The Lost Library by Dan Rabinowitz and the “Burial of Souls” by Yehuda Leib Katznelson: Different Expressions of the Same Sentiment

By Rabbi Edward Reichman, MD

Having just completed Dan Rabinowitz’s superb book, The Lost Library, about the Strashun Library in Vilna, I am reminded of a remarkable, little-known short story written by a man who lived during the creation of the famous Strashun Library. He, like Rabinowitz, laments the loss of a famous Jewish library, though the literary nature of the lament differs. Rabinowitz has written a magnificent, captivating, thoroughly researched, historical lament. Our author has chosen the short story to metaphorically express his grief over the “loss” of one of world’s greatest Jewish libraries.

Yehuda Leib Katznelson (1846-1917),[1] a physician, poet, writer, and publicist of Hebrew Literature penned a short story in Hebrew entitled “The Burial of Souls.”[2] A summary of the story follows:

Stylistically based on Megillat Esther,[3] it tells the story of a man, Abul Said Ibn Alsalami, who possessed immense material wealth, and had everything one could wish for, save for one exception. As a child he neglected to study or read and his knowledge was sorely lacking. He realized that nothing could compensate for the lost opportunity and that he would never attain intellectual heights. His response to this fact comprises the substance of the story.

Essential to what follows is the notion that that every person is endowed with a soul while on this earth, a soul that departs and ascends to the heavens after death. However, those who amass much knowledge, and with the intent to share their knowledge and benefit others, commit their learning to paper in the form of a book, are granted an additional soul. This soul remains on earth even after the death of the author, and is embedded in the book he has written. This soul remains dormant until someone learns from this book. At that time the soul is reanimated and elevates the heavenly soul as well. In addition a new soul is replicated to dwell within the body of the book’s reader. While those with only a heavenly soul cannot advance their status after death, those with the additional soul can continue to accrue good deeds in perpetuity. For those who cannot author books, another option is available to obtain an additional soul. They can support houses of learning for those who cannot afford to study or hospitals for the poor and needy. The institutions can be called by the donor’s name and an additional soul will inhabit the walls of the building, surfacing when the children are learning or when the sick are being treated. Regretfully, Abul Said was either unaware or dismissive of the alternate track to obtaining a second soul, and had another more sinister plan.

Abul Said summoned his servant, Abdul Safran,[4] who served as his literary advisor and mouthpiece, and inquired if there was a list of all Hebrew books that have ever been written. The servant responded that indeed a man by the name of Azulai had compiled just such a list. The man instructed his servant to obtain a copy of every book on the list and to spare no expense. The servant scrupulously followed Said’s command sending messengers far and wide in search of every book on the list. The inhabitants of the land were all abuzz. What could Abul Said possibly want with all these books? He is no man of letters. Surely he desires to add a soul and build a massive public library for all to learn and study freely. Alas, Abul Said had other plans.

Meanwhile books arrived at the palace from all over the world. As there was insufficient place for the treasures, all the furniture of the palace was removed, and special shelves were built from floor to ceiling to line all the available walls. Each book was bound in special hand-crafted leather and labeled with gold leaf. Upon completion of the library, it was opened to the public for three days. The totality of the literature of the nation of Israel since its inception, all under one roof.

Abu Safran had succeeded in his mission and presented this remarkable library to Abul Said, though the former could not have been prepared for his master’s next request. “If we burn the entire library will this not curtail all Jewish knowledge?” Aghast at such a suggestion, Safran quickly thought to divert his master from such a plan. He succeeded in dissuading Said from his initial request and suggested the burial of the books instead. Abul Said was amenable to the suggestion, but stipulated that the burial should not be in a Jewish cemetery, but rather in cemetery far from the Jewish community where no one would have access. The servant reluctantly carried out the wishes of his master and the site was marked with a sign that read, “Here lies buried the spirit of Israel.”

And so it was, the entire library was unceremoniously buried in a non-Jewish cemetery. On the night after the books were interred, Abul Said was unable to sleep. He was ultimately drawn into the vast hall which just the day before had housed the library. Suddenly an apparition appeared before him. Where the books had once stood were now full size paintings of their authors, cloaked in shrouds. One painting slowly began to approach Abul Said, getting larger and larger as it drew nearer and nearer. “Do you recognize me!?” shouted the man in the painting. Abul Said was silent. “I am Chaim Yosef David Azulai! It is my book that you used as a guide to gather the books that you ultimately buried.” Azulai proceeded to vilify Abul Said for burying all the additional souls of the authors, thus depriving them all of the benefits when their books are learned on earth. The story concludes with Azulai relating Abul Said’s punishment and the latter’s entreaty to repent. While Azulai considered Said’s actions irrevocable, he nonetheless offered him the opportunity to make partial amends by supporting all future publications and restoring the library to its former glory for all to use.

I read this short story some years ago and found it compelling, though only recently did I come to the realization that Katznelson[5] had not conceived of this fictional tale de novo, but rather was likely expressing his lament about a factual historical event through the vehicle of this story.

Rabbi Chaim Yosef David Azulai (1724-1806) had indeed composed a monumental bibliographical work entitled Shem HaGedolim, which listed all extant Hebrew books until his time. In the course of his research for this project, he amassed one the world’s rarest and most comprehensive collections of Hebrew books and manuscripts up to his time. This is doubtless the work to which the servant Abu Safran refers in our story. When Azulai died, the collection was sold in its entirety by Azulai’s son to the Italian businessman Baruch Almanzi.[6] Almanzi’s son Joseph was a passionate bibliophile and poet and meticulously maintained and enhanced the collection, adding much valuable material. The great Judaica scholars of that time, including Zunz, Steinschneider and Luzzato, were welcomed into the Almanzi’s home to avail themselves of the treasures of this collection in pursuit of their research. In fact, Luzzato compiled a catalogue of the collection. When Joseph Almanzi died, however, there were apparently no heirs interested in maintaining the collection, and it was put up for auction. The name of the protagonist in our story, Alsalami, is perhaps derivative or reminiscent of Almanzi. The British Library purchased the manuscripts of the collection,[7] while the books were sold to an Amsterdam bookseller, ultimately finding their way to Temple Emmanuel in New York City, which subsequently donated the collection to Columbia University in 1893. Katznelson laments the “burial” of these precious books in a “non-Jewish cemetery,”[8] essentially precluding access to this library for the Jewish population who could benefit most from its use.[9]

I exhume this essay to both supplement and complement Rabinowitz’s lament of the loss of a great Jewish library. A number of elements of Katznelson’s story are reminiscent of the Strashun Library story – bookshelves from floor to ceiling covering every wall; open to the public with visitors from across the land; representative of the totality of rabbinic literature. Both the Azulia and Strashun collections began as the library of one scholar/bibliophile and were subsequently expanded and opened for broader access. Fortunately, however, the Strashun library books themselves remain accessible at a Jewish institution, though as Rabinowitz emphasizes, they are bereft of their unity as a distinct library and reflection of a remarkable period of intellectual Jewish history.

Perhaps the fate of the Hebrew book parallels the fate of the Jewish people, condemned to wander with only temporary respite. While the digitizing of large swaths of rabbinic literature, both print and manuscript, including parts of the Strashun Library, might partially mitigate our pain, there is no gainsaying the loss of the unity of the historically priceless Strashun collection. Let us hope that we will one day merit a permanent physical residence for the totality of Jewish/rabbinic literature,[10] but meanwhile, let us follow the instruction of Rabbi Azulai in our story and continue publishing books and supporting institutions for public access of Jewish knowledge. Rabinowitz’s remarkable contribution represents a historical continuation and expression of our longing to preserve the heritage of the books of our people, the people of the book.

[1] For a brief biography, see H. A. Savitz, “Judah Loeb Katznelson (1847-1916): Physician to the Soul of His People,” in his Profiles of Erudite Jewish Physicians and Scholars (Spertus College Press: Chicago, 1973), 56-61; On the literary contribution of Katznelson, see M. Waxman, A History of Jewish Literature 4 (Bloch Publishing: New York, 1947), 154-156. For his contribution, as well the contribution of others, to Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, see ibid., 702ff.

Do We Cut Off or Bury One’s Head in the Sand?

Review: Elliott Horowitz, Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence

In 2017, the erudite and eclectic scholar Elliott Horowitz unexpectedly passed away. His oeuvre is exceptionally diverse, having authored more than seventy-five articles and reviews and five books, with topics ranging from studies on Italian art, Jews and coffee, the significance of the beard among Jews, comparing and contrasting Jewish and non-Jewish biblical exegesis, and Jewish violence (see his Academia page for most of them). Seven additional articles appeared on this site, in a similar vein as his others, covering Bugs Bunny, nude imagery in the Haggadah, Isaiah Berlin, Saul Lieberman, among others. He regularly used the “Molkho Institute for Absurdly Abstruse Research” to identify his affiliation in his email signature. Jewish violence was a long fascination of Horowitz. Beginning in 1994, with an article in the Hebrew journal Zion, he revisited the issue in no less than six articles that culminated in his 2006 book, Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence (Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey). Horowitz documents how the conclusion of the Purim story, culminating in the Jews massacring 75,800 people over two days, was used as a justification for Jewish violence against non-Jews throughout history. Horowitz revisited this topic on this website, “Modern Amalekites from Adolf to Avigdor.” In a later article, he also identified the Biblical story of Dinah as another source for this type of violence.

While arguably, the violence at the end is only a minor part of the story, for some, that aspect has clouded everything about the Book of Esther and Purim. First, Horowitz looks at how non-Jews viewed the Book. Some had a very negative view due to the Jewish revenge. They considered that motif un-biblical (read non-Christian). Horowitz goes through each character and how first non-Jews interpreted their actions. For instance, Mordechai was treated rather harshly by many of these commentators, as was Esther, due to her passivity. What is especially fascinating is how these non-Jewish understandings sometimes crept into Jewish thought. Thus, Horowitz documents Jews parroting these rather un-Jewish, as it were, interpretations.

Horowitz then tackles the overarching theme of Amalek and how this has been understood throughout history. Some hold there is no obligation to destroy Amalek today, while others are willing to label any perceived enemy of Jews as deserving of the harsh consequences of Amalek. Some of these examples are rather disturbing.

After dealing with the Book of Esther specifically, Horowitz focuses on the Jewish practice of Purim. Specifically, he deals with Jewish violence or violent acts on Purim directed at non-Jews. He provides a discussion of the stereotype of the “mild” (read the wimp) Jew, including its origins and whether it is borne out by history. He then discusses numerous diverse examples spanning from the 5th century until today of Jewish violence. Some are not physical violence. Instead, it is host desecration or general enmity of non-Jewish symbols, while other, most recently Barukh Goldstein, is physical violence in its worst form.

Horowitz is compelling in the scope of this idea and how prevalent this is. It is especially telling when tracing and seeing how systematically Jews have decided to sweep these under the rug these examples; it demonstrates that censorship is not limited to any one group, and even amongst supposedly dispassionate scholars; they too can fall prey to their own biases.

To play down some of these incidents, we have Jewish historians who decided to avoid discussion of such matters or, at times, downplay their significance. However, in light of the many examples here, it is challenging to ignore such examples. Indeed, Shaul Magid noted in his review that Horowitz’s book “seems to elicit a kind of cognitive dissonance among peers, as if to say ‘this simply cannot be true’ even given the detailed evidence and argumentation to the contrary. This is often because of the audacity of the thesis and the way it challenges how we understand the present.” Hillel Halkin’s review of Commentary magazine is one example that fails to adequately address Horowitz’s thesis and his substantial evidence. Halkin claims that the book is a distortion of history and places too much emphasis on too few examples. In the next issue, Horowitz responded to Halkin’s criticism, noting Halkin’s misreading of some texts and inability to present any contrary evidence. In his inimical style, Horowitz invokes the Godfather to prove his point.

Halkin remained obsessed with Horowitz’s book and, a year later, returned to it and attempted to compare it and Michael Stanislawki’s book (A Murder in Lemberg), to Ariel Toaff’s Pasque di Sangue that seemingly argued Jews regularly killed non-Jewish children.”, which is riddled with methodological errors and has been entirely discredited (here). This time, not only Horowitz took issue with Halkin. Three scholars, Allan Nadler (who previously wrote a very positive review of Reckless Rites and presciently noted that Horowitz is a “scrupulously honest voice, dealing in exemplary fashion with an important subject that has been ignored by scholars precisely because of its extreme delicacy. In his execution of narrating the repercussions of Haman’s execution, Horowitz has enriched us with a model of historical scholarship. Anything but reckless, “Reckless Rites” is a rare gem of academic work that will make a real difference”), Elisheva Carlebach, and Naomi Gratz, derided Halkin’s attempt to tar Stanislawki and Horowitz. Perhaps it is best to view Halkin’s criticism through the prism of his long history of minimizing Israeli responsibility for violence, Horowitz being but one example. Indeed, Halkin himself seemingly accepted Yigal Amir’s murder of Yitzhak Rabin. Halkin claims that Amir’s error was not in the assassination itself; instead, “What made Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination exceptionally atrocious was not it’s being a murder, but it’s being a cataclysmic political blunder.” Hillel Halkin, “Israel & the Assassination: A Reckoning,” Commentary Magazine, January 1996. Halkin, however, was willing to criticize one person affected by Rabin’s murder, his son. Halkin, under the pseudonym Philologos, pokes fun at Rabin’s son’s pronunciation of the Kaddish he said on behalf of his father. See “On Language,” “Yuval Rabin’s Kaddish,” Forward, November 17, 1995. Perhaps if Amir had butchered a blessing rather than Rabin, Halkin would have found occasion to criticize.

Commentary, however, wasn’t done with Horowitz. In 2010, Commentary published Abby Wisse Schachter’s essay, “The Problem with Purim,” which is generally about feminist views of Purim characters. As an aside, she claims that Horowitz’s book contains “the questionable claim” and the “bizarre thesis” that “Purim has long been the occasion for outbreaks of Jewish animosity and even violence toward Christians.” She asserts that Horowitz’s thesis is based solely on the example of Baruch Goldstein. This is incorrect. As Horowitz demonstrates in his letter to the editor, it is evident that she could not have spent more than ten minutes with the book to arrive at her conclusion. Horowitz shows that Schechter’s article contains other mistakes beyond her discussion of his book.

In the end, there is little doubt that he wrote a well-researched and thorough book that inevitably engenders discussion, whether or not readers agree with Horowitz, is less the point. (See, for example, Eliezer Brodt’s post, “The Origins of Hamenstashen in Jewish Literature (Revisited),” on this site. Brodt references Horowitz’s discussion regarding a Saudi scholar who alleges Jews use blood to make hamenstashen.) Instead, as with all groundbreaking scholarship, a Talmudic approach, one that values discussion over conclusion is the best one can hope for.

A World War II Liberator’s Letter to his Hometown Rabbi

By Rabbi Akiva Males

I recently realized that this year, January 26th will correspond to the 26th of Teves. That date marks the tenth Yahrtzeit of a remarkable man — who lived through some extraordinary experiences exactly eighty years ago. I had the honor of knowing Mr. Charles Press (1920 – 2015) for the last eight years of his life. However, others in Harrisburg, PA (where I served as a pulpit Rabbi from 2007 – 2016) enjoyed his friendship for over nine decades. Over the course of those many years, Charlie (as he was lovingly known) was a very active member of his synagogue (Kesher Israel Congregation) and the Jewish community that had nurtured him. With his devoted wife Eunyce (1924 – 2023) at his side, Charlie was also among the most dedicated volunteers that his Shul ever knew.

Charlie was a member of the heroic cohort which journalist Tom Brokaw reverently labeled as “The Greatest Generation”. On several occasions, I had the opportunity to hear him speak about some of his World War II experiences. As the 80th anniversary of those events approaches, I believe some of what Charlie told me needs to be shared with a broader audience.

Measuring over six feet, Charlie was a very tall man — yet one of the gentlest people I ever met. As much as I try, it is hard for me to imagine him as a strapping young man in his early twenties, struggling to stay warm under his olive drab steel helmet, and spending sleepless nights in frigid fox holes, while slugging it out with the Nazis. However, that is exactly what the early months of 1945 were like for Charlie Press.

After the US entered World War II in December of 1941, Charlie saw many of his childhood friends leave Harrisburg to join the fight in both the European and Pacific theaters of war. As an employee of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the powers-that-be saw Charlie’s role as essential to the US war effort. As much-needed personnel and war supplies were constantly being shipped through Pennsylvania from other states, he received a draft deferment. In fact, his superiors pleaded with Charlie to remain at his railroad position in the Keystone State. Nonetheless, as a proud Jewish-American, Charlie yearned to play a more direct role in the fight against the Nazis. Unable to continue observing from the sidelines, he quit his job, enlisted in the US Army, and left the safety of Pennsylvania behind.

Charlie trained to be part of a two-man bazooka team and was assigned to the 90th Infantry Division, 357th Battalion. The bazooka (a shoulder-fired rocket launcher) was a relatively new — and highly-appreciated — weapon which gave US soldiers the firepower they needed to attack the enemy’s tanks and fortifications. In addition to his rifle and personal gear, Charlie also carried the bazooka’s shells and loaded the weapon for his partner (another Jewish GI named Harvey Goldreyer from Queens, NY) who would carefully aim and fire it.

Charlie joined his unit as a replacement following the bloody ‘Battle of the Bulge’ (December 1944 – January 1945). In the months that followed, he and his bazooka partner’s skills were called upon numerous times.

On April 23, 1945, US forces liberated the Flossenburg Concentration Camp. Decades later, this is how Charlie described those events:

I was in the 90^th Infantry Division which liberated the Flossenburg Concentration Camp, located about six kilometers (about 3.5 miles) from the German-Czech border as the war in Europe drew to a close in 1945. We were not prepared for what we saw: Still smoldering crematoria and open gravesites of human ashes, piles of corpses and shoes stacked about 20 feet high. When we arrived there were about 70 men and women who survived. They were so emaciated; they were just skin and bones. Speaking with them we found out that this was a political camp as well as an exterminating camp for Jews, Gypsies, and the disabled. The camp guards and personnel had fled before our unit arrived.

In addition, there were [US] soldiers that were captured by the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge and were forced to undergo long forced marches in the cold after being deprived of their overcoats and warm clothing. As the Americans began falling by the wayside the SS guards shot them. Many never made it to Flossenburg.

The German soldiers that were taken prisoners and returned to the camp as prisoners of war were very arrogant in defeat. They [repeated how they] were following orders and were proud that they were Germans.

For many years I never talked about what I saw. My granddaughter had to do a paper for school about who was her hero. That was the first time that I told her about what I experienced at Flossenburg.

Shockingly, in the years since WWII, the outlandish claims of Holocaust deniers have gained traction in some quarters. As a result, in his later years, Charlie became more open about what he had personally witnessed at Flossenburg. What follows is the text of a letter Charlie wrote in Flossenburg and sent to his beloved Rabbi back home — Rabbi David L. Silver (1907 – 2001).

Rabbi David L. Silver — the son of the famed Rabbi Eliezer Silver (1882 – 1968) — founded Harrisburg’s Jewish day school, and led Kesher Israel Congregation for more than 50 years. Charlie Press told me that he had one goal in publicizing this historic letter which contains his eye-witness account:

“Read the letter. Now tell me there was no Holocaust!”

____________________________________

Germany, July 3, 1945

Dear Rabbi,

At present my outfit is located at the Flossenburg Concentration Camp guarding Hitler’s elite. This camp was at one time a living hell for many Jewish, Polish, Czech, and German political prisoners. The atrocities which I have witnessed are uncountable. At this moment I am in a guard tower which is equipped with weapons to hinder any attempted break by the criminals. At one time though, this same tower was occupied by some of the criminals who are now inside the fence.

To the left of this tower is a crematorium where daily human beings were burned. In the rear of this crematorium is a room with small vases in which the ashes of only the German dead were placed and sent to their families. The other prisoners’ ashes and bones were piled in a small ravine and covered up. The rain washed all the dirt off and uncovered the hideous evidence. In another section of the field is where human bodies were stacked crosswise on top of wood, and oil was poured over and lighted. When one row would be burned, the next row would be started, and so they kept the fires burning continuously.

The past few Sundays I have been visiting in a small town called Floso, where there are about fifteen Jewish displaced persons who at one time have been in this camp. We go there and have services and sing songs and tell stories. It’s really wonderful to make them happy although in their hearts there is unrest from what they have gone through. They are having a synagogue rebuilt and as soon as it is finished I am going to try and have services there for all of the soldiers and civilians around. It will be great to go to Shul once more.

I thank you again for the holiday greetings, and hope next Pesach I can be home with the family in a civilian suit, and enjoying a good Pesach-dig Seder.

Sincerely yours,

Charles Press

____________________________________________

Young Israel of Memphis’ Rabbi Akiva Males can be reached at rabbi@yiom.org

Mr. Charles Press and Pennsylvania Governor Ed Rendell at the Governor’s Civic Commemoration of the Holocaust in April 2009 (Photo taken by Rabbi Akiva Males)

WWII-era photo of Charlie Press in his US Army uniform — note the 90^th Infantry Division insignia

A plaque honoring the 90^th Infantry Division at Flossenburg

WWII-era US soldier aiming a bazooka

Kesher Israel Congregation’s 1953 dinner honoring Rabbi David L. Silver

Left to right: Rabbi David L. Silver; Samuel Brenner (President of Kesher Israel); Rabbi Eliezer Silver (father of Rabbi David L. Silver and former Rabbi of Kesher Israel); Rabbi Dr. Samuel Belkin (President of Yeshiva University)

Charlie Press in September of 2014 – just four months before his passing (Photo taken by Rabbi Akiva Males)