The Longest Masechta is …

The Longest Masechta is …

By Ari Z. Zivotofsky

As Jews, we are often intrigued with trivia about our holy books, and the more esoteric and harder to verify, the better. An example of such trivia is the longest masechta in shas. While it is relatively easy to verify that the longest masechta in terms of pages in the Vilna Shas is Bava Batra, with 176 pages,[1] until modern times it was much more difficult to determine which is the largest masechta in terms of words or characters. Once something is difficult to measure, rumors abound, and this topic is no different. To cite just three examples. Meorot haDaf Yomi on 23 Shvat 5770 (vol. 559), stated (in Hebrew) that if not for the lengthy commentary of Rashbam, Bava Batra would have considerably fewer pages and that the Gra had said that really the longest masechta in terms of words is Berachot, although it is only 64 pages. Rabbi Yaakov Klass in the Jewish Press (20 Tammuz 5777 / July 13, 2017) wrote: “as the Vilna Gaon observes, Berachos is actually the longest tractate”. Rabbi Aaron Perry in his “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Talmud” (2004) states in a section “the least you need to know” (p. 57): “Brachot (Blessings) is the longest tractate in words”.

As often happens with urban legends. once an assertion is accepted as “fact”, it is then claimed to have been verified. In the journal Ohr Torah (Sivan 5766 [465], p. 719) the claim is made that a computer check was performed and it was found that the largest masechet based on words is Berachot. But alas, it ain’t so and in the next issue of Ohr Hatorah (Tammuz 5766, p. 784) the error was pointed out.

In actuality, and before presenting the results from a computer count, it is worth noting that ambiguity regarding sizes of masechtot only arose when commentaries began to be put on the same page as the text of the gemara. In other words, until the era of the printing press there was no ambiguity as to which masechta was the longest. Prof. Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel (Amudim B’toldot ha’Sefer ha’Ivri: Hagahot u’magihim [Chapters in the History of the Jewish Book: Scholars and Annotations], 2005, 105-106) credits Prof. Shlomo Zalman Havlin in his monumental “Talmud” entry in the Encyclopedia HaIvrit with the idea that the relative size of tractates can be determined based on the number of pages they occupy in the Munich manuscript. This unique manuscript, completed in 1342, was transcribed by one individual and had the entire Bavli in one 577 page volume. Simply comparing the number of pages of the various tractates provides the relative length in terms of characters/words. This ranking may be more accurate that a computer count of the words or letters as the single author may have been more consistent in terms of abbreviations and other factors that can influence the count.

Using the Munich ms, the rank ordering is similar, but not identical to that obtained from a computer count, although in all cases it is clear that Berachot is far from the largest. Using the Munich ms, the top five (with number of pages) are:

Shabbat (55.5)
Hullin (51)
Yevamot (47)
Sanhedrin (45.5)
Bava Kamma (45)

..

Berachot (36) is number 11.

A similar system can be used to estimate the size of masechtot using the monumental one-volume shas edited by Zvi Preisler (Ketuvim Publishers, Jerusalem, 1998). It is straight text of Talmud with no commentaries of Rashi or Tosafot and is a uniform font. References to biblical verses are included and thus sections with more aggadatah might appear slightly longer. The text is arranged in three columns per page. Counting pages in this volume, the longest mesechtot (and number of pages) are:

Shabbat (77⅓)
Sanhedrin (66⅓)
Hullin (58⅙)
Bava Batra (56½)
Pesachim (55⅓)
Yevamot (55⅙)

..

Berachot (47⅓ pages)

The simplest way to answer this question today is with a computer count of the number of words. Using the Bar Ilan Responsa project for this, the number of words in all of shas is about 1.865 million. And the 5 largest tractates are:

Shabbat (118k)
Sanhedrin (107k)
Hullin (90k)
Bava Batra (89k)
Bava Metzia (86.5k)

……

Berachot (73k) is in 11th place

The 5 smallest tractates are Chagigah (19k), Makot (18k), Horayoat (13k), Me’ilah 8k), and Tamid (5k). Other computerized calculations yield slightly different counts, but they do not significantly alter the rankings.

So why might one have been (mis)led to think that Berachot is the largest? It is easy to understand because Berachot does indeed win the prize in one category – words/daf. Berachot is king, with over 1115 words/daf. The next 5 are: Krisos (975), Horayot (972), Megilla (934), Sanhedrin (932 – the last perek probably plays a big role in raising this number!), Taanit (890). What might interest some daf yomi learners are the bottom 5, and those are (from bottom up): Nedarim (383), Meilah (384), Nazir (431), Baba Batra (509), Tamid (512).

The rumor is that the Gra stated that Berachot is the longest tractate, and it is hard to abandon such a tradition. A noble effort was recently made to vindicate that tradition. The book Mitzvah V’oseh (Shmuel David Hakohen Friedman, 2015, ch. 44, p. 564) quotes the famous statement that the Gra said Berachot is the longest in words, corrects this by pointing out that Shabbat is longer, and then gives a clever reinterpretation – the Gra was referring to Yerushalmi. And in the Yerushalmi, the author avers, Berachot is indeed the longest tractate by words. In a collection[1] of “trivia” that Rav Chaim Kanievsky was wont to discuss with his grandchildren, it is quoted that he said Berachot is the longest mesechta in Yerushalmi. That assertion is indeed much closer to being accurate but is still not correct.

In the Bar Ilan responsa project there are two versions of the Yerushalmi, the Vilna edition with almost 795k words and the Venice edition with almost 815k words, both considerably shorter than the Bavli.

In the Vilna edition of the Yerushalmi, the four largest tractates with their word count are:

Shabbat (47,685)
Yevamot (44,369)
Sanhedrin (40,008)
Berachot (39,478).

Using the Venice edition, the top four are:

Shabbat (49,161)
Yevamot (45,293)
Berachot (41,030)
Sanhedrin (41,004)

In the Yerushalmi too, one can use the monumental one-volume Yerushalmi edited by Zvi Preisler (Ketuvim Publishers, Jerusalem, 2006) to estimate the size of masechtot. Counting pages in this volume, the longest masechtot (and number of pages) are: Shabbat (37) and Yevamot (32 ⅔). This is followed by Brachot (30), Sanhedrin (29 7/9) and Pesachim (26 ⅔).

While these numbers are clearly influenced by many extrinsic factors such as which ms text used, abbreviations opened or closed, etc, they demonstrate that although Berachot is much closer to being the largest tractate in the Yerushalmi than it is in the Bavli, it is still behind the unquestioned largest in Bavli and Yerushalmi, Shabbat, and behind Yevamot.

Did the Gra actually make such a statement about what is the largest tractate in shas? There are no early records of it and I have not been able to find any mention of such a claim earlier than the late 20th century. Irrespective, the rumor that he stated that Berachot is the largest is fairly “common knowledge”. Yet it is clear using both counting ms pages and computer tabulated results, Berachot is far from being the largest in either the Bavli or Yerushalmi. Berachot does have one claim to fame in regard to size; it is by far the most words/pages.

[1] It is actually 175 pages; it goes up to page 176, but like all masechtot it starts on daf bet. But that would ruin the beautiful symmetry that the longest parsha in the Torah is naso with 176 pesukim and the longest chapter in Tanach is Tehillim chapter 119 with 176 verses.
[2]
In Gedalia Honigsberg, “HaSeforim”, 5777, ch. 10 is “tests” Rav Kanievsky would give and pages 199-201 is trivia for the grandchildren. On p. 200 it states that the largest mesechta in Bavli is Bava Batra followed by Shabbat. It then quotes in the name of the Gra about Berachot being largest in terms of words but that it is unlikely he said that because in reality Shabbat is larger. It then says that in the Yerushalmi the largest mesechta is Berachot.




Was Professor Saul Lieberman “Orthodox” or “Conservative”? [1]

Was Professor Saul Lieberman “Orthodox” or “Conservative”? [1]
by David Golinkin
Saul Lieberman (1898–1983) is universally regarded by Talmud scholars as the foremost talmudist of his generation, and some regard him as one of the foremost talmudists of all times.
Immanuel Low wrote to him in Hebrew in 1938: “In the depth of your articles there are many sparks of the spirit of the Gaon of Vilna.” E. S. Rosenthal wrote in Hebrew in 1963: “… until we can almost say about him: there was no king like him before him, according to his custom and his method.” Jacob Neusner, who later attacked Lieberman after Lieberman had panned Neusner’s Yerushalmi translation, wrote to Lieberman on December 10, 1981: “I am enjoying Hayerushalmi Kifshuto so much, that I wanted to tell you so…. It reminds me of why I have long ago concluded you are the greatest exegete of rabbinic texts of the twentieth century and among the true greats among the ones I have studied and used—of all times.” Yitzhak Rafael wrote in Hebrew in 1983: “I am not authorized nor do I dare assert that Professor Rabbi Saul Lieberman z”l was the greatest Talmud scholar in recent generations, but it seems that no one would attempt to dispute this assertion.” David Weiss Halivni wrote in 1986: “Professor Lieberman was not only a yahid b’doro, unique in his generation, but a yahid b’dorotav, unique in all generations.” Elijah Schochet wrote in 1988: “Rabbeinu Eliyahu, the Gaon of Vilna, was born on the first day of Pesah, 1720. Rabbeinu Shaul, our own Gaon, was laid to rest on the eve of Pesah, 1983. Between them, there was no other like Saul Lieberman.”[2]
Finally, in 2002, Israel Ta-Shema recounted an amazing story that took place in 1981, in which he asked Professor Lieberman a riddle about the Yerushalmi. Ta-Shema had heard the riddle from Rabbi Shlomo Goren in 1961 and since then had been unable to find the answer. Professor Lieberman spent about three minutes in silence, during which he opened one volume of the Yerushalmi and closed it. Finally he returned to the bookshelf, pulled out Yerushalmi Sotah 2:1, and showed Ta-Shema the correct answer. Lieberman later explained to Ta-Shema that “in my youth, I would have answered immediately that the answer is not in the Yerushalmi at all. But now that I am old, I do not rely on my memory, which is already weakened; and therefore I decided to flip through all the pages of the Yerushalmi in my mind, in order to make certain that it is not found in any place. And when I arrived at chapter 2 of Sotah, I found the place and showed you.” Ta-Shema concluded the story: “I had the merit over the course of the years to be a frequent visitor to the houses of quite a few of the greatest talmidei hakhamim [scholars] of the generation and among the beki’im [those who possess encyclopedic knowledge] in their generation … but [bekiut] of such magnitude I have never seen, not before and not after, and the memory of that Shabbat has not departed from me until today.”[3]
In addition to his amazing memory and breadth of knowledge, Lieberman was one of the most prolific Talmud scholars of all times. He published 225 books and articles, for a total of approximately 11,500 pages—devoted, for the most part, to the explication of rabbinic texts.[4] Finally, he published books and articles related to almost every area of Jewish studies, including Bible, Dead Sea Scrolls, Mishnah, Tosefta, Yerushalmi, Bavli, ancient piyyut, Hellenism, Greek, Latin, and medieval rabbinic literature.[5] Therefore, it is not surprising that over eighty books and articles have been devoted to Lieberman and his œuvre between 1948 and 2008.[6] Indeed, three entire books have been published about Lieberman since 2002.[7]
This essay will respond to the most recent monograph, Marc Shapiro’s Saul Lieberman and the Orthodox.[8] Professor Shapiro has shown in his writings that he is adept at archival research.[9] This monograph is no exception; it quotes and/or publishes at least twenty-five letters related to Lieberman. Indeed, it should be entitled “What the Orthodox Thought of Saul Lieberman,” since it quotes the opinions of Rabbis Yaakov Halevi Herzog, Yitzhak Nissim, Shlomo Goren, Isser Yehuda Unterman, Abraham Isaac Hakohen Kook, Meir Ben-Zion Hai Uziel, Ḥayim Ozer Grodzinsky, Isaiah Karelitz, Pinchas Hirshprung, Meshulam Rathe, Mordechai Gifter, Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg, Yehudah Leib Maimon, Yaakov Yisrael Kanievsky, David Zvi Hillman, Yaakov Kamenetski, Aaron Kotler, Menahem Mendel Kasher, Shlomo Yosef Zevin, Menahem Mendel Shneerson, Ze’ev Wolf Leiter, Samuel Belkin, Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, and She’ar Yashuv Cohen. We are in debt to Marc Shapiro for this very useful anthology based on archival sources.
However, it would appear that Shapiro has missed the mark regarding three critical points: (1) the character of the Jewish Theological Seminary from 1940 and following, (2) Lieberman’s motives for accepting a position at JTS and remaining there, and (3) whether Lieberman consider himself “Orthodox” or “Conservative.” This essay will address these three critical issues in Lieberman’s biography.
The Character of the Jewish Theological Seminary from 1940 and Following

Shapiro’s basic assumption is that Lieberman was “Orthodox” and JTS was “Conservative.” Thus, he writes: “It can be imagined what a shock it was for the Orthodox when in 1940 the internationally renowned Jerusalem illui Saul Lieberman accepted an invitation to join the Seminary faculty.”[10] This assumption about JTS, which repeats itself throughout the monograph, is basically incorrect, for the following nine reasons:
1.   During most of the years that Lieberman taught at JTS (1940–1983), almost all of the Talmud faculty at JTS were “Orthodox” or strictly observant Jews, including Rabbis Alexander Marx, Louis Ginzberg, Louis Finkelstein, Moses Hyamson, Abraham Sofer, Moshe Zucker, H. Z. Dimitrovsky, A. S. Rosenthal, Yehezkel Kutscher, Mordechai Margaliot, Jose Faur, David Weiss Halivni, Dov Zlotnick, Israel Francus, and Shamma Friedman.
2.   During the 1940s and 1950s, most of the students at JTS were observant Jews; a large percentage of them came from Orthodox homes and/or were graduates of Yeshiva College. This point is stressed by Schochet and Spiro in their recent biography of Lieberman, and more importantly, it is stressed by Shapiro himself: Between 1946 and 1957, 60% of JTS rabbinical students came from Orthodox homes and 30% were graduates of Yeshiva College.[11] Similarly, both Rabbi Isaac Klein and my father, Rabbi Noah Golinkin z”l, began their studies at Yeshiva University in the 1930s and then transferred to JTS. Rabbi Klein said that he did so in order to learn the critical methodologies of Professor Louis Ginzberg. Indeed, he received s’mikhah yoreh yoreh yadin yadin from Ginzberg. He certainly was not looking for a more lax halakhic approach.[12]
3.   From 1940 to the late 1950s, the division between Orthodox and Conservative Judaism was not at all clear. Indeed, this was pointed out by Shapiro himself as well as by other scholars, such as Jonathan Sarna.[13]
4.   Beginning in the 1950s, the mehitzah become the main dividing line between Orthodox and Conservative Judaism,[14] but the Seminary synagogue maintained separate seating for men and women from the days of Solomon Schechter until Professor Lieberman passed away in 1983.[15]
5.   During all of the years that Lieberman taught at JTS, the Seminary synagogue did not use any of the siddurim produced by the Rabbinical Assembly and edited by Rabbis Silverman, Hadas, or Harlow. It used, instead, a rather obscure Orthodox prayer book edited by Rabbi A. Th. Philips. Indeed, I was informed by someone who prayed in the Seminary synagogue with Professor Lieberman for nine years that at one point, two of the students told Professor Lieberman that the Philips siddurim were falling apart. They, of course, wanted to replace Philips with a more modern siddur. Professor Lieberman said that he would take care of the problem. He then proceeded to purchase two boxes of brand new Philips siddurim! [16]
6.   From 1940 until 1959, Higher Criticism of the Bible was not taught at JTS.[17] This opposition began way back in the days of Sabato Morais, who headed JTS from 1887 until 1897.[18] Solomon Schechter, who served as president of JTS from 1902 until 1915, called Higher Criticism “Higher Anti-Semitism.”[19] Cyrus Adler, who was president of JTS from 1915 until 1940, was also opposed to Biblical Criticism; in his day, Bible was taught at JTS with medieval Bible commentators.[20] Finally, Louis Finkelstein, who headed JTS from 1940 until 1972, was also opposed to Higher Criticism.[21] In 1944, he asked Lieberman to “gently” tell H. L. Ginsberg to write his article on biblical history in a proposed volume entitled Judaism and the Jews “from an extremely conservative point of view,” so as to “avoid various pitfalls of higher criticism.”[22]
7.   Furthermore, in the 1940s when Lieberman started teaching at JTS, the rabbinical students dressed just like rabbinical students at Yeshiva University.[23]
8.   More importantly, Louis Finkelstein, who together with Louis Ginzberg invited Lieberman to teach at JTS in 1940, saw JTS—as had Solomon Schechter and Cyrus Adler before him[24] —as an institution for k’lal yisrael, the collective Jewish people, and not just of the Conservative Movement. Finkelstein stated in 1941: “If someone calls us traditional, orthodox or conservative, it is he who makes a division in Judaism, not us … I think that the members of the faculty generally prefer the term ‘traditional Judaism’….”[25] After quoting this passage, Schochet and Spiro add: “Finkelstein preferred viewing JTS as an umbrella institution for all traditional Jews, which he hoped would attract to it Orthodox Jews, rather than one reflecting a specific denominational ideology. Finkelstein made no secret of the fact that he hoped that Orthodoxy would eventually find a home at the Seminary. He would therefore counsel his associates, ‘Let’s not be too Conservative; let’s not prevent [Orthodox Jews] from coming.’”[26]
Indeed, Shapiro himself stresses[27] that when Haim Zalman Dimitrovsky came to study with Lieberman at JTS in 1951, he did not even know that JTS had a connection with the Conservative Movement!
9.   Finally, Shapiro himself[28] quotes a letter written by Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg in 1948, when he was informed by someone supposedly “in the know” that Finkelstein was interested in him joining the faculty, alongside Ginzberg and Lieberman. Weinberg wrote to his friend Samuel Atlas (in Hebrew): “How could it be possible that they are asking me, when they have two great teachers like L. Ginzberg and Sh. Lieberman?” Weinberg did not say that he could not teach at JTS because it was Conservative or heretical; he simply said that they did not need him, because they already had Ginzberg and Lieberman.
Thus, from 1940 when Lieberman began to teach at JTS, until 1959—and, to a large extent, until 1972, when Louis Finkelstein retired—it was difficult to call JTS a Conservative institution. The faculty and students were mostly Orthodox or traditional; the lines between the movements were not clearly drawn; the Seminary synagogue maintained separate seating and used an Orthodox prayerbook; Higher Criticism was not taught; and the students at JTS even dressed like the students at YU. Louis Finkelstein viewed JTS as an institution for k’lal yisrael and even Rabbi Weinberg had no ideological objections to teaching at JTS.
Thus, there is no basis for Shapiro’s surprise that an “Orthodox” Jew like Lieberman accepted a position teaching at a “Conservative” institution.
Lieberman’s Motives for Leaving Israel, Accepting a Position at JTS, and Remaining There Until the End of His Life

Shapiro says[29] that Lieberman’s main motives were economic security, which he did not have in Jerusalem, and a desire to draw the students at JTS nearer to Torah and Judaism. These points are undoubtedly true, but I believe that there are at least six reasons why Lieberman left Israel, came to JTS, and stayed there for forty-three years:
1.   Saul Lieberman could not earn a living in Jerusalem. This is what Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan, Lieberman’s father-in-law, told Rabbi Aaron Pechenik and others,[30] and this was the reason that Lieberman later gave Pechenik for remaining there.[31] Indeed, while in Israel (1927–1940), Lieberman worked as a clerk at the Tel-Aviv Chamber of Commerce, as a teacher in Herzlia, as a part-time lecturer at the Mizrahi Teachers Institute.[32] as a secretary at Yeshivat Shaar Hashamayim, as a Talmud teacher at Hebrew University (from 1932–1937, a position from which he was fired and only received severance pay a year later),[33] and as Dean of the Harry Fischel Institute for Talmudic Research.[34]
2.   Shapiro also says that Lieberman wanted to draw the students at JTS closer to Torah and Judaism,[35] as indicated by his brother Meir, by Pnina Herzog, and in a letter to Gershom Scholem from 1941. Furthermore, Lieberman himself said this in a Hebrew letter to Hapardes in 1945, which Shapiro published in 2003. There he says: “Young Jewish men are innocent (t’mimim) and there is nothing that will influence them more than the light of Torah planted by a teacher who believes in the holiness of the Torah.”36] 
3.   At Hebrew University, Lieberman’s Talmud course in the 1930s shrank from six to two students, he was fired, and Hebrew University refused to award him a Ph.D. for Talmuda Shel Kisrin or Tosefet Rishonim.[37] The Harry Fischel Institute, which Lieberman headed for five years, was not an academic institution. Indeed, Lieberman himself spelled out in 1937 the requirements for Talmud scholarship; the students at Harry Fischel did not possess many of those qualifications.[38] In other words, at Hebrew University he had scholars to talk to but no job, while at Harry Fischel he had a job but no one to talk to. Thus, in 1940, JTS was the only serious academic center of Jewish studies in the world, as Lieberman himself wrote to Louis Ginzberg in Hebrew on April 30, 1940: “And I also hope that I could bring benefit to your Bet Midrash, which is now the only scientific institution [i.e., of Jewish studies] in our world.”[39]
4.   In 1940, and for most of the years that Lieberman taught there, JTS had the best Jewish library in the world, with a large collection of manuscripts and Genizah fragments.[40] Schochet and Spiro relate that Seminary librarian, Nahum Sarna, advised Menahem Schmelzer, his successor, to open the Rare Book Room at any time so that Lieberman could consult the thirteenth-century manuscript of the Mishneh Torah, which was placed on a table there especially for his use.[41] 
5.   Lieberman had a very warm relationship with Louis Ginzberg of JTS.[42] They met in 1929 when Ginzberg served as visiting lecturer at Hebrew University and Ginzberg asked Lieberman to prepare for publication Ginzberg’s lecture, “The Significance of Halakhah for Jewish History.” They then corresponded from 1930 to 1940. Louis Finkelstein explicitly praised Ginzberg for his indefatigable efforts to persuade Lieberman to come to JTS. This special relationship is evident from a Hebrew letter from Lieberman to Ginzberg from 1940.[43]
6.   Finally, Lieberman had an incredibly close relationship with Louis Finkelstein, who gave Lieberman whatever he needed and treated him like a king. Their relationship has been dealt with at length by Schochet and Spiro.[44] A few examples will suffice: Rabbi Bernard Mandelbaum, long-time Vice President of JTS, said: “Finkelstein gave Lieberman whatever he needed.”[45] Lieberman said as much in his Hebrew introduction to Hilkhot Hayerushalmi in 1947: “And last but not least is my friend, Rabbi E. A. Finkelstein, the President of our Bet Midrash, who provides me with special conditions for Talmud Torah and work with all possible convenience.”[46]
But their relationship went way beyond one of providing scholarly needs. Finkelstein viewed Lieberman as the most important Talmud scholar in the world and he told him so, both privately and publicly, on a regular basis. He referred to Lieberman’s arrival in the United States as “a historic one in the development of American Judaism … Even if the Seminary across the years had done nothing else than lay the foundation for such a work [=Tosefta Kifshutah on Zera’im], the institution would have justified itself.”[47] Finkelstein further stated that “Professor Lieberman does not exist for the Seminary; the Seminary exists for Professor Lieberman.” Faculty member Professor Judah Goldin once said, “Finkelstein believed in God and worshipped Lieberman.”[48] 
On December 1, 1959, Finkelstein informed Lieberman that he would become Rector of JTS, with all the powers and no administrative responsibilities: “It seems obvious to me that with your increasing preoccupation with the Tosefta Kifshutah (which …will turn out to be probably the most significant single accomplishment of the Seminary) …”[49] In a letter to Edward B. Lawson, American Ambassador to Israel, in 1955, Finkelstein introduced Lieberman as “Professor of Talmud in the Seminary and one of the most learned men in the world.”[50] Finally, when Finkelstein got Lieberman involved in the agunah dilemma in 1953, he introduced the Lieberman ketubah at the Rabbinical Assembly Convention in hyperbolic terms and compared it to the accomplishments of the tannaim.[51]
Thus, it appears that Lieberman came to JTS and stayed there for six reasons: because he could not earn a living in Jerusalem; in order to draw the students closer to Torah and Judaism; because JTS was the only scientific institution of Jewish studies in the world; because JTS had the best Jewish studies library in the world, to which he had open access at all times; because of his warm relationship with Louis Ginzberg between 1929 and 1953; and because of his unique relationship with Louis Finkelstein from the 1930s until 1983.
Did Lieberman Consider Himself “Orthodox” or “Conservative”?

Shapiro claims that Lieberman “regarded himself as an Orthodox Jew”[52] and he faults me[53] for categorizing Lieberman as a Conservative rabbi,[54] but he himself writes: 
In 1959, Lieberman became rector of the Seminary, and one of his responsibilities was “guarding the general religious policy of the institution.” Thus, there is certainly justice in the assertion that whatever his personal religious commitments, Lieberman had become part and parcel of the Conservative Movement and was assisting it at the time that the Orthodox were attempting to expose what they regarded as the Conservatives’ distortion of halakhah.[55]
Shapiro’s confusion is well-justified; I myself have debated whether Lieberman considered himself Orthodox or Conservative.[56]
On the one hand, he taught at the only Conservative rabbinical seminary from 1940 until 1983, and he served as its rector from 1959 until 1983. When he proposed his takkanah regarding the ketubah to the Conservative Rabbinical Assembly in 1953, he attacked “the Orthodox rabbis”:
I saw that some of you were accused of being frightened by the Orthodox rabbis. I want to tell you that I am not frightened by them at all. I want, therefore, to give you a point of information. In truth, they were frightened, and I want you to know why they were frightened. They weren’t afraid that the Bet Din would issue some takkanot. No, not at all. They were afraid that the Bet Din will issue takkanot in accordance with the law.
As a matter of fact, one of the very important members of the Orthodox rabbis said so in many words: If this Bet Din of the Rabbinical Assembly will issue atakkanah, that will be takkanato kalkalato. It will be a great misfortune because they will get authority and that is the reason why they oppose this. Many of them think that [if] that Bet Din will begin to move in this line, the movement can become strong and it will affect them.[57] 
When, during the negotiations about a Joint Bet Din, the Orthodox insisted that the RA sanction rabbis who perform a wedding even without aget, “Lieberman’s spontaneous response was that the Conservative Jews do not like inquisitions …”[58] He also wrote a letter that enabled Rabbi Theodore Friedman, a leading Conservative rabbi, to receive permission to perform weddings in Jerusalem, and another letter to Chief Rabbi Unterman in 1964, which defended the gittin performed by Rabbi Israel Silverman and other Conservative rabbis.[59]
On the other hand, Schochet and Spiro cite an undated interview in the Jerusalem Post in which “Lieberman explicitly stated that he himself was not a Conservative Jew; however, he praised Conservative Jews for their sincerity and their success in appealing to young people.”[60] Furthermore, in 1974, the Israeli daily Maariv published an article claiming that Golda Meir had asked Lieberman to influence the Conservative Movement to accept a compromise on the “Who Is a Jew” issue. Lieberman was described there as “one of the leaders of the Conservative Movement and as the Vice-President of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.” Lieberman wrote an indignant letter to the editor in Hebrew in which he denied the whole story and in which he said:
I am not one of the heads of the Conservative Movement and I am not, nor have I ever been, the Vice President of the [Jewish] Theological Seminary. I teach Torah to the Jewish people and I don’t understand much about politics.[61]
Finally, when a group of Seminary professors, graduates, and students held a “Conference on Halakhic Process” in 1979 in order to urge JTS not to ordain women, Lieberman wrote a letter to the Conference praising them for deciding to discuss “how to guard the last spark of the halakhah, that it should not be extinguished.”[62]
There are three possible ways to interpret this contradictory data. The first approach is followed by Hillel Goldberg, who, in a nasty review of Schochet and Spiro’s biography, would have us believe that Lieberman was Orthodox and taught and stayed at JTS simply because it was a cushy job which allowed him to do his research.[63] This approach contradicts everything we know about Lieberman’s piety and integrity, and barely merits a response. The second approach is put forth by Marc Shapiro, who maintains throughout his monograph that Lieberman was “Orthodox.” When he defended Conservative rabbis during the attempts to set up a joint Bet Din, “Lieberman was only reflecting on the mindset of the Conservative rabbinate, not describing his own feelings.”[64]
There is, however, a third way to interpret the data. I agree with Shapiro that Lieberman did not consider himself “Conservative.” However, neither did he consider himself “Orthodox.” An “Orthodox” Jew would not have spoken about Orthodox rabbis in the third person and in such a critical tone as Lieberman used in the 1950s. Furthermore, neither Shapiro nor Schochet and Spiro adduce even one text in which Lieberman himself calls himself “Orthodox.” Shapiro[65] simply refers to Schochet and Spiro.[66] but the latter offer no such proof. They quote Rabbi Berel Wein, who said that Lieberman “was personally an observant Jew.” They quote Rabbi Emanuel Rackman who said that Lieberman was “a Jew whose Orthodoxy was beyond question.” They themselves say: “These citations from prominent Orthodox rabbis reflect the common perception that Saul Lieberman was indeed ‘Orthodox’ in his religious practices” (emphasis added). They then cite numerous instances of “his firm adherence to halakhic practice and accepted custom.” They later quote someone who said that Lieberman “stressed that he wanted to be known as ‘Orthodox’ (note 266), but Lieberman himself never wrote such a thing.”
Furthermore, Shapiro mistranslates a key passage in Lieberman’s important Hebrew letter to Hapardes from 1945, which Shapiro himself published in 2003. Shapiro writes:
In his letter, Lieberman states that at the Seminary he is permitted to teach what he wishes. He also mentions that if another two or three Orthodox teachers joined the faculty (italics added), they could turn it into a wonderful place.[67]
However, that is not what Lieberman wrote. He wrote:
זהו מוסד חשוב שלו היו נכנסים לשם עוד שנים שלשה מורים משלומי אמוני ישראל היו מהפכים אותו לבית ספר למופת
This is an important institution. If two or three teachers “who seek the welfare of the faithful in Israel” [cf. II Samuel 20:19] would enter it, they would turn it into an exemplary school.[68]
Similarly, in his 1964 letter to Rabbi Unterman defending the gittin of Rabbi Israel Silverman.[69] he states that “Rabbi Silverman, when he was my student, observed Torah and mitzvot as is fitting.”
היה שומר תורה ומצוות כראוי וכיאות
He goes on to say
that it is essential to arrange matters related to gittin in America, and if there is good will on all sides, it is possible to arrive at a mutual agreement. Otherwise, I am afraid that chaos will take over this profession too and we will come to a similar situation to giving a hekhsher to a treif kitchen in an Israeli boat. And behold this hekhsher was not given by the Conservatives (who rejected the offer with disgust), but by an irresponsible group which calls itself Orthodox, and this group also performs gittin!
The picture that emerges from Lieberman’s letter to Hapardes in 1945, from his attempt to set up a joint Bet Din in 1953, and from his letter about gittin in 1964, is that Lieberman meant exactly what he said in his letter to Maariv in 1974: “I teach Torah to the Jewish people and I don’t care much about politics—that is: I am neither ‘Orthodox’ nor ‘Conservative.’ There are “Conservative” rabbis who are halakhic and there are ‘Orthodox’ rabbis who are not. I care that the teachers at JTS should be sh’lomei emunei yisrael and that the students and graduates should beshomrei torah u-mitzvot ka-rauy v’khayaut.” Lieberman did not care about labels but rather about substance, and in this he was a true disciple of Rabbi Judah the Prince who said: Al tistakkeil ba-kankan, ella b’mah she-yeish bo—do not look at the vessel, but rather at its substance.[70] 
Notes

[1] This article is based on a lecture given in Hebrew in Jerusalem on Professor Lieberman’s 30th Yahrzeit, 9 Nisan 5773 (2013). It originally appeared in Conservative Judaism 65 (Summer 2014), pp. 13-29, published here with the permission of The Rabbinical Assembly.
[2] The first quotation is from Elijah J. Schochet and Solomon Spiro, Saul Lieberman: The Man and His Work (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 2005), p. 303 (and cf. pp. 53, 139). The other quotations are from David Golinkin, “The Influence of Seminary Professors on Halakhah in the Conservative Movement, 1902–1968,” in Jack Wertheimer, ed., Tradition Renewed: A History of the Jewish Theological Seminary, vol. 2 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1997), p. 473, n. 36. For Lieberman’s attack on Neusner’s translation of the Yerushalmi, see Journal of the American Oriental Society 104:2 (April–June 1984), pp. 315–319. For Neusner’s counterattacks against Lieberman, see History and Theory 27:3 (1988), pp. 241–260 = Jacob Neusner, Wrong Ways and Right Ways in the Study of Formative Judaism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), pp. 3–27; and idem, Why There Never Was a Talmud of Caesarea: Saul Lieberman’s Mistakes (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994).
[3] Ta-Shema in Meir Lubetski, ed., Saul Lieberman (1898–1983): Talmudic Scholar and Classicist (Lewiston, Queenston, Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2002), pp. 88-90 = Israel Ta-Shema, Knesset Mehkarim, vol. 4 (Jerusalem: 2010), pp. 337–339 (Hebrew). See Shamma Friedman in Lubetski, pp. 91–95, for an explanation of the riddle.
[4] A. S. Rosenthal wrote in Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 31 (1963), Hebrew section, p. 1, that Lieberman wrote 10,000 pages. A careful count of Tuvia Preschel’s 1993 bibliography of Lieberman in Shamma Friedman, ed., Sefer Hazikaron L’rabbi Shaul Lieberman (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1993), pp. 1–28, adds up to approximately 11,500 pages.
[5] See Preschel’s bibliography (above, n. 4) as well as the essays in the Lubetski volume.
[6] See Golinkin, pp. 472–473, n. 35, for a listing of thirty items and Elinor Grinet, “A Bibliography About Saul Lieberman: The Man and His Work,” in Lubetski, pp. 91–96, for seventy-seven items (some of them overlap). More recent works include: Aviad Hacohen, Madda’ei Ha-yahadut 42 (5763–64), pp. 289–301; a letter from Lieberman to the editor of Hapardes from 1945, published by Marc Shapiro in Kitvei Ha-Gaon Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg, vol. 2 (Scranton: University of Scranton Press, 2003), pp. 449–450; review of new edition of Hayerushalmi Kif-shuto edited by Menahem Katz (New York and Jerusalem, 2008), by Yehoshua Schwartz in Makor Rishon Hatzofeh,April 11, 2008, pp. 10, 13; Naomi G. Cohen, “In Memoriam: Chana Safrai (1946–2008), Friend and Colleague,” in Nashim 15 (Spring 5768/2008), pp. 198, 201. For reactions to Schochet and Spiro’s book, see: Hillel Goldberg, Tradition 40:3 (Fall 2007), pp. 69–75; Aaron Rakefet, Tradition 40:4 (Winter 2007), pp. 68–74; and Bernard Septimus and David Horwitz, Tradition 41:1 (Spring 2008), pp. 114–115.
[7] The books are Lubetski (n. 3 above), Schochet and Spiro (n. 1 above), and Shapiro (n. 8 below).
[8] Marc B. Shapiro, Saul Lieberman and the Orthodox (Scranton: University of Scranton Press, 2006).
[9] See, for example, his book Between the Yeshiva World and Modern Orthodoxy: The Life and Works of Rabbi Jehiel Jacob Weinberg, 1884–1966 (London and Portland: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 1999); Kitvei Ha-gaon Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg, 2 vols (Scranton: University of Scranton Press 1998 and 2003); and “Scholars and Friends: Rabbi Jehiel Jacob Weinberg and Professor Samuel Atlas,” in The Torah Umadda Journal 7 (1997), pp. 105–121.
[10] Shapiro, p. 16.
[11] Schochet and Spiro, p. 22, and Shapiro, p. 16. Both base themselves on Jeffrey S. Gurock, “Yeshiva Students at the Jewish Theological Seminary,” in Wertheimer (n. 2 above), vol. 1, p. 473.
[12] Regarding Rabbi Isaac Klein, see what I wrote in my introduction to his Responsa and Halakhic Studies, second revised and expanded edition (Jerusalem: Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, 2005), p. xii.
[13] Shapiro, pp. 14–15; Jonathan Sarna, American Judaism: A History (New Haven and London:Yale University Press, 2004), pp. 237ff. Shapiro, pp.14–15.
[14] See my book The Status of Women in Jewish Law: Responsa (Jerusalem: Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, 2012), pp. 14–15, and n. 27; p. 31, n.3; pp. 308–340.
[15] See JTS Semi-Centennial Volume (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1939), p. 59; Jonathan Sarna, “The Debate Over Mixed Seating in the American Synagogue,” in Jack Wertheimer, ed. The American Synagogue: A Sanctuary Transformed (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 379–380; David Golinkin, ed., The Responsa of Prof. Louis Ginzberg (New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1996), pp. 85–100; Wertheimer, vol. 1, p. 395, Harvey E. Goldberg, “Becoming History: Perspectives on the Seminary Faculty at Mid-Century”, Schochet and Spiro, p. 22.
[16] Personal communication from Dr. Baruch Schwartz, April 13, 2008. The siddur was entitled Daily Prayers with a Revised English Translation (New York: Hebrew Publishing Co., 1914), and reprints.
[17] David Ellenson and Lee Bycel, “A Seminary of Sacred Learning: The JTS Rabbinical Curriculum in Historical Perspective,” Wertheimer, vol. 2, p. 559.
[18] Ibid., pp. 536, 656.
[19] Solomon Schechter, Seminary Addresses and Other Papers (New York: The Burning Bush Press, 1959), pp. 35–39 and cf. pp. 1–7.
[20] David Ellenson and Lee Bycel, “A Seminary of Sacred Learning: The JTS Rabbinical Curriculum in Historical Perspective,” Wertheimer, vol. 2, p. 546.
[21] JTS Semi-Centennial Volume, p. 25.
[22] Schochet and Spiro, p. 29.
[23] Compare the pictures in Jeffrey Gurock, The Men and Women of Yeshiva (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), after p. 120; to the pictures in Baila R. Shargel, “The Texture of Seminary Life During the Finkelstein Era,” Wertheimer, vol. 1, pp. 527, 535.
[24] Regarding Schechter, see Mel Scult, “Schechter’s Seminary,” in Wertheimer, vol. 1, pp. 58–59; Michael Panitz in Robert Fierstien and Jonathan Waxman, eds., Solomon Schechter in America: A Centennial Tribute (New York: The Joint Convention Committee, 2002), p. 14; and Solomon Schechter, Seminary Addresses and Other Papers, pp. 48–49. Regarding Adler, see Schochet and Spiro, p. 17, which is based on Mel Scult (in Wertheimer, vol. 1), pp. 85–88.
[25] Schochet and Spiro, pp. 21–22.
[26] Ibid., p. 22. Regarding Finkelstein’s desire for JTS to serve all denominations, see Michael B. Greenbaum, “The Finkelstein Era,” in Wertheimer, vol. 1, pp. 163ff.; Jack Wertheimer, “JTS and the Conservative Movement,” in Wertheimer, vol. 2, pp. 419–420; and Michael B. Greenbaum, Louis Finkelstein and the Conservative Movement: Conflict and Growth (Binghamton: Global Publications, 2001), pp. 48, 60–67. Ibid., p.22.
[27] Shapiro, p. 48.
[28] Ibid., p. 9, n. 30.
[29] Shapiro, pp. 17–18.
[30] Ibid., p. 17.
[31] Ibid.
[32] See Saul Lieberman, Mehkarim B’torat Eretz Yisrael, ed. David Rosenthal (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991), pp. 601–602, for a beautiful vignette from that period of time.
[33] Schochet and Spiro, pp. 8–10.
[34] Ibid., pp. 10–11.
[35] Shapiro, p. 18.
[36] Shapiro, Kitvei Ha-gaon Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg, vol. 2 (Scranton: University of Scranton Press, 2003), p. 449.
[37] Schochet and Spiro, pp. 9–10.
[38] Ibid., pp. 10–11; and cf. Lieberman’s English introduction to Harry Fischel Institute Publications, Section III, Rishonim, vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Harry Fischel Institute Press, 1937), pp. vi-viii, where he spells out the qualities necessary to do scientific talmudic research. My thanks to Professor Shamma Friedman, who called my attention to this passage a number of years ago. Cf. Preschel (n. 4 above), who lists this article in item 36 even though the Hebrew and English introductions to that volume are totally different. Ibid., pp.10–11.
[39] Shapiro, Hebrew side, p. 17, also quoted in the English side, n. 64.
[40] Regarding the Seminary library, see Alexander Marx in The JTS Semi-Centennial Volume, pp. 87–120; Menahem Schmelzer, ed., Alexander Marx, Bibliographical Studies and Notes, (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary and Ktav, 1977); Herman Dicker, Of Learning and Libraries: The Seminary Library at One Hundred (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1988); and Menahem Schmelzer, “Building a Great Judaica Library—At What Price?” in Wertheimer, vol. 1, pp. 678–715.
[41] Schochet and Spiro, p. 16.
[42] Ibid., pp. 9, 18–20.
[43] Shapiro, Hebrew section, pp. 17–18.
[44] Schochet and Spiro, pp. 23–39.
[45] Ibid., p. 16.
[46] Saul Lieberman, Hilkhot Hayerushalmi L’harambam (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1947), p. 3
[47] Schochet and Spiro, p. 24.
[48] Both quotations are from Schochet and Spiro, p. 26.
[49] Ibid., p. 37.
[50] Ibid., p. 40.
[51] David Golinkin, ed., Proceedings of the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards of the Conservative Movement 1927–1970 (New York and Jerusalem: The Rabbinical Assembly and the Institute of Applied Halakhah [of the Schechter Institute], 1997), vol. 2, pp. 825–829.
[52] Shapiro, p. 26.
[53] Ibid., p.20, n. 72
[54] Golinkin, Proceedings, vol. 1, p. v.
[55] Ibid., p. 24.
[56] Golinkin, “Influence,” pp. 451–452. Golinkin, “Influence,”pp.451–452.
[57] Shapiro, pp. 26–27 = Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly 17 (1953), pp. 75–76 = Golinkin, Proceedings, vol. 2, pp. 810–811.
[58] Rabbi Wolfe Kelman, unpublished letter to Sheldon Engelmayer, May 14, 1987. I received a copy from Professor Jack Wertheimer and I gave a copy to Marc Shapiro, who quotes from the letter in his monograph, p. 20.
[59] Golinkin, “Influence,” p. 452, n. 55. Shapiro published the second letter on the Hebrew side of his book, pp. 33–34.
[60] Schochet and Spiro, p. 99, end of n. 163.
[61] I quoted this letter in Golinkin, “Influence,” p. 452. Shapiro published the entire letter in Shapiro, Hebrew side, pp. 35–36 and discusses it on the English side, p. 20, n. 72.
[62] Shapiro, Hebrew side, p. 40.
[63] See above, n. 5.
[64] Shapiro, p. 20, n. 72.
[65] Ibid.
[66] Schochet and Spiro, pp. 66 ff., 99 n. 163.
[67] Shapiro, p. 22.
[68] Shapiro, Kitvei Ha-gaon Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg, vol. 2 (Scranton: University of Scranton Press, 2003), pp. 449.
[69] Shapiro, Hebrew section, pp. 33-34
[70] Pirkei Avot 4:20.



In Praise of Ephemera: A Picture Postcard from Vilna Reveals its Secrets More than One Hundred Years after its Original Publication

In Praise of Ephemera:
A Picture Postcard from Vilna Reveals its Secrets
More than One Hundred Years after its Original Publication*

by Shnayer Leiman

I belong to a small group of inveterate collectors of Jewish ephemera. We collect artifacts that many others consider of little or no significance, such as postage stamps; coins and medallions; old posters, broadsides, and newspaper clippings; outdated New Years cards; wine-stained Passover Haggadot; Jewish ornaments, objects (e.g., Chanukkah dreidels) and artwork of a previous generation; photographs and postcards; and the like. The items we collect – all of Jewish interest – take up much space in our homes; they can also be costly at times. Often, we end up paying much more for an item than it is really worth, especially if it completes a set. Collectors of ephemera suffer from a disease that has no known remedy. The only respite we have from the disease is when we write scholarly essays about what we have collected, for – as I know from experience – it is not possible to write scholarly essays and actively collect ephemera at the same time.

The Picture Postcard.

Several years ago, I acquired the following postcard. It measures 5½ inches by 3½ inches, a standard size for its time. It is a mint copy, meaning that no message was penned on its back and it was never mailed. Thus, I cannot date the postcard by a recorded date or postmark on its reverse side (but see below). We present the obverse and the reverse of the postcard for the benefit of the reader:

Obverse. The obverse presents a black and white photograph, also standard for its time. It features a tombstone with a Hebrew inscription; a mausoleum behind the tombstone, with a brief Hebrew inscription; and what appears to be a cemetery attendant, with his hand atop the tombstone. Most important, it contains a German heading under the photograph, which reads in translation: “From the Eastern Front of the Theater of War, Wilna, An Old Jewish Tombstone [with Inscription].”

Reverse. The reverse prints the name of the publishing company that produced the postcard: “The Brothers Hochland in Koenigsberg, Prussia.”

Historical Context.

In terms of historical context, the information provided by the postcard (a German heading; Vilna is defined as the eastern front of the theater of war; the postcard was produced in Koenigsberg) can lead to only one conclusion, namely that the postcard was produced on behalf of the German troops that had occupied, and dominated, Vilna during World War I. German troops occupied Vilna on September 18, 1915 and remained in Vilna until the collapse of the Kaiser’s army on the western front, which forced the withdrawal of all German troops in foreign countries at the very end of 1918. Thus, our photograph was taken, and the postcard was produced, during the period just described. Its Sitz im Leben was the need for soldiers to send brief messages back home in an approved format. The ancient sites of the occupied city made for an attractive postcard. (This may have been especially true for Jewish soldiers serving in the German army.)

Due to a wonderful coincidence, a distinguished scholar of Yiddish and a dear colleague, Professor Dovid Katz, recently published a copy of the very same postcard we publish here.[1] Unlike my copy, his copy includes on the reverse side a dated message penned by the German soldier who mailed it, as well as a dated postmark. The message was written on December 3, 1917 and postmarked the next day, on December 4. Thus, we can narrow the timeline somewhat, and suggest that the postcard was almost certainly produced circa 1916 or 1917.

The Old Jewish Cemetery.

The old Jewish cemetery was the first Jewish cemetery established in Vilna. According to Vilna Jewish tradition, it was founded in 1487. Modern scholars, based on extant documentary evidence, date the founding of the cemetery to 1593, but admit that an earlier date cannot be ruled out. The cemetery, still standing today (but denuded of its tombstones), lies just north of the center of the city of Vilna, across the Neris River, in the section of Vilna called Shnipishkes (Yiddish: Shnipishok). It is across the river from, and just opposite, one of Vilna’s most significant landmarks, Castle Hill with its Gediminas Tower. The cemetery was in use from the year it was founded until 1831, when it was officially closed by the municipal authorities. Although burials no longer were possible in the old Jewish cemetery, it became a pilgrimage site, and thousands of Jews visited annually the graves of the righteous heroes and rabbis buried there, especially the graves of the Ger Zedek (Avraham ben Avraham, also known as Graf Potocki, d. 1749), the Gaon of Vilna (R. Eliyahu ben R. Shlomo, d. 1797), and the Hayye Adam (R. Avraham Danzig, d. 1820). Such visits still took place even after World War II.

The cemetery, more or less rectangular in shape, was spread over a narrow portion of a sloped hill, the bottom of the hill almost bordering on the Neris River. The postcard captures the oldest mausoleum and rabbinic grave in the old Jewish cemetery, exactly at the spot where the bottom of the hill almost borders on the Neris River. It was an especially scenic, and historically significant, site in the old Jewish cemetery, and it is no accident that the photographer chose this site for the postcard.

The Tombstone and its Hebrew Inscription.

The tombstone is that of R. Menahem Manes Chajes (1560-1636). He was among the earliest Chief Rabbis of Vilna. Indeed, his grave was the oldest extant dated grave in the Jewish cemetery, when Jewish historians first began to record its epitaphs in the nineteenth century. R. Menahem Manes’ father, R. Yitzchok Chajes (d. 1615), was a prolific author who served as Chief Rabbi of Prague. Like his father, R. Menahem Manes published several rabbinic works in his lifetime, and some of R. Menahem Manes’ unpublished writings are still extant in the Bodleian Library at Oxford University. His epitaph reads:[2]

The Mausoleum and its Hebrew Inscription.

In the old Jewish cemetery, many of the more famous rabbis were buried in mausoleums. All rabbis buried in mausoleums were buried underground. The mausoleum itself served as an honorific place of prayer that a visitor could enter and then pray at the grave of the rabbi of his choice. All tombstones were placed outside the mausoleum, and were affixed to its outside wall, directly opposite the body of the deceased rabbi named on the tombstone (but buried inside the mausoleum). Often, the names of famous rabbis were painted on the outside wall of the mausoleum (much like street signs) identifying who was buried in it. The mausoleums sometimes contained the graves of several famous rabbis. R. Menahem Manes Chajes was buried in the mausoleum that can be seen behind his tombstone. A famous rabbi buried in the same mausoleum was R. Moshe Rivkes (d. 1672), author of באר הגולה on the Shulhan Arukh.[3] The inscription on its wall, and above the tombstone of R. Menahem Manes, reads:

פה מצבת הגאון הגדול ר‘ מאנש חיות

Here is the tombstone of the great Gaon, R. Manes Chajes

The Cemetery Attendant.

What has remained a mystery for more than one hundred years is the identity of the cemetery attendant. We shall attempt to identify him, and to restore him to his proper place in Jewish history.

The reader will wonder how I know that the person in the photograph was a cemetery attendant. Perhaps he was a tourist who just happened to be there on the day the Hochland Brothers Publishing Company arranged for a photograph to be taken for its postcard collection?

Initially, it was simply a hunch, largely due to ephemera, that is, other photos of visitors to the old Jewish cemetery in the interwar period. I have a collection of such photos, and either they feature the tourist (who handed his camera to the tour guide or to the cemetery attendant, and asked that his picture be taken in front of the Vilna Gaon’s tombstone or at the Ger Zedek’s mausoleum), or they feature a cemetery attendant who stands in those places, while the tourist, who knows how to use the camera, takes the photo. The tourists can always be recognized by their garb, which matches nothing worn by anyone else in Vilna. The cemetery attendants, functionaries of a division of the Jewish Kehilla (called Zedakah Gedolah at the time), all wear the same dress, a “Chofetz Chaim” type cap and a long coat, both inevitably dark grey or black. While I am not aware of another old Jewish cemetery photograph featuring the specific cemetery attendant seen in our postcard, his dress is precisely that of all the other cemetery attendants whose photos have been preserved.

But there is no need for guesswork here. Sholom Zelmanovich, a talented artist and Yiddish playwright, published his דער גרצדקווילנער גראף פאטאצקי  in 1934.[4]

This three-act play commemorates the life and death of the legendary Ger Zedek of Vilna in a new and mystical mode.[5] The volume includes sixteen original drawings by Zelmanovich. Several of the drawings preserve details of Vilna’s old Jewish cemetery with seemingly incredible accuracy. Thus, for example, Zelmanovich depicts the northern entrance gate to the old Jewish cemetery, as well as the nearby Jewish caretaker’s house on the cemetery grounds, even though few photographs are extant that even begin to capture the details of those sites. His depiction of the Ger Zedek’s grave (and the human-like tree that hovered over it) is perfectly located in the south-eastern corner of the old Jewish cemetery, and is surrounded by the wooden fence that existed in that corner prior to 1926. Only someone who spent quality time in Vilna’s old Jewish cemetery could have known exactly where to place the entrance gate, the caretaker’s house, and the Ger Zedek’s grave.

One other matter needs to be noticed. Zelmanovich dedicated the volume in memory of his deceased parents, Meir Yisrael son of Mordechai and Sheyne daughter of Broyne.[6]

In the summer of 1935, the municipal authorities of Vilna, then under Polish rule, announced their plan to demolish Vilna’s old Jewish cemetery and replace it with a soccer stadium. Vilna – and worldwide – Jewry did not stand idly by. Instead, they engaged in an extensive, and ultimately successful, battle against the municipal authorities. As part of its efforts to win over the municipal authorities, the Vilna Jewish community charged a young Jewish scholar, Israel Klausner,[7] with writing a history of the old Jewish cemetery. It would offer clear documentation and prove beyond doubt that various Polish kings and municipal authorities throughout the centuries had authorized the Jewish community to construct the cemetery and maintain it. The cemetery was legally the property of Vilna’s Jewish community. Klausner’s monograph, entitled קורות בית-העלמין הישן בוילנה (Vilna, 1935), includes a discussion of the Ger Zedek’s grave. In a footnote,[8] Klausner mentions in passing Sholom Zelmanovich’s “recently published drama on the Ger Zedek,” and adds that Zelmanovich was the son of the caretaker of the old Jewish cemetery (Hebrew: בן בעלהקברות ), Meir Yisrael Zelmanovich! The plot thickens.

The full force of the Hebrew term בעלהקברות is not really captured by the English term “caretaker.” There were a variety of cemetery attendants who worked in the old Jewish cemetery in various capacities (such as guiding visitors and leading them to the graves they wished to visit, reciting prayers at the graves, ground-keeping, repairing broken tombstones and re-inking their inscriptions, and guard duty). But one cemetery attendant was in charge of all the other attendants, and as we shall see, he and his family lived in the house on the cemetery grounds. He was called: בעלהקברות, perhaps best rendered as: “Cemetery Keeper” or “Managing Director” of the old Jewish cemetery. We have established that Meir Zelmanovich served in that capacity. But who was he when did he live?

Meir Zelmanovich.

Sadly, almost nothing is known about the life of Meir Zelmanovich. He published no books and wrote no essays. As best I can tell, only one newspaper report mentions his name during his lifetime.[9] The report itself is significant. It records a complaint made by Meir Zelmanovich in 1919 that the Polish legionnaires had desecrated the old Jewish cemetery. But it would be Zelmanovich’s tragic death in 1920 that would perpetuate his memory. Here, we need to provide some historical context. Israel Cohen begins his discussion of the impact of World War I on Vilna, as follows:[10]

Within the small space of eight years, from 1914 to 1922, the Jews of Vilna tasted of the blessings of nine different governments, and suffered from a combination of other evils even more noxious. They became a prey to economic depression, military requisitions, unemployment, famine and disease; thousands of them were subjected to forced labor, imprisonment, plunder and brutal attacks; and physical and material deterioration inevitably engendered a certain degree of social demoralization. All the variegated differences of principle, of religious outlook and sociological doctrine, were now forgotten in the inferno created by the common foe. The long protracted fight for civil and political rights had to yield to the more primitive and desperate struggle for mere existence.

Almost certainly, the greatest concentration of Jewish suffering in this period came in April of 1919, when the Polish legionnaires unleashed a pogrom against Vilna’s Jews. Israel Cohen describes the horrors that followed:[11]

The [Polish] legionnaires[12] defiled and desecrated the [old Jewish] cemetery, smashed the tombstones, and opened the graves (including some of Vilna’s earliest rabbis) in the belief that they would find in them arms and money. Disappointed in their search, the Poles transferred their attentions from the dead to the living and ran amuck in the Jewish quarter. For three days they seized Jews in the streets, dragged them out of their homes, bludgeoned them savagely, and looted their houses and shops. About 80 Jews were shot, mostly in the suburb of Lipuvka, where some were ordered to dig their own graves; others were buried alive, and others were drowned, with their hands tied, in the Vilia [now: Neris] River… All sorts of outrages were committed in those days by the Poles in celebration of their victory. They tied a Jew to a horse and dragged him through the streets for three miles. They took a sadistic delight in cutting off the beards and earlocks of pious Jews. They even arrested, assaulted and humiliated Rabbi Rubinstein and Dr. Shabad. Altogether, thousands of Jews in Vilna, as well as in Lida and Bialystock were imprisoned in various concentration camps where they were ill fed and beaten, and where they suffered from hunger and typhoid. Moreover the total loss due to destruction and pillaging of Jewish people in the pogrom, in Vilna alone, was estimated at about 20 million roubles (about $10,000,000).

Polish rule of Vilna came to an end when the Russians recaptured Vilna on July 14, 1920. Russian rule lasted for six weeks, after which the Russians retreated and left Vilna in the control of the Lithuanians. Lithuanian rule lasted until October 8, 1920, when the Poles once again recaptured Vilna. One can only imagine the fear that gripped the Jewish community in Vilna, when they heard the sounds of the approaching Polish legionnaires. In fact, hundreds (some claim: thousands) of Vilna’s Jews fled on October 8 to Kovno, then part of Independent Lithuania.[13] Indeed, there was what to fear, for the Polish legionnaires were free again to wreak havoc with Jewish lives. And although the severity of the pogrom of 1919 did not repeat itself, the indiscriminate murder, rape, and looting of Jews that took place in Vilna between October 8-10, 1920 was, at least in the eyes of the victims, yet another pogrom.[14] Briefly, eye-witness Yiddish accounts[15] record that at least 6 Jewish men and women were murdered, numerous women were raped, and some 80 Jews were mugged and robbed. No one was brought to justice for committing these crimes! On October 10, 1920 Meir Zelmanovich, Cemetery Keeper of the old Jewish cemetery in Vilna was murdered by the Polish legionnaires. He was 70 years old when he died. The official Jewish record of his death lists his home address as “Derewnicka 3.” This is the address of the house on the grounds of the old Jewish cemetery. It is no wonder that Sholom Zelmanovitch could depict so vividly the northern entrance gate to the cemetery, its nearby caretaker’s house, and the human-like tree hovering over the Ger Zedek’s grave. His childhood playground was the old Jewish cemetery in Vilna.

On the picture postcard from 1916-1917, one sees an elderly Jew. One possibility is that it depicts none other than Meir Zelmanovitch, the Cemetery Keeper of the old Jewish cemetery until his death in 1920 at age 70. I suspected that this was the case, but could not prove it until recently — when a small miracle occurred.

Miracles Sometimes Do Occur.

In March of this year, out of the clear blue sky, I was contacted by Laurie Cowan, who introduced herself as a great-granddaughter of Meir Zelmanovich! She basically was interested in any information I could provide about her great-grandfather that she didn’t already know. I was delighted to make her acquaintance, but wondered what led her to me. It turns out that both of us were seeking information about the same person – Meir Zelmanovich – from the Lithuanian State Historical Archives in Vilnius. An alert researcher at the Archives noticed this, and made the “shidduch” between us. I shared with Laurie whatever I knew about her great-grandfather. In turn, I asked her to send me copies of whatever documents she had relating to her great-grandfather. She sent me a scan of the following photograph of her great-grandmother and great-grandfather, Sheyne[16] and Meir Zelmanovich:

Never has it been so easy to identify an unidentified picture on a one-hundred year old picture postcard! One suspects that the picture postcard company representative, and a photographer, met with the Cemetery Keeper Meir Zelmanovich at the old Jewish cemetery in Shnipishok. He led them to the mausoleum of R. Menahem Manes Chajes, and was asked to pose at the tombstone just outside it. He graciously accepted the invitation. This may well have been the last photo taken of Zelmanovich, and it preserves, together with the photo provided by Laurie Cowan, the likeness of a martyr who fell during the October 1920 mini-pogrom in Vilna.[17]

At least six Jews were murdered between October 8-10 in 1920 in Vilna. They died for one reason only, namely, because they were Jews. Such Jews are regarded as martyrs and their names, at the very least, deserve to be recorded and remembered. Until now, none of the names of the Vilna martyrs of 1920 have been published in any public Jewish record, whether in a contemporary Jewish newspaper, or a Jewish historical essay or book, or an online posting. Having examined the extant records in the Lithuanian State Historical Archives, I have been able to retrieve the 6 names of the Jewish victims who were murdered in Vilna in October of 1920. In each case, the Jewish Kehillah records of Vilna in 1920 state clearly in Hebrew that the cause of death was either נהרג or נהרגה (i.e., murdered). The names are:

1. Shmuel ben Mendel Katz, age 56, died October 9.

2. Etel Natin, age 36, died October 9.

3. Basya Natin, age 32, died October 9.

4. Rokhl Blume Shuster, age 45, died October 9.

5. Meir Zelmanovich, age 70, died October 10.

6. Shlomo Abramovich, age 17, died October 12.[18]

May the memory of these martyrs be forever for a blessing! [19]

NOTES:

עם הספר, the People of the Book the world over, mourn the death of R. Shmuel Ashkenazi in Jerusalem, at the age of 98. He was שר הספר, the consummate master of the Hebrew book. Bibliographer, bibliophile, and book collector, his encyclopedic knowledge of all of Hebrew and Yiddish literature remains unparalleled in our time. His most recent contributions appeared in three massive volumes, replete with some 1,794 pages of immaculate scholarship. He never wasted a word; he wrote with precision and parsimony. Among his many accomplishments, he edited the Kasher Passover Haggadah, one of the most significant scholarly editions of the Passover Haggadah ever published. He was largely responsible for the single most accurate bibliography of Hebrew books ever produced, מפעל הביבליוגרפיה העבריתThe Bibliography of the Hebrew Book 1473-1960. Aside from his scholarly distinction, R. Shmuel Ashkenazi wrote in an elegant Hebrew with its own special charm. Not only did he advance discussion, but he did so in an aesthetically pleasing manner. For those of us who knew him personally, he evinced the same charm in his personal relationships that he did in his writings. He set a standard of excellence that we can only strive to emulate, but never really replicate. יהא זכרו ברוך!

This essay is dedicated to his memory, a token of appreciation for all he has taught me.

[1] Dovid Katz, “World War I Postcard of the Grave of Rabbi Menachem Manes Chayes (1560-1636) in the Old Vilna Jewish Cemetery,” Defending History (11 March 2020), available here) A copy of our postcard can also be seen online at ‘YIVO 1000 Towns’, record ID 10743 (http://yivo1000towns.cjh.org).
[2] For a fuller discussion of R. Menahem Manes Chajes and his epitaph, see S. Leiman, “A Picture and its One Thousand Words: The Old Jewish Cemetery of Vilna Revisited,” The Seforim Blog, January 14, 2016, especially notes 7-11, online here.
[3] Aside from his pivotal commentary on R. Joseph Karo’s Shulhan Arukh, R. Moshe Rivkes was a great-great grandfather of the Vilna Gaon.
[4] Precious little is known about Sholom Zelmanovich (1898-1941). See the brief biographical entry in לעקסיקאן פון דער נייער יידישער ליטעראטור (Martin Press: New York, 1960), vol. 3, column 670, which mistakenly lists him as being born in a town near Kovno, circa 1903. He was born in Vilna in 1898 (JewishGen) and died during one of the first Nazi aktions in the Kovno Ghetto.
[5] In general, see Joseph H. Prouser, Noble Soul: The Life and Legend of the Vilna Ger Tzedek Count Walenty Potocki (Gorgias Press: Piscataway, 2005). Prouser’s excellent monograph is a study of the many literary reworkings of the legends surrounding the Vilna Ger Zedek, with primary focus on 20th century Jewish literary contributions. Strangely, he offers no discussion of Zelmanovich’s contribution.
[6] On the feminine Yiddish name “Broyne,” see Alexander Beider, Dictionary of Ashkenazic Given Names (Avotaynu: Bergenfield, 2001), pp. 484-486.
[7] Klausner (1905-1981) settled in Palestine in 1936 and continued to be a prolific author of studies and books on the history of Vilna’s Jewish community. Aside from several important monographs, like his history of the old Jewish cemetery, he wrote a two-volume history of Jewish Vilna entitled 1939-1881 וילנה ירושלים דליטאדורות האחרונים (Ghetto Fighters’ House: Tel-Aviv, 1983), to which a third volume treating 1495-1881 was added posthumously, based largely on studies previously published by Klausner.
[8] קורות ביתהעלמין הישן בוילנהp. 45, note 1.
[9] See Vytautas Jogela, “The Old Jewish Cemetery in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” Lituanus, vol. 61, no. 4 (2015), pp. 81-82.
[10] Israel Cohen, Vilna (Jewish Publication Society: Philadelphia, 1943), pp. 358-359.
[11] Ibid., pp. 378-379.
[12] Cohen regularly spells the word: “legionaries.” For the sake of consistency, I have spelled the word “legionnaires” throughout this essay.
[13] See, e.g., Boaz Wolfson, “מיטלליטע” in פנקס פאר דער געשיכטע פון ווילנע אין די יארן פון מלחמה און אקופאציע (B. Zionson: Vilna, 1922), column 387.
[14] There are probably as many definitions of “pogrom” as there are scholars and politicians. Since it is unclear whether the crimes committed on October 8-10, 1920 were planned and implemented by either a government or a political action committee, and since the duration of the attacks was short and rather swiftly brought under control, historians are reluctant to refer to the events that occurred on October 8-10, 1920 as a pogrom. On the other hand, to label those events a mere “disturbance” does not begin to capture the malevolent intent of the perpetrators directed specifically against Jews, and does not address the intensity of Jewish suffering at the time. For some of the different views regarding the definition of “pogrom,” and how the term has been manipulated by political interests, see Szymon Rudnicki’s forthcoming essay “The Vilna Pogrom of 19-21 April 1919,” to appear in Polin 33 (2020). Professor Rudnicki kindly allowed me to see a pre-publication copy of his lucid and informative essay.
[15] Wolfson, loc. cit. Cf. Jacob Wygodski, אין שטורם (B. Kletzkin: Vilna, 1926), pp. 217-221.
[16] Sheyne Zelmanovich died in Vilna on October 26, 1921, at age 68 (JewishGen). She lived in her home on the old Jewish cemetery grounds until her death. In a personal communication, Laurie Cowan informed me that the Zelmanoviches had 10 children who survived to adulthood. The 6th child, Beirach (popularly called: Berik; and later, Ben), was her grandfather, an older brother of Sholom mentioned above.
[17] The only other extant likeness of Meir Zelmanovich (known to me, and recovered on July 15, 2020) is an undated passport photo (circa 1916) preserved in the Lithuanian State Historical Archives. During the German occupation, all residents of Vilna were required to have – and to carry at all times – a German passport (we would call it: an Identity Card). Meir Zelmanovich’s German passport photo confirms the identity and authenticity of the photos of Zelmanovich published in this essay. All three photos are of one, and the same, person.
[18] One suspects that Abramovich may have been shot or beaten on October 9 and 10, like the others, but did not die from his wounds until the 12th.
[19] This essay could not have been written without the help of Regina Kopilevich, researcher (and tour guide) extraordinaire, who located whatever documents I sought at the Lithuanian State Historical Archives (Lietuvos Valstybes Istorijos Archyvas) in Vilnius. I am indebted to the librarians at the Archives for allowing her and me to examine these and other documents during my visits to Vilnius. Next to Google, JewishGen is a modern Jewish historian’s best friend, and we are grateful to all who contribute to making JewishGen the great historical resource that it is. Matt Jelen’s careful reading of an earlier draft has significantly improved the final version. I alone am responsible for whatever errors appear in this essay.




Shnayer Leiman – The New Encyclopaedia Judaica: Some Preliminary Observations

The New Encyclopaedia Judaica: Some Preliminary Observations

by

Shnayer Leiman 1. In 1972, the first edition of the Encyclopaedia Judaica appeared in print. With 25,000 entries, it moved well beyond its distinguished predecessors, such as the Jewish Encyclopedia (New York, 1906), the Universal Jewish Encyclopedia (New York, 1939-43), and the short-lived German language Encyclopaedia Judaica (Berlin, 1928-34). Its special focus on the Holocaust and its aftermath, on the State of Israel, and on the centrality of the Jewish community in the United States, rendered it the most current and useful of all the Jewish encyclopedias. But 35 years have passed since its publication, and there was a felt need for a new version that would update many of the entries in the light of scholarly advance. Also, new entries had to be provided for all that was new in Jewish life during the past 35 years. Early in 2007, the 22-volume second edition of the Encyclopaedia Judaica appeared in print – in hard copy and electronic versions – and it was heralded as yet another milestone in the history of Jewish encyclopedias.

2. A striking difference between the first edition of the Encyclopaedia Judaica (henceforth: EJ) and the second edition of the Encyclopaedia Judaica (henceforth: NEJ [= new Encyclopaedia Judaica]) is the almost complete lack of visual images in NEJ. Whereas EJ contained some 8000 photographs and portraits (judiciously selected from a larger pool of 25,000), NEJ has only 8 pages of photographs in the center of each volume. Thus, for example, the entry on Solomon Dubno (d. 1813) in EJ is accompanied by a striking portrait of him [reproduced below]. The portrait is lacking in NEJ. Similarly, the entry on Vilna in EJ is accompanied by some 9 photographs that make the city come to life; none appear in the NEJ entry on Vilna. The almost complete lack of visual images in NEJ is a fatal flaw that renders it the least attractive (and arguably, the least informative, for often pictures inform even more than words) of all the Jewish encyclopedias listed above in paragraph 1.

3. One of the key selling points of NEJ is that it updates – and allegedly supersedes – the 1972 edition of EJ. In the general introduction to NEJ, we are informed that more than 2,650 new entries were incorporated into NEJ, and that over half of the original entries (in EJ) were revised and updated for NEJ. Indeed, it is a delight to see entries in NEJ for Dina Abramowicz, Zvi Ankori, Gerson Cohen, Lucy Dawidovich, Marvin Fox, Ismar Schorsch, Yosef Yerushalmi and the like – none of whom were accorded entries in EJ. But upon inspection, it turns out that many key entries that needed to be revised and updated were neither revised nor updated. And regarding the new entries, there are serious errors of commission and omission.

Samples of entries that should have been updated, but were not, include:

a) Abraham b. Elijah of Vilna (d. 1808). NEJ reprints EJ, apparently unaware that some 130 printed pages of Abraham b. Elijah of Vilna’s writings on Bible, Talmud, Midrash, and Jewish bibliography were published for the first time, from manuscripts, in 1998 (see Yeshurun 4[1998], pp. 123-254). EJ and NEJ list Abraham b. Elijah of Vilna’s date of birth as 1750. Recent historical studies indicate otherwise and suggest he was born in 1766 (see, e.g., Yeshurun 14 [2004], pp. 982-996). These and other post-1972 studies on Abraham b. Elijah of Vilna surely merited mention in a revised and updated entry. In this instance, NEJ does not reflect the present state of modern scholarship.

b) Adam Ba’al Shem. NEJ reprints the EJ entry by Gershom Scholem, who – in one of the most controversial passages he ever wrote – identified the writings of the Sabbatean prophet Heshel Zoref (d. 1700) with the writings ascribed by Hasidic lore to the legendary Adam Ba’al Shem. The latter’s writings, according to Hasidic legend, formed the basis for the uniquely Hasidic teachings of R. Israel Ba’al Shem Tov. Scholars were quick to challenge Scholem’s identification during his lifetime and after his death. None are cited in the NEJ entry. An entire literature has grown around this particular issue. Much (but not all) of the relevant bibliography appeared in Y. Liebes, ed., גרשם שלום: מחקרי שבתאות, Tel Aviv, 1991, pp. 597-599. None of this appears in the NEJ entry. Once again, NEJ does not reflect the present state of modern scholarship.

c) Chajes, Zevi Hirsch (d. 1855). NEJ reprints the EJ entry. In the intervening years, numerous studies and two major books were published on Chajes, none of which is mentioned in NEJ. Here it will suffice to mention the titles of the two books:

Bruria Hutner David, The Dual Role of Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Chajes: Traditionalist and Maskil, Columbia University Ph.D., University Microfilms, 1971.

Mayer Herskovicz, רבי צבי הירש חיות, Jerusalem, 1972 (reissued: Jerusalem, 2007).

Here too, NEJ does not reflect the present state of modern scholarship.

d) Kalmanovitch, Zelig (d. 1944). NEJ reprints the entry in EJ. The diary (mostly in Yiddish and partly in Hebrew) of this Yiddish scholar — and victim of the Holocaust – is one of the most poignant of the Holocaust diaries. In 1977, Kalmanovitch’s son, Shalom Luria, publish an annotated Hebrew translation of the diary, together with a 50 page introduction that reveals much about Kalmanovitch that was not previously known. See Z. Kalmanovitch, יומן בגיטו וילנה, Tel Aviv, 1977, pp. 9-59. A sizeable and significant fragment of the diary, entirely in Hebrew, was discovered in the Lithuanian Central Archive in Vilna, and published in 1997. See Yivo Bleter 3(1997), pp. 43-113. None of this information appears in the NEJ entry. Regarding the Kalmanovitch entry, then, NEJ does not reflect the present state of modern scholarship.

e) Luria, David b. Judah (d. 1855). NEJ reprints the entry in EJ. No mention is made in either EJ or NEJ that a portrait of Luria is extant (in Vilna) and has been frequently published. See, e.g., Yahadut Lita,Tel Aviv, 1967, vol. 3, p. 62. More importantly, some 230 printed pages of Luria’s hiddushim on Bible, Mishnah, the Jerusalem Talmud, and Midrash Mishle, as well as responsa, were published for the first time, from manuscripts, in 1998-9. See Yeshurun 4(1998), pp. 489-647 and 6(1999), pp. 285-359. NEJ does not reflect the present state of modern scholarship regarding this entry as well.

 

4. Sins of commission are inevitable in any encyclopedia. The name of the game is to keep them at a minimum, and it is largely the responsibility of the editors to check and recheck possible misspellings, mistaken dates and facts, discrepancies, imaginary references, exaggerated claims, and the like. NEJ is not lacking in sins of commission in all of the above categories. One amusing instance will have to suffice for our purposes.

NEJ contains two entries of interest that appear several pages apart in volume 3. The first entry is entitled: Bloch, Chaim Isaac. The second entry is entitled: Bloch, Hayyim Isaac ben Hanokh Zundel Ha-Kohen. Innocent readers will assume, as they have every right to assume, that these represent two different persons. Alas, they are one and the same person. The first entry is a new one, designed especially for NEJ. The second entry is the old one, reprinted from EJ (minus the handsome photograph [reproduced below] that accompanied the original EJ entry). There are some interesting differences between the two entries. In the first entry, the reader is informed that Rabbi Bloch was born in 1867. Several pages later, however, Rabbi Bloch aged some 3 years, as we are informed that he was born in 1864. In the first entry, we are told mostly about essays he contributed to a variety of Torah journals – though mention is made of the fact that he published books as well. None of their titles are listed. In the second entry, not a word is said about his contribution to Torah journals. Instead, the titles of all his published works are listed. In the bibliographies appended to the two entries, each lists an item not in the other. The primary blame here hardly rests with the authors of the entries; presumably, they performed their assigned tasks as best they knew how. It is the sloppiness of the editors that allowed for the publication of two (sometimes contradictory) entries for one and the same person. Given the premium placed on space in any encyclopedia, this is a sin of no small import.

5. Sins of omission are inevitable in any encyclopedia. As the editors indicate in the general introduction to NEJ: “An obvious problem in the compilation of any encyclopedia is the decision as to which entries are to be included and which excluded …there is always a body of “borderline” entries which potentially could fall in either category. This problem becomes particularly sensitive when dealing with biographies of contemporaries. Which scholars receive entries and which do not? Where is the line to be drawn for rabbis or businessmen or lawyers or scientists? In some subjects, it was possible to fix objective criteria. For example when it came to U.S. Jewish communities, it was decided to include only those numbering more than 4,500.”

One can only sympathize with the impossible task before the editors. It was a no-win situation for them; whatever their decision, they would surely be open to criticism. If nonetheless I join the chorus of critics, it is not because of “borderline” entries. My own sense is that serious sins of omission occurred throughout NEJ, and in a broad range of categories. I shall attempt to illustrate this by selecting at random 5 categories of Jewish life that were of sufficient interest to me that I was even willing to leaf through the pages of NEJ in order to see how they were treated. I am well aware that others may consider unimportant what I consider important. What follows is no more than the personal opinion of one observer. The names listed below have no independent entry in NEJ and, at best, are mentioned in passing in other, often thematic entries.

a) Women. In the publicity relating to NEJ, it was stated openly that in earlier encyclopedias, including EJ, Jewish women were marginalized. They accounted for no more than 1.25% of the entries in EJ. This was a matter that would be rectified in NEJ. I do not know whether, in fact, this has been rectified in NEJ. But here are some omissions that seem striking to me.

 

1. Adele Berlin. A noted Bible scholar in the Department of Hebrew and East Asian Languages at the University of Maryland, her published books include:

Biblical Poetry Through Medieval Jewish Eyes; Dynamics of Biblical Parallelism; Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative; JPS Bible Commentary: Esther; Lamentations: A Commentary; Zephaniah: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary; and more.

2. Esther Rubinstein (1883-1924). An early advocate of religious Zionism, she was a leading Hebraist, Zionist, educator, and social activist in Vilna. Her learned essays on women’s suffrage paved the way for a change in rabbinic attitudes toward this issue. She founded the first religious day school for Jewish women in Lithuania. See the entry in אנציקלופדיה של הציונות הדתית, Jerusalem, 1983, vol. 5, columns 582-585.

3. Rivka Schatz-Uffenheimer (d. 1992) served as Edmonton Professor of Jewish Mysticism at the Hebrew University. Her many books on Kabbalah and Hasidut (e.g., Hasidism as Mysticism; The Thought of R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzatto [Hebrew]; The Messianic Idea from the Spanish Exile On [Hebrew]; R. Dov Baer of Mezhirech’s Maggid Devarav Le-Yaakov: An Annotated Edition [Hebrew] ) are landmarks in the history of Jewish mysticism.

4. Sara Schenierer (1883-1935), educator and author, founded the first Beth Jacob school in Cracow in 1917. In 1923, she founded the first Beth Jacob teacher’s seminary, also in Cracow. By 1927, there were 87 Beth Jacob schools, with over 10,900 students, in Poland alone. The movement spread throughout Europe, and ultimately to the United States and Israel, where it continues to thrive – with well over 50,000 students – to this very day. She also spearheaded a Jewish youth movement for young girls in Poland, wrote children’s literature and plays. Her collected writings were published in 4 volumes in Hebrew in Tel Aviv, 1955-60.

b) Rabbis.


1. R. Shneur Kotler (1918-1982) succeeded his father, R. Aharon Kotler, as Rosh Yeshiva of the Lakewood Yeshiva. He served in that capacity from 1962 until his death. Under his watch, the Lakewood Yeshiva grew from a student body of 200 students to a student body of over 1000 students. He established a system of Kollels throughout the larger Jewish communities in the United States. He was active in Agudat Israel, Chinuch Atzma’i, Torah U-Mesorah and other educational organizations. It was largely due to his leadership that the Lakewood yeshiva and its affiliate institutions number today well over 4000 students.

2. R. Eleazar Menachem Shach (1898-2001) was Rosh Yeshiva of the Ponevezh Yeshiva in Bnei Brak. From 1970 until his death, he was generally recognized by the Yeshiva world and by much of the Haredi world as the Gadol Ha-Dor. He was an occasional supporter of the Shas party, and was the founder of the Degel ha-Torah party. As such, he wielded enormous power in Israeli politics and the world over. He was the author of a monumental commentary on Maimonides’ Code, entitled Avi Ezri.

3. R. Yosef Shalom Elyashiv (b. 1910) succeeded Rabbi Shach as Gadol Ha-Dor. He is, arguably, the single, most powerful figure in the Yeshiva world and in much of the Haredi world. An expert in Jewish law, he has published some 26 volumes of hiddushim on the Talmud and Shulhan Arukh, as well as collections of responsa.

c) Academic Scholars. Two of the women listed above, Adele Berlin and Rivka Schatz-Uffenheimer, could just as easily have been listed under this rubric, with absolutely no bending of the rules. They were listed above only because of the claim that a special effort was made to include as many women as possible in the new entries for NEJ. Despite the claim, they were not accorded entries in NEJ.

1. Gerald Blidstein holds the Miriam Martha Hubert Chair in Jewish Law at Ben-Gurion University. His publications are simply too numerous to be listed here. Suffice to say that he was awarded the Israel Prize in Jewish Thought in 2006.

2. Menachem Cohen, Professor of Bible at Bar-Ilan University, is the head of the Mikra’ot Gedolot Ha-Keter Project – a project that is preparing for publication the Aleppo Codex and its Masorah, the Aramaic Targums, and critical editions of medieval Jewish commentaries on the Bible. Some 10 volumes have already appeared in print under his aegis. They represent the finest edition of Mikra’ot Gedolot ever produced.

3. Yehuda Liebes holds the Gershom Scholem Chair in Kabbalah at the Hebrew University. His many publications include: Studies in the Zohar; Studies in Jewish Myth and Jewish Messianism; and Elisha’s Sin (Hebrew). His annotated versions of Scholem’s studies are indispensable for scholarly research.

4. Haym Soloveitchik, University Professor at Yeshiva University, taught for many years at the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Yeshiva University. His published books include: Halakhah, Economics, and Communal Self Image (Hebrew); Pawnbroking in the Middle Ages (Hebrew); Wine of Non-Jews (Hebrew); Responsa as Historical Sources (Hebrew). Some of his shorter essays (e.g.“Three Themes in Sefer Hasidim”; “Rupture and Reconstruction”) have stimulated more discussion than books by others on the same topics. He was a recipient of the prestigious National Foundation for Jewish Culture Jewish Cultural Achievement Award in Jewish scholarship.

5. Yaakov Sussman is a world class Talmudic scholar who was awarded the Israel Prize for Talmudic Research in 1997. His many publications on the manuscripts, editions, and the history of the publication of the Mishnah, the Jerusalem Talmud, and the Babylonian Talmud; his edition of the “Miqsat Ma’aseh Torah” fragments of the Dead Sea Scrolls; and his edition of the Rechov inscription are the point of departure for all scholarly discussion of those topics.

 

d) Jewish Communities. As noted above, NEJ allows for an entry on any Jewish community in the United States with 4,500 Jewish residents or more. Thus, e.g., there is an entry on Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania which, perhaps, once had that many Jewish residents. According to the entry in NEJ, there were only 3000 Jewish residents in Wilkes-Barre in 2005. It is therefore somewhat surprising that there are no separate entries in NEJ on:

1. Monsey, N.Y.

2. Teaneck, N.J.

3. Far Rockaway, N.Y.

4. Lawrence, N.Y.

5. Cedarhurst, N.Y.

6. Woodmere, N.Y.

7. Kew Gardens Hills, N.Y.

I do not know the exact Jewish population of any of the towns listed above, but I suspect that each has at least 3000, and in all likelihood more than 4500, Jewish residents. In all fairness, NEJ presents a somewhat detailed discussion of Monsey and Teaneck under other rubrics (Rockland County and Bergen County). But I could not locate any discussion of Far Rockaway, the Five Towns, or Kew Gardens Hills. Each of these communities has a rich history, with many
synagogues, schools, and often institutions of national and international repute. They surely merit entries in NEJ.

6. The previous paragraph presents a rather long list of sins of omission relating to women, rabbis, academic scholars, and Jewish communities. One could easily add more names to each of the categories; and certainly so if yet other categories are examined. Doubtless, some will argue that there is simply no room in a 22-volume encyclopedia for so many “borderline” entries. In order to counter such an argument, I will list here four entries – exactly as they appear on the printed page – that found their way into NEJ.

1. Calwer, Richard (1868-1927). German socialist, economist, and politician. He belonged to the reformist wing inspired by Ferdinand Lasalle within the German Social Democratic Party (SPD). Calwer harbored a strong anti-Jewish bias. In a brochure published in 1894, he attacked the SPD’s radical wing as having been “incited by a few Jews who make slander their business,” and deplored that such “specific” Jewish characteristics as “zealousness, contentiousness, and commercial craftiness” had found their way into the party press and literature. He also criticized the SPD for combating anti-Semitism to the extent of creating the impression that Social Democracy had been “Judaized” (verjudet). Calwer left the SPD in 1909. He was a pioneer in Western socialist non-Marxian economics, which he taught until his suicide in Berlin.

2. Cohen, Philip Melvin (1808-1879), pharmacist and civic leader in Charleston, South Carolina. Cohen, born in Charleston, was the son of Philip Cohen, lieutenant in the War of 1812. During the Second Seminole War Cohen served as surgeon to a detachment of troops in Charleston Harbor (1836). In 1838 he became city apothecary. He was a member of the city board of health (1843-49). Cohen was a director of the Bank of the State of South Carolina (1849-55). He was one of the citizens who served as honorary guard at the funeral of John C. Calhoun in 1850.

3. Nagin, Harry S. (1890- ), U.S. civil engineer. Born in Romny, Russia, Nagin went to the U.S. in 1906. From 1924 he was executive vice president of a large steel products company in Pennsylvania. He took out over a hundred patents on steel structures, bridge floors, gratings, concrete, and plastics.

4. Abrams, “Cal” (Calvin Ross; 1924-1997), U.S. baseball player, lifetime .269 hitter over eight seasons, with 433 hits, 32 home runs, 257 runs, and 138 RBIS. Born in Philadelphia to Russian immigrant parents, he moved with his family to Brooklyn when he was a child. Having grown up in Brooklyn in the shadow of Ebbets field, Abrams fulfilled a life-long dream when he signed with the Brooklyn Dodgers after graduating from James Madison High School. But after two weeks in the minor leagues he was drafted into the army., where he served four years. Abrams spent three years in the minor leagues, winning the Southern Association championship with Mobile in 1947 while hitting .336. Abrams, who batted and threw left-handed, played for the Brooklyn Dodgers (1949-52), Cincinnati Reds (1952), Pittsburgh Pirates (1953-4), Baltimore Orioles (1954-55), and Chicago White Sox (1956), and had a perfect fielding percentage in three different seasons, 1950, 1952, and 1956. Abrams is best remembered for one of the most famous plays in Dodger franchise history. In the final game of the 1950 season, with the Dodgers one game behind the Philadelphia Phillies in the pennant race, Abrams tried to score from second with two out in the bottom of the ninth of a 1-1 game on a hit by Duke Snider, but Abrams, who had been waved home by third base coach Milt Stock, was thrown out by the Phillies’ Richie Ashburn. Had Cal scored, the Dodgers would have won the game and forced a playoff with the Phillies for the pennant. Dick Sisler hit a three-run home run in the top of the tenth to win the game – and the pennant – for Philadelphia. It was the closest Abrams ever got to the post-season. Dodgers fans vilified Abrams for years but he was defended by both Ashburn and Phillies pitcher Robin Roberts for the play, who agreed with many others who said that Abrams should not have been sent home by Stock.

————————–

Far be it from me to deny Richard Calwer (a non-Jew), Philip Melvin Cohen, Harry S. Nagin , and Cal Abrams – not exactly household names – their rightful place in Jewish history. But at the expense of Professor Haym Soloveitchik? NEJ inherited the Calwer and Cohen entries from EJ. But the Nagin and Abrams entries are original with NEJ. In the case of Abrams, whose baseball career ended in 1956, this is somewhat surprising, for he obviously didn’t make the cut with EJ in 1972 (in contrast to Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax). Now I am well aware that Rav Shach could not hit major league pitching to save his life, and that his lifetime batting average would have paled in significance to Cal Abrams .269 lifetime batting average. But, really, does Cal Abrams take precedence over Rav Shach in a Jewish encyclopedia?

 

7. In sum, the returns are hardly in. Not for nothing did we label these comments “preliminary observations.” Much more needs to be investigated before one can judge how well NEJ has captured the totality of past Jewish life, and the pulse of present Jewish life, as reflected in the 2007 edition. But until all the returns are in, hold on to your 1972 edition of EJ for dear life! It is not at all clear that NEJ has superseded, or that it will ever supersede, EJ. All public libraries and private collectors will do well to retain their 1972 editions of EJ and keep them precisely on the same shelves they have now occupied for some 35 years.

 




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.