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

Dan Rabinowitz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Figure 4: Yahuda Haggadah (Center for Jewish Art)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hebrew Book Illustrations & Anti-Jewish Representations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Figure 13: Sefer Nitzhon, Altdorf, 1644

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

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

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

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

Figure 15: Humash, Amsterdam, 1827

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ultimate Message of Har Sinai

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

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

Table 1: Manuscripts & the Shape of the Tablets

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

Azariah de’ Rossi’s Annotations on Sefer ha-Kuzari: Identification and Preliminary Analysis

Yehuda Seewald

Abstract

This article presents the identification of annotations on a 1547 Venice edition of Sefer ha-Kuzari (The Kuzari) as the work of the Italian-Jewish scholar Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi (min ha-Adummim). The identification is based on detailed paleographic comparison between these annotations and de’ Rossi’s verified notes on a manuscript of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (Paris, BnF MS hebr. 691). The article examines the nature of these annotations, their sources, and their significance for understanding de’ Rossi’s interpretative approach and his conception of the relationship between these two major philosophical works.

Introduction

Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi (1511-1578), one of the most important Jewish scholars in 16th-century Italy, combined traditional Jewish learning with innovative Renaissance research methodologies in his major work Me’or Einayim (The Light of the Eyes).[1] His research spanned various fields, from historiography and chronology through philology and source criticism to philosophy and natural sciences.

Among the works that were central to de’ Rossi’s study were Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed and Judah Halevi’s Kuzari. He frequently quoted and referenced these two works in Me’or Einayim, using their ideas as a foundation for his discussions.[2] It appears that de’ Rossi not only quoted and discussed these works but also systematically edited and annotated them.

Chapter 1: Identification of the Annotations

The manuscript of the Guide for the Perplexed preserved in the National Library of France (hebr. 691) includes de’ Rossi’s explicit ownership signature: “This book, the Guide, gracious dweller of heights, belonged to me, Azariah son of Moses min ha-Adummim”.[3] Alongside this signature, numerous marginal notes appear, some signed with the initials “A.E.” (Amar Azariah). These notes provide a reliable reference point for identifying his handwriting.

In January 2025, two hundred Judaica items from Mr. Klagsbard’s estate were offered for sale at the Kedem auction house’s 100th public auction. Among them was lot 96, a copy of Sefer ha-Kuzari in Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation, second edition, Venice 1547. While browsing through the catalog and attached images, I was excited to identify the previously unidentified annotations as written by Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi.[4] A detailed paleographic comparison between the notes on his copy of the Guide and those on the Kuzari confirmed this identification. The similarity is evident in all characteristics: writing style, letter forms (particularly alef, final mem, and qof), and consistent use of certain abbreviations.

Beyond the similarity in the handwriting itself, similar editorial patterns can be identified in both works. In both texts, de’ Rossi created detailed tables of contents at the beginning of the book, using the same system of notation and reference. Additionally, the notes in both works are organized similarly in the margins, with consistent use of square brackets to indicate additions and completions.

Providence arranged that while the copy was sold to a private collector, it was photographed and made publicly accessible in the “Ktiv” digital platform of the National Library of Israel.

Chapter 2: Nature and Sources of the Annotations

Analysis of the annotations on the Kuzari reveals several layers of corrections and notes. The annotations can be classified into two types, similar to his notes on the Guide for the Perplexed. The first type consists of brief interpretative notes, where he generally appears as a concise yet profound philosophical commentator. The second type comprises quotations from other commentators. In his notes on the Guide, he quotes from Narboni, Ibn Kaspi, and a previously unknown commentator named Rabbi Abraham Kashlar.⁵ In his notes on the Kuzari, he quotes from Abraham Ibn Ezra’s biblical commentary, from Rabbi Nathanel ibn Kaspi’s commentary on the Kuzari, and from other commentators. An example of a quotation from Ibn Kaspi appears in his note on the science of music in Book II:65, which is found in Ibn Kaspi’s autograph manuscript, as we shall discuss below.

In the Kuzari, we also find systematic and extensive corrections to Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation as it appeared in the 1547 Venice edition before him. The Ibn Tibbon family played a crucial role in medieval Hebrew translation: Judah ibn Tibbon (c. 1120-1190), known as “the father of translators,” established their translation tradition and produced the first Hebrew translation of the Kuzari. His son Samuel (c. 1150-1230) became renowned for his precise translation of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, while Samuel’s son Moses, though also active as a translator, was considered less rigorous than his predecessors.

De’ Rossi believed, as he explicitly stated in his work Imrei Binah,[6] that this Kuzari translation was flawed since it was not produced by Samuel ibn Tibbon, whom he considered the most authorized translator of philosophical works. Interestingly, de’ Rossi made a significant historical error: he was unaware that the translator was actually Judah ibn Tibbon, the patriarch of the family, and instead believed it was Moses ibn Tibbon, Samuel’s son, whose translation methodology he criticized. This misidentification led de’ Rossi to approach the text with particular critical attention, though ironically, he was correcting the work of the very founder of the translation tradition he admired.

In our copy, we can see that de’ Rossi’s corrections to the translation drew upon several distinct sources:

1. Translation corrections based on Judah ben Cardinal’s version, which was available to de’ Rossi.[7] A clear example of this is the correction of the term “Karaites” at the beginning of the book, which does not appear in the Venice edition but matches Cardinal’s translation.[8]

2. Corrections based on Judah ibn Tibbon’s own revisions, which were written as alternative readings. These corrections appear in the margins of various Kuzari manuscripts.[9]

3. Original translation suggestions by de’ Rossi himself, which were later incorporated into subsequent editions.[10]

To understand the sources of these corrections, we must first understand the history of Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation of the Kuzari. As David Zvi Baneth demonstrated in his foundational research, ibn Tibbon’s translation reached us in two distinct basic versions:

1. The first, which Baneth termed “Version T,” reflects ibn Tibbon’s original translation language.

2. The second, “Version S,” is a later adaptation.

Although the two versions are closely related, they differ in their translation methodology and language: Version S presents a more precise and consistent translation that strives to adhere to the Judeo-Arabic original and to translate each term uniformly.

Additionally, as Bar-Asher has shown, another layer of translation by Samuel ben R. Judah ben Meshullam entered ibn Tibbon’s translation. [11] This scholar initially intended to translate the entire book himself but, upon seeing ibn Tibbon’s translation, refrained from completing a full translation. The question of whether he translated the book based on ibn Tibbon’s translation or merely wrote corrections in the margins of ibn Tibbon’s translation remains unresolved.

Over the generations, these versions became intermingled, and later copyists combined them indiscriminately. This process gave rise to mixed and complex versions, which were also reflected in the first printed editions of the book.

Examination of de’ Rossi’s copy, with his annotations on the 1547 Venice edition, shows that he attempted to grapple with this complexity. He utilized various sources to determine the precise text – Judah ben Cardinal’s translation that was available to him, as he testifies in his book Imrei Binah, making his notes a potential source for identifying Cardinal’s largely lost annotations.[12] He also used the margins of Kuzari manuscripts that documented additional versions of ibn Tibbon’s translation, as well as adding notes of his own.

Chapter 3: The Influence of De’ Rossi’s Notes on Rabbi Judah Moscato’s Kol Yehudah

Professor Avishai Bar-Asher’s comprehensive study of the Hebrew translations of the Kuzari and the evolution of Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation[13] concludes with these words:

“It is to be hoped that the discovery of additional material—in other documents preserving translation fragments, in the extensive material preserved in the margins of manuscripts of ibn Tibbon’s translation in its various versions, or in secondary copies that have not yet been examined—will help to further evaluate the hypotheses and preliminary conclusions proposed in this study.”

It appears that one of the most important documents for understanding the evolution of ibn Tibbon’s translation from the edition published with the Kol Yehudah commentary onwards is this document containing de’ Rossi’s annotations.

We will examine two of de’ Rossi’s annotations that demonstrate his influence on Rabbi Judah Moscato, author of Kol Yehudah, which became the canonical commentary on the Kuzari from its first publication in Venice in 1594 until today.

The first concerns a textual matter. In the Kuzari, Book II:57, it states:

.אמר הכוזרי: אתם היום במבוכה גדולה מאלה החובות הגדולות, ואיזו עדה תוכל לשמור כל הסדר הזה

“The Khazar king said: You are today in great confusion regarding these great obligations, and which congregation could maintain all this order.”

De’ Rossi was convinced this translation was incorrect. In his Me’or Einayim, he criticizes it and rejects Ibn Kaspi’s attempt to justify it. He notes there that Ben Cardinal translated “in confusion” as “in quiet and rest”.[14] In the margins of his personal copy, he included ibn Tibbon’s alternative translation, “indeed in return and tranquility,” but also proposed his own correction: he crossed out the word “in confusion” and wrote above it “in rest.”

Notably, not by coincidence, the reading “in rest” appears in all editions of the Kuzari with Kol Yehudah onwards, to the puzzlement of Munk and other scholars who wondered about the source of this reading.[15]

It seems likely that de’ Rossi’s suggested correction found its way into Rabbi Judah Moscato’s work, as we find evidence of his influence in other places as well.

Here is another source that apparently shows such influence. In Book II:65, the Kuzari discusses the excellence of music, stating:

…אמר הכוזרי: שמה בלי ספק נגמרה ושמה היתה מעוררת הנפשות, כאשר יאמר עליה, שהיא מעתקת את הנפש ממדה אל הפכה

“The Khazar king said: There, without doubt, it was perfected and there it would stir the souls, as it is said of it that it transfers the soul from one disposition to its opposite…”

De’ Rossi writes in the margin:

כנגן דוד לפני שאול להעביר רוחו הרעה וכנגן אלישע בהסתלקות הנבואה. וכבר חשב האפודי שלזאת הסבה כתוב בקצת מזמורי תהלים למנצח, לפי שהיה השיר המיוחד למזמור ההוא ממה שינצח כח או כחות מה מהנפש להשיבם להיושר והנכון

“Like David’s playing before Saul to remove his evil spirit, and like Elisha’s playing when prophecy departed. The Efodi already thought that for this reason it is written in some psalms ‘To the chief musician,’ because the song designated for that psalm was among those that would overcome some power or powers of the soul to return them to uprightness and propriety.”

These words are not found in any of the Efodi’s known works, but it appears that in de’ Rossi’s memory, he confused the Efodi with Rabbi Nathanel ibn Kaspi. The latter writes in his commentary on this passage:[16]

כאשר ראינו משאול כאשר ביעתתהו רוח רעה והיה כנגן דוד לפניו סרה מעליו הרוח הרעה ההיא כמו שמבואר מהספור, והיה בהיות אלהים אל שאול ולקח דוד את הכנור ונגן בידו ורוח לשאול וכו’. וכן היתה חכמת המושאיקא מעוררת הנפשות, כי מצד התלות השכל האינושי בחומר ישיגהו פעמים עכירות ובהלה ושכחה, ובה יקנו יתרון המעלות ויקנו המדות ויחזיקו התכונות. וכן יסירו הנגונים חליי הנפש ויכוונוה לקבל רוח הקדש. ובזה ינוצחו קצת תכונות רעות שבנפש ויוכנעו לעבודת האל, על כן כתב למנצח מזמור לדוד. ולהיות חכמת הנגון בנוייה על סדר הערכים, ר”ל על סדר הערך והיושר מסודר ומתוקן כראוי, על כן אמר דוד שיר המעלות

“As we saw with Saul when an evil spirit troubled him and when David played before him the evil spirit departed from him, as is clear from the story, ‘And it happened, when the spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took a harp and played with his hand; then Saul would become refreshed,’ etc. Thus the science of music would stir the souls, for due to the attachment of the human intellect to matter, it sometimes experiences turbidity, confusion and forgetfulness, and through it they acquire excellence of virtues and acquire good traits and strengthen dispositions. Thus the melodies remove the illnesses of the soul and prepare it to receive the holy spirit. In this way certain evil dispositions in the soul are overcome and subdued to divine service, therefore it is written ‘To the chief musician, a psalm of David.’ And because the science of music is built on the order of proportions, that is, on the order of proportion and uprightness arranged and established properly, therefore David said ‘A Song of Ascents.'”

It seems quite clear that de’ Rossi summarized and abbreviated ibn Kaspi’s comments here, making them the source of his note, though he mistakenly attributed them to the Efodi.

Now, I can find no logical explanation for Rabbi Judah Moscato’s words elsewhere, unless we say that he saw de’ Rossi’s words in this note and understood them in an interesting way.

This is what Rabbi Judah Moscato writes in his book of sermons, Nefutzot Yehudah:[17]

ומקרא מפורש הוא, יבקשו איש יודע מנגן בכינור. והיה בהיות עליך רוח אלהים רעה, וניגן בידו וטוב לך. ועל כתפות האפודי היתה זאת שומה, אל מול פניו, לעומת מחברתו, כי על כן נאמר בקצת המזמורים למנצח, להיות השיר המיוחד אליהם מועיל מאד לנצח התכונות שבנפש, להכניעם ולהשיבם אל תיקון היושר לעבודת האל יתברך. הוא דבר בעל הכוזרי, בהפליגו בשבחי המוסיקה הנמצאת מאז באומתנו, וזו לשונו, מאמר ב, סימן סה: שמה, מבלי ספק, נגמרה ונשלמה, ושמה היתה מעוררת הנפשות, כאשר ייאמר עליה שהיא מעתקת את הנפש ממידה אל הפכה. ע”כ

“And it is an explicit verse, ‘Let them seek a man who is a skillful player on the harp. And it shall come to pass, when the evil spirit from God is upon you, that he shall play with his hand, and you shall be well.’ And upon the shoulders of the ephod this was placed, before him, opposite its joining, for therefore it is said in some psalms ‘To the chief musician,’ as the song designated for them was very beneficial for overcoming the dispositions of the soul, to subdue them and return them to proper rectification for the service of God, blessed be He. This is what the author of the Kuzari said, in his praise of the music found then in our nation, and this is his language, Book II:65: ‘There, without doubt, it was perfected and completed, and there it would stir the souls, as it is said of it that it transfers the soul from one disposition to its opposite.’ End quote.”

It is quite clear that these are the same ideas that originated in ibn Kaspi’s commentary. But how did the words “and upon the shoulders of the ephod this was placed” enter into R. Judah Moscato’s discussion? What does the ephod, and specifically “Efodi,” have to do with King David? It must be that de’ Rossi’s words were before him, and he interpreted the word “Efodi” as referring to David’s ephod.

Conclusion

The identification of Azariah de’ Rossi’s annotations on the Kuzari sheds light both on his interpretative approach and on his influence on subsequent generations. Analysis of the annotations reveals a scholar combining expertise in commentarial literature with meticulous textual criticism, drawing on various sources and traditions. Particularly interesting is his influence on Rabbi Judah Moscato, who incorporated some of his corrections into his Kol Yehudah commentary, which became the canonical commentary on the Kuzari. These annotations thus join a series of testimonies to de’ Rossi’s significant contribution to the development of Jewish exegesis in the late Renaissance period.

The discovery of his annotations on the Kuzari, alongside his known annotations on the Guide for the Perplexed, allows us to better understand his relationship to these two major philosophical works and his conception of the connection between them. Further research into these annotations may shed light on additional questions concerning the textual history of the Kuzari and the development of its interpretation.

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.

The Discovery of a Hidden Treasure in the Vatican and the Correction of a Centuries-Old Error

Rabbi Edward Reichman, MD

In 2018, I was invited to speak at a conference co-sponsored by the Vatican and the CURA Foundation entitled, Unite to Cure: A Global Health Care Initiative. The mission of the conference was to “convene leading decision makers in medicine, business, media, advocacy and faith to encourage multidisciplinary collaboration, increase investment in research and innovation… education and better access to health care.”[1] My role, as a physician and rabbi, was to represent the Jewish faith in this dialogue and initiative. While “better access to health care” remains a desideratum, access to information in our age is historically unprecedented. The explosion of technology, communication, and social media have put the world’s vast knowledge, both present and past, within finger’s reach. The present contribution, detailing a fortuitous discovery at the Vatican, recalls an earlier period in Jewish history when access to sacred texts was generally limited. The advent of printing would portend an exponential increase in availability of Jewish books, but a controversy arose in its wake which ironically led to even greater inaccessibility of one of Judaism’s most fundamental texts.

No visit to the Vatican would be complete without a visit to its storied library. In anticipation of my trip, I contacted the Vatican Library to secure a reader’s pass.[2] I then scoured the catalogue and consulted colleagues for items of Jewish medical and general Jewish interest.

While I would only have a brief time to spend in the library I focused my list mostly on medically related works, both in manuscript and printed form. One of the works I included is not typically thought of as such. It is an incunable which was the answer to one of Professor Marc Shapiro’s Seforim Blog quiz questions- what was the first Hebrew book published in the lifetime of its author? The answer is Nofet Tzufim (Abraham Conat: Mantua, 1475) by Judah Messer Leon.[3]

Judah Messer Leon was an extraordinary physician, professor, and Torah scholar. He was granted the title of Count Palatine by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III[4] which allowed him to confer doctorates upon other Jews of proven worthiness. Nofet Tzufim is a treatise on rhetoric, utilizing the classical literary devices of the ancient discipline of rhetoric applied to the Torah. One of the uses for this work was to prepare the Jewish students who matriculated from foreign countries to the medical schools in Italy. Indeed, he organized a yeshiva where students could receive a comprehensive Jewish education while training in the secular disciplines necessary for higher studies in the humanities, philosophy, and medicine.[5]

In my pre-visit research of the library catalogue, I noticed the record of a two-volume Mishneh Torah (Giustiniani: Venice, 1550-1551).[6] Being familiar with the controversy surrounding this work, I put it on my list despite its non-medical nature. I took a snapshot of the entry and placed it in my files.

Upon my arrival at the library, I was introduced to the protocols. I found it somewhat ironic that while the manuscripts were requested through a modern digital system, the printed works, housed in a different section, were requested by hand-written paper slip. When I submitted my requests to the librarian, I half expected her to respond, “and by the way, no, we do not have the Menorah.”[7]

The final item I requested was the Giustiniani Rambam. A short while after I submitted my slip, I noticed two massive unidentifiable tomes resting one atop the other on the front desk. It did not initially occur to me that these would be my requested items. I ultimately approached the desk and inquired if my items had arrived, only to be directed to these two plain, unadorned (with neither print nor illustration), nondescript, off white, cloth-covered folios. The covers are shown below:

The two volumes were virtually indistinguishable. As I opened the top volume, I observed the following printer’s mark on the title page.

This is the characteristic printer’s mark of Giustiniani, as expected, consisting of a picture of the Temple in Jerusalem (though more reminiscent of the Dome of the Rock). This was volume two of the Mishneh Torah.[8]

However, when I carefully cracked (almost literally) open the binding of the bottom volume, I noticed something unexpected:

The printer’s mark did not reveal a depiction of the Temple, rather it was comprised of three crowns, the distinct mark of another printing house. At this point, a brief review of the controversy surrounding the Giustiniani Rambam is in order.

Rabbi Meir ben Isaac Katzenellenbogen (1482-1565), known as Maharam Padua, produced a new edition of Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, including his own notes, and providing some of Rambam’s Talmudic references. As Jews were generally prohibited from publishing books at this time, he initially approached a veteran non-Jewish printer of Hebrew books, Marco Antonio Giustiniani. For unknown reasons, this arrangement did not work, and R. Katzenellenbogen instead published his work with Alfonse Bragadini, a novice printer for whom this would be his first publication. Very shortly thereafter, within the year, Giustiniani published a similar edition of the Mishneh Torah, including the notes of R. Katzenellenbogen, though with some alterations and with accompanying criticism, without the latter’s consent. He proposed to charge one gold coin less for purchase, clearly intending to sabotage Bragadini’s newly minted press. Fearing the loss of his significant financial investment, R. Katzenellenbogen approached the then-young R. Moshe Isserles (Rama) to adjudicate what would be one of the first cases in rabbinic literature of copyright infringement.[9]

Rama ruled in favor of R. Katzenellenbogen / Bragadini, but having no recourse in the secular courts, placed a cherem (excommunication) on any Jew who purchased books from Giustiniani until the print run of R. Katzenellenbogen had been sold. Giustiniani reacted fiercely, appealing to the Catholic Church and casting aspersions of blasphemy on the work. The Vatican expanded its inquiry launching a frontal attack on the work of R. Katzenellenbogen and other rabbinic texts as containing objectionable/heretical material. The attack soon included the Talmud and ultimately culminated in the decree to burn all extant copies of the Talmud and related works in 1553 in Campo di Fiori Square, just a few blocks from the Vatican.[10] Other cities in Italy soon followed suit and virtually all the copies the Talmud in Italy in both manuscript and print, as well as related works, including some editions of Rambam,[11] went up in flames.

The printer’s mark bearing the three crowns I observed on the title page of this work is none other than that of the Bragadini Publishing House. Upon further inspection, it became clear that I was looking at the original Bragadini edition of the Rambam Mishneh Torah, volume one, with the notes of the Maharam of Padua, from which the Giustiniani edition was copied. The Vatican library did not list a Bragadini edition of Rambam in its catalogue and was unaware of its existence. The Bragadini is volume one of the Mishneh Torah, and the Giustiniani edition is volume two. By external visual inspection the volumes look virtually identical in size and appearance with similar bland covers, worn and worm-eaten to the same degree. It is quite possible that the librarian who received these volumes some centuries ago opened only the second of two volumes, entering the information accordingly for the two-volume work, and simply never bothered to open the other volume. This theory is possibly corroborated by the fact that pencil markings with the catalogue number of the Vatican Library appear only in the second (Giustiniani) volume (in the upper left hand corner) and not in the first (Bragadini).

Once I realized the cataloguing error, I immediately notified the librarian of this oversight, though she was of course unfamiliar with the historical significance of these volumes, and I was assured that the catalog would be corrected accordingly.

Upon my return home, in April 2018, I followed with an e-mail to the Vatican Library including additional references and a fuller discussion of the historical significance of the different editions. Shortly thereafter, I had the opportunity to visit the private medical historical library and collection of the late, world-renowned neurosurgeon, Dr. James Goodrich, known for his expertise in separating craniopagus conjoined twins (sharing or connected by the brain). I shared the details of my recent Vatican Library visit, to which he responded with his own slightly more dramatic experience at the same library. While inspecting a Medieval anatomy text, he noticed one of the famous illustrations was missing from the volume. He immediately notified the librarian. Within a few moments, he was surrounded by police, hands in the air, being threatened with arrest, himself accused of the theft.

Every few months I would check to see if the catalogue entry had been corrected. Sometime in late 2019 or early 2020, I gave up hope of any correction and did not check further. In November 2021, in preparing topics for an upcoming cruise to Northern Italy on Italian Jewish medical history, I was reminded of the Vatican Library visit and searched the catalogue for the Bragadini Rambam. To my pleasant surprise, the catalogue had been corrected to reflect the two editions, and the entries for both volumes of Rambam had been updated and expanded.

New Entry for the Bragadini Rambam

New Entry for the Giustiniani Rambam

How these two volumes of one set from different printers originally came together remains a mystery, but this “mixed” set of Rambam appears to have been owned by both Jews and non-Jews from at least the 17^th century and possibly earlier. Previous ownership of the set by both institutions and individuals, Jews and non-Jews, is reflected by a number of similar inscriptions in the respective volumes.

Both volumes contain the imprint of the library of the Church Santa Pudenziana in Rome:

Volume 1

Volume 2

Both bear the inscription of D. Julius a S. Anast[asi]a with the added information that he purchased (emit) them in 1652.

Volume 1

Volume 2

That a set of Rambam would be owned by non-Jews, be it private or institutional, is not remarkable given the history of Christian Hebraism.[12] Julius de St. Anastasia was a pseudonym for Giulio Bartolocci (1613-1687),[13] an Italian Cistercian Monk and Hebrew scholar who authored a four-volume work on rabbinic literature, Bibliotheca Magna Rabbinica.[14] It was just a year before this purchase date, 1651, that he was appointed professor of Hebrew and Rabbinics at the Collegium Neophytorum in Rome and “Scriptor Hebraicus” at the Vatican Library. He may have purchased the volumes in 1652 either for his private collection or for the Vatican Library. In either case, it is likely that these volumes have been either in his possession or the Vatican Library’s since 1652. The residence of the Rambam volumes in the Biblioteca Santa Pudenziana thus likely precedes this period. Perhaps Bartolocci acquired the works from this library. This helps date another signature that appears on both title pages, one that escapes mention in the Vatican catalogue entry.

Volume 1

Volume 2

In the first I can clearly see the words שלי יצחק, which follow a decorative flourish, though cannot decipher the last name. In the second, I can see remnants of the words שלי יצחק, and the second name is missing entirely. At minimum, this establishes ownership by a man whose first name is Yitzhak sometime before the early to mid-seventeenth century. Who Yitzchak was, and when in the period between the publication of the volumes (1550) and their acquisition by the Biblioteca Santa Pudenziana he took possession, is unknown, though it is intriguing to contemplate. It is almost certain that he was the earliest of the known owners. It is unlikely that Yitzhak would have acquired a set of Rambam from representatives of the Catholic Church, though one can imagine how the Church acquired the works, be it directly or not, sometime after the events of 1553.

Let us consider the possibility that it was Yitzhak who first acquired the mixed set of Rambam during their time of publication. How would this have come about? Why did he not simply purchase both volumes of the Bragadini Rambam? Were both volumes issued together, or was volume two released later? The publication of the two volumes of the Giustiniani Rambam was separated by at least a number of months, with volume one appearing in 1550 and volume two released January 25, 1551.[15] Furthermore, what of the ban implemented by Rama? Would this not have prevented him from buying the Giustiniani Rambam altogether? When was the ban issued and when would he have even heard of it? Lastly, and most importantly, were these volumes not included in the decree to burn Jewish literature. How could they have survived?

In answer to this final question, copies of Rambam’s Mishneh Torah were confiscated and burned, though not as systematically as was the Talmud.[16] Rama’s ban would have had no impact whatsoever on Yitzhak’s purchasing preferences, as Rama explicitly limited his decree to “our country” (i.e., Poland). It is not known whether Italian rabbis adopted a similar stance for their communities.

Furthermore, these very volumes reflect the impact of the feud of their publishers, and of the subsequent burning and imposed censorship. According to the Vatican Library catalogue, they were censored by Lorenzo Franguello in 1575 and again in 1599 by Luigi Da Bologna.[17] Whether it was Yitzchak who presented the work to the censors we may never know.

The impact of the burning of the Talmud on Jewish literature in general has been treated elsewhere, but as my interests lie in Jewish medical history, I conclude by sharing its effect on one of the more prominent figures in Jewish medical history, Abraham Portaleone (d. 1612).[18] Portaleone, descendant of a long line of prominent physicians, and himself physician to dukes and princes, developed a stroke in his sixties leaving him partially paralyzed on one side of his body. His illness sparked reflection that led him to the conclusion that he had not devoted enough of his life to Torah study. To rectify this deficiency, he set out to compose a comprehensive work on prayer and the Temple service, Shiltei haGibborim, which he dedicated to his children. It is an encyclopedia of Renaissance knowledge, including extensive discussions on the composition of the Temple incense, drawing on contemporary botanical studies, as well as unprecedented research into the instruments and music of the Levites accompanying the Temple service.[19]

In his introduction, Portaleone details the nature of his early education, and recalls how while a student studying Talmud with R. Yaakov MiPano, the infamous decree led to the Talmud “being consumed by fire before our eyes.”[20] After the initial burning of the Talmud in Rome, other Italian cities followed suit with their own citywide burnings of the Talmud. Portaleone was witness to one such event. Decades later, as he penned his classic work, Shiltei haGibborim, the Talmud still remained unavailable in Italy. Portaleone was forced to use substitute works that alluded to or quoted the Talmud, if available, but sometimes the information was simply not accessible. For example, in his discussion of the Lechem Hapanim (shewbread) of the Temple, he writes, “Perhaps some place in the Talmud Hazal spoke of this, and I am not aware. As a result of the known decree [preventing access to the Talmud] I have not been able to properly ascertain this.”[21]

In one remarkable instance Portaleone reveals his elation at being able to acquire a bona fide Talmudic reference. He writes that after he completed the chapter on the Lishkat haGazit (Chamber of Hewn Stone), God ordained (“hikra”) that he happen upon a wise man from the city of Tzfat (where the Talmud was available) who had come to Italy to seek financial support for his family. “From his mouth I heard the sugya in the second chapter of Yoma on the laws of the Lishkat haGazit, and I write them here for you (my children) from his mouth…”[22]

In yet another place he excitedly relates of his accessing a small passage from Tractate Chagigah from a tattered manuscript remnant in the library of a great Torah scholar (Gaon) of Verona.[23]

These few, yet remarkable, instances reveal how the absence of access to the Talmud in Italy impacted the life and work of one of Jewish medical history’s most famous personalities.

While our ancestors yearned for access to even one miniscule fragment of the Talmud, we have unfettered access to virtually the totality of rabbinic literature literally at our fingertips, from a device likely smaller in size than the one fragment of Talmud Abraham Portaleone was so overjoyed to discover.

Conclusion

It is incredible to think that for hundreds of years, unbeknownst to the Vatican library, Bragadini has been hiding in plain sight under the cover of his arch nemesis and fierce competitor Giustiniani. Their feud led to one of the greatest tragedies in Jewish history, instigated by the very institution wherein they now lie. Giustinani’s press ceased production in 1552, shortly after and possibly related to his attack on Bragadini, while the Bragadini press, and the three crowns, continued for generations.[24] At long last Giustiniani’s reach from the grave to still overshadow Bragadini has been foiled and a centuries-long error has been rectified.

It is perhaps noteworthy that this discovery occurred while I was a presenter at a Vatican conference. As for the conference itself, the medical issues addressed (including stem cell research, CRISPR gene editing and longevity research) and their halakhic ramifications merit discussion in a different blog. However, let us pause and appreciate how far we have come with respect to religious tolerance.[25] Suffice it to say, had I lived in the times of Bragadini and Giustiniani, I would likely not have been invited to a conference at the Vatican.

“What if the Maharal of Prague Had Access to Leipzig 1 and Other Manuscripts?”

On Shemos 23:19 – Rashi on ראשית בכורי אדמתך

By Eli Genauer

Summary: There is a statement in Rashi which appears in the overwhelming majority of early Rashi manuscripts, and in early printed editions. But because Gur Aryeh and others did not have access to these manuscripts, and because they felt that what Rashi said was incorrect, they ascribed the statement to a טעות סופר. Knowing that Rashi really did write these words might have changed their approach to this Pasuk.

שמות כ“ג

(יט) רֵאשִׁ֗ית בִּכּוּרֵי֙ אַדְמָ֣תְךָ֔ תָּבִ֕יא בֵּ֖ית ה’ אֱלֹקיךָ לֹֽא־תְבַשֵּׁ֥ל גְּדִ֖י בַּחֲלֵ֥ב אִמּֽוֹ

Rashi in Al HaTorah based on Leipzig 1:

ראשית בכורי אדמתך – אף השביעית חייבת בביכורים, לכך נאמרה אף כאן

Sefaria records it the same except it adds בִּכּוּרֵי אַדְמָתְךָ at the end.

ראשית בכורי אדמתך. אַף הַשְּׁבִיעִית חַיֶּבֶת בְּבִכּוּרִים, לְכָךְ נֶאֱמַר אַף כָּאן בִּכּוּרֵי אַדְמָתְךָ.

Oz VeHadar Rashi HaMevuar records it as above without parentheses but comments that there are some who do not include this comment because one is not Chayav in Bikurim during Shemittah.

The discussion in their Miluim section records many opinions on this matter. It concludes by saying that this statement of Rashi contradicts a statement of his in Yevamot, thereby leaving the impression that the statement in Shemot 23:19 is questionable.

Artscroll Rashi Sapirstein Edition (1994) records these words in parentheses to indicate that there is a true doubt whether Rashi wrote them.[1]

Artscroll notes that “Mizrachi and Gur Aryeh argue that it cannot be Rashi’s work”, but that Nachalat Yaakov defends this version of Rashi.[2]

Chumash Ateret Rashi (Jerusalem 1998) records the words without parentheses but only cites Gur Aryeh who say that Rashi did not write them and Mizrachi who says that there are Seforim which don’t have them.

The position of Mizrachi and Gur Aryeh is based on the fact that they feel that the Halacha is that during the Shemitah year one is not obligated to bring Bikurim. Mizrachi cites some “Nuschaot” which do not have this comment and Gur Aryeh writes that this comment is בודאי טעות סופר

Mizrachi:

ראשית בכורי אדמתך אף השביעית חייבת בבכורים לכך נאמר אף כאן בכורי אדמתך. ברוב הספרים כתיב אף השביעית חייבת בבכורים. ונראה לי שאשר הביאם לזה הוא מפני שראו של גבי וביום השביעי תשבות פירש אף בשנה שביעית לא תעקר שבת ממקומה שלא תאמר כוּ ולגבי שלשה פעמים בשנה פירש ג“כ לפי שהעניין מדבר בשביעית הוצרך ללמד שלא יסתרסו ג’ רגלים ממקומן חשבו שלגבי בכורים נמי שלא יהיו הבכורים נדחין ממקומן ולכך אמרו אף השביעית חייבת בבכורים ואין הדבר כן שהרי במכילתא שנו גבי וביום השביעי תשבות נאמר כאן שבת בראשית לעניין שביעית שלא תסתרס עניין שבת בראשית ממקומה ולגבי ג’ פעמים בשנה שנו נאמר שלשה רגלים בשביעית שלא יסתרסו ג’ רגלים ממקומן ואלו לגבי ראשית בכורי אדמתך שנו למה נאמרה פרשה זו לפי שנאמר ולקחת מראשית כל פרי האדמה אין לי אלא פירות משקין מניין ת“ל תביא בית ייּ אלהיך

מ“מ אבל בקצת נוסחאוּ אינו כתוב אלא בכורי אדמחך אדם נכנס לתוך שדהו כוּ

Gur Aryeh:

אף השביעית חייב בבכורים. בודאי טעות סופר הוא, דאיך שייך דיהיה השביעית חייב בביכורים, שאיך קורא אני כאן “ועתה הבאתי ראשית פרי האדמה אשר נתת לי” (דברים כו, י), דהא לא לו נתן, ואיך שייך שחייב בביכורים:

Yosef Da’at writes that these words are in some sefarim and not in other sefarim, (בספרים אחרים אינו ), and that “מהר״ל(גור אריה) מוחק ורא״ם(ר׳ אליהו מזרחי) מיישב״

Berliner in Zechor L’Avraham (Berlin 1867) lists only Erfurt #2 (which is now known as Berlin 1222) as a manuscript which doesn’t have these words (“ליתא בכתב יד ערפערט ב׳“). He also cites Mizrachi, Divrei Dovid and Gur Aryeh as saying these words are a ta’us sofer.[3]

Here is Berlin 1222 (13^th-14^th century) which doesn’t have the comment:

Berliner cites[4] Divrei Dovid דיהרנפורט 1689:

What needs to be determined is whether Rashi wrote these words or not. If he in fact did, one would then need to understand the background to Rashi’s comment but one would not be able to argue that it is a טעות סופר or put forth arguments against this Girsa “MiSevara”.

Gur Aryeh does not cite any books or manuscripts without these words, only that it was בודאי טעות סופר . Berliner cites only one manuscript without this Nusach. Divrei Dovid cites קצת ספרים which do not have it as does Yosef Da’at. Mizrachi says that ברוב הספרים כתיב אף השביעית חייבת בבכורים …… אבל בקצת נוסחאות אינו כתוב אלא בכורי…. Mizrachi does not say if those נוסחאות were books or manuscripts.

We started by citing Leipzig 1 which has this statement in Rashi. To claim that it was a טעות סופר would mean that this mistake ended up involving either Rav Shemayah or Rabbeinu Makhir. ^v These words are in 13 manuscripts from the 13^th century I checked aside from Berlin 1222.[6] I feel it is easier to explain why these words were not included in one manuscript, (possibly for the reasons cited by Gur Aryeh and Mizrachi) than to argue that the words were not written by Rashi and were added by Sofrim later on.

Berlin 1221:

Parma 3081:

Oxford Bodley Opp. 34 (Neubauer 186):

London 26917 (Neubauer 168) – same as Hamburg 13 with “שלא תאמר”:

Berlin Qu 514:

Florence Plut III 03:

Vatican Urbanati 1:

Paris 155:

Parma 2708:

Parma 2868 is the only manuscript in this group which doesn’t have these words of Rashi embedded in the text, but rather has them written on the side:

JEWISH TREASURES FROM OXFORD LIBRARIES

By Paul Shaviv

Ed. Rebecca Abrams and Cesar Merchan-Hamann / Bodleian Library, University of Oxford, 2020 / ISBN 978 1 85124 502 4 / Available in the USA via Amazon $55

307pp, 140 full-colour plates

Oxford,[1] the ‘City of Dreaming Spires’, is one of the world’s greatest repositories of Hebraica and Judaica, both books and manuscripts.

This sumptuous volume was initiated at the encouragement and support of Martin J. Gross, a New Jersey philanthropist and Jewish community activist. It is a bargain at the price. The book is absolutely handsome – the quality of the printing is outstanding, and it is printed on 135gsm paper.

The core of ‘Jewish Treasures from Oxford Libraries’ describes seven collectors and their eponymous collections, which together constitute the Hebraica holding of the Bodleian library; plus a description of smaller, but important, holdings of some individual College libraries; and the Genizah fragments held in Oxford. There are additional essays describing the history of the Bodleian itself, and the role of successive Librarians in encouraging the acquisition of Hebrew (and other ‘Oriental’) manuscripts; of the great cataloguers (Neubauer and Cowley); and of other benefactors, including the amazing figure of John Selden.[2]

Each chapter is written by different scholars. Archbishop Laud (1573–1645), by Giles Mandelbrote; Edward Pococke (1604-1691) by Benjamin Williams; Robert Huntington (1637-1701) by Simon Mills and Cesar Merchan-Hamann; Benjamin Kennicott (1718-1783) by Theodor Dunkelgrun; Matteo Luigi Canonici (1727-1805) by Dorit Raines; Rabbi David Oppenheim (1664-1736) by Joshua Teplitzky; and Heimann Joseph Michael (1792-1846) by Saverio Campanini. Each describes the biography of the collector, the characteristics and most important items of their collection, and how and why they amassed them.

The first thing that readers will note is that only the last two are Jewish. Even in the case of David Oppenheim, his unique collection of approximately 4,500 printed books and just under 1,000 bound volumes of manuscripts languished in storage in Europe until Revd. Alexander Nicoll, the Regius Professor of Hebrew, engineered its purchase by the Library. Otherwise they are a parade of Anglican Divines and Christian Hebraists (except Canonici, who was a Jesuit), witness to the intense interest (and expertise) in Hebrew and Jewish Studies by non-Jewish scholars in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The stories of the collections are fascinating. Ambassadors, merchants and missionaries all have a part in purchasing (and pursuing) manuscripts. A special place seems to be occupied by the ‘Chaplains’ attached to the Embassies – one can surmise that they both had some expertise in Hebrew, even if rudimentary, and also perhaps time to devote to the ‘hunt’. We visit the great cities of the ‘Orient’ – Constantinople, Damascus, Aleppo, Cairo, and of Europe – Italy, Spain and Germany.

The objectives and interests of each collector were different. Some – Oppenheim is the obvious example – were happy to scoop up whatever was on the market. Kennicott was interested in Biblical material, resulting in his two-volume study of variations in extant biblical texts. Along the way, each of them acquired examples of the most magnificent decorated and illuminated works, covering the entire span of Judaica – texts, contracts, ketubot, from every place. The calligraphy itself is to be savoured and enjoyed. As mentioned, the 140 full-colour (and often full-page) plates do all of this justice.

Although overshadowed by Cambridge, Oxford too has significant Genizah holdings – described by Nadia Vidro. These were acquired in the nineteenth century and pre-dated Solomon Schechter’s bulk removal of the Genizah contents to Cambridge. They are apparently strong in Talmudic texts, and also include an autograph copy of Rambam’s Mishneh Torah – complete with alterations and editing notes. Adolph Neubauer sifted through the material; kept the largest fragments, often complete or semi-complete pages – and rejected the remainder, which were sold on to Elkan Adler. Neubauer could not foresee the techniques available later, and utilized in Cambridge, to read, identify and reap the benefits of the tiniest pieces.

It is very difficult to summarize such a wide-ranging work in a short review. I am left with several thoughts:

• In the case of the Bodleian, their holdings were purchased, not plundered, although the circumstances by which the objects came into the possession of previous owners is not necessarily known. The scholarship, and enthusiasms, of the Christian Hebraists, familiar to scholars, is of course little appreciated in today’s wider Jewish community. Were it not for them, many, many of these works would be lost. Were it not for the conscientious curation and preservation of these books and manuscripts by non-Jewish, mainly academic, libraries, they would almost certainly be lost, and even if they existed, would probably be far less accessible.

• The sheer aesthetic beauty of many of the manuscripts speaks of a different culture. Even if, as is surmised, many were illustrated by non-Jewish professional artists[3] – they were commissioned by Jewish patrons. Even the almost-certainly Jewish artists (of Ketubot and the like) seem to show a joyfulness absent from our contemporary production of texts; which I take as a reflection of a certain dour outlook and philosophy. The same comment could be made about the narrowness of contemporary religious publishing compared to the width of thought, concern and scholarship of our forebears.

• On a different perspective, as an (ex-pat) Anglo-Jew, and a former graduate student of Jewish Studies at Oxford (way back in the 1970’s!), I have to again sigh at the neglect of its own treasures by the Anglo-Jewish community[4]. Even the initiator of this project hails from New Jersey! Perhaps a ray of optimism may come from the fairly recent appointment of Prof. Judith Olszowy Schlanger as head of the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies (formerly housed at Yarnton Manor)? Until now, most of the OCHJS Presidents have been specialists in one or another aspect of the ancient world, or of other, wider areas of Jewish study. This is not to disparage any of these eminent scholars in any way whatsoever! But Professor Olszowy Schlanger has already published on Anglo-Norman and pre-Expulsion manuscripts; perhaps we will see fresh scholarship on English and European rabbinic study from her Presidency, from still-to-be-researched corners of the Bodleian!

A great read, a great book to possess, and – happy are they who may receive this book as a perfect gift!