The Image of the Menorah in the Early Printed Hebrew Book

The Image of the Menorah in the Early Printed Hebrew Book

By Dan Rabinowitz

The menorah is one of the most recognizable Jewish symbols. Today it has been adopted by the State of Israel as her official symbol, and throughout history there are numerous examples of its use. Coins, headstones, paintings and synagogue walls etchings, lamps, mosaics, manuscripts, and books, all provide examples of the widespread usage and mediums. Many of these examples have been addressed by scholars, but there is a lacuna regarding the depiction of the menorah in the Hebrew book.[1]

Despite that it is one of the most recognizable and ubiquitous symbols, the image of the menorah barely makes an appearance on Hebrew books. The first appearance of the menorah in a Hebrew book was Yosef Yikhya’s, Torah Or, Bologna, 1538. There is appears on the verso of the titlepage. The menorah is created via micrography and extols the value of the work. The designer even correctly places the menorah on a stand (and not a solid base as shown in the Arch of Titus). [2] 

From the inception of printing, Hebrew printers, like others, created and populated their works with their unique marks. These symbols served advertising for the publisher. Perhaps the only other symbol with such wide resonance and connection to the Jews as the Menorah is the star of David. There are over 200 printers’ marks, or emblems, close to 20 examples of the Magen David, and multiple appearances of other Jewish symbols, lions, David, Solomon, eagles, but two only of a menorah. [3]

Meir ben Jacob Parenzo, (aka Parentio, Parintz, or Maggius Parentinus), operated in Venice from 1545 until his death in 1575. He apprenticed in Daniel Bomberg’s printing shop, and in 1545 he began working for the Venetian printer, Cornelio Adelkind. Although most of his career was in the service of others, he did publish a handful of books on his own. He did not own a press and likely used Bomberg’s Press. All of these books bear Parenzo’s printers mark, a menorah. Whatever ambiguity there is about his surname, his personal name, Meir, alludes to lighting, thus a natural connection to the menorah. On either side of the menorah, “This is Meir’s menorah, he is the son of Yaakov Parenzo.”

Parnezo’s mark comprises around half of the title page. This grotesque design was called out for being unique among his contemporaries, but that it was “a pathetic bid for immortality.” As a measure of divine justice, according one scholar of Hebrew Italian printing, that “Meir Parenzo, notwithstanding his hope for immortality, is completely forgotten except for a small circle of Hebrew bibliographers, who, although conscious that the individual contributions of the men they commemorate are negligible in the great current of human affairs as it flows majestically down through the ages, nevertheless handing down (or transmitting) the knowledge of the existence of so many faithful men who have contributed their share to the enlightenment of the world.” [4] 

Another printer, also a Meir, incorporated the menorah into his mark, although on a much smaller scale. Meir ben Yaakob Ibn Ya’ir, here too, the surname, Ibn Ya’ir, references light. The menorah appears inside a border, flanked by olive trees surrounded by four verses, all mentioning either oil or light. Meir was active between 1552 and 1555. He published a few books abridged books on the laws of shehitah, as well as a work on Hebrew grammar, all exceedingly rare. [5]

The menorah next makes an appearance in Moshe Cordovero’s, (1522-1570), first book, Pardes Rimonim. This illustration is not of the biblical menorah, rather it is a kabbalistic representation of the sefirot overlaid on the menorah frame. This illustration was printed in most subsequent editions of Pardes Rimonim, although not as an exact reprint of the first edition.

The first illustration of the menorah that was an attempt to depict and elucidate complexities of the biblical menorah only occurred in 1593. There were two books that include the illustration, Biurim and Omek Halakha.

R. Yaakov ben Shmuel Bunim Koppelman, (1555-1594) studied with R. Mordechai Jaffe, author of the Levush. In addition to traditional subjects, he was also well-versed in (my astronomy and mathematics. He published Omek Halakha in Cracow, 1593, a commentary on the Talmud. This slim volume of just 95 pages, is rich in illustrations, which appear on nearly every page. For example, there is a thirteen page an in-depth discussion of astrology with two full page diagrams of the lunar paths and many of the other pages include multiple illustrations. Koppelman includes a detailed diagram of the menorah with an accompanying commentary. [6]

The Biurim on Rashi was published in 1593 in Venice and attributed to R. Nathan Shapira. Shapira had died in 1577; his work includes three illustrations, the menorah, a map of Israel, and a diagram of how the spies carried the large bunch of grapes. This is the first Hebrew book to contain a map.

The book is one of the handful of examples of literary forgeries in Hebrew books. R. Shapira’s son, Yitzhak, published his father’s comments on Rashi in 1597 in a work titled Imrei Shefer. In the introduction he explains why there are two books that are attributed to his father on the same topic published within a few years of one another.

ואתם קדושי עליון אל תתמהו על החפץ שזה שתנים ימים יצא בדפוס איזה ביאורים הנקראים על שם הגאון אדוני אבי ז”ל, כי המציאוהו אנשים, אנשי בלי עול מלכות שמים, חיבור אשר מצאו, ומי יודע המחבר אם נער כתבו ורצו לתלותו באילן גדול אדני אבי ז”ל, חלילה לפה קדוש להוציא מפיו דברים אשר אין בהם ממש, כי הכל תוהו ובוהו ומזויף מתוכו, כלו עלו קמשונים כסו פניו חרולים. וכאשר הגיעו הספרים ההם בגלילות אלו הכרוז בהסכמת כל רבני ורשאי המדינות שלא ומכרו ויהיו בבל יראה ובבבל ימצא בכל ארצות אלו. ואשר קנו מהם יחזר להם המעות ולא ימצא בביתך עולה

[“Do not wonder why I am publishing what was published just two years ago, the Biurim, in my father’s name. As wicked people, people who found a book, a book which may have been written by a child. However, they wanted to use my father’s good name to publish their work. But, my father would never say such stupidities which appear in that book, their book is worthless and a forgery. When this was discovered all the Rabbis agreed that this book [Biurim] should be under a ban, no one should be allowed to keep it. Whomever purchased it should have their money returned, they should not allow a stumbling block into their home.”]

According to R. Shapiro’s son, the Biurim, is illicitly associated with his father. His son was not the only one to question the authenticity of the Biurim. R. Yissachar Bear Ellenburg in his Be’er Sheva and in his Tzedah L’Derekh states unequivocally that R. Shapiro did not write the Biurim.

The diagram of the menorah does not appear in Imrei Shefer. [7]

The diagram of the menorah appears in Yosef Da’at printed in Prague in 1609 by Rabbi Yosef ben Issachar Miklish (1580 -1654). He was a student of the Maharal of Prague and of Rabbi Ephraim Lonchitz, the author of the Klai Yakar. The purpose of the book was to correct errors in Rashi’s commentary. He used a 14th century manuscript to make those corrections. To better facilitate studying Rashi, the book includes illustrations including the menorah. This a full page with detailed descriptions of each part of the menorah. Interestingly, the base seems to combine two different approaches, one that has three legs and the other with a solid base. Miklish reproduces a solid base on top of three legs.

In 1656/57 Yalkut Shimoni with the commentary of Berit Avraham was published in Livorno, Italy. This one includes a menorah created via micrography, but unlike the others that appear at the front of the books, this one appears at the end. It is a colophon.

A unique example of the menorah appears in the 1684 edition of the Humash. It is the sole illustration on the title page. When the menorah appears on the title page, it is almost always in conjunction with other vessels or other symbols. This is perhaps the only instance of a stand-alone menorah on a title page.

The next appearance is the first time it illustrated a titlepage, in R. Shabbati ben Joseph Meshorer Bass’s (1641-1718), most well-known work, his commentary on Rashi, Siftei Hakhamim. This edition was published in Dyhernfurth, Germany at Bass’s press. This was the second edition of the work, (the first was published in 1680 in Amsterdam), and includes one of the most unusual Hebrew titlepages.

The titlepage depicts Moshe and Aaron, with the ark and other temple vessels, and prominently, and occupying the bottom third of the page, a menorah. Bass makes multiple luminary allusions on the title page. This edition includes

“.עם תרגום אנקלוס וביאור מאור הגדול רש״י ז״ל: ועליו מפרשי דבריו ככוכבים יזהירו: ובש״בעה נרות יאירו

The menorah makes another appearance on the next page. Like the Torah Or, Bass uses micrography, in praise of the book, to form the shape of the menorah.

Aside from the figurative arts there was also a musical component to the page. This is not surprising as Shabbati was a musician and singer, and a noted bassist singer, hence the “Meshorrer”/“Bass” surname. On the bottom of the page, in the left corner, appears “Az Yashir Moshe” the beginning of the one of the fundamental Jewish musical pieces, and musical notes appear at the bottom of the page, in what appears to be a composition of sorts. This is one of the few times musical notations appears in early Hebrew religious books. Another is Immanuel Hayi Ricci’s commentary on the Mishna, Hon Ashir, printed in Amsterdam in 1731. Appended to the end of the book are three songs, two set to music with notation.

Another menorah appears in Bass’s edition. On the next page, like the Torah Or, the menorah is comprised of micrography extoling this edition with the commentary. [8]

In 1694, R. Avraham Tzahalon published a portion of his grandfathers, R. Yom Tov Tzahalon’s (c. 1559-1638), responsa. R. Yom Tov was a child prodigy, only eighteen when he published his first work. That same year he was included in granting an approbation alongside R. Moshe Tarani (Mahrit) and R. Moshe Alschech. R. Yom Tov was no shrinking violet. And he had a dim view of R. Yosef Karo’s Shulhan Arukh. He belittled it, calling it only fit for children. The title page and the verso of the 1694 edition include depictions of the temple vessels and specifically the menorah. But his responsa do not discuss the temple vessels and this was included, “to beautify and embellish the title page of the book in a manner fit for print; the students illustrated holy concepts, the form of the Tabernacle and the Third Temple.” A rare of example of acknowledging the aesthetic beauty in the Hebrew book.

Three years later, the Italian scholar, Moshe Hafetz, (1663-1711), (aka Moses Gentili) published Hannukat ha-Bayit which discusses the Temple in great detail and includes numerous illustrations. Because of the illustrations, the book was printed in two parts. First all the text was printed with space left for the illustrations and illustrations were then added using etched copperplates.

His other work, Melekhet Mahshevet, includes his portrait, the first rabbinic portrait included in a Hebrew book, which is somewhat controversial because he is bareheaded. In a 19th century edition, a yarmulke was drawn on his head.[9]

The Bass titlepage served as the model for another lavishly illustrated titlepage. Although it served as a model, it was only a model and not a perfect facsimile. This was intentional. In this instance, the Menorah was the most important visual element of the titlepage and therefore is significantly larger than before and is in the center not the bottom of the page. Of course, this is because the book’s title includes menorah, Menorat haMeor. The book’s structure is based upon the biblical menorah and divided into seven parts, like the seven branches of the menorah. The title page was likely executed by the well-known engraver, Avraham ben Jacob, whose lavishly illustrated 1695 edition of the Haggadah, remains among the most remarkable illustrated haggadot and served as a model for dozens of other illustrated haggadot. Like in the Biruim, Jacob also produced a map, this one much more refined than the basic one in the Biruim. It is a large fold-out map of the Jews travels from Egypt to Israel. Most of his illustrations are copied from the Mathis Maren, a Christian, whose biblical illustrations were very popular. [10]

The illustration was reused by another Amsterdam printer, Solomon Proops, in 1723. Thus, this is one of the few instances of Hebrew titlepage images reflecting the title or the work itself rather than serving a mere ornamental purpose. The titlepage imagery was reused for a 1755 edition of the Torah. This time the menorah is significantly reduced in size.

While these menorahs depicted in Hebrew books, might differ in small details, they are consistent in depicting curved, and not straight, arm. Nearly every manuscript and all the archeological finds similarly depict the curved branches. Of late, this is subject to controversy. The Lubavitcher Rebbe heavily promoted his position that the arms of the biblical menorah were straight and not rounded. In the main, he based this on a manuscript in the Rambam’s hand that includes a depiction of the menorah with straight arms and the confirming testimony of his son that, according to Rambam, the arms were straight. This produced one of the more unusual exchanges in a haredi journal, in his instance, Or Yisrael, published in Monsey, New York. Those historic and documentary materials are used by R. Yisrael Yehuda Yakob, from Kollel Belz, as evidence against the Rebbe’s position. The article uses the mosaics in the 7th century Shalom al Yisrael Synagogue. The menorah is at the center of a large mosaic. The inscription near the mosaic indicates that the entire congregation, men, women, old and young, all took part in the creation of the mosaic. The Burnt House in Jerusalem’s Old City, that dates to the Second Temple period. Yakob then moves on to numismatic, citing a coin from the Hasmanoim period. Section three is then devoted to a discussion of the menorah on the Arch of Titus. Yakob references unidentified “hokrim” who posit that the base of the menorah was broken en route to Rome and was replaced with a base of a Roman creation. This explains why the base does not conform with the Rabbinic description and contains bas reliefs of various mythical and real animals. It was not the true one. Although unidentified, this position is that of the former Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rabbi Herzog as well as the nineteenth-century British Protestant academic, William Knight. Only in section four does Yakob turn to the more traditional Medieval Jewish commentaries. Ultimately, Yakob concludes that the rounded arms is the correct depictions and “justifies” the custom to draw it that way. Following the text, is a reproduction of the menorah from the second century synagogue, Dura Europas. A most unusual conclusion for a rabbinic article. (The image of the Dura Europos menorah actually depicts a straight arm menorah, that follows the Rebbe’s opinion. This is one of the only archeological examples of a straight arm menorah. The value of this image, however, is questionable. The menorah appears four times at Dura Europos. The straight arm one appears at the upper left corner of the opening for entrance. But, in the panel that specifically depicts the Mishkan and its vessels, there is a rounded arm menorah. While we don’t know what to attribute the differences to, it is more likely that greater care was placed in the accurate reproduction of the menorah within the context of the mishkan rather than were it serves as mere decoration.)

As would be expected, there was a rebuttal article that is more in line with the Haredi approach. The author concedes that his main objection is to Yakob’s approach, the “fundamental point which is almost litmus test of one’s religiosity: any evidence adduced from pictures and archeological evidence, God forbid, to rely upon these things or the conclusions of archeologists.” Although never directly discussed, presumably the author would dismiss the examples in the Hebrew book.[11]

* I would like to thank the bibliophile par excellence, Marvin Heller, for his assistance and close read of the article, and William Gross, whose library of objects and books is among the richest private collections, and provided most of the images, with credit to the Gross Family Collection. Many are available at the Center for Jewish Art website (https://cja.huji.ac.il/browser.php).

[1] See for example, Rachel Hachlili, The Menorah, The Seven-Armed Candelabrum (Leiden: Brill, 2001) who exhaustively catalogs the examples of menorah depictions but does not discuss the Hebrew book.
[2] For the history of the menorah, see Steven Fine’s comprehensive study, The Menorah, From the Bible to Modern Israel (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016). Also see L. Yarden, The Tree of Light, A Study of the Menorah (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1971.
[3] Avraham Yaari, Degali Madfisim ha-Ivriyim (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1944), see index s.v. magen David and menorah; Yitzhak Yudlov, Degali Madfisim (Jerusalem: Old City Press, 2002); For examples of lions, eagles, and fish, see Marvin Heller, Essays on the Making of the Early Hebrew Book (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 5-84
[4] See Steinschnider, Catalogus Libr Hebr., col. 2984, no. 8761 (discussing his surname); Yaari, Degali, 128-29; Encyclopeadia Judaica, vol. 13 col. 101-02 (1996); David Amram, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy (London: Holland Press, 1963), 367-71.

Parenzo may have a second printers mark that only appears once, in the 1574 Bragadini edition of the Rambam. On the verso of the title page is, according to EJ, “a rather daring design” illustrating Venus hurling arrows at a seven-headed dragon. Unmentioned is Venus’ clothes, or lack thereof.

This mark is similar to the Cremona-Sabbioneta, printer, Vincenzo Conti’s mark, with the seven-headed hydra. His, however, has Hercules rather than Venus.

A nude Venus was also used by Allesandro Gardano for his printers mark. He only published one book, a pocket edition of the Shulhan Orakh in 1578. A naked Venus rising appears at the bottom.

Hans Jacob, who published in Hanau in the 1620s, also has a naked Venus rising from a seashell at the bottom of at least four works, R. Moshe Isserless, Torat Hatas, Sefer Mahril, and a Siddur.

For a detailed discussion of Parenzo’s printing activities, see A.M. Haberman, “Ha-madfeshim beni R’ Yaakov Parenzoni be-Veniztia,” in Areshet 1 (1959), 61-88.
[5] See Yudolov, Degali Madfisim (Jerusalem: Old City Press, 2002), 23-24.
[6] See Marvin Heller, “Jacob ben Samuel Bunim Koppelman: A Sixteenth Century Multi-Faceted Jewish Scholar,” Gutenberg-Jahrbuch (Mainz, 2018), pp. 195-207.
[7] Introduction Imrei Sefer, Lublin 1697 (on differences in the printings of the Imrei Shefer see Yudolov, Areshet, 6 (1981) 102 no. 7); Biurim, Venice 1693; R. E. Katzman, “Rabbi Nathan Nata Shapiro – Ha-Megaleh Amukot” in Yeshurun 13 (Elul 2002) 677-700; Introduction [R. E. Katzman], Seder Birkat HaMazon im Pirush shel R. Noson Shapiro, 2000 Renaissance Hebraica, 1-10.
[8] His original surname may have been Strimers. See Shimeon Brisman, A History and Guide to Judaic Bibliography (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1977), 267n.33. For additional biographical information see id. collecting sources.
[9] Dan Rabinowitz, “Yarlmuke: A Historic Cover-up?,” (here) Hakirah (4).
[10] Regarding the map, see Harold Brodsky, “The Seventeenth-Century Haggadah Map of Avraham Bar Yaacov,” in Jewish Art 19-20 (1993-1994): 149-157; David Stern, “Mapping the Redemption: Messianic Cartography in the 1695 Amsterdam Haggadah,” in Studia Rosenthaliana 42/43 (2010-2011), 43-63; Amir Cahanovitc, “Mappot be-haggadot pesah” (Masters thesis, Achva Academic College, 2015), 34-85. For a discussion of this edition and reproductions of some of its images and a comparison with Mathew Merian’s illustrations see Cecil Roth, “Ha-Haggadah ha-Metsuyyeret she-bi-Defus,” Areshet 3 (1961), 22-25; Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Haggadah and History (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2005), plates 59-62, 67, 69.
[11] See R. Yisrael Yehuda Yakob, “Tzurot Kani Menorah,” in Or Yisrael 18 () 131-139; R. Nahum Greenwald, “Kani Menorah Ketzad Havei,” in Or Yisrael 18 () 140-154.




Hunted Bears, Cantonists and Nazi Victims

by Yitzhak, בין דין לדין.
I thank Dan Rabinowitz for graciously allowing me to post this essay.
Hunted Bears

This is the cover image of the Gary Larson collection Beyond The Far Side:

I have long found this cartoon profoundly depressing, in its humorous but acute portrayal of the moral degradation of which we are capable. עור בעד עור, וכל אשר לאיש יתן בעד נפשו 1; the desperate bear grins inanely as he attempts to persuade the hunter to shoot his companion instead of himself.

Several months ago, though, I had an epiphany; it is all very well to consider the matter from a literary-psychological perspective, but what is the view of the Halachah 2?

Cantonists and ‘Chappers’

The thought lay dormant in my mind, until I read the following paragraph in Dr. Marc Shapiro’s typically erudite and fascinating article Rabbis and Communism at The Seforim Blog:

When dealing with anti-clericalism in Russia, we must also not forget the masses’ long memory of how some (many?, most?) rabbis were silent during the era of the chappers. This was when children were grabbed for 25 years of military service in the Cantonists, often never again to see their parents and usually succumbing to incessant pressure (including torture) to be baptized. Yet it wasn’t the children of the rich or the rabbis who were taken, but the poor children. Jacob Lifshitz’ defense of the way the Jewish community dealt with the Cantonist tragedy – which he regards as worse than even the destruction of the Temple! – and his insistence that no one can judge the community leaders unless they themselves had been in such a difficult circumstance, is something we must bear in mind. Yet all such ex post facto justifications would have no impact on the outlook of those that actually suffered during the Cantonist era, and it is no wonder that many of the common people would not regard the rabbis in a sympathetic light. The rabbis were certainly able to come up with a justification why their sons, the future Torah scholars, should not be taken to the army, just as they continue to make this argument. Yet this would only serve to show the masses that some children’s blood was indeed redder than others.

This post shall attempt to clarify the relevant controlling Halachos for both scenarios: may a bear attempt to save his life at the expense of his comrade’s, and may a potential or actual draftee, or a friend of his, attempt to evade the draft if the consequence will be the drafting of another instead.3

The Yerushalmi

The locus classicus for this discussion is a passage in the Yerushalmi Bava Kama:

שור שעלה בחבירו ובא בעל השור ושמטו מתחתיו אם עד שלא עלה שמטו ונפל ומת פטור ואם דחהו ונפל ומת חייב

אמר רבי יוסי ותישמע מינה ראה אמת המים שוטפת ובאה לתוך שדהו רשאי לפנותן למקום אחר משנכנסו אין רשאי לפנותן למקום אחר
אהן כריסו ארגירא עד דלא ייתי אהן כריסו ארגירא שרי מימר פלן עביד עבדיתי פלן עביד עבדיתי. מן דייתי אהן כריסו ארגירא אסיר.

הדין אכסניי פרכא עד דלא ייתון רומאי שרי מיחשדוניה ומן דייתון רומאי אסיר.4

The Nimukei Yosef cites the second paragraph of the Yerushalmi, about the Amas Hamayim 5.
Rema rules:

היה רואה נזק בא עליו מותר להציל עצמו אף על פי שעל ידי זה בא הנזק לאחר6

Rema only cites the permissive component of the Yerushalmi; he omits the Yerushalmi’s stringency, prohibiting the shifting onto another of a misfortune that is considered to have already befallen. Sema does indeed cite the latter part of the Yerushalmi:

שם בנימוקי יוסף סיים וכתב דאם כבר בא עליו אסור לסלקו ממנו כשגורם בזה היזק לחבירו:7

but why does Rema omit it? This question is raised by Rav Haim Yehudah Leib Epstein, who infers that Rema does not actually accept the stringency of the Yerushalmi L’Halachah, a position for which he offers various justifications, which are beyond the scope of this post 8. Although we shall see that The consensus of the Poskim, however, seems to accept the Yerushalmi in its entirety as Halachah 9.
The Hafetz Haim discusses this Yerushalmi; he is curiously tentative about its application to the question of Lashon Ha’Ra that he is considering, the deflection of blame from oneself in a situation in which so doing will consequently cause another to be accused:

אבל אם על ידי זה [שמשיב מי שנחשד מחבירו בעשיית דבר שלא כהוגן נגדו שאכן הוא לא עשאו] ממילא יוודע לו העושה, כגון שלא היה לו הספק כי אם על שניהם, תלוי בזה: אם הוא באמת דבר שאינו הגון, נראה דמותר לדחות זה מעל עצמו, אף שממילא יתגלגל הדבר על חבירו. אבל אם באמת דבר זה איננו עוולה, רק להשואל נראה שהדבר הזה הוא עוולה, צריך עיון אם מותר להשיב לו אפילו בלשון: אני לא עשיתי את הדבר, כיון שעל ידי זה ממילא יתגנדר הדבר על חבירו.10

ונראה שדבר זה תלוי במה שמבואר בחושן משפט, בסימן שפ”ח (סוף סעיף ב) בהגהה … ועיין בסמ”ע שם … ומשמע מביאור הגר”א שם (אות כ”ט) שהוא מסכים להסמ”ע. והכא נמי אם הוא רואה שנחלט לעת עתה חשדא אצל השואל עליו, אסור לו לגלות כדי להסירה מעליו ולתיתה על חבירו, ועיין בביאור הגר”א שם, ואם אינו בגדר זה, מותר. ואף על פי כן, דבר זה אינו מבורר אצלי היטב למעשה.

Draft Evasion

Rav Yosef Ibn Lev discusses a case apparently very similar to one of the scenarios in the Yerushalmi:

שאלה ראובן היה לו אהבה עם השרים ויועצי המלכות ולפעמים היו תופסין מחמת המלכות לקצת יהודים עשירים והיו כותבין לשראפי”ש או לשאר אומניות כמנהג המלכות הלז וזה היהודי שיש לו אהבה עם השרים יש לאל ידו להציל איזה יהודי מאותה הצרה אבל ירא לנפשו שאם יציל לשמעון יקחו ללוי תחתיו ומאן לימא ליה דדמא דשמעון סומק טפי דילמא דמה דלוי סומק טפי ועל זה שאל אם הרשות בידו להציל לשמעון מצרתו:

תשובה עיקרא דהאי מילתא איתא ביבמות פרק הערל אמרינן התם מאי שנא הני אמר רב הונא העבירום לפני הארון כל שהארון קולטו למיתה כל שאין הארון קולטו לחיים מתיב רב חנה בר ביזנא ויחמול המלך על מפיבושת בן יהונתן בן שאול שלא העבירו וכי משוא פנים יש בדבר אלא שהעבירו וקלטו ובקש רחמים ופלטו ואכתי משוא פנים יש בדבר אלא שבקש רחמים שלא יקלטנו הארון מהך שמעינן בנדון דידן שאם כבר כתבו ליהודי אחד לשארא”ף ותפשו אותו והדבר ידוע שאם ימלט זה שיקחו אחר תחתיו אין להשתדל להצילו אבל אם יצתה גזרה לקחת קצת יהודים לאומנות המלך לשרא”ף וכיוצא בו הרשות נתונה להשתדל להציל לכל מי שירצה

והאי דכתבינא דאם כבר נכתב למלכות דאסור להשתדל להצילו כיון דמנהג הוא לקחת אחר תחתיו היינו דוקא היכא דהוי ודאי דלית ספיקא אבל היכא דאיכא ספיקא די עידנא ישתנה ויעבור זעם ולא יקחו אחר תחתיו אין ספק מוציא מידי ודאי …11

Shach endorses Ibn Lev’s ruling distinguishing between where the royal decree specifies particular individuals and where it merely demands a quota, and he says that the inference from the Mefiboshes passage is compelling12. It is curious, though, that neither Ibn Lev nor Shach mention in this context the Yerushalmi that we have been discussing until now; Rav Akiva Eiger 13, Rav Baruch Frankel14, Rav Meir Ya’akov Ginzberg15, and Pis’hei Teshuvah16 all refer the reader to the Yerushalmi. We shall presently see a suggestion for why Ibn Lev and Shach do not cite the Yerushalmi.

Rav Shmuel Landau discusses whether it is permitted to take action to save particular individuals from a governmental draft, even though the result will inevitably be the seizure of others:

… ועל דבר שאלתו שאלת חכם חצי תשובה קשה להורות בדבר הנוגע לנפשות תחלה ומי ירים ראש בדברים כאלה. …

אבל לבי מהסס בדבר אם מותר לישראל להשתדל עבור איזה אנשים שלא יקחו אותם. ודבר זה מבואר בתשובות מהר”י בן לב .. הובא בש”ך … ואם כן גם בנדון דידן אם עדיין לא לקח השר ולא פרט מי שיהיה יכולים להשתדל דרך שלילה על אנשים ידועים שלא יקחו אותם:
ובאמת תמיה לי טובא על הש”ך בסימן [ק]ס”ג שהביא ממרחק לחמו מתשובת מהר”י בן לב הנ”ל הלא דבר זה מפורש בש”ע ברמ”א סימן שפ”ח סוף סעיף ב’ … הרי ממש כפסק של מהר”י בן לב וגם הסמ”ע שם כתב … הרי ממש כפסק של מהר”י בן לב:

ואפשר ליישב דמהרמ”א לקמן נשמע דאותו אדם עצמו כשרואה דהנזק בא עליו דמותר להציל עצמו אבל שיהיה לאחרים רשות להשתדל עבורו לא שמענו ולכך הביא הש”ך דברי מהר”י בן לב ופסק דגם אחרים יכולים להשתדל עבורו אם עדיין לא בא הנזק וראייתו מדוד שהתפלל על מפיבושת שלא יקלטנו הארון: [ועיין שם שהאריך לפלפל בסוגיא דיחדו לאחד מהם.]17

Rav Avraham Maskil Le’Eisan cites this responsum and suggests that one may permitted to save himself at another’s expense even if he has already been selected for misfortune:

ועיין בנודע ביהודה .. שכתב דאם כבר לקחו אנשים ידועים אסור להשתדל להצילם רק קודם שנלקח אף א’ מותר להשתדל להציל א’. וכמו שכתב הש”ך .. ובהג”ה שם (ש”פ) [לכאורה צ”ל שפ”ח].

ונראה שהוא עצמו יכול להשתדל אף שנלקח דחייך קודמין:18

This is incomprehensible; as we have seen, the entire point of Rav Landau is that the reason that Ibn Lev and Shach do not derive their permission to save someone at another’s expense from the Yerushalmi is because they are allowing a third party to save a victim, whereas the Yerushalmi is discussing efforts by the victim himself, and yet the Yerushalmi explicitly forbids even such efforts when the misfortune is specific to the victim! Perhaps Rav Maskil Le’Eisan holds like Rav Epstein, that the Rema’s omission of the Yerushalmi’s prohibition indicates that it is not normative, but given that the Sema does cite the prohibition, and none of the major commentaries reject it, if Rav Maskil Le’Eisan really held like Rav Epstein, he should have said so explicitly 19.

“At Risk” Youths

In his article, Shapiro comments that:

Michael Stanislawski notes that in one community the communal leaders wanted to grab a poor tailor since he wasn’t observant, but the local rabbi forbid it. …

In a strong defense of the rabbis against the charge that they collaborated with the rich people in order to ensure that the poor were taken, R. Moses Solomon Kazarnov calls attention to all that the rabbis did to defend the children of the lower class. But he acknowledges that the rabbis would hand over the non-religious kids, including their own!

In the continuation of his responsum, Rav Landau, no mere local Rabbi, issues an uncompromising rejection of religious laxity as a justification for handing someone over to the government. He unequivocally, passionately and eloquently rejects a suggestion of his questioner that the community satisfy the government’s demands with some “נערים קלים ופרוצים ביותר”; indeed, he seems horrified by the idea:

ומה שכתב מעלתו דיש שם איזה נערים קלים ופרוצים ביותר. אהובי ידידי אין אנו יכולים לדון דיני נפשות דעל כל פנים הנערים אינן בכלל מורידין אף שהם נוהגין בקלות קצת והרבה הילדות עושה וניתן להענישם בתפיסה ומכת מרדות וכדומה אבל חלילה למסור אותם בידים ואל ידח ממנו נידח להדיחם לגמרי מקהל עדת ישראל ואף שיש ביד טובי העיר והבית דין לדון בכל עונשים חמורים למגדר מלתא היינו אם העם פרוץ בו וגם לזה צריך שיהיה דוקא גדולי הדור או טובי העיר שהמחום רבים עליהם … אבל היכא דליכא משום מגדר מלתא שאין העם פרוצים רק איזה נערים הקלים מי ירים ראש לדון בזה. …

[ועיין שם שפלפל עוד בזה, והעלה:] ויהיה איך שיהיה … בנדון דידן אף שיש נערים קלים ועוברים על איזה מצות אין אנו רשאין בשביל כן להעניש אותם כפלי כפלים ככל חטאותם ולסכן אותם בידים ובפרט שלא נתברר בעדות ברורה אם עברו על עבירה חמורה בשאט נפש לכן שארית ישראל לא יעשו עולה כזו.20

We must note that Rav Landau’s unwillingness to countenance the seizure of the religiously dubious youths is apparently predicated on his assertion that they are not in the category of Moridin; if it were reliably established that they were thoroughly irreligious21, he may indeed not object to their seizure.
Rav Landau concludes with an apparent reiteration of his earlier ruling permitting action which is merely evasive:

אך את זה יכולים לעשות להשתדל דרך שלילה על אדם חשוב וכשר שלא יקחו את זה כל זמן שלא קראו לו בפירוש שאותו הם מבקשים אבל אם כבר בא הפקודה לאחד קשה להורות להתיר להשתדל עבורו אם על ידי שזה יוצא לחירות ילכד אחר במצודה זו ומאי חזית דדמי דהאי סומק טפי מדמי דאיש אחר אשר יבא אחריו.

וידעתי שבנדון זה קשה להורות ועל זה אמרו חז”ל כשם שמצוה לומר דבר הנשמע כן מצוה שלא לומר דבר שאינו נשמע והמשכיל בעת ההיא ידום אבל על כל פנים זה מחויב למחות ביד מי שרוצה למסור בידים.

The Hasam Sofer has a similarily strong denunciation of the unfair selection by the community of particular individuals, even alleged “פוחזים וריקים”, to be drafted:

ועל דבר עם בני ישראל הנלקחים לצבא המלחמה למלכיות השתיקה יפה מדיבורינו בזה וגדולי ישראל ע”כ יעלימו עין והניחו להם להממונים מקהל לעשות כראות עיניהם לפי הזמן ועת לחשות

ומכל מקום אומר כי גוף ענין דינא דמלכותא להטיל מס על כל עמו להעמיד מהם אנשים לצבא מלחמתו וזה הוא מחק מלכותו ודינו דין וממילא מוטל אקרקפתא דכל מי שראוי לצאת ושאין לו אשה ובנים כפי נימוס וחק מלכותו אך לא אבחורים לומדי תורה שאפילו לא פטרום המלכות בפירוש מכל מקום מדין תורה פטורים דאמרינן בפרק קמא דבבא בתרא ח’ ע”א הכל לכרי’ פתייא אפילו רבנן והני מילי דלא נפקי באוכלזא אבל נפקי באוכלזא רבנן לאו בני מיפק באוכלזא נינהו ומכל שכן שהמלכות יר”ה פטרם וכבר כמה פעמים כשנתתי אטעסט לבני מדינו’ פיהם ומעהר”ין שהם לומדים ויצליחו לנהוג ציבור נפטרו מלהעמיד עצמם לצבא ואם כן כל הנוגע בהם נוגע בבבת עין:

ואידך מהראוי שיעמדו עצמם כולם בשוה לפני העדה ויטילו גורל ועל מי שיפול עליו הגורל הוא ישתדל לעצמו במה שיכול לפטור בממון או להעמיד אחר במקומו או ילך בעצמו וכל ישראל מחויבים לסייעו ויקר פדיון נפשו אבל לאנוס אנשים בלי גורל ולומר שהם פוחזים ורקים אפילו מגלי עריות ומחללי שבת בעיני הוא כגונב נפש ומכרו כי מי נותן זה חליפי זה כיון שחיוב המלכות ופקודתו על כולם בשוה והמוסרו כמוסר לתוא מכמר אפילו מחוי אתיבנא חייב מכל שכן מוסר נפשו ורע ומר יותר כי הטובים הנאנסים עוברים על המצות באונס ולעתים רחוקים ואלו יעשו ברצון ואנו מדחים אחר הנופל עיין פרק קמא דקידושין לענין מכר עצמו לנכרים:

אך מה שנמצאים עתה למאות המוכרים עצמם מרצונם וברצי כסף ולכן אף על גב דהמה גריעי מכולהו שהרי בשאט נפשם מתנים לחלל שבתות ולאכול איסורים מכל מקום כיון דשכיחי טובא ולא הוה כתרי עיברא נהרי ואם אין קהלה זו קונהו ימכור עצמו במקום אחר אם כן קלקלתם בעו”ה תקנה קצת וכן עשו בכל גלילותינו והוא כעין בחירת הרע במיעוטו
והנה קצרתי מאוד כי אין ראוי להאריך בענין זה כמובן …22

Hasam Sofer prohibits seizing even youths who are מגלי עריות ומחללי שבת, but perhaps he is referring only to those who yield to temptation, and are therefore not considered Apikorsim, Minim or Meshumadim, and are not in the category of Moridin 23.
Although both Rav Landau and the Hasam Sofer are unequivocal in their condemnation of the unfair seizure by the community of particular individuals in order to save others, I do not know if their opposition would extend to a mere request to the government that it draft them, or to the attempt by the targeted bear in the Far Side cartoon to convince the hunter to shoot his companion instead of himself. Normally these actions might constitute Mesirah, but in these situations, where the government will inevitably seize some individuals, and the hunter will certainly shoot a bear, and the request is merely determining who the victim(s) will be, perhaps the permissive rulings of the Yerushalmi and Ibn Lev still apply, since in any event the Yerushalmi seems to be a dispensation of the law of Grama B’Nizakin, which would presumably normally forbid the causing of harm to another even in the indirect forms under discussion.

Kapos, Quotas and Cards

Rav Zvi Hirsch Meisels relates the following heartbreaking story:

מסחר נפשות עם הקאפו”ס

והנה ליום המחרת, שהיא יום א’ דראש השנה, אשר כל באי עולם יעברון לפניו כבני מרון, היה יום מהומה ומבוכה, ומפה לאוזן נתפשטה השמועה בכל המחנה, שלעת ערב יקחו את הנערים לבית המוקד, … ולהרבה אנשים שבמחנה הי’ להם בנם יחידם, אשר נשארו להם לפליטה, בתוך אלו הנערים או שאר בשרם הקרובים אליהם, או סתם ידידים אהובים אנשי עירם, והמה רצו כל היום בראש מבולבל מסביב הבלאק המוסגר, אולי יופתח איזה קרן אור להציל משם את הנער היקר להם עד שלא תחשך השמש.

אך השומרים הקאפו”ס לא שעו אל כל תחנוניהם ובכיותיהם להוציא איזה נער וילד, מבין המסוגרים אשר נדונים לשריפה, … במקרה הלזה הי’ גם טענתם בטענה צודקת בפיהם, היות שהם אחראים על סכום הילדים שהופקדו לשומרים אליהם, אשר היה במספר מדויק, ולעת ערב עליהם למסור אותם לידי אנשי הס’ ס’ ימ”ש במספר ובמנין כאשר מסרו להם, ואם יחסר אחד מהם אז דמם בראשם ויקחו אותם לשריפה, נפש תחת נפש.

אכן סוף סוף אחרי הרבה השתדלות ומו”מ של הקרובים עמהם גברה בהם תאות הממון, והסכימו בעד תשלום סכומים גדולים, לשחרר איזה נער וילד, ותיכף חטפו במקומו איזה נער אחר, מן הבא בידם בתוך המחנה, (מאלו שהצליחו להתחמק מהאוסף של אתמול או שנשתחררו בעת הבירור על ידי נגיעת ראשם בדף) וסגרוהו בהבלאק הנ”ל במקום הנער הפדוי כדי שיהיה המספר שלם.

והנה להרבה אנשים הי’ עוד סכומי כספים, או חתיכת זהב או מרגליות, טמון במטמונים ובמנעלים לעת הצורך, וכמובן שהי’ כמה אנשים פשוטים ובעלי קוצר השגה שלא עשו שום חשבונות מה נעשה במקום נער הנפדה, וקיבצו במסירת נפש כל הונם הנשאר להם או שהשתדלו לאסוף סכום הנצרך, מאחרים ידידים ומכירים, ופדו את בנם המסוגר מכליון בטוח, וככה נמשך סחר-מכר הלזה משך רוב יום הדין לעיני כל האנשים שבמחנה, …

אמנם כמובן שהי’ הרבה אנשים בעלי השגה, שלא רצו לפדות את בנם, על חשבון חייו של ילד אחר, כמאמר חכמז”ל מאי חזית, ולעולם לא אשכח עובדא נוראה אחת, אשר עיני ראו ואזני שמעו, אז בשעת ענין הנ”ל, אשר מעשה הלזה מסמל את קדושת בני ישראל, והתמסרותם לדרכי התורה הקדושה בתמימות אף בעת צרתם וסבלותם הנוראה.

מסירות נפש של אב מלהציל בנו יחידו

הנה ניגש אלי איש יהודי, שהיה נראה ליהודי פשוט מאויבערלנד, מתמימות הדברים שלו שאמר לי כדברים האלה.

רבי, הבן יחיד שלי, היקר לי מבבת עיני, נמצא שמה בתוך הנערים הנידונים לשריפה, ויש בידי היכולת לפדותו, והיות שידוע לנו, בלי שום ספק, שהקאפו”ס יתפסו אחר במקומו, על כן אני שואל מהרבי שאלה להלכה ולמעשה, לפסוק לי הדין על פי התורה אם אני רשאי לפדותו, וכאשר יפסוק כן אעשה.

[ועיין שם שלא רצה לפסוק הלכה בדבר זה, בלי ספרים, בלי רבנים אחרים ובלי ישוב הדעת, והתחנן אל השואל שאל יטיל עליו את האחריות הנוראה הזו. אולם האב השואל החליט, מתוך סרבנותו של הרב מייזליש להשיב תשובה ברורה, שהדבר אסור, ואמר שאם כן הוא מוכן להקריב את בנו יחידו על פי התורה וההלכה, ושהוא מקבל את זה באהבה ובשמחה, וכך עשה:] וגם ככה קיים דבריו ולא פדה את בנו, והיה כל היום, יומא דראש השנה, הולך ומדבר לעצמו בשמחה שזוכה להקריב את בנו יחידו לה’ כי אף שיש ביכולת בידו לפדותו עם כל זה אינו פודהו מחמת שרואה שהתורה לא התירה לו לעשות כזאת ויהיה חשוב לפני השי”ת כעקידת יצחק אבינו שהי’ גם כן ביום ראש השנה. …24

In a footnote, Rav Meisels analyzes the question Halachically. He begins by citing the Rema, Sema (citing the Nimukei Yosef citing the continuation of the Yerushalmi, as above), Shach (citing Ibn Lev), and Rav Landau, and he then proceeds as follows:

ונסתפקתי בנידן דידן אם האב לגבי בנו רשאי להשתדל לפדותו אף שיודע שעל ידי זה יותפס אחר. לפי מה שכתב בהגהות יד אברהם .. דנראה שהוא בעצמו יכול להשתדל בהצלתו אף אחר שנתפס, אף על גב שיודע שעל ידי זה יקחו אחר במקומו, מכל מקום אמרינן חייך קודמין, ודוקא לפדות לאחרים אסור להשתדל להציל, אם על ידי זה יקחו אחר במקומו ע”ש. ואם כן יש להסתפק אם אב לפדות את בנו בכי האי גוונא שיקחו אחר במקומו, אם האב נידון כאחר ואסור להציל בנו בכי האי גוונא או דגם האב לגבי בנו אמרינן חיי בנך קודמין לחיי אחרים. ועיין בבא בתרא (קל”ו ע”ב) פלוגתא אי בנו עדיף ליה מנפשיה ע”ש וצ”ע.

As I have argued earlier, the Yad Avraham’s assertion is quite puzzling, since it seems to contradict the Yerushalmi. Rav Meisel’s acceptance of it is even more baffling, since he has just cited both the Sema and Rav Landau’s responsum, which eliminates my earlier suggestion that the Yad Avraham disagrees with the Sema and does not accept the stringency of the Yerushalmi as normative.
Irving J. Rosenbaum cites the following discussion of Rav Efraim Oshry:

On the twenty-third of Elul, 5701 (September 15, 1941), the German supervisor of the Kovno ghetto (Jordan) provided the Aeltestenrat (Judenrat) five thousand “white cards” to be distributed to workers and craftsmen in the ghetto and their families. Only those having “white cards” would be allowed to remain. At that time there were about thirty thousand souls in the ghetto, of whom about ten thousand were such workers and their families. In consternation, those workers who were the strongest forcibly seized “white cards” for themselver from the Aeltestenrat. Rabbi Oshry perceived two halakhic questions involved in the matter. … The second: Was it permissible for a worker to snatch a card for himself, even though by so doing he would certainly be causing the death of another – since there were only five thousand cards for ten thousand workers? …

The second question – the permissibility of seizing a card and saving one’s own life at the expense of another – also has precedent in Jewish law. The first is found in the Shakh … However, Rabbi Oshry rejects this as a precedent for our case, since the Shakh’s decision applies only when the men have not yet been seized. Then it is permissible to try to prevent them from being taken, even though others would suffer as a result. However, the Shakh would most probably rule that if two men were already in custody, it would not be permitted to attempt to free them; for it would then be inevitable that two others would be taken in their stead. In the Kovno ghetto situation, one could say that the entire community was already “taken prisoner”. If so, the decision of the Shakh would not apply, and it would be forbidden for the workers to seize the “white cards.”

Yet it might be held, Rabbi Oshry continues, that in our case it would still be permissible. For as the Yad Avraham .. points out, it is only forbidden for others to try to rescue the imprisoned men when this will simply lead to different victimes being seized. However, it is certainly not forbidden for the prisoner himself to attempt to escape even though someone else will suffer. So too, here, the worker who seizes the card is saving himself, not another. But upon close examination this analogy proves imperfect. For the Yad Avraham is referring to a case where his action does not directly cause another to die. It is simply that if he escapes another is imprisoned in his place. Though the second man may ultimately die because of this, his death is not directly resultant from the act of the first. But in the Kovno ghetto, the seizure of the card by one workman would directly result in the death of one who was denied a card by his action.
It is possible to support this distinction between direct and indirect action from the classic case in the Talmud, Baba Metzia 62a.

If two men are traveling on a journey [far from civilization] and one has a pitcher of water, if both drink they will both die, but if one only drinks, he can reach civilization. Ben Patura taught: “It is better that both should drink and die, rather than that one should behold his companion’s death.” Until Rabbi Akiba came and taught: “‘that thy brother may live with thee’ (Lev. 25:36), thy life takes precedence over his life.”

As Rabbi Oshry explains Ben Patura’s point of view, it is the drinking by the one man that causes the death of the other. The saving of his own life is, thus, the direct cause of his fellow’s death. Ben Patura does not believe that the injunction of “and live by them” (Lev. 18:5) – not die by them – applies if one gains his own life by not attempting to save his comrade’s. And though Rabbi Akiba disagrees with Ben Patura, it is only in this case of the two travelers, where the one takes no direct physical action to injure his fellow, but simply refrains from giving him water, that Rabbi Akiba would sanction his behavior. However, in our case, where as a result of the direct action of seizing the card, a fellow workman will be delivered over to the murderers, it is quite possible that Rabbi Akiba would agree with ben Patura and forbid the action. … 25

Summary

To summarize, we have the following principles:

  • Actively, directly harming others, even קלים, ריקים, פוחזים, פרוצים ביותר, מגלי עריות ומחללי שבת, in order to save oneself is forbidden.
  • Mere evasive action, even with the inevitable consequence of harm to another, is permitted to both a potential victim himself as well as a friend of his, provided that the harm has not yet befallen the victim.
  • Once the harm has already befallen the victim, it is forbidden to shift it onto another. Some still allow the victim himself to take evasive action, but this view is problematic.

Postscript

The idea that Halachah allows the privileged, the rich and the well connected to utilize their wealth and influence to shift, even indirectly, the burden of military service onto their less fortunate brethren26 will very likely trouble those (such as me) with modern, Western value systems. This is apparently a classic example of the celebrated maxim of Rav Ya’akov Weil:

[פסקי] בעלי בתים ופסקי לומדים שני הפכים הם27

Notes

1 Job 2:4
2 One can, of course, consider the matter from an ethical perspective without invoking Halachah, and there may even be an ethic independent of Halachah, but our discussion will be limited to the Halachah.
3 Dr. Shapiro read a draft of this essay, and commented helpfully thereon.
4 בבא קמא פרק ג’ הלכה א
5 Bava Basra, p. 10 in the Rif pagination. He also cites the fourth paragraph, but he apparently understands it to be stating a different rule.
6 הגהת שו”ע חו”מ סימן שפ”ח סוף סעיף ב
7 שם ס”ק י
8 שו”ת פרי חיים חו”מ סימן ד
9 עיין בדברי החפץ חיים שנביא להלן, ובפתחי תשובה סימן קס”ג ס”ק כ”ז, ובתשובת רב שמואל לנדא שנביא להלן. ועיין להלן מה שנביא מהיד אברהם
10 ספר חפץ חיים הלכות לשון הרע כלל י’ באר מים חיים אות מ”ג
11 שו”ת מהר”י ן’ לב חלק ב’ סימן מ
12 חו”מ סימן קפ”ג ס”ק י”ח
13 גליון שו”ע שם
14 חדושי אמרי ברוך שם
15 חדושי מוהרי”ג שם
16 שם ס”ק כ”ז
17 שו”ת נודע ביהודה תנינא יו”ד סימן ע”ד, ציינו הפתחי תשובה חו”מ שם וגם הביא קצת מדבריו ביו”ד סימן קנ”ז ס”ק י”ג
18 יד אברהם, שו”ע יו”ד סימן קנ”ז סעיף א
19 But note that the introduction to the Shulhan Aruch states that the Yad Avraham was published posthumously from manuscript, so perhaps something was lost in transcription.
20 The objection of Rav Landau and of Hasam Sofer (see below) to the seizure of religiously lax youths is noted by Dr. Shapiro in footnote 16 of his article.
21 The question of Tinok She’Nishbeh is beyond the scope of this post.
22 שו”ת חת”ם סופר חלק ששי סימן כ”ט ד”ה ועל דבר, ציינו הפתחי תשובה חו”מ שם
23 עיין רמב”ם הלכות תשובה פרק ג’ הלכה ט’, הלכות רוצח פרק ד’ הלכה י’, שולחן ערוך יו”ד סימן קנ”ח סעיף ב’, אנצקלופדיה תלמודית ערך אפיקורוס
24 שאלות ותשובות מקדשי השם, שער מחמדים, עמודים ד – ו. Rav Meisel’s narrative is cited (in English translation) by Irving J. Rosenbaum, The Holocaust and Halakhah, pp. 3 – 5, and see his discussion of it in the endnote on p. 158. I thank Dr. Shapiro for bringing this story to my attention.
25 The Holocaust and Halakhah, pp. 24 – 30. He is citing Rabb Oshry’s Divre Efrayim, p. 95, a work to which I do not currently have access.
26 I have seen no discussion of whether there’s any ethical imperative, such as Lifnim Mi’Shuras Ha’Din or Middas Hassidus, to refrain from so doing.
27 שו”ת מהר”י ווייל סוף סימן קמ”ו, הובא בסמ”ע סימן ג’ ס”ק י”ג




The “Doctored” Medical Diploma of Samuel, the Son of Menasseh Ben Israel: Forgery or “For Jewry”?

The “Doctored” Medical Diploma of Samuel, the Son of Menasseh Ben Israel:[1] Forgery or “For Jewry”?

Rabbi Edward Reichman, MD

Menasseh ben Israel is a prominent figure in Jewish history known for his role in the return of the Jews to England in the time of Oliver Cromwell, as well being the first to establish a Hebrew printing press in Holland.[2] Menasseh had two sons and a daughter. His son Samuel, born in 1625, was a Hebrew printer,[3] publishing a number of his father’s works, and also assisting his father with his diplomatic endeavors in England. Here we focus on another aspect of Samuel’s life- his medical career.

In a correspondence dating from the mid seventeenth century, we find information about Samuel’s medical training and degree. The letter, dated Tammuz, 5416 (1655), is from Yehuda Heller Wallerstein to Samuel Ben Israel. Yehuda writes from Salonica and reports how he encountered Jan Nicholas, the brother of Sir Edward Nicholas, British politician and advocate for the resettlement of the Jews in England, who enlightened him as to Samuel’s recent activities: “He informed me that in a short period of time you achieved great success in your study of the sciences and merited, with the assistance of Edward his brother, to present for examination before the professors of the University of Oxford, and to obtain the distinction, ‘Doctor of Medicine and Philosophy’.”[4]

There would appear to be no reason to doubt this account. Menasseh was certainly connected to the influential Sir Edward Nicholas, whose work advocating for the Jews return to England he translated. Samuel is in fact known to have been a physician. However, this account is found in the writings of Abraham Shalom Friedberg, master of historical fiction. While Samuel is an historical figure, Heller Wallerstein is a likely a figment of the author’s imagination and the letters are primarily a vehicle to explore the historical chapter of Shabbetai Zevi, the false messiah, for which this account of the diploma is only peripheral.

The only historical source, upon which the remainder of this fanciful account revolves, is a medical diploma from the University of Oxford granted to Samuel ben Israel on May 6, 1655,[5] and even the veracity of this document is suspect. A number of historians have discussed this diploma, primarily through the lens of Samuel’s famous father Menasseh, and have concluded that it is a forgery. Here we introduce a new perspective to this discussion and view the diploma from the vantage point of Jewish medical history, an aspect strikingly absent from previous discussions. It is only through this lens that we can gain an accurate assessment of its content and context. Was it really a forgery, or merely a product of the historical realities of its age?

A Word on the Medical Training of Menasseh ben Israel, Samuel’s Father

As a backdrop to our discussion about Samuel’s medical training, it is instructive to analyze the medical qualifications and practice of his father. Aside from his activities as a rabbi, statesman and author, Menasseh was also a physician.[6] The medical face of Menasseh has received scant treatment by historians, and perhaps for good reason. It was clearly not a major aspect of his daily life or contribution to Jewish history. His medical personality was manifest only peripherally or secondarily, and inconsistently as well. Nonetheless, understanding Menasseh’s medical identity sheds light not only on Jewish medical history in general, but also on his son’s medical training.

In a number of published works Menasseh refers to himself as a physician. In his letter to the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, published in 1655, the very same year as Samuel’s diploma, he is identified as a “Doctor of Physick.”

In the work below from 1656 he is called a physician:

Menasseh also referred to himself as “Medicus Hebraeus.”[7] This title was also used to describe Ephraim Bueno, a prominent Amsterdam physician, as well as a friend and supporter of Menasseh.[8] Furthermore, his connection to medicine is reflected in his translation of the aphorisms of Hippocrates into Hebrew [9] and his relationships with a number of physicians.[10]

To my knowledge there is no record of Menasseh obtaining a medical diploma or graduating from a university. One scholar writes, without reference, that he attended medical school at the University of Groningen for a short time, though apparently did not complete his degree.[11] I have seen no evidence to corroborate this assertion and the university has no record of his matriculation in their archives.[12]

Menasseh’s identification as a physician was not consistent. In some works, the medical title is omitted:

Another curious fact is that Menasseh’s Hebrew writings make no mention whatsoever of his role or title as a physician, nor have I seen him identified as a rofeh in any Hebrew literature. Roth suggests that he may have practiced, though evidence is lacking, and that he included his address when he identified as a physician in his English works as a form of advertising.[13] The tombstone of Menasseh in the Ouderkerk Cemetery does not bear the title doctor or physician.[14]

While historians are wont to call Samuel’s diploma a forgery, his own father considered himself a physician without obtaining a degree or diploma. Should we not, to be consistent, consider Menasseh an imposter physician?

Essential to our assessment of the medical titles and careers of both Menasseh and his son is an understanding of the training of Jewish physicians at this period in history. While today the notion of a physician without formal university training culminating in a diploma is anathema, not to mention criminal, this was simply not the case in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, particularly for the Jew. In fact, Jews were universally barred from attending or graduating universities, which were invariably under the auspices of the Catholic Church. Graduation from universities, such as Oxford, included and required statements or oaths avowing one’s belief in Christianity.

This did not prevent Jews from becoming physicians. They pursued an alternate medical educational pathway comprised of independent learning and clinical training through apprenticeship.[15] This enabled them to take licensing exams and earn the title doctor. Some simply self-identified as a physician or rofeh by virtue of their extensive training. The overwhelming majority of Jewish physicians trained through this alternate pathway, and it is likely that Menasseh is counted amongst them. Once universities began to open their doors to Jewish students,[16] a number of academically motivated students chose this conventional pathway. These university-trained physicians initially accounted for only a small percentage of the health professionals in the Jewish community. Thus, the title “rofeh” or “doctor” in this period was not specifically associated with a university degree.[17]

The Medical Diploma of Samuel ben Israel

The full text of Samuel’s medical diploma was first printed by Koenen in 1843.[18] Koenen raises no doubts whatsoever as to the veracity of the document and publishes it, without discussion, comment or context, as part of a collection of important documents in Dutch Jewish history. Through what training or means Samuel attained this diploma is entirely omitted.

After its publication, the diploma was initially accepted by historians and scholars without question. For example, G. I. Polak wrote that Samuel, through extraordinary skill and acumen, was able to obtain his degree in medicine and philosophy from Oxford.[19] Some even took the liberty to provide additional details. For example, Graetz writes in his classic History of the Jews:[20]

Samuel ben Israel … was presented by the University of Oxford, in consideration of his knowledge and natural gifts, with the degree of Doctor of Philosophy and Medicine, and according to custom, received the gold ring, the biretta, and the kiss of peace.[21]

Where could Graetz have derived this detailed information? It actually appears in the Latin text of Samuel’s diploma, which describes the features of the classic graduation ceremony for European universities during this period. The biretta, often called the Oxford Cap, is the ancestor of our contemporary four-cornered graduation cap.

The scholar Adolph Neubauer appears to have been the first person to suspect something was not kosher with Samuel’s credentials, and at his behest, in 1876, Richard Griffith, the Keeper of the Archive at the University of Oxford reviewed the text of the diploma.[22] The following are the summary points of his analysis:[23]

  • Samuel is not mentioned in the Registers of the university as having ever attended or received a degree.
  • Degrees from Oxford were not issued in the month of May, the date of the diploma.
  • The diploma is signed by two specific people, while the typical Oxford degree is conferred by the university and bears a seal, without the signature of any specific person.
  • The degree is granted in both philosophy and medicine, and Oxford never granted degrees in philosophy, either alone or combined with medicine.
  • There are multiple phrases not used in the Oxford diploma and multiple procedural aspects referred to that simply were not part of Oxford’s protocols.

Griffith’s inescapable conclusion is that this is unequivocally not a genuine Oxford diploma. His analysis is unassailable. Griffiths was certainly familiar with the text of the medical degrees from Oxford during Samuel’s time; indeed, he literally wrote the book on the subject.[24]

Based on Griffith’s analysis, Samuel’s diploma is so fundamentally different than the standard Oxford diploma, there would seem to be no reason to obtain an actual Oxford diploma from that time to further compare the two. Even if one were to consider such a comparison, it would be challenging if not impossible to find an extant diploma from Oxford contemporary with Samuel. In response to my query, the Oxford Archives today responded that they do not possess any diplomas from this period, nor, for that matter, are they aware of any held elsewhere. The archivist added that they cannot be sure that diplomas or degree certificates, in the sense we understand the term, were even created or issued at Oxford from the 15th to the 17th centuries. As mentioned, there was however a specific template and wording associated with the granting of degrees at Oxford,[25] and the graduate would receive some confirmation of their degree, albeit perhaps not a formal diploma in the classic sense. The document did however bear the university seal. It is upon this Oxford template that Griffith based his analysis.

After negating any connection to Oxford, Griffith adds that the diploma was rather an adaptation of a form then used by the University of Padua, “with alterations willfully and insufficiently made.” Griffith was familiar with the Padua diploma template from his Oxford position for a curious reason. In the seventeenth century many graduates in medicine desiring to practice in England obtained their degrees outside of the United Kingdom, often at the University of Padua. In order to practice in England, the graduate had to be “incorporated” into either the University of Oxford or Cambridge. As a prerequisite to incorporation the students were required to present their diplomas/degrees from the granting institution.[26]

The Location of the “Original” Diploma

While Koenen published the full text of Samuel’s diploma, he makes no reference as to the location of the original document. Roth notes that he received a photo of the diploma from the Montezinos Library (known today as Ets Haim- Livraria Montezinos) in Amsterdam. A catalogue of the library holdings from 1927[27] states that the library possessed copies of the first and last pages of the diploma, though not the original.[28] The Ets Haim Library today does not have a record of the diploma photographs.[29] I reached out as well to the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana, the other major Jewish historical collection in Amsterdam, to see if perhaps the diploma ended up there, which it did not.[30] I also contacted the Roth Collection at the University of Leeds to see if perhaps Roth’s copies of the diploma are kept there, and to my dismay, they likewise have no record of Samuel’s diploma.[31]

Without the actual document, it is impossible to definitively comment on its veracity. Access to the original would allow analysis of the ink and paper for dating. Even access to the copies would be useful. For example, the diploma contains signatures of two faculty members of the University of Oxford. A comparative graphological analysis with known signatures of these men could easily confirm the document’s origin. Regretfully, I have access to neither the “original,” nor the copies. I nonetheless offer additional information and analysis in defense of a Jewish physician accused of forgery in the hopes of restoring his reputation. Absent such essential material information for my case, you may feel free to conclude that my diploma (analysis) is a forgery of sorts. I hope to nonetheless persuade you to drop the charges of forgery, though definitive proof beyond a shadow of a doubt awaits the discovery of the “original” diploma.

Was the diploma a forgery?[32]

Samuel’s diploma was beyond doubt not an official Oxford-issued document, as Griffith details, but was it necessarily a forgery? All historians to date familiar with Griffith’s analysis assume the answer to be a resounding yes, some even labelling it a “brazen” forgery.[33] There is no evidence of any suspicion of the document’s veracity during the lifetime of its bearer. As to when the document was supposedly forged, while the theoretical possibility exists that the diploma was a product of the nineteenth century, Roth convincingly dismisses this theory. He concludes, “The hypothesis of a nineteenth-century fabrication may thus be definitely ruled out.”[34] We are thus left with the universally accepted belief that Samuel forged his own diploma.

Kayserling notes that Menasseh, and thus Samuel, had not yet visited England in May of 1655, the date of the document. This would seemingly conclude the case for forgery and leave little room for discussion. Roth however subsequently rejected this assertion upon finding record in the Calendar of State Papers of the period (documents not accessible to his predecessors and only then recently made available) that Samuel had been sent ahead to England prior to his father and was indeed there at that time.[35] 

The accumulated evidence is certainly suggestive of forgery, but is it dispositive? Could there be another plausible explanation behind this diploma? I would like to suggest that its rejection as an official Oxford diploma does not inexorably lead to a verdict of forgery. By placing this diploma into the larger context of Jewish medical training and diplomas, as well as comparing Samuel’s diploma to other known medical diploma forgeries of the time, specifically for the universities of Padua and Oxford, we may be able to offer another alternative to criminality for one not known to be inclined to such behavior, not to mention being the son of a prominent Jewish rabbi and statesman. I endeavor at minimum, to prove reasonable doubt regarding the accusation of forgery.

Griffith’s Omission and the “Jewish” Diploma

Griffith correctly asserts that Samuel’s diploma is modeled after that of Padua. There is however, a key aspect of this supposed forgery that has previously gone unnoticed. What Griffith did not mention, nor was he likely aware, is that the diplomas issued to Jewish students in Padua often differed in a number of ways from the standard university issue. While there was no specific Jewish diploma template per se, as the standard diploma contained a number of Christian references, the diplomas of Jewish graduates invariably contain some combination of omissions or emendations to the standard text.

As part of our investigation into the diploma’s possible forgery, it is important to ascertain whether Samuel’s diploma is a copy of a standard Padua diploma or one of the Jewish variety. Below we list a few of the typical changes found in Padua diplomas of Jewish medical graduates of Samuel’s period, providing examples of each. We then compare them to Samuel’s diploma.

  1. The Headline of the Diploma

The most obvious change to the Jewish diploma meets the eye of the reader immediately upon viewing the document. The headline of the typical diploma reads, “In Christi Nomine Amen” (in the name of Christ, Amen), and it usually appears in larger decorative font, occasionally occupying an entire page.

William Harvey’s Medical Diploma (Padua 1602)

This would clearly have been objectionable to the Jewish student. The diplomas of the Jewish students were therefore usually emended to read, “In Dei Aeterni Nomine” (in the name of the eternal God), or some variation thereof.

Below are a number of emended diplomas of Jewish students:

Diploma of Isaac Hellen (Padua, 1649)[36]

Diploma of Emanuel Colli (Padua, 1682)[37]

  1. The Date

There are number of ways the year of the degree could appear on the typical diploma, and all of them include Christian reference. Examples include Anno Domini, Anno a Christi Nativitate, and Anno Christiano. Two typical examples are below.

Diploma of Giulio Antonio (1679)[38]

Diploma of John Wallace (around 1618)[39]

The date was unaltered for many Jewish diplomas

Diploma of Jacob Levi (Padua, 1684)[40]

Diploma of Isaac Hellen (Padua, 1649)

In some Jewish diplomas however, the Christian reference is omitted, and the date is listed as “currente anno,” current year.

Diploma of Moise Tilche (Padua, 1687)[41]

Diploma of Lazzaro De Mordis (Padua, 1699)[42]

The date alone is not a reliable indicator of the “Jewishness” of the diploma.

  1. The Location of the Graduation Ceremony

The graduation ceremony for the Catholic medical students was held in the Episcopal Palace and this was recorded in the diploma:

Diploma of Giulio Antonio (Padua, 1679)

The degrees of the Jewish students were not granted in the Episcopal Palace, but rather in non-ecclesiastical venues. As such, the words “Episcopali Palatio” are omitted, leaving the phrase “in loco solito examinu,” (in the usual place of examination).[43]

Diploma of Isaac Hellen (Padua, 1649)

This is the case in virtually all Jewish diplomas.

  1. Hebreus or Iudeus

There is one feature of the typical Jewish diploma that is not an emendation or omission, but rather an addition. With few exceptions, the Jewish students were identified as Hebreus or Iudeus. This was the convention in Padua for centuries and was found in other Italian universities as well.[43]

Diploma of Isaac Hellen (Padua, 1649)

Diploma of Emanuel Colli (Padua, 1682)

Diploma of Moise Tilche (Padua, 1687)

There are a few exceptions:

Diploma of Moysis Crespino (Padua, 1647)[45]

Notarized Copy of Diploma of Abraham Wallich (Padua, 1655)[46]

Abraham Wallich graduated Padua in 1655, the same year as Samuel’s diploma. His original diploma is not extant, though we have a notarized copy that he presented to the Jewish community of Frankfurt as proof of his credentials. In this copy, the identifiers of Hebreus or Iudeus do not appear. I suggest that “Iudeus” could have in fact appeared in his original diploma and was possibly omitted here by the copyist. As Wallich was a religious Jew applying to a Jewish institution, it would have been superfluous to add “Hebreus.”

  1. The Details of the Graduation Ceremony.

The standard Padua diploma also included a description of the graduation ceremony. This was not altered in the Jewish diplomas as the Jewish students participated in this ceremony, albeit with some changes. While the location may have been different, and perhaps the oath would have been tailored for the Jewish student, the core of the ceremony for the Jewish student otherwise remained the same. A remarkable pictorial testimony to this fact is the diploma of Moise di Pellegrino (AKA Moshe ben Gershon) Tilche, who graduated Padua in 1687.[47]

Underneath the portrait of the graduate is the illustration, represented with putti, of the features of the graduation ceremony of Padua.

This ceremony involved a golden ring, a wreath and a hat, known as a biretta (though not the four-cornered variety). The opening and closing of books as a representation of the transmission of knowledge was also a part of the ceremony.

Was Samuel’s Diploma modeled after a standard or “Jewish” Diploma from Padua?

In review of the Jewish diplomas from Padua of Samuel’s day, the headline was consistently altered, as was the location of the graduation. The typical Christian recording of the year of graduation was occasionally, though not uniformly altered. The majority of the Jewish graduates, with few exceptions, were identified as either Iudeus or Hebreus.

Which of these additions, omissions or alterations appear in Samuel’s diploma?

  1. The Headline

In his article republishing the existing material on Samuel’s diploma, Neubauer writes, “in order to make the documents concerning this degree accessible to the Anglo-Jewish public, I shall reproduce here the Latin diploma line by line (Neubauer’s emphasis) as given by Koenen.” The text of the diploma he provides begins as follows:

In the original publication by Koenen however, the diploma begins with a short phrase:

Neubauer omitted the introductory words, “In Nomine Dei, Amen,” perhaps assuming they were not part of the diploma, or simply noncontributory to the text. In fact, these four words are crucial in identifying the nature of Samuel’s diploma and reflect one of the major differences found virtually ubiquitously in the Jewish diplomas of Padua.

  1. Date

A typical Christian date is used.

  1. Location of Graduation

The location of the ceremony is given as the Academy of Oxford.

  1. Hebreus or Iudeus

The identifier Hebreus or Iudeus is not found in Samuel’s diploma.

The headline in Samuel’s diploma is clearly consistent with the Jewish form of diploma. The date is of a Christian format, Anno Christiano, and the location is listed simply as Oxford with no reference to an ecclesiastical venue.

The identifier “Hebreus” is conspicuously absent. To be sure, there were certainly other examples where this was true. However, the omission in Samuel’s case is noteworthy, as his own father, Menasseh, self-identified as Medicus Hebreus, as did other Jewish physicians in Amsterdam, such as Ephraim Bueno. Surely the son would have adopted the title of the father.

In sum, the headline of Samuel’s diploma, a crucial element in determining its style, conforms to the Jewish Padua diploma, as does the venue for the degree, which is non-ecclesiastic. While the date retains the Christian reference, this is non-contributory. Samuel’s diploma does however omit the typical Jewish identifier of Hebreus, a title specifically used by his own father, a fact that begs explanation.

Other Medical Diploma Forgeries of the Seventeenth Century

If Samuel’s diploma were indeed a forgery, it would be the only known case of a forged medical diploma by a Jewish physician in the pre-Modern era. To be sure, there have been numerous forgeries of diplomas, including the medical variety, throughout history. Below we discuss two forgeries of the same historical period as Samuel and purported to be from the two very institutions with which Samuel’s diploma is associated. These may shed light on our forgery discussion.

A Forged Medical Diploma from Padua 1628

The diploma of John Wallace sat in the Royal College of Physicians for centuries, assumed to be genuine. It was only recently that Dr. Fabrizio Bigotti took a closer look at the diploma, revealing that it was a clear forgery.[48] Below you see the latinized name of Wallace clearly written in a different pen and different hand than that of the original diploma.

The year of graduation, 1628, was also altered.

The date was proven to be fake, as the authentic signatures at the end of the diploma include Fabrici d’Acquapendente and Adrian van de Spiegel, both of whom had died by 1628. The true date is assumed to be around 1618.

In this case of forgery, Wallace procured an existing diploma and replaced the name and date with his own. There is apparently no record of his medical practice, so it is unclear if his forgery was successful. Perhaps he forged this diploma with intent to present to Oxford for incorporation. I do not know if the RCP checked the Oxford Register of Congregation for the relevant years.[49]

The Frankland Forgery of an Oxford Diploma[50]

In the diary entry for Anthony Wood, Oxford antiquary, for November 15, 1677, we find the following:[51]

Frankland first presented his false credentials in 1667.[52] He was apparently a haughty and disagreeable man disliked by his colleagues at the college. It was his juniors who raised suspicion about his credentials and privately inquired of Dr. Hyde, King’s Professor of Physic, as well as the registrar, to verify his documents. The forgery was confirmed by Oxford in November 1677,[53] when it was determined that Frankland was not listed in the Medical School Register and that he had forged the university seal.[54] Furthermore, Frankland defrauded Cambridge University, which granted him a medical degree solely on the basis of his previously obtained Oxford diploma. Frankland not only forged the university seal of Oxford, which was an integral part of the official document, he seems to have added an element to the diploma which was a tip off as to its forgery. Dr. Brady of Cambridge reported:[55]

This exact issue was also identified by Griffith as one of the elements of Samuel’s diploma that deviated from Oxford protocols. Of course, with Samuel’s diploma, this was one of many deviations from Oxford’s template; for Frankland, this was more essential in identifying the forgery.

These two forgeries from Samuel’s period, and from the very institutions associated with his diploma are instructive. If Samuel was truly a forger, could or should he have pursued the methods of Wallace or Frankland?

A Padua Diploma Forgery ala Wallace

Forging a genuine Padua diploma would have been more challenging than one from Oxford for a number of reasons, both technical and cultural. While objectively few Jewish students attended the University of Padua Medical School,[56] it was the main address for Jewish students wishing to obtain a university medical degree. While far from Amsterdam, the Jews of Europe were all connected. In addition, Amsterdam was a hub of Jewish printing and a number of works by Italian authors were printed there. A forged medical diploma could possibly have been detected by Italian visitors. It would have been risky.

From a technical perspective, the Padua diploma, in Italian Renaissance fashion, was copiously illustrated and meticulously calligraphed, often including a portrait of the graduate. A number of these diplomas are extant in libraries and private collections.[57] It would have been exceedingly difficult to replicate the diploma itself, not to mention that it was typically bound in a gilded leather binding with official wax seals attached by thread.

Picture Courtesy of Professor Fabrizio Bigotti

All these accoutrements would have made the endeavor of forgery prohibitive from the outset.

There could have been another option for a Padua diploma forgery. Abraham Wallach had a notarized copy of his 1655 Padua diploma made for his job application as a community physician in Frankfurt.[58]

Beginning of the copy of the diploma:

Notarization of the diploma:

Perhaps Samuel could have created a similar “notarized” copy, which would not have required the artistry or associated binding and seals. This option would likely not have sufficed for Samuel, who as the “graduate,” would have been expected to possess and present the original.

Could Samuel have obtained an existing Padua diploma and simply replaced the name of the graduate with his own, as Wallace had done? This would certainly have been easier than forging the diploma de novo. However, recall that the Padua diplomas of the Jewish students had some alterations, the most obvious one being the headline change from In Christi Nomine to In Dei Aeterne Nomine, not to mention other more subtle, less noticeable changes. Samuel would have had to procure an old diploma that previously belonged to a Jewish student, an impossible task.

An Oxford Diploma ala Frankland

Should Samuel have created a diploma more in line with the actual Oxford model, as Frankland, whose forged university seal and diploma were sufficient to fool even the Royal College of Physicians and Cambridge University? Had he produced a Frankland-esque diploma no one would have suspected otherwise, as no Jew had ever obtained or presented an Oxford diploma before. While this could have been an ideal forgery,[59] I suggest below why this may not have served Samuel’s needs.

The Medical Training and Practice of Samuel ben Menasseh

Irrespective of the veracity of his diploma, Samuel appears to have been a practicing physician. Samuel is listed as a physician by both Steinschneider[60] and Koren,[61] each of whom provides additional references. He is also listed in an early twentieth century work among a group of exceptionally prominent Jewish physicians across the ages.[62] Moreover, his tombstone identifies him as a physician. To my knowledge we do not have any specific account of his clinical practice.

As we have no direct evidence as to how Samuel trained in medicine, we can only surmise based on the general climate of Jewish medical training at the time, coupled with whatever fragmentary evidence we have of Samuel’s personal medical exposure.

Samuel had personal exposure to both the apprenticeship and university pathways of medical training. His father most likely obtained his education through the apprenticeship pathway. Samuel certainly could have learned the medical art from his father Menasseh, though the biographies of Menasseh reveal that he had little time, if any, for the practice of medicine. It would have been difficult for Samuel to acquire comprehensive medical knowledge without prolonged extensive clinical exposure, something his father could not provide.

Though Menasseh himself may not have had the time to mentor his son, he could have delegated the task to one of his physician colleagues.[63] Ephraim Bueno, for example, was a prominent physician in Amsterdam with whom Menasseh had a relationship.[64] Bueno supported Menasseh’s first publication.[65] They also both shared the distinction of having their portraits drawn by Rembrandt.[66] Perhaps Samuel apprenticed with, or at the very least, was inspired by Bueno.

Had he desired, Samuel could have obtained a formal university medical degree. In the early part of the seventeenth century, this would only have been possible in Italy, and primarily at the University of Padua. Traveling to Padua, however, would entail leaving the family and other potential hardships, such as the language barrier. Fortunately, beginning in the mid-century universities in the Netherlands (primarily Leiden), following in the footsteps of Padua, began opening their doors to Jewish medical students for the first time.[67] In fact, Samuel’s cousin Josephus Abarbanel, who also lived in Amsterdam, graduated from the University of Leiden on June 2, 1655, just a few weeks after Samuel received his Oxford diploma.[68]

Which option/pathway did Samuel choose? Though his diploma is Padua-esque, there is no record of Samuel attending the University of Padua. There is also no record of his attendance or graduation from any school in the Netherlands.

Samuel certainly would not have attended the University of Oxford as a student. Professing Jews were not allowed there. Moreover, it would also have required his presence in England for a prolonged period, which, by all accounts was not the case. Roth writes regarding the likelihood of Samuel obtaining an Oxford degree, “it was as difficult for a Jew to be graduated from it (Oxford) as it would have been for an anthropoid ape.”[69] This unwelcoming climate for the Jews persisted even long after the return of the Jews to England.[70] In fact, in Herman Adler’s lecture on the Jews of England in the late nineteenth century, he comments on the medical degree of Samuel, which he assumed to be authentic: “This fact (granting a medical diploma to the Jew Samuel ben Israel) would seem to show that the university was more enlightened in the year 1655 than it is in 1870.”[71]

Samuel’s “For Jewry” Diploma

I suggest that Samuel trained primarily through the apprenticeship pathway but requested and received university acknowledgement or imprimatur of his medical education and knowledge. The diploma was thus an affirmation of Samuel’s expertise attested to by members of the Oxford faculty. As opposed to today, when a student must attend a certain number of years in a university as a prerequisite to obtaining a degree, universities often gave exams and imprimatur to those who studied elsewhere, either formally or not, but passed the required examination demonstrating the required knowledge and competence. This could explain the unusual nature of the diploma he procured from Oxford.

While many Jewish physicians in this period practiced freely without university education or diplomas, there may have been an additional impetus for Samuel to procure this affirmation from Oxford. The Dutch were generally known for their tolerance, but this apparently did not extend to the Jews and the practice of medicine. According to historians, “Although Jews with foreign degrees were permitted to engage in medicine as general practitioners, tolerance was not extended to tertiary education.”[72] Thus, even though Samuel may have been qualified to practice by virtue of his apprenticeship, and could have practiced freely in other European countries, his practice in the Netherlands would have been limited without a foreign degree.[73]

Do the existing facts and diploma support this theory?

The Signatories

The two signatories on Samuel’s diploma were Dr. John Owen and Dr. Clayton at Oxford. Owen was a friend of Cromwell and Vice Chancellor of the University at that time. Thomas Clayton was Regius Professor of Medicine at Oxford from 1647 to 1665. These were not fictional characters, and if one were to obtain an affirmation of medical knowledge or education, these would be the perfectly appropriate people to attest to such a document. Given Menasseh’s connections, it is not inconceivable that he utilized his influence to arrange for his son’s exams, or that they acceded to Samuel’s request out of deference to Menasseh.

The Absence from the Oxford Register

Griffith highlights the fact that Samuel’s degree is not found in the Oxford Register. Indeed, no professing Jews were listed in the register at Oxford at that time. According to our theory, this absence from the Register is no proof of forgery. There was not the slightest thought of entering this exchange into the official university Register, as not only did it not meet the standard protocols, the recipient was also of the Jewish faith and expressly precluded from such a privilege. Samuel may have assured the examiners that he had no intention of practicing in the United Kingdom, a fact that would have made it easier for them to feel comfortable affixing their names to the document.

Likelihood of Exposure

If indeed Samuel were prone to deceit, what is the likelihood his rouse would have been discovered? His father would certainly have realized.[74] The very purpose of Samuel’s trip was to pave the path for his father’s visit. Samuel was thus expecting his father to later visit England and likely interact with the very same people he did. Indeed, Menasseh appears to have visited Oxford.[75] Surely Samuel’s diploma would have come up in conversation, if only peripherally. This alone could have served as a deterrent for forgery. Additionally, John Owen, a signatory on the diploma, was a close friend of Cromwell’s, and a forgery could have been revealed through this avenue. If one were to arbitrarily choose Oxford faculty for a fake diploma, better not to choose someone whose trail could ultimately lead to disclosure.

A forgery would have been suspected, if not revealed, from another source. Samuel’s cousin Joseph Abarbanel completed his medical training in Leiden at the very same time as Samuel’s diploma was issued, and also lived in Amsterdam. He surely would have been suspicious if Samuel suddenly started practicing medicine after a forged Oxford diploma emerged de novo and appeared, metaphorically, framed on Samuel’s office wall.

The Text of the Diploma- An Oxford-Padua Synthesis ala Samuel ben Menasseh

Working with our new theory, which type of diploma would Samuel have procured or designed had he genuinely presented to Oxford and successfully passed oral exams from the university faculty? This would not have been an official, formal process, but rather a unique private opportunity to confirm his medical expertise with the Oxford faculty. As this was a personalized, non-institutional diploma, the examiners would not have much cared or paid attention as to the diploma’s format and could have left the document particulars to Samuel.

I suggest, therefore, that Samuel designed the document in a way that would best serve his needs and would be well-received by his Jewish clientele in the Netherlands. A brief informal text with attestation from the Oxford professors would have been unfamiliar and unimpressive to his Jewish patients.[76] Virtually the only diploma a Jewish university-trained physician would have possessed in this period is a diploma from the University of Padua.[77] He therefore utilized the familiar Padua template, as awkward and inconsistent with Oxford’s typical diploma it may have been. Furthermore, he made sure to use the emended headline and non-ecclesiastic venue consistent with the “Jewish” diploma.

Why did Samuel not include the term “Hebreus,” which would surely have been familiar to the Jewish viewers of the diploma, not to mention following in the path of his father, who was known as “Medicus Hebraeus?” It is possible that Samuel would have specifically omitted this title given the history of the degree-granting institution. Professing Jews were categorically precluded from attending or graduating Oxford. While the signators may not have paid close attention to the details of the diploma, the word Hebreus after Samuel’s name would likely have caught their eye, especially as it appears adjacent to the graduate’s name.

There are numerous elements in the diploma that were simply untrue. For example, included is a description of the graduation, as cited by Graetz. Did Samuel actually participate in a formal graduation from Oxford? Whether Samuel obtained a genuine diploma of some sort from Oxford can be debated, but there is no doubt that as a professing Jew in England at this time he would never have participated in any formal graduation ceremony. Samuel may have disregarded these details favoring style over substance in order to achieve his objective. The signators would likely not have bothered to analyze the text.

Not a single Jew would have known the difference, let alone read the Latin document, nor would they have questioned further.[78] They would have seen a document that appeared in style and largely in substance similar to the diplomas they had seen previously. Samuel’s father would have been proud of his son’s accomplishment, as would his cousin Josephus Abrabanel, who later graduated from Leiden. Menasseh could also have personally thanked Drs. Owens and Clayton for their kindness when he visited Oxford a short time later. If this construct is true then Samuel’s diploma would not have been a forgery, but rather “for Jewry,” being designed intentionally with the Jewish community in mind, and in the context of Jewish medical history.

Postscript

Whether forged on not, Samuel sadly had but little time to utilize the Oxford diploma dated May 1655. Later that month he returned to Amsterdam, diploma in hand, to persuade his father to go to England and personally lay his case before Cromwell. Two years later, Manasseh ben Israel arrived in London, accompanied by Samuel. Samuel tragically died during their stay. In accordance with Samuel’s dying wish, Manasseh ben Israel conveyed his son’s corpse back to Holland where he was buried on 2 Tishrei, 5418. Below is a picture of the grave of Samuel ben Israel in the Middleburg Cemetery, 1912, shortly after it was renovated.[79]

Here is a picture of the grave and tombstone today:[80]

His medical identity is forever enshrined on his tombstone, where he is referred to as “Doctor Semuel.”[81]

Roth writes, “It seems obvious that the honorific description (on the tombstone) has its basis the supposed Oxford degree.”[82] I beg to differ. Many Jewish physicians were trained through apprenticeship and never obtained university degrees, Samuel’s own father being a case in point, and they were nonetheless known as physicians. I believe Samuel could have been such a physician.

Menasseh himself died shortly thereafter on Nov. 20, 1657, before reaching his home at Middelburg, Zealand.

Which account is closer to the truth? Was Samuel an ambitious and accomplished student of medicine, honestly earning some form of an Oxford diploma, perhaps not unlike Friedberg’s description at the beginning of this article; or was he an unabashed imposter possessing no medical training, brazenly forging a medical diploma, and practicing medicine without proper training? Historians have been quick to condemn Samuel, though they have neglected to incorporate the history of Jewish medical training into their analyses. Ultimately, I suggest that the truth lies in the chasm between these two polar extremes. Closer to which one? I leave to the reader to decide. At the very minimum I believe we have provided enough evidence to at least create reasonable doubt as to whether Samuel the son of the right honorable Menasseh ben Israel committed willful forgery of his medical diploma.

[1] Also known as Samuel Abravanel Soeyro. See Moritz Steinschneider “Judische Aertze,” Zeitschrift fur Hebraeische Bibliographie 18: 1-3 (January-June, 1915), p. 45, n. 1923. Abravanel is taken from his mother’s family and Soeyro from his father’s family. Both names have multiple variant spellings.
[2] Cecil Roth, A Life of Menasseh Ben Israel: Rabbi, Printer, and Diplomat (Jewish Publication Society, 1945); Jeremy Nadler, Menasseh ben Israel: Rabbi of Amsterdam (Yale University Press, 2018). See also the wonderful online exhibit, “Menasseh ben Israel, rabbi, scholar, philosopher, diplomat and Hebrew printer, 1604-1657,” curated by Dr. Eva Frojmovic of the University of Leeds.
[3] For a history of Jewish physicians as printers, see J. O. Leibowitz, “Jewish Physicians Active as Printers,” (Hebrew) Harofe Haivri Hebrew Medical Journal 1 (1952), 112-120; Hindle Hes, “The Van Embden Family as Physicians and Printers in Amsterdam,” (Hebrew) Koroth 6:11-12 (August, 1975), 719-723.
[4] https://benyehuda.org/read/3230#fn:173, Zichronot LiBeit David vol 4 (Achiasaf Publications, Warsaw, 1897).
[5] Friedberg himself references the mention of the diploma in Meyer Kayserling’s The Life and Labours of Menasseh Ben Israel (London, 1877). 63 and 92, n. 241.
[6] Friedenwald mentions Menasseh, but as opposed to his other entries, adds justification for his inclusion in his work: “He is included in this list because several of his works bear his name with the title Medicus Hebraeus,” as well as his identifying as a Doctor of Physick in his letter to the Lord Protector. See Harry Friedenwald, The Jews and Medicine vol. 2 (Johns Hopkins Press: Baltimore, 1944), 739. Menassah is also is listed in Koren under the spelling Manasseh ben Israel. See Nathan Koren, Jewish Physicians: A Biographical Index (Israel Universities Press: Jerusalem, 1973), 89.
[7] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 109.
[8] While Bueno is famous for his portrait drawn by Rembrandt, his portrait was also drawn later in life by another Dutch artist, Jan Lievens. The description underneath the painting, Dor Ephraim Bonus Medicus Hebraeus, found in the collection of Joods Historisch Museum Amsterdam, can be seen below:

[9] This work is not extant. See Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 314, n. 17.
[10] I. M. Librach, “Medicine and Menasseh Ben Israel,” Medical History 4:3 (July, 1960), 256-258 discusses Menasseh’s connection to physicians. Librach suggests that the close relationship between religion and medicine among the Jews has led some historians, notably Henry Milman (1863) to regard Menasseh as a physician as well as a rabbi. For further reference to Menasseh’s physician friends see Ernestine G.E. Van Der Wall, “Petrus Serrarius and Menasseh ben Israel: Christian Millenarianism and Jewish Messianism in Seventeenth Century Amsterdam,” in Yosef Kaplan, et. al., eds., Menasseh Ben Israel and His World (E. J. Brill: Leiden, 1989), 172; George M. Weisz and William Albury, “Rembrandt’s Jewish Physician- Dr. Ephraim Beuno (1599-1665): A Brief Medical History,” Rambam Maimonides Medical Journal 4:2 (April, 2013).
[11] Van Der Wall, op. cit., 165.
[12] Personal communication with Hans Froon of the Central Medical Library in Groningen (December, 2020).
[13] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 42, 109, 314, 341
[14] This picture of the epitaph appears in Cecil Roth, “New Light on the Resettlement,” Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society 11 (1924-1927), facing p. 118.
[15] For articles on the training of Jewish medical students, see Harry Friedenwald, “The Jewish Medical Student of Former Days,” Menorah Journal 7:1 (February, 1921), 52-62; Cecil Roth, “The Medieval University and the Jew,” Menorah Journal 19:2 (November-December, 1930), 128-141; Idem, “The Qualification of Jewish Physicians in the Middle Ages,” Speculum 28 (1953), 834-843; Joseph Shatzmiller, “On Becoming a Jewish Doctor in the High Middle Ages,” Sefarad 43 (1983), 239-249. Idem, Jews, Medicine and Medieval Society (University of California Press: Berkeley, 1994), esp. 14-27; John Efron, “The Emergence of the Medieval Jewish Physician,” in his Medicine and the German Jews: A History (Yale University Press: New Haven, 2001), 13-33; Edward Reichman,  “From Maimonides the Physician to the Physician at Maimonides Medical Center: The Training of the Jewish Medical Student throughout the Ages,” Verapo Yerape: The Journal of Torah and Medicine of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine 3 (2011), 1-25; Nimrod Zinger, Ba’alei haShem vihaRofeh (Haifa University, 2017), 242-251.
[16] The University of Padua was the first to formally allow admission of Jews to its medical school.
[17] It is possible that there were titles that distinguished between university and non-university trained physicians, such as rofeh mumheh, but this requires further study.
[18] H. J. Koenen, Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland (Utrecht, 1843), 440-444.
[19] Gabriel Isaac Polak, Seerith Jisrael: Lotgevallen der Joden in alle werelddeelen van af de verwoesting des tweeden tempels tot het jaar 1770 (Amsterdam, 1855), 549.
[20] Heinrich Graetz, History of the Jews vol. 5 (Jewish Publication Society: Philadelphia, 1956), 38.
[21] Herman Nathan Adler clearly follows Graetz in his, The Jews of England A Lecture (Longmans, Green and Co.: London, 1870), 23.
[22] Since the initial publication of Griffith’s letter was in an obscure inaccessible journal, both the transcription of the diploma as well as Griffith’s letter were later republished. All the documents and articles are reproduced in Rev. Dr. Adler, “A Homage to Menasseh ben Israel,” Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society of England 1 (1893-1894), 25-54, esp. 48-54. This explains why some scholars were unaware of Griffith’s conclusions until years later. For additional comments and analysis, see Cecil Roth, A Life of Menasseh Ben Israel (Jewish Publication Society: Philadelphia, 1934), 221-222 and 337-339; Idem, “The Jews in English Universities,” Miscellanies of the Jewish Historical Society of England 4 (1942), 102-115, esp. 105, n. 14.
[23] Griffith lists fifteen differences in the form of the diploma from that of Oxford.
[24] Statutes of the University of Oxford codified in the year 1636, under the authority of Archbp. Laud, Chancellor of the University, with an introduction on the history of the Laudian Code by C.L. Shadwell, ed. by John Griffiths, 1888. See p. 126. For the study of medicine at Oxford in the seventeenth century see chapter by Robert G Frank Jr. entitled “Medicine” in The History of the University of Oxford, volume IV: Seventeenth Century Oxford (ed. N Tyacke, Clarendon Press, 1997). For a more general study of the period, see Phyllis Allen, “Medical Education in 17th Century England” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 1:1 (January 1, 1946), 115-143.
[25] G. R. M. Ward, Oxford University Statutes (1845), 53-54, 117-118, 128-131.
[26] Oxford’s Register of Congregation during this period contains numerous examples of Padua students applying for incorporation.
[27] Alphei Menasheh Catologus of J. S. Da Silva Rosa (Portugeesch Israelietische Seminarium: Amsterdam, 1927), 25, no. V. lists a picture of the first and last pages of the diploma in the possession of the Montezinos Library.
[28] Roth did not mention if he possessed copies of the entire text of the diploma.
[29] I thank Heide Warncke, Curator of the Ets Haim Library for her assistance.
[30] I thank Rachel Boertjens, Curator of the Bibliotheca Rosenthaliana for her assistance.
[31] I thank Eva Frojmovic and the staff of the Roth Collection at University of Leeds for their assistance. The cataloguing of the Roth Collection is an ongoing process and there is a fair amount of material still uncatalogued. I am hopeful the copies of the diploma will one day surface there.
[32] In the interest of full disclosure, I recently wrote an article entitled, “Confessions of a Would-be Forger: The Medical Diploma of Tobias Cohn (Tuvia Ha-Rofeh) and Other Jewish Medical Graduates of the University of Padua.” I am not however personally inclined to forgery. I would be happy to send the reader a copy of my medical diploma upon request, once I am able to locate it.
[33] David S. Katz, Philo-Semitism and the Readmission of the Jews to England, 1603-1655 (Oxford University Press, 1982), 197.
[34] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 338-339
[35] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 338-339.
[36] Germanisches Nationalmuseum, reference no. HA, Pergamenturkunden, Or. Perg. 1649 Juli 09.
[37] A copy of the full diploma is accessible through the Magnes Online Collection, http://magnesalm.org (accessed January 5, 2021).
[38] See G. Baldissin Molli, L. Sitran Rea, and E. Veronese Ceseracciu, Diplomi di Laurea all’Università di Padova (15041806) (Padova: Università degli studi di Padova, 1998), diploma C21, p. 151.
[39] See below for further discussion of this diploma, which is a forgery. The body of the diploma, including the relevant phrase cited here, is original and dates to around 1618.
[40] This diploma is housed in the Umberto Nahon Museum of Italian Jewish Art in Jerusalem. See http://www.museumsinisrael.gov.il/en/items/Pages/ItemCard.aspx?IdItem=ICMS-EIT-0076. The museum website provides a description of the diploma and a picture of the outer cover. I thank Dr. Andreina Contessa, former Chief Curator of the U. Nahon Museum, for kindly furnishing me with pictures of the entire diploma. I thank Sharon Liberman Mintz for bringing this diploma to my attention.
[41] The diploma is in the William Gross Collection and is available for viewing at the website of the National Library of Israel, system number 990036743400205171 (accessed January 3, 2021). I thank Sharon Liberman Mintz for bringing this diploma to my attention.
[42] NLI, system number 990035370060205171.
[43] Of course it was not “the usual place of examination,” but this text allowed for the least amount of deviation from the diploma template.
[44] See, for example, the diploma of Chananya Modigliani from Siena, 1628 in the Jewish Theological Seminary Library, MS 8519.
[45] NLI, system number 990034232880205171.
[46] Stadt Frankfurt am Main, Altes Archiv – Städtische Überlieferung bis 1868, Medicinalia, Akten, Nr. 250 (fol. 51-52v).
[47] For an expansive discussion on the diplomas of Jewish medical students from the University of Padua, see Edward Reichman, “Confessions of a Would-be Forger: The Medical Diploma of Tobias Cohn (Tuvia Ha-Rofeh) and Other Jewish Medical Graduates of the University of Padua,” in Kenneth Collins and Samuel Kottek, eds., Ma’ase Tuviya (Venice, 1708): Tuviya Cohen on Medicine and Science (Jerusalem: Muriel and Philip Berman Medical Library of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2019), in press.
[48] Pamela Forde, “Power and Beauty: Fakes and Forgeries,” (December 11, 2015) Royal College of Physicians Museum. I thank Dr. Bigotti of Centre for the Study of Medicine and the Body in the Renaissance, Domus Comeliana Pisa (Italy) for providing me the images of this diploma.
[49] I do not have access to the relevant years.
[50] For the most expansive discussion of the Frankland affair see William Munk, The Roll of the Royal College of Physicians of London vol 1, 1518-1700 (Longman: London, 1861), 358ff.
[51] Andrew Clark, The Life and Times of Anthony Wood, Antiquary, of Oxford, 1632-1695, Described by Himself vol. 2 (Clarendon Press: Oxford, 1892), 392-393.
[52]  Munk, op. cit., 359.
[53] Munk, op. cit., 360.
[54] Munk, op. cit., 363.
[55] Munk, op. cit., 362.
[56] For a list of the Jewish students attending the University of Padua during Samuel’s time, see Abdelkader Modena and Edgardo Morpurgo, Medici E Chirurghi Ebrei Dottorati E Licenziati Nell Universita Di Padova dal 1617 al 1816 (Bologna, 1967). This list has been supplemented over the years, but the overall numbers are not significantly different.
[57] For a collection of diplomas from the University of Padua, see G. Baldissin Molli, L. Sitran Rea, and E. Veronese Ceseracciu, Diplomi di Laurea all’Università di Padova (15041806) (Padova: Università degli studi di Padova, 1998). Only a very small percentage of the diplomas in this book are from the medical school. For examples of diplomas from other Italian universities, see Honor et Meritus: Diplomi di Laurea dal XV al XX Secolo, ed. F. Farina and S. Pivato (Rimini: Panozzo Editore, 2005), a catalogue of an exhibition held in 2006 to mark the 500th anniversary of the founding of the University of Urbino.
[58] For more on Abraham Wallich and other physician family members of the Wallich family, see, Edward Reichman, “The Medical Training of Dr. Isaac Wallich: A Thrice-Told Tale in Leiden (1675), Padua (1683) and Halle (1703),Hakirah, in press.
[59] It is possible that Samuel was simply unaware of the composition and protocols of the Oxford degree, as he would not have had occasion to see one. Perhaps he was attempting to mimic a genuine Oxford diploma, but just erroneously assumed it was similar to that of Padua.
[60] Moritz Steinschneider “Judische Aertze,” Zeitschrift fur Hebraeische Bibliographie 18: 1-3 (January-June, 1915), p. 45, n. 1923. He is listed as “Samuel (b. Menasseh) b. Israel Abravanel-Soeyro (Suerus).”
[61] Nathan Koren, Jewish Physicians: A Biographical Index (Israel Universities Press: Jerusalem, 1973), 126. He is listed as “Soeiro Samuel Abrabanel of Amsterdam, son of Menasseh ben Israel, grad. in Oxford.”
[62] Dov Bear Turis, Shiva Kokhvei Lekhet (Warsaw, 5687), 16. Menasseh is not mentioned in this list.
[63] I thank Heidi Warncke for this suggestion.
[64] On Bueno, see, for example, George Weisz and William Albury, “Rembrandt’s Jewish Physician Dr. Ephraim Beuno (1599-1665): A Brief Medical History,” Rambam Maimonides Medical Journal 4:2 (April 2013), 1-4.
[65] Sefer Penei Rabah (Amsterdam, 1628)
[66] See Steven Nadler, Rembrandt’s Jews (University of Chicago, 2003). Nadler discusses the debate as to whether Rembrandt actually painted a portrait of Menasseh ben Israel. In either case, both Bueno and Menasseh were well acquainted with Rembrandt, who lived in the Jewish quarter of Amsterdam.
[67] Hindle S. Hes, Jewish Physicians in the Netherlands (Van Gorcum, Assen, 1980); Kenneth Collins, “Jewish Medical Students and Graduates at the Universities of Padua and Leiden: 1617-1740,” Rambam Maimonides Medical Journal 4:1 (January, 2013), 1-8; M. Komorowski, Bio-bibliographisches Verzeichnis jüdischer Doktoren im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (K. G. Saur Verlag: Munchen, 1991). Komorowski, p. 33, lists the dissertations of a handful of Jewish graduates of Netherland universities prior to 1650.
[68] Hes, op. cit., 3, Komorowski, op. cit., 33. Josephus was Menasseh’s first cousin. His dissertation was entitled “De Phthisi.” Joseph’s father, Jonah, joined Bueno in supporting Menasseh ben Israel’s book, Penei Rabah. Joseph Abarbanel was later excommunicated by the Sephardic community for rejecting the prohibition against buying poultry from Ashkenazi Jews. See Yosef Kaplan, An Alternative Path to Modernity: The Sephardic Diaspora in Western Europe (Brill, 2000), 136.
[69] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 221. The only Jews who would have attended Oxcam at this time would have been converts to Christianity, though Jews from birth. See Cecil Roth, “The Jews in English Universities,” Miscellanies of the Jewish Historical Society of England 4 (1942), 102-115. This is why Roth comments that the diploma is a “not too skillful forgery of an inherently improbable doctorate.” Roth adds that into the eighteenth century the climate for Jews at the universities in England was so unwelcoming that even native English Jews travelled abroad to Germany, Netherlands, Scotland, or Italy to obtain their medical degrees.
[70] Until the 1800’s Jews could not graduate Oxford or Cambridge unless they professed their belief in Christianity. See Joseph L. Cohen, “The Jewish Student at Oxford and Cambridge,” Menora Journal 3 (1917), 16-23.
[71] Graetz, op. cit., also wrote, “It was no insignificant circumstance that this honor should be conferred upon a Jew by a university strictly Christian in conduct.”
[72] Weisz and Albury, op. cit.
[73] Admittedly, this is also a strong motivation for forgery, but I shall leave this line of argument for the prosecution.
[74] Roth comments that, “it is impossible to believe that Menasseh ben Israel can have been a party to the deception. One can only imagine that he was a victim of it.”
[75] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 251-252.
[76] It likely would not have sufficed for the Dutch government either.
[77] While the universities of the Netherlands had begun issuing diplomas to Jewish students, the Padua diploma would still have been far more common.
[78] Would the Dutch government have accepted such a document? The record is silent on this question.
[79] https://www.zeeuwseankers.nl/verhaal/portugese-joden-in-zeeland. In 1911/1912 English Jews visited Middelburg and found the grave in decay. They told the city that a very important person is buried there who played a vital role (together with his father of course) in the readmission of the Jews in England. The gravestone was renovated, and possibly raised at that stage, and a chain was put around it. I thank Heide Warncke, Curator of the Ets Haim Library in Amsterdam for the information and references.
[80] https://www.omroepzeeland.nl/nieuws/100031/Joodse-begraafplaatsen-verstopt-in-Middelburg.
[81] Ephraim Bueno is also identified as a physician on his tombstone. Picture in Weisz and Albury, op. cit.

On the tombstone on the left, the end of the second line reads, Dor (doctor).

Joseph Abarbanel, while identified in the Ouderkerk Cemetery record as a physician, is not identified as such on his tombstone (inscription at the bottom of the document).

I thank Heide Warnicke for her assistance with the translation of these tombstones.

[83] Roth, op. cit., Menasseh, 139. Nadler echoes the same sentiment, adding that no one suspected the ruse in his lifetime as his gravestone identifies him as a doctor. See Nadler, op. cit., 263.




Depicting Difference: The Tower of Babel and the Language of Sacred Art

Depicting Difference: The Tower of Babel and the Language of Sacred Art

“For form is only the manifestation, the shape of content.”
Ben Shahn, The Shape of Content, p. 72

Genesis chapter 11 presents the narrative of the Tower of Babel, detailing how, contrary to the divine directive to disperse and populate the earth, the descendants of the flood’s survivors congregated in a single city and commenced construction of a substantial tower. God intervened to prevent further cooperation among them by disrupting their shared language, thereby introducing linguistic diversity, which ultimately ceased the building process and resulted in the broad dispersal of the population.

The account of the Tower of Babel offers a unique context for exploring what characterizes an image—and, by extension, a work of art—as Jewish. In Christian artistic traditions, from medieval illuminations to Renaissance paintings, the tower is often portrayed as a symbol of pride and serves as a cautionary emblem against human ambition. In contrast, Jewish philosophy and visual culture do not treat the tower as an important iconographic motif or as a warning against aspiration. Where the story does appear in Jewish art, it offers an alternative interpretation, and in certain instances, it recasts the tower motif in a more positive light.

The Architecture of Arrogance: Bruegel’s Tower and the Christian Moral Imagination

A painting of a tower of babel AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 1: Pieter Bruegel, The Tower of Babel, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

Among the most celebrated representations of the Tower of Babel is Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s painting housed in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum (we previously discussed another painting from the museum, Samuel van Hoogstraten’s Old Man at a Window, and whether it is a Jewish painting, its subject a famous Rabbi). Measuring over three feet wide and five feet high, this work features a monumental spiral structure composed of arches and tiers that ascend unevenly into the clouds. The immense scale of the tower stands in stark contrast to the small human figures depicted throughout—hundreds of workers engaged in various tasks. Bruegel’s paintings are notable for their comprehensive and detailed portrayal of subjects. (This site allows you to zoom in on all the details.) In this scene, each trade and stage of construction is rendered with meticulous attention; some laborers transport massive stone blocks along ramps, while oxen-pulled carts bear heavy loads of building materials. Human-powered treadwheel cranes lift supplies upward, and scaffolding constructed from poles, planks, and ropes clings to the sides of the tower. Masons apply mortar and lay bricks, carpenters reinforce beams, and overseers direct operations, attempting to manage the complexity and activity inherent in such an undertaking.

In the foreground, King Nimrod, adorned in elaborate robes and a crown, oversees the construction as the principal architect of the tower. He reviews architectural plans with his attendants while laborers kneel. Surrounding him, foremen gesture towards the ascending walls, effectively conveying his directives to the assembled workforce. Beyond the imposing structure of the tower, ships are visible entering the harbor, their masts prominent on the horizon.

Bruegel often used allegory in his work. By integrating contemporary construction methods and maritime elements into the depiction of the ancient story, he placed Babel in the context of his own time. The painting presents examples of human innovation alongside the risks associated with ambitious endeavors, making its observations applicable from the 16th century to the present day.[1]

A painting of people working on a tower AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 2: 13th Century Manuscript of Rudolf von Ems Poetry

A letter l with a tower and people working AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 3: 14th Century York Manuscript

Earlier artistic portrayals commonly focused on Babel’s height and grandeur. Medieval manuscripts and Church paintings often depicted it as upright, rectilinear, and monumental, resembling a fortress or cathedral spire. In contrast, Bruegel presents the tower as unstable, leaning, and showing deterioration at its foundation, while construction continues at the upper levels. The structure appears to challenge natural order by being built atop a mountain and using brick, which leads to rock formations that affect its stability. Bruegel incorporates Roman arches reminiscent of the Colosseum, suggesting parallels to historical architecture that had fallen into decline by the time of his visit in 1560. Some areas are already inhabited; for example, a woman is seen hanging laundry. The residents appear unaware of the structural issues beneath them, blinded by their hubris. Nimrod’s prominence in the foreground, with the workers genuflecting to him and his plans that he holds in his hands, further emphasizes the fetishization of human ambition.

At the time, Bruegel’s audience didn’t have to look far to see a potential Babel in the making: Antwerp was booming, expanding, and building like never before, and its populace risked falling into the sin of pride. In 1563, when Bruegel painted the Tower of Babel, the city was Europe’s busiest port and a magnet for wealth, with goods and materials streaming in daily through the Scheldt River. Massive new fortifications were under construction to secure the city’s growth, while the Cathedral of Our Lady still stood unfinished, its single soaring spire a symbol of grandeur halted midstream. Cranes, treadwheels, scaffolding, and teams of laborers were familiar sights on Antwerp’s skyline, all details Bruegel carefully folded into his painting. Even the ships visible in the harbor of his Babel recall Antwerp’s bustling docks, tying the biblical story directly to his contemporaries’ lived experience. For Bruegel’s viewers, the tower was not just a monument to ancient pride but a mirror of their own city’s dazzling ambition and its underlying fragility.

Bruegel does not show the dramatic aftermath, the confusion of tongues, and the scattering of peoples across the earth. Instead, he arrests the narrative at the moment of construction, filling the canvas with the feverish activity of workers and the looming mass of the tower itself. In doing so, he lets the architecture bear the weight of the story: the leaning walls, the buckling arches, and the crumbling base foreshadow the enterprise’s futility. The punishment is absent because the tower already embodies it, an image of human ambition that carries within itself the seeds of its own destruction.

Bruegel’s legacy is twofold. On the one hand, he fixed Babel’s appearance for centuries: spiraling, leaning, and crumbling, the visual template repeated in paintings, engravings, church murals, and biblical illustrations well into the modern era. From 16th-century Flemish workshops to 18th-century Bibles, from church frescoes to Romantic illustrations, and even into 20th-century literature and contemporary art, Bruegel’s leaning Tower of Babel has been endlessly reimagined as the enduring image of human ambition and collapse.[2] On the other hand, he reshaped its meaning. Earlier images celebrated human pride by showing the tower upright and impregnable. Bruegel’s version, and the generations of artists and authors who followed, transformed it into a parable of fragility, a monument doomed to collapse even as it rose.

Buildings Fall Books Endure: The Jewish Reading of Babel

Within the Jewish exegetical tradition, the story of Babel carries a different emphasis than in Bruegel’s Christian retelling. The tower itself is a bit player in a larger story, a catalyst and not the focus, less important than the human decision it symbolizes. In Genesis 9:1, God commands Noah’s descendants to “be fruitful, multiply, and fill the earth.” Yet instead of dispersing across the world, humanity chooses to settle in one place and build a city and tower “lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth” (Gen. 11:4). In this reading, the sin is not arrogance against heaven but resistance to God’s plan of dispersal. The tower becomes a narrative device, a means of dramatizing humankind’s determination to remain unified, sedentary, and secure.[3]

Seen from this perspective, the confusion of languages and scattering of peoples is not so much a punishment as a necessary correction. The multiplicity of tongues is God’s way of ensuring that His will for humanity, for it to spread, diversify, and populate the earth, is carried out. The Jewish interpretation, therefore, reads the story as a lesson about human attempts to thwart divine design, not Bruegel’s Christian vision, which centers on pride and monumental ambition. What matters is not the tower’s collapse but humanity’s refusal to scatter, and the way God ultimately enforces the order of creation.

This contrast is confirmed by the way Jewish tradition titles the episode “Dor Haflagah,” meaning “the Generation of Division,” rather than “Migdal Bavel,” the Tower of Babel. (Sanhedrin 10:3; Baba Metziah 4:2). The Hebrew name shifts attention away from architecture altogether and toward the human drama: the refusal to scatter, the divine act of dividing languages, and the dispersal across the earth. In other words, where Christianity made the tower a visual icon, Judaism made the generation itself the lesson.[4]

This approach was not only in Jewish exegesis but also in Jewish art. There are only five identified examples of the tower in Jewish art, but in all of them, it is illustrated in a uniquely Jewish manner.

A mosaic of people in different poses AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 4: Tower of Babel, Khirbet Wadi Hamam Mosaic, c. 3rd century, source.

A mosaic of people working on a building AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 5: Tower of Babel, Huqoq Synagogue, c. 5th Century

The earliest two examples are synagogue mosaics, a third-century synagogue in Wadi Hamam, and a recently discovered fifth-century mosaic on the floor of the Huqoq Synagogue in northeastern Israel. Only a part of the Wadi Hamam scene has survived, though it is the largest intact biblical scene found. It shows workers and a tower on the left. In the center, two workers are hitting each other. The Huqoq mosaic is larger and illustrates all stages of construction, including detailed depictions of hoists, levers, and various chiseling and cutting tools. At the center of the scene, two workers are engaged in conflict—one wielding a hammer and the other a saw.[5] Similarly, three medieval manuscripts feature this theme; in two, the depiction of violence is the central focus, while in the third, it forms part of a broader image, akin to the mosaic. [6]

A close-up of a painting AI-generated content may be incorrect.

Figure 6 Golden Haggadah, fol. 3r

Although these examples feature the tower, they can be distinguished from the Christian perspective. Firstly, the labeling of the images aligns with Jewish tradition, specifically referencing Dor Haflagah. Secondly, Bruegel’s comprehensive visual representation notably omits any mention of violence. The interpretation that linguistic confusion led to violence is exclusive to Jewish sources, appearing in Genesis Rabba and various other texts, but not in Christian writings.[7] Given that the mosaic dates to the third century, this seems to potentially point to an earlier codification of Genesis Rabba than is currently assumed or that this approach was already was an oral legend.[8] The only known medieval Christian manuscript featuring a descent into violence, The Bedford Book of Hours, has prompted one scholar to assert that it “is undoubtedly based on a Jewish legend.”[9]

While Jewish manuscript culture preserves the uniquely Jewish interpretation of the iconography of the Tower of Babel, Jewish print culture would transform Bruegel’s symbol of pride and sin into a fortress of divine protection.

The Soncino family was the first great dynasty of Hebrew printers, active in northern Italy from the late 15th to the early 16th century.[10] Originating from the town of Soncino in Lombardy and operating intermittently between roughly 1483 and 1527, they established presses in a succession of Italian cities, including Soncino, Brescia, Fano, Pesaro, and Rimini, as well as in Turkey. The founder, Joshua Solomon Soncino, and his nephew, Gershom ben Moses Soncino, expanded the enterprise into one of the most respected printing houses of Renaissance Italy. Gershom issued one of the earliest dated Hebrew books, a Talmudic tractate printed at Soncino in 1484. This work, with its unique layout, is the first of its kind to become canonized, combining the source text with two surrounding commentaries, and is itself a work of art. Their editions combined typographic precision with decorative sophistication equal to the best contemporary Latin and vernacular presses, and their name became synonymous with the art of Hebrew printing itself. They did not just print for a Jewish audience, but also printed over 100 non-Jewish titles, outdoing their Jewish output of 64 titles.

SEFER IKKARIM (BOOK OF PRINCIPLES), RABBI JOSEPH ALBO, RIMINI: GERSHOM SONCINO, 1522 | Sacred Splendor: Judaica from the Arthur and Gitel Marx Collection | 2019 | Sotheby's

Figure 7: Joseph Albo, Sefer Ikkarim, Rimini, 1522

The Soncino family was active from 1483, but in books printed from 1522, first in Rimini and subsequently in Salonika and Constantinople, Gershom incorporated a new printer’s mark – essentially a printer’s coat of arms.[11] This first appeared in R. Joseph Albo’s Sefer Ikkarim and depicts a traditional Renaissance-style solid stone tower rising above a crenellated wall, accompanied by the verse ‘מִגְדַּל עֹז שֵׁם יְהוָה, בּוֹ יָרוּץ צַדִּיק וְנִשְׂגָּב” “the name of the Lord is a mighty tower; the righteous runneth into it, and is set up on high,’ (Proverbs 18:10) on the left and right sides of the image. Gershom chooses to highlight the tower, unlike other possible symbols such as the rainbow, clouds of glory, or King David, which could have served a similar purpose.

Figure 8: Kol Bo, Rimini, 1525, Gross Family Collection

In the Sefer Kol Bo, published in Rimini circa 1525 and considered Gershom’s most distinguished work from that period, a prominent introductory statement appears above the tower: “In You I place my heart and you will help me, and I will raise my heart and with song I will praise you: ‘the name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runs into it, and is safe.’” This clearly presents the tower as an icon of divine protection and intervention. Notably, Gershom’s tower does not correspond with any physical structure in Soncino or Rimini; instead, the tower symbolizes a spiritual rather than an earthly construct.[12] There is one small, but somewhat strange, detail about Gershom’s tower: the doors are latched on the outside, making the locks useless. This oddity reinforces that the tower is divine, as it does not need a locked door. We reenact this belief annually during the Pesach seder. Gershom’s tower, rooted in Mishlei rather than Bereishit, represents divine protection in contrast to retribution. For a Jewish printer deeply engaged with Renaissance book art, this choice offered a thoughtful reinterpretation, reclaiming the tower as a symbol of resilience and trust in God’s safeguarding of the Jewish community people.[13]

The story of the “tower,” whether Bruegel’s collapsing monument or Soncino’s enduring emblem, reminds us how difficult it is to define what makes art “Jewish.” The same image can signify pride or faith, sin or sanctity, depending on the hands and the heart that shape it. Jewish art, then, is not confined to subject or style, but often lives in subtler places — in the design of a page, the mark of a printer, or the choice of a verse. Ultimately, even art speaks in different languages.

Notes: 

  1. For background on the creation of the painting see Margaret A. Sullivan, Bruegel and the Creative Process, 1559-1563 (Ashgate: England, 2010), 191-204. For a direct comparison of the painting with the biblical narrative see Ruth Dorot and Edna Langenthal, “Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s The Tower of Babel (1563). From Art to Architecture,” Journal Education Culture and Society, 2, (2023), 380-400.

  2. See Diána Kulisz, “The Tower of Babel Motif in the Art of the Low Countries,” in Mesopotamia Kingdom of Gods and Demons, ed. Zoltán Niederreiter, (Budapest: Museum of Fine Arts, 2024), 424-439.
  3. See Umberto Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, Part II, trans. Israel Abrams, (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1974), 225-226. Abarbenal, however, interprets the section much more in line with Bruegel’s themes. See Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, trans. Aryeh Newman, (Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization), 95-97.
  4. See Cassuto, id. at 203.
  5. See Karen Britt and Ra’anan Boustan, “Artistic Influences in Synagogue Mosaics: Putting the Huqoq Synagogue in Context,” BAR, May/June 2019, 40-41. They note that these are the only two known examples of synagogue mosaics to depict the Tower of Babel.
  6. The Golden Haggadah, Bezalel Narkiss ed. (England, 1996) 24-25; Marc Michael Epstein, The Medieval Haggadah: Art, Narrative & Religious Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 157-158.
  7. For a collection of the various sources see M.M. Kasher, Torah Shelemah, vol. 1, 515, no. 60 and 517 no. 73.
  8. See Anat Reizel, Introduction to Midrashic Literature, (Tevunot: Alon Shevut, 2011), pp. 105–106.
  9. See Mira Friedman, “The Tower of Babel in the Bedford Book of Hours,” in The Old Testament as Inspiration in Culture, Jan Heller, ed. (Trebenice: 2001), 113-114.
  10. See generally, A.M. Haberman, Perakim be-Toldoth Hamdpissim ha-Ivrim (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1978),15-101; Moses Marx, “Gershom Soncino’s Wander Years in Italy, 1498-1527” in HUCA XI (1936), reprinted as a stand alone work with many examples of Soncino illustrations, in 1969, by the Society of Jewish Bibliophiles.
  11. Abraham Yaari, Hebrew Printers’ Marks: From the Beginning of Hebrew Printing to the End of 19th Century (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1943), 4-5, 123-124. Gershom once used a different mark with a tower in the 1505 Fano edition Mashal ha-Kadmoni. Id. 124.
  12. Yaari, Printers Marks, 124.
  13. Gershom’s prayer may have been tied to a conflict with a Jew who had converted to Christianity. In the end, perhaps because of this conflict, although it remains unclear, Gershom was forced to flee Italy soon after. See Marx, “Wandering Years,” 55-59.



Elliott Horowitz – “”Most of all you’ve got to hide it from the kids…’ Reading Esther before Bed”

Elliott Horowitz teaches at Bar Ilan University and is co-editor of Jewish Quarterly Review.
This is his fourth contribution to the Seforim blog. We hope that you enjoy.
“”Most of all you’ve got to hide it from the kids…’:
Reading Esther before Bed”

Elliott Horowitz
“The problem of selecting Bible stories for the early grades is an especially difficult one,” wrote Emanuel Gamoran in his introduction to the first volume of Lenore Cohen’s Bible Tales for Very Young Children (2 vols, 1934-36), of which he was the editor. “Not all stories of the Bible are suited to the needs of little children,” continued Gamoran, who was an American Reform rabbi, and a disciple of the pioneer Jewish educator Samson Benderly,[1] “nor should all those children be told them in their entirety. In some instances certain details should be omitted.” In comes as little surprise, then, that in the second volume of Cohen’s Bible Tales the book of Esther contains only a single casualty – the evil Haman, who by the king’s order is hanged on the gallows he had prepared for Mordecai. No mention is made of the death by hanging of Haman’s ten sons, or of the more than 75,000 non-Jews killed, with the king’s permission, by Mordecai’s coreligionists. This was clearly one of those instances in which, according to Rabbi Gamoran, “certain details should be omitted.”
The identical omissions had been made three years earlier in a biblical anthology for children (The Children’s Bible: Selections from the Old and New Testaments) whose contents were “translated and arranged” by two distinguished non-Jews: Henry Sherman, who headed the “department of religious literature” at Charles Scribner’s Sons, which published the book, and Charles Foster Kent, who, as indicated on the frontispiece, was “Woolsey Professor of Biblical Literature in Yale University.”[2] The same editorial policy had earlier been followed by the American children’s writer Frances Jenkins Olcott (1873-1967) in her delightful Bible Stories to Read and Tell, published by Blue Ribbon Books in 1916.
Cohen and Gamoran, then, followed a venerable tradition in saving their “very young” readers from any knowledge of the sad fate of Haman’s sons. Yet they could arguably have followed the model of their British coreligionist Mrs. Philip Cohen in her two-volume Bible Readings with My Children (2nd ed., 1899). In her retelling of the book of Esther she acknowledged that not only Haman, but also his “ten sons were hanged on the gallows which their father had set up for Mordecai.”[3] Moreover, unlike Frances Olcott, who omitted mention of the permission given the Jews by Ahasuerus to defend themselves, and Messrs. Sherman and Kent, who included “the king’s “command that the Jews who were in every city should gather together and protect their lives,” but said nothing about the consequences thereof, Mrs. Cohen felt that it was safe to tell children that “the Jews, in defending themselves, killed numbers of their enemies.”
Mrs. Cohen’s justly popular anthology went through several editions, the fourth of which appeared in London in 1923. In that same year the future (but now lamented) Bible scholar Nahum Sarna was born in London. Not surprisingly, it was from that anthology that he acquired his earliest knowledge of Scripture. Reminiscing decades later about how he came to devote his life “to the study and teaching of the Hebrew Bible,” Sarna, then recently retired from Brandeis University, recalled that among his “earliest and most agreeable recollections is my father reading to me every Shabbat, with unfailing regularity from a little two-volumed work entitled Bible Readings with my Children by a Mrs. Philip Cohen. I am not certain, but I believe I was about three years old when the regimen began.”[4]
II
Bible Readings with my Children was not the first such anthology produced for Jewish children in Victorian England. Already in 1877 Ellis Davidson had published The Bible Reader under the explicit “sanction” of Britain’s Chief Rabbi Nathan Marcus Adler.[5] It was intended, as its subtitle indicated for the Use of Jewish Schools and Families, With the Addition of Questions on the Text, and Moral Reflections on Each Chapter. Davidson’s Bible Reader contained material from the popular book of Esther, but not much from the book’s brutal ending. Thus, anticipating Sherman and Kent’s Children’s Bible of 1930 readers were informed of the permission granted the Jews by Ahasuerus “to destroy, to slay, and to annihilate any armed force…that might attack them, with their children and their women,” but learned nothing of the consequences of that permission. Davidson did find a way to include the deaths of Haman’s sons, which both the Children’s Bible and Frances Olcott’s earlier Bible Stories later chose to omit, but he did so at the cost of changing the biblical story. They “were slain in battle,” and only afterwards hanged, wrote Davidson, “to show the people how utterly the whole house of Haman was degraded, and in order that future assaults might be prevented.”[6]
During the 1890’s two graduates of Oxford, each of whom had been at Balliol College when it was headed by the legendary Benjamin Jowett (1817-93), brought out their own biblical anthologies intended – at least in part – for young readers. The first of these to appear was John William Mackail’s Biblia Innocentium: Being the Story of God’s Chosen People Before the Coming of Our Lord…upon Earth, Written Anew for Children (1892). Mackail (1859-1945), who was born on the Isle of Bute and whose father was a minister of the Scottish Free Church, had overlapped as an undergraduate at Balliol with Claude Montefiore (1858-1938), who was a great nephew of the renowned Sir Moses. It is likely that they knew each other, since neither – unlike the bulk of their classmates – was an Anglican product of a posh “public school.” Both were also among the college’s most distinguished students; achieving “firsts” in the demanding course of study known as Greats (Literae Humaniores) in which their classmate George Nathaniel Curzon (a former Etonian and future viceroy of India) received only a “second.”[7]
In 1896 Montefiore, who was presumably familiar with Mackail’s Biblia Innocentium (which had appeared in a second edition in 1893) brought his Bible for Home Reading (1896), a two-volume anthology “with comments and reflections for the use of Jewish parents and their children. ” In certain respects Montefiore’s anthology followed the limitations that both his coreligionist Davidson and his former classmate Mackail had imposed upon themselves. No mention was made, for example, of the rape of Dinah in Genesis 34 or the subsequent massacre perpetrated by her brothers in Shechem. Yet with regard to the book of Esther Montefiore took a diametrically different approach. Whereas both previous Victorian anthologies, the one Jewish and the other Christian, had informed their readers of the permission granted the Jews to defend themselves but not of the bloody consequences thereof, Montefiore decided to include all the chpaters of Esther in their entirety despite what he acknowledged as the “religious and moral deficiencies.” These, he claimed, had been “ignored or explained away” by some, but also “exaggerated and falsely labelled” by others.” The best solution, he believed was to let readers, young and old, judge for themselves.
There were other ways of dealing with the book’s “religious and moral deficiencies” when presenting its contents to young readers. In his Story of the Bible: first published in 1904, Jesse Lyman Hurlbut (1843-1930), a Methodist Episcopal clergyman, reported not only that “Haman died upon the gallows that he made for Mordecai, but also that his sons “were put to death for their father’s evildoing.” He added, however, that this had been done “according to the cruel usage of those times.”[8] In contrast to Ellis Davidson’s clumsy attempt, in 1877, to make the hanging of Haman’s sons more palatable to his younger readers, Hurlbut, a native of New York, showed that it was possible to add without detracting.
Notes:
[1] On both Gamoran and Benderly, see Penny Schine Gold, Making the Bible Modern: Children’s Bibles and Jewish Education in Twentieth-Century America (Ithaca, 2004).
[2] H. A. Sherman and and C. F. Kent, The Children’s Bible (New York, 1933), 223-25.
[3] Mrs. Philip Cohen, Bible Readings with my Children, two volumes (rev. ed. London, 1899), II, 336.
[4] Nahum Sarna, “Ruminations of a Jewish Bible Scholar,” Bible Review 4:3 (June 1988). See also the obituary by Tom Long in the Boston Globe (25 June 2005).
[5] On Davidson, see Geoffrey Cantor, “‘From nature to nature’s God’: Ellis A. Davidson—mid-Victorian educator, moralist, and consummate Designer,” Jewish History 23:4 (December 2009): 263-388.
[6] On Davidson’s work and its treatment of the book of Esther, see Elliott Horowitz, Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence (2nd ed., Princeton, 2008), 24.
[7] On Montefiore at Balliol and the impact on the college of Jowett, see Horowitz, Reckless Rites, 25, and the sources cited there.
[8] Hurlbut, Story of the Bible: For Young and Old (Philadelphia, 1952).



A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism

A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism
By Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

This article appeared in Ami Magazine July 11, 2018/ 28 Tamuz 5778 and is reprinted here with permission.

This is not my first conversation with the Polish scholar Marcin Wodzinski. In 2013, following the release of his book on chasidism and politics, he visited my office together with the well-known askan Reb Duvid Singer. Today as then, my conversation with him elicits paradoxical emotions. His knowledge of chasidism, particularly its roots and subsequent development, is shockingly broad. In fact, many chasidim turn to him for information about their origins, and Professor Wodzinski’s research has saved for posterity much of that history.
Of course, the mere fact that chasidism, a vibrant Jewish movement that once thrived in Eastern Europe and Russia, has been reduced to a scholarly discipline for a Polish academician is saddening. Poland was once the center of chasidic and Jewish life in general, but it now has very few Jews living there. And it goes without saying that Poland is devoid of any vibrant Jewish culture.
“That loss,” he tells me, “is very acutely felt in Poland on many levels. One significant expression of this is the Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw. I was its head historian for some time, as well as the chief designer of the gallery that depicts the 19th century. Three years after its opening, it is now the most successful museum in Poland.”
Unfortunately, it hurts to hear that, because that is precisely what Hitler was trying to accomplish. The Nazis wanted to reduce Jews and Judaism to relics and artifacts found only in a museum, and I tell the sympathetic professor as much.
“That’s true, but I would say that Poland as a country can’t do anything about it because there are so few Jews living there. But in terms of recognizing the tragedy and the loss and as an expression of pain, this museum is extremely important. And there are many other examples of how the non-Jewish community is trying to integrate an understanding of Jewish culture into what it means to be Polish today. There are at least four centers of academic Jewish studies in the country, which is the same number that exists in Israel. Each center has many scholars who are doing valuable research and earning PhDs in the subject. These schools attract people who want to study Jewish history and culture. Many of them write important articles and books that are read by a lot of Poles.
“The Jews are not an extinct race,” he says with fervor, “and this notion among Poles is even stronger today than it was 50 and 100 years ago, when Polish culture was very antagonistic towards Jews and sought to exclude them. Today, an increasing number of people realize that you can’t understand Poland without understanding the Jews.”
Field of Study
Marcin hails from a town in Poland that is 50 kilometers away from Breslau, or Wrocław as it is known in Polish, which before the Holocaust was the epicenter of the haskalah, rather than chasidism. Yet ironically, it was the chasidic movement that drew his interest.
“Of course. There weren’t any chasidim here. The city of Wrocław is best-known for the Beit Midrash l’Rabbanim, which was part of the so-called Conservative movement. Abraham Geiger, who one of the leaders of the Reform movement, was also quite active in Wrocław for over two decades. And the Jewish historian Heinrich Groetz spent his entire academic Marcin Wodzinski accompanying chasidim at a kever. Seen in the background is Reb Duvid Singer. life at its university,” he tells me when I confide in him that given his place of birth and alma mater (he also attended the University of Wrocław), I find his interest in chasidism rather peculiar. “But there were also some important chasidic books that were published in Wrocław, such as the first edition of Kol Simchah, which is the collected teachings of Rav Simchah Bunim of Peshischa.”
“So you’re a goy,” I tease him, “born in the birthplace of the maskilim, but chasidism became your field of interest.”
“That’s right!” he replies good-naturedly. “I’m trying to bridge ideas and interests. My interest in Jewish history and culture began with Jewish cemeteries, which was very typical at the time because it was the most visible presence of both the Jewish presence and absence in Poland in the 1980s. I learned Hebrew so I could write down the inscriptions, and I was fascinated by seeing the rebirth of chasidic pilgrimages to the gravesites of tzaddikim in Lizhensk, Peshischa, Lublin and other places. Then I started researching chasidic life, which is what I’ve been involved in for the past three decades.
“Two weeks ago I published a book called An Historical Atlas of Hasidism, which is going to be very important for chasidic studies. It contains 280 pages of full-color maps and images from the inception of chasidism until today. The maps present an entirely new way of understanding the movement, and there are a lot of previously unknown historical images. The book was published by the prestigious Princeton University Press.
“I also recently published a book entitled Hasidism: Key Questions. That one was printed by Oxford University Press. That is the volume of which I am the most proud, as it summarizes my entire investigation into chasidism. It has seven chapters, each of which addresses a different central question: the definition of chasidus, women in chasidism, chasidic leadership and the role of a tzaddik, the demographics of chasidim historically and today, the geography of where they lived, the economics of chasidic life, and finally, the end of chasidus in Eastern Europe and how it moved to the United States and Israel. I put forth the argument that this shift was not only because of World War II but actually started during the First World War. The book has around 350 pages.”
“What do you think you’ve added to the understanding of chasidus?” I ask.
“There are several things that are unique about my work. First of all, I am equally interested in the lives of the rank-and-file chasidim as I am in the lives of the tzaddikim. To me, a tzaddik isn’t a leader if he doesn’t have followers. That is why I believe that much of the research so far has been misguided by omitting the tzaddik’s thousands of followers from the picture. I think it’s critically important to understand not only the teachings of the great chasidic minds but also—and perhaps more so—to understand how they reached the simple folk and affected their lives. Another innovation in my work is that I don’t just delve into intellectual topics. I also look at the social, economic and other aspects of history, which are aspects that have only been properly addressed by very few scholars. This results in an entirely different perspective.
“But perhaps most importantly, the vast majority of scholarship on chasidism has focused on its early years. We know quite a lot about the Baal Shem Tov and Rav Dovber of Mezritch, and we know some things about their disciples, but we know very little about chasidism in the 19th and early-20th centuries before the Holocaust. We know about some leaders, but very little about the lives of the chasidic communities. Both of these two recent books expand the scope of interest. I call the 19th century the ‘golden age’ of chasidism, because that’s when the number of people who considered themselves chasidim reached its peak. There were many regions of central Poland, Galicia and Volhynia [the region where Ukraine, Poland and Belarus meet] where chasidim constituted the majority of Jews, and it’s critically important to understand what their lives were like then.”
“How much of the actual Torah of the tzaddikim do you study? Is it something you consider necessary for your research, or do you completely ignore it?”
“Obviously, there are many people who are bigger experts on that than I am. I’m not even an am haaretz; I’m a goy!” he says unapologetically, “so it’s not really something for me to study.”
“So you don’t think it’s important or that you’re missing something in your research?”
“It’s obviously important, and that’s why many people study it. But I can’t do everything. I do need to understand the chasidic concepts, but I don’t study them myself; I read what other scholars have written. That’s the best I can do. I can’t be a specialist on everything. What I’m trying to do is to show that beyond Torah, there is a huge area of chasidic life that hasn’t been properly looked into, such as the relative power of individual groups. These are things that everyone would love to know. It also gives you an understanding of the spiritual leadership of various tzaddikim, because if one tzaddik has 100,000 followers, his relationship with his followers is very different from that of a tzaddik with 50 followers.
“We can also see how far the shtieblach were located from the court. For Chabad, the average distance between the court and the shtiebel was 400 kilometers, which means that the vast majority of chasidim only visited the Rebbe once or twice in their lives. For Vizhnitz, which was very strong in Hungary, the average distance was less than 100 kilometers, which means that most of the chasidim came to see the Rebbe several times a year because it was relatively easy to get there. This means that the relationship of the typical Vizhnitzer chasid and his Rebbe was very different from that of the typical Lubavitcher chasid and his Rebbe.
“Then there were courts that were even closer to their shtieblach. For example, Kretchnif’s average distance was 30 kilometers, which means that they could go to their Rebbe every Shabbos and he knew his chasidim personally. The Gerrer Rebbe had 100,000 chasidim, which means that he didn’t know all of them by face and name, with the result that the spiritual inspiration they received was different from that received by chasidim of a smaller chasidus. So while this kind of information isn’t part of the teachings of any particular group, it’s still very important to understand.
“It’s hard to summarize everything I believe I bring to the field. But as I said, I try to capture the totality of chasidic life, not just its spiritual aspects but also its economic, social and cultural ones.”
“Has your work brought you emotionally closer to the Jewish community, or is it just a field of research to you?”
“Whenever anyone chooses a field of research he feels some sort of connection. The most difficult thing for anyone to do is to decipher himself.”
“You speak Hebrew and English fluently, but in which language do you write?”
“Lately, I’ve been writing more and more in English instead of Polish because my books are addressed primarily to international audiences. But I still write articles in Polish, so I’m pretty much bilingual in my academic life.”
“Is the objective of your research to understand Poland or to understand Jews?” I ask next.
“I might be exceptional in some sense because I focus on Jewish history; I don’t research so-called Polish-Jewish relations. I’m interested in chasidism, the haskalah and Jewish cemeteries and that’s it. But I would say that the majority of scholars in Poland who are interested in Jews study the relationship between Poles and Jews.”
“As a non-Jew, are you welcomed by Jewish researchers of chasidism, or do you feel like an outsider?”
“There isn’t any bias against non-Jewish scholars in academia, or at least I’ve never experienced it. As a whole, the scholars studying chasidism are extremely openminded people. I’m very happy to be part of this community and I feel very welcome and supported both intellectually and emotionally. The research I do is very broad, so I often have to rely on support from other people, which is always forthcoming.
“I would also say that over time I have established increasingly good relations with the chasidic community and with many individual chasidim who seem to appreciate my research. A big part of the atlas in my book maps out contemporary chasidism. In order to do it I had to ask a critical question—how many chasidim are there today?—because without the answer it’s impossible to continue any further. Are the numbers bigger or smaller than before the war? Where do they live? Which is the biggest chasidic court today? Celebrating at a Belz wedding To obtain the answer, I decided to turn to the chasidic phone directories and counted the number of households. Based on the 42 directories I received I arrived at a total of 130,000, which I believe covers almost all of the chasidic households in existence today. This allowed me to estimate the demographic and geographic distribution of chasidim and many other issues, and it was only possible thanks to the goodwill of the chasidic communities that appreciated my research and shared their directories with me. I am extremely pleased to have gotten support not only from my fellow scholars but also from chasidic people.”
“Which is the largest chasidus today?”
“You know the answer to that: Satmar, with 26,000 households split between the two groups.”
 “Which is second?”
“Chabad, with 16,000, followed by Ger, with 12,000. Belz has 7,500 households. The most difficult to calculate is Breslov because they use different categories for inclusion, but I estimate them at 7,000. Sanz has 4,000; Bobov has 3,000; and another 1,500 for Bobov-45. I am very proud to have done this research.”
Bustling Centers of Chasidic Life
“Where was the center of chasidic activity in the 19th century, Poland or Ukraine?”
“That’s a very good question. I have a set of maps in my atlas depicting where the tzaddikim lived and how this changed over time. I also have a map showing 70% of all the existing chasidic shtieblach at the beginning of the 20th century. This was an enormous undertaking. I managed to locate 2,854 shtieblach, which, as I said, represents some 70% of the total during that time period. It is very clear that the cradle of chasidism was Podolia and Volhynia, which are Ukrainian territories. At the end of the 18th century it moved north to Belarus and west to Galicia. In the 19th century, the epicenter was Galicia and the southern part of central Poland. Then it moved south again into Hungary and Romania.”
“Where does Czechoslovakia, where my own parents hail from, come into play?”
“Slovakia is part of Greater Hungary, because up until 1918 it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, so when I say ‘Hungary’ I am including Slovakia. By contrast, the area that is now the Czech Republic isn’t significant to us because there were very few chasidim there if at all. In fact, only the eastern part of Slovakia, which later became TransCarpathian Ruthenia and was incorporated into Hungary, Romania and now Ukraine, is relevant to this topic, but it was never a center of chasidic life. As for the Hungarian territories, it was mostly Maramures and Transylvania that were heavily chasidic.”
“According to your calculations, would you say that the majority of the Jews at that time were religious, and a majority of the religious Jews were chasidim?”
“Up until the interwar period in the 1920s and ’30s, the majority of the population was religious, although not all were chasidim; it depended on the area. In Lithuania the majority were Litvish—either misnagdim or ambivalent towards chasidim—while only a minority were chasidim. But in Galicia, especially Eastern and Central Galicia, the majority were chasidim. Many communities were dominated by chasidim. Poland was also divided: Eastern Poland was mostly chasidic, but in Western Poland the numbers were much smaller.
“In general, the vast majority of Eastern European Jews in the 19th century were Orthodox, but this changed radically in the interwar period. In the Soviet Union, the number of religious people dropped dramatically because of the Communists’ anti-religious stance, and the chasidim were heavily persecuted and their leaders sent to Siberia. For example, the Machnovka Rebbe was only allowed to leave his exile in the 1960s. In Poland there wasn’t any religious persecution between the wars, but because of the trend towards modernization and the influence of secularism and politics, the number of people who were still religious dropped to one-third of the Jewish population. Of those who were religious, I’d say that the majority were chasidim. This loss was acutely felt by the chasidic community.
“If you look at the activities of the Piaseczno, Aleksander Rebbe and Gerrer Rebbes, much of their activity was inspired by the crisis of many members of the younger generation leaving the community and becoming communists or Zionists. They understood that they had to reinvent the structure of the traditional chasidic community, particularly during the First World War and immediately afterwards.”
“They say that history is written by the victors. There were many large chasidic courts before the Holocaust but they are no longer remembered, and other chasidic groups are far more dominant now. This makes people believe that they were dominant before the war as well, but it’s not necessarily true.”
“My atlas corrects this misconception. As I told you, I found 2,854 shtieblach in the early part of the last century. By comparing the number of shtieblach of different courts, I was able to establish their relative power, and the numbers are very precise. In Central Poland, 22% of shtieblach were Ger; 13% were Aleksander; 6% were Kotzk and its offspring, followed by Amshinov, Otvotzk (Vorka), and other smaller groups. Perhaps the biggest one that’s completely unknown today is Olik, which may have been the third largest in Volhynia during the interwar period.
“Which was the biggest in Ukraine?”
“Between the wars, the biggest court in Ukraine was Trisk, with 16%. The second largest was Sadigura, which was really in Bukovina, outside Ukraine, with 8%. The third was Olik, followed by Karlin-Stolin, Makarov, Tolne, Chernobyl, Stepan, Lubavitch, Skver, Brzezan, Hornosteipel and others.”
“Where was Lubavitch the most dominant?”
“Lubavitch was the dominant group in Lithuania and Belarus, where they had 32% of all the shtieblach. Every third shtiebel was Lubavitch, and there were other shtieblach belonging to other Chabad courts. Four percent belonged to Kapust; 3% to Liadi, and 3% to Strashelye. If you count all of them together, almost half of the shtieblach were Chabad. The next largest one in Belarus and Lithuania was Karlin-Stolin with 10%, followed by Slonim, Kobrin, Koidanov and several others.”
“Do you see a common denominator between all of these groups despite their differences?”
“Yes, and one of them is their common origin. The understanding that they all come from the Baal Shem Tov informs every single chasidic community. It also affects the relationships between groups, because it is much easier to move from one chasidic group to another than it is to move from chasidism to non-chasidism or vice versa. There are also elements that are shared by every group. The role of the tzaddik is one such element. Even to the groups like the ‘toite chasidim,’ as the Breslovers were once called since they don’t have a live Rebbe, there is still an understanding of the Rebbe as an essential spiritual experience for every chasid.
“Perhaps this is something that distinguishes me from many other scholars of chasidism. Whereas most of them concentrate on the theology and books, my approach is more in line with the statement of Rav Zusha of Anipoli. When he was in the court of Rav Dovber of Mezritch, he said that he learned more Torah from the way his Rebbe tied his shoelaces than he would ever learn from his lectures. To me, the interaction with the Rebbe is what defines the life of the community. My research brings this aspect to light, whereas other scholars tend to overlook it.”
Economic Life and Political Power
“How do you make a distinction in your research between religious Jews and chasidic Jews in terms of their economic, social and cultural lives? They were probably almost the same.”
“That’s true as far as economics is concerned,” he admits. “It’s very difficult to differentiate between chasidim and non-chasidim, and finding sources was extremely difficult. But I managed to locate the complete lists of several communities in Poland and Belarus, and I also came into possession of complete lists of taxpayers and their professions. By comparing the two lists, I could see how chasidim fit into the picture of the general Jewish economic activity.
“There’s a popular stereotype both in the secular world and among chasidic writers that the early chasidim were poor, even in the 19th century. One of the things I wanted to know was whether chasidim on average were richer or poorer than the average nonchasid. I also wanted to know if there was any specific profile for chasidic economic activity. Where did the money they used to sustain their families come from?
“Thanks to the comparison between the lists of chasidim and the lists of other Jews in central Poland and Belarus, I came to the conclusion— which was quite surprising to me—that chasidic communities were on average wealthier than nonchasidic ones. Even more interesting, the chasidim preferred to engage in trade and weren’t so involved in artisanship and crafts. Also, there were very few chasidim who were unskilled workers, although there was a lot overrepresentation when it came to the communal professions such as rabbi, gabbai, shames, mohel and shochet. So when you compare chasidim to other religious groups with similar profiles, you understand why their communal structure was as I described.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense of emunah and bitachon supporting the economic activity. In the 19th century, the average boy starting an enterprise would get money from his family or in-laws and establish a business. Some of them would succeed, while others would go bankrupt. Many people needed to go bankrupt several times before starting to make money. In the traditional non-chasidic world, a person might start a business once or twice with his family’s support, but if he didn’t succeed he simply went bankrupt.
“Then there was another tier of support in the chasidic world: If a person failed using the money from his family, he could still count on assistance from his community. There is much documentation of chasidic solidarity being very important for internal economic support. If there was a wealthy person in a small chasidic town and he knew that another person had failed at his enterprise, he was willing to help him. This meant that people were given another chance.
“Also, chasidim preferred to be in trade rather than crafts, which usually generates a higher income. Being a chasid actually supported engaging in trade, because a non-chasid’s economic relations extended to his immediate business partners and family, but for a chasid this network was wider since he had to visit the court of the tzaddik several times a year, where he was able to build very strong relationships with people from other towns. This meant that he had access to business partners in a very large geographical region. It was therefore much easier for him to have a successful enterprise because he had a much larger pool of potential partners.
“Another important factor is the role of the tzaddik as arbitrator, not only in spiritual or familial matters but also economically. This is one more level that wasn’t available to a non-chasidic community, and it was enough to put chasidim in a relatively better financial situation.”
“Tell me about the political power chasidim wielded in their various countries of residence in Eastern Europe, which is the subject of the book you released in 2013.”
“It’s very interesting to see that some of the tzaddikim—most prominently Rav Yitzchak of Vurka and later the Chidushei HaRim—functioned as shtadlanim, representatives of the Jewish community to the non-Jewish authorities. It is also very instructive to see that behind their activity there were what I would call legal advisers, people who were very knowledgeable and skillful in navigating the law of the country. These were generally big entrepreneurs who had major financial influence and dealt with the authorities on a day-to-day basis. Those people weren’t visible, however; they lent their expertise to the tzaddik, who was the face of the political power. But it was really a wider enterprise undertaken by the entire community and not just the tzaddikim themselves.”
“Who do you think was the most politically astute and active among the Rebbes?
“In the 19th century, it is clear to me that the biggest innovation in the understanding of politics among tzaddikim came from Rav Yitzchak of Vurka. Around the same time the Tzemach Tzedek, Rav Menachem Mendel Schneersohn, was also very influential in political matters in Russia. You can see the structure of support from very wealthy Jews in St. Petersburg and Moscow, who brought their expertise into the service of the chasidic community. Those two should be listed as the most skillful political leaders of that period. In a sense they established the path for other segments of the Orthodox Jewish community. In the next century you have the founders of Agudat Yisrael in Poland, but that was a very different concept because by then it was mostly electoral politics predicated on parties.”
“Was the political power held only by the Rebbes or the chasidim as well?”
“I would say that any political activity required a very developed cooperation of many levels of political involvement. The tzaddik would never act alone, and it is obvious that without support he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what he did. At the same time, without him others would be unable to have power. They were entirely interdependent, so it’s impossible to say which was the more important. The beauty is that they managed to invent new ways of being politically active, because traditional Jewish politics had been based on shtadlanim.
“The way it worked up until then was that the Jewish community would hire a political activist who would go to the Polish court or nobleman and try to obtain certain political privileges. This changed in the late-18th century because there was no longer a Polish court, so the entire legal system changed. Under the new system, the Jewish community was deprived of political power, not because of antiSemitism—which of course existed—but because the authorities claimed that the Jews weren’t a community but only individual citizens. Every citizen could represent his own interests, but no one could speak in the name of a group. Jews were permitted to organize for religious purposes, but they were forbidden to organize politically. This meant having to reinvent how to represent themselves to the government, but somehow the tzaddikim managed to present themselves as the representatives of the entire Jewish population.”
“What’s fascinating is that all of this developed in antiSemitic environments. Would you agree with that statement?”
“The political elite were certainly more or less antiSemitic, but they were trying to present themselves as neutral. Those who were skillful used this supposed ambivalence to their advantage. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka, for example, was as successful as he was because he was able to neutralize the anti-Semitic bias of many politicians. He forced them to act against their will by citing legal precedents in support of his arguments that they couldn’t reject. One such case involved the right of rabbanim to control the kashrut of meat in Poland. Absurdly, the right to sell kosher meat and levy the special tax on it had been given over to a Christian enterprise, which was obviously a major problem. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka managed to present this as destructive to the state budget and contrary to its revenue laws. By using this argument, he managed to help the Jewish community regain control. The political bias and anti-Semitism of many of the politicians was rendered ineffective, because they had to follow the legal procedures established by the law of the land. One of the most important factors in the politics of the 19th century was that even the most oppressive countries were trying to establish themselves as places that operated under the rule of law.”
“Tell me about the Tzemach Tzedek’s successes. What was his style of political activity?”
“He was active in Russia in a different context. When he passed away in 1866 there was a visible break in the political representation in Russia, mainly because his succession was unclear; his sons established other courts in other towns, and his youngest son, Rav Shmuel, remained in Lubavitch. This was only slowly regained by his grandson, Rav Shalom Dovber, but his was a time of lesser political success. Concurrently, the Chidushei HaRim established himself as an extremely successful political leader in central Poland. He was succeeded by the Sfas Emes, who was also very successful, as was his son, the Imrei Emes, who was very involved in the creation of Agudat Yisrael. By then the political climate in central Poland was under Russian control, but because it was ethnically different, it maintained a separate legal system that encouraged political activity far more than Russia. So I would say that after 1866 and the passing of the Tzemach Tzedek, there was no longer a real parallel of politics in Russia and Poland.”
“By ‘political activism’ you mean efforts to benefit Jewish life in the places they lived.”
“I am referring to those actions that were undertaken by chasidic leaders with the support of their constituencies to guarantee certain privileges or rights for the Jewish community at large, not just the chasidic community. Aside from the right to have control over the supply of kosher meat, this would include the ability of Jewish prisoners to have kosher food or the right to establish eiruvin in Jewish districts. This was a very important change from the earlier chasidic involvement in politics like that of Rav Meir of Apta, who was mostly active in defending the rights of chasidim to establish their own shtieblach, or to prevent the persecution of the chasidic community.”
“Every Jewish leader really fought for the rights of the Jewish community, so how were the chasidic leaders different in that regard?”
“True, many of their efforts weren’t very different from those of non-chasidic rabbanim, but the whole structure of chasidism empowered its leaders far more than other rabbanim. Let’s say that there was a rabbi of a town—even a very important posek in a big city. Who was behind him? He had only his personal charisma and his community. The Gerrer Rebbe, however, had 50,000 followers all over Poland. This gave him the ability to engineer a campaign to support his political actions in a very broad way. This structure of support that wasn’t confined to specific territories and could cover large areas of Eastern Europe gave additional power to chasidic representation.”
“Did you get the feeling that the growth of a particular court was dependent on the political skills of its leader?”
“That’s something that’s very hard to establish, because no direct testimonies would say such a thing, that this tzaddik was more powerful because he was politically skilled. But if you observe the correlation between political involvement and the number of followers, it’s very significant that those tzaddikim who became more politically involved eventually gained wider followings and vice versa; by having wider followings they were able to be more effective politicians. So these two phenomena were interdependent both ways.
“This is also very true of the interwar period. The tzaddikim who were engaged in the reinvention of chasidism after the First World War, establishing new school systems and other activities of that kind, eventually turned out to be more effective than others. For example, before WWI the Tchortkover and Belzer Rebbes were equally as powerful. But after the war the Tchortkover Rebbe’s power shrank dramatically, and the same holds true of many other Rebbes in central Poland. Another example would be the Gerrer Rebbe, whose political involvement and institution of new infrastructures in the yeshivos and Bais Yankevs [sic] gave him a very strong boost. He had 100,000 followers in the interwar period, which was unparalleled. So a connection exists between politics and the internal relative power of certain Rebbes.”
Concerns and Lessons
The country of Poland is currently going through difficult political times. Last week, the government effectively forced more than two dozen justices out of their jobs. The purged judges refused to recognize their dismissal, while the government officials insisted that they would no longer be allowed to hear cases. Surrounded by cheering supporters, the top Supreme Court justice took a defiant stand on the courthouse steps, and vowed to keep fighting to protect the Polish constitution and the independence of that nation’s courts. The confrontation was followed by dueling news conferences, fiery speeches and more street protests. I ask Marcin if he thinks Poland is moving towards a more dictatorial type of government.
“Poland has been losing its democratic institutions with increasing rapidity over the last three years since the ruling party took power,” he admits. “I can already see a lot of manifestations of an authoritarian state. While the Supreme Court is currently in the news it’s really only the tip of the iceberg, because we see many such things on a daily basis, such as the use of police against the political enemies of the present government, which is typically authoritarian. Then there’s the use of the media as a propaganda tool for the current government. Using public money in support of one political option totally demolishes the constitutional structure. I am very afraid that if the ruling party wins again next year, that will be the last free election in Poland.”
“Do you think that the Jews who live in Poland and the Jewish community at large should be concerned about this?” I want to know. “The ruling party is right-wing, and in Europe right-wing parties are very closely associated with anti-Semitic ideologies, but they are very wary of being labeled antiSemitic. For this reason, the ruling party won’t openly attack the Jewish community in the foreseeable future. But just by looking at the Holocaust law that was passed in January you can see that even without the direct intention of the regime there’s been a rise of anti-Semitic sentiment, which is fueled by the current political climate. This might be a concern in the long run, and is something that has been expressed by many representatives of the Jewish community over the last year.”
“Are you concerned as an academic about the freedom to do your research?”
“Yes. My understanding of the Holocaust law, which was somewhat rescinded, was that the objective wasn’t to persecute people who discussed the involvement of Poles in the killing of Jews during the Holocaust; it was more about creating a general feeling of fear and auto-censorship of what can be said in public these days.”
My final question to the professor is whether he thinks that what his research reveals about chasidic life contains lessons for the world at large.
“That’s a difficult question for me because I’m an academic; my work isn’t so much about finding moral lessons. But it is very clear to me that chasidism holds a huge cultural and spiritual attraction to the world. If you look at its impact on cultural imagery, the image of the traditional Jewish world to many non-Jews is identical to chasidism. This is a huge success, which is due to the spiritual attractiveness of chasidism. But I’m much more interested in analyzing it as a religious phenomenon that shows the interrelationship between religion and other aspects of daily life. I’m not saying that chasidism isn’t a religious movement; of course it is. But being a chasid is something so comprehensive that it affects cultural expressions, economic life and many other areas of activity.
“My research articulates the totality of the experience and helps people understand chasidism as a vibrant movement that isn’t black and white, which is the way it is often portrayed. It has very rich and complicated structures, which have a very big influence not only on the Jewish community but on the larger, non-Jewish societies in which chasidim live. It is also very deeply embedded in geographical location. My Historical Atlas of Hasidism shows how much the spirituality of chasidism is conditioned by the geographical context in which it developed, which is yet another aspect.
“What I would love to achieve with my publications,” he finally allows, “is to promote the understanding that because chasidism is so unique, it allows us to understand much of the world around us, and not just chasidism itself.”