The Jewish Review of Books recently published its Fall issue, which features several excellent articles, including a discussion of the recently published Chaim Grade novel. Below is a reprint of an article from their Summer issue, “Golden Ledgers” by Dan Rabinowitz, with a short postscript.
Seforim Blog readers can get a 50% discount on a subscription to the Jewish Review of Books by using this link. 

Golden Ledgers
by: Dan Rabinowitz

To get to the Judaica Research Centre archives in the Martynas Mažvydas National Library of Lithuania, you have to navigate through a series of passageways, across dark, empty rooms, and step over high thresholds. As your eyes adjust to the light, you are welcomed by rows of metal shelves filled with stacks of thousands of documents and dozens of bankers boxes overflowing with papers.

I was there again last summer looking for new material about Vilna’s Strashun Bibliotek, the first Jewish public library. I wrote a book about the Strashun Library a few years ago, but I was sure that there was more to learn. Lara Lempertiene, the director of Judaica, had set aside some correspondence related to the library for me, along with four large volumes. There didn’t seem to be much in the letters, so I turned to the books. They were ledgers, really, two of which bore some kind of Russian governmental red wax seal on the title page. The other two were water stained, and the cover of one was severely warped. My hands quickly blackened with dust and dirt accumulated over decades as I turned the books’ pages. They appeared to record a partial listing of the Strashun Library’s holdings, which had begun with a bequest from an erudite, idiosyncratic Torah scholar named Mattityahu Strashun. At first glance, these lists were interesting in the variety of books listed but didn’t seem to yield anything new.

 By then, it was almost time for my lunch date with Andrius Romanovskis at the Neringa Hotel, a recently restored midcentury modern building from the Soviet era (and a one-time favorite of the KGB). Andrius runs a lobbying firm, and his glamorous wife, Irina Rybakova, works in the fashion industry. Between the two of them, they seem to know everyone who is anyone in the city. Whenever we sit down for coffee, the acquaintances stop by our table—Lithuania’s former interim president; a TV broadcaster; a hipster couple; a photographer; the curator of MO, Vilnius’s museum of modern art; a government studies student; and a leading professor of modern propaganda. But Andrius, who comes from a Turkish Karaite family (the community has been in Lithuania since the fourteenth century), is deeply interested in Lithuania’s Jews, and after lunch we decided to walk back to the center.

I introduced Andrius to Lara, but, of course, they were already acquainted. We opened one of the large black books with the dramatic wax seals. On the title page was a handwritten Cyrillic inscription, which Andrius quickly translated as “A Ledger to Record All Printed Works, Without Exception, Issued for Reading from the Library of the Reading Room Located in the Building of the Vilna Main Synagogue.” When he did so, we suddenly realized what we actually had before us. These ledgers did not record the books on the shelves. Their thousands of pages were a daily record of every patron at the Strashun Library and the books they had requested for the day. What we had discovered was not a catalog of books; it was a lost catalog of Jewish intellectual culture in action.

In 1895, Russian government censors began monitoring library reading rooms throughout the empire for subversive literature. When the Strashun Library opened to the public in 1902, it was no exception. The wax seals I had seen on the title page of the volumes were from the censor’s office. Librarians were required to maintain a ledger documenting every patron and the books they read in the library’s reading room; it wasn’t a lending library—all books had to be read at one of two long tables, with chairs available on a democratic first-come-first-served basis. Even after the fall of the Russian Empire, the librarians maintained the ledger system.

The library opened its doors on November 14, 1902. According to the ledger, the first book requested was Otzar Lashon Hakodesh by Julius Fürst, a German Jewish Hebraist who had studied with Hegel and Gesenius. A patron named Aaron Spiro requested the book, which was from Strashun’s original collection and probably could not have been found anywhere else in the city, certainly not in any Vilna yeshiva or beit midrash. The fifty-six other books requested that day included kabbalistic works by Chaim Vital, Heinrich Graetz’s History of the Jews, and the Hebrew writer Abraham Mapu’s second novel.

In 1902, only a few women came to the library, but their numbers steadily grew. By January 17, 1934, the third ledger records forty-five women among the 150 patrons. A woman named Shayna checked out Jabotinsky’s historical novel Samson, Zipporah studied Dubnow’s History of the Jews in Yiddish, and Shoshana read Max Nordau’s play about intermarriage. Two women, Gita and Rivkah, took out Yiddish translations of novels by the Norwegian Nobel Prize winner Knut Hamsun.

In September 1939, following the Nazis’ invasion of Poland from the west and the Soviet Union’s invasion from the east, the Soviets briefly occupied Vilna. However, a few months later, they withdrew, and Vilna became the capital of an independent Lithuania. Tens of thousands of Jews from Poland, Lithuania, and Russia fled there, hoping to eventually escape the continent entirely. Briefly, improbably, Jewish life flourished.

Yitzhak Ze’ev Soloveitchik, known as Reb Velvel or the Brisker Rov, was one of those refugees and one of many new scholars in the library. His father, Chaim, had revolutionized Talmud study with his method of conceptual analysis, brilliantly exemplified in his commentary on Maimonides’s Mishneh Torah, and Reb Velvel had followed in his analytical path. On the afternoon of October 1, 1940, Reb Velvel came to the Strashun Library with his teenage son Raphael. Raphael checked out Iggeret Ha-Shemad, Maimonides’s impassioned defense of his fellow Spanish Jews who had been forced to convert to Islam. This is the kind of book one might expect Reb Chaim Brisker’s grandson to borrow at that particularly fraught time—a deeply relevant Maimonidean work that one couldn’t find on the shelves of a beit midrash. His father’s reading for the day was more surprising: I. L. Peretz’s short stories about Hasidim, perhaps the most famous of which was Oyb nisht nokh hekher (If Not Higher), which depicts a skeptical Litvak who comes to appreciate a Hasidic rebbe but also mocks Hasidic miracles. From the yeshivish hagiographies that were later written about Reb Velvel, one would never guess that the Litvak rosh yeshiva would read fiction by a radical secularist about the virtues of Hasidim. But the history of actual human lives is always more interesting than hagiography.

The Brisker Rov sat at the reading room table with his Peretz stories alongside the mixed multitude of Jewish readers that day. Two of them were a couple, Hayim and Hanna, who were reading Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina in Yiddish. Another was Dovid, who was studying the Minhat Hinukh, a commentary on a classic exposition of the commandments. A fourth reader had Graetz’s History. A few months later, Reb Velvel and his son succeeded in escaping Europe for Palestine. He founded the Brisk Yeshivah in Jerusalem and was never seen again in the company of such a diverse group.

The final book ledger concludes on October 31, 1940, with 128 books requested, including Shakespeare’s Complete Dramatic Works in English, several dozen rabbinic books—among them Chaim Soloveitchik’s Chidushei Rav Chaim ha-Levi, a Yiddish translation of Tolstoy’s Resurrection, Yosef Klausner’s Hebrew biography of Jesus, and a handful of Hebrew newspapers.

The last book—the 35,844th, borrowed in 1940—was a Yiddish biography of Joseph Stalin. It was borrowed by Zalman Raynus (Reinus). All of Raynus’s numerous previous requests were for traditional rabbinic works. Did he choose to read about Stalin to understand what was coming? Whatever the reason behind Raynus’s reading of Stalin’s biography, the dictator’s policies led to the shuttering of the Strashun Library. I know of no other historical trace of Zalman Raynus. He does not appear in any state archival or genealogical records, nor is he listed among the murdered Jews.

When the Nazis entered Vilna the following summer of 1941, they murdered most of Vilna’s Jews in the Ponary massacre and pillaged the library. But even as Nazis tore through the library and the community, courageous Jews hid thousands of books in secret spots, basements, and makeshift bunkers throughout the Vilna Ghetto. Among these were the ledgers that, improbably, now sat before us.

A ledger that did not survive the Gestapo’s brutal purge of the library was a VIP guest log called the Golden Book (Sefer ha-zahav). Among those who had signed it over the years were the writers Chaim Nachman Bialik, Chaim Grade, and Abraham Sutzkever (who was among the heroes who saved and recovered some of the Strashun’s holdings); artist Marc Chagall; the “Chofetz Chaim” Rabbi Israel Meir Kagan; Berl Katznelson, the founder of the Labor movement; and many, many others. But these ledgers, records of the reading habits of ordinary Jews across a broad cross section of Ashkenazi society, are even more valuable. They preserve actual data from an otherwise lost history of Jewish culture and raise a host of fascinating questions, which are now being investigated by a working group, the Strashun Library Ledger Project, which includes scholars and librarians from the National Library of Lithuania, Yale University, Haifa University’s e-Lijah Lab for Digital Humanities, and elsewhere. Most of the ledgers are still missing, although a small ledger from 1920 was recently found. It seems unlikely that we’ll discover the rest, but who knows what treasures may be hidden in bankers boxes and yellowing stacks of paper.

In her memoir of her visit to Vilna in 1938, the historian Lucy Dawidowicz described the Strashun Library:

On any day you could see, seated at the two long tables in the reading room, venerable long-bearded men, wearing hats, studying Talmudic texts, elbow to elbow with bareheaded young men and even young women, bare-armed sometimes on warm days, studying their texts.

Each of the thousands of pages of the library’s ledgers is a data-rich snapshot of such a scene—and one in which the actual reading choices of those venerable rabbis, bareheaded young men, and bare-armed young women may well surprise us.

Postscript:

One account of the Brisker Rav’s time in Vilna alludes to his time at the Strashun Library. As yeshiva leaders debated whether to flee to the United States or to Palestine, supporters of the former emphasized how far removed they were from the Hitlerian threat, compared to Palestine, where Rommel was rapidly approaching. The Brisker Rav, however, argued in favor of Palestine as a place better suited for the full practice of Judaism. He based his view on Maimonides’ Ma’amar Kiddush Hashem (included with Iggeret ha-SheMad), the same work Raphael had requested from the library. The report notes that he “relied upon the Rambam that he held in his hands (she’amad ne’ged eynav).” See R Shimon Yosef Miller, Uvdot ve-Hanhagot le-Bet Brisk (Jerusalem, 1999), vol. 1, 27. Although the ledgers only record that he read Peretz, it is reasonable to assume he also consulted Raphael’s selection. (For additional information regarding the exodus to Vilna and the debate about a final destination, see Ben-Tsiyon Klibansky, The Golden Age of the Lithuanian Yeshivas (Bloomington, 2022), 265-289.) 

When refugees from Yeshivas arrived in Vilna in late 1939 and 1940, they were cared for by the Va’ad HaYeshivos. Many of the lists of those students and families are preserved in the same archive as the Strashun Ledgers at the Lithuanian National Library. Below are two documents from that archive. The first is a document that lists some of the most important rabbis, including the Brisker Rav, and their addresses in Vilna. The second document is a page from the list of students from Keltsk.

Three New Books

By Eliezer Brodt

In this post I would like to briefly describe three new works, which are hot off the press. For a short time, copies of these three works can be purchased through me for a special price. Part of the proceeds will be going to support the efforts of the Seforim Blog. Contact me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com for more information.

The first title is printed by the World Congress of Jewish Studies:

פירוש רש”י לספר משלי, ההדירה והוסיפה מבוא והערות ליסה פרדמן

Lisa Fredman’s, Rashi’s Commentary on the Book of Proverbs is a critical edition of Rashi on Mishlei based on numerous manuscripts. It includes a very extensive introduction and many valuable notes throughout the volume. Critical editions of Rashi are always welcome and very important, sadly not enough of them exist. One section in the introduction which I found interesting relates to Rashi and his responding to Christians and Christianity specifically in his work on Mishlei.

Here is the table of contents for this work:

מגנזי אירופה כרך שני  ההדיר והוסיף מבואות, שמחה עמנואל, 408 עמודים

The Second volume which I am very happy to announce is the publication of an important work which I have been eagerly waiting for, Professor Simcha Emanuel of the Hebrew University’s Talmud department’s volume of texts from the “European Genizah”, volume two. This volume was just printed by Mekitzei Nirdamim and is being sold by Magnes Press. [Volume one was mentioned earlier on the blog here]. For a sample chapter e mail me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com.

Professor Emanuel is considered one of the today’s greatest experts in Rishonic literature. He has produced numerous special works [such as this recent work, this, this and my favorite] and articles of both texts and material about them for quite some time. [Many of which are available here] All of which are of very high quality, showing an incredible breadth and depth in the material at hand. One area of specialty of his is finding long-lost works; this new volume continues this trend. It includes numerous newly discovered texts of Rishonim, with introductions and background of their importance and proof of identification. Some of the discoveries are simply put remarkable detective work, how he pieces together the various pieces of the puzzle.

The author writes in the abstract of the book as follows:

            The purpose of this volume, like its predecessor, is to uncover fragments of important Hebrew works hidden in the “European Genizah”. Thousands of pages of Hebrew manuscripts have been discovered in this “Genizah”, which is scattered in hundreds of libraries and archives throughout Europe and even beyond. In the late medieval and early modern eras, these pages were used to bind books and as folders of archival documents. In the first volume of this series, I published eleven new works from the “European Genizah”, prefacing them with a wide-ranging introduction about the nature of this “Genizah”. Nine additional works are published in the present volume.

            The works published herein are from a variety of genres: Biblical exegesis, Talmud commentary, halakhic literature, and liturgical interpretation. They appear in this volume in chronological order, from earliest to latest. The most significant of the works is also the work whose discovery required more effort than all of the others; it appears in the first chapter of the book. This work was written — I wish to argue — in ninth or tenth-century Palestine. It reveals valuable information on the history of halakhah in Palestine of that era, and also teaches a great deal about how Palestinian Traditions made their way to the European continent. This work still requires a great deal of study, and I hope that others come along to add to my words.   The fragments published here were identified in the collections of fourteen archives and libraries. These institutions, located throughout Europe, aptly reflect the dispersal of the European Geniza.

Here are the Table of Contents of this special work:

The third work is also printed by the World Congress of Jewish Studies.

שולמית אליצור, סוד משלשי קודש: הקדושתא מראשיתה ועד ימי רבי אלעזר בירבי קליר

This work Sod Meshalleshei Qodesh is written by Professor Shulamit Elizur (see here), one of the worlds leading experts on piyut. Some have claimed this work will change the study of piyut completely. In an interview published in Ami Magazine and reprinted with updates on the Seforim Blog (here) Elizur was asked:

Which sefer do you consider your biggest accomplishment— your magnum opus?”

She replied:

“The one I’m in the middle of writing right now. It’s a sefer on the history of the kedushta, which are the piyutim composed to be recited right before Kedushah. There are many chiddushim in that sefer and also things about Rabbi Elazar Hakalir that I discovered.”

This book is now out and is over one thousand pages!.

The following is the abstract of the book translated into English for the readers of the Seforim Blog by Dr. Gabriel Wasserman (and is not found in the actual book). This will give one a good idea of what the purpose of this work is:

Sod Meshalleshei Qodesh: The Qedushta From its Origins until the Time of Rabbi El‛azar berabbi Qillir

 A qedushta is a series of piyyutim for the ‘Amida prayer, which is expanded in honor of the recitation of the Qedusha, and includes many complex components. Its origins are in the Land of Israel, in the fourth or fifth century. We first see it as a constructed composition with set, complex, rules in the work of the poet Yannai, who lived in the mid-sixth century, the teacher of Rabbi El‛azar berabbi Qillir (who is known popularly as “the Qallir”). The qedushta, as it appears in the hundreds of compositions by Yannai and his followers, conceals many secrets: mysterious strings of biblical verses accompany its first components; a fixed biblical verse concludes the third component, followed by the strange words “El Na”; then comes a fourth component, whose structure is free, and always concludes, for some reason, with the word “Qadosh”; the fifth component in Yannai’s compositions is the ‘asiriya, a poem constructed of a truncated alphabetical acrostic from only aleph to yud, followed by a prayer beginning “El Na Le‘olam Tu‘aratz” – and it is unclear why this prayer appears here; then there is a group of poems called rahitim, which are written, for some reason, in unique, stereotypical structures. These are only a fraction of the various strange features of the qedushta’ot of Yannai and the other poets. The discussions in the book are dedicated to suggesting solutions to all these questions, and to others, and involve uncovering fragments of qedushta’ot that preceded Yannai; by examining these texts, they excavate the literary remains to construct a model of the gradual development of the qedushta over time, from its origins until it reached its complex structure in the days of Yannai and Rabbi El‛azar berabbi Qillir.

The first section of the book, which is the largest, is devoted to this development of the qedushta, in all its elements, including those that follow the recitation of Qedusha. Naturally, this section deals with the piyyutim mostly from a structural point of view, for only such an analysis can enable a comprehensive look at the development of the genre. However, as a base for these structural analyses, this section contains the texts of many piyyutim, mostly pre-classical (from the period before Yannai, when the poets did not yet use rhyme). Alongside them are printed classical rhyming piyyutim, too, from the period of Yannai and his colleagues, and, in a few instances, even piyyutim from later periods.

The second section of the book focuses on one single poet: Rabbi El‛azar berabbi Qillir, the most prolific of the classical poets in the Land of Israel, whose poems reached Europe, and some of them are recited in Ashkenazic and Italian synagogues through today. The qedushta’ot of Rabbi El‛azar berabbi Qillir are varied in both their structures and their styles, much more than those of Yannai; this section is devoted to an analysis of these compositions, and an attempt to map out which ones are earlier and which later. On the basis of precise structural analysis, the section builds a higher level of analysis – stylistic; and thus we see the picture of the great poet’s literary journey. It becomes clear that when he was started out, he was heavily influenced by the work of Yannai, and slowly he created new ways for himself: at first he went in the direction of obscurity and difficulty, which he gradually made more and more obscure; but then, in a later, more mature phase, he turned to pure lyrical song, which today’s reader, too, will find sweet.

The third section leaves aside the structural analyses, and suggests directions for further research. This section is short, and contains only first steps towards new directions in piyyut analysis. It focuses primarily on content, and ways that the qedushta’ot are organized, but it moves on to questions of how the qedushta is constructed as a complete composition, and points out various difficulties that the poets needed to overcome, and analyzes at length their literary solutions to these problems. Yannai stands at the center of the discussion in this section, but there are also notes about other poets. Most of the suggested directions for further research are new, and we hope that they will lead to further productive scholarship, and make it possible to study the piyyutim from angles that have hitherto been less examined.

Throughout the book, phenomena are demonstrated by means of the texts of piyyutim. More than 250 piyyutim are printed in the book, of which about 130 are being printed for the first time. Most of these piyyutim are from the earlier periods of piyyut, and their publication in this volume reveals the full contribution of these layers of the genre to our understanding of the history of the qedushta. Even the piyyutim that have already been printed elsewhere often were published in out-of-the-way publications, some of them with no vowels or commentary. It goes without saying that for this volume, these texts were all printed anew straight from the manuscripts. When pieces from Yannai’s work are cited to exemplify some point, an attempt has been made, inasmuch as possible, to use pieces that have not been included in the existing publications of his work, and thus the volume contributes a great amount of new material to the corpus of Yannai’s piyyutim. The volume as a whole is based on examination of hundreds of manuscripts, mostly from the Cairo Geniza, and these provide a wide, firm textual basis to the analysis.

The book is intended first and foremost for scholars, but it will also enable people interested in piyyut and its history from outside the world of academia to gain exposure to a great corpus of early piyyutim, among which are several stunningly beautiful gems, which are being published here for the first time.

For the Hebrew abstract email me at eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

Here is the table of contents:

Stet in the Beit Yosef: Fish and Milk, from Typographical Error to Typological Exemplar
Aton M. Holzer

Rabbi Dr. Holzer is Director of the Mohs Surgery Clinic in the Department of Dermatology, Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center, and is an assistant editor of the recent RCA Siddur Avodat HaLev. ORCID ID: 0000-0001-9852-3958/ 28 Binyamin, Beit Shemesh, Israel 9952200/ Aton.holzer@gmail.com

A passage in the magnum opus of R. Joseph Karo (Maran, or the Mehaber, 1488-1575), the Beit Yosef (YD 87:5) tends to be reckoned among the more consequential scribal errors in Jewish legal texts.

[ה] ”דגים וחגבים מותר לאכלן בחלב“. ריש פרק כל הבשר (קג:) ”(כל הבשר) אסור לבשל בחלב, חוץ מבשר דגים וחגבים“. וכתב הר”ן דכיון דלבשלן שרי משמע דלאכלן בחלב נמי שרי, דאיסור בשר בחלב בלשון בישול אפקיה רחמנא, וכן כתב הרמב”ם והרשב”א דלאכלן בחלב נמי שרי. ומכל מקום אין לאכול דגים בחלב מפני הסכנה, כמו שנתבאר בספר אורח חיים סימן קע”ג.

“Fish and locusts, it is permitted to eat them in milk.” In the beginning of the chapter kol basar (bHullin 103b) [it is written]: “(all flesh) it is prohibited to cook in milk, except for the flesh of fish and locusts.” And R. Nissim wrote that since cooking them is permitted, it implies that to eat them in milk is also permitted, for the prohibition of meat in milk was set out by the Torah in the semantics of cooking, and likewise did Maimonides and R. Shlomo ibn Adret write, that to eat them in milk is also permitted. And in any event, one should not eat fish in milk because of the danger, similar to what was elucidated in Orah Hayyim 173.

In his 2014 “A Guide to the Complex,”[1] Shlomo Brody highlights this passage – which invokes a heretofore ostensibly unknown ‘danger’ regarding consumption of fish in milk, and which makes reference to a chapter that deals with measures that must be taken with regard to the ‘dangerous mixture’ of fish and meat[2] – as a banner example of the ‘impact of inaccurate texts on Jewish law.’ He adds that ‘Ancient manuscripts regularly suffered from poor penmanship, slipping of the eyes, and misunderstandings by unlearned or confused copyists.’ The first to make this sort of observation regarding this passage was none other than R. Karo’s younger contemporary and interlocutory commentator R. Moses Isserles (Rama, 1530-1572), who puts it humorously (Darkei Moshe, Tur YD 87:4):

.ולא ראיתי מימי נזהרין בזה וגם בא”ח סימן קע”ג אינו אלא שלא לאכלו בבשר משום סכנה אבל בחלב שרי ועי”ל סימן קי”ו ולכן נראה שנתערב להרב בשר בחלב

And in all my days I have never seen [anyone] take care with regard to this, and also in Orah Hayyim 173 there is not but not to eat [fish cooked] in meat because of danger, but in milk it is permitted, and see earlier in chapter 116, and therefore it appears that the Rabbi has confused (mixed) meat and milk.

As neat as this solution appears, there remain some problems. For one thing, in context, the Beit Yosef discusses the consumption of various forms of flesh – fish and locust – in milk, not meat; replacing the word ‘milk’ for ‘meat’ would render the ultimate sentence a nonsequitur with regard to the full passage.

For another, the idea of danger attendant to mixtures of fish and dairy is not entirely unprecedented. R. Bahye b. Asher (1255-1340), who hailed from R. Karo’s native Christian Spain two centuries earlier (but from Zaragoza, quite a ways from Toledo), seems to make reference to such a practice in his commentary to Exodus 23:19:

.וכן דעת הרופאים בתערובת דג וגבינה שנתבשלו כאחד שמוליד תכונה רעה וחולי הצרעת

And so is the view of the physicians regarding the mixture of fish and cheese that were cooked together, that they beget a bad character and the illness of tsara’at (biblical ‘leprosy’).

To be sure, this is a lone statement, found in a decidedly non-Halakhic work, at a distance of two centuries and one continent from R. Karo’s work, which was completed in Ottoman Safed.

A third is that it is difficult to ascribe scribal error to the Mehaber’s project, if only because Beit Yosef was not transmitted in manuscript, and does not exist in manuscript – at least not beyond the author’s autograph. The four volumes of Tur with Beit Yosef were printed in different Italian publishing houses over the course of the 1550’s, in the author’s own lifetime, and he lived to see several printings of the Beit Yosef and Shulhan Arukh, the precis of the conclusions of halakhic discussions in the Beit Yosef. In fact, printing, and particularly choosing to do so in Renaissance Italy – where there was a Christian censor but superior presses to what was available in Ottoman Turkey, but more importantly, where (Jewish exile) cultures met and wide dissemination was guaranteed[3] – was central to R. Karo’s stated mission, a messianic objective of a piece with his participation in reconstituting the Sanhedrin to administer corporal punishment.[4] Taking a page from the messianic project of Sultan Suleiman, Kanuni or “the lawgiver,”[5] his project would complete Maimonides’ project[6] to unify the Jewish people under a uniform system of law in anticipation of redemption. And indeed, in his own lifetime, Beit Yosef and Shulhan Arukh enjoyed wide dissemination and readership, if not universal acceptance.[7] 

Figure 1: 87:5 in its first printing (Venice, 1551)

Given this, if “milk” is an error, it is much more likely typographical than scribal, and not the best example of the phenomenon R. Brody describes. But more importantly: given that the printed versions were available to the author, and were widely read and used, in his presence, for more than twenty years, the possibility that a typographical error of such consequence would go unnoticed by the author or his immediate milieu is at least somewhat diminished. The author himself issued a work called Bedek ha-Bayit with corrigenda and addenda, and there is a gloss on siman 86, but not 87.

—

Muhammad ‘Abd al-Ra’ūf al-Munāwī (1545-1621), a renowned scholar in Ottoman Cairo whose hadith commentary is still popular in Sunni Islam, also composed a compendium of fundamental, practical scholarly-spiritual knowledge related to a number of everyday issues[8] – a sort of Islamic Orah Hayyim, as it were – known as Tadhkirat ūlī al-albāb bi-maʻrifat al-ādāb. This work is significant as a snapshot of the cultural climate in Early Ottoman Cairo, and has traces of persistent Mamluk attitudes, reconfigured in light of Ottoman sensibilities and cutting-edge intellectual trends in his time in Cairo, which, under the Mamluks, had long been a hub of science and the occult (which, at the time, were also deemed ‘sciences’) in the Islamicate world.[9]

In his compendium,[10] there is a fascinating discussion of food mixtures, launching off a discussion of Galenic medicine and the inadvisability of combining food that relate to different humors/elements (moisture/water, dryness/air, coldness/earth and hotness/fire). In pertinent part:

يعسر علينا اثبات كثير من ذلك بالقياس فمن ذالك انه لا يجمع بين سمك و لبن فإنه يولد أمراضا مزمنة كالجدام والبرص والفالج

It is difficult for us to prove much of this by (syllogistic) reason. For example, that combining fish and milk causes chronic diseases such as leprosy, vitiligo, and paralysis.

Figure 2: Tadhkirat ūlī al-albāb bi-maʻrifat al-ādāb,folio 14a (Yale, Landberg MSS 163)

Paulina Lewicka, a Polish scholar who studied foodways in Mamluk and Ottoman Cairo,[11] highlights this passage and notes that it represents a novelty on the Egyptian scene.

In fact, there seems to be no evidence that avoidance of mixing fish and milk products had been observed in Egypt of the Mamluk period, or in the medieval Middle East in general. This combination, which is considered unhealthy today, appeared in a number of old Arabic-Islamic recipes where fish and yoghurt were put together. Al-Munāwī’s remarks may have reflected, then, a new trend in medico-culinary thinking.[12]

Lewicka also notes in al-Munāwī’s treatment of Galenic medicine an interesting development: even though Galen’s theory of humors had formed the basis of Islamicate medicine for centuries, in the Muslim-Sufi environment of early Ottoman Cairo there was discomfort with use of pagan theories and concepts. Instead, al-Munāwī traces the theory of humors to Kitāb al-Tawrāt, the Torah,[13]  where, according to him, Adam was created with dry soil, wet water, heat (nefesh/nafs) and cold (ru’ah/rūḥ).

—

R. Yosef Karo, living in the same territorial-ideological expanse as al-Munāwī – with frequent interchange between Safed and Cairo by figures no less than R. David abi ibn Zimra, R. Bezalel Ashkenazi, and R. Isaac Luria – had ample access to the developments in Cairene medicine that inspired the Tadhkirat passage.

His relationship with classical philosophy – the ostensible basis for Galenic (as opposed to prophetic) Cairene medicine – is complicated. In his mystical diary Maggid Meisharim (80a-b), he cites his angelic guide who allows that, pace the view of other Kabbalists of his day, Maimonides was not condemned to reincarnate as a worm because of his philosophical views – but only because he was saved from this fate by his Torah and good deeds, and thus was allowed to reincarnate in a usual way before ascending to join the souls of the righteous. However, there is evidence that he himself was more accepting and even dabbled in philosophy – but assigned it a decidedly secondary or tertiary position to the study of Talmud and Halakhah, either behind or on par with Kabbalah, which also took a backseat to Halakhic sources in terms of study and Halakhic decision/pesak.[14]

The case of milk and fish may serve as something of an acid test for medical science. R. Karo includes it in his Beit Yosef, but as an ayn le-ekhol – it should not be eaten – rather than ‘it is forbidden.’ Clearly R. Karo prohibits it, as perhaps a contemporary posek (if not for the Igrot Moshe) might prohibit smoking, but does not share al-Munāwī’s view that humoral medicine is a de’orayta. And while cutting edge Galenic knowledge merits mention in Beit Yosef, the Mehaber omits it from the Shulhan Arukh (87:3), the repository of pesak, regarding which, just as for Kabbalah,[15] the Talmudic sources – which explicitly permit such a mixture (kutah, e.g. Pesahim 76b) – trump all.

I thought that I had exhausted all I had to say about Rabbi Zvi Benjamin Auerbach’s edition of the Eshkol — see my first two posts at the Seforim blog, here and here [and elaborations] — but thanks to some helpful comments from readers, there is some more material that should be brought to the public’s attention. Even before looking at this, let me express my gratitude to Dan Rabinowitz who sent me this picture of a youthful Auerbach.
In my first post I cited R. Yitzhak Ratsaby as a very rare example of a posek who is aware of the problems with Auerbach’s Eshkol. A scholar who wishes to remain anonymous, and who has helped me a great deal in the past,[1] called my attention to R. Yehiel Avraham Zilber (the son of R. Binyamin Yehoshua Zilber), who is also aware of the Eshkol problem. In his Berur Halakhah, Yoreh Deah (second series), p. 111, he notes that R. Ovadiah Yosef cites Auerbach’s Eshkol in matters of hilkhot niddah. Yet the authentic Eshkol does not have any section for niddah. In fact, as Yaakov Sussman has pointed out,[2] Auerbach’s Eshkol, vol. 1, p. 117, also refers to the Yerushalmi on Niddah. However, this is impossible as neither R. Abraham ben Isaac nor any of the other rishonim had this volume.

Zilber writes that his own approach is not to rely on anything in either Auerbach’s Eshkol or the Nahal Eshkol. In his Berur Halakhah, Orah Hayyim (third series), p. 16, he also states that a certain passage in Auerbach’s Eshkol, Hilkhot Tzitzit cannot be authentic. Before I was alerted to these two sources I had never examined any of Zilber’s volumes (although I have perused the works of his father). Now that I have looked at them I see that they contain a great deal of learning, but my sense is that they are of no significance in the halakhic world, and are rarely quoted.

This doesn’t mean that they are not valuable in and of themselves, but with so many halakhic books being published, only some can make it to the top. The rest, no matter how learned, remain little studied and even less quoted. One must feel bad for authors who put so much effort into producing their works which could be of great use to people, yet at the end of the day do not have any impact.

As Eliezer Brodt has already pointed out, in a previous post at the Seforim blog, with respect to books on hilkhot shemitah, although new volumes continue to appear, it is hard to believe that much of anything original is being added.[3] The same can be said for the laws of Shabbat, where I don’t see how another new book recording the halakhot can possibly have any value as we already have so many fine books in this area. If the author is going to come up with new rulings, then fine, but it is hard to see how the world will benefit from yet another collection of the various melakhot and what is permitted and forbidden.

This doesn’t mean that up-and-coming halakhic scholars have nothing to write about. For example, there is only one book on the halakhic issues involved in sex change operations, so here is an area that cries out for our best and brightest to direct their talents towards.
For those who are writing books that are not given the attention due them, one should not lose hope. Occasionally a book that is ignored in its time comes back in a future generation and assumes great popularity (e.g., the Minhat Hinnukh), while books which were very popular in previous years fall out of style. One example of the latter is the Kitzur Shulhan Arukh. When I was young everyone seemed to study it. It has been reprinted numerous times and also translated into many languages. According to the Encyclopedia Judaica, it went through fourteen editions in the author’s lifetime, which I think is a record for halakhic works. Yet today, I don’t know anyone who uses it as a work of practical halakhah. (Simply writing this ensures that people will e-mail me to point out that there are indeed some who still use it).

Returning to the anonymous scholar mentioned above, he also alerted me to a letter by R. Michael[4] Aryeh Stiegel which appeared in Tzefunot 1 (Tevet, 5749): 108. In this case I had actually seen the letter, as I own the journal and even have my pen mark on this page. But I had forgotten about it, so once again I am in the anonymous scholar’s debt. Before noting what he says, let me repeat what I mentioned in a previous post, namely, that the publication of the fourth volume of the Eshkol is very strange. We are given no information about the manuscript such as where it came from and why no one, including Auerbach’s family, had ever heard of it until it was published.

There is one other point which I neglected to make in my previous post, but it also is relevant. In 1974 Bernard Bergman published an essay on Auerbach in the Joshua Finkel Festschrift (later included as an appendix to vol. 4 of the Eshkol) in which he defended him against Albeck’s attack. At the time of this essay Bergman knew nothing about any unpublished manuscript of Auerbach’s Eshkol. It is very suspicious, to say the least, that Bergman is also the one to publish the newly discovered volume. Are we supposed to assume that it is just coincidence that Bergman, who earlier had published an essay on Auerbach, discovered this manuscript? (Those who are old enough will recall that during these years Bergman had lots of other things on his mind.) Of course, it is possible that some rare book dealer came into possession of the manuscript and knowing Bergman’s interest in Auerbach, sold it to him. In my previous post I stated that despite the problems that can be raised about the new volume, barring any further evidence we should give Bergman the benefit of the doubt.

Yet Stiegel notes something which should force us to reopen the issue. In volume 4, p. 26 n. 24, we find the following in the Nahal Eshkol.

The problem is that the edition of Ra’avan with R. Solomon Zalman Ehrenreich’s commentary Even Shlomo only appeared in 1926, many years after Auerbach’s death. This sort of anachronism is often what enables scholars to uncover a fraud.

When problems became apparent in Auerbach’s edition, Albeck called for the manuscript to be produced, and this was never done. Here too, I call for the manuscript of volume 4 to be produced, and for the publisher, Machon Harry Fischel, to join in this demand. Only when we can examine the manuscript will we be able to determine what is going on. If the answer given is that the manuscript cannot be located, which was the same answer given one hundred years ago, then the possibility that Eshkol volume 4 is a late twentieth century forgery will have to be seriously considered.

The anonymous scholar also alerted me to R. Hayyim Krauss’ Toharat ha-Shabbat ke-Hilkhatah. Krauss is known for a campaign he mounted in the 1970’s, culminating in the publication of his books Birkhot ha-Hayyim and Mekhalkel Hayim be-Hesed, which were in large part devoted to showing that the proper – and original — pronunciation in the Amidah is morid ha-geshem, not gashem. There is no doubt that Kraus was correct, but I don’t know if his campaign bore any fruit. Certainly in the United States when I was growing up, virtually everyone said gashem since that is what the siddurim had, including Brinbaum. Matters have changed greatly in the last twenty years because of the ArtScroll siddur. This siddur vocalizes – or, to use the word that ArtScroll prefers, “vowelizes” – גשם as geshem. I have previously noted one example where the Artscroll siddur has changed the davening practices of the American Orthodox community[5] and this is another. Had the ArtScroll siddur given gashem as the pronunciation, that’s what we all would be saying now.

Since this blog is devoted to seforim, with a great focus on bibliographical curiosities, let me mention the following: It has been awhile since I’ve seen the literature about geshem vs. gashem, but I remember that the side that supported gashem was able to show that it was not only grammarians who supported this reading, but R. David Lida (c. 1650-1696) Ashkenazi rav of Amsterdam, also attested to it. In fact, he might be the earliest authority to do so. But those who cited Lida didn’t know a couple of things about him. Neither do the people who keep publishing his works. To begin with, Lida was a plagiarizer, and not a very skilled one at that.[6]

People can live with plagiarism, especially as it is not uncommon in haredi “mehkar.”[7] But worse, much worse, is that Lida also appears to have been a Sabbatian. In my Limits of Orthodox Theology, p. 42 n. 21, I called attention to something similar. The Yemenite kabbalists who attacked R. Yihye Kafih made use of, and defended, a Sabbatian work written by Nehemiah Hayon. It was only after R. Kook pointed out the true nature of Hayon’s work that they excised this defense. As I commented in my book, this shows the elasticity of apologetics, in that if one beleves a work is “kosher,” he will devote great efforts to defending it, but after learning that the author is a Sabbatian the defense is immediately dropped. We must ask, however, why were the ideas in this work acceptable before the author’s biography was known?

Returning to Krauss’ Toharat ha-Shabbat ke-Hilkhatah, in volume 1 of this work he cites Auerbach’s Eshkol. In volume 2, p. 450, Krauss publishes a letter he received from R. David Zvi Hillman. Hillman, in addition to being an outstanding talmid hakham, also has a real historical sense and many years ago edited Iggerot ha-Tanya u-Venei Doro (Jerusalem, 1953). In more recent years he published an interesting, though wrong-headed, article arguing that Meiri’s views of anti-Gentile halakhot are not to be taken seriously but were written due to fear of the censor (which was a concern even in pre-printing days).[8] He has also been involved with the Frankel edition of the Rambam, most recently editing Sefer ha-Mitzvot. Despite its problems, the Frankel edition of the Mishneh Torah is now the standard edition for both yeshivot and the academic world.[9]

As everyone knows, the Frankel edition has been attacked for systematically ignoring the writings of some prominent non-haredi gedolim. For example, there are no references to R. Kook, even though he wrote a commentary on the Rambam’s shemitah laws, which will be mentioned in an upcoming post at the Seforim blog. (He is cited the ArtScroll Mishnah volume on Shevi’it.) It was because of this affront that R. Kook’s followers have put out a separate index of commentaries on the Mishneh Torah, which is now available online. See here.

A particularly harsh criticism of the Frankel edition, which appeared as an “open letter,” is found here:
Hillman chose to answer this critique. He briefly mentions the issue of R. Kook, but has a lot to say about R. Kafih, and his critique of the latter is incredibly sharp. Here is his letter:

Even if one doesn’t agree with him, it should be obvious to all that Hillman has a much broader knowledge than the typical talmid hakham. It therefore should not be surprising that he was critical of Krauss for including Auerbach’s Eshkol. In fact, Krauss does not even print Hillman’s entire letter, but cuts out a section that no doubt would have been seen as disrespectful to Auerbach. Thus, Hillman writes:

The second ellipsis was inserted by Krauss. In his letter Hillman must have written, “Even if you want to say that Auerbach didn’t forge this section, and it really was stated by the Eshkol.” Yet Krauss didn’t want anything negative about Auerbach to appear in print, so he cut it out. Hillman also calls attention to the comments of R. Hayyim Eleazar Shapira in the introduction to his Darkhei Teshuvah on hilkhot mikvaot. Here Shapira notes that the Maharsham cited Auerbach’s Eshkol, and this once again raises the problem I have earlier discussed, namely, what to do with pesakim that rely on forged texts? (This is not such a problem in hilkhot mikvaot, as Shapira notes that most of what is quoted from Auerbach’s Eshkol is le-humra).

Shapira states that he is not prepared to decide the matter of the authenticity of Auerbach’s Eshkol, yet according to Hillman נראה מכתלי דבריו שדעתו נוטה לצד המערערים על אמיתותו. It is obvious that the reason Shapira does not definitively decide the matter is because of his feeling of respect for Auerbach as a great talmid hakham. The notion that such an outstanding Torah scholar, one of the German rabbinic elite, could perpetrate such a fraud is difficult for people to accept. Yet Shapira is also surprised that the Maharsham cites Auerbach’s Eshkol entirely oblivious to the problems with this edition.

I don’t see this as unusual at all. Shapira was an incredibly learned man, with knowledge of all sorts of things, but the Maharsham was an ish halakah whose life was spent in Shas and Poskim. Similarly, although R. Moshe Feinstein quotes Auerbach’s Eshkol, I would assume that he too had never heard of the controversy, as it is not something that penetrated the walls of the traditional Lithuanian Beit Midrash (at least not until so many bachurim began reading the Seforim blog!). Shapira writes:

In his reply to Hillman, Krauss states that he was indeed aware of the problems with Auerbach’s Eshkol, and even referred to Shapira’s introduction, but he did not want to elaborate (and indeed, he never quotes what Shapira says, but only tells the reader to examine it). I think that many people in the traditional world who know about the issue have this problem as well. They are between a rock and a hard place. If they say nothing, then a forgery is allowed to remain part of the Torah world. Yet if they write against it, they must take on someone who in his lifetime was recognized as one of the gedolim of Germany. Like all gedolim, he was also regarded as a great tzaddik.

Krauss does allow himself to say the following:

Prof. Yaakov Spiegel has also called my attention to his article in the latest Sidra[10] focusing on the various terms used for describing the blessing of the new moon. It so happens that in medieval times the term kiddush levanah was not found in either the Sephardic world or among Provencal scholars. Yet as Spiegel notes, this expression is found in Auerbach’s Eshkol, in a section that is missing from Albeck’s edition. This is another proof (if any was needed) that Auerbach’s edition is a forgery.[11]

The Auerbach forgery relates to another issue, that of rabbis lying and making things up for what they view as good reasons (which ties into my current project on censorship). Let me offer one example of this, but first I must give some background. If there is one thing Orthodox Jews know it is that sturgeon is a non-kosher fish. Yet as with so much else that people know, this is not exactly correct. While our practice today is not to eat sturgeon, no less a figure than the great R. Yehezkel Landau, the Noda bi-Yehudah, permitted it.[12] This decision led to enormous controversy as many of the greatest rabbis of Europe lined up in opposition.

Rabbi Aaron Chorin, at this time rav of Arad, Hungary, was a student of R. Yehezkel and he took up the cause of kosher sturgeon, publishing the volume Imrei Noam (Prague 1798) in support of his teacher’s view. At this time he had not yet crossed over to the dark side where he would, in the Hatam Sofer’s words, become known as אחר, an abbreviation of the way Chorin signed his name: Aron Choriner Rabbiner (see Teshuvot Hatam Sofer, 6:96). R. Isaac Grishaber, the rav of Paks, took up the battle against Chorin and published the volume Makel Noam (Vienna 1799). Here is the title page of the book:
Chorin responded with another book on the subject, Shiryon Kaskasim (Prague, 1800).

Grishaber was a fairly well known rabbi, and in recent years Torah journals have begun to print his unpublished writings. The problem that Grishaber was up against was that even with the many rabbis who wrote haskamot for his book, the great R. Yehezkel Landau had ruled differently. How could he destroy Chorin’s argument, convince the people that he was right, and most importantly, spare Jews from eating non-kosher when the recently deceased gadol ha-dor stood in his way?

Even before Chorin published his book, Grishaber had been on a crusade to have sturgeon declared as non-kosher. As part of this battle Grishaber took a fateful step which I have no doubt was done le-shem shamayim, but which from our perspective must be regarded as reprehensible.

In his effort to stop the eating of sturgeon, which he firmly believed was a terrible sin, Grishaber declared that R. Yehezkel sent him a letter retracting his decision and asking him to forward this letter to the rabbi of Temesvar, to whom he originally gave his lenient opinion. Grishaber states that the original letter of R. Yehezkel, which he received and sent on to the other rabbi, was lost in the mail.[13] He also writes that he misplaced the copy he made of R. Yehezkel’s original letter to him. This is all very fishy. Not surprisingly, R. Yehezkel’s son, R. Samuel, and R. Yehezkel’s leading student, R. Eleazar Fleckeles, rejected Grishaber’s testimony. They declared that he never received such a letter. In other words, he was lying when he stated that the Noda bi-Yehudah had retracted his opinion.

These are strong words, but it is hard to read what R. Samuel and R. Fleckeles write and still have any doubts that Grishaber was engaging in a fraud – although as R. Samuel states, Grishaber no doubt believed that in the effort to stop people from eating non-kosher even this was permissible. Here are some of R. Samuel’s words (Noda bi-Yehudah, Yoreh Deah, tinyana, no. 29), which are very interesting in that he keeps the standard respectful phrases at the same time that he is telling Grishaber that he is a liar.

Grishaber also had to deal with the fact that in Turkey the Jews ate sturgeon. To this he replied that one could not rely on the Turkish Jews since many of them were still followers of Shabbetai Zvi. R. Samuel had no patience for this nonsensical assertion.

Fleckeles also speaks harshly (Teshuvah me-Ahavah, vol. 2, Yoreh Deah no. 329), and this comes after beginning his letter with all the customary rabbinic introductory words of praise.

Although there were some who supported R. Yehezkel, this remained a minority opinion. By now no one is in dispute about this matter. Yet I wonder if any readers recall eating sturgeon in the United States. I ask because there was a time when sturgeon was regarded as kosher in this country. Here is a page from the list of kosher fish published by Agudas ha-Rabbonim in Ha-Pardes, April 1933. This advertisement for delicious sturgeon appeared in subsequent issues of Ha-Pardes.