreh Horaah, [Reb Yisrael’s position] that one is not required to first consult a Rabbi before eating. But the truth is that Reb Yisrael never ate anything.”

Mark’s retelling is consistent with the general legal principles governing a person who is ill, albeit with a controversy regarding consulting a rabbi before breaking someone’s fast during a communal plague. There is no explicit contradiction between the broadsides and Reb Yisrael’s or Reb Betzalel HaKohen’s positions. Instead, it appears that the broadsides, whether due to oversight or that it was unnecessary, did not specifically address whether one must consult a rabbi.

Notes: I am grateful for Sharon Horowitz of the Hebraica section at the Library of Congress for providing the scans of Livni’s pamphlet.

The Hebrew translation of Mark’s work is a substantially abridged version that omits the second portion devoted to “masklim,” with the exception of R. Mattityahu Strashun. Additionally, even the translated portion is shortened, and, in some instances sections and words are omitted that censor potentially controversial materials. But there are no significant changes in the Hebrew version for both episodes discussed here.

The various versions of the Reb Yisrael Salanter episode are collected by Nathan Kamenetsky, in Making of a Godol, vol. I, (2002), 1104-1121. Nonetheless, his attempts to reconcile the discrepancies and harmonize the various versions is unconvincing. Dr. Leiman discusses this at length in his speech that is available here.

For a general discussion regarding plagues and the Jewish responses see Jermey Brown, The Eleventh Plague: Jews and Pandemics from the Bible to COVID-19 (Oxford University Press, New York: 2023) (see pp. 151-53, for his discussion of the Reb Yisrael Salanter episode); see also Eliezer Brodt, “Towards a Bibliography of Coronavirus Related Articles & Seforim Written in the Past Month (Updated): Black Wedding and Other Segulot,” Seforim Blog, May 4, 2020.

 

Review of Jay R. Berkovitz’s The Pinkas of Metz

By Eliezer Brodt & Dan Rabinowitz

Jay R. Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice: The Pinkas of Metz Rabbinic Court 1771-1789, (2 vol., 222 pp. +1084 pp.), Brill 2014

Jay R. Berkovitz, Law’s Dominion, Jewish Community, Religion and Family in Early Modern Metz,(404 pp.) Brill 2022

A decade ago, Professor Jay Berkovitz, a Professor and Chair of Judaic and Near Eastern Studies at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, published the Pinkas (record book or register) of the Rabbinic Court in Metz. Jews began living in Metz, a town in Northeast France near the Moselle River, in the 16^th century. These records require a reassessment of the Jewish legal process and procedure, especially concerning the secular legal system. In 2022, Berkovitz published a self-standing monograph, Law’s Dominion, to fully describe and explicate the impact of the Pinkas. Both works mark significant advancements in modern Jewish history and the theory of the Jewish legal system. Yet, they have not received the proper attention they deserve in the Hebrew book world. The lack of recognition can partially be attributed to the publisher, the distinguished publishing house of Brill. Brill’s publications are not generally available for sale in local Seforim stores, and many are priced outside the reach of laymen (or even scholars). Nonetheless, both are worth seeking out, and we intend to bring these vital works to the attention of Seforimblog readers and describe their significance.

The Pinkas of the Metz Rabbinic Court covers just 18 years, 1771-1789, yet it is a massive amount of material. Berkovitz’s transcription (albeit with notes) is over one thousand pages. This is truly what one would call a labor of love. Not only did he publish a huge manuscript (over one thousand pages) with valuable indices, but he also mined the work extensively. In 2014, he wrote a volume (222 pp.), in English, dealing with many aspects of the Pinkas (as I will elaborate on below), demonstrating his command of everything possibly imaginable related to this work.

A few years later, in 2022, Berkowitz revisited the Pinkas and published another book, Law’s Dominion, Jewish Community, Religion and Family in Early Modern Metz, updating his previous book with a few more hundred pages.[1]

Berkowitz describes his project as follows:

Though certainly never intended to become a complete history of the Jews of Metz, Protocols of Justice grew to become much larger in size and complexity than originally expected. Despite its expanding into a self-standing monograph, I am very much aware that work on this project is still in its early stages. I present these volumes as an invitation to scholars to continue what has commenced here (p. 25).

Introduction: Pinkasim and their Historic Value

By way of introduction, many people seek out new niches where they can contribute valuable studies about otherwise unknown topics. One such untapped area is the world of Pinkasim. Over the years, numerous kinds of Pinkasim have been published, some in extensive critical editions. But there remains plenty of work in this “field.”

What is a Pinkas?

These records, typically in the form of a notebook or book, transcribe the materials of a particular group, society, or entity. They can be marriage or divorce records, Synagogue protocols, or numerous “Chevrah books.” Even though many have been lost or destroyed, numerous volumes have survived in libraries worldwide. In recent years, some have even ended up in private collections. (After the Holocaust, “Pinkas” is also used to describe a different form of communal books. Survivors from towns in Europe published “memorial books” to document their history and memorialize the murdered Jews. Many of those use Pinkas in the title, for example, Pinkas Zetel, Pinkas Galicia. Although collectively, the genre is referred to as “Yizkor books. New York Public Library collected these, and they are available on its site: Yizkor Book Collection.)

Historians have long recognized the value of Pinkasim generally. When reading the works of various prominent historians before World War Two, they often cite something like this: “In the Pinkasim of the town or city, I found…” One of the more well-known examples of a Pinkas is the Pinkas of the Vilna Gaon Kloyz. This manuscript is currently in New York and has a fascinating story regarding its survival (See David Fishman, The Book Smugglers, 52-55 for more details). R. Shlomo Zalman Hevlin published of the text of this Pinkas in the journal Yeshurun. Shlomo Zalman Hevlin, “The Pinkas of the Gaon’s Kloyz,” Yeshurun 16 (2005), 746-60; “The Kloyz of the Gaon of Vilna Zts”L, Ketayim me-Pinkas ha-Kloyz,” Yeshurun 6 (1999), 678-85.[2]

This Pinkas provides invaluable information regarding ownership of one of the homes where the Vilna Gaon resided. After his death, his children claimed it was part of the estate, while his students argued that it belonged to the community. After some machinations, including changing the board composition that held the property in trust, the court ruled in favor of the children. Some scholars view this property dispute as an attempt to resolve a larger issue of whether Gaon’s children or his students would control his intellectual legacy. After this decision, the children determined which Gaon’s manuscripts would be published rather than the students. (See Dan Rabinowitz, The Lost Library, Brandeis University Press, Massachusetts, 2019, 55-58.)

The Significance of the Bet Din Pinkas.

A subset of Pinkasim are those of Be’tai Din, taking the form of a register of the various disputes and decisions. These, too, are of critical importance. These documents shed light on individuals’ relationships to communal takanot, the power and authority of the Bet Din, and many other areas.

Yet, today, many of the Pinksim no long survive. Sometimes this was deliberate as in the case in the 1600’s of the Frankfurt Bet Din.

כתוב ביש נוחלין… וזה לשונו, קבלה ישנה מאבותי ז”ל שלא להשליך שום חשבון ישן אף על פי שנחשב הכל, כי אולי תבוא עת להוכיח דבר מה מאותו. עד כאן ולדידי הכותב הוה עובדא בזה כמה פעמים שבא לי לאחר ההשלכה לכלל היזק, כי כמעט הייתי מוכרח בכל פסח לשרוף כתבים ופתקאות, לפי שריבויים מפסקי דינים והשלישות וכיוצא ישתרגו עלו על צוארי, שלא היה המועט מחזיק את המרובה. וגם מפני שלא יהיה לי הטורח גדול ביותר בחפשי בחפש מחופש אחר כתב אחד, כאשר גם עתה אחר כל שריפת הכתבים נלאיתי עד כמה שעות בחפשי אחר איזה כתב [יוסף אומץ סי’ שע, עמ’ קח]

Rabbinic scholars eventually recognized the significance of pinkasim.[3] For example, the Nodeh BeYehudah uses one to determine the spelling of names in a get:

הנה אהוביי להיות שאין הגדול מעיד בגדלו על מה שראה בקטנו כ”א דברים ידועים שחשבו רז”ל ולכן אין אני יכול להעיד. אבל אעפ”כ אני אומר לכם נהירנא כד הוינא טליא כבר תשע או כבר עשר ראיתי אצל א“א הרב ז“ל פנקסאות של הגליל קראקא וראיתי פנקסאות משנים קדמוניות היו חתומים בו גאוני עולם זקני הגאון רשכב”ה מוהר”ר העשיל זצ”ל ואחריו דודי זקני הגאון המפורסם מוהרר”ל וגם ראיתי חתימת הגאון בעל תוספות י”ט שמה וכמדומה שבכל מקום שנרשם שם השומא חדשה שעשו שמאים באסיפת הגליל היה נכתב פילטץ עם טי”ת, ואף שאין אני יכול להעיד בבירור כי טליא הוינא וגם מלתא דלא רמיא וכו’ אבל תדעו שהפנקסאות הנ”ל דומה אני שהיה אח”כ ביד המאוה”ג מוהר”ר שלמה ז”ל אב”ד דק”ק פינטשוב שהיה סופר הגליל דרשו שם בק”ק הנ”ל ותמצאו אבל עכ”פ המפורסמות א”צ ראיה וזה דבר ידוע ששם העיר בכל מדינת פולין קורין פילטץ עם טי”ת וכן כותבים בכל האגרות והרי הוחזק שם העיר בלשון היהודים עם טי”ת. [נודע ביהודה, קמא, אבן העזר, סי’ פז].

Basically, one man’s junk became another’s treasure.

At first glance, a Pinkas of the Bet Din might appear to be dry material only of interest to specialists and technicians. But in reality, these contain information that can elucidate and enrich larger Jewish history. Nonetheless, little work has been done with the Pinkasim of rabbinical courts. Recently, however, some have begun publishing and analyzing these records to great effect. Edward Fram’s book, A Window on Their World: The Court Diaries of Rabbi Hayyim Gundersheim Frankfurt Am Main 1773-1794 (2012), inaugurated this approach.

A more focused usage of a Bet Din Pinkas is an article by Moaz Kahana. He identified a short and somewhat cryptic entry in the Pinkas of the Bet Din of Prague regarding a fine levied on two people. From that citation Kahana provides a sweeping exposition on Jewish coffee culture in Prague in the 18^th century. Among other details, in 1765 (during the period that R. Yehzkel Landau was the Chief Rabbi), there were at least six coffee houses in the Jewish quarter, owned by Jews, open on Shabbos, that Jews frequented and sanctioned by the Rabbinate. (Moaz Kahana, “Shabbos be-Beyes ha-Kaffe shel Kehilah Kedosha Prague,” in Zion, 2013 (78), 5-50).

A few years ago, in the prominent journal Yeshurun (24 (2011), pp. 235-297), R’ Dovid Kamenetzky published material from the Pinkas of Frankfurt from the Haflah.[ Avalaibel here and here] R’ Zalman Nechemiah Goldberg commented to the volume editors that he was so excited to read this material. In the course of this post, we hope to explain what his excitement was about. It is safe to imagine that had he seen this material from the Pinkas of Metz, he would have been beyond excited.

What can we learn from this Pinkas?

This Pinkas of the Bet Din of Metz is of especial importance. Berkowitz cites Anthony Grafton that “…courtroom and the lawyer’s study have turned out to be historical alembics where the methods of social and intellectual historians can be mingled in new forms, producing results of unsuspected richness.” that “In the last quarter-century, especially, the courts have been identified as a dynamic arena of social change and as a valuable source for understanding economic history and the changing function of law in society.” Recognizing this value, many scholars have used medieval Jewish records to elucidate those periods’ history. Yet there is a lacuna when it comes to the early modern era. Consequently, the potential of beit din records remains largely untapped (p.3).[4]

Berkowitz acknowledges that, in part, the lack of use of bet din records is due to the many technical challenges, including “proficiency in Hebrew paleography and expertise in the largely unfamiliar territory of Jewish civil and family law. As a result, we know virtually nothing about the kinds of cases that came before rabbinic courts and even less concerning jurisprudence and dispute resolution methods employed there. This is rather ironic in light of the heightened interest in law shown by historians working on late medieval and early modern Europe.” (p. 3)

As mentioned, Berkowitz did two important things: he transcribed this massive work carefully and studied it as a historian of Halacha; he “mined” this work very carefully.

The transcription alone is not a small feat; we are talking about a volume that, in print form, is almost 1000 pages of Hebrew text! The Pinkas also includes obscure words in French and Yiddish, which Berkowitz also deciphers, provides a useful glossary of foreign terms.

An important feature of Berkowitz’s edition of the Pinkas is the extensive indices based on topics, names, and places.

Berkowitz writes:

The economic data contained in the proceedings of the Metz Beit Din will doubtless prove invaluable in gauging the range and intensity of Jewish commercial activity in the pre-revolutionary era… (p. 30)

Then Berkowitz elaborates on this, listing out what exactly one can learn from this Pinkas:

The Metz court records are also filled with resources for investigating the economic complexities of marriage, family, and kinship relations. A profusion of details concerning the social and economic importance of betrothal agreements, dowries, marital property division, and inheritance arrangements represent a treasure trove of historical data. Particularly fascinating are cases that reveal the degree to which law, family, property, and business interests were tightly interwoven. On occasion, the human story comes into view with unusual poignancy, especially in cases of abandoned wives, young widows, and tales of deprivation… Legal mechanisms that came into play in response to evolving social and economic trends in the eighteenth century produced a measure of equality between husbands and wives that is apparent in quite a number of cases that came before the Beit Din. Accordingly, the picture that emerges… to the work women performed beyond their domestic responsibilities. There is abundant evidence suggesting that wives borrowed and extended loans, occasionally without their husbands’ authorization, to help support their families… (pp. 30-31)

Sources for the Law

What do we Know about the Jewish Community of Metz at the time?

Berkowitz writes:

Metz was the western-most outpost of Yiddish-speaking Ashkenazic Jewry in the early modern era (p. 7) With a population of over 46,000, Metz was the tenth largest city in France. During the seventeenth century the Jewish population in Metz increased dramatically and by the end … it numbered nearly 3000 individuals. Slightly less than seven percent of the city’s total population, it constituted the largest Jewish community in France prior to the Revolution (p.8).

In general, there is also great significance to Metz in the world of Halacha at this time, as Berkowitz writes:[5]

The major halakhic works that were produced in Metz or in nearby communities in the eighteenth century and were significant from a regional standpoint include Yaʾir Ḥayyim Bacharach, Resp. Ḥavvot Yaʾir (Frankfurt, 1699); Jacob Reischer, Resp. Shevut Yaakov, pts. 1–3 (Halle, 1710), pt. 2 (Offenbach, 1719), and (Metz, 1789); Joseph Steinhardt, Resp. Zikhron Yosef (Fürth, 1773)[6]; Gershon Coblentz, Resp. Kiryat Ḥannah (Metz, 1789); and Aaron Worms, Meʾorei Or (Metz, 1790–1793) (p. 25)[7]

Why was this Pinkas written in the first place?

Berkowitz explains:

Precious little is known about the production of the Metz Beit Din records. We cannot state with certainty under whose direction these records were produced, for whom they were intended, and toward what end they were preserved in written form. Nevertheless, there was nothing novel or uncommon about providing litigants with written copies of its rulings. Documents issued by the court were intended to confirm an admission of debt, the withdrawal of a claim, the exoneration of an individual from unsubstantiated accusations, or the severance of a widow from her husband’s estate, to name only several of the more common types of validation provided by the Beit Din. In some instances, the court was asked to issue a maʾaseh beit din (a formal judgment) that confirmed ownership over property or established the legality of a particular transaction. Written rulings of this sort were frequently produced as evidence in cases that continued over the course of months or even years. Although the communal register does not contain an explicit directive concerning the actual preservation of judicial records, article 109 of the 1769 community bylaws stated that “every ruling of the Beit Din must be written and signed… It was stipulated, further, that “it is prohibited for either of the litigants to pay the other even a perutah until they have seen the written and signed judgment. (p. 39)

While there is little doubt about the value of the Pinkasim, especially as they relate to the Jewish legal system, they do not offer a complete record of the judicial process. Despite containing hundreds of legal decisions predicated on Jewish law, the Pinkasim do not provide the underlying rationale of those decisions. The decisions distinguish between those based on Jewish law, internal takanas, and custom. But the specifics of the which sources and rationales are compelling are left unsaid. This, however, is unsurprising as most Bet Din decisions, whether recorded in Pinkasim or other sources, seemingly rely upon Rema’s statement that “there is no need to write the rationales and proofs, we only write for them [i.e., for the litigants] the claims and the ruling.”

Who transcribed the Pinkas?

Precisely what role scribes played in determining the content, form, and language of the cases they recorded is unclear. Variations in handwriting, in addition to the assorted signatures affixed at the ends of collations of cases, reveal that several different court stenographers were commissioned to record the judicial proceedings during the eighteen years chronicled in the Pinkas. The largest number of entries appears to be in the hand of a single scribe, Juspa Katz, whose name is recorded in seven cases that span fifteen years (pp. 43-44).

Elaborating on this, Berkowitz adds:

In each of these instances, the document was approved by the av beit din, by the judges, or in some instances by the presiding syndic (parnas ha-ḥodesh). Overall, the stylized prose used in recording the proceedings, which are punctuated by the inclusion of biblical phrases and technical expressions drawn from talmudic and halakhic literature, suggest that the text of the Pinkas was the product of meticulous preparation by erudite scholars and well-trained scribes.

The function of the Beis Din

Berkowitz describes: “As a communal institution, the Metz Beit Din filled three principal functions. First and foremost, it was a judicial body that represented the primary, though certainly not the exclusive, public venue for the resolution of disputes among residents of the greater Metz community. Litigants regularly came from the towns and villages of the Moselle countryside as well, and in some instances from more distant localities when business dealings brought them into contact with Moselle residents. Second, as in the case of the French lower courts, the Beit Din performed bureaucratic functions that included the confirmation of legal documents and contracts, the execution of wills, and the appointment of guardians. Third, it enjoyed certain institutional powers related to social control and supervision. Although this range of functions may have resembled the merging of judicial, legislative, and executive tasks in early modern French courts, the Beit Din acted more as an arm of the Kahal executive and coordinated itself with the general policy guidelines set forth by the community’s governing body. Furthermore, on a much smaller scale, the centralized authority of the Kahal was more pronounced than that of the state and, as a result, the independence of the rabbinic court could be expected to be more narrowly circumscribed (pp. 65-66).

Who were the Dayanim on this Beis Din?

One of the critical insights of this volume is the identification of the dayanim of the Beis Din. These are generally not recorded elsewhere. Berkowitz identifies:

Rabbis Moses Narol Cohen, Gershon Ashkenazi, Jacob Reischer, Abraham Broda, Joshua Jacob Falk, Jonathan Eibeschütz, Shmuel Hilmann, and Aryeh Loeb Günzberg. Günzberg… best known as a renowned Talmudist and author of the celebrated Shaʾagat Aryeh (p. 14)

The Shagas Aryeh is well-known as a posek, but this identifies in a lesser-known role, Av Beis Din. (See Oriel Touitou, The Methods of Rabbi Pinhas Ha-Levy of Horwitz and Rabbi Aryeh Leib in Talmud Study and Halachic Decisions, (PhD) Bar Ilan University 2012; R. Peretz Risenberg, Yeshurun 30 (2014) pp. 772-824; Eliezer Brodt, Yeshurun 24 (2011), p. 463.

How many cases did this Beis din Deal with?

Berkowitz writes:

Serving as the primary communal forum where legal disputes were adjudicated, the Beit Din typically met two or three times a week and averaged roughly sixty cases per year. In accordance with standard procedure in Jewish law, three judges (dayyanim) heard each case; in virtually every instance the tribunal consisted of the av beit din (Günzberg) together with two adjunct dayyanim. In the course of the eighteen years that are chronicled in the Pinkas, fifteen rabbinic judges rotated on the Beit Din alongside the chief justice. Of these sixteen judges, four sat on the bench for the entire period and several others performed their duties for most of those years (p. 15).

Methods of the Beis Din

They did not just give verdicts. They personally investigated the facts.

Concerning a dispute over the suitability of the living space in which an orphan resided together with his uncle, the Beit Din decided to pay a visit to investigate whether the physical conditions in the home were as required. It also hired a nurse to provide a medical perspective, and two more to corroborate the opinion of the first. After taking these steps the Beit Din was persuaded that the orphan was not mistreated and there were no grounds for legal action against the guardians (p. 70)

What do we know about the “reach of this Beis din”?

Berkowitz writes:

These are strong indications of the stability and continuity that characterized the work of the court during nearly two decades of service to the community. Equally impressive is the long geographical reach of the Metz Beit Din. Litigants came from near and far, from Augny located just 8 kilometers southwest of Metz and as far as Frankfurt, which was a distance of 260 kilometers. To accommodate individuals who were unable to travel to Metz from distant communities in the Moselle, the rabbinic court occasionally made special arrangements… In order to reduce expenses, the local cantor was deputized by the Metz Beit Din to administer the widow’s oath… in the presence of one witness. Altogether, more than one hundred villages throughout the Moselle countryside and beyond are mentioned in the court proceedings. These distances reveal much about the far-flung commercial and financial dealings of Metz residents and the centralization of authority in the Moselle region and in areas of Lorraine (pp. 15-16).

The Metz Beis Din and Secular Law

Berkowitz writes:

Without surrendering its own authority, the Beit Din regularly acknowledged the interdependence of cases brought before the rabbinic judges and those taken to the French civil court system. But on numerous occasions the Beit Din made it clear that it would need to await the judgment of the French court before it could issue its own ruling. In a case concerning the division of living space, it declared that its decision was valid “so long as the gentile courts do not object.” It is striking that even in matters that were presumably of minimal interest to the authorities, the Beit Din was hampered by contingencies of this sort… the Metz Beit Din enjoyed substantial independence from state interference and control. Whether they were considering contractual matters, offenses against the public order, or the civil consequences of strictly religious affairs, municipal and royal courts firmly imposed their jurisdiction and exercised the right to overturn the decisions of the ecclesiastical courts when there was evidence of a procedural irregularity. Moreover, the powers of ecclesiastical courts were limited to canonical penalties. The Beit Din, with the full support of the Kehillah leadership, was granted greater latitude by the state to resolve internal differences on the basis of Jewish legal traditions that extended primarily to civil matters. Nevertheless, neither the Kehillah nor the Beit Din was able to ignore pressures to coordinate with and adapt to general law…. How the Metz Beit Din functioned alongside the French civil courts may be the crucial question, but, as will become apparent, it is exceedingly difficult to answer. Complicating the issue is the fact that recourse to French civil courts appears to have accelerated as the eighteenth century wore on. Individuals who took their disputes to gentile courts, known in rabbinic and halakhic literature as ʿarkhaʾot shel goyim, were consistently denounced by medieval and early modern rabbinic authorities (pp. 107-108)

Berkowitz continues:

The present study addresses a different set of questions: How did jurists within the rabbinic court system respond to the challenges to Jewish law that were posed by non-Jewish legal systems? Is there any evidence that judicial procedure in the Beit Din, or the interpretation of the law itself, was influenced by French law or by the possibility of recourse to French civil courts? How did the phenomenon of legal pluralism influence the methods of adjudication and jurisprudence employed in the Metz rabbinic court? The impact of legal pluralism may be discerned in the court’s adoption and adaptation of legal perspectives and mechanisms from general jurisprudence, both in the realm of procedure and in substantive areas of law such as the division of marital property. Invariably, the Beit Din’s method of adjudication reveals tensions between its role as guardian of communal autonomy and the political demands imposed by legal centralism—tensions between its role as arbiter of Jewish law and agent of the Kahal, on the one hand, and its awareness of the contingent nature of the relationship between Jewish law and general law, on the other (pp. 109-110).[8]

Power of the Jewish courts in Early Modern France:

The proceedings of the Metz Beit Din provide elaborate details concerning Jewish civil autonomy. Under the aegis of the governing authority of the Kehillah, the Beit Din was authorized by the state to resolve differences among members of the community on the basis of Jewish customs and legal traditions. In this respect the Beit Din enjoyed a level of authority that far exceeded that granted to the ecclesiastical courts… Overall, the Metz proceedings contain little evidence, either direct or indirect, of resistance to its juridical authority (p.53)

Related to this, a case in the Pinkas is worth citing. As Berkowitz summarizes:

In Metz, as in other communities, the authority exercised by the Beit Din and the scope of its jurisdiction were a reflection of the latitude extended to it by royal and municipal authorities. Owing to limitations on the power of the Kehillah to enforce judicial rulings, the Beit Din found it necessary on certain occasions to caution recalcitrant litigants that failure to respond to a summons carried severe consequences. In the case of Gershon Coblentz, who refused to appear before the Beit Din to settle a dispute with Yozel Cahen, the Beit Din threatened to serve him with a contempt of court order (pequdat ḥerem) and to employ “other forms of coercion.” How effective these threats could have been without the backing of the state is questionable. Coblentz remained adamant in his “rebellion and refusal, holding up the words of the rabbis to ridicule,” whereupon Yozel proceeded to seek authorization from the Beit Din to bring his claim to the French court. The Beit Din informed Gershon that it had approved the transfer of the case to the civil court, and following their response that they did not object, the rabbinic court authorized Yozel to take hold of the written documentation, in French, so that he could sue in the civil court (p. 54).

Who represented the people for the Beis Din?

In more than a third of the cases that were brought to the Metz Beit Din, litigants were represented by their own attorneys. This is likely to have been a (sic) commonplace in rabbinic courts in other communities as well. The scope of legal representation in rabbinic courts had widened considerably in the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries (p. 60)

Implications for Jewish History from the Pinkas

Knowledge of French

Berkowitz writes:

Although the foregoing examples suggest that French literacy was more prevalent among Metz Jews than has been generally assumed, there is little doubt that facility in French was far less extensive in the countryside than among the urban elite. Even fifty years after the Revolution there were still Jews in the small towns and villages of Alsace and Lorraine who could not speak French. The records of the Beit Din suggest that although the scribes who had been assigned the task of recording the case summaries were familiar with a wide range of technical French vocabulary pertaining to judicial procedure and financial instruments, their fluency may have been limited to oral proficiency. (pp. 93-94)

In addition to gleaning information regarding the legal and judicial practices, the Pinkas also provide information regarding the day-to-day life of the Jews in Metz and beyond. Some of these lead to the important conclusion that “confirm[s] that even prior to the Revolution, cultural influences transcended social barriers, and this appears to have been true for a larger segment of the Jewish population than is commonly assumed.” (p. 95). Others, however, point to more prosaic elements of the lives of the Jews. Nonetheless, the Pinkas is a primary source for assessing their lifestyle and everyday trials and tribulations, and is essential to paint objective picture of their lives.

Some Interesting cases which show life was rather colorful:

On one occasion, when informed that a woman who was engaged to be married had become pregnant, the Beit Din summoned her and her fiancé in order to ascertain whether he was the father and, assuming he was, to ensure compliance with Jewish law if the couple intended to marry. According to Talmudic law, a man is forbidden to marry a woman who was either pregnant by another man or who is nursing another man’s child until the child is twenty-four months old. In response to a husband’s claim that his wife’s pregnancy was not his doing, the Beit Din proceeded to investigate the matter thoroughly. Based on the wife’s acknowledgment of her extra-marital affair, as well as the testimony of witnesses confirming the utter lack of affection between husband and wife, the Beit Din absolved the husband of all financial responsibility for the child and ordered him to divorce his wife; she, in turn, was required to accept the get, even against her will, on account of her confession. Because marriage and sexuality were matters of vital interest to the public, the Beit Din acted swiftly, in some instances before litigants came forward (pp. 68-69)[9]

Another colorful case discussed by Berkowitz regarded:

Reichle Cahen… approached the Kahal in its meeting room and openly accused Hirtz Oulif of fathering her child; she demanded that he marry her and provide birth expenses and child support. Initially heard by the Kahal, the case caused something of a furor because of the public nature of the young woman’s accusation and owing to her family’s elevated status within the community. The Beit Din was invited to join the Kahal in its effort to stave off the worrisome trend, and the head of the rabbinic court, R. Günzberg, was asked to lead the new initiative. Although ill-health prevented Günzberg’s participation, members of the Beit Din proceeded, together with several syndics, to examine the arguments and testimony presented by Reichle and Hirtz… the Beit Din demanded that Reichle and Hirtz address each other directly, without legal representation. Hirtz proceeded to deny each of Reichle’s claims as utterly false. Aiming “to uphold the bylaws of the community,” the Beit Din responded by imposing the ḥerem on both the young woman and the young man, undoubtedly to convey the message that promiscuous behavior would not be tolerated under any circumstances. But when it came out that there were witnesses willing to testify that the young man was heard boasting of his exploits, the Kahal and the Beit Din altered their approach. They recorded the statements in writing, assembled additional oral testimony attesting to the accuracy of the earlier statements, and subsequently set about to erect “a fence and barrier against the promiscuity of the generation and so that daughters will not act wantonly or be treated as such.” At this point the Beit Din imposed the ban directly on Hirtz until such time as he had appeased Reichle by agreeing either to marry her or present her with monetary compensation. It further required him to deposit 1200 livres with the Kahal until the birth, at which point it would be determined whether Reichle’s paternity claim was plausible. If it was, then the money would be turned over to Reichle; if not, the money would be returned to him. In any event, the Beit Din required him to pay a fine of three hundred lives that would be distributed to the poor…(pp. 147-148)[10]

Seats in Shul

In one instance, the Beit Din authorized a widow to sell two synagogue seats and to collect the total value of her ketubah, even though a lien had been placed on the property of the orphans, earmarking it as a charitable bequest. Selling the seats enabled the widow to remove the lien on her ketubah and tosefta, in accordance with both Jewish and general law. (p. 71)[11]

Looking at the index will show that the Beis Din had to deal with many issues with seats in shul.

Gorel: Lotteries

Numerous cases were resolved via lotteries, as listed in the index. These provide additional materials related to lotteries in Jewish culture. See Yechiel Lash, The Attitudes of Halachic Decisors to the Casting of Lots Within a Decision-Making Process and Their Implications, (Ph.D. Bar Ilan Talmud Department 2012); Shraga Bar-On, Lot Casting, God and Man in Jewish Literature: From the Bible to the Renaissance (heb.), Ramat Gan 2020; Eliezer Brodt, Likutei Eliezer, pp. 56-58; Fram, pp. 47-49.

We learn about the Beis Din’s involvement in helping people experiencing poverty:

… details of charitable giving, including laws regulating confraternities and poor relief, particularly when complications demanded the court’s legal expertise. In nearly a dozen cases, the Beit Din was approached concerning the practice of supplying the itinerant poor with billets, known in Yiddish as pletten. Each Metz householder, in proportion to his wealth, was required by communal law to deposit pletten, inscribed with their names, in a chest. Poor travelers would then draw tickets in order to secure meals and a night’s lodging offered at the homes of community members. Questions ranged from the basis upon which the pletten obligations were to be determined for each resident to how to contend with individuals who refused to share the responsibility… (p. 72)

Another interesting case:

In a parallel dispute concerning the administration of a charitable gift bequeathed by an estate, the Beit Din was asked to decide whether the Kahal had the right to exercise control against the wishes of the heirs. Ẓadok Grumbach objected to the Kahal’s insistence that one of twelve rooms in the beit midrash established with funds donated by his grandfather, Abraham Grumbach, ought to be designated for elementary instructional purposes. His attorney argued that this would violate the will of the deceased and contradict prior judgments of the court. It had been understood that the rooms in the upper level were intended for lomdim (scholars) who had been appointed through the generosity of the benefactor and in whose merit they dedicated their efforts; the noise caused by younger students would arguably create a disturbance for the lomdim. Grumbach therefore sued the Kahal for breach of contract.

The attorney for the Kahal responded that the placement of a teacher and students in the room in question would be preferable to leaving it empty, and that in so doing the Kahal would remain in compliance with previous agreements and legal rulings. As a matter of policy, he argued further on the basis of talmudic law that the seven tovei haʾir (the talmudic term used to refer to the lay communal executive council) had the authority to alter a communal ordinance if the intent was to increase learning and expand Torah instruction. The Beit Din upheld the position of the Kahal, arguing that the placement of a teacher and five students in a room on the first level was consistent with the original intent of the testator. It maintained that it was fair to assume that Abraham would have wished the room to be used for instructional purposes rather than to remain empty and that such use would be in the merit of the soul of the deceased… (pp.76-77)

Sins and daily life:

Berkowitz writes:

As traditional barriers separating Jews and non-Jews began to fall after midcentury, communal leaders responded with new attempts to slow the pace of acculturation. Their efforts, though perhaps not religiously motivated, recognized the dangers implicit in excessive exposure to French culture. Games of leisure and chance had become so popular that any person found engaged in these pastimes without the authorization of the community council could be barred from attending synagogue for three years. Paternity suits and extramarital pregnancies were routinely recorded in the communal register and in the protocols of the Beit Din, and the repeated condemnation of extravagance over the course of the eighteenth century suggests that these trends were on the rise. (p.13)

Card Playing & Gambling

There are numerous sources of this kind in various documents throughout Jewish history. One of the most well-known personal accounts appears in R. Yehudah Areyeh Modena’s autobiography. (See generally, Yitzhak Rivkin, Der kamf kegn azartshpiln bay Yidn, (YIVO, 1940).

In the Pinkas we find:

שאמת הוא שהי׳ עובר חרם ע״י שחוק רק שאין כוונתו כמו עוברי חרמים המשחקי׳ בקובי׳ וקארטין רק שהי׳ משחק שחוק אחר שקורין לאדי אצל חתן אחד ושחוק זה ג״כ חרם וב״ח הנ״ל השיב שאין חוששין ללעז ורבי׳ הי׳ אומרי׳ לו שרגיל בעיני המון עם לשחוק [שחוק 192 ] זה אצל חתנים [עמ’ 514]

Other kind of cases which demonstrate a bit about daily life:

In the same vein, the numerous disputes brought before the Beit Din that pertained to building construction and repairs, water damage, and privacy concerns bring to light otherwise hidden aspects of everyday life in the eighteenth century. In a case that concerned the management of public space, residents of a building were fined by the civil court for failing to keep the rear of the property free of litter; the court instructed them to hire a non-Jewish gardener to keep the property clean in accordance with the requirements of the law.

A dispute regarding the relocation of an outhouse, specifically concerning the claim that the work was not performed correctly, was brought to the police-court and was subsequently resolved to the satisfaction of the residents. In a similar case, the placement of an outhouse adjacent to a separation wall between two properties became a contested matter; in this instance it was the Beit Din that was asked to settle the question of the potential physical harm that might result. Disputes pertaining to construction, plumbing, and shared space reveal that it was quite common for Jews to hire non-Jewish workers and to seek the opinion of non-Jewish experts. Such patterns ought to be viewed as a natural consequence of the dependence of the Jewish community on the larger French population to help meet its ordinary, everyday needs… (p. 96)

Jewish Financing of the Military.

Another interesting tidbit found in the Pinkas described by Berkowitz is typical of other Rich Jews:

A probate inventory detailing the property left by Rabbi David Hertzfeld in 1776 lists among those who owed money to the deceased seven heads of military regiments: Orléans, Poitou, La Couronne, Royal Roussillon, Touraine, Auvergne, and Navarre. Although the total amount still owed was modest—approximately 12,000 livres—the lending network had a long reach and its success no doubt demanded extraordinary efforts in earning and maintaining the trust of this specialized clientele (p. 103).

Commercial enterprises at the time in Metz:

In the Pinkas, we find:

For sources in the Beit Din records on commercial enterprise, see the following: Horse trade… sheep trade… cows… Forage… partnership for forage, straw, and oats… Wax… Brokerage… Gems…Cheese: Vol. 1, pt. 2, 30b, no. 122; in Vol. 2, 46b, no. 149, the sale of cheese beneath a shop prompted the storeowner to complain that the pungent smell was harming his business; he asked the Beit Din for a restraining order on the cheese maker. For partnerships with non-Jews, see Vol. 2, 28b, no. 194 (p.11)…

Material Culture & Contemporary style in Metz

Fabrics, clothing, jewelry and valuable gems, as listed in various types of registers, particularly collateral and probate inventories, provide strong indications of the affinity of Metz Jews with French culture. An impressive variety of fabrics is recorded in the Pinkas; these include drap d’or (cloth woven with gold) and drap d’argent (cloth woven with silver); drap d’Elbeuf (fabric produced in Elbeuf, a town in Normandy specializing in weaving wool); drap de Sicile (a silk fabric produced in Sicily); gros de Tours …

And Berkowitz’s list goes on for a while (p. 94)

Berkowitz then adds an essential point to the significance of all this:

The numerous references to luxurious fabrics, ornate clothing, housewares, and precious stones that punctuate cases throughout the Pinkas reveal a strong attraction to contemporary styles. Jewish merchants who imported fine fabrics to Metz from various producers in northern and central France were responsible, at least in part, for the sophisticated taste in the Jewish community, as were pawnbrokers who accumulated and sometimes sold silver and gold tableware received in pledges. These examples confirm that even prior to the Revolution, cultural influences transcended social barriers, and this appears to have been true for a larger segment of the Jewish population than is commonly assumed. The allure of fine fabrics, clothing, dinnerware, and jewelry is recorded in extraordinary detail throughout the Pinkas. Taken together in its totality, the fascination with luxury assists in sketching the portrait of an acculturated minority… (p. 95)

As mentioned, the Pinkas has material related to the related to the Shages Aryeh. It even provides a list of the seforim he owned. (p. 270).

רשימה מהספרים שהמה למשכון ביד פו״מ הקצין כ׳ שמואל לוי מהרבנות של אדמ״ו הגאון אב״ד דקהילתינו מיץ יע״א זצ״ל
ספר רב אלפס ד׳ אמשטרדם פ״ד ליוור
יוד זוהר סמך ליוור
מדרש רבה ד׳ אמשטרדם י״ב ליוור
טורים ד׳ ווילמרשטארף ך״ד ליוור
טורי׳ ד׳ וויניציאה ח״י ליוור
יוד פרי חדש על א״ח י״ב ליוור
רמב״ם ד׳ אמשטרדם עם הלחם משנה סמך ליוור
אשלי רברבי ח״י ליוור
פני יהושע על סדר נשים ד׳ אמשטרדם טית ליוור
מכלל יופי

הספרים אלו כפי הרשימה הנ״ל המה למשכון ביד פו״מ הנ״ל מהרבנות הנ״ל. וכפי מאמרו מגיע לו מן הרבנות הנ״ל סך שלשה מאות שלשים וחמשה ליוור י״ד סוא ו״ד. ונישום המשכון הנ״ל עפ״י בקיאין בעד סך שלשה מאות ליוור. ועפ״י הבירור שנתברר ע״י עדים כשרים שהזוהר ופרי חדש שנתנה הרבנות הנ״ל לפו״מ הנ״ל שייכי׳ לחתנה מו״ה ליב כאשר כבר יצא מפי ב״ד מקדמת שפו״מ הנ״ל מחויב להחזיר לאשת מו״ה ליב הזוהר ופרי חדש

It should not be strange to see the Zohar listed among his books. Although not as well known, he was also an expert in Kabbalah.

Elsewhere we find about his seforim (p. 911):

לפ״פ דמיין ומשם לקיניגשבערג. ומספר הספרים שבתוך ארגזי׳ הנ״ל המה קכ״ה שו״ת שאגת ארי׳ וארבעה מאות ועשרים טורי אבן שחבר המנו׳ זצ״ל. ושני מאות ושמני׳ ספרי רשב״א על נדה שנדפסו פה. נמצא לאחר נכוי מדמי מכירה הנ״ל שעולה שבעה אלפים וששה מאות ותשעים וששה ליוור ד״י סוא כנ״ל את מה שהחזיק מו״ה יצחק

Today it is commonplace for everyone to acquire their own esrog. Yet, historically, it was very difficult and expensive to obtain an esrog. In the Pinkas, we find:

… גם לא באתרוג… וע״ד דמי האתרוג השיב כ׳ מאיר באשר שהי׳ מתיירא שידחו אותו חוצה ולא יתנו לו חלק באתרוג של הקהל הי׳ מוכרח לקנות לו לעצמו אתרוג מיוחד בכן אינו מחויב ליתן כלום לדמי אתרוג של הקהל… ((pp.471-472

In the Pinkas of Cracow, we find the same:

הסופר בפקודתם כל ההכנסות מכל בתי כנסיות ומן כל החברות דפה… גם החשבונות מכל ההוצאות שהוציאו מקופת הצדקה… וכן לקנות אתרוגים לחלקם לכל בתי כנסיות…” [כלילת יופי, ב’ דף סז ע”א]

R’ Dovid Nieto in his Kuzari Hasheni (p.25), writes related to this:

“בחג הסוכות אמר הכתוב ולקחתם… פרי עץ הדר… ואפשר שהכוונה היא על רמון נאה… אבל הם ז”ל פירשו שהוא אתרוג דווקא ופסלו כל מה שאינו אתרוג ממש כפי הסימנים אשר מסרונו אף על פי שיהיה מאותו המין, וזה גורם הוצאה רבה ועגמת נפש גדולה ליושבי ארצות ואקלים הקרים לפי שצריך שיביאו להם אתרוג מארץ הרחוקים לחוג בו את חג הסכות בהוצאה רבה. ולא עלתה תלונותי כי אין ציבור עני, אלא שלפעמים יש להם ההוצאה אבל לא השבח של המצוה כגון כשלא הגיע לידם אלא בתוך ימי החג או אחריו התאמין אדוני המלך שאנשים חכמים ונובנים בדו כל זה מלבם טעם ויסוד אחר אלא להתשרר על הצבור”.

A Possible Alternative Use of the Pinkas: Testing Rabbinical Candidates

As mentioned above, while the Pinkas is an invaluable source of Beis Din decisions, the rationale of those decisions is left unstated.

Fram writes:

Even in communities where such records do exist, such as Metz, whose rabbinic court records have recently been published in a monumental volume by Jay Berkovitz, there are over a thousand rulings but no rationales for judgments. This is not surprising. Ashkenazic tradition did not require rabbinic courts to rationalize their decisions. As Rabbi Moses Isserles expressed it in Shulhan `Arukh, basing himself on an earlier source: “There is no need to write the rationales and proofs, we only write for them [i.e., for the litigants] the claims and the ruling.”

Berkowitz writes:

The Beit Din was guided in its rulings by several types of law of Jewish and general provenance. Jewish law comprised talmudic principles… Traditional Jewish law, based on the Talmud and medieval / early modern codes, is the legal foundation of the Pinkas. However, no texts of the Jewish legal tradition are ever referenced by name in the rabbinic court proceedings, and even oblique references to the views of poseqim or to rabbinic responsa are extremely rare. Nevertheless, the occasional use of a talmudic phrase or of a halakhic argument that presumably guided judges in their decisions offers unmistakable clues as to the sources upon which the Beit Din relied (p. 57)

Earlier Berkowitz writes:

To appreciate the interaction of Metz Jews with French law and society will require a careful examination of the legal discourse that is submerged deeply in the rabbinic court records. That goal is not readily within reach, however, owing to the Beit Din’s routine omission of the sources upon which it relied and because of its failure to indicate the reasoning that informed its decisions. This was standard practice in cases reported by rabbinic courts in almost every locality. In sharp contrast with rabbinic responsa, no effort was made by rabbinic courts to document their engagement of earlier and contemporary sources or to define the technical-legal issues under review… (p.33)

The lack of rationale provides for a creative usage of these Pinkasim for pesak. They can be used as a “Jeopardy-type” test for future Dayanim, and similar to a modern law school exam where one is only presented a fact pattern but is required to elucidate the rationale and law behind those. Examiners could provide the Pinkas ruling and require students to articulate the reasoning. Let them read the case, etc., and the conclusions and try to document, as a test of their knowledge, the possible sources that they would suggest could be the rational for the Dayanim’s pesak.

Indeed, there are historical antecedents to this form of examination. For example, R’ Efrayim Zalman Margolis describes in his youth what his father did with him:

זכורני כשהייתי תינוק שהגיע לעונת הפעוטות לקחני אבי מורי הגאון ז”ל וחינך אותי לשעות… וכשהייתי כבן תשע היו עמי שעשועי… אשמורת הבוקר יעיר לו משנתי ולפניו שניתי כמה סדרים עד שהיו בפי שנונים ושגורים ובידי סדורים והגעתי ליותר מחצי הש”ס בזמן קצר וכמעט לאומרם בע”פ ממני לא יבצר ובכל זמן ועידן עמי היו מתעדן לטייל עמי בהלכות ושמעי לאזני חדושים באגדות ומדרשים… היה עורך דין דאיתא בשאלה בספרי שו“ת ודרש ידרוש מעמי אם אשמע לפתור על אתר… [בית אפרים, על הלכות טריפות הריאה, בסוף הקדמה שניה].

 

There are also a number of seforim that are composed of riddles to sharpen the student’s mind.

In 1545 R’ Yakov Landau published one in the back of his Sefer HaAgur called Sefer Chazan. R’ Efrayim Heksher published another one called Divrei Chachamim VeChedusim in 1743. Another one worth mentioning is in the excellent work Kerem Shlomo published in 1840. One last one to mention is R’ Yosef Zechariah Stern in Shut Zecher Yosef, Orach Chaim 2, at the end has two pages with an introduction of earlier sources for this. This is part of his much larger work on the subject, which was not published. Most recently, they published R’ Chaim Kanievsky’s Tests that he gave on Shas; the questions are also like riddles [See, for example, Kovetz Eitz Chaim 37 (2022), pp. 393-433]. These riddles are very unique in their approach. Of course, similar to the Metz Pinkas, R. Kanievsky provided little in the way of the underlying rationale his pesakim. (See also Yakov Shmuel Spiegel, “Academies in Italy and the Permission to hold Academia on Shabbos Day: The Responsa of R. Isaac Ben Asher Pacifico,” in Mekhilta, 3, 79-124).

In conclusion, Berkowitz’s work is a tour de force. The transcription, notes, and excurses provide a unique window into the judicial process and have implications beyond the law. While the contents are not a complete record of Metz, it is a sufficiently large data set that provides a wealth of avenues for exploration. All of these volumes are worth reviewing in-depth and, no doubt, will considerably enrich Jewish scholarship on Jewish courts and related subjects.

 Neturei Karta; ArtScroll, Arius, and Orangutans; Suicide and the Law of Rodef

Marc B. Shapiro

1. We have recently seen behavior by so-called religious Jews that is vile. I refer to the actions of Neturei Karta. Of course, we have all seen their antics in the past, but I think most of us looked at them as clowns and sick people that maybe we should feel sorry for. This is no longer the case. Now they are marching in support of the murderers of Jews, aligning themselves with the enemy, and attempting to destroy the State of Israel. They are doing this at the very time that Jews are being killed at war. It is true that in the past as well they openly aligned themselves with the PLO,[1] and R. Moshe Feinstein already in the late 1970s referred to Neturei Karta as reshaim.[2] But to be allied during wartime with Iran and Hamas is I think beyond what we have seen before.

Here you can see a video of a Neturei Karta delegation that went to Iran to pay respects after the death of President Raisi. Here a different delegation visits the Iranian ambassador to the U.N. to pay respects. Here they are in Qatar at the funeral of Ismail Haniyeh whose death they mourned in a public statement here. It is hard to imagine anything more obscene than this. What we have seen from Neturei Karta since October 7 goes way beyond making a hillul ha-shem.[3]

Until his death, the spiritual leader of this group was Rabbi Moshe Beck (1934-2021). Here you can see him showing his affection for the Iranian leader Ahmadenijad. In the ultimate obscenity, in his book Derekh ha-Hatzalah (Monsey, 2002), pp. 40ff., Beck actually explains why it is halakhically appropriate to congratulate terrorists on a “successful” operation, namely, when they murder Jews. Thus, it is entirely in line with Neturei Karta ideology for them to praise the October 7 “resistance.” Here is his outrageous conclusion (p. 44):

מותר לומר להפאלעסטינים יפה עשיתם שהרגתם, כיון שע“י דיבורים אלו יצמח הצלה להרבה מישראל המתנגדים לציונות

And what about the fact that even pious Jews will be hurt if Neturei Karta’s propaganda is successful and U.S. government aid to Israel is cut? Beck explains that this is not a problem, as the Zionists cannot be helped, even if the pious also would benefit (p. 41):

ועל אחת כמה וכמה לענין מורדים בה‘ וכופרים ומחטיאים כמו הציונים וכל כתותיהם, שבודאי נאסר הסיוע להם בכל אופן, אפילו שלא בענין העבירה, ואפילו יוצא תועלת מסיוע זה לצדיקים ועובדי ה‘

Over thirty years ago I was naive and thought that I might be able to have a productive correspondence with Beck. Here are three letters I received from him.

    

Regarding the third letter, I am not sure why he wrote that I “disguised” myself in my first two letters. I simply wrote to him with questions and never said or implied that I agreed with him in any way. In my second letter I actually strongly protested how he referred to Rav Kook. In his response to this letter he also answers my question how he could cite from R. Reuven Margaliyot’s commentary on Sefer Hasidim when R. Margaliyot was a religious Zionist whose book was published by Mossad ha-Rav Kook. (I never said that he was a maskil). In my third letter I attacked him for degrading great Torah scholars and I mentioned that R. Aharon Kotler supported the State of Israel. I never said he was a Zionist. My point was that once the State of Israel was declared, with the lives of millions of Jews depending on it, anti-Zionism in the sense of opposing the creation of a Jewish state was now no longer relevant. Once the State of Israel was created, anti-Zionism came to mean working to destroy the Jewish state, and thus putting millions of Jewish lives at risk. Satmar anti-Zionism is religiously based but remains entirely theoretical, even eschatological, and Satmar has always been absolutely opposed to allying with anti-Semites and terrorists and their supporters.)

See also here where a number of years ago I wrote the next few paragraphs (now updated slightly).

Readers should examine the following document, which is found in the Central Zionist Archives S25/4752

It is a copy of a letter sent to the Supreme Muslim Council in Jerusalem from Aryeh Leib Weissfish. Weissfish was later to become famous as one of the leaders of the Neturei Karta, and strangely enough he was also a great fan of Nietzsche. You can read about his colorful career here, where it mentions how he illegally entered Jordan in 1951 to bring a message from the Neturei Karta that Jordan should invade Jerusalem and the Neturei Karta would be its ally in this. When he was deported to Israel he was put on trial and sentenced to six months in prison.

In view of the fact that during World War II there was a fear that Germany would invade the Land of Israel and that this would also lead to the Arabs persecuting Jews, Weissfish wrote to the local Muslim leaders to let them know that the Old Yishuv type of Jews that he is speaking about are not involved in politics and that they oppose the Zionists. They have always treated the Arabs with respect and he therefore requests that these Jews be protected. He also offers to provide the names of the families who should be given this special treatment. As you can see from Yitzhak Ben-Zvi’s handwritten note at the bottom of the letter, Ben-Zvi copied it from the original letter which he found in the Supreme Muslim Council’s archives.

R. Shlomo Brody has recently published a fabulous book, with a great title, which is unfortunately very timely: Ethics of Our Fighters: A Jewish View on War and Morality. While I am sure I will have more to say about this book at a future time, I would for now just wish to add that when it comes to Neturei Karta and those of a similar mindset, I was wondering about some halakhic and ethical issues that Brody does not discuss. (In general, he does not discuss the home front.) For example, can such people be counted to a minyan? Are you allowed to give charity to them, and if not, how about the children who will suffer through no fault of their own? Can the children of such a family be kicked out of a yeshiva? If these people have businesses, should we boycott them, again, causing the children to suffer for the sins of their fathers? Or should we just ignore these people entirely? These questions are not only relevant when it comes to Neturei Karta, for as we have seen since October 7 there are many other enemies of Israel and the Jewish people. Some of them who support Hamas are themselves Jewish. As far as I know, there has not yet appeared an analysis of how such traitors are to be regarded in Jewish law.

2. A couple of people sent me something that was going around the internet asking what I thought, so I figured I would elaborate on the blog. Rashi, Deut. 1:12, quotes the Sifrei, Devarim, no. 13, that אריוס asked Rabbi Yose a question. In the ArtScroll translation of Rashi by R. Yisrael Isser Zvi Herczeg there is the following note on this passage: “Nothing other than what is mentioned here is known about this person. His name appears nowhere else in Torah literature.”

This is not exactly correct. As Louis Finkelstein points out in his edition of the Sifrei (p. 22), Tosefta Bava Metzia 3:11, records a question Arius asked the Sages. This is what appears in the important Erfurt manuscript of the Tosefta used by Zuckermandel in his edition, but Arius’ name does not appear in the Tosefta published in the back of the Talmud.[4]

In the updated version of the ArtScroll Rashi translation, they explain who Arius was (R. Herczeg had nothing to do with this update): “A 4^th century C.E. Christian theologian whose views on religion clashed with standard church teachings; his followers are called Arians. (An analysis of his question to R’ Yose appears in Likkutei Sichos, Vol. 34, p. 15.)

 

I do not know why someone working at ArtScroll decided it was important to add this information. I also do not know why the person who added the information did not see the immediate problem. Arius, who at most was only in the Land of Israel for a short time, was a fourth-century theologian in the period of the amoraim. How then could he be asking questions of the tanna R. Yose or any of the other tannaitic sages? This alone should have been enough to show that the Arius mentioned by the Sifrei is not the Christian theologian Arius. When the ArtScroll Rashi is next reprinted, the updated note should be deleted as it is clearly in error, and the original note should be reinserted. I have to say that I find it of interest that the updated note has a reference to the Likutei Sihot of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, a figure who does not appear often in ArtScroll publications. This reference should definitely remain.

Where did ArtScroll get the information in the new note? Perhaps from the entry on Arius in the Otzar Yisrael encyclopedia (vol. 2, pp. 192-193). The Otzar Yisrael entry states, without any evidence, that the R. Yose mentioned in the Sifrei is one of the amoraim named R. Yose, not the tanna. But there is no reason to assume this to be the case, and lots of reasons to assume it is not so. We are fortunate that the Otzar Yisrael entry has a bibliography and we are thus able to see where they got their information from: R. Elijah Benamozegh’s Em la-Mikra to Deut. 1:13, which goes on for many pages.

I have great respect for R. Benamozegh and have given a number of classes on him.[5] Yet as mentioned already, there is no reason to think that the R. Yose mentioned in the Sifrei is an amora as R. Benamozegh claims. We should assume that he is the second-century R. Yose ben Halafta for this is how the tanna R. Yose is mentioned in rabinic literature, namely, without his father’s name. I would also note that the Talmud records a number of R. Yose ben Halafta’s conversations with non-Jews. Therefore, his interaction with Arius makes perfect sense

As for Arius, Moshe David Herr believes that he must have been a convert to Judaism. Referring to his mention in Tosefta, Bava Metzia 3:11, Herr writes “This question, which manifests expert knowledge of the halakhah on the part of the inquirer, proves that he was a Jew.”[6]

Returning to R. Benamozegh, it needs to be mentioned that his commentary on the Torah suffers from the same problem as many others, in that as one who was up to date in modern historical scholarship and science, he tries to explain the Torah in the light of this knowledge. Yet mid-19^th century understandings in these areas has usually been rejected and thus cannot speak to 21^st century readers. On occasion, what he says will be found offensive by modern readers, such as his discussion of the curse of Canaan in his Em la-Mikra to Genesis 9:25. Here it is from R. Eliyahu Zini’s wonderful new edition.

Although it could be that R. Benamozegh himself held the liberal view of Tiedemann, the even-handed way he discusses the matter does not make for comfortable reading today.

R. Israel Lifshitz, the author of Tiferet Yisrael on the Mishnah, also liked to connect modern scientific discoveries with Torah and rabbinic texts. Unfortunately, not all of his information  was correct. Since R. Benamozegh mentions orangutans, let me tell you what R. Lifshitz has to say about them, which he must have read in some book or newspaper. In his commentary to Kil’ayim[7] 8:5, he states that in Africa orangutans are taught to chop trees and draw water, to wear human clothes and to sit at a table and eat with silverward. (In truth, orangatuns are not found in Africa but are native to parts of Asia.) And in case people were wondering, he also adds that despite the orangutan’s near-human characteristics, when it dies it is regarded like every other animal and does not create ritual impurity as do dead humans.[8]

Although, as mentioned, R. Lifshitz must have acquired his incorrect information about orangutans from some book or newspaper, I should note that the Talmud discusses how monkeys are capable of performing various tasks for humans and this might have influenced R. Lifshitz in assuming the same to be true of orangutans. The expression מעשה קוף is well known, and this page gives a number of talmudic references to actions of monkeys. However, the list is not complete and it omits Bava Kamma 101a which mentions a monkey dying wool with a particular dye. It also omits Yadayim 1:8 which refers to a monkey pouring water over a person’s hands. For those interested in the topic, R. Baruch Plotchek wrote an article on monkeys in the Bible and Talmud.[9] One of the interesting things he points out is that Kohelet Rabbah comments on Eccl. 6:11: כִּי יֵשׁ–דְּבָרִים הַרְבֵּה, מַרְבִּים הָבֶל, that included in the “vanity” is the raising of monkeys. This shows that when this Midrash was written, people, presumably including Jews, kept monkeys as pets. Also of interest is that Plotchek identifies what we can term proto-Darwinian ideas in some rabbinic statements. As far as I know, he was the first to make this point, which was later picked up by others trying to reconcile Torah and evolution.

3. In the last post I pointed to an interesting explanation of R. Chaim Heller that solved a textual problem. Here is another one he offered: Piskei Tosafot (at the back of the Vilna Shas), Shabbat, no. 130, states that in a city that has pigs, the buildings in it are exempt from the law of mezuzah: עיר שיש בה חזירים פטורה מן המזוזה

There is no talmudic source for this passage and on its face it is astounding, as why should the presence of pigs mean that Jews don’t need a mezuzah? If followed in practice, this text would mean that no city in the Christian world needs mezuzot. (In fact, from statements of Ashkenazic rishonim we know that in medieval Ashkenaz many people did not affix mezuzot, and perhaps this laxity arose from the view recorded in Piskei Tosafot.[10])

R. Heller suggested that there was a scribal error and that instead of עיר שיש בה חזירים the text should read דיר שיש בה חזירים, that is, a pigsty does not need a mezuzah.[11] I don’t think this emendation is found in any of R. Heller’s writings, but it is mentioned in his name by Dr. Tibor Juda, the late son-in-law of R. Pinchas Hirschprung,[12] in this video about R. Abraham Price, beginning at 36:38. R. Price was a student of R. Heller in Berlin before he came to Toronto. Not surprising, Abraham Rosenberg, whom I discussed in previous posts here and here, also mentions this emendation which he must have heard from R. Heller.[13]

This emendation is actually mentioned previously by R. Meir Soloveitchik in his Ha-Meir la-Aretz, p. 64a.[14] Here is the title page of the book.

R. Soloveitchik, after mentioning the emendation, offers his own alternative emendation:

ועוד נ“ל יותר טוב להגיה, עיר שאין בה חזירים כו‘, דטנופת הרבה מצוי בה והו“ל כמקום שהתינוקות מצוין בה

Before people start trying to figure out how this R. Soloveitchik is related to R. Chaim, let me note that there was at least one other Soloveitchik family in Europe, and this family was not levi’im like the more famous Soloveitchik family. R. Meir Soloveitchik came from the less distinguished Soloveitchiks.[15]

4. In my last post I dealt with euthanasia and suicide, and in response to that Ariel Fuss sent me something that I found truly astounding. If you had described it to me without me seeing it “inside”, I would have thought it was Purim Torah, or perhaps a halakhic paradox of the sort I have written about.[16] But no, we are talking about a real piece of rabbinic learning. Here is R. Mordechai Shlomo Carlebach, Havatzelet ha-Sharon, Vayikra (2), pp. 476-477.

R. Carlebach assumes that suicide falls under the prohibition of murder. While there are those who disagree (see Encyclopedia Talmudit, s. v. me’abed atzmo le-da’at), the majority opinion is that suicide is a form of murder, and this seems to be Maimonides’ opinion as well. R. Carlebach raises the issue of what to do if you see someone about to commit suicide. When someone is about to murder another, there is an obligation to kill the rodef. If suicide is a form of murder, R. Carlebach reasons that one who is going to kill himself is to be regarded as a rodef (of himself) and according to the halakhah you would be obligated to kill the man before he killed himself.

At first glance this seems crazy, since what sense does it make to kill a man because he is going to kill himself? But as R. Carlebach points out, by killing the man before he kills himself, you prevent him from violating the prohibition against murder, which will be a great benefit to him in the World to Come. R. Carlebach notes that when he presented this idea to R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, R. Auerbach liked what he said. Of course, it is impossible for us to know whether R. Auerbach really took the argument seriously or just smiled because it is such an interesting and counterintuitive approach.

When I shared this text with R. Moshe Maimon, and wondered whether R. Carlebach meant what he wrote seriously, he replied:

I think he means it seriously, though in a Talmudic sense, not in a practical sense. RSZA similarly approved it from a pilpulistic standpoint, knowing that R. Carlebach was in no way insinuating that this should dictate practical Halachah. To the halachic mind it is a form of mercy killing, since you are saving him from the sin of murder. Of course, practically, it could never be implemented since the modern sensibilities (at least from the Besamim Rosh and on!) dictate that one committing suicide be viewed as a victim rather than a perpetrator.

Speaking of the laws of rodef, there is another astounding passage in R. Shimon Sofer, Hitorerut Teshuvah, vol. 2, no. 157:2. R. Sofer states that if you see a cat chasing after a chicken to kill it, if the only way you can save the chicken is by killing the cat, then there is a mitzvah to kill the cat. He actually compares this to the law of rodef with a human. (At the end of the responsum he also mentions hashavat avedah and tza’ar baalei hayyim.)

See, however, R. Netanel Meoded of Hong Kong, Mizrah Shemesh, vol. 2, p. 287 n. 195, that R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach rejected the notion that there is a concept of rodef with regard to animals.

Regarding R. Sofer’s Hitorerut Teshuvah, the volumes are unusual as right at the top of each page it tell the reader not to rely on the halakhic conclusions in practice. I don’t know of any other responsa volume that does such a thing. In a future post I will cite sources that say that one does not need to pay attention when an author tells us not to rely on his rulings in practice.

5. Continuing with the new pictures of R. Jehiel Jacob Weinberg, here is one of him and Chief Rabbi Isaac Herzog.[17] It is from R. Herzog’s visit to Montreux in the summer of 1950.

Here is R. Weinberg in conversation with R. Bezalel Rakow, at the time a rebbe in the Montreux yeshiva and later the rav of Gateshead.

Here is R. Weinberg with Robert and Francisca Goldschmidt at the wedding of their daughter Reine to Schmuel Höchster. The Goldschmidts owned a kosher pension in Montreux and their grandson is the famous R. Pinchas Goldschmidt.

Here is R. Weinberg with Mr. Yechezkel Rand and his wife. Rand was a leader of the Montreux Jewish community.

Here is R. Weinberg with his student R. Yaakov Fink. R. Fink was able to leave Germany and make his way to Argentina in 1939. He would later serve as chief rabbi of Brazil and later of Argentina before becoming av beit din in Haifa.

The story of his aliyah is of interest. Already in 1950 he discussed moving to Israel with the Hazon Ish. He was concerned about whether this was proper since he felt a responsibility to his community in Argentina. The Hazon Ish told him without hesitation that he should come to Israel. He thought that the education of R. Fink’s children, which was problematic in the Diaspora, came before all other concerns, and therefore he – and anyone else – who could come on aliyah should do so.

Interestingly, on returning home he first traveled to the United States where he also discussed the matter of his aliyah with R. Aharon Kotler. R. Kotler had the opposite approach, telling him that he must not abandon his community. Perhaps to let him know that he should not give up all hope of aliyah, R. Kotler added that when he himself goes to Israel, then R. Fink can also come.

Years later R. Fink decided to move to Israel, after being chosen as av beit din of Haifa. He had obviously decided not to follow R. Kotler’s opinion in this matter. Yet an amazing thing was to happen. R. Fink flew to Europe with his family and spent a few weeks in Montreux with R. Weinberg, whom he had not seen since before World War II. The pictures above and below are from that visit. He then went to Paris from where he was to fly to Israel. When he boarded the plane, and saw more religious travelers than usual, he inquired what the occasion was. It was then that he learned of the passing of R. Aharon Kotler and that his coffin was being brought to Israel on that very plane. So in the end it happened just as R. Kotler told him years before, that when he would go to Israel then R. Fink could also go![18]

Here is a picture of R. Weinberg with R. Fink on the left. On the right is R. Joseph Blumenfeld who held the position of av beit din in Tel Aviv. He also lived in the United States during the 1950s and while there he printed his edition and commentary of the medieval work Kaftor va-Ferah by R. Ishtori ha-Parhi.

Here is the title page as it appears on Otzar ha-Chochmah.

Notice how the original place and date is missing and ניו יורק תשי“ח has been added to the title page. That should raise everyone’s suspicions. If you look at the version on hebrewbooks.org you can see why the original place and date were removed.

On the title page R. Blumenfeld wrote שנה עשירית למדינת ישראל. This can still be read on the copy found on hebrewbooks.org, although someone crossed this out, not liking R. Blumenfeld’s Zionist sentiments. 

Here is another example of the title page that I copied many years ago in the library of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

While in the United States, R. Blumenfeld obviously got to know Louis Finkelstein. When his work appeared he sent him a copy with a nice inscription and Finkelstein donated it to the library. The inscription might imply that Finkelstein assisted him financially in publishing the work.

Regarding R. Fink, although R. Weinberg thought very highly of him,[19] there was one time when R. Fink disappointed him. In 1952 when he was appointed chief rabbi in Brazil there was an article on this in Ha-Pardes.[20] Although the article is signed by someone else, R. Weinberg believed that the biographical information in it was provided by R. Fink. In describing R. Fink’s background it states:

תלמיד מובהק של הרב הגאון ה‘ אברהם שטיינברג מברודי, שאצלו למד בשעה שישב בעיר הבירה וינה, בשנות המלחמה הראשונה ואז שמש גם את הגאון העצום ר‘ יוסף אנגל וגדולי ישראל אחרים. משומעי שעוריו של הרב יחיאל וינברג, העילוי מסלובודקה בסמינר הרבנים בברלין

R. Weinberg wrote to R. Joseph Apfel, R. Fink’s classmate at the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary, with his annoyance at the above formulation. He assumed that R. Fink, having moved into more haredi circles, was embarrassed to acknowledge that he had been an actual registered student at the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary, and therefore wrote that he just attended R. Weinberg’s shiurim at the Seminary.[21] In an earlier post on the Seforim Blog here, Menachem Butler notes that when R. Yosef Zvi Dunner passed away, the obituary in Ha-Modia wrote:

At 19 he wanted to study in the yeshivos of Lithuania, but his father felt that due to the shortage of Rabbanim in Germany, it would be better for him to remain in the country and study in the beis medrash of Harav Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, zt”l, author of Seridei Eish. For four years, the young Rav Yosef Tzvi studied in this beis medrash, where he was awarded semichah at a young age after astounding those testing him with his penetrating understanding of all four sections of the Shulchan Aruch. He was granted the title yoreh, yadin.

Instead of writing that R. Dunner studied at the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary, Ha-Modia invented a new institution, the beis medrash of R. Weinberg.

This is a phenomenon we have sometimes seen with people who studied at Yeshiva University and/or RIETS but in later years did not want to acknowledge this. At most they would say that they heard shiurim from the Rav, without noting that they were actually registered students in YU or RIETS.

Returning to the pictures, here is a one of R. Weinberg’s father.

Here is his mother.

Here is R. Weinberg’s mother and other members of his family at his father’s grave in Ciechanowiec, Poland.

6. In the latest Hakirah (vol. 35, Summer 2024), R. Shmuel Lesher mentions Chaim Bloch’s Passover Haggadah forgery. Bloch claimed to have had a 1521 manuscript where instead of “Pour out your wrath on the nations that do not know you”, the mansucript had, “Pour out your love on the nations that know you”. This is such an obvious forgery, from a person whose forgeries have become legendary (see my post here, R. Jonathan Sacks included this forged text in his own Haggadah.

On p. 286 n. 12 Lesher states that assuming Bloch’s Haggadah passage is a forgery, the motivation for the forgery remains unclear. Let me first state that there is no reason for “assuming” it is a forgery, as there is no doubt whatsoever. As for the motivation, this too is clear. Bloch was very interested in apologetics and softening anti-Gentile passages that appear in the Talmud and later rabbinic literature. He even devoted an entire (very dishonest) book to this topic, Ve-Da Mah She-Tashiv (New York, 1962). In my post here I include a page from Bloch’s Heikhal le-Divrei Hazal u-Fitgameihem (New York, 1948), p. 9. Here Bloch invents an entire story about how before the war there was a collection of letters in Vienna dealing with the sections of the Talmud that were removed by non-Jewish censors. He tells us that R. Elazar Horowitz wrote a letter to R. Judah Aszod stating that R. Moses Sofer did not wish to print a Talmud with the censored sections. The reason R. Sofer supposedly gave was that it was divine providence that these passages were removed, and once they have been removed they should not be put back. Based on additional imaginary letters, Bloch tells us more fairy tales about other nineteenth-century rabbinic leaders who agreed that the censored passages should remain out, because of the antisemitism that could be generated by them.

Bloch’s forgery of the Gentile-friendly “Pour out your love” passage is no different than his other forgeries dealing with rabbinic texts that present a negative view of non-Jews and that were often cited in non-Jewish attacks on the Talmud and rabbinic literature.

* * * * * *

[1] See Menachem Keren-Kratz, “Satmar and Neturei Karta: Jews Against Zionism,” Modern Judaism 43 (Feb., 2023), pp. 66ff.
[2] Mesorat Moshe, vol. 2, p. 432.
[3] It could be that my language, implying that their current behavior is worse than a hillul ha-shem, is inappropriate, as in some respects hillul ha-shem is the worst imaginable sin. See Yoma 86a that unlike other sins, only death can atone for hillul ha-shem. The Hazon Ish pointed out that the three great sins for which one must martyr oneself rather than violate could indeed be pushed aside (i.e., violated) in order to prevent a hillul ha-shem. (Obviously, this type of decision is only something that the greatest rabbinic leaders could rule on.) See Shlomo Cohen, Pe’er ha-Dor, vol. 3, p. 185.

R. Samuel Mohilever writes:

חלול ה‘ היותר גדול המאריך גלותנו והמעכב גאולתנו ופדות נפשנו הוא אשר על ידי רוע מעשינו יחולל כבוד אומתנו בגוים לאמר: ראו מעשה העם הזה, אשר לפי דעתו הוא הנבחר מכל גויי הארצות להיות לעם סגולה עליון על כל, ומעשיו גרועים ואבדה חכמת חכמיו ודעתו שפלה וגם באמונתו ערב אמונות שוא וטפל ועוד הגדיל כי עשה את הטפל לעיקר

Mohilever, Berit ha-Ahavah ve-ha-Shalom, ed. Munitz (Jerusalem, 2023), p. 210.

Here is one way hillul ha-shem was dealt with in years past: R. Hayyim Joseph David Azulai, Ma’agal Tov ha-Shalem, ed. Freimann (Jerusalem, 1934) p. 88, mentions how the leaders of the Jewish community in Modena, Italy cut off the beard of a rabbi who created a hillul ha-shem. See the explanation of the passage in R. Meir Mazuz, Mi-Gedolei Yisrael, vol 1, p. 218. As R. Mazuz notes, punishing someone by cutting off his hair is mentioned in Beit Yosef, Even ha-Ezer 16, s.v. כתוב and Shulhan Arukh, Even ha-Ezer 16:4. I do not know if this only means hair of the head or if it also includes the beard. Aaron Chorin, who would later become a leading advocate of religious reform, was also threatened with having his beard cut off. See R. Nosson Dovid Rabinowich, Safra ve-Sayfa (Jerusalem, 2013), pp. 139 n. 37, 171.

Hillul ha-shem is sometimes written as hillul ha-Shem or hillul Hashem. Yet this is a mistake. It is not Hashem (with a capital “H”, implying “God, or ha-Shem), but hashem, (or ha-shem). That is, it is not a desecration of God but of His name. Thus, one should not write ‘חילול ה but rather חילול השם. See Lev. 22:32: ולא תחללו את שם קדשי. Nissim Dana titled his 1989 translation of one of R. Abraham Maimonides’ works ספר המספיק לעובדי השם. Yet the last two words should be ‘לעובדי ה.

Regarding the use of “Hashem”, I found something very confusing in the ArtScroll Stone Chumash. In place of the Tetragrammaton, ArtScroll does not use the word “Lord” but “HASHEM”, as this is how people pronounce the Tetragrammaton. While ArtScroll is the first translation to adopt this approach, it does have a certain logic. However, this logic breaks down a few times on p. 319 when the ArtScroll commentary attempts to explain what occurs at the beginning of parashat Va-Era. For example, “Or Ha-Chaim comments that God’s essence is represented by the name HASHEM.” This makes no sense, as there is no name HASHEM. The commentary should have written that “God’s essence is represented by the four letter name of God.”

Here is what Maimonides says about one who separates himself from the community, and it certainly applies to Neturei Karta (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 3:11):

A person who separates himself from the community even though he has not transgressed any sins, but has separated himself from the congregation of Israel and does not fulfill mitzvot together with them, does not take part in their hardships or join in their [communal] fasts, but rather goes on his own individual path as if he is from another nation and not one of them [the Jewish people], does not have a portion in the world to come

[4] The version that appears in Midrash Tannaim, Devarim, ed. Hoffmann, p. 7, has the name as ארווס. However, as R. David Zvi Hoffmann points out, this is an error for אריוס. See ibid., pp. 250, 253. The version that appears in the medieval Bereshit Rabbati of R. Moses ha-Darshan, ed. Albeck, p. 201, has the name אריסטו. I think it is obvious that not recognizing the name Arius, someone changed it to Aristotle, without realizing that Aristotle (fourth century BCE) lived hundreds of years before R. Yose (second century CE). See also here.

Regarding Aristotle, while some traditional Jewish sources speak highly of his learning, others refer to him in all sorts of negative ways. R. Joseph Solomon Delmedigo, in his praise of R. Elijah Mizrahi, actually compares his intellect to that of Aristotle. I do not know of any other such passage in rabbinic literature in which a rabbi is praised by comparing him to Aristotle. See Delmedigo, Novelot ha-Hokhmah, p. 32b:

ששכל הרא“ם רם ונשא . . . כשכל ארסטו‘ט בדקות ועומק ויושר

See also R. Meir Mazuz’s comment on this passage, Mi-Gedolei Yisrael, vol. 1, p. 359 n. 27.

[5]  See here and here (the first of three parts).
[6] “The Historical Significance of the Dialogues between Jewish Sages and Roman Dignitaries,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 22 (1971), p. 149.
[7] The word is pronounced kil’ayim and not kilayim, as there is a sheva under the ל. People sometimes mispronounce it as kilaim, as if there is a patah under the ל and a hirik under the א of כלאים. This reminds me of another common mistake. If you google you will find that many refer to the concept of “shomer pesaim (petaim).” Yet this is a mistake. The verse in Psalms 116:6 reads: שֹׁמֵר פְּתָאיִם. The second word is pronounced pesayim (petayim), as the א is silent. Another example where the א is silent and many people make a mistake is with the name דניאל. Even people who have this name often pronounce it in Hebrew as Doniel (or Doniellah for women). Yet the name is properly pronounced Doniyel: דָּנִיֵּאל. This is unlike the name אֲרִיאֵל where the tzere is under the א and the word is pronounced Ariel. Another common mistake is that people often refer to sidelocks at peyot, but it should be pe’ot, as there is no yud in the word.
[8] In 1876 R. Abraham Bick published Yesod Ohel Moed. I cannot tell you where the book appeared, as there are two title pages, one for Pressburg and one for Lemberg.

The language on the title page is very unusual in its detail of what the book contains. On p. 53b he rejects R. Lifshitz’s identification of the orangutan with a creature mentioned in the Jerusalem Talmud, stating that he has seen an orangutan at the Hamburg zoo and it does not match the talmudic description. He then makes the following statement, affirming the truth of the Sages’ scientific statements even if modern man has trouble accepting them:

וקבלת חז“ל נאמנה מאוד ולא ראינו אינה ראי‘ ונודע שחוקרי הארץ לא יכלו לתור תיכונית אפריקא וגם במציאות בני אדם באמעריקא נוכח כפות רגלינו הכחישו כולם עד שנודע שידיעתם הבל וגם פה חז“ל ידעו הכל בסוד ה‘ ליראיו

[9] Ha-Mitzpeh, Oct. 25, 1912, pp. 4-5, Nov. 1, 1912, pp. 4-5, Nov. 15, 1912, p. 5, Nov. 22, 1912, p. 5.
[10] See R. Mordechai Menahem Honig’s learned note in Yerushatenu 1 (2007), p. 213 n. 43, which provides all the relevant information about the Piskei Tosafot passage and how this idea is also cited from the ירושלמי. See also Saul Lieberman, Ha-Yerushalmi ki-Feshuto, Introduction, pp. 26-27; Daniel Sperber, Minhagei Yisrael, vol. 8, pp. 97-98, n. 6.

Regarding laxity with mezuzot and the notion that a city with pigs is exempt, see R. Aaron ha-Kohen of Lunel, Orhot Hayyim, ed. Schlesinger (Berlin, 1902), vol. 2, p. 195:

השתא שאין העולם נזהרין משום האי טעמא דסמכינן אהא דאמרינן עיר שיש בה חזירים פטורה מן המזוזה. וכתב הר“י מקורבל שאין זה נמצא בשום מקום לא בתלמוד ולא בירושלמי

[11] R. Eliezer Waldenberg, Tzitz Eliezer, vol. 5, no. 18, suggests another emendation: שער instead of עיר. See also R. Ovadiah Yosef, Yabia Omer, vol. 3, Yoreh Deah, no. 16.
[12]  I treasure the conversations I had with Dr. Juda when I visited Toronto and he honored me by attending various talks I delivered. In one conversation he told me of the high esteem R. Hirschprung had for Rav Kook, and how R. Hirschprung noted that while R. Joseph Hayyim Sonnenfeld was certainly a great talmid chacham, in no way is he to be regarded as on the same level as R. Kook. Regarding R. Hirschprung, let me also record what I heard from R. Shlomo Goren in 1985, when he spoke at Beit Midrash le-Torah (BMT) in Jerusalem, that R. Hirschprung was the only one alive who knew the entire Talmud by heart.
[13] Tikunei Nushaot bi-Yerushalmi, last page of the book (unnumbered; called to my attention by Moshe Dembitzer).
[14] Moshe Dembitzer informed me that R. Moses Shimon Sivitz, Ha-Mashbiah, vol. 3, p. 53b, also suggests this emendation. R. Baruch Epstein, Barukh She-Amar, p. 75, likewise suggests this.
[15] See here. There was another famous Soloveitchik, Max Soloveitchik from Kovno, who wrote perhaps the earliest Hebrew book on biblical criticism and was a government minister in Lithuania. See here. I don’t know which Soloveitchik family he was from.
[16] See here.
[17] The pictures in this post are found in Ganzach Kiddush ha-Shem in Bnei Brak. I thank R. Abraham Abba Weingort for his help with identifying some of the people in the pictures from Montreux.
[18] Fink, Tiferet Yaakov, pp. 49, 56 (first pagination).
[19] See for instance R. Weinberg’s letter in Fink, Tiferet Yaakov, p. 348.
[20] November 1952, pp. 28-29.
[21] See R. Weinberg’s letter in Ha-Ma’yan 32 (Tamuz 5752), pp. 16-17. For a picture of R. Fink’s Berlin Rabbinical Seminary semikhah, see Fink, Tiferet Yaakov, p. 339. The semikhah is signed by R. Weinberg, R. Samuel Gruenberg, and R. Alexander (Shimon Zvi) Altmann.

Elul Sale Announcement: Twelve Seforim recommendations

By Eliezer Brodt

In this post I would like to highlight and briefly describe a select list of seforim, some of which are brand new and others are a few years old. Several seforim are mentioned here due to relation to this time of year [i.e. Elul and Tishrei related] and for various reasons did not receive proper notice.

The first title I would like to mention is:

שערי תפילה ומועד, אסופת מאמרים, תשפ”ד, 662 עמודים

I am very happy to announce the recent publication (and Sale) of an important work, titled Sharei Tefilah Umoed, which will be of great interest to readers of the Seforim Blog, by Professor Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, of Bar-Ilan University’s Talmud department. As I have written in the past:

Professor Spiegel is one of the most prolific writers in the Jewish academic scene, authoring of over 160 articles and 18 books (16 of those are publications for the first time of works which remained in manuscript). Many suspect that he knows the secrets of Hashba’at Hakulmos (automatic writing) (about which see here).

His articles cover an incredibly wide range of subjects related to many areas of Jewish Studies, including history of Rishonim, piyutim authored by Rishonim, bibliography and minhagim, to name but a few. His uniqueness lies not only in the range of topics but also that his work has appeared in all types of publications running the gamut from academic journals such as Kiryat Sefer, Tarbiz, Sidra, Alei Sefer, Assufot, Teudah, Kovetz Al Yad and also in many prominent Chareidi rabbinic journals such Yeshurun, Yerushaseinu, Chitzei Giborim, Moriah, Sinai and Or Yisroel. It is hard to define his area of expertise; he appears to be an expert in every area he writes about!

Worth noting that recently, thanks to the hard work of a dear friend of mine, all of his published articles are available for free download here.

He has edited and printed from manuscript many works of Rishonim and Achronim on Masseches Avos and the Haggadah Shel Pesach. He is of the opinion, contrary to that of some other academics, that there is nothing non-academic about printing critical editions of important manuscript texts. Although there is a known “belief” in the academic world, “publish or perish,” which at times some claim is the cause of weak articles and books, Spiegel’s prolific output does nothing to damper the quality of his works.

Another point unique to Speigel’s writings, besides his familiarity with all the academic sources, is the great familiarity he displays with all the classic sources from Chazal, Geonim, Rishonim and Achronim, to even the most recent discussions in Charedi literature – this bekius (breadth) was apparent well before the advent of search engines of Hebrew books and Otzar Ha-hochmah. Alongside all this is his penetrating analysis and ability to raise interesting points.

This new volume, Sharei Tefilah Umoed, is a collection of 39 chapters. Thirty chapters were published over the years in various Journals while nine chapters are published here for the first time. Many of the chapters in this volume follow this rubric: a manuscript on a specific, published for the first time, including an introduction devoted to the background of both author and subject. Many of these chapters are related to the month of Tishrei and are great starting points on the various upcoming topics. For those looking for new material specifically suited for this time of year, it’s timely availability for sale is a bonus.

Here are the Table of contents:

Number 2:

מאמר על הדרשות ועל האגדות, לרבינו אברהם בן הרמב”ם, מעתיקה השמועה, בירורים בתולדות חכמי התלמוד ועיונים בדרכי העתקת שמועותיהם, מהדיר: ר’ משה מיימון [מהדורה שנייה עם הוספות ותיקונים[, [תשפ”ד]

This is a second edition with corrections and additions R’ Maimon’s critical edition of R’ Avraham Ben HaRambam’s classic essay on Aggadah. The second part is a small work of Rabbi Moshe Maimon called Mateikeh shmuah, historical essays of great interest and includes notes by R’ Shaul Alter) See here for an Interview with R’ Maimon where we discuss this work.

Rabbenu Avraham’s essay is always relevant but is extra relevant at the moment as Daf Yomi has just finished learning the aggadic suggyot involving Rabbah Bar Bar Chana and will be learning more Aggadah shortly. For more on this and Aggadah in general see my recent presentation on All Daf (Here).

Sample pages are available.

Number’s 3- 6:

Some works by Rabbi Yaakov Stahl, related to the season:

Rabbi Stahl’s work is familiar to many of the blog’s readers; for reviews of some of his earlier works see here, here and here, and see a post of his here.

דרשות לימי התשובה מבית מדרשים של חסידי אשכנז, 11 + עד עמודים, מהדיר: ר’ יעקב סטל

This is a small work of Drashot by Chasidei Ashkenaz related to Teshuvah, published from manuscript and annotated by Rabbi Yakov Stahl.

תשובות רבינו אלעזר מוורמייזא ה‘רוקח‘, ]תשע”ד[, 37+ רח עמודים , מהדיר: ר’ יעקב סטל

This is a Shir of the Rokeach on the topic of Teshuvah published from manuscript by Rabbi Yakov Stahl, which focuses on the different requirements to achieve Teshuvah for various sins. Much has been written about this unique Beis Medrash known as Chasedi Ashkenaz, especially their methods of Teshuvah. This volume will help one get a deeper understanding of their Shitah. The volume includes a useful introduction, numerous notes illuminating each passage with an incredible range of sources and concludes with some very interesting appendixes.

One can find some RH material on his academia page here (Some samples are this, this, this and this).

ר‘ יעקב ישראל סטל, נהגו ישראל, עיונים ובירורים בתולדות המנהג וההלכה, חג הסוכות, קכט עמודים + תמונות, ]תש”פ[

This six-chapter work relates to the Yom Tov of Sukkos with particular focus on Daled Minim issues. Here too, Rabbi Yaakov Stahl continues to amaze his readers with his ability to assimilate fascinating material from a wide range of sources. One unique aspect of this work is the over one hundred color illustrations from ancient art graphically illuminating for the reader the author’s proposals.

Sample pages are available.

גנזי חג הסוכות | אסופת גנזים מתורתם של ראשונים בענייני חג הסוכות היוצאים לאור לראשונה מכתבי-יד עם מבואות, ביאורים והערות, עיונים ומפתחות, מהדיר: ר‘ יעקב ישראל סטל, שע עמודים, תשע“ח

A few years back (2018) I mentioned Ginzei Chag HaSukkos. This volume is very similar in style to Kovetz Al Yad; it’s a collection of material by Rishonim, all related to Sukkos, the majority of which is printed here for the first time. Various literary genres are represented in this collection: Halacha, Minhag, Piyut, Philosophy and Kabbalah. Each section includes an introduction detailing its significance and the texts are fully annotated. There is also a twenty-five-page index to the work. Sample pages are available.

Number 7:

ר’ אורי טיגר, קומי אורי: דרך איש \ דרך הקודש [רמב“ם ה‘ איסורי ביאה] \ משפט עשה [בדיני איסור ההליכה לערכאות] \ הטבע הרוחני, [תשפ”ד], מח + קכט, לו, סו עמודים

This is collection of four small seforim by R’ Uri Tieger, published in one volume. R’ Tieger has become famous in recent years for the various videos that he released with him in conversation with R’ Chaim Kanievsky zt”l. R’ Tieger is a prolific author and in the past year has released a few new works, including a massive work on Rambam Hilchos Korbon Pesach. I will highlight just one of the works in this collection: Derech Ish. This work is devoted to putting together in a unique format the views & methods of the Chazon Ish on many topics. In addition, this work has numerous notes by R’ Chaim Kanievsky.

Sample pages are available.

Number 8:

כל כתבי רבינו מנשה בן מוהר“ר יוסף בן פורת מאיליא, מרואי ומקבלי תורת רבינו הגר”א מווילנא, כולל כל פרי רבינו בדפוס ובכתב יד, [תשפ”ד], מהדיר: ר’ דוד קמינצקי, תקעב עמודים

I can’t describe my excitement a few months ago when I received an email from the editor that this volume was published. This is the first time all of R’ Menashe MeIlyah’s material is available in one accessible volume. Sadly, some of his work has not survived. This volume, published by R’ Dovid Kamenetsky, one of the world’s leading experts on the Gra and Gra-related material presents all of R’ Menashe’s works, including material published from manuscript. R’ Dovid has spent much time over the years on this very unique Gaon publishing some of his manuscripts and writing articles about him in the journal Yeshurun. This is an extremely important, deep and unique volume from one of the people from the Gra’s Beis Medrash.

Number 9:

ר’ שמריה שמעריל ברנדריס, עיון תפילה,+24 רמג עמודים, תשפ”א

I became very fond of this work few years back after being introduced to it by two different friends while researching two different projects, the Gra and R’ Efrayim Zalman Margolis. This unknown godol was one of the only talmidim of R’ Efrayim Zalman Margolis. It’s a work on siddur and Halacha, full of many nice points. A few years ago, Machon Aleh Zayis asked me to suggest an obscure work worth republishing; I recommended this work. Their team did a great job of publishing an annotated version and I wrote an introduction attempting to explain and outline its significance. In Yeshurun volume 43 (2021) I revisited this and updated the piece with numerous additions [A PDF is available upon request]. This is a chapter of my work on R’ Efrayim Zalman Margolis, which I hope to publish one day IY”H.

Sample pages are available.

Number 10:

ר’ אריה ליב ליפקין, אור היום, [בירור הלכה בענין בין השמשות וצאת הכוכבים…] עם הערות ולוחות כוכבים לאור, מהדיר: ר’ משה ברוך קופמאן, 27 +רנז עמודים

This important but not well-known work by R’ Aryeh Leib Lipkin, originally published in 1901, is about the complex sugyah of Zemanim. R’ Aryeh Leib was a nephew of R Yisroel Salanter. R’ Dovid Kamenetsky wrote a thorough article about this Gaon in Yeshurun 23 (2010). In addition to his greatness in standard learning, he was also an expert in Astronomy and Kabbalah. This new edition was fully annotated by the noted expert on the subject, R’ Moshe Kaufman, in a beautifully produced volume. Also, see here for an interview of Nachi Weinstein of  Seforim Chatter with the author of the sefer.

Sample pages are available.

Number 11:

רש“י השלם, במדבר חלק א, [פ’ במדבר-קרח], מכון אריאל, תשפ”ד, שצ עמודים

Much energy has been spent over the centuries locating Rashi’s sources and understanding his methods. One very valuable tool for understanding Rashi and his sources is a project that began almost forty years ago and slowly has been publishing volumes (to date they have published Eleven volumes). Recently they released part one of Chumash Bamidbar.

Number 12:

ר’ נריה גוטל, רש“י צריך עיון – לדרכו של רש“י בפירושו לתורה, תשפ”ג, 522 עמודים

One more recent volume related to Rashi is by the prolific R’ Gutel and is extremely useful for those seeking a greater understanding of Rashi on Chumash. R’ Gutel begins the work with a lengthy general introduction about Rashi on Chumash. For each chapter, R’ Gutel chooses one Rashi in the parsha and demonstrates clearly how the various Mefarshim through the ages attempted to deal with the challenges it presents. Through this lens he highlights and carefully analyzes the material, along the way giving one a glimpse into the greatness of Rashi’s work.

Sample pages are available.

Sample pages from each work are available

All Seforim reviewed here can be purchased through me, part of the proceeds helps the efforts of the Seforim Blog.

For more information about purchasing this work, feel free to contact me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

Parchments Burning, Letters Soaring, and Books Lost and Found: S.Y. Agnon’s Library Fire 100 Years Later

Jeffrey Saks

Rabbi Jeffrey Saks, Director of ATID and its WebYeshiva.org program, is Director of Research at Agnon House in Jerusalem and editor of the journal Tradition. Thanks to Prof. Mordecai Schwartz and Andrew Katz of the JTS Library for their assistance, and to Curt Leviant, whose questions prodded this research. 

“All day I see the parchment burning, but its letters are soaring to heaven—and even at night my heart will not rest,” wrote S.Y. Agnon a century ago after the burning of his home in Bad-Homburg, Germany [S.Y. Agnon-S.Z. Schocken (Schocken, 2003), Letter #163]. The chilling image is an allusion to the martyr Rabbi Hanina ben Teradyon, burned by the Romans while wrapped in a Torah scroll (Avodah Zarah 18a), and points to Agnon’s perception of the magnitude of the personal tragedy that had befallen him.

The fire broke out on the night of the 4th of Sivan 5684, between the 4th and 5th of June 1924 (as shown in my recent article in Haaretz, May 31, 2024). Aside from the manuscripts of two nearly-completed books, he lost “four thousand Hebrew volumes, most of which had come down to me from my forebears and some of which I had bought with money set aside for my daily bread,” Shmuel Yosef Agnon reported 42 years later in his famous Nobel Prize banquet speech. The importance of the book as object and writing as pseudo-magical act are central symbols in Agnon’s work. It is therefore not surprising that one of the burning meta-literary questions he raises is how writing, and books as memory agents, can save the past from oblivion. In his A City in Its Fullness (Ir u-Meloah), Agnon recreates his beloved Galician hometown of Buczacz, and the Jewish lives and culture that were lost there are memorialized in its pages. But what of the stories that were forgotten, lost, burned, or misplaced? How do the parchments that are burned obtain metaphysical immortality? These are themes he explored in works such as “The Book That Was Lost,” “Forevermore,” “The Sign,” and the yet untranslated “Lefi ha-Tza’ar ha-Sakhar,” among others.

Agnon’s house in Bad-Homburg, Germany, on June 5, 1924, the morning after the fire (courtesy: Agnon House).

After the fire, Agnon, his wife Esther, and their two small children were left almost destitute, with only the clothes on their backs and a few possessions saved from the blaze. What did survive was the memory of the loss, which left its mark on Agnon’s writing for many years to come.

On the eve of Passover 5728 (April 12, 1968) an essay titled “Old and New” appeared in Haaretz, containing twelve short reminiscences written by Agnon about his childhood in Buczacz. Among other things it relates the adventures of the young bookworm S.Y. Czaczkes, as he was known at birth. For reasons not clear (perhaps due to space limitations in that issue) only a third of what Agnon wrote was published. The remaining chapters sat in his archives, and were publshed posthumously in the journal Molad (October-December 1973), 549-562; the two sections were then later united in his volume of non-fiction, MeAtzmi el Atzmi (Schocken, 1976), 351-378. At one point, Agnon writes about the Yiddish writers and the status of mamaloshen in the town:

Other books were in our humble grandmothers’ possession, such as the laws of salting meat and the laws of women and tkhines [women’s prayers], all written in Yiddish and in Yiddish letters. The book Lev Tov and the Simhat HaNefesh I never saw in our parts; needless to say I never saw the book Menekes Rivkah, which even the greatest of bibliographers have not seen. A defective copy of Menekes Rivkah was among the charred remains of my books after the fire that fell upon my house, and I gave the book to my brother-in-law, Rabbi Alexander Marx z”l, and he gave it to the library of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. If the book escaped the fire in my house only to be consumed in the fire that befell the library of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York I do not know (MeAtzmi el Atzmi, 363-364).

Alexander Marx (1878-1953), brother of Esther (Marx) Agnon, was a graduate of the University of Berlin and the Hildesheimer Rabbinical Seminary in that city. There he was influenced by the great bibliographer Moritz Steinschneider, and was a student (and later son-in-law) of Rabbi David Zvi Hoffmann. In 1903 Marx accepted an invitation to join the faculty of the Jewish Theological Seminary (hereafter, JTS). He served as Professor of Jewish History, and published important books and articles in the field of Jewish bibliography. But his most enduring contribution to the institution was in his capacity as the chief librarian of JTS. When Solomon Schechter offered him the position the collection contained some 5,000 volumes and only 3 manuscripts. Upon his retirement after a half-century, there were over 165,000 volumes and 9,000 manuscripts, including some of the most important and rare ever assembled. When Marx had completed his life’s work, the treasure trove he had amassed was considered among the greatest in the world.

Prof. Alexander Marx (Wikimedia Commons).

On the morning of April 18, 1966, flames broke out in the stately tower of the Seminary library at the corner of Broadway and West 122nd Street. The building was a firetrap. Its narrow staircases, inaccessible entrance, and single stairwell made it difficult for the firefighters to do their work. The library was soon a towering inferno and burned all day until the forces had gained control in the evening. Sadly, many of the books saved from the fire were ruined by water sprayed from the firefighters’ hoses. Jews from all communities of Greater New York came to help dry the wet books by placing layers of paper towels between the pages. The volunteer corps included students from Yeshiva University and other Orthodox yeshivot. In normal times their feet would not have trod the flagship of the Conservative movement, but this was a “time to do the Lord’s work” when Torah was burning.

The fire in the library tower at JTS, April 18, 1966. Magazine of the New York Firefighters Association, vol. 17:2 (www.fire-police-ems.com).

Fortunately, the book Menekes Rivkah, which had been saved from the fire in Germany in 1924, was not among the 7,000 books that ascended to heaven in flames in 1966. The fire did not reach the archive containing the manuscripts or the collection of rare books.

What then is this rare book, Menekes Rivkah, which was twice saved from destruction, on two different continents?

Rivkah, daughter of Rabbi Meir Tiktiner (died in Prague on 25 Nisan 5405 [1605]), was a woman preacher, poet, and writer in Yiddish. To the best of our knowledge, she was the first Jewish woman to write an entire book. Menekes Rivkah was published only after her death, in the original Prague edition (1609) and later in the Krakow edition (1618). The book was probably written in the 1580s or 1590s. Only one copy of each of the original editions is extant today. The Prague edition is in the Friedrich-Alexander University in Erlangen-Nuremberg in Bavaria (a digital scan can be viewed at the library’s website). The only extant copy of the Krakow edition was in the possession of Agnon—although it is unknown where, when, and how he obtained it. A Hebrew analysis and survey of the book was published in the 1990s by the scholar Meir Wunderin his book Ateret Rivkah, with a facsimile of the original (Makhon le-Hantzahat Yahadut Galitziah, 1992), and the book also appeared in an English edition, Meneket Rivkah: A Manual of Wisdom and Piety for Jewish Women, introduction and commentary by Frauke von Rohdon (JPS, 2009).

Grave of Rivkah bat Rav Meir Tiktin; Old Jewish Cemetery, Prague (Wikimedia Commons).

Menekes Rivkah belongs to the genre of moral literature and is addressed to married women, but it is likely to have been read by men as well, especially the unlearned who—along with their wives—were limited to “easier” Yiddish religious books. The sources that Tiktiner cites attest to her familiarity with Midrash, Pirkei Avot, and books of Jewish ethics. Most of Menekes Rivkah focuses on the behavior of the wife toward her husband, on instructions for relations with her parents and with her in-laws, and on the education of her children in piety. The author warns her readers against gossip and slander, and against superstition and witchcraft. In addition, she writes about “the wisdom of the body”: rules of health and diet and also matters concerning the laws of niddah.

The question is: Does this rare book, which was in Agnon’s library, possess some special quality that protected it for centuries and saved it from conflagration not once but twice? The answer seems to be: Yes. In a pleasant visit to the JTS library during a visit to New York (on May 15, 2024) I was privileged to hold it in my own hands. In the JTS Register (Academic Year 1925-26), Marx reported on the arrival of Menekes Rivkah in the Rare Book Collection:

Alexander Marx, JTS Register (Academic Year 1925-26), p. 136. Chief Librarian Alexander Marx’s report for the 1925-26 academic year in which he announces the acquisition of a rare copy of the book Menekes Rivkah, published in 1618, not as stated here.

In the acquisition report pertaining to this important item, Marx did not mention that he had received it from his brother-in-law, S.Y. Agnon, but did note that the book had been received and catalogued in November 1924, a date consistent with the fire in early June of that year, after which Agnon’s family with the remnants of their property had taken refuge in the home of Georg Marx, father of Esther and Alexander, in Koenigsberg. We know that Alexander visited the family in Germany at that time [Esterlein Yakirati (Schocken, 2000), Letters #19 and #21]. But when Agnon wrote in 1968 that “I gave the book to my brother-in-law” he was not being precise. In a letter to Esther dated September 25, 1924, we read:

Say hello to Alexander, shlita. I am very sorry that I did not see him. Tell him that if he does not want the book Menekes Rivkah you can send it here to Mr. Schocken, because he is ready to buy it (Esterlein Yakirati, Letter #21, p. 39).

I presume Marx did not receive the copy of Menekes Rivkah as a gift but bought it from his brother-in-law with the budget at his disposal as librarian of the growing collection in New York. (Had this not been the case, the book would probably be found today on the shelves of the Schocken Institute in Jerusalem.) The omission of Agnon’s name from the New York catalogue also indicates that he did not donate it (as the custom is to list the donors), along with the fact that Marx reported it in the list of “books acquired” rather than in the list of donations.

In a letter to his patron S.Z. Schocken [op. cit., #163] written a few weeks after the disaster, Agnon informed him: “Among the books saved from the fire I found several in Yiddish, and since I do not wish to hoard books that I do not need in particular for my work, I have sent them to you as a gift. Accept them from me willingly, the offering of the poor.” Clearly, Menekes Rivkah was not included in the box of books for disposal, for Agnon knew its worth—its cultural value and its monetary value as a “yasom” or “orphan” (in the argot of book collectors). It seems that Agnon, who lost almost all his possessions in the fire, was forced to sell any remaining item of value. There can be no doubt that he was loath to part with such a rare Jewish volume, and, in a story published two years later, he described how he felt when the flames consumed his worldly possessions:

I was content with a crust of bread. True, I did wear new clothes, but that was because all of my old clothes had burned in the fire. When I came to the synagogue and put on my tefillin, my friends did not look on with disapproval, nor did they bombard me with words. On the contrary, they sympathized with one whose house had burned and who did not have a roof over his head. Pay no mind to his new clothes, his old ones all burned; even his tefillin burned and that’s why he’s wearing new ones. I folded my tallit over my head so as not to hear their comments. When I got to the prayer that tells of God opening His hand and satisfying all living beings, I raised my hands to feel my tefillin. I was reminded of how I used to touch my old tefillin, and I thought to myself that those old ones were like a charm that let me live peacefully, and the new ones were to make sure that no one would envy me. I took a breath and sighed [S.Y. Agnon, “Two Pairs,” in A Book That Was Lost (Toby Press, 2008), 84].

The Menekes Rivkah almost disappeared from the world. Beyond a few isolated mentions over the centuries, it was completely ignored until Professor Chone Shmeruk published the first study of it in 1978. (A historiographical survey of Menekes Rivkah appears in the introduction to the English edition by von Rohdon.) Even in the years since, few have investigated the book and its author, and until now we did not know that the ember twice snatched from the fire had come to us via a long chain through the author and bibliophile S.Y. Agnon.

Menekes Rivkah (Krakow, 1618). Courtesy: Library of Jewish Theological Seminary, SHF 1882:2 RB 5715.

The copy preserved at JTS bears the scars and scorches of its long journey. The book has been restored and rebound (the catalog entry is unclear as to when). When Agnon described it as “a defective copy” he meant that the second chapter (except for the first page) and half of the third chapter were missing (out of the seven chapters of the book). In their place are inserted nine pages of the Mishnah Avot in Yiddish (from a Krakow edition of 1617). The original cover (or at least the cover of the book in 1924) was apparently badly burned. The person who restored the book preserved the page that had been inserted as part of the binding of the original cover. As is well-known, bookbinders would use worn-out pages from other books or manuscripts to glue the endpaper to the cardboard or wooden covers of the binding. Those who recall the film “Footnote” will remember how Professor Grossman (Shkolnik’s rival) discovered a lost version of the Jerusalem Talmud hidden in the binding of a Christian book in the Vatican archives. This time, to our surprise, nestled within the cover of Menekes Rivkah, a Yiddish book, we found a text in Latin, black and charred on the outside and clear and legible on the inside. (The directionality can be discerned from the folding of the page.)

The page hidden within the scorched binding of Menekes Rivkah was taken from a manuscript (date unknown) of the poem “On the Nature of Things” (De Rerum Natura), Book XXII, by the Roman poet Titus Lucretius Carus (99-55 BCE). The long poem, consisting of some 7400 dactylic hexameters, presents a summary of Epicurean philosophy to its readers. In an interesting coincidence, it too was almost lost and forgotten during the Middle Ages, but the admirers of the poem and its author brought it back to the consciousness of Renaissance scholars and it has since influenced great and good (as well as evil) men: Lord Tennyson wrote a poem in its honor and the Marquis de Sade was influenced by it.

Binding paper from Titus Lucretius Carus, “On the Nature of Things” (De Rerum Natura), Book XXII. Left: Outer side; right: inner-facing side. Courtesy: Library of Jewish Theological Seminary, SHF 1882:2 RB 571.

In his 2011 Pulitzer Prize-winning study, The Swerve, Harvard historian of culture and literature Stephen Greenblatt tells the tale of papal emissary and obsessive book hunter Poggio Bracciolini (1380-1459), who located the lone surviving copy of De Rerum Natura in a German monastery. Thanks to his resurfacing of the work’s varied and important ideas, suggests Greenblatt, the fuse of the Renaissance was lit. For this reason Greenblatt’s subtitle is How the World Became Modern.

Lucretius denied, among other things, the position of Heraclitus (c. 500 BCE) that “fire is the source of all that is made.” It is therefore fitting that a page from De Rerum Natura was used to wrap and protect Menekes Rivkah and prove that whether it is the source of all that is made or not, fire at least is not the end of all things. (Although, in all honesty, the particular page found in the JTS archives is discussing the virtues of a good, healthy breakfast.) When Martin Buber informed the philosopher Franz Rosenzweig of the fire in Agnon’s home and of the fate of their joint project on a collection of Hasidic tales (whose letters had soared to heaven), Rosenzweig consoled him:

When I received your letter and read about the misfortune that had struck Agnon, I naturally thought first that something had happened to him or to a member of his family, so that as I read on, I felt a great sense of relief. Certainly books and manuscripts are not simply material goods, but even though they are part of the body, they are still a replaceable limb. Frederick the Great rewrote the History of the Seven Years’ War, which his valet had used for kindling; and Carlyle’s French Revolution was also a second draft—the complete first draft was burned while in the possession of [John Stuart] Mill. No, death alone erases, not fire [The Letters of Martin Buber, edited by Nahum N. Glatzer and Paul Mendes-Flohr (Schocken, 1991), #306].

Today, a century after the burning of Agnon’s library, we can appreciate how the works of three great writers—in Latin, Yiddish, and Hebrew—have not been forgotten and have not been erased despite the oblivion and the flames.

POSTSCRIPT: After this research was prepared and recently published in Hebrew I became aware that Prof. Menahem Schmelzer, at the beginning of his own long tenure as librarian at JTS, had made mention of Agnon’s description of his Menekes Rivkah surviving the 1924 fire and his speculations about its fate in New York. Shmelzer’s report appeared as “The Librarian’s Column” in the bulletin News from the JTS Library 1:2 (Spring 1974). Shmelzer confirms that the JTS copy was the same received from Agnon via Marx, although he makes no mention of whether it was purchased, as I suggest above, or donated. He errs in Rivkah Tiktiner’s date of death, saying it was “the middle of the sixteenth century”; her tombstone, likely unknown a half-century ago when Shmelzer wrote, established the date as 1605. He was also unaware of the existence of the sole Prague edition in Erlangen-Nuremberg, nor had he deciphered the nature of the Latin manuscript page in the binding, but he does draw our attention to an early seventeenth-century discussion of Menekes Rivkah by the Christian Hebraist, Gustav Georg Zeltner. It is appropriate to mention Menahem Schmelzer z”l (1934-2022) in the context of all we’ve written above: He had been two years into his post as chief librarian when the fire erupted in 1966. He spent the next two decades, until retirement, committed to restoring the remnants and rebuilding the collection to its former glory. My thanks to Mr. David Selis for bringing this to my attention and for providing a photo of the brief column by Schmelzer, which can be viewed here.

Rabbi Jeffrey Saks, Director of ATID and its WebYeshiva.org program, is Director of Research at Agnon House in Jerusalem. Thanks to Prof. Mordecai Schwartz and Andrew Katz of the JTS Library for their assistance, and to Curt Leviant, whose questions prodded this research.