Book Announcement: The Lost Library by Dan Rabinowitz

By Eliezer Brodt

Its with great pleasure that I announce the recent publication of an important work, that I am certain will be of great interest to readers of the Seforim Blog – The Lost Library by Dan Rabinowitz, founder and editor-in-chief of the Seforim Blog. This book is devoted to the legacy of the personal and expanded public library of Rabbi Mattityahu Strashun.

From the back cover:

The Strashun Library was among the most important Jewish public institutions in Vilna, and indeed in Eastern Europe, prior to its destruction during World War II. Mattityahu Strashun, descended from a long and distinguished line of rabbis, bequeathed his extensive personal library of 5,753 volumes to the Vilna Jewish community on his death in 1885, with instructions that it remain open to all.

In the summer of 1941, the Nazis came to Vilna, plundered the library, and shipped many of its books to Germany for deposition at a future Institute for Research Into the Jewish Question. When the war ended, the recovery effort began. Against all odds, a number of the greatest treasures of the library could be traced. However, owing to its diverse holdings and its many prewar patrons, a custody battle erupted over the remaining holdings. Who should be heir to the Strashun Library?

This book tells the story of the Strashun Library from its creation through the contentious battle for ownership following the war until present day. Pursuant to a settlement in 1958, the remnants of the greatest prewar library in Europe were split between two major institutions: the secular YIVO in the United States and the rabbinic library of Hechal Shlomo in Israel, a compromise that struck at the heart of the library’s original unifying mission.

In 2005 Dan Rabinowitz founded the Seforim Blog and I started corresponding with him almost immediately. One of the people we discussed often was R’ Strashun as both Dan and I were fascinated by him. Dan’s interest extended to the library and what happened to it after R’ Strashun’s death and especially what happened to it after World War Two. Eventually, in November 2015 Dan authored a lengthy post on the Seforim Blog dealing with different aspects of R’ Strashun and his library. This post eventually turned into this full-length book on the subject.

The Lost Library is written in Dan’s extremely clear, lucid and captivating manner as familiar to readers of the Seforim Blog (having read hundreds of his articles and at times not realizing he is the author of them because most do not include his name – in essence, stamm seforim blog post dan rabinowitz, at least the scholarly ones). The book begins with an exciting personal introduction (A PDF is available upon request) giving background to the development of one of Dan’s favorite pastimes collecting books. However, similar to the subject of this book R’ Strashun, Dan’s interest extends to not just owning the book but to developing a personal relationship with the book contents. This becomes evident as one reads The Lost Library, especially the vast number of sources in multiple languages housed in numerous collections and libraries all over the world including his personal library. The Lost Library meticulously documents each of his claims from these extensive sources collected over intense research conducted over a few years.

The book begins with an overview of that ‘ir ve’em be-yisrael, the famous city of Vilna, giving the reader excellent background to the environment and city (including current descriptions as the author visited Vilna while working on this volume). The author discusses what made Vilna famous, sidetracking into very relevant topics such as R’ Mattityahu father, the Rashash and others affiliated with the Vilna Gaon, Vilna’s most famous resident. Dan then turns to deal with the hero of the book, R’ Mattityahu and provides the reader with a comprehensive biography that discusses his unique style of learning and how that influenced his book collecting habits. The next chapter is the opening of the public library after Mattityahu’s death and the impact it had on the community and eastern European Jewry at large. The book then goes onto detailing the library’s life during the Holocaust and especially afterword as different parties claimed ownership when most of it was discovered to have survived.

Marc Shapiro wrote:

Taking us on a journey from nineteenth-century Vilna until almost the present day, Rabinowitz not only documents the vicissitudes of this important institution, but helps us understand the intellectual culture of one of the centers of Judaism in modern times.”—Marc B. Shapiro, Weinberg Chair in Judaic Studies, University of Scranton

And others praised the work as well.

“Rabinowitz has done a brilliant job in his moving and important book…. Through the story of the Strashun Library, he gives us insight into the richness and vibrancy of Jewish life in Vilna. He vividly portrays the restoration of the books of the Strashun Library, a testimony to the indomitable Jewish spirit.”
—Ambassador Stuart E. Eizenstat, chief White House domestic policy adviser to President Carter

“Rabinowitz’s meticulously researched study is an outstanding expression of the wealth of knowledge provided by a thorough exploration of Jewish material culture…In his detailed reconstruction of the Strashun library’s fate after the German invasion, he detects a breathtaking history of loss and mourning, of illegal claims and desires, of appropriation and incorporation that expresses the rupture of the Holocaust and the contested visions of Jewish life after catastrophe.”—Elisabeth Gallas, Leibniz Institute for Jewish History and Culture –Simon Dubnow

This book is of particular personal great interest. The first time I recall hearing something from R’ M. Strashun was when I was in tenth grade. R’ Hershel Schachter had just begun giving a shiur once a week in Flatbush for Balei Battim on Mesechtas Kidushin. I attended a few of them, during one of the shiurim he mentioned R’ M. Strashun’s comments in Bava Basra praising him (I do not recall his exact discussion, but it was about the word Achron). I had been familiar with the Strashun name for a while through R’ Mattityahu father, the Rashash via my father. The Rashash symbolized an emphasis on peshat, from then on I was very curious about R’ Mattityahu. Fast forward a few years when I began learning in the Mir in EY I was talking to a friend somehow it came up about R’ M. and the friend mentioned he loves him and that the great Gaon R’ Yakov Chaim Sofer always quotes him with great respect. He then showed me a sefer of Mattiyahu printed by Mossad Harav Kook (Mivchar Kesavim). The sefer was out of print and hard to find, but the Sitrah Achrah helped me find it a little while later. I immediately began learning through the work. Since then I have found the work many times in used shops and have found these copies, proper owners, to appreciate them. One time while learning the sefer an Israeli chavrusha saw what I was learning and said how you could learn a sefer of a maskil! I argued it was good enough for me that R’ Yitchack Elchanan Spektor who, in his old age, came to Vilna to eulogize R’ Mattityahu. My chavrusha dismissed this anecdote and replied that means nothing! Of course, I could not convince him that there was nothing wrong with him. However, his complaint sparked the exact opposite – and spurred me to research and read more of R’ Mattityahu’s writings which only enhanced my reverence for him. My chavrusha’s position notwithstanding, other very frum Israelis friends expressed their appreciation and fascination with R’ Mattityahu. Most of his writings appeared in newspapers and journals and are not readily available or even known. However, in a few months, I will god willingly print some of them. Eventually, I wrote my first academic article in English about him (available in PDF upon request or from here).

One final point about R’M that particularly resonated with me. R’M did not merely collect seforim he used them, and this is apparent from hundreds of citations throughout his works. A later resident of Vilna, and one too who was indeed very well-read was R’ Chaim Ozer. He did not need an extensive personal library as he had unfettered access to the Strashun Library – indeed was unique in that he was one of the few given borrowing privileges. Here is a book request from R’ Chaim Ozer, addressed to the Strashun Library’s head librarian Chaim Chaikel Lunski. Thanks to R’ Dovid Kamenetsky for making it available:

One of my favorite stories about the library as told by R’ Moshe Shmukler in his fascinating book, Moshe Shmuel ve-Doro, combines the idea of the voracious reader and a comprehensive library:

ר’ חיים עוזר… מלבד בקיאותו הגדולה בתלמוד ובראשונים, הצטיין בבקיאות עצומה בשאלות ותשובות האחרנים… פעם החלטתי לנסותו עד כמה כוחו גדול באחרונים, סרתי לספריה של שטראשון ועברתי על פני הקאטאלוג במקרה נתקבל מבטי על הספר מאמר מרדכי להגאון ר’ מרדכי זאב אוטינגר מלמברג ספר שלא נודע לי עד אז וחשבתיו ליקר המציאות. דפדפתי בספר ומצאתי איזה הערה נפלא על דברי בעל הלכות גדולות המובא ברא”ש סוף פ”ב דיבמות. חשבתי האח, מצאתי את מה שאוותה נפשי. במוצאי שבת באתי לר’ חיים עוזר, כי הערב ההוא היה מוקש ללות אתו בחידוש תורה. בשעת השיחה העילתי כלאחר יד את הקושיא על הבה”ג. ומה השתוממתי לשמוע מפי תיכף, כי זוהי קושיתו של בעל מאמר מרדכי… [ר’ משה שמואל ודורו, עמ’ 176].

The book can be purchased from the publisher here, Amazon or Book Depository.

Here is a portrait of R’ Mattityahu followed by a scene depicting the Strashun Library in Vilna in its heyday:

“Ha’Rotzeh Lichanek, Hitaleh B’Ilan Gadol”: Notes on some Literary forgeries of Jewish works in the the Late Modern Period (1756-1965)

By Ezra Brand

Ezra Brand is an independent researcher based in Tel Aviv. He has an MA from Revel Graduate School at Yeshiva University in Medieval Jewish History, where he focused his research on 13th and 14th century sefirotic Kabbalah. He is interested in using digital and computational tools in historical research. He has contributed a number of times previously to the Seforim Blog (tag), and a selection of his research can be found at his Academia.edu profile. He can be reached at ezrabrand-at-gmail.com; any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

Introduction

Jewish literary forgeries are a topic often discussed on the Seforim Blog, especially in the postings of Dr. Marc Shapiro (see the tag “Literary Forgery” for some of the relevant posts).[1] A “literary forgery” refers to a writing which claims to have been written by a certain, usually respected, figure, while in fact written by a later, usually much lesser known, writer.

A recent collection of articles on forgeries states: “There has been a growth in the number of publications dedicated to fakes and forgeries for around thirty years now, many of which have focused on books and literary works.”[2]

The classic source regarding literary forgeries in Jewish writing is that of the Talmud Bavli, Pesachim 112a:

חמשה דברים צוה ר”ע את רבי שמעון בן יוחי כשהיה חבוש בבית האסורין […] אמר לו אם בקשת ליחנק היתלה באילן גדול.

Translation by Koren-Steinzaltz, as appears in Sefaria website (bold in the original translation):

“Rabbi Akiva commanded Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai to do five matters when Rabbi Akiva was imprisoned […] if you wish to strangle yourself, hang yourself on a tall tree.

Koren-Steinzaltz translation adds the explanation:

“This proverb means that if one wants others to accept what he has to say, he should attribute his statement to a great man.”

This interpretation is based on Rashi’s explanation:

“אם בקשת ליחנק – לומר דבר שיהיה נשמע לבריות ויקבלו ממך. היתלה באילן גדול – אמור בשם אדם גדול.”

According to Rashi’s interpretation, this source permits fabricating a quote from an authority in order to be believed.[3] 

Based on this interpretation, the term often used in rabbinic writing for “forging” in someone else’s name is “תלה ב”, literally “hung on X”, meaning “ascribed (falsely) to X”.

The great scholar of Mishpat Ivri, Nahum Rakover, devotes a portion of his book on intellectual property in halacha, to a discussion of the sources that permit fabricating a quote from an authority in order to be believed.[4]

Some recent historians seem to imply that the 19th century saw a relative uptick in Jewish literary forgeries. Golda Akhiezer, in a 2018 article on Jewish historical forgeries in the 19th century, writes:[5]

One of the paradoxes of European cultural life of the nineteenth century, especially in the Russian Empire, was a combination of two parallel yet apparently conflicting processes: the emergence and increasing importance of modern science and the rise of multifarious forgeries of historical documents.”[6]

It should be pointed out that this isn’t truly paradoxical. Anthony Grafton famously noted the deep relationship between critical scholarship and forgeries.[7]

Ira Robinson also implies an uptick in Jewish literary forgeries in the 19th century, and gives a somewhat different theory as to why this time period gave rise to so many forgeries:

By the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, the highly charged ideological atmosphere, as well as an ever-growing demand for Jewish books, engendered a situation in which there was great temptation to manufacture documents.[8]

However, it is remains speculative whether in fact there were a relatively larger number of Jewish literary forgeries in the 19th century. This question awaits a more quantitative study of the topic.[9]

Table of Notable Forgeries

It’s important to note that this list is not to be comprehensive. Rather, it’s a collection of especially notable forgeries, and some notes on them. I hope to update this list at a later date, and of course happy to hear suggestions.

Forgers

There are two works whose genre can be described as “halachic”: Saul Berlin’s Besamim Rosh (1793) and R’ Zvi Binyamin Auerbach’s Sefer Ha’Eshkol (1863).

It is quite noticeable that perpetrators of literary forgery of Jewish texts were especially prominent outside of mainstream Orthodox Judaism, and created their forgeries for polemical reasons: Karaites (forgeries of Sultan and Firkovich), Maskilim, and anti-Semites (Protocols of the Elders of Zion).

Forgery of tendentious works relating to history are especially common:[24]

1. Forged tombstone inscriptions and manuscript colophons (Firkovich)
2. Forged chronicles (Sultanski ; Ramschak Chronicle)
3. Forged travelogue (The Roads of Jerusalem of R’ Isaac Hilu)
4. Forged protocols of meetings (Protocols of Elders of Zion)
5. Forged letters (Genizat Kherson ; Bloch’s Kovetz Michtavim and more)[25]
6. Fake stories (Rosenberg ; Bloch)

Bloch and Rosenberg, who create forgeries for popular entertainment purposes, are closer to the end of the date range, and both made prominent forgeries about the golem of the Maharal: Bloch’s The Letter of the Maharal on the Creation of the Golem (1923) and Rosenberg’s Nifla’ot Maharal. For Bloch, the polemical motivation of anti-Zionism played a role in other forgeries.

Isaac Satanow is the most playful, self-aware forger of them all. He even added fake “haskamot” to his Zohar Chibura Tinyana from well-known late 18th-century rabbinic figures (R’ Yosef Teomim and R’ Chaim Halberstam of Sanz), having the haskamot point out the possibility that Satanov himself wrote the works, but giving halachic justification for the permissibility of forgery.[26]

Rakover, in his book Zekhuyot Yotzrim (cited above), was misled by Satanow. In his discussion of permissibility in halacha of false quotation and literary forgery,[27] Rakover quotes the “haskamot” to Satanov’s as showing that forging is halachically permitted. It appears that Rakover wasn’t aware that the haskamot themselves are most likely forged.

Two of the first forgers discussed here, Saul Berlin and Isaac Satanow, had similar ideologies, and. Satanow may have assisted in fabricating Besamim Rosh.[28]

Conclusion

The issue of Jewish literary forgeries has received further prominence recently in the scholarship of R’ Moshe Hillel. R’ Hillel has written a number of works exposing forgeries. His most famous work is on Divrei Gad HaHozeh, a work purporting to be from the times of King David, published from an 18th century manuscript by Professor Meir Bar-Ilan in 2015. R’ Hillel argues that it is in fact an 18th century forgery.[29]

Hillel also wrote a book earlier this year called Hazon Tavrimon devoted to R’ Yakov Moshe Toledano (1880-1960), dealing with various historical documents that Toledano “discovered”, demonstrating that they are fake.[30]

Computer algorithms have also played a role in detecting forgeries, or refuting allegations of forgery, most prominently in the work of Professor Moshe Koppel. Some of this work has been featured in the Seforim Blog.[31] Hopefully, this software will be further refined to shed light on additional works that have been accused of being forged, to supplement the traditional tools used for proving authenticity on the one hand, and uncovering forgeries on the other.

A Short Note Regarding an Illustrated Title Page and A Possible Unicum

There are a series of books, Seder ha-haʻarakhah ve-haHanhagah, that record the tax law and taxes paid by the Mantuan community and were published in Mantua. [1] The taxes were calculated by communally elected assessment formulators.  The taxes were used to support the entire communal infrastructure, including the administration of communal organizations and funds for the poor.  As today, each person would provide an accounting of their funds reducing their taxable income based upon recognized deductions and certain exempted property. The formulators were wholly responsible for the determination of the specific levied taxes and could reject suspect ax filings and impose fines.

The first edition was published in 1651 and each edition covers three years, of which the National Library has 17 editions. The British Library holds 12, seven that are not in the National Library’s collection. Vinograd lists 22 editions, six in neither library. [2] (A full bibliography appears below)

There is, however, at least one edition in the series that was not published in Mantua, the most logical location, but in Venice by Bragadin in 1711.  The likely reason for the change in venue is that from 1707-1712, there were no books printed in Mantua. [3] Nonetheless, these records were so important that the community went to Venice to publish the records.

Steinschneider, based upon Wolf’s bibliography, does identify this edition of the work. [4] But the book is not extant in the Bodleian Library.[5]  Nonetheless, no modern bibliography, e.g. Vinograd or Friedberg, records the Venice edition nor does the National Library or any other library I can identify (based on a search of WorldCat) own a copy of the book.  There is one copy, however, in the Gross Family Collection in Tel Aviv, and is possibly a unicum – the only extant copy.  Although as Judge Meyer Sulzberger, himself an avid book collector, noted that caution is necessary when identifying a unica, because “that the great weakness about a unicum is that presently one or two other people are found to have the book, and instead of contently agreeing that each of them has a unicum, each feels the value of his possession has been materially impaired.”  To this we can add that without concrete evidence of the book’s singularity, there may be private collections or public ones whose holdings are insufficiently cataloged to make a confident identification regarding the rarity of any book.  Indeed, Sulzberger provides many examples of books thought to unica, only to be identified as “merely” rare.[6]

I should also note that the Venice copy has a nice title page with Moses and Aaron. (For a discussion of depictions of Moses and Aaron on Hebrew title pages see our earlier post here.)   A very similar title page appears on a later book printed in Mantua, 1720, Mishlei ve-Eiov, although in this instance it is David and Solomon who flank the title.

Additionally, the depiction of the Moses, Aaron, Solomon and David are similar to the ones that appear – Rambam, Rashi, R Yosef Karo, Rama, and the author – on the Gur Areyeh, a commentary on Shulkhan Orakh, Mantua, 1722.

There are two editions of this book printed within a year of one another.  The second printing lacks the images entirely and the first they only appear in Orakh Hayyim, and, although not noted in bibliographies or articles regarding the book, in at least one example the title pictorial title pages also appears in Yoreh Deah.

The remaining three (or two) volumes do not contain the images.  This led some to speculate that the images were deliberately removed, and that page was ripped out at the behest of the Mantua rabbinate and a variety of theories are offered, ranging from concern over reproducing human image to the inclusion of the author among such a distinguished group was egotistical, that the Rambam lack ed peyot, or that the portraits are just not flattering. [7]

But, both the claim of censorship and the rationale are unsupported.  Most extant copies include that page and there are many earlier examples of books containing human images including of biblical figures, many without peyot, or not dressed in flattering clothing.  There is no independent evidence to suggest anything other than a benign reason, perhaps the woodcuts wore out.  This aligns with the fact that the printer was known for crude lettering so much so that it nearly lost its ability to print at all and only survived because another party stepped in. Thus it is unlikely the lack of the portraits in the later volumes is an instance of censorship.[8]

* The identification of the Gross edition as a unicum is only preliminary and still a work in progress.  The author encourages anyone with additional information regarding this edition to comment or send an email to seforimblog@gmail.com

[1] See Shlomo Simonshon, Tolodot ha-Yehudim be-Duhosot Mantua, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1963), 274-86; see also Marvin J. Heller, The Seventeenth Century Hebrew Book: An Abridged Thesaurus, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 957.

[2] For the NLI listing see here;   Diana Rowland Smith, Second Supplementary Catalog of Hebrew Books in the British Library 1893-1960, vol. 2 (London:  British Library, 1994), 599; Joseph Zedner, Catloglouge of the Hebrew Books in the Library of the British Museum (London, 1867), 510 recording Mantua 1759; Yeshayahu Vinograd, Otsar ha-Sefer ha-Ivri (Jerusalem:  Machon Lebibliograhia Memuhshevet, 1994).

[3] See Ch. B. Freidberg, Tolodot ha-Defus ha-Ivri be-Italia:  Be-Midenot Italiah, Aspnyah-Portugal, ve-Turgemah she-Melfenim (Tel Aviv:  Bar-Yeda, 1956), 20.  Friedberg does not explain the cause of the stoppage.

[4] Moritz Steinschneider, Catalogus Librorum Hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Berollini:  Ad. Friedlander, 1852-1860) columns 625-66; Johann Christoph Wolf, Bibliothecae Hebraeae, vol. 3 (Hamburg:  Christoph Felgineri Viduam, 1827), 1207-08 (Steinschneider’s citation to Wolf should be corrected to read vol. 3 and not vol. 2).

[5] See A.E. Cowley, A Concise Catalogue of the Hebrew Printed Books in the Bodleian Library (Oxford:  Clarendon Press, 1929), 410 (listing only Mantua).

[6] Meyer Sulzberger, “Books and Bookmen,” Menorah XXXVI (Jan. 1904), 38-40. For other Hebrew unica see Marvin J. Heller, “Unicum, Fragments, and Other Hebrew Book Rarities,” Judaica Librarianship 18 (2014), 130-53.

[7] See Shmuel Weiner, Daat Kedoshim:  Pesak Herem:  Mazkeret Rabanei Italiah (Petroberg: Berman Press, 1897), 38**; Aviad Cohen, “Diuknot Hakhamim:  Bein Halkha le-Maashe,” Mahnayim 10 (1995). See Mifal ha-Bibliographia ha-Ivrei entry Gur Areyeh .

One scholar viewed the selection of personages to grace the title page as an indication of their imporatance.  Specifically the inclusion of the Mahril was used to demonstrate his unique contribution to the formation of the Shulchan Orakh.  See Yisrael Peles, Mevo ve-Hosafot le-Sefer Mahril (Jerusalem:  Machon Yerushalim, 2016), 258. (Thanks to Eliezer Brodt for providing this source).

[8] Friedberg, Tolodot ha-Defus ha-Ivri, 20-21. For another example of spurious reasons for a change to the title page, see Dan Rabinowitz, “Sheti ha-Girsot shel Shu”t ha-Bakh, Mahadurot Frankfort TN”Z:  Totsot shel Shikul Tsniut, Sha’arim be Shut ha-Bach,” Alei Sefer  21(2010), 99-112.

Bibliography of Seder ha-Ha’arakhah

Mantua, 1651(BL)

Mantua, 1656 (NLI)

Mantua, 1670 (V)

Mantua, 1675 (BL)

Mantua, 1679 (NLI)

Mantua, 1682 (V)

Mantua, 1685 (V)

Venice, 1711 (Gross)

Venice, 1714 (Wolf)

Venice, 1717 (Wolf)

Mantua, 1722 (BL)

Mantua, 1722 (BL) (& a variant)

Mantua, 1726 (NLI)

Mantua, 1729 (V)

Mantua, 1732 (NLI)

Mantua, 1735 (NLI)

Mantua 1737 (BL)

Mantua, 1739 (NLI)

Mantua, 1743 (BL)

Mantua, 1747 (NLI)

Mantua, 1750 (NLI)

Mantua, 1753 (NLI)

Mantua, 1756 (NLI)

Mantua, 1759 (NLI)

Mantua, 1773 (BL)

Mantua, 1777 (NLI)

Mantua, 1780 (NLI)
Mantua, 1783 (V)

Mantua, 1786 (NLI)

Mantua, 1789 (NLI)

Mantua, 1793 (V)

Mantua, 1795 (NLI)

Mantua, 1798 (NLI)

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.