A Note on R. Bezalel Alexandrov’s משכן בצלאל and its Prenumeranten

A Note on R. Bezalel Alexandrov’s משכן בצלאל and its Prenumeranten
By Shnayer Z. Leiman
            Not much appears to be known about R. Bezalel Alexandrov (circa 1850-1930). Born in Grodno, he would ultimately come under the influence of the teachings of R. Yisrael Salanter (1809-1883), largely through the efforts of R. Yitzchak Blazer, i.e., R. Itzel Peterburger (1837-1907). R. Bezalel considered R. Itzel to be his primary teacher, especially during the period they both resided in Kovno. R. Bezalel was a close associate of R. Yosef Yozel Horowitz (1847-1919) of Nevarodok, perhaps the last of the disciples of R. Yisrael Salanter. A musar enthusiast, R. Bezalel served as a moreh zedek (i.e., a dayyan) in Minsk, where he also founded a kibbutz (a kind of kollel for advanced – and mostly married — students) in the Minsk suburb of Kamerovka.[1]
            R. Bezalel published two books in his lifetime, משכן בצלאל (Vilna, 1923) and ילקוט בצלאל (Piotrkow, 1927-9). Both are significant, rarely seen, and often miscatalogued by the few bibliographers who managed to hold copies in their hands. Here, we shall focus primarily on משכן בצלאל.
            מפעל הביבליוגרפיה lists only part 1 of משכן בצלאל, with 40 pages. Doubtless, מפעל הביבליוגרפיה’s bibliographer recorded exactly what he saw, a bound volume with 40 pages. But, in fact, aside from the 40 page edition, an edition including parts 1 and 2, and totaling 136 pages, was published in a bound volume, also in Vilna, 1923.[2] The book is largely a polemic against young Jewish men who insist on postponing marriage beyond the age of 20.[3] R. Bezalel’s second book, ילקוט בצלאל expands the polemic to other public manifestations of disregard for the rules of the Shulhan Arukh , such as the disregard of the mitzvot of ציצית, תפילין, מזוזה, and Sabbath observance.[4] In brief, R. Bezalel was a musarnik who was addressing the Jewish confrontation with modernity in Lita. At one point in his writings, he summarizes the confrontation as follows:[5]
Even aside from their general content, משכן בצלאל and its companion volume ילקוט בצלאל are of special interest for three reasons:
1.      They were accorded a letter of approbation from R. Yisrael Meir Ha-Kohen, the חפץ חיים.[6]
For the most part, the חפץ חיים wrote הסכמות with the greatest of reluctance. Generally, he refrained from writing הסכמות, offering a wide range of excuses why he could not do so. These included: he was not worthy to do so; he had not the time to do so; his failing eyesight and old age made it difficult to do so; he feared that by acquiescing to one request, he would be inundated with requests from others; and – most importantly – he had resolved long ago not to write הסכמות. After offering one or the other of these excuses, he would invariably close his letter with words of blessing and encouragement for the author – without a word said about the quality of the book. Nonetheless, it cannot be denied that the חפץ חיים did write a handful of genuinely enthusiastic הסכמות where he praised the books themselves.[7]

It is difficult to categorize the הסכמה written by the חפץ חיים for R. Bezalel Alexandrov’s משכן בצלאל. Not a word is said about the content of the book, but much is said about the author. Moreover, the חפץ חיים offers his blessing to all who come to the aid of the author. In context, this clearly means a blessing to all who buy a copy of his book.[8] Indeed, the חפץ חיים himself is listed as the first subscriber to the book (see below, item 3)! Nevertheless, the sense one has from reading the הסכמה is that it was an act of חסד by the חפץ חיים, rallying to the aid of a colleague in need.
2.      They record teachings of R. Itzel Peterburger (and other musarniks, such as R. Yisrael Horodner, the Maggid of Minsk[9]) not recorded elsewhere.
Here, one sample will suffice. Although we have many accounts of R. Itzel Peterburger’s “vow of silence” during the 40 day period from Rosh Hodesh Elul through Yom Kippur,[10] R. Bezalel’s account offers details not recorded elsewhere:[11]
3.      A lengthy list of subscribers is appended to משכן בצלאל that sheds light on the history of Vilna’s kloyzen.[12]
Lists of subscribers, known as prenumeranten,[13] are significant for a variety of reasons. Often, they tell us how far and wide authors traveled in order to raise the funds necessary for the publication of their books. They tell us who bought the books, and when and where they were purchased. Our list is particularly significant because it is mostly kloyzen driven, i.e., the books were acquired for the libraries of the various synagogues, בתי מדרשים, and kloyzen in Vilna. Indeed, our list includes several kloyzen not listed in the most recent and most comprehensive list of Vilna kloyzen published in 2012![14] Our list also lists key members of the various kloyzen in 1923. There are more such lists of Vilna subscribers and their kloyzen, and they all need to be examined.[15]

Notice that our list includes among the subscribers the חפץ חיים, R. Chaim Ozer Grodzenski, R. Menachem Krakowski (maggid mesharim of Vilna), and R. Boruch Ber Leibowitz (then serving as Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivas Kneses Beis Yitzchak in Vilna, and as a moreh zedek in Vilna). Each is accorded the title הגאון הגדול. Also among the subscribers (fourth on the list) is R. Isaac Rubinstein, listed is the רב מטעם, i.e., “the crown rabbi.” It is surely no accident that he is listed as הגאון, but not as הגאון הגדול. He was a distinguished – and tragic – rabbinic figure,[16] and it seems quite clear that R. Bezalel Alexandrov wanted to make a distinction between the various rabbis listed as subscribers.

In sum, the list reproduced here serves as a reminder to scholars that it is not enough to examine archival lists and history books. One often needs to examine other kinds of evidence – such as prenumeranten – that shed much light on Jewish social and intellectual history.[17]

Notes:

[1] See S. Even-Shoshan, ed., מינסק עיר ואם (Tel-Aviv, 1975), vol. 1, pp. 99-100. Cf. S. Weintraub, נובהרדוק (Bnei Brak, 2014), vol. 1, pp. 255- 257.
[2] A copy of the 136-page edition is available at the Mendel Gottesman Library of Yeshiva University. Neither the 40-page edition nor the 136 page edition is available online on HebrewBooks.org, אוצר החכמה, and אוצרות התורה.
[3] In general, see the sources cited in S. Stampfer, “Marital Patterns in Interwar Poland,” in Y. Gutman, ed., The Jews of Poland Between Two World Wars (Hanover, 1989), pp. 173-197. Cf. his “The Social Implications of Very Early Marriage,” in S. Stampfer, Families, Rabbis and Education (Oxford, 2010), pp. 7-25. None of the social historians seem to have been aware of משכן בצלאל.
[4] ילקוט בצלאל consists of two parts, the first contains 86 pages, and the second contains 102 pages. Part 1 is available online on Hebrew Books and אוצר החכמה, but not on אוצרות התורה. Part 2 is not available online. A copy with parts 1 and 2 is available at the National Library in Jerusalem.
[5] ילקוט בצלאל, part 1, p. 71.
[6] The letter of approbation was designated for משכן בצלאל, where it first appeared. The author took the liberty of reprinting it (together with two other letters of approbation that first appeared in משכן בצלאל) in his ילקוט בצלאל.
[7] See מאיר עיני ישראל (Bnei Brak, 2003), vol. 6, pp. 782-801.
[8] So, apparently, it was understood by R. Bezalel Alexandrov himself. See משכן בצלאל, p. 2.
[9] See, e.g., משכן בצלאל, p. 66. On R. Yisrael, see M. Heilprin,הגדול ממינסק (Jerusalem, 1994), pp. 96, 121-122, and 201.
[10] See, e.g., D. Katz, תנועת המוסר (Tel-Aviv, 1954), vol. 2, pp. 232-235; Ch. E. Zaichyk, המאורות הגדולים (Brooklyn, 1953), pp. 149-165; and M. Blazer, רבי איצלה (Bnei Brak, 2014), pp.475-540. None stresses the fact that R. Itzel, aside from his frequent hortatory Musar talks throughout Yom Kippur eve and day, also led the Kol Nidrei, Musaf, and Nei’lah services! It may well be that R. Itzel didn’t do this ordinarily on Yom Kippur (or in his old age), but R. Bezalel offers eyewitness testimony to what he experienced as a youth in Kovno.
[11] ילקוט בצלאל, pp. 31-32. A lengthy דבר תורה by R. Itzel follows the passage excerpted here.
[12] On Vilna’s kloyzen, see in general Khaykl Lunski, מהגיטו הוילנאי (Vilna, 1921), pp. 48-65, and the much fuller and more comprehensive listing of 135 (and more) kloyzen in A. Cohen-Mushlin et al, eds., Synagogues in Lithuania N-Z (Vilnius, 2012), pp. 281-353.
[13] On prenumeranten, see Berl Kagan, ספר הפרענומעראנטן [Hebrew Subscription Lists], New York, 1975; Shlomo Katzav, ספר החותמים (Petah Tikvah, 1984), vol. 2; and idem, ספר החותמים (Petah Tikvah, 1992), vol. 3. [See the late Tovia Preschel’s review of Berl Kagan’s ספר הפרענומעראנטן in the Jewish Press, May 30, 1975, p. 40; I am indebted to Menachem Butler for bringing the review to my attention. More importantly, see the recently published מאמרי טוביה, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 2016) for a treasure trove of reviews and essays by Tovia Preschel, bibliophile and bibliographer par excellence. No Judaica library – public or private – should be without this volume, and without the full set when brought to completion.] These volumes provide indices to all Hebrew books that include prenumeranten by listing alphabetically all the towns and cities where the authors solicited subscriptions. Under each place listed, appear the titles of all Hebrew books that include subscribers from that place. Thus, if your great-grandfather was from Jaroslaw in southeastern Poland, you would locate the entry “Jaroslaw” in the Kagan or Katzav volumes, and immediately see the appended list of Hebrew books that include prenumeranten from Jaroslaw. You would then have to examine (online or at the library of your choice) each of the titles listed to see if your great-grandfather’s name appears on its list of prenumeranten. Cf. below, note 17.
[14] Cf. above, note 12. Thus, for example, בהמ”ד חורשי עצים, בהמ”ד קו”ק, and בהמ”ד פועלי צדק are either not mentioned or not properly identified in Synagogues in Lithuania. בהמ”ד שומר אמונים is mentioned in Synagogues in Lithuania (p. 340) but not identified.
[15] See, e.g., the highly informative list of prenumeranten and kloyzen in Vilna in R. Ch. S. Gluskin, רחשי לב (Bilgoray, 1934), pp. 271-272.
[16] On Rabbi Rubinstein, see G. Bacon, “Rubinstein vs. Grodzinski: The Dispute Over the Vilnius Rabbinate and the Religious Realignment of Vilnius Jewry 1928-1932,” in I. Lempertas and L. Lempertiene, eds., The Gaon of Vilnius and the Annals of Jewish Culture (Vilnius, 1998), pp. 295-304, and the references cited in Bacon’s note 4.
[17] It is with great joy and much anticipation that we welcome the recent publication of the first volume of קונטרס שמות החותמים (Brooklyn, 2016).

Unlike the indices listed above in note 12, it reproduces the full lists of prenumeranten exactly as they appeared when first printed. The volume contains 670 pages of prenumeranten from lists that appeared in books printed between 1790 and 1840. Presumably, the volumes to follow will print all lists from 1840 through the mid 20th century, when such lists mostly fell into desuetude. If brought to fruition, the entire set will probably consist of four volumes. The advantage of the קונטרס שמות החותמים volumes, of course, is that here we have the names of all the subscribers before our very eyes. The first volume is surely a gold mine of information, but questions remain. Lacking an introduction, we are not informed who is really responsible for the volume; what are its goals; whether or not there will be a full index of titles, names, and places; which libraries are providing the material that is being scanned; and which books are being included and which are being excluded. It seems obvious that either all or most of the books scanned by קונטרס שמות החותמים are from the Lubavitch Library in Brooklyn, certainly one of the world’s greatest collections of Judaica. But no single Judaica collection (not even the National Library in Israel) has copies of every Hebrew (and Yiddish) book. Any project attempting to gather all lists of prenumeranten will, by definition, have to be a universal project, involving the great Judaica libraries the world over. It is, for example, unclear, why the first list of prenumeranten in קונטרס שמות החותמים is from 1790, when such lists were quite common throughout much of the last quarter of the 18th century (e.g., יסוד עולם, Berlin, 1777; שבילי דרקיע, Prague, 1784). Despite these misgivings, קונטרס שמות החותמים is certainly a welcome addition to every Jewish bibliophile’s bookshelf. What ultimately needs to be done is to have all the lists of prenumeranten gathered together in one place, digitized and OCRed, so that the information contained in them (especially names of persons, names of towns and cities, and dates and places of publication) becomes searchable and retrievable. The yield for תלמידי חכמים, social historians, genealogists, and linguists (spelling of Hebrew and Yiddish names and places, history of surnames) is inestimable.

As a sample of some of the treasures that one can find in the new volume, we reproduce the title page of R. David Friesenhausen’s מוסדות תבל (Vienna, 1820), and two of its 14 pages of prenumeranten. These appear on pp. 331, 332, and 345-346 in קונטרס שמות החותמים. [ We have reproduced the pages from the original Vienna, 1820 edition, since the editor of קונטרס שמות החותמים sometimes divides a single page into two parts, presenting them as two pages.]

It will be noticed that the opening page of the prenumeranten lists the
ישמח משה, R. Moshe Teitelbaum (d. 1841) of Ujhely as one of the subscribers to מוסדות תבל. A later page of the prenumeranten lists the חתם סופר, R. Moshe Sofer (d. 1839) of Pressburg as a subscriber to מוסדות תבל.  The appearance of these two distinguished names (and there are more) – arguably the two greatest rabbinic leaders of Hungarian Jewry – on the same list of prenumeranten surely attests to the reputation of the author of מוסדות תבל in 1820. On R. David Friesenhausen, an early advocate of the Copernican theory, see my introductory note to the late Chaim Reich’s reissue of מוסדות תבל (Brooklyn, 1997), and the fuller discussion, with references, entitled “R. David Friesenhausen: Precursor of Torah and Derekh Eretz,” in Jacob J. Schacter, ed., Judaism’s Encounter with Other Cultures (Northvale, 1997), pp. 158-164. See also the bibliographical note in Eliezer Brodt, “יחסה של הספרות היהודית לקופרניקוס במשך הדורות,” Hakirah 13 (Spring 2012), Hebrew section, p. 17, n. 33; and Jeremy Brown, “Rabbi David Friesenhausen’s Zemirah for the Solar System,” Hakirah 14 (Winter 2012), pp. 249-271. I am deeply grateful to Eliezer Brodt for bringing these references to my attention. The haunting account in David Schoen’s שוחרי השם בהרי הקרפטים (Jerusalem, 2005), pp. 43-50, is embedded in a historical novel, and cannot be accorded more esteem and historicity than the esteem and historicity accorded to the best of historical novels. They remain novels. 


Jacob’s Dream: Reproducing a Talismanic Illustrated Title Page

Jacob’s Dream: Reproducing a Talismanic Illustrated Title Page

(Illustrations are from the following sources: the Edut Be Yosef, Rabot, Shivim Tekunei Zohar, and Yefeh Anaf are from the Gross Family Collection.  The Minhat Shai is from Dan Rabinowitz’s personal collection, and the rest are courtesy of the internet.)

One of the earliest examples of Jewish art are the biblical paintings at the Dura Europos Synagogue, completed in 244-5 C.E. Among those images is that of Jacob’s dream. The importance of the Dura Europos iconography in the development of Jewish art is hard to overestimate. “The iconographic formulas, seen for the first time in the Dura synagogue would recur both in Jewish art and Christian art, in widely differing media – manuscripts, murals, mosaics, ivories and silver utensils – frequently without modification, or with only the modifications necessitated by different materials or techniques, or the need to emphasize a new theological perspective.”[1]

By the time of its discovery in the 1920s, only a fragment of Jacob’s dream scene remained visible. Nonetheless it is possible to discern the subtly of the artist. In the fragment, Jacob is depicted as a figure wearing Greek costume – the then contemporary dress – leaning on his elbow, in the posture of Palmyrene funerary reliefs. Only the body is preserved, the head and upper body are lost. Near the figure is planted an inclined ladder, which one or perhaps two (it is unclear) personages in Persian dress are ascending. This custom, consisting of a short-belted tunic adorned with braid at the throat and hem, and wide trousers gathered into short supple boots, represents in the language of the Dura painter the garb of kings and princes, and court temple  personnel.[2] 

Scholars have voiced a number of opinions to explain the Persian court dress. According to one scholar the artist was referencing a midrash that appears in Pirkei de-Reb Eliezer. The angels, rather than merely serving as Jacob’s protection, also allude to “the four kingdoms that would conquer and subjugate the Jews, each as represented by its prince.”[3]One of the kingdoms is Persia. Thus, the artist’s choice of iconography was deliberate.

Jewish Title Pages

The first illustrated Jewish title pages appeared in the early seventeenth century. In 1693, the first depiction of Jacob’s dream graced a Jewish title page. That book, Sefer Rabbot, Midrash Rabba, with the commentary of R. Yisachar ben Naftali Katz, printed in Frankfurt on the Oder by Michael Gottschalk.


He was a local bookbinder and bookdealer who took over the management of Johann Christoph Beckman’s printing press in Frankfort d.O. in 1693, and led the press for almost forty years.[4]  Sefer Rabbot’s title page includes Moses and Aaron (who first appear in the 1610 edition of the She’a lot u-Teshuvot Mahril, printed in Hanau (see “Aaron the Jewish Bishop”), at the top, angels around the ark, and at the bottom, three biblical scenes, Jacob wrestling with the angel, David praying, and Jacob’s dream. It is obvious that these images are modeled after Matthaeus Merian’s engravings of biblical scenes that accompanied his Icones Biblicae printed between 1625-1630. All three of these images can be traced to Merian based upon a number of similarities and artist conventions.

The image of Jacob’s dream depicts, in both instances, Jacob laying next to a tree, boats and houses appear in the background, and angels’ hands are outstretched to greet Jacob. There is one significant puzzling difference. In Merian’s depiction, he substitutes the letters (reversed) of tetragram for God. In the Jewish book, God is depicted as an old man with a beard wearing a crown. This, despite Judaism’s strong prohibition on depicting God in a human form.

(This is not the only instance of a Jewish book containing a human image for God. The title-page of the first edition of R. Yedidia Shlomo of Norzi’s commentary on the biblical mesorah, Minhat Shai, Mantua, 1742-44, includes a depiction of God with a human face.   The images on the title page are various biblical vignettes and in the one for the resurrection of the “dry bones” that appears in Yehkezkel, God is shown as an old man with a white beard.)

Here is that image in detail:

Michael Gottschalk reused the Rabot title page at least five times; in 1695, for R. Shmuel Yaffe, Yafe Anaf, in 1696, Mattityahu ben Asher Lemle Liebermann, Mattat Yah, in 1698 in R. Benjamin Ze’ev Wolf ben Samuel Romaner’s Ir Binyamin,  in 1699 in Ohel Yaakov, and in 1602 in Yisrael b. Aaron Yaffa, Or Yisrael.

 

These title pages are just a few of Gottchalk’s illustrated title pages. Gottshalk artistic sensibilities are on full display in his 1697-99 edition of the Talmud, a work for which the Frankfurt press is best known to this day. It contains arguably the most magnificent Talmudic title page ever printed.

In 1695, the first illustrated copperplate Haggadah was published in Amsterdam. All the images are modeled based upon Merian. The title page too contains a number of biblical scenes in circular medallions. One of which is Jacob’s dream.

The next title page that depicts Jacob’s dream appears in Tzvi Hirsch ben Rachmiel Chotsh’s, Shiv’im Tikunei ha-Zohar, Hemdat Tzvi, Amsterdam, Moshe ben Avraham Mendes Coutinho, 1706.[5] Like the Gottchalk’s image that includes heretical iconography, those of Shiv’im Tikunei ha-Zohar would prove equally problematic.[6]

Despite Hemdat Tzvi’s impressive approbations, R. Jacob Emden accused Chotsh, and specifically this book, of holding and expressing Sabbatian beliefs.[7] It has been conclusively demonstrated that indeed Chotsh’s book contains Sabbatian ideas.[8] Evidence of Chotsh’s embrace of Sabbateanism is identifiable amongst the title page images. Indeed, Chotsh calls attention to the larger meaning of the title page’s images. At the bottom of the title page Chotsh provides that “whosoever wishes to know the secret of the above frontispiece, should see the introduction to the Tikkunim at the beginning of the first article.” An inspection of that section yields likely Sabbatian passages. Thus, Chotsh is indicating that like the introduction, the title page also contains allusions to Sabbateanism.

The title page depicts a variety of biblical figures and Jacob’s dream appears at the top center of the page. Above that are two deer holding a crown with the verse from Isaiah 28:5, “On that day will the Lord of the hosts be for a crown of glory, and for a diadem of beauty.” The “crown of glory” or in Hebrew “Ateret tzvi” has a double meaning here, “glory” and “deer” and, of course, is alluding to Sabbatia Tzvi, who, “on that day” will be presumably wearing the crown.[9]

The most long-lasting depiction of Jacob’s dream is that which appeared in Siddur Shaarei Shamyim from R. Isaiah ha-Levi Horowitz (Shelah), Amsterdam, 1717.[10]

This title page is notable in that the accompanying images that align with the book which was not always the case. This is a complete machzor and as such four holidays, Sukkot, Pesach, Shavout, and Rosh Hashana, are represented on the top encased in circles, and underneath the columns. On one side of the bottom of the pillars. On either side is a niche, on the right with Abraham with the legend and on the left, Isaac, underneath each is a verse corresponding to prayer. Displayed prominently at top center, depicting his dream, with the verse from which the book’s title is derived. Underneath the title is a depiction of the Levites pouring water over the priest’s hands with the legend above, Ze hasher la-leviim. This is a reference to R. Horowitz’s lineage. All of the biblical images correspond with Merian’s depictions.

This title page, with small modifications, was repeatedly copied and is found in books from across Europe. One explanation for the ubiquity of this title page is that the Siddur ha-Shelah was imbued with talismanic effect. R. Yoel Sirkes in his approbation assures that whoever prays from this book their prayers would be answered. As evidence of the talismanic effect of the book one only needs to look to recent auctions where the book is regularly sold for tens of thousands of dollars. Perhaps printers looking to capitalize on the aura surrounding the Siddur ha-Shelah incorporated the images in their books.

For example, the title page appears in Edut be-Yaakov, Sulzbach, 1741,[11] in 1765, Furth, Siddur Korban Minha, and in 1797, in the north west of France in Luneville, Sha’ar Selihot ve-Tahanunim. In the latter, the Levite is substituted for Jonah as that is more aligned with the High Holiday themes of the book, and the four depictions of the holidays are removed because they conflict with the singular nature of the book.

Illustrated Hebrew title pages are perhaps the most ubiquitous, and certainly the most accessible form of Jewish art. Yet, the study of the art of the Hebrew title page has not attracted commensurate scholarly interest. Our example, tracing the depiction of Jacob’s dream, is but one instance that illustrated Hebrew title pages fit within the larger history of Jewish art. Here, the Hebrew title pages seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Hebrew books harken back to the iconography identified at Dura Europos that continued to appear in Jewish artistic forms, in this instance books.

[1] Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, Jewish Art (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1997), 127.

[2] Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, Jewish Art (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1997), 559.

[3] E.L. Sukenik, Bet-haKeneset shel Dura-Europa ve-Tserayav (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1947), 112-3.

[4] B. Friedberg, History of Hebrew Typography in Central Europe (Antwerp, 1935), 35-49.

[5] Like Gottschalk, Coutinho also produced a number of other illustrated title pages with biblical images.In 1696, the year before he published the siddur, he published at least two books with illustrated title pages, Sefer Hinukh and the Mishna. This title page was reused in Coutinho’s 1698 edition of R. Hayim Moshe Karinal, Yemin Moshe.   

[6] Bezalel Naor, Post-Sabbatian Sabbatianism, (Spring Valley, NY: Orot, 1999),79-82.

[7] See Shnayer Leiman, “Sefarim ha-Hashudim be-Shabbta’ot: Rishimat shel ha-Gaon Yavet”z Tzal,” in Sefer ha-Zikhron le-Rebi Moshe Lifschitz, (New York, 1996), 890

[8] See Naor, Post-Sabbatian, 80-81 and the sources cited therein.

[9] Of course, Shabbatai Tzvi is not the only “Tzvi,” Chotsh’s first name is Tzvi. Perhaps the image is an allusion to his name – a somewhat common theme in Hebrew title page illustrations. Recently, however, one scholar noted that the deers are not the only Sabbatian reference. According to his theory, the layout of the biblical figures aligns with kabbalistic representations of the sefirot.  See Naor, 81.

[10] Horowitz’s other book, Sheni Luhot ha-Brit, Amsterdam, 1698, also contains a beautifully illustrated title page.

[11] The title page was reused for decades in the Sulzbach presses. As late as 1794, there are examples of the title page. See, e.g. Tsenah u-Renah, Sulzbach, 1794.



Aaron the Jewish Bishop

Aaron the Jewish Bishop

The exodus from Egypt was led by Moses and Aaron. Moses, however, does not appear in the Passover haggadah (with one exception that is likely a later interpolation).[1] Aaron does make two appearances in the hallel section.  That said, in numerous illuminated haggadahs, from the medieval period to present, both appear in illustrated form. Additionally, in printed haggadot, most notably the 1609 Venice haggadah, one of the seminal illustrated haggadot, Moses and Aaron appear on the decorative border.

Generally, conclusively determining Jewish material culture, especially from the biblical period, is nearly impossible.  Regarding Moses, other than his staff, the bible provides no additional information.[2]  Aaron is a different story.

The Torah expends a significant amount of verses discussing the details of the Kohen Gadol’s (the high priest) garments but while the descriptions are detailed, we still struggle to determine what these special clothes looked like.  Rashi, for example, has to resort to anachronistic parallels for the “me’il” comparing it to a medieval French equestrian pant.  Similarly, by the Talmudic time, the details of the headband were subject to dispute. We should briefly pause here to correct a common misconception – that the Vatican or the Catholic Church still retains items related to the Jewish temple.  Unfortunately, this misconception is so prevalent, that a number of Israeli officials have requested that the Vatican repatriate the temple vessels.  Briefly, while the Talmud mentions that sometime between the 2nd and 5th centuries, temple vessels may have resided in Rome, there is no indication whatsoever of them since the 5th century. In addition, due to the numerous sackings that Rome underwent, or the reality that the Catholic Church is an entirely different sovereign than the Roman ruler Vespasian who sacked Jerusalem, it must be regarded as highly unlikely at best that any former temple vessels remain (assuming they were ever there) within the Vatican. For additional discussion regarding this issue, see here.
The ambiguity about the clothing has not stopped many from attempting to depict what they believe is the correct version.  Thus, depictions of Aaron the High Priest appear in Hebrew books. Hebrew manuscripts did not shy away from including illuminations and illustrations to create a more aesthetically pleasing product.  All sorts of shapes and images are employed to this end, on page borders, end pages, or just sprinkled throughout a manuscripts and – geometric patterns (Hebrew manuscripts are the first to use micrography), animals, people or combinations thereof of half-human-half-beast.  Noticeably, however, biblical figures are not included in this category. While biblical scenes appear in Hebrew manuscripts it is only to actually illustrate the content, and not independently for aesthetic purposes.
With printing, however, this slowly changed. Printing began in 1455 with Gutenberg and Hebrew books followed soon after.  These early books, however, did not follow all the conventions that we associate with books today.  Title pages did not begin until the 16th century and it wasn’t until the early 17th century that title pages were de rigueur.  Apart from information relevant to the books contents, title pages also began to included aesthetic details.  Sometimes these are architectural, pillars etc. other times flowers or some other flower or fauna.
Generally, printers did not explain why certain images were included on title pages, the assumption is that it was simply for aesthetic purposes.  At least in one case, this was made explicit.  The Shu’’t Ma-harit”z, Venice, 1684, by Yom Tov Tzalahon, includes an illustration of the temple on the title page.  The publisher, Tzalahon’s grandson, provides that this was included as “it makes it more beautiful” and he was so enamored with the illustration – even though it is very rudimentary he included it three times in the book (this likely speaks more about the publisher’s exposure – or lack thereof – to art in general).[3]
There are, however, at least a few examples of a title page illustration serving a purpose beyond the aesthetic. Some illustrations are including because of allusions to the author’s name, but at least in one instance a Hebrew title page illustration was used to illustrate the title.
The most common form appearing “on the frontispiece of countless printed books,” were biblical figures Moses, Aaron, David, Solomon, nearly always coupled, and “became the accepted heraldic figures.”[4]  The first biblical figures to appear in Hebrew books were was a woodcut by Hans Holbein of David and Solomon, flanking one, among other biblical scenes, in the Augsburg 1540 Arba’ah Turim. This illustration, however, did not appear on the title page, which is plain, instead it appears on folio 7.[5]  See Heller, 242-43.
The first frontispiece to include a biblical figure is the Tur Orach Hayyim, Prague, 1540, that includes, at the top of the page, a depiction of Moses holding the tablets.[6] The first frontispiece to include the coupling of biblical figures – the most ubiquitous form of biblical figures – is Jacob Moelin’s She’elot u-Teshuvot Mahril printed in Hanau in 1610. That frontispiece depicts Moses on the left in one hand the tablets and the other hand he grasps his staff.  Aaron is wearing the garments of the high priest:  the tunic, bells, breastplate and and is carrying the incense.
 
The usage of Moses and Aaron on Hebrew frontispieces thus began with Hanau, 1610.  By way of comparison, the first appearance of Moses and Aaron on the frontispiece of a book in English was the King James Bible, published a year after Hanau in 1611. The Hanau printer reused the Moses/Aaron frontispiece on two more books:  Nishmat Adam by Aaron Samuel ben Moshe Shalom of Kremenets, 1611 and Joseph ben Abraham Gikatilla’s, Ginat Egoz, Hanau 1615.[7]  The illustration best fits the Nishmat Adam, and may have originally been the book for which this illustration was intended and not Molin’s.  Unlike Jacob Molin’s work that has no direct connection with Aaron or Moses, the author of Ginat Egoz’s name includes both Moses and Aaron, and while Samuel is not captured in the illustration, the year of publication is derived from “Samuel.”
Moses and Aaron became the most common biblical figures on frontispieces, but not the exclusive ones.  In some instance, a mélange of biblical figures is presented.  The Amsterdam printer, Solomon Proops, included the image of Moses, Aaron, David, and Solomon, each wearing a crown, and a Moses carrying not the tablets but instead the Torah scroll.

A deviation from the coupling of Moses and Aaron appears in Beit Aharon, Frankfurt am Oder, 1690, which displays Aaron and Samuel.  In that instance, however, the deviation is explained because the figures are allusions to the author’s name, Aaron ben Samuel.  The use of coupled figures was not exclusive to Biblical figures; in many Hebrew books a variety of mythical and pagan figures and scenes are commonplace on title pages.  A partial list of pagan deities include:  Venus, Hercules, Mars and Minerva that appear on ennobled works such as Rambam’s Mishne Torah, Venice 1574, and Abarabenel’s commentary on Devarim, Sabbioneta 1551, and were reused many times.[8]  The use of pagan figures in Jewish items is not limited to Hebrew books and these images appear on the Second Temple menorah, and the Dionysus, Poseidon are inscribed on Palestinian mezuzot, Sefer Raziel mentions Zeus and Aphrodite, Dionysus and Poseidon reappears in a common prayer said during the priestly blessings, and Dionysus appears individually in the additionally yehi ratzon that some recite during Aveinu Malkanu (helpfully Artscroll and other siddurim direct that for the prayers that include these names, they should “only be scanned with the eyes and concentrated upon, but should not be spoken,” as they are “divine names”).[9]
Returning to the use of Moses and Aaron on frontispieces of Hebrew books, as mentioned above, the basic form of the illustrations remained fairly static with Moses appearing with his staff and/or the tablets or the Torah and Aaron in his priestly clothing.  And, these are prevalent throughout the 17th century, across the Europe and the Middle East.  In Europe the coupling appears in Altona, Amsterdam, Venice, Furth and Izmir, on diverse works – Talmudic commentaries, Mendelssohn’s commentary to the bible, and a commentary on the zemirot (which includes a heliocentric depiction of the constellations).  

A slightly different version appears in the Ma’ashe Rokeakh that has Aaron holding a slaughter knife.

There is, however, one notable exception to this depiction both in terms of the items displayed in addition to the “coupling.”  Aaron ben Hayyim Perachia’s Perekh Matteh Aaron, published in Amsterdam, 1703, includes a coupling but rather than Moses and Aaron, in this instance both images are that of Aaron.  Additionally, the Aaron on the left is the standard depiction of items, but the one on right is distinct in that it has Aaron holding a budding almond branch – perach mateh Aaron.  Of course, these deviations are understandable as the “second” Aaron and his unique “staff” is not merely aesthetic but is illustrative of the title of the book, the first time an title page illustration illustrates the title.[10]

 
A final note regarding the frontispiece depictions of two items Aaron’s clothing.  First, in many instances, including the Hanau prints, Aaron’s hat is not the traditional wrapping or turban associated with the mitznefet, but a bishop’s mitre.  At times, the mitre is horned, for example, Zohar, Amsterdam, 1706.  The horned mitre, however, is based upon “the mistaken belief that the horned mitre descended from the Jewish high priest” when in reality the bishop’s mitre is related to “Moses’ horns and their symbolic meaning within the context of the medieval Church.”[11]
The frontispiece is not the only time that the kohen’s headgear is interpreted contrary to Jewish tradition.  In a recent illustrated edition of Mishna Tamid, the editors depict the Kohen not only wearing the turban but also a yarmulke.  The Torah enumerates the priestly garments and any addition to those items is subject to the death penalty.  Thus, a Kohen wearing a yarmulke – as illustrated and that is not included in the Torah’s description of the Kohen’s outfit – commits a capital crime.[12] Here is another example of Aaron, looking very much like a bishop. This illustration is from a 15th century manuscript called המשכן וכליו by Simon ben Joel.

Unlike Aaron’s head-covering that appears from time to time as a bishop’s mitre, the second odd item that Aaron carries appears almost universally. Specifically, Aaron holds the incense in his hand, but unlike the Rabbinic interpretation that the incense was delivered in a shovel, Aaron is always depicted with the incense in a ball or  censer.  There is no Jewish source that records that form of the incense ritual and is an exclusive non-Jewish understanding of the Torah.
Ironically, the only person to take issue with the depiction of Moses and Aaron (and other biblical figures) argues against their use does not raise these issues nevertheless counsels against these biblical depictions.  His rationale, however, is counter-factual.  Specifically, Samuel Aboab, decries the depiction of biblical figures because the depictions are anachronistic and but for non-Jewish influences would never have been included in Jewish items.
While there is no doubt that some elements of the depictions are non-traditional, since at least the second century, biblical figures are found in a variety of Jewish contexts.  For example, the second century synagogue of Dura Europos and a few years later at the Bet Alpha synagogue contain biblical images. Dura Europos contains numerous illustrations of biblical figures and scenes, including Moses and Aaron.  And, while Abaob is correct that both Moses and Aaron are depicted anachronistically – in typical clothing of that time period, a toga-like garment – this is simply explained by the fact the purpose of the illustrations was to remind the viewers of the people and stories.  Therefore, had Aaron “been depicted with the biblical clothing that were no longer in use, the viewer might not know what they are looking at.”[13]  Thus, the anachronisms are not to make these seminal biblical figures in our image, but to simply ensure that the art clearly transmit its message.

[1] David Henshke, “The Lord Brought Us Forth from Egypt: On the Absence of Moses in the Passover Haggadah,” AJS Review, Vol. 31, No. 1 (Apr., 2007), pp. 61-73.
[2] The lack of information has not stopped the theorizing as to Moses’ visage.  The most notable example is R. Yisrael Lipschutz’s comments at the end of Kiddushin.  See Shnayer Z. Leiman, “R. Israel Lipschutz and the Portrait of Moses Controversy,” in Isadore Twersky, ed., Danzig, Between East and West: Aspects of Modern Jewish History (Cambridge, Mass., 1985), pp. 51-63, and for a different version, “R. Israel Lipschutz: The Portrait of Moses,” Tradition 24:4 (Summer 1989): pp. 91-98 (available here). See also the important chapter on this subject in R’ Shmuel Ashkenazi, Alpha Beita Kadmeysuh, Jerusalem:2000, pp. 337-371. For additional sources on this story see R’ Dov Turish in his various works; Maznei Tzedek, p.149, 310; Ginzei Ha-Melech, p. 38, 40, 43,48, 56; MiArat haMchpeilah, p. 101 and onwards.
[3] Shmuel Glick, Kuntress ha-Teshuvot he-Hadash, Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem & Ramat Gan, 2007, n. 2120.  For more on Glick’s work see here and  here.
[4] Richard I. Cohen, Jewish Icons, Art & Society in Modern Europe, University of California Press, Berkley & Los Angles, 1998, 127.
[5] Marvin J. Heller, The Sixteenth Century Hebrew Book, An Abridged Thesaurus, Vol. I, Brill Leiden & Boston, 2004, 242-43.
[6] That is not to say the first to contain, rather than appear on the title page illustration, figures of living persons.  The Prague 1526 haggadah depicts, Adam, Eve, David, Goliath, Judith, and Samson in the woodcuts accompanying internal pages.  For a list of Hebrew books containing Moses with horns and without see Two Prague Haggadahs, Valmadonna Trust Library, 1978, 16-18 n.16
[7] An examination of the haskamot (approbations) accompanying the early Hanau prints also provides evidence of “the breakdown of central rabbinical authority in Germany during this period.”  Stephan G. Burnett, “Hebrew Censorship in Hanau: A mirror of Jewish-Christian coexistence in Seventeenth-century Germany,” in Raymond B. Waddington and Arthur H. Williamson, eds., The Expulsion of the Jews: 1492 and After, Garland Studies in the Renaissance, Vol. 2. New York & London: Garland Publishing Inc., 1994, pp. 202-03 (available here).
[8] Marvin J. Heller, Studies in the Making of the Early Hebrew Book, Brill NV, Leiden, 2008, 1-17.
[9] See Daniel Sperber, Magic & Jewish Folklore in Rabbinic Literature, Bar Ilan University Press, Ramat-Gan, 1994, 97-98 and n. 29; Yosef Shaposhnik, Siddur im Revid ha-Zahav, Chief Rabbi of the Rabbinical Association, London, 1929, 63.
[10] By way of comparison, a few years after the Perach Matteh Aaron, the frontispiece of the haggadah with the commentary Mateh Aaron, Frankfort A.M., 1710 does not include any depiction of Aaron or his staff. Instead it reuses a non-Jewish woodcut that depicts the Eye of Providence – an allusion to the all seeing eye of “god” –  the trinity as it is depicted within a triangle or three sided object, as it does on the back of the US dollar bill.  But, notably, the eye appearing on the Mateh Aaron is not within a triangle.  Perhaps this was deliberately changed or the original woodcut for some other reason elected not to use the triangle, but to arrive at any definitive conclusion requires additional research into the history of the particular woodcut which is outside the scope of this article.

[11] Ruth Mellinkoff, The Horned Moses in Medieval Art & Thought, University of California Press, Berkley, 1970, 105,94-96.
[12] Dan Rabinowitz, “Yarmulke: A Historic Cover-up?,” Ḥakirah: The Flatbush Journal of Jewish Law and Thought, 4 (2007): 231-32.
[13] E.L Sukenik, The Synagogue of Dura-Europos and its Frescoes, Bialik Foundation, (Jerusalem, Palestine):1947, 97.


More on story fabrication – The Golem

As some have mention in the comments to my previous post, the story of the Mahral and the Golem although many take it as true, it is not. Popularized by Rabbi Yudel Rosenberg, the work is a work of fiction, something even noted in a bibliography published of Rabbi Rosenberg’s works. Some of the people who discuss this are Ira Robinson, “Literary Forgery and Hasidic Judaism: the Case of Rabbi Yudel Rosenberg,” Judaism 40 (1991), pp. 61-78), Shnayer Z. Leiman, “The Adventure of the Maharal of Prague in London; R. Yudl Rosenberg and the Golem of Prague,” Tradition 36:1 (2002): 26-58 and Eliezer Segal.

However, surprisingly, in the online publication Dei’ah veDibur, there is also an article on this topic (hat tip A Simple Jew). The article “borrows” heavily from the above mentioned articles (without citation). It also references some early sources which cast doubt on the veracity of the story, the article does so without identifying the source. One of the unnamed sources I think is a reference to R. Shlomo Yehuda Rappoport’s introduction to Kalmen Leiben’s Gal Ed however, the dates don’t work out exactly (Gal Ed 1856). It would make sense to leave this unidentified, as though R. Rapoport was the son-in-law of the famed author of the Ketzot HaHoshen and even added the index and some notes to his Aveni Milumim, R. Rapoport is not considered the most traditional Jew (See Barzaily typically terrible biography on Rapoport). Additionally, although the article in Dei’ah veDibur is rather detailed it also leaves out R. Shlomo Schick’s criticism (based upon Rapoport) of the story as well. Again this may be due in part to some people’s views regarding Schick (see this post where some of Schick’s work was censored). [Additionally, the article mentions a small book by R. Eckstein titled Sefer Yetzirah which appears to be available on the Rare Hebrew Books from Harvard’s Collection Microfilm].

But perhaps the most surprising thing in the entire article is its conclusion

Rabbi Eshkoli emphasizes that we should be raising our children with literature that is historically reliable, for which our extensive traditions about the greatness and holiness and the powerful prayer of the tzakkikimand Torah giants of earlier times amply suffice. Niflo’os Maharal therefore ought no longer to be circulated unless each copy carries a clear disclaimer stating that the story is fiction. Neither, he also points out, should the book be quoted from as though it was reliable information.

Dei’ah veDibur bills itself as “A Window Into The Charedi World,” so perhaps this emphasis on truth will signal a new trend in haradei biographies only time will tell.

[One interesting side note a Polish TV crew went into the attic of the Altena Shul in Prague and filmed the contents. The pictures they found were published in a Polish book. These pictures show a big mound of dirt but no Golem as far as I can tell.]



“Rabbi David Hoffmann, ZL” by Eliezer M. Lipschuetz – A Translation

Rabbi David Hoffmann, ZL
By Eliezer M. Lipschuetz
Introduction, Translation, and Notes by David S. Zinberg
David S. Zinberg blogs at Realia Judaica.

Introduction

Rabbi Dr. David Zvi Hoffmann was a unique figure in the history of both German Jewish Orthodoxy and academic Jewish Studies.[1] He was widely regarded by contemporaries as an unequaled master of Halakha and Wissenschaft, and as a major leader in both communities. The biographical essay below by Eliezer Meir Lipschuetz, translated from Hebrew, was attached to the Hebrew translation (by Eliezer Barishansky) of Re’ayot Makhri’ot Neged Velhoizen, Hoffmann’s critique of the Documentary Hypothesis (Jerusalem, 1928 and available on HebrewBooks.org). Hoffmann’s original version, Die Wichtigsten Instanzen gegen die Graf-Wellhausensche Hypothese, was published in Berlin in 1904 (available on archive.org). Carla Sulzbach’s English translation, an MA thesis titled David Zvi Hoffmann’s . . . main arguments against the Graf-Wellhausen hypothesis, can be downloaded here.

Lipschuetz’s brief but rich portrait is notable for its first-hand account of Hoffmann, as a scholar, teacher, writer, and as a pious Jew. While clearly enamored of his subject, Lipschuetz expresses some gentle criticism of Hoffmann. He laments the fact that Hoffmann wrote in German rather than Hebrew, and harshly criticizes the general neglect of Hebrew by both Wissenschaft and German Orthodox writers. Lipschuetz also faults Hoffman for not proposing an alternative theory to the Documentary Hypothesis to reconcile inconsistencies in the Torah, even if Hoffmann successfully – in Lipschuetz’s estimation – negated the theory by demolishing its assumptions. Following the latter critique, Lipschuetz offers a somewhat tentative defense of Hoffmann.
For a brief biography of Lipschuetz, see the entry here in David Tidhar’s Entziklopedia Le-Halutze Ha-Yishuv U-Vonav.

The translation is non-literal, but I have tried to preserve the tone and style of the original. Where Lipschuetz’s Hebrew terminology adds value to the translation, I include it in square brackets. Common dates have been added alongside, or substituted for, Hebrew dates. In the notes, I include links to online versions of works cited.
__________

The story of his life – the properly developed life of a Torah scholar – was not eventful. His birthplace, Jewish Hungary, was unique; she experienced a late spiritual awakening, and for generations lacked any great Torah scholar or spiritual leader. But from the very moment her Torah began to shine, she was granted a short-lived daybreak full of light and vitality. She influenced much of the Diaspora, in many fields of study, both within and beyond the Jewish domain. He was born in the community of Verbó (Nitra province) in Hungary,[2] on 1 Kislev 5604 (November 24, 1843). His father was a local religious arbitrator [dayan]. He received the standard cheder education, though it included personal attention and supervision. From the time of Rabbi Moses Sofer, Hungary was blessed with yeshivot whose curricula differed from those of Lithuanian yeshivot. Even as a young man, he earned a reputation as a Talmudic prodigy [ilui]. He studied at the yeshivot of Verbó and Pupa[3] and later at the yeshiva of that generation’s most prominent rabbi [gadol ha-dor], Rabbi Moses Schick, in Sankta Georgen[4] near Pressburg,[5] where he was his teacher’s absolute favorite.

Around this time, a notable event took place in Hungary: Rabbi Esriel Hildesheimer, a German Torah scholar who served as rabbi of Eisenstadt, founded a yeshiva for both Torah and secular studies during a period of extremist agitation. The two opposing camps had separated angrily, and the Jewish community was split in two. At this inopportune time, the life of this yeshiva was cut short, as was the residence of its founder in Eisenstadt, due to the shrill protests of the ultra-conservative camp. It was feared that an extremist war would be waged against Rabbi Hildesheimer or, even worse, that he would mount a counter-offensive against the Torah leadership. Purity and Torah were in danger of becoming apostasy; alas, such is the power of communal dissension. He escaped the place of expected misfortune and returned to his native Germany where he became a rabbi and innovative leader of the Orthodox community.

Rabbi Hoffmann was Rabbi Hildesheimer’s student at his yeshiva in Eisenstadt and when his teacher departed, he did as well, arriving at the Pressburg Yeshiva, the central yeshiva in Hungary. Later, he studied at the University of Vienna and from there moved to Germany where he taught at the preparatory school of the Jewish Teachers Institute at Höchberg, near Würzburg. There, he was a colleague of Rabbi Seligman Baer Bamberger, another German Orthodox rabbi, whose goal was to safeguard the light of Torah within daily life. Rabbi Bamberger was a old-school scholar; he was mild mannered in ideological controversies and viewed the Jewish community as single entity which should not easily be split.

In 1875 [sic], Rabbi Hoffmann composed a dissertation, A Biography of Mar Shmuel,[6] and received a doctorate from the University of Tübingen.[7] He then married a woman from a prominent family, who survived him, and was invited by Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch to teach at the high school he had founded. This was the first modern school for Orthodox students. Rabbi Hirsch fought the battle for Torah with the weapons of modern Enlightenment. He strove to consciously combine Enlightenment and Jewish ideology, but he viewed himself as a wartime general, and was inclined to separate and confine the Orthodox community. Rabbi Hoffmann served for a number of years as a teacher in Rabbi Hirsch’s school, and was close to him. After only a short time, Rabbi Hoffmann became closely connected with three of the spiritual leaders of the new Orthodox movement in Germany. At that time, Orthodox Judaism was aroused to defend itself, to establish relations with the new culture, and to create a Torah lifestyle within a foreign society. These three great leaders, though they had different personalities and goals, stood at the vanguard of the movement, to organize and dig in the troops. Rabbi Seligman Baer Bamberger continued to support earlier developments, disapproved of separatism, and strove to preserve an ideal of perfection untarnished by current fads. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch understood the full extent of the battle; he felt obligated to pursue total, uncompromising Enlightenment, and a Judaism that included full intellectual awareness. He established an ideological basis for Judaism, founded on intellect, and created a rationalist system based on principles of faith. He considered his age one of creating boundaries and he preferred separatism. Rabbi Esriel Hildesheimer believed that his mission was to advance the scientific understanding of Judaism and to preserve its image in the eyes of science. He desired that Torah should never be forgotten in Israel, and although he too believed at the time in the need for separation, he maintained his sense of responsibility towards the wider community. The leadership of German Orthodoxy succeeded, then and forever, to create the type of Jew who combines within himself involvement in daily life [derekh eretz] and the fear of God, and to create a modern Orthodox lifestyle, including an Orthodox literature and science, though not on a large scale. These were transitional years, and immersion in transitional conflicts did not cause Rabbi Hoffmann mental anguish or psychological trauma; “he came and he left in peace.”[8] He was close with all three leaders at a formative period of his life; he was influenced by all three, but his approach was primarily that of his original teacher, Rabbi Esriel Hildesheimer. Together, they set themselves a goal, and worked towards it jointly throughout their entire lives.

When Rabbi Hildesheimer founded the Rabbinical Seminary in Berlin, as a center of Torah and Science in our time, he called on his student to teach Talmud. Rabbi Hoffmann taught Talmud and halakhic works [posekim] at that institution for forty-eight years. After the founder’s passing, he was appointed Rector of the Rabbinical Seminary (1899). The government and the University granted him the title of Professor (1918) and through old age he never left the Beit Midrash; he taught Talmud and posekim to the students and held a class on Talmud for lay members of the community.

Those who knew him while he was still alive know that his personality was as great as his Torah. One would have to return to the medieval period to witness such a persona among the German or French Hasidim. He was a man with no sense of his own greatness. He exuded humility and everything about him was simplicity. His words, in writing and in speech, were always to the point; he never spoke extravagantly, or used ornate speech, or showed off his knowledge. Truth was the expression of his personality. A measure of spirituality, piety, and modesty resided within his diminutive, silent frame, which was crowned by a brilliant mind. This is exactly how he appeared to me just weeks before his passing. He had attained a sort of calm, an equanimity, contentment, and clarity, which bestowed on him a peaceful beauty. He was always willing to serve even the most minor student; he was never indignant and no one could insult him. This man, who was as diligent in religious observance as one of the ancient righteous [tzadikim ha-rishonim], was shy by nature and humble before God and man. His integrity guided his relationships, without making him bitter or prickly. He had a sense of humor, was pleasant with everyone he met, and could even poke fun occasionally without ever hurting a soul. While his teacher Rabbi Hildesheimer was an activist, he was a “dweller in tents,” inclined to quiet research and study.

As much as he rarely left the “four cubits of Halakha,” he was not removed from daily life. He was well versed in the ways of the world and sensitive to life’s problems. There was no human or Jewish issue with which he was unfamiliar. Although not a political person, he participated in the movements of our people, joined in Orthodox undertakings, and had an appreciation for activism and political movements. In spirit, he was close to Mizrahi, but was an executive member of Agudath Israel, a member of the Aguda’s Council of Torah Sages, and a president of the Orthodox rabbinic association.[9] (The latter group was ideologically close to the Berlin Rabbinical Seminary and was not radically secessionist. There is another rabbinical association based in Frankfurt[10] which is completely secessionist, and yet another general union[11] for rabbis of all camps). He valued equally the undertakings of all those loyal to Torah, and did not exclude even those Jews who rejected separatism. In general, it was not his nature to stand apart, create divisions, or engage in weeding out opponents. He was a true pursuer of peace [rodef shalom]; he endeavored to abstain from conflict and was not combative in matters of Torah. He debated, but would not attack or behave triumphantly. The very essence of his being was peace [hotamo hayya ha-shalom].

His German style is clear and simple, without excessive use of flowery expressions. It is the fine language of a scientist, suitable for scientific material; there is gentleness in such simplicity. His Hebrew style is rabbinic, and it too is not weighed down by flowery expression (though occasionally it does show the influence of Haskalah writing). But his Hebrew style is plodding, apparently unable to express modern ideas. Hebrew’s major effort in recent times has been the adaptation of the language to modern concepts, the expansion of word usages, and the substitution of archaic usages with modern ones. He never acquired this level of Hebrew (though we should not think that he opposed the recent effort towards linguistic adaptation). He did not write much in Hebrew. For the most part, he wrote in Hebrew only when he composed halakhic responsa, notes, and a handful of commentaries. For the sake of being recognized by Gentile scholars, Wissenschaft Des Judentums sacrificed Hebrew on the altar of foreign language. German Orthodoxy committed a comparable sin by abandoning Hebrew in order to level the playing field between Orthodox Judaism and Liberal Judaism. It is a pity that Rabbi Hoffmann’s works were written in a foreign tongue, and were thus destined to have limited influence or value.[12] In any language, his ideas are properly organized and clearly stated, the ordering and contents are lucid and plain, and there is no strain or drag in his writing. His method is to offer a theory, accompanied by evidence, in a convincing and logical manner.

Rabbi Hoffmann had an extensive, multi-faceted grasp of European learning. He knew classical languages thoroughly, studied Semitic languages, and mastered several European languages. His knowledge spanned the entire range of Enlightenment learning and science.

He was also a great Torah scholar [gadol ba-Torah], without equal in Germany. We tend to measure a gadol by both erudition and intellect. Rabbi Hoffmann was great in both senses, in the sense of the term as used by elite Torah scholars [lamdanim]. His erudition covered all areas of Torah learning. Unlike those modern scholars who consider the Talmud a subject for antiquarian study, he studied the early and late Talmud commentaries. Talmud was not only fit for historical research; it was a living subject that had never died, whose past could only be explained by its continuity through the ages. He would clarify and simplify, and remove later embellishments. During the course of his teaching and his analysis, complexities became clear. He disliked artificial Talmudic sophistry [pilpul shel hidud],[13] but valued Talmudic analysis based on true notions [pilpul shel emet], which he practiced his entire life. He taught Torah publicly throughout his life; his teaching style was plain and clear. He would explain the topic under discussion in the simplest manner, and those who understood him realized that there was a thesis underlying this simplicity that could resolve halakhic disputes, determine the correct interpretation, and might even refute the opinion of an early or late Talmudic authority. Most scholars who teach Talmud disregard fundamental, introductory principles, relying on previously acquired knowledge; Rabbi Hoffmann did not. He would explain fundamental ideas that could be easily understood. These included synthetic words, popular expressions, halakhic issues, archeology, Talmudic methodology, the structure of Talmudic passages, and their textual context. He would explain all of these matters logically and lucidly.

His responsa[14] were published posthumously; others edited them for publication. He never intended to publicize them[15] and most were products of their time [le-tzorekh sha’a]. For decades, critical issues and complex questions from every corner of Germany were sent to him, by laymen as well as rabbis, who considered themselves his disciples and relied completely on his wisdom. Sometimes, a village rabbi would be confounded by a halakhic question and would travel that day to Berlin to consult with his teacher, or else send a telegram, or write a letter with his halakhic query. He was like the Great Sanhedrin for all German Jewry. Most questions were on contemporary matters that remain of practical interest. Essentially, these were questions on the Jew’s relationship to daily phenomena and technology: Issues related to manufacturing and commerce; social and communal matters; prayer and synagogue practices; questions on electricity and the telephone pertaining to Sabbath law; attending non-Jewish schools on the Sabbath; business arrangements with non-Jewish partners with regard to the Sabbath; laws pertaining to medication on Passover; the question of an Orthodox rabbi presiding over a Liberal congregation; the law on taking an oath bare-headed; shaving for medical reasons; Torah education for girls (he permitted it); women’s suffrage. In his responsa, he determined the halakha in a straightforward manner, by reference to the early and late authorities; he categorized their positions, and arrived at a halakhic decision. There were times when he utilized modern science or critical methods to clarify Talmudic issues. He may cite the writings of natural scientists, quote the opinion of medical experts, refer to scientific works, and then reply with his halakhic ruling. He only rarely engaged in the lengthy give-and-take of halakhic argumentation. For the most part, he simply cited his sources and outlined his halakhic ruling. He did not hesitate to reference halakhic abridgements, which most great Torah scholars normally ignore. In this transitional period, circumstances required setting patterns of daily life and social norms for Judaism within the modern world which, willy nilly, impacted the Jew. An important creation of German Orthodoxy was this model of modern life within which the Orthodox Jew could live without conflict. Rabbi Hoffmann was involved in all of these questions. He helped establish Halakha’s attitude to modern life and set parameters for permitted and prohibited behavior. Some of the questions he was asked by laymen display a real integrity that bring honor to the questioner.

The secular courts regularly consulted with him to clarify points of Jewish Law. He was often called as an expert witness in court at infamous trials, i.e., trials of anti-Semites. These events affected him deeply. When the survival of the German Empire hung in the balance,[16] I heard him say that this was divine punishment, measure for measure, for the monarchy’s lack of intervention in the trial of Fritsch,[17] who blasphemed against Heaven. As he said this, his voice shook with emotion. As a result of such trials, he composed his work on the Shulhan Arukh (first edition, 1885; second edition, 1895),[18] in which he outlined the role of posekim in our tradition – even though Rabbi Joseph Karo [ha-Mehaber] is the normative posek – and he clarified many details of the laws pertaining to Gentiles. Based on first editions of printed works, he explained the halakhic distinctions between Christians and other Gentiles. This work contains much detailed knowledge and explanations derived from his deep understanding.

The Wissenschaft establishment considered him one of its architects. Wissenschaft is primarily concerned with reconstituting the past from literary remnants, employing an historical-philological method, and embracing all aspects of Judaism. It is conservative by nature. Its originators held traditional beliefs but, over time, it became fundamentally antagonistic to Orthodox Judaism. The Orthodox were distressed over the inability of this heritage to strengthen tradition. The goal of Rabbi Hoffman and his teacher Rabbi Hildesheimer was to fortify the borders of Wissenschaft so that it could not harm tradition, and so that traditional ideology would not be harmed by Wissenschaft scholarship. They were determined to analyze the sources using the scientific method, and were confident that the Torah could not be damaged by true science. He demanded extreme caution, both from himself and from others. Whenever he discovered a conflict between scholarship and Torah he suspected that the conflict stemmed from a lack of precision, from flawed science or from superficial disregard of the sources. He was not narrowly constrained within his field; all of Jewish scholarship and all fields of Torah study were within his purview. Aside from the books he wrote, he published numerous articles. He stood constant guard, responding to every scientific discovery in his fields from the standpoint of both scientific criticism and traditional ideology. The truth of tradition was part of his consciousness. There was no boundary between his Talmudic analyses and his scientific research. He did not employ two methodologies, even if he was a master of two methodologies. He might clarify a halakha using textual variants or historical considerations, and he would employ all the tools of a Torah scholar to confirm details of critical study. For the benefit of critical scholarship, he made available a vast quantity of Talmudic and rabbinic material previously inaccessible to scholars.

In his book The First Mishna (1882, and translated into Hebrew by Dr. Samuel Greenberg),[19] he cast new light on the history of the Oral Law, and laid a foundation for the new field of Mishna criticism. Previously, most scholars believed that prior to our Holy Teacher, Rabbi Judah the Prince, there were only scattered, disorganized, and disjointed halakhot, until Rabbi Judah compiled them. It was considered groundbreaking when someone tried to show that compilations of halakhot were available in the Beit Midrash in Rabbi Akiva’s day. Had this issue come up earlier, many scholars may have hesitated to address it; but the question with its full implications had not yet arisen. Rabbi Hoffmann came forward and proved – with proofs withstanding critical evaluation – that at the time of the elders of the Shamai and Hillel schools there existed a First Mishna, fully complied and having a fixed text. Major mishnayot and basic halakhot in our Mishna derive from the First Mishna, and the very expression mishna rishona found in the sources is not only meant in contrast to a late Mishna on a particular halakha, but that this was the title of a compilation of halakhot used in the Beit Midrash during this period. He adduced proofs from mishnayot which, he showed, were from the Second Temple period; from common terminology; from the internal arrangement of the halakhot; and, primarily, from Tannaitic disputes. He believed that for the most part, these disputes were based on disagreements about the original wording and interpretation of the First Mishna, and that the relationship of the later Tannaim to the First Mishna was like that of the Amoraim to the Mishna as a whole. From the time the First Mishna was compiled, it was subject to much editing and came out in several revisions, comprising layer upon layer, until it was finalized in Rabbi Judah’s time. He then attempted to determine, by precise criticism, the makeup of the First Mishna, using internal signs as well as statements of Amoraim who were familiar with the Tannaitic world (though he did not employ enough of the latter method).
As examples he used Tractate Avot, in which he identified three revisions, and chapters in Pesahim and Yoma in which he identified multiple layers. He believed that mishnayot containing halakhic midrash were the oldest. He was of the opinion that prior to the compilation of the Mishna, the Soferim and the Tannaim studied the Oral Law in the format of halakhic midrash, accompanying Scripture. Associated with each verse they transmitted any relevant halakha, accepted interpretation, popular custom, and contemporary statute. These were attached to the biblical words and verses. The Soferim and early Tannaim proceeded from one verse to the next, interpreting each word, and associating halakhot with each and every letter. Mishnayot surviving from this early midrash are embedded in our Mishna, a clear sign that they derive from the First Mishna. Rabbi Yitzhak Isaac Halevy[20] succeeded him and followed his method (without mentioning his name[21]), though he disagreed with some of the details of Rabbi Hoffmann’s thesis. Rabbi Halevy dated the compilation of the First Mishna (which he termed the “Foundational Mishna” [yesod ha-mishna]) earlier, to the period of the late Soferim, the last members of the Great Assembly. This theory is reasonable, but must be considered speculative, while Rabbi Hoffmann’s dating is supported by evidence and can withstand serious critical appraisal. Still, one should not dismiss Rabbi Halevy’s opinion as mere reasonable speculation. One may criticize Rabbi Hoffmann for underemphasizing the notion of gradual, anonymous, literary evolution, which could account for the Mishna’s creation from an historical perspective. Rabbi Halevy also disagreed with Rabbi Hoffmann’s view – a view shared by Rabbi Zechariah Frankel – that halakhic midrash preceded the Mishna. Rabbi Halevy took the opposite position, that the apodictic Mishnayot preceded halakhic midrash, and that the latter defined and restricted the apodictic halakhot. I believe that Rabbi Halevy was unsuccessful in shaking the foundations of Rabbi Hoffmann’s thesis. I believe one must distinguish between the midrash of the Soferim – which derives Halakha from Scripture, and for each new question applies exegesis to Scripture as an halakhic source – and the midrash of the Tannaim, which attempts to support and define previously compiled halakhot.[22] In one fell swoop, Rabbi Hoffmann illuminated the entire process of the Mishna’s creation, explicated the Tannaitic period, and laid the foundation for the field of scientific criticism of the Mishna, a field whose future is bright. This discipline does not damage traditional belief. On the contrary, it pushes back the date of the Oral Law’s compilation, and thus bolsters the antiquity of tradition.

There is obvious scientific value to his book An Introduction to Halakhic Midrashim (Berlin, 1887),[23] in which he defined the evolutionary pathways of halakhic midrash. He discovered two trends or styles within halakhic midrash: One of the school of Rabbi Akiva and the other of Rabbi Ishmael. He identified the signs by which one may distinguish between these two schools: Variations in exegetical style; differences in the names of Tannaim cited; differences in linguistic expression and exegetical structure. He demonstrated that there were once two parallel sets of halakhic midrashim on four books of the Pentateuch, written according to each method. His thesis was validated when it helped discover remnants of Tannaitic midrash. He published these in edited and annotated versions:

1. “On a Mekhilta to Deuteronomy,” in Shai la-Moreh (Berlin, 1890)[24]
2. Likutei Batar Likute mi-Mekhilta le-Sefer Devarim (Berlin, 1897)[25]
3. Midrash Tannaim al Sefer Devarim (Berlin, 1908)[26]
4. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon al Sefer Shemot (Frankfurt, 1905)[27]
5. Midrash ha-Gadol al Sefer Shemot, two volumes (Berlin, 1913-1921)[28]

Two of these books[29] were published by the author in complete form; their conclusions are straightforward and they are clear and well-organized. When I discussed these two books with him, he admitted that with respect to his ideas, he was preceded by Rabbi Israel Lewy of Breslau, in the latter’s books The Mishna of Abba Shaul[30] and Mekhilta De-Rabbi Shimon.[31] However, it must be noted that Rabbi Lewy – an unequaled scholar – wrote obliquely, whereas Rabbi Hoffmann constructed fully developed systems. Rabbi Hoffmann also translated and wrote a commentary on Mishna Nezikin and began work on Taharot. [32] He calmly expressed doubt about completing the commentary on Taharot in his lifetime. Although the translation was intended mainly for laypeople, the commentary includes notes and explanations of lasting value, especially on Taharot.

Scattered among his articles and responsa are studies on Talmudic philology and Jewish History. He was among the first to use the Samaritan Aramaic translation of the Bible for linguistic study of the Mishna and Talmud. He made emendations to the Talmud; interpreted obscure passages; attempted to reconcile conflicting chronologies; researched the history of the Sanhedrin; resolved difficulties in the writings of Josephus; utilized Jewish Hellenistic literature to explain Talmudic passages; analyzed etymologies of loanwords from Greek and Latin; tried his hand at comparing Hebrew and Aramaic to other Semitic languages; interpreted difficult chapters in Tractate Midot; elucidated Talmudic archeology; wrote commentaries on liturgy and piyyutim; and, he founded a scholarly journal which he edited for several years (1876-1893), the Magazin für die Wissenschaft des Judentums.[33] He achieved his self-imposed goal: To study Judaism by the scientific-critical method, and to bring respectability to scholarship that is loyal to tradition. His spoke with equanimity and conducted himself with humility. No opponent could act presumptuously toward him, and no one could cast doubt on his commitment to scientific scholarship.

In the end, he crossed over the boundary he had originally set for himself, and engaged in biblical studies. At most rabbinical seminaries in the West, there was no study of the Written Law except for some instruction on medieval commentaries. Wissenschaft scholars did not study Bible out of fear of taking a stand on fundamental principles concerning the Torah. They did not have the courage to challenge the prevailing opinions of Gentile scholars. Chumash was studied at two Berlin seminaries – at Maybaum’s Liberal seminary,[34] and also at the Orthodox seminary founded by Rabbi Hildesheimer – since both academies recognized the challenges posed by modern biblical studies, and each had its own unique approach to Torah study. Teaching Chumash at the seminary led him to study exegesis and to analyze the conclusions of biblical criticism. He then wrote his book against Wellhausen, the most prominent biblical critic, The Principle Arguments Against Wellhausen [Re’ayot Makhr’iot Neged Velhoizen],[35] published in 1904, in which he sanctified God’s name by his critique of criticism. He critically assessed the proofs employed by criticism, and highlighted the flaws in its arguments. In this way he attempted to destroy Wellhausen’s structure, removing each level, brick by brick. He especially fought the Documentary Hypothesis, refuting its assumption of multiple textual layers. He revealed its artificiality and its lack of foundation, as well as its internal inconsistencies, using proofs based on the methods and principles of the critics themselves. He refuted their proofs for the existence of separate biblical source-documents, based on the notion of distinctive terminology, by listing parallels between expressions used in the Prophets and in the Torah, thus negating the belief that the Prophets were unaware of sections of the Torah. He cited ironclad evidence regarding internal connections between the sources, showing how they were indeed parallel according to the critics’ own methodology.

After this fundamental work, he devoted himself to publishing his commentaries on Leviticus[36] and Deuteronomy.[37] Here he battled the destructive criticism on behalf of Scripture, using every available scientific and deductive weapon. At the same time, by citing a vast quantity of Talmudic and rabbinic material, he demonstrated the contribution of the Oral Law to understanding the simple meaning of Scripture. From one chapter to the next, he pursued critical theory, contradicted each of its conclusions, and made sense of the verses.

He also made an effort, in which he was preceded by several Jewish scholars (Rabbis Naftali H. Wesseley, Meir L. Malbim, J. Z. Mecklenberg), to demonstrate the unity of the Written and Oral Laws, both in the long introduction to Leviticus and within the commentary. He investigated the division and ordering of biblical paragraphs [parshiyot], and even addressed matters of philosophy and the rational justification of the commandments [ta’ame ha-mitzvot]. One might consider his commentary the “Orthodox version” of scientific exegesis. Before his time, Orthodox Judaism was resigned not to respond to criticism, choosing silence instead. He blazed a new path which, however, is not suited for the general public. It is a pity that he did not write his commentaries in Hebrew, but we can rejoice at the fact that his fundamental work against Wellhausen has now been translated.

One might fault him for responding to biblical criticism by negation only; for demonstrating the emptiness of the critics’ proofs but not offering a positive resolution to the problems they raise; for not confronting speculation with certitude; for not proposing a positive theory to resolve inconsistencies in the Torah. It is possible that he intended only to negate, and left the positive response to faith and tradition.[38]

Six years ago today, on 19 Marheshvan 5682 (November 20, 1921), he passed away at the age of 78. At the time, we all felt that he had no replacement, and that the generation had been orphaned. He was accorded much honor by his students and by all of German Orthodoxy; an honor that cultured people confer on their teachers; an honor that brings honor to those who give it.

There is no replacement for a giant, but there is comfort in his teaching.

May his soul be bound in the bond of life.

19 Marheshvan 5688 (November 14, 1927)
[1] For an introductory bibliography on Hoffmann, see the note here on a Seforim Blog post by Dr. Shnayer Leiman. The following sources can be found online on archive.org: Marx, Essays in Jewish Biography; Ginzberg, Students, Scholars and Saints.
[2] Today: Vrbové, Slovakia
[3] Today: Pápa, Hungary
[4] Today: Svätý Jur, Slovakia
[5] Today: Bratislava, Slovakia
[6] Mar Samuel, Rector der jüdischen Akademie zu Nehardea in Babylonien (Leipzig, 1873); available on Google Books.
[7] The dating of Hoffmann’s doctorate to 1875 is either a mistake or a typographical error, as the date on the published version of Mar Samuel (see previous note) is 1873. In Essays in Jewish Biography, p. 204 (see note 1), Alexander Marx dates Hoffman’s doctoral diploma to December 17, 1870.
[8] A reference to Rabbi Akiva’s return from the pardes (“orchard”) of secret mystical learning, free of physical, psychological, or religious injury; cf. Hagiga 13a. Hayyim Tchernowitz (Rav Tzair) uses the same expression with regard to Hoffmann in his biographical essay; cf. “R. David Zvi Hoffmann: Le-Partzufo Haruhani,” Ha-Tekufah, v. 13 (1922), p. 479.
[9] Vereinigung Traditionell-Gezetzestreuer Rabbiner
[10] Verband Orthodoxer Rabbiner. Thanks go to Dr. Marc B. Shapiro for this identification.
[11] Allgemeiner Rabbiner Verband in Deutschland. On the history of these organizations, see Matthias Morgenstern, From Frankfurt to Jerusalem: Isaac Breuer and the History of the Secession Dispute in Modern Jewish Orthodoxy (Leiden, 2002) pp. 38ff.
[12] Lipschuetz echoes Hoffmann’s own fear about the legacy of his German writings (see his introduction to Melamed Le-Ho’il and see note 15). Nearly a century later, we can state that Hoffmann’s major German works have had and will continue to have lasting influence, as nearly all of his published monographs have appeared in Hebrew translation. His commentary on Exodus was recently published in Hebrew from a German manuscript (trans. Asher Wasserteil, Jerusalem, 2010).
[13] Hoffmann appears to have changed his attitude to this type of pipul in his later years. In his introduction to Melamed Le-Ho’il (p. 2), he states that pilpul designed to sharpen the minds of students, even if it disregards logic, is more desirable in Germany than it once was. Since Torah scholarship and appreciation for Torah scholars has waned, pilpul shel harifut may help endear Torah learning to students. Hoffmann makes this point to justify the inclusion of his own pipul-style writings in Melamed Le-Ho’il.
[14] Melamed Le-Ho’il (Frankfurt, 1926); available on HebrewBooks.org.
[15] Melamed Le-Ho’il was edited by Hoffmann’s son Moses and published posthumously in 1926. But there is evidence to suggest that Hoffmann wished to publish the manuscript in some form; see Moses Hoffmann’s testimony here in his introduction to the printed version: וידוע למקורביו כי היה בדעתו בימי זקנותו להוציאם לאור הדפוס. In his own introduction to the manuscript, the senior Hoffmann expresses the hope that his children and his students benefit from its contents. He also states clearly his desire that Melamed Le-Ho’il becomes part of his permanent legacy – ויהיה לי לזכרון לדור אחרון – compared to his German writings which, he says, may soon be forgotten.
[16] Presumably near or at the conclusion of World War I.
[17] Theodor Fritsch (1852-1933), German anti-Semitic writer and publisher. See Richard S. Levy, Antisemitism: A Historical Encyclopedia of Prejudice and Persecution, v. 1 (Santa Barbara, 2005), pp. 249ff; link here.
[18] Der Schulchan-Aruch und die Rabbinen über das Verhältniss der Juden zu Andersgläubigen (Berlin, 1885); available on Google Books.
[19] Die erste Mischna und die Controversen der Tannaim (Berlin, 1882); Hebrew translation, Ha-Mishna Ha-Rishona U-Felugta De-Tanna’ei (trans. Samuel Greenberg, Berlin, 1914); available on HebrewBooks.org.
[20] Yitzhak Isaac Halevy Rabinowitz (1847-1914), author of Dorot Ha-Rishonim (Frankfurt, 1906ff.); available on HebrewBooks.org.
[21] Tchernowitz (p. 485) makes the same accusation against Halevy.
[22] I.e., Hoffmann was correct in saying that the earliest midrash, of the Soferim, was written as an interpretive layer attached directly to Scripture, and that it preceded the compilation of the First Mishna. However, Tannaitic midrash was indeed written as a subsequent elaboration of the First Mishna.
[23] Zur Einleitung in die halachischen Midraschim
[24] “Uber eine Mekhilta zu Deuteronomium,” in Jubelschrift zum Siebzigsten Geburgstag des Dr. Israel Hildesheimer (Shai la-Moreh) p. 83ff.; available on Google Books.
[25] Available on archive.org.
[26] Available on HebrewBooks.org.
[27] Available on HebrewBooks.org.
[28] Available on HebrewBooks.org, here (v. 1) and here (v. 2).
[29] Presumably nos. 3 and 4.
[30] Uber Einige Fragmente aus der Mischna des Abba Saul (Berlin, 1876).
[31] Ein Wort über die Mechilta des R. Simon(Breslau, 1889); available on Google Books.
[32] Mishnayot : Shishah Sidre Mishnah Be-Nikud Ha-Otiyot Uve-Haʻataḳah Ashkenazit (Berlin, 1893-1897).
[33] Began publication in 1874 as Magazin für Jüdische Geschichte und Literatur, edited by Abraham Berliner. From 1876, was renamed and published under the joint editorship of Berliner and Hoffmann.
[34] Siegmund Maybaum (1844-1919), lecturer at the Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums.
[35] Original version, Die Wichtigsten Instanzen Gegen die Graf-Wellhausensche Hypothese (Berlin, 1904); available on archive.org. Hebrew translation by Eliezer Barishansky (Jerusalem, 1928); available on HebrewBooks.org.
[36] Original version, Das Buch Leviticus (Berlin, 1905-1906); available on Google Books, here (v. 1) and here (v. 2). Hebrew version, Sefer Vayikra (trans. Zvi Har-Sheffer and Aharon Lieberman, Jerusalem, 1976).
[37] Original version, Das Buch Deuteronomium (Berlin, 1913-1922). Hebrew version, Sefer Devarim (trans. Zvi Har-Sheffer, Tel Aviv, 1961); available on the Daat website. Hoffmann’s commentary on Genesis, Sefer Bereshit, was published in Hebrew from a German manuscript (trans. Asher Wasserteil, Bnei Brak, 1969) and is available on Daat.
[38] Tchernowitz (pp. 489ff.) makes the same observation regarding Hoffmann’s sole focus on negating Wellhausen and offers a similar, though more vigorous, defense of Hoffmann. He says that “negating the negation” [shelilat ha-shelila] was sufficient for his purpose, since the burden of proof lies on one who questions the traditional view of the Torah. He adds that many had tried, but failed, in their attempt to prove the traditional view. Thus, the negative approach was preferable, by which Hoffmann could show that science does not contradict tradition. Moreover, Tchernowitz says, Hoffmann’s main objective was to show that the Documentary Hypothesis, though widespread, was merely a belief – and an unsupportable one at that – lacking scientific merit.


A Footnote on What the Chasam Sofer Did Not Say

A Footnote on What the Chasam Sofer Did Not Say

By Shnayer Leiman

The Problem. I’m the proud owner of a copy of Rabbi Shimon Finkelman’s Rav Pam: The Life and Ideals of Rabbi Avrohom Yaakov HaKohen Pam (second edition, seventh impression, June 2023, ArtScroll History Series, Mesorah Publications, Rahway, N.J.). It is a magnificently written and produced biography of Rav Pam, a close friend of my father, who like Rav Pam was a disciple of both Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz and Rav Dovid Leibowitz. The biography captures Rav Pam as our family knew him. Indeed, it is the definitive model of how a biography of a גדול בישראל should be written. It informs and inspires as it tells the truth.

As we shall see, a minor error made its way into the volume, and no one can really be faulted for the error. Nonetheless, I am confident that Rav Pam being the איש אמת that he was, will surely not fault me (in עולם האמת) for making the correction.

The reader, at p. 336, is informed that at the 1991 Torah Vodaath dinner at which Rav Pam was the Guest of Honor, he thanked the one thousand guests for coming, and then said:

Often, I think to myself that I go around with a “false pass,” for people think I am that which I am not. But I take comfort in a comment of the Chasam Sofer. Rema is of the opinion that if a stranger enters a shul and claims to be a Kohen, we may rely on his word and call him to the Torah for the Kohen’s aliyah, for even if he is, in fact, not a Kohen, calling him to the Torah would not involve a biblical transgression. Asks the Chasam Sofer: Why would calling up a non-Kohen not be a transgression of “Vekidashto” (And you shall sanctify him),[1] the requirement that we accord honor to those who truly are Kohanim? He answers that this mitzvah is fulfilled when we show honor for the Kehunah (the exalted status of the family of Kohanim). Therefore, even if the person whom we honor is, in fact, not a Kohen, we are fulfilling the mitzvah of “Vekidashto” if we honor someone whom we think is a Kohen.

Therefore, even though, in fact, I am not deserving of honor, if people honor me thinking that I deserve it, then they are considered as having shown k’vod HaTorah (honor for the Torah).

This is truly an inspiring דבר תורה – worthy of the Chasam Sofer – and appropriately selected by Rav Pam, a Kohen, for the occasion. Alas, it was not said by the Chasam Sofer.

A Brief Survey of the Chasam Sofer’s Attitude Toward the Publication of His Writings.

Much has been written about the Chasam Sofer (1762-1839), and much more remains to be written. He was a remarkable גדול הדור and פוסק הדור. He lived in a world without radio, TV, telegraph, telephone, or digital communication, yet was recognized during his lifetime as גדול הדור and פוסק הדור. What makes this even more remarkable is the simple fact that he refused to publish any of his Torah insights or halakhic rulings during his lifetime. Of course, the fact that he served as Chief Rabbi of Pressburg (today: Bratislava) and simultaneously as Rosh ha-Yeshiva of the Pressburg Yeshiva – with thousands of disciples during his long reign (1806-1839) – spread his fame throughout the Jewish world. And while he refused to publish his Torah insights, he had a gifted pen and wrote thousands of Jewish legal responsa which he sent to all who asked. All of Torah Jewry knew who the Chasam Sofer was and what he could do.

It is worth examining what the Chasam Sofer had to say about publishing one’s Torah insights. In 1841, his son R. Shimon Sofer, who would later serve as Chief Rabbi of Krakow, published for the first time a personal letter of the Chasam Sofer dated 1829, where he addressed the issue.[2] It reads in part:

Regarding the rumor that you heard that I published a particular volume, and you requested that I send you a copy,[3] I never considered such a matter; it has not even entered my mind, at least until the present time. For the majority of the [Torah] world, that are greater and better than I am – or, at the very least, at the same level that I am – they have no need for me. For the minority of a minority that are less learned than I am, why should I weary myself for a minority? And if, perhaps, it were true that the majority of the [Torah] world needs me – heaven forbid – I am unaware that I would have the obligation to publish my Torah insights and distribute them to the public. So long as G-d grants me life and strength, I am prepared to study [Torah] with all who are interested in learning with me. I will neither pause nor rest – as the L-rd my G-d has commanded me “Just as I teach without charge, so you shall teach without charge”[4] – in responding, as far as my hand and mind reach, to all who ask, at no charge. It is my practice to record in writing whatever Torah insights G-d has graced me with, whether in Halakhah or Aggadah. These writings are freely available. Whoever wishes to copy them is welcome to do so. Such was the practice before the invention of the printing press. More I am not obligated to do. If, heaven forbid, one publishes in order to increase his fame, I worry about the curse of our Sages, of blessed memory: “He who seeks fame will lose his name.”[5] Indeed, such has been the fate of most authors of seforim. How much more so is it prohibited for an author to publish his sefer for financial gain! For these reasons, it never entered my mind to publish a sefer.

Only once did several of the Chasam Sofer’s Responsa and Torah insights appear in print during his lifetime. A disciple of the Chasam Sofer who had access to manuscript copies of his writings, published an edition of חידושים על מסכת שבועות מאת רבינו יוסף הלוי אבן מיגש (Prague, 1826), and appended some 14 large folios of Chasam Sofer’s Responsa and Torah insights to the volume. The Chasam Sofer was livid when he learned about this unauthorized publication of his writings, but ultimately granted his approval. Towards the end of his life, and at the constant urging of members of his family, he agreed to publish some materials, including a review of R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes’ תורת נביאים . The project fell through, perhaps due to the illness and subsequent death of the Chasam Sofer, but not before he addressed an important note to Rav Zvi Hirsch Chajes, which sheds light on his view of the publication of Torah insights in general, and on his sensitivity to the effect his writings could have on others. The letter was written in 1837, when the Chasam Sofer was 75 years old, and at the height of his fame. Rav Chajes, was 32 years old, still at the start of a brilliant career.[6]

I keep the L-rd before me always. Pressburg, the evening preceding Monday, 27 Marchechvan, 598 according to the short account.

Greetings and blessings for all that is good to my friend and dear Rabbi, the great Rabbi and Gaon, master of Torah, discerning in study and expert in mastery of texts, whose many words are beautifully expressed, the honorable teacher and rabbi Zvi Hirsch, may his light glow, Chief Rabbi and Head of the Yeshiva of Zolkiev, may G-d watch over it.

Dear Friend,

I have a request to make of you. It has never entered my mind to publish a sefer. However, several years ago, some pages of my Responsa and Torah insights were published by a certain rabbi, R. Mordechai Schlank, who set out to publish Ramban’s commentary on Kiddushin and R. Yosef Ibn Migash’s commentary on Shavuot. He had copies of some of my writings with him and published them in the back of the books mentioned. This was done initially against my will, but ultimately with my permission, for he was not with me here [in Pressburg], but was rather in Prague.

Now the following has occurred. A worthy individual from Brody, R. Mordechai Bisliches,[7] a printer who publishes the works of the Rishonim, has managed to get copies of 3 or 4 of my Responsa and copies of some of my Torah insights. He plans to append them to one of the above publications of the Rishonim. Initially, this was done against my will and protest, but my family forced me to acquiesce and remain silent. (For all my Torah insights and writings are freely available for anyone to copy them. I do not discourage anyone from doing so, for nothing I wrote was intended as a secret.) The above mentioned printer is already engaged in the process of publishing my material. These include two responsa that I addressed to you, one on whether a physician who is also a Kohen can administer to a dying or already dead patient,[8] and the other regarding my comments on your sefer, Torat Nevi’im.[9] Now I said: “I can do as I please regarding my property; but I cannot do as I please regarding someone else’s property.” Perhaps you don’t want your name, and the name of your community, mentioned regarding that matter. Or, perhaps you will find some passage that, heaven forbid, is a slight to your honor. For those reasons, I implore you to review my comments and let me know what you think. In my humble opinion, there is nothing in my responsa that in any way slights you, heaven forbid. Quite the opposite, they are sources for you of glory and praise. And if, when engaged in halakhic discourse, I criticized something you said, it means nothing. Such are the ways of Torah discourse. Perhaps you will publish yet another sefer and you will be able to defend yourself against any and all criticism. But heaven forbid that I should allow my pen to record anything that would dishonor you! Should you feel that anything I wrote [about you] is improper, I will erase those words, or if necessary, I will neither mention your name or the title of the book. I hope this won’t be the case, and anxiously await your quick reply, before the volume goes to press. I sign with all the usual blessings, the one who loves your soul,

Moshe ha-Katan Sofer of Frankfurt-am-Main

We have included this brief survey of the Chasam Sofer’s attitude toward the publication of his writings, in order to bring home the message that, with one or two exceptions, the Chasam Sofer did not edit, or prepare for publication, any of his writings during his lifetime. He left a vast literature, literally thousands of manuscripts, ranging over a wide variety of topics (such as Responsa, Lectures on the Talmud, Sermons, Commentaries on the Torah, Notes on the Shulchan Arukh, Poetry, personal letters, and more), all still being published – and always in better editions – to this very day.

The Solution. What remains to be addressed is:

1. Why did Rav Pam ascribe the passage (that justifies why a stranger who claims that he is Kohen is allowed to get an aliyah to the Torah as a Kohen, even though we have no evidence other than his say-so) to the Chasam Sofer?

2. How do I know that it wasn’t said by the Chasam Sofer?

3. Who did contribute the insightful justification that ultimately was misattributed to the Chasam Sofer?

Rabbi Finkelman provides a helpful footnote, in an attempt to identify the source of the alleged Chasam Sofer comment.[10] He sends the reader to Toras Moshe on Vayikra 21:8. Alas, in all of the recent editions of Toras Moshe published under the auspices of Makhon Chasam Sofer, the official collection of all of the genuine Chasam Sofer commentaries on the Torah published in the various editions of Toras Moshe (as distinct from his sermons [דרשות] or other collections of Torah commentary that never appeared under the name Toras Moshe ), no such passage appears. See, e.g., the massive six-volume edition of Toras Moshe ha-Shalem veha-Mefoar (Jerusalem, 2021), vol. 3, p. 255, to Vayikra 21:8. There is a comment on Vekiddashto, but not a word about the fact that a stranger who claims that he is a Kohen is allowed to get an aliyah to the Torah as a Kohen, even though we have no evidence other than his say-so.

Almost certainly, neither Rav Pam in 1991, nor Rabbi Finkelman in later years, had access to a Makhon Chasam Sofer edition of Toras Moshe. But they certainly had access to earlier editions of Toras Moshe, which is what led them astray. It’s best to begin our examination with one of the earliest editions of Toras Moshe – and little more needs to be said.

Like almost all the writings of the Chasam Sofer, his Toras Moshe was published posthumously. It first appeared in print in a three-volume set published in Pressburg between 1879 and 1893. The editor of the three-volume set was an אדם גדול, a grandson of the Chasam Sofer, Rav Shimon Sofer (1850-1944). He was the son of Rav Avraham Shmuel Binyamin Sofer (1815-1871), the כתב סופר, who succeeded the Chasam Sofer as Chief Rabbi and Rosh ha-Yeshiva of Pressburg. Rav Shimon Sofer, a distinguished rabbinic scholar in his own right, served as Chief Rabbi of Erlau and was the founder of the Erlauer Chasidic dynasty. In 1893, he published for the first time the third and final volume of Toras Moshe, the volume with the Chasam Sofer’s comments on Vayikra-Devorim. Later editions were usually printed in 2 to 5 volume sets.

Here is what Rav Pam saw and quoted (almost certainly from one of the many later photo-mechanical reprints of the 1893 volume that appeared throughout the 20th century).

He may have owned a copy of a reprinted edition, and if not, he surely would have had access to a copy at the famed Torah Vodaath Library, curated for many years by the late R. Yitzchok Meir Traube and catalogued by the late R. Shlomo Biegeleisen. It is a library I remember well that (in my day) was just-off to the side of the main Bais Medrash at the South Third Street campus in Williamsburg.

 

No one could really fault Rav Pam for citing a passage – and with great precision – in the name of the Chasam Sofer, when that very passage appears in a sefer entitled Toras Moshe, and whose title page clearly identifies the author of its content as being none other than the Chasam Sofer! Moreover, the sefer was edited by the grandson of the Chasam Sofer, who surely wouldn’t misrepresent what his grandfather wrote!

But it is clearly a case of אליה וקוץ בה. If one examines carefully the text that Rav Pam cited (as seen in the scan above), one notices a coded abbreviation at the end of the paragraph that reads in parentheses: (מש“מ). (Other passages on the page are coded with an asterisk at the start of each paragraph; they need not concern us.) No dictionary of Hebrew abbreviations will solve the strange abbreviation מש“מ. But what will solve the problem for us is the editor’s full introduction to his edition of Toras Moshe.

It appears only, as one might expect, at the start of the volume on Bereshis. Here is the key passage, which appears at the very end of the lengthy introduction.

Translated it reads: “I also had in my hands a handwritten book, named Shir Ma’on. The author’s name is not recorded in it. But I felt comfortable taking some of its fruits and inserting them into the present text, for there is a proper time for everything, a fixed time for every desirable matter.”

Incredibly, there are many passages, marked with the code מש“מ strewn throughout the Toras Moshe volume! What the editor was really telling us is that he had access to a handwritten notebook with no personal name recorded in it. Of course no personal name was recorded in it; it was his private notebook! The Hebrew title Shir Ma’on clearly alludes to the name “R. Shimon.” And מש“מ is surely an abbreviation for מספר שיר מעון. As a gifted rabbinic scholar, and as the grandson of the author of most of the passages in Toras Moshe, he felt comfortable adding appropriate passages to the volume. But being scrupulously honest, he knew that he could not do so without informing readers of what he was doing, and clearly identifying which passages belonged to his grandfather, and which passages belonged to him.

It is all to the credit of the editors of the latest editions of Toras Moshe that they now publish two separate sections of the book, each with its own title page, and both with notes and commentary. One section is called Toras Moshe and prints only what the Chasam Sofer wrote, and the other section is called Shir Ma’on and prints only what R. Shimon Sofer wrote.


In sum, Rav Pam resonated to a beautiful דבר תורה he saw in an early edition (or reprint) of Toras Moshe, and cited it in the name of the Chasam Sofer at a Torah Vodaath dinner held in his honor. Opening to a page in Sefer Vayikra of the multi-volume set of Toras Moshe, there was no obvious reason for him to assume that it was not a Torah insight of the Chasam Sofer. In fact, it was a Torah insight of the Chasam Sofer’s grandson, R. Shimon Sofer, who served with great distinction as Rabbi and Rosh ha-Yeshiva of Erlau in Hungary for over 50 years, and authored the multi-volume שו“ת התעוררות תשובה (printed mostly in Budapest, 1923-1944), and died a martyr’s death in Auschwitz at age 94.


Notes

[1] The reference is to Vayikra 21:8. See b. Gittin 59b, where the verse is understood as a general obligation to honor all Kohanim.
[2] R. Shimon Sofer, “פתוחי חותם,” introduction to R. Moses Sofer, ספר חתם סופר חלק יורה דעה (Pressburg, 1841). It is reissued in שו“ת חתם סופר, חלק יו“ד, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 2000), introductory pages, p. 15.
[3] The reference is to the unauthorized publication in 1826 of several of the Chasam Sofer’s responsa and Torah insights, for which see below.
[4] See b. Bechorot 29a.
[5] M. Avot 1:13. Cf. שו“ת חתם סופר, או“ח, סימן ר“ח.
[6] The letter is included R. Yisrael Stern’s anthology, לקוטי תשובות חתם סופר (London, 1965), pp. 92-93.It was first published in 1842 by the recipient of the letter himself, R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes. See presently: כל ספרי מהר“ץ חיות (Jerusalem, 1958), vol. 1, p. 206. For a comprehensive study of the relationship between the Chasam Sofer and R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes, see Mayer Herskovics, מהר“ץ חיות: תולדות רבי צבי הירש חיות ומשנתו – מהדורה מתוקנת  (Jerusalem, 2007), pp. 143-189.
[7] Mordechai Leib Bisliches (1756-1851) was a bibliophile, dealer in manuscripts, and printer. He printed books that were published in Carlsruhe, Lvov, Prague, and Pressburg. At least two of his printed books carried הסכמות from the Chasam Sofer (אוצר נחמד: חדושי הרמב“ן על מסכת שבת , Pressburg, 1837; and מנחת קנאות מהרב הגדול אבא מרי ב“ר משה מחכמי לוניל , Pressburg,1837). In 1846, Bisliches and his partner S.G. Stern sold 111 manuscripts in 102 volumes to the archduchess Marie Louise of Parma, which were added to the de Rossi Collection in the Biblioteca Palatina. See the entry “Bisliches” in Encyclopaedia Judaica and cf. N.M. Gelber’s תולדות יהודי ברודי (Jerusalem, 1955), p. 204.
[8] In the standard printed editions, this responsum appears in שו“ת חתם סופר, יו“ד, סימן של“ח.
[9]In the standard printed editions, this responsum appears inשו“ת חתם סופר, או“ח, סימן ר“ח .
[10] Rav Pam: The Life and Ideals of Rabbi Avrohom Yaakov HaKohen Pam, p.336, note 9.