Beyond the Glory: Community Rabbis in Eastern Europe 9783110711622, 9783110711318

Table of contents :
Acknowledgments
Inhalt
Part I
Introduction
Chapter 1. The Path to the Rabbinic Throne
Chapter 2. “So that his honor may dwell in our midst”
Chapter 3. “With Money or its Equivalent”: Buying the Rabbinate
Chapter 4. On the Verge of the “Promised Land”
Epilogue “To one who is great in Torah study”?
Part II
Chapter 5. Upon the Rabbinic Throne
Chapter 6. The Rabbi and His Community
Chapter 7. The Rabbi and His Family
Chapter 8. Facing Reality
Epilogue. “Master of the City”?
Bibliography
Index of Names and Sites

Citation preview

Mordechai Zalkin Beyond the Glory: Community Rabbis in Eastern Europe

Mordechai Zalkin

Beyond the Glory: Community Rabbis in Eastern Europe

MAGNES

ISBN 978-3-11-071131-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-071162-2 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-071172-1 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914679 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston and The Hebrew University Magnes Press, Jerusalem Cover illustration: Gerardas Bagdonavičius, Užventis Synagoge 1930 [Šiauliai Aušros Museum] Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Acknowledgments My interest in the communal rabbinate in Eastern Europe began during my undergraduate studies, in the Department of Jewish History at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Over the course of the intervening years, which I have devoted to studying the world of the Jews of Lithuania (the ‘Litvaks’), various and complicated aspects of this institution became clearer to me, ranging from the hundreds of figures who filled the role of community rabbi, with its spiritual and religious world; through the manner in which those who needed its services – women and men from every layer of society – related to it; to the complex relationship between the rabbinate and local communal institutions, and especially the leadership. In this manner, largely unintentionally, I began a fascinating journey exploring the world of many hundreds of communal rabbis, and primarily those who served in the Lithuanian-Jewish cultural space during the nineteenth century and at the beginning of the twentieth. Though I marched alone through most of the stages of this journey, many others accompanied me over the years – family members, friends, companions, and colleagues who shared their knowledge and insights with me, helped me locate and interpret sources, and offered good advice and constructive criticism. Among these were Immanuel Etkes, Gershon Bacon, Ada Gebel, Daniel Gurevich, Yulik Gurevihc, Yaron Harel, Kimmy Caplan, Yair Kleitman, Shalom Kolin, Larisa Lempertiene, Rachel Manekin, Adam Mintz, Israel Rosenson, Maya Shabat, Darius Staliūnas, Shaul Stampfer, Saulius Sužiedelis, David Tal, Yossi Turner and Alex Valdman, as well as Robert Liberles and Shmuel Werses z“l. Shlomo Goldberg, who helped me locate many of the books I used, and Eliyahu HaEitan, who enabled me to peruse the collection of Rabbi Meshulam Roth’s letters, made an invaluable contribution to this research. The study came together into the form of a book in the period I spent at the Tikvah Center for Law and Jewish Civilization at New York University. I owe a debt of gratitude to Moshe Halbertal and Joseph Weiler, who directed the center, as well as to the dedicated administrative staff. I also offer thanks to Magnes Press, to Avi Staiman and his staff at Academic Language Experts, and especially to Avi Kallenbach, who translated the book into English. Finally yet importantly, I thank my wife, Dvora, and our children Benaya and Orly, Elad and Adi, Gilat and Avner, Shamir and Noah, who stood by my side with patience and perseverance during this

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years-long research project. During the writing and translation of the book, my mother and father, Abraham and Hadassah Zalkin z”l, passed away. May this book be as a candle in their memory. Motti Zalkin, Efrat

Inhalt Part I Introduction 3 Methodology Sources 13

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Chapter  The Path to the Rabbinic Throne 18 18  The origins of the community rabbi  Smikha [Ordination] 25  “Do not give your strength to the rabbinate!”  “An Absent Rabbi is the Norm” 32

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Chapter  “So that his honor may dwell in our midst” 40 40  Finding a Rabbi  “It is Difficult to be a Prophet in One’s Own City” 47  “They Travelled from the Four Corners of the Earth” 51 57  “Matchmakers of Communities with Vacancies”  “There is no shame, no justice, and no trust in a friend” Chapter  “With Money or its Equivalent”: Buying the Rabbinate 68  “With Money, a Deed, or Intercourse”  “An evil thing has been done in Israel” 81  “What else can he who gives bribes do?” 97

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Chapter  101 On the Verge of the “Promised Land”  The Sermon – “Words that Please the Heart” 101  From a letter of intent to the rabbinic writ of appointment Epilogue “To one who is great in Torah study”?

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Part II Chapter  Upon the Rabbinic Throne 125  The Rabbi’s Welcome 125 128  “My Peoples’ Servant” 141  Public Activities Chapter  The Rabbi and His Community 145  Two Leaders, One Crown 145 151  The Rabbi and the Local Elites  The Rabbi versus the Butchers and the Slaughterers  The Rabbi and the Rabbinical Judges 160 166  The Rabbi and the “People” Chapter  The Rabbi and His Family 173  “Poverty is Virtue for a Rabbi”  His Helpmate: The Rabbi’s Wife

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173 186

Chapter  Facing Reality 193  “Something Trampled on by All” 193  “They camp in the place they have arrived but then move on” Epilogue “Master of the City”? Bibliography

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Index of Names and Sites

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Part I

Introduction The history of the rabbinate, a relatively young branch of Jewish historiography, is a field with many facets. In its first stages, scholars focused on providing detailed descriptions of the rabbis who served in different communities, producing a long series of rabbinic chronicles, which have played a crucial role in future studies.¹ The next stage, the transition from collecting and classifying data to modern historical research, included a small number of studies, which explored the world of the rabbinate as a whole.² In parallel, the genre of hagiography came to the fore, its primary focus the description of the scholastic, spiritual and public worlds of major, famous rabbinic figures.³ With the rising interest in social history in recent decades, some scholars sought explore societal and economic aspects of the community rabbi, attempting to explain the institution’s evolution and societal repercussions, using a variety of research methods. These scholars, most notably Mordechai Breuer, Avraham Grossman, Israel Yuval, and Eric Zimmer, predominantly focused on the world of the community rabbis in medieval Germany.⁴ At the same time, other scholars directed their attention to the world of the community rabbinate in other parts of Europe, such as Simon Schwarzfuchs and Jay Berkovitz’s studies of the rabbinate in France; Robert Bonfil and Daniel Lewin’s studies of the rabbinate in Italy; Michael Silber’s studies of the rabbinate in Hungary, and the studies of other researchers on other Jewish centers in Europe.⁵ The institution of the rabbinate has also aroused great interest among scholars of American Jewish history, such as Kimmy Caplan, as well as scholars of Middle-Eastern Jewry, such as Meir Banayahu, Yosef Hacker, Zvi Zohar, Yaron Harel and Lea Bornstein-Makovetsky.⁶ The rabbinate in Eastern Europe, one part of which will comprise the main discussion in the present book, has also entered academic discourse, being dis-

 Badder 1934; Biber 1907; Buber 1895; idem 1903; Friedman 1975; Markovitch 1913; Pesis 1902; Shteinshneider 1900; idem 2000. See also Wunder 1978 – 2005.  Assaf 1922; Horodetzki 1911; Katz 1969; Schwarzfuchs 1993; Ze’ira 1996 – 1998.  See, for instance, Dvorets 1944; Goldberg 1902; Hananel 1977; Hirshler 2008; Ish Horowitz 2006; Katzman 2005; Levin 1973; Lunsky 1917; Meirovitch 1879; Slifoy 1944; Refaeli 2010; Surasky 1980; Tchernowitz 1946 – 1947; Waxman 1980.  Breuer 1976; Grossman 2011; Katz 1969; Rozenzweig 1970; Yuval 1989; Zimmer 1999.  Bonfil 1979; Berkovitz 1999; idem 2004; idem 2006; Duschinsky 1921; Greenbaum 2005; Koss 2010; Lewin 1981; Miller 2007– 2008; idem 2011; Neumann 1996; Silber 1996; Schwarzfuchs 2000;  Benayahu 1953; Caplan 1998; idem 2002; Hacker & Harel 2011; Harel 2011; idem 2017; Zohar 1983; idem 2001. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-001

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Introduction

cussed from three major perspectives: geographical, chronological and thematic. Geographically speaking, scholars have paid the most attention to the rabbinate in Galicia and Poland. For example, the studies of Rachel Manekin and Haim Gertner’s on Galicia, and Gershon Bacon and Adam Teller on Poland.⁷ Notwithstanding these studies, research on the rabbinate in Jewish communities located in the Pale of Settlement, the region in which the majority of the Jewish population was concentrated during the 19th century, and which included the JewishLithuanian cultural sphere, has been almost entirely excluded from scholarly literature. In terms of chronology, researchers of the Polish rabbinate have focused either on the late eighteenth century, such as the studies of Adam Teller, or on various aspects of the Polish rabbinate in the first half of the twentieth century as in the studies of Gershon Bacon and Assaf Kaniel.⁸ The world of the community rabbinate in the nineteenth century, both in Poland and in the Pale of Settlement, has barely attracted any scholarly attention whatsoever. In terms of thematic aspects, scholarly interest has been focused mainly on well-known rabbis, who lived and were active in large and famous communities, such as Moshe Sofer (1762– 1839), Akiva Eiger (1761– 1837), Yitzhak Elhanan Spector (1817– 1896), Shlomo Kluger (1785 – 1869), Yosef Shaul Natansohn (1808 – 1875), as well as rabbis who though famous, did not have an official status, such as the Eliyahu Kremer (the “Vilna Gaon” 1720 – 1797) and Israel Lipkin (Salanter, 1810 – 1883).⁹ Another group of rabbis to merit scholarly discussion and research are the heads of the large yeshivot established in Eastern Europe from the beginning of the nineteenth century, such as Haim of Volozhin (1749 – 1821), Naftali Zvi Yehud Berlin (the Netziv 1816 – 1893) and Eliezer Gordon (1841– 1910).¹⁰ However, those belonging to neither of the above-mentioned group that is, the rabbis of communities in the Pale of Settlement, the majority of the rabbinate at the time, have received scant attention. With the exception for the few studies by Immanuel Etkes, Isaac Barzilay, Yosef Salmon, Shaul Stampfer and Michael Stanislawski,¹¹ the rabbinate in the Pale of Settlement, especially the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere, and even more so rabbis of small or medium communities, have been excluded from scholarly purview. The nature and extent of this lacuna were already described by Michael Stanislawski:

 Bacon 1991; idem 1998; idem 1999; idem 2004; Gertner 2000; idem 2013; Manekin 2001; idem 2016; Teller 2000; idem 2004; idem 2011  Bacon 1999; idem 2009; Kaniel 2006.  Bloom 1938; Etkes 2002; idem 2004; Gertner 2000; idem 2013; Kahana 2016.  Gil 2012; Etkes 2004; Rabiner 1968; Stampfer 2012  Barzilay 1983; Etkes 1986; idem 1988; Levin 1973; Refaeli 2010; Salmon 1991; idem 2002– 2003; idem 2004; Stampfer 1999; idem 2010; Stanislawski 2004.

Introduction

5

We do not have even a survey history of the rabbinate in Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine, Congress Poland, or the areas outside the Pale of Settlement in the modern period … Thus, even in terms of intellectual or halachic history, most of the crucial figures in the intricate history of East European Jewish Orthodoxy remained unstudied by critical historians, and we lack even a preliminary bibliography of their works, not to mention those of the thousands upon thousands of lesser figures. The social history of the Russian rabbinate remains an entirely untouched area of serious scholarly inquiry: the simplest questions one must ask about the Russian rabbinate – the number of rabbis, their social and financial standing, the sources of their ordination, their relationships with other communal officials and lay leadership, the parameters of their day-to-day activities and legal decision-making, not to mention their jurisprudential methods and authority, remain essentially unposed, much less satisfactorily studied.¹²

This lacuna reflects a wider phenomenon: the inadequate and meager scholarly treatment of the societal and economic aspects of traditional Jewish society in this geographic region from the eighteenth to the twentieth century. This can be attributed to the objective challenges posed by limited access to archival records until late twentieth century,¹³ as well as the magnitude of ideological, political and demographic shifts undergone by the Jewish society in the Pale of Settlement during the nineteenth century. These processes, which radically transformed the character of this society, naturally drove researchers to direct their focus on weightier issues such as the conflict between Hasidim and Mitnagdim, the Jewish enlightenment, the pogroms of the late nineteenth century, trans-Atlantic immigration, and the rise of new Jewish ideological movements, such as the Bund and the Zionist movement. The “old” world – traditional Jewish societies which included the institution of the community rabbi – were, therefore, pushed to the periphery of historical interest and discussion, and most scholars who did pay the topic mind, only did so within the context of the larger trends mentioned. Naturally, a discussion of the world of the community rabbi in the nineteenth century should begin with a description of this institution in the preceding period. This is, however, problematic. With the exception of the few and limited studies mentioned above, we know very little about the character of the community rabbinate in this area in the periods preceding those discussed in this book. This book therefore does not add a new layer to the discussion of the rabbinate in these communities and does not seek to trace the transformations and changes undergone by the community rabbinate in the nineteenth cen-

 Stanislawski 2004, 433. See also Bowers 1964, Ch. 6; Lurie 2006, 49.  On the methodological obstacles, which characterized the research of the Russian rural society, see Dennison & Nafziger 2013, 399 – 400.

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Introduction

tury. It instead offers a new and focused perspective on a pre-defined area and time. While during research, sources related to the rabbinate in the 16th–18th centuries were used, this was to address specific questions such as the practice of purchasing rabbinic posts but not to provide a broad and comprehensive picture of this topic, a task waiting for future researchers. This book seeks to fill the lacuna described by Stanislavski and others, from three perspectives, corresponding to those mentioned above – geographical, chronological and thematic. Geographically, the discussion to follow will focus on the community rabbinate in the northern area of the Pale of Settlement – that is, those Jewish communities which belonged to the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere and which were included in northwestern provinces (guberniyas) of the Russian Empire: Grodno, Vilna, Vitebsk, Mogilev, Minsk, Suwałki, Kaunas, and Kurland. However, due to a number of factors it was sometimes necessary to expand the discussion to incorporate other regions. The itinerant nature of the community rabbi; the similarities between organizational and administrative structures of Jewish communities in central and Eastern Europe (all of which belonged to the Ashkenazi-Jewish cultural sphere); and the convoluted system of connections between community rabbis in the northern Pale of Settlement and their counterparts in Poland, Galicia and regions even further south (Volhynia, Kherson, Ekaterinoslav, Poltava, Chernigov and Kiev), sometimes led to these regions being encompassed in the discussion. However, the comparison with rabbis serving in Poland or Galicia has been done only partially and with a limited scope, primarily because of their different formal statuses.¹⁴ These rabbis were recognized by law as official functionaries, a fact with consequences for their training and selection for office, as well as their social-communal and economic status. The “spiritual” (dukhovny) rabbis in the Pale of Settlement, by contrast, had no official status because, beginning in the 1830’s, Russian law only recognized “Crown Rabbis”.¹⁵ Formally speaking, the traditional community rabbi did not exist in this region. This had dramatic repercussions for all elements related to the community rabbi’s activity, beginning with his selection for the post, extending to the conditions of his employment and including the possibility of his dismissal. This is also the reason why the figure of the community rabbi has left almost no traces in Russian official records and archives. In terms of chronology, this study focuses on community rabbis in the Pale of Settlement during the period beginning in the second quarter of the nineteenth century and culminating with the outbreak of World War I. This era, in

 Manekin 2016, Gaming the System.  Freeze 2002, 145 – 160; Levanda 1874, 800; Shohat 1976; Dessler 2000, II, 166 – 170.

Introduction

7

which Europe as a whole experienced rapid changes which had a significant impact on Jewish society as well, is particularly interesting for an analysis of community rabbis and the institution of the rabbinate. This is reflected prominently, for example, in the tensions, which prevailed between the rabbinate that considered itself as the defender and preserver of the old-order, and the rapid, sometimes even radical, winds of changes threatening to topple the status quo. A most notable change is the dissolution of the local, traditional format of Jewish societal organization, the Kehilla, which officially ceased to function as a recognized corporate body in the Russian Tsarist Empire beginning in the 1844. The disbandment of the “Kahal”, the institution once responsible for all communal activities, would, one would think, mean the cessation of its communal institutions and organizations, including the community rabbinate. However, as demonstrated by Azriel Shohat and Isaac Levitats, even after the Kahal had ceased to operate as an official corporate body, other systems, such as the welfare system (the Tzedakah Gedolah), continued uninterrupted due to their vital role in providing basic existential needs for the members of Jewish society.¹⁶ Nevertheless, the shrinking influence of the political-economic elites, those who generally had filled and controlled the institution of the Kahal, alongside the growing influence and power of the masses, had significant repercussions for the community rabbi. This was especially true for the selection process, which now involved more people, and thus necessarily entailed the conflict of distinct and sometimes opposing interests. It also affected the rabbi’s authority and status in a society in which the boundaries of classic hierarchies were being indelibly blurred.¹⁷ The third dimension, its thematic aspects, are one of the major innovations of the present book. In this study, I focus specifically on second-tier rabbis, that is, the rabbis of medium to small communities. One may think that the best way to study the community rabbinate of this era is to focus on the lives and behaviors of rabbis serving in large communities such as Vilna, Misnk, Vitebsk, and Grodno. This is, indeed, the accepted practice in hagiography and most of the scholarly literature dedicated to the rabbinate. However, I would argue that while such prominent rabbis indeed began their careers as second-tier rabbis, their small numbers and unique qualities, invalidate them as representatives of the milieu of the entire institution in the time and place studied, especially insofar as economic and societal contexts are concerned.¹⁸ Likewise, the relationships and practices of a rabbi in a large, well-established community, wheth-

 Shohat 1977.  “letikun hakehilot”, hazefirah, January 27, 1902.  See Schwarzfuchs 1993, 58.

8

Introduction

er the rabbi of the city or of one of its suburbs, cannot be used to characterize those rabbis who found themselves in small, remote towns. Therefore, the only way to familiarize ourselves with the community rabbinate up close, and to understand how it operated in a specific time and region, is by analyzing those figures who filled the bulk of the institution’s ranks: the second-tier rabbis who served in hundreds of medium to small communities in Pale of Settlement, out of sight and often out of mind. By classifying, characterizing and analyzing data drawn from many sources, it is possible to paint a comprehensive picture of the community rabbi and the rabbinical institution.¹⁹ In addition to the aforementioned considerations, there are a number of advantages to choosing to focus specifically on second-tier rabbis. First, it allows us to conceptualize the breadth and extent of the rabbinic institution. Its dimensions are best appreciated if we keep in mind that during the period under discussion some 1,500 rabbis served in various communities, constituting the backbone of the rabbinate in the area under discussion.²⁰ In other words, this was a societal, religious and political institution with a wide scope. The special status of those who filled its ranks carried profound repercussions for the world of local Jews as well as the community as a political-societal organ. Another advantage of focusing on second-tier rabbis is the opportunity to gain insights on a less known form of the public and rabbinical discourse from that era. The hagiographical literature, as well as many studies that discuss the rabbinate from a myriad of approaches, identify the rabbinical voice with halachic rulings or with broad public issues. Yet, this was usually the voice of very limited and well-known rabbis.²¹ However, as mentioned above, these rabbis cannot be considered representatives of the general rabbinic milieu. Furthermore, these public issues, as important as they were, constituted a very limited part of the entire rabbinic discourse. A wide assortment of other topics occupied a more central place in the lives of community rabbis and constituted the primary subject of internal communal discourse. It was a mundane discourse, real and quotidian, which often dealt with seemingly trivial matters, not world altering questions. It primarily pertained to issues raised and discussed as part of the rabbi’s relationship with his community. The difficulty of finding a rabbinical post, the complex relationships of rabbis with their communities, the harsh financial straits of

 According to one source, in the mid-1860s about 5000 community rabbis and mostly local “morey zedek” operated throughout the Russian Empire, Hamevaser, May 11, 1866.  To illustrate the scale of the phenomenon, in 1903, Rabbi Yitzhak Yaacov Reines sent letters to eight hundred and fifty rabbis, asking them to support the Zionist movement, hazman, March 2, 1903.  Ravitzky 1998.

Introduction

9

many rabbis, and the issue of the local rabbi’s authority and status occupied a prominent place in this discourse, and rightfully so. Such issues had a real impact on the lives and careers of rabbis, and, in many cases, could influence their jurisprudence. The third advantage of discussing second-tier rabbis, is the insight it affords us into the communal aspects of Jewish society in Eastern Europe during the period discussed. As a public servant, the community rabbi commanded a convoluted network of relations with most elements of local society. An analysis of the relationship between the rabbi and local institutions, as well as between him and the individual members of his community, might highlights fascinating aspects of communal life at the time, shedding light on the complex dynamics taking place behind local political and societal processes. Fourth, a discussion of the community rabbinate also affords unique insights into the wider, meta-communal system of Eastern European Jewry, from a hitherto unexplored perspective. I am referring to viewing the rabbinate from an organizational-professional perspective. Community rabbis moved about regularly, changing posts every 3 – 5 years on average. They were, therefore, considered by themselves and by society at large, a relatively unstable element. Most of them did not organically belong to any communal framework. Thus, community rabbis regarded themselves, and were seen by many in their time, as members of an informal, meta-communal, professional guild. It was a “Rabbinical republic” of sorts with its own unique codes of behavior. Exploring this group, from a broad perspective, therefore sheds new light on an otherwise unexplored aspect of Jewry at the time, an aspect which was located at the center of local communities and the discourse of ideological and political organizational trends that characterized local Jewry in the second half of the nineteenth century. It is true that other non-local Jewish professional sectors existed at the time, ritual slaughterers and cantors, for example. Nevertheless, the community rabbinate is the only sector, which embodied a complex network of relationships and connections, and even a system of hierarchies and organizational patterns, even if these always remained loose and unenforceable. Certain aspects of the community rabbi, however, are not discussed in this book. The first is the relationships and connections between spiritual rabbis and Crown Rabbis in the Pale of Settlement. With the establishment of the institution of the Crown Rabbinate, communities were forced to fill this post, alongside with the traditional rabbi. That being said, and unlike rabbis in the Congress Poland, a sharp and unambiguous line was drawn between the two institutions. The responsibilities of the Crown Rabbi included elements not traditionally considered part of a rabbi’s duties, such as managing communal population records and granting formal approval for the officiation of religious ceremonies (marriage

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Introduction

and divorce). The traditional rabbi, by contrast, was entrusted by the community members with managing of their basic religious needs. He was the supreme halachic authority who could rule on matters of dietary laws, officiating religious ceremonies and delivering lessons and sermons. In practice, the two institutions only shared a name, and, in certain communities, the traditional rabbi was appointed the “vice” Crown Rabbi in order to allow a community to pay his salary from its regular budget. This distinction is seen prominently in the public discussion about the “question of the rabbinate,” a topic occupying a central place in the Jewish public discourse in the second half of the nineteenth century. This discourse sometimes included sweeping criticisms of the rabbinic institution and the way it operated. However, a careful reading of the arguments raised reveals a clear distinction between the traditional rabbis and Crown Rabbis. While spiritual rabbis were criticized for being irrelevant and incapable of dealing with the changing needs of the time and of society, the root of the criticism against Crown Rabbis was the feeling that the institution was anachronistic and redundant and only served the interests of the government. Likewise, this book does not explore the world of the Hasidic community rabbi (with some exceptions). Unlike the type of community rabbi discussed here, the Hasidic rabbi was not nominated by community members (at least not in practice) but was rather appointed by the Hasidic “Zadik” whose authority extended over the region in which a community was situated. This process had a serious impact on the behavior of the Hasidic community rabbi and his relationship with his community. Because he did not derive his authority from his community, but only from the one who had appointed him, he was also completely uninhibited. This was true in terms of communal aspects of his post as well as practical aspects, such as the term and length of appointment, and the possibility of dismissing him.

Methodology One of the central issues of studying the rabbinate, especially the community rabbinate, is the writer’s approach to his objects of study. By its nature, hagiographic literature treats its objects as men of unique stature, value and gravity. Sometimes it even attributes to these figures a degree of holiness. Such an approach lacks a critical tone and is focused on depicting the virtues and contributions of its subjects. It is a style of writing characteristic of ultra Orthodox historiography as well as collective popular memory, which yearns for apogees, objects

Methodology

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of admiration, leaders to be turned to in times of trouble.²² Historical research, by contrast, studies its subjects from a different perspective. All rabbis, even important ones enjoying considerable status, are perceived as human beings. They have hopes and dreams, wishes and desires, and even impulses and weaknesses. This being the case, their rabbinical responsibilities and the way in which they carried them out are evaluated with the same criteria used to analyze any historical figure, regardless of that person’s status or role in society. A similar approach is prevalent among researchers of the clergy—as scholar of Christianity, Louise Schorn-Chutte, writes about the European clergy at the advent of the Modern Era: “[The research] is presented from the point of view of a secular historian who regards the pastors and priests as officials with duties and claims to act in this world. Thus the object of research is the secular function of the clergy. This function cannot, however, be separated from the clergy’s self-perception. For this reason, it is necessary, despite the methodological difficulties, to examine the connection between how others understood clerical office and how the clergy understood it”.²³ It should, therefore, be noted that critical scholarship studies not just the community rabbi himself, but also the environment in which he was active, that is, in the context of communal institutions, which had their own considerations and methods when it came to the rabbi. This was my guiding principle in the present study and I believe that it is the only way to offer a practical and unbiased analysis. Writing a collective biography poses complex methodological challenges. Most significant is the fear of being seduced into generalizing or reaching conclusions with insufficient evidence, sometimes the consequence of studying a group with such wide scope and variety. To overcome this challenge, I have fully implemented the historical-quantitative method, based on a broad database of rabbis born between the years 1800 – 1875, who served in the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere. This database includes the following information about some 1,500 rabbis: name, place of birth, date of birth, date of death, place of study, books written, communities served and age of attaining each rabbinical post in each community. This large and detailed corpus is based on many, diverse sources. It affords us the most accurate picture possible of the historical reality of the Ideal Type of a community rabbi.²⁴ Even in cases in which it was impossible to obtain extensive data on a given relevant phenomenon, its preva Bergman 1998; Dessler 2000, I, introduction; “Or Yisrael”, Hamodi’a 1913, no. 32.  Schorn-Schutte 2000, p. 4; Malony & Hunt 1991, x.  On the difficulties typical of such research to the extent of the need to examine whether anyone who boasts of the title of “rabbi of the city” indeed served as rabbi in this community, see Dembitzer 1888, 32.

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Introduction

lence and scope could be understood by the place it occupied in public discourse. This is primarily reflected in the writings of those who themselves belonged to the rabbinical milieu, who would describe behaviors and practices which stood in opposition to the ideal image naturally expected from members of the rabbinical institution. An additional dilemma facing those who wish to study social groups is the proper way to present findings, and in our case, the proper way to present the story of the community rabbinate in the time and place under study. After much deliberation, I decided to tell this story by following the life of a “typical,” community rabbi. Thus, in the first part of this book, the reader is invited to join the young Torah scholar and accompany him as he passes various milestones of his life. His story begins with his studies and his training in Yeshiva (Rabbinical academy) or in a Beit Midrash (local scholars’ study hall). From there he embarks on a complex process, often beset by disappointments, to find a rabbinical post, a process characterized by internal communal bickering over the best candidate. He must contend with different intermediaries and methods, which were intended to promote different candidates, deliver a trial sermon, and negotiate the conditions of his employment with communal authorities. Finally, if successful, he receives the yearned for writ of rabbinical appointment. In the second part of the book, the reader follows the community rabbi’s initiation into his new post: his various duties; his self-perception as a rabbinical scholar in a place bereft of scholarly-companions; his relations with the rabbis of other communities; the scope and contents of his scholarly output; his sermons; his communal activity; the disagreements and conflicts which attended his presence and actions; the phenomenon of the “Dual Rabbinate”; his relationship with local authorities and powers, such as the political and economic elites, the slaughters, the butchers and rabbinical judges, as well as with the masses; his financial circumstances; the role and status of the rabbi’s wife; and finally the conclusion of his post and his departure in search of a new post. Despite my focus on the societal, political and economic aspects of the rabbinate, it should be recalled that the rabbi represented an important figure of religious authority, sometimes the only one in a given community. As the dilemma of this reality became clearer and better defined during my research, I entertained the possibility of viewing the rabbi as the Jewish equivalent of another religious figure, living and active in the same geographical milieu, sometimes under similar social and political circumstances – the local priest, who in Russia was usually Greek-Orthodox and in Poland and Lithuania Catholic.²⁵ Apparently,

 This perception has also been expressed in contemporary Jewish literature, which in my

Sources

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the differences between the community rabbi and the community priest far outnumber their similarities. For this reason, most studies of the rabbinate have not even entertained the possibility of such a comparative analysis. Nevertheless, a review of the primary sources written by contemporary priests, such as the famous work of Ioaan Stefanovich Belliustin, relevant secondary literature, such as that published by Gregory Freeze,²⁶ and sociological studies of the clergy, all point to a long list of affinities between the two institutions.²⁷ Like the rabbi, the priest was also not a local resident. Before receiving his post, he also studied in a religious seminar, underwent a complex selection and acceptance process, relied on his congregation for his financial wellbeing, and, in many cases, felt disillusioned by the intellectual poverty of his surroundings or by the hostility sometimes showed to him by local authorities. Analyzing these (surprising?) similarities yielded significant insights into various aspects of a religious job-holder in a small segregated community, as also attested to by the wide variety of studies on the worlds of clergymen, especially the local village priest.²⁸ Likewise, there are clear similarities between attempts to write collective biographies of the rabbinate in given regions and times and attempts to do the same for the clergy.²⁹ Besides the immediate significance of crossing an intellectual-mental Rubicon, this innovative conceptual approach may truly contribute to future studies on the topic.

Sources The scholar studying the world of the community rabbinate in the nineteenth century has at his or her disposal a wide array of classic sources such as official archival materials, communal records, memoirs, halachic and ideological literature written by the subjects of research. Alongside these sources, one can find a library of books dealing with the world of the rabbinate, full of hagiographical or semi-hagiographical accounts, some published in recent years by rabbis of various communities, all focusing on their perception of the rabbinical institution

view is a reflection of a broader social consciousness. For this, see, for example, Peretz 1961, vol. 4, 147.  Freeze 1977; idem 1983.  Malony & Hunt 1991.  Brunet 2006; Brunett 2000; Francis & Roger 1994; Himka 1979; Malony & Hunt 1991; Nauss 1973; Nesbitt 1995.  Schorn-Schutte 2000, 8.

14

Introduction

and the dilemmas which plagued it.³⁰ In addition, belles-lettres and folklore literature must also be mentioned. In their own ways, these genres contribute an important perspective on relevant aspects of the historical reality, which was.³¹ Autobiographies of the contemporary rabbis are, by contrast, a rarity.³² In the first stages of my research, I primarily used these classical sources, allowing me to create a factual foundation. I was thus able to reconstruct the biographies of the hundreds of community rabbis discussed in this book. Due to the nature of such sources, relying on them demanded methodological caution.³³ Nevertheless, they proved to be extremely valuable sources of information. They did, however, lack information on the internal rabbinic discourse, and did not provide insights into the perception of the community rabbi in the public eye. I theorized that listening to the voices emerging from these two types of discourse could contribute significantly to our understanding of additional, important aspects of the world of the community rabbi. Luckily, I was afforded the opportunity to eavesdrop on these voices through another medium, the contemporary, primarily Jewish, newspapers. It did not take long after its arrival in Eastern Europe in the late 1850’s, for newspapers to become the primary, most extensive and most important arena of public Jewish discourse.³⁴ Jewish newspapers prioritized issues at the center of public day-to-day life, including questions of religion, in-depth discussions of the nascent Zionist idea, the taxes on slaughtering which took its toll on the economic wellbeing of local Jews, recurring burnings of towns and villages, pogroms, the settlement of the Land of Israel, forced conscription into the Russian army, and the question of trans-Atlantic immigration and its repercussions for life in Eastern Europe. To elevate the importance of this discourse, and in order to present a wide spectrum of opinions and approaches, editors were very open to publishing correspondence pieces, that is, articles sent to the editor by writers living in different communities, who regularly fed newspapers all manners of reports.³⁵ Studying newspapers, thus allows us to observe events taking place in tiny remote communities, those lying far from the public sights (and sometimes mind). Before long, the pages of these newspapers were filled with

 Berakhyahu 1998; idem 2007; Bigman 2011; Lau 2011; Lowenthal 2007; idem 2018; Mark 1958; Shlez 1880; Surasky 2004.  See, for instance, Druyanov 1956; Grade 1982.  See, for instance, Ovtsinsky 1894.  See Ehrenreich 1929.  Kouts 1999; idem 2006. On the influence of the press on the shaping of public sphere, see Habermas 1992, 16 – 22, 38 – 41.  Orchan 2013, pp. 41– 68; Tal 2011, pp. 199 – 200.

Sources

15

subjects, which had, until that point, been discussed only locally. This included the many aspects of the community rabbinate. The place occupied by discussions of the rabbinate in contemporary Jewish press is described by Rabbi Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg (1884– 1966): “At that time, the question [of the rabbinate] awoke with great noise and much tumult, and often and in various times, it earned itself a regular column in our Hebrew press. It became the center of controversy between different authors and the subject of verbal polemics, some acerbic, others sensible”.³⁶ The context of this discourse gave public voice to the sundry processes taking place in the world of the community rabbinate, especially those that failed to make their way into official documentation. It included articles about the search for rabbinical candidates and details about their appointments; tales of controversy and political struggle; critique from within the rabbinate, and from without, over ethical and organizational failures in the appointment process; discussions over the inheritance of a rabbinical post; musings over status of the rabbi and his power; discussions of the status of the rabbi’s wife and the question of guaranteeing her financial wellbeing after his death; as well as a wide variety of intricate descriptions related directly or tangentially to other aspects of the community rabbi’s life. The Jewish press was also utilized by hundreds of rabbis from small communities as a platform to bemoan their complex and harsh circumstances. Once unable to express their views on these issues, the rabbis were now afforded the opportunity to actively participate in communal and metacommunal discourse. A review of the hundreds of reports and articles dedicated to the subject of the community rabbinate demonstrates that no other group in Jewish society at that time received such prominent attention in the public discourse. Early on, the print press conceived itself as a communal watchdog. In an article published in the late 1880’s, the Russian Jewish historian, Avraham Harkavy (1835 – 1919), writes: “For what purpose were newspapers exist in the world? I would say: so that all mankind would know that the ledger is open and the hand writing; and whoever wishes to lead the community despotically and to undertake actions of his own accord, should know that an eye is watching and an ear attentive, and all his actions are inscribed in a book”. Likewise, another editor wrote: “We station lovers of truth as observers in every nook and cranny, and all they see they tell us, and we will call out, and we will make heard and we will announce throughout the world Jewry this matter, so that they who are guilty may know that watchful eyes follow all their ac-

 hamodi’ah, July 22, 1911; hamodi’ah, May 19, 1910.

16

Introduction

tions”. Truth-loving readers quickly understood the significant potential of this new genre, as succinctly described by Yekhiel Aharon Perlmutter: The Jewish newspapers are like guards at their posts to tell our brethren of righteousness or mischief. For today, the moment a writer sees wrongdoing in his community, even if it is a small one, he cannot ignore it, and it will be brought into judgement before the public opinion and its throne; and if it is found guilty, its sin will be published in the newspapers for eternal infamy.³⁷

In terms of the rabbinate, the print press was not simply a watchdog; it was also a whistleblower, projecting across the Pale of Settlement. Jews from different communities, such as rabbis who felt they had been wronged, frequently reported their accounts of events, sometimes in multiple newspapers, and thus turned a local problem into a subject with wider societal significance. Reliance on the press as a historical source is not devoid of problems; in fact, it may pose a considerable number of potential obstacles, especially when it comes to the reliability of a report. News editors were already aware of this problem, as is evident from the following passage printed in Hamelitz: Where is the truth? Can we verify it from these news items? The newspaper is obligated to accept and report on any matter, which receives the community overseer’s stamp of approval … Thus the reader, who wishes to verify a matter, is like a blind man groping about in the darkness. Nevertheless, we try. We know that here and there, in the cities and towns, there are men with ears listening, eyes seeing and hands writing. We call upon these men to awake, we send them strength and encouragement, to give us their helping hands, and to assist us.³⁸

In many cases, when a newspaper would publish tendentious or even false information, it would publish a retraction or correction if new information became known.³⁹ Sometimes the editor would even appeal to his readers, requesting comment on an article, which described a certain community in an unflattering light: We cannot guarantee that everything in this article is true. Thus, we request the inhabitants of this city, if the writer has testified falsely, that they stand and vindicate themselves. Let them send their words to us with haste and we will publish their vindication.⁴⁰

 Hazefirah, November 1, 1876.  Hamelitz, December 25, 1899.  See, for instance, Hamelitz, November 17, 1897; August 23, 1897; Hamodi’ah, December 28, 1912.  Hakarmel, June 27, 1861; for a detailed discussion see Tal 2009.

Sources

17

However, despite the chance of false reporting, the possibility of responding to a publisher in a relatively short amount of time,⁴¹ as well as the regular publication of multiple newspapers, all criticizing each other,⁴² guaranteed a certain level of quality control over the information being published, including information about the status and activities of the rabbis. Thus, even when reports which could embarrass their subjects were published, such as the issue of the sale and purchase of rabbinic posts, those involved would refrain from denying the report, knowing that the public eye, in the form of the press, was always watching: I shall do my part, and my words will be a warning to all who beg to obtain the crown of the rabbinate through crooked means. For an eye is watching and a hand writing, and I shall not spare the honor of my friends, teachers, relatives or those beloved to me. Against all my hand is armed, for the honor of heaven is greater than all. You have been warned; now be careful!⁴³

Nevertheless, I have done my best in this study to evaluate the reliability of such sources, primarily by comparing a wide range of newspapers published in different political and cultural environments (Warsaw, Odessa, St. Petersburg, Vilna, Lyck and others). Newspapers and periodicals written in Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian, Polish and Lithuanian were consulted, representing a full spectrum of cultural and ideological worldviews, ranging from radical Enlightened to conservative Orthodox. A meticulous analysis of these sources demonstrates a lack of essential variation on the basis of the ideological or cultural orientation of the newspaper editor inasmuch as the depiction of the community rabbi is concerned. The information appearing in these newspapers was also evaluated by cross-checking them against other sources, adopting a strictly skeptical approach whenever anything seems to lack a proper basis.

 See, for instance, Hamelitz, January 14, 1879; February 25, 1879; Hamodi’ah, February 14, 1914.  Hamodi’ah, July 18, 1910; February 24, 1911.  Halevanon, September 21, 1873.

Chapter 1 The Path to the Rabbinic Throne 1 The origins of the community rabbi In order to embark on a journey to the world of the community rabbi, we have to return to the place where he and his colleagues were trained to fulfill what they perceived as their life’s mission. Where did they study? For how long? What was the curriculum? Were they trained in areas that deviate from the mere scholarly aspect, such as preaching and handling issues of public significance? The answer to at least some of these questions seems obvious: our hero studied in one of the great super-communal yeshivot that operated, from the beginning of the nineteenth century in the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural arena. In the minds of many, it is in these institutions where young scholars in their teens amassed their extensive knowledge in Jewish canonical literature, and from which they would embark on the long journey towards the community rabbinate. Scholars have already addressed many aspects of the yeshiva system – a network of rabbinic institutions, which operated in the nineteenth century in broad swathes of Eastern Europe, especially the Lithuanian Jewish cultural sphere.¹ The most prominent and known among them were the supper-communal yeshivot located in Volozhin, Mir, and Aisheshuk, all founded at the beginning of the nineteenth century, as well as the yeshivot in Slobodka [Kaunas] and Telz in northern Lithuania founded in the second half of the century. However, if we examine how many students learned in the above-mentioned yeshivot, we clearly see that they only account for a small percentage of the young Jews of learning age at the time.² Furthermore, the fact that many graduates of these yeshivot did not serve as community rabbis, rabbinical judges or Halachic authorities, forces us to ask where other yeshiva students were concentrated? In other words, where did the hundreds of community rabbis, who did not study in these yeshivot, receive their training? The answer lies in the town’s batei midrash [informal study centers, mostly attached to synagogues] and city yeshivot which were active in this region. From the beginning of the second decade of the nineteenth century, yeshivot were established in various towns in this area, such as Kėdainiai, Salantai, and Zarasai. The foundation of new yeshivot in major urban centers started as early 1815 in Slonim, Vilna and Minsk.

 See, for example, Stampfer 2012; Etkes 2004, yeshivot; idem 2007.  Stampfer 2012, 55, 65 – 66. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-002

1 The origins of the community rabbi

19

These urban yeshivot were characteristically communal in nature, reflected by the cooperation between the local Jewish economic elite, community rabbis and the community establishment, who all worked together to establish, upkeep and manage them. By uniting forces, they afforded the urban yeshiva the status of a communal institution, even if this status was sometimes more de jure than de facto. About ten years later, in the mid-1820’s, we witness another wave of new yeshivot, as well as the transition from a local beit Midrash system to more organized study frameworks. This rising trend was inaugurated by the foundation of a yeshiva by Akiva Altshul in Bobruisk, Belarus, and was continued with the founding of yeshivot in Grodno and Jalowka, and other places as well. Thus, in the relatively large communities, such as Minsk, Vilna, Białystok and Pinsk, this process led to the creation of a complex system of yeshivot and batei Midrash for advanced students. As attested to in the memoirs of Alexander Ziskind Rabinowitz [1859 – 1947] of 1870’s Minsk: “There were many yeshivot, big as well as small ones. Almost every synagogue had its yeshiva students. There were also full-fledged yeshivot that operated in Blumke’s Kloyz, the small beit Midrash, the synagogues of the butchers, the water drawers, the tailors, the cobblers, and many other synagogues where yeshiva students studied. The city supported, and fed thousands of yeshiva students, providing them lodging and places of study”.³ While the figures of this account may be exaggerated, the picture seems, overall, historically accurate. The largest and most important yeshiva in the city, Blumke’s Kloyz, boasted some of the most talented locals as well as students hailing from other localities, earning the yeshiva considerable reputation. In the 1860’s a Tomkhei Torah institution (a study framework for married students) was founded in the city, and soon afterwards, a yeshiva was established in the synagogue of the apprentices. Sources discussing the Jewish community in Białystok yield a similar picture. We also see accounts of young, talented Torah scholars who spent time in batei Midrash and yeshivot with more modest numbers, operated in smaller communities.⁴ It is true that most community batei midrash, as well as institutions in the suburbs of various cities, had only a few students. However, given the preponderance of these institutions, the overall number of young men studying in the region is quite impressive. Moreover, some of the urban yeshivot could equal the numbers of students studying in yeshivot in Volozhin, Mir and Slobodka. For example, the Yekhiel Mikhl yeshiva in Minsk had sixty students in the 1830’s, the Slonim yeshiva would grow to five

 Horowitz 1975, 141.  Zalkin 2007, 142– 143.

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Chapter 1 The Path to the Rabbinic Throne

hundred students in the mid-19th century, and the Ramailes yeshiva in Vilna, had almost two hundred students in the 1840’s.⁵ In the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, the system of communal batei mdidrash and yeshivot grew significantly in towns and small cities – whether through the expansion of existing yeshivot or the founding of new ones. Considering the susceptibility of many young Jews to the allure of growing trends such as secularization and trans-Atlantic emigration, this phenomenon seems, at first glance, quite remarkable. Nevertheless, the demographic growth of Jewish communities cannot be discounted; the growing Jewish population significantly enlarged the number of eligible young men available to study Torah.⁶ Apart from local, communal factors, an important driving force behind the growth of the yeshiva system can be attributed to community rabbis who received posts during this period and who were, in all senses, products of the Lithuanian Torah study system. However, besides the basic need to train more community rabbis, additional factors may have driven them to exert the effort: a feeling of crisis in the face of spreading secularization; the increasing numbers of young men joining the nascent ideological movements (socialism and Zionism, for example) to whom Torah study and a religious lifestyle were not a priority; and the great waves of emigration which threatened the very fabric of community life.⁷ During this critical historical juncture, many local rabbis grabbed hold of a familiar and venerable mainstay – community Torah study – seeing in it the only hope for preserving the familiar lifestyle of centuries past. Largely, the rabbinical response to this crisis in this period resembled the responses of R. Haim of Volozhin in the early nineteenth century as well as that of R. Israel Salanter in mid-century.⁸ These institutions of learning expressed the importance of communal Torah study, a value anchored to a cultural-religious ethos that viewed the Jewish community as a “place of Torah”. The centrality of the yeshiva system in the communal consciousness is attested to by the unrelenting efforts to establish and expand such frameworks, and by the ongoing efforts to ensure the continuity of local study institutions even during times of crisis. In addition, the community’s self-perception as a “place of Torah” was a consequence of the fame and prestige afforded to its local center of study. A community’s standing was directly corre-

 Lichtenstein 1960, 48.  Vilovski 1908, introduction. On the demographic growth of the Jews of the Russian Empire in the last two decades of the nineteenth century see Ettinger 1995, 261.  Alroey 2008.  Etkes 1970 – 1971; idem 2004.

1 The origins of the community rabbi

21

lated with the erudition of the local rabbi⁹ and no less by the extent to which prodigies and scholars flocked to its yeshiva or beit Midrash. In fact, many of the prominent and renowned rabbis and Torah scholars of the time chose to study in local institutions, preferring them to the more famous super-communal yeshivot. Thus, for example, R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector [1817– 1896] studied in the beit midrash in Volkovysk; R. Yehoshua Ayzik Shapira (“Aizel Harif”) [1801– 1873] in Blumke’s Kloyz in Minsk; R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim [1843 – 1905] in the beit midrash in Lipniszki; R. Yosef Zachariah Stern [1831– 1903] in Kudirkos Naumiestis; R. Alexander Moshe Lapidot [1819 – 1906] in the local yeshivot in Salantai and Vilna, and R. Shmuel Avigdor Tosfa’ah [1806 – 1866] also learned in the yeshiva in Salantai. Thus, at least in the eyes of the contemporaries, local yeshivot and batei midrash were no less important than Volozhin yeshiva and its offshoots. The super-communal yeshivot did not supplant the classic learning frameworks in the Lithuanian Jewish cultural arena, but rather comprised, throughout the nineteenth century, one part of a whole: a wide and diverse network of learning institutions with different organizational structures, intended for different audiences – Kloyzes open to all, batei midrash in towns and cities which offered semi-structured studies for both locals and foreigners, and local yeshivot which were managed and sometimes even funded by community institutions. To a large extent, we can characterize this process as democratization of Torah study. If in former centuries Jewish society viewed Torah study as the prerogative of an intellectual elite, it now offered the majority of young, local men a variety of study tracks tailored to individual talents. Unlike the elitist, super-communal yeshivot, a mixed voice emerged from the town yeshivot and batei Midrash. “Young students who had yet to study the Talmud independently,” sat alongside “advanced students, who could study the Talmud and its commentaries without a teacher’s assistance” as per Shaul Stampfer’s description.¹⁰ These institutions were part of the local milieu and represented an integral part of the fabric of community life. They can even be seen as bodies that contributed to the integration processes in the local Jewish society. They provided solutions to diverse needs – for locals as well as young men hailing from nearby towns or farflung communities, for those who sought to study Torah for its own sake, as well as those who wished to train themselves to receive rabbinical ordination from the local rabbi. The allure of these institutions derived, among other things, from the fact that they offered the young man a gradual study and training

 Zaltzman 1944, 110.  Stampfer 2012, 13.

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Chapter 1 The Path to the Rabbinic Throne

track, beginning with a “preparatory” yeshiva, continuing onto a “regular” yeshiva and culminating in additional studies to perfect a student’s rabbinic practicum under the tutelage of local rabbis and morei tzedek. As a result, many young members of the community studied in these institutions, and it was in them that the future cadre of the community rabbinate was trained, as attested to by various rabbinic biographies. A quantitative review proves that a considerable number of young scholars preferred to study in these yeshivot and batei Midrash, over the large study halls in Volozhin, Mir, Slobodka and Telz. Thus, for example, more than 800 rabbis examined in this study studied exclusively in a town yeshiva or beit Midrash. ¹¹ This group includes, besides the above-mentioned rabbis, famous and influential community rabbis who, for one reason or another, have been forced to the margins of collective memory.¹² In other words, the institutions of learning in towns and cities were the primary context in which Torah study took place in nineteenth century Lithuanian Jewish cultural arena. Why did these Torah scholars and rabbis, like many others, choose the traditional beit Midrash, which stood on the verge of collapse (in both a literal and figurative sense) over the bustling study halls of other, more renowned, supercommunal yeshivot? Several explanations can be offered, some familial, others sociological and economic. First and foremost, this phenomenon must be viewed in light of what local institutions offered – study in a local beit midrash or in a local yeshiva. Here, the independent young scholar was unrestricted by the demanding organizational structure of the supper-communal yeshiva and could decide for himself how much time he dedicated to study. Likewise, studying in a local yeshiva allowed the student to circumvent the inherent hardships of “exiling oneself to a place of Torah,” both important considerations especially for married students. However, we must also not discount the explanation offered by R. Barukh Epstein [1860 – 1942], specifically concerning members of the intellectual elite, the “iluyyim,” to use the terminology of the time. Describing the life of R. Eliezer Moshe Horowitz [1817– 1890], R. Epstein wrote: “He barely studied with a teacher or in yeshivot, and the rote of teachers and colleagues was not imposed upon him. And, therefore, when he departed on his own path in the wisdom of the Torah, he had but one goal, and that is the truth”.¹³

 See, for example, Ovtsinsky 1908.  This group included, along with many others, rabbis Yitzhak Zeev Olsvanger, Avraham Zvi Eisenshtadt, Yehonatan Eliasberg, Abba Yaacov Borochov, Eliezer Don-Yehiya, Binyamin Bali Dimant, Yehoshua Leib Diskin, Raphael Halpern, Yaacov David Vilovsky, Shimon Zarkhi, Moshe Nehemiah Kahaniu, Reuven Levin, Zeev Dov Lifshitz, Moshe Yitzhak Segal, Yerukham Leib Perlman, Aharon Zelig Tsioni and Eliyhu Shik.  Epstein 1890, 5.

1 The origins of the community rabbi

23

Naturally, each super-communal yeshiva developed its own unique learning style, exerting a concrete influence on the thought patterns and analytical methods of its students. Most students internalized the methodology of their yeshiva and, with time, associated themselves with it, both mentally and societally.¹⁴ The independent Torah scholar, by contrast, who was characterized by unconventional way of thought and an open-minded scholarly discourse, had trouble fitting in to a structured yeshiva. He wanted to set out on his own unique path and sought to contend with textual and exegetical challenges without falling back on conventional methods. Due to their greater flexibility, the local, community beit midrash and yeshiva, were the ideal environment for many of those belonging to the intellectual elite even if they were not perfect for everyone. However, due to the social realities of the time and the traditional importance ascribed to tutelage under a well-known rabbi, time spent in a famous yeshiva or in the vicinity of a famous rabbi was still considered important. Therefore, independent scholars adopted integrated study models. Most notable, was the practice of combining study in a town yeshiva with a short period of study in a super-communal yeshiva. This need explains the wanderings of many yeshiva students in the nineteenth century.¹⁵ Indeed, halachic knowledge was a prerequisite for receiving a rabbinic post, and this knowledge was acquired during this period in a Torah scholar’s life – whether it was in a town yeshiva or a super-communal one. However, unlike the norm in non-Jewish society, where community priests were trained in seminaries designed for this purpose,¹⁶ as well as in the process of training rabbis in seminaries that operated in Central and Eastern Europe,¹⁷ the traditional Jewish society did not offer the aspiring rabbi-to-be a structured curriculum for his training. Traditionally, the Jewish education system did not set as a goal the training of young men to become rabbis.¹⁸ Moreover, the constant movement of students from one yeshiva to the next precluded the formulation of a coherent curriculum with a pre-defined timeframe. This was how R. Avraham Zakheim [1858 – 1939], himself a product of this system, saw matters: “The education of rabbis, the leaders and teachers of the nation, is devoid of order or regimen … in the vast majority of yeshivot, from whence Torah comes forth, there is neither system nor path, each one goes in his own direction, especially the student who

    

Krumbain 2006. Hamelitz, December 4, 1885; Zalkin 2007. Belliustin 1985, 87– 109; Freeze 1977, 78 – 106; idem, 1983, 102– 113; Pnin 1966, 155 – 156. Breuer 2004, 68; Miron, 2009; Gurliand 1858. Stampfer 2012, 54.

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Chapter 1 The Path to the Rabbinic Throne

learns one zman (semester) here and in the next zman moves to another yeshiva and so on”.¹⁹ These considerations notwithstanding, the question remains, to what extent did the yeshiva and beit Midrash served as de facto institutions of rabbinic training. Although these institutions were not formally defined as such, in practice a student began his training (in the broadest sense of the word) to receive his ordination and become a rabbi, in its halls. It was here that the student memorized the necessary sections of the Shulhan Arukh; it was here that his scholarly repertoire was molded, a place where he learned for heaven’s sake; it was here that his personal and public profile was crystallized, determining whether he would become an expert of large swathes of Talmud or an adept at in-depth dialectics (or both); and it was here that he internalized his self-identity as a member of the rabbinic milieu. By frequenting various yeshivot and batei Midrash, he could earn himself a reputation as the disciple of famous rabbis. All these factors were calculated at that crucial point in which a rabbinical candidate would contend for posts in different communities. We should also note that in the biographies of community rabbis, great importance is ascribed to the fact that the subject of the biography received rabbinical ordination from a famous rabbi who taught in one of these batei Midrash or yeshivot. This attests to the gulf between the role of the yeshiva as perceived by its founders and students and its role as perceived in the rabbinic milieu and in popular memory. Nevertheless, even though it was clear that study in a yeshiva or beit Midrash was a necessary stepping-stone on the way to the community rabbinate, the working assumption behind this conception was that the primary task of the community rabbi was halachic adjudication.²⁰ In other words, the more he studied Talmud and the writings of halachic authorities, the better he would be able to carry out his future duties. Thus, regardless of where our protagonist studied for several years – be it a town yeshiva, a city yeshiva, or a super-communal yeshiva – he always embarked afterwards on the same path: the long route towards serving as a community rabbi. It is also the next stage of our discussion.

 Zakheim 1904, 92.  Hazefirah, May 17, 1886; Levin 1900, 4.

2 Smikha [Ordination]

25

2 Smikha [Ordination] The first step towards the rabbinic throne was to receive an ordination.²¹ A student who had spent some years studying in a yeshiva or beit Midrash and was interested in receiving ordination, generally turned to the dean of the yeshiva. Another option – which while common at the beginning of the period under discussion, became far less so – was to receive the ordination from the rabbi of the town or city in which he grew up.²² However, since traditionally three sages should grant the ordination, many young scholars have attempted to obtain rabbinical ordination from at least three rabbis. Nonetheless, due to the importance ascribed to the figure conferring ordination, many sought to receive their rabbinical ordination from a rabbi of renown.²³ For this reason, many of those who studied in a local beit Midrash would travel to a more famous yeshiva, Volozhin for example, for a limited amount of time, with the express purpose of receiving ordination from the dean of the yeshiva.²⁴ Others would turn to rabbis who were known to be “generous” in conferring ordination that was based on a superficial acquaintance with the candidate, for example “those who had relatives to speak on their behalf, or they would take pity on a [candidate], for he was a destitute and well-intentioned pauper, [thus hoping] to afford him the ability to make an honorable living”.²⁵ This was the practice of rabbis such as Yitzhak Elhanan Spector (who in the second half of the nineteenth century was described as “The leader of the generation”); R. Bezalel Ha-Cohen [1820 – 1878] (a rabbinical judge and moreh tzedek in Vilna), as well as R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein [1829 – 1908], the rabbi of the Jewish community of Novogrudek.²⁶ These rabbis did not invent this practice; it was actually a venerable tradition hailing back to previous ages. This practice was possible for the simple reason that no clear criteria for receiving ordination were ever defined. Earning ordination was solely dependent on the ordaining rabbi’s estimation of the candidate. Because yeshiva study in general usually included subjects considered relevant to the adjudication of Halacha – such as tort law, the laws of Sabbath, marital laws, and dietary laws (kashrut) – someone who had studied a number of years in a yeshiva was, in most cases, considered to have undergone the basic training necessary for the

 On this term and process see Bornstein 1919; Weinberg 1956, 222– 224; Breuer 2004, 389 – 398.  Stampfer 2012, 110 – 112.  See Ovtsinsky 1908, 160; Dessler 2000 – 2013, I, 38, II, 196, III, 297, 336.  Stampfer 2012, 55.  Hamelitz, August 14. For severe criticism of this phenomenon, see Cohen 1960, 23 – 24.  Freid, 1983, I, 97; Epstein, 1928, III, 1206 – 1207; Bergman, 1998, 55 – 56.

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job. Some Halachic authorities, however, did not look favorably on the ease by which anyone who desired ordination could receive it. For example, already in the fifteenth century R. Israel Isserlein [1390 – 1460] complained, “There are many with ordination but few with knowledge”.²⁷ In this context, we can point to two factors, which may have contributed to the growing prevalence of this trend: 1. The persistent deterioration of the status of the rabbinate, as Yekhiel Mikhl Pinnes [1843 – 1913] claimed, and the assumption, held by a considerable number of rabbis, that one’s chances of receiving a rabbinic ordination were dependent on trivial factors, many irrelevant to the nature of the job itself or to the candidate’s level of Halachic expertise.²⁸ 2. The fact that unlike in earlier periods, in which ordination was subject to the authority of the local community, in this period, it took place in a neutral zone – i. e. the yeshiva, which was not subject to community oversight.²⁹ The significance of this trend and its consequences cannot be emphasized enough. Perhaps most problematic was the abundance of rabbis who held the title without deserving it.³⁰ “Due to our many sins”, wrote R. Shlomo Luria [1510 – 1573] already in the sixteenth century, “there are many with ordination but few with knowledge … and as soon as they received ordination they begin to lord over [others] and to amass disciples … thus there are elders who, due to our many sins, cannot even properly understand a piece of Talmudic discourse … and having acquired no wisdom, they nevertheless lord over the community”.³¹ The growing number of unqualified rabbis during the nineteenth century resulted in a growing number of candidates for each available rabbinical post. This was the background for Yaacov Lifshitz’s [1838 – 1921] lamentation that “As the certificates of the rabbis diminished in value, so did swindlers, hypocrites and frauds abound; with their tricks they would receive certifications and desecrate the holy rabbinic posts”.³² Against this backdrop, we can understand the acrimonious critique emerging from the ranks of rabbis themselves – for example, R. Menahem Mendel Landa [1866 – 1928], who composed a document sent to the rabbinical assembly convened in Krakow in 1903:

 Isserlein, 1882, paragraph 245.  Halevanon, August 9, 1876.  Berkovitz 1999, 59.  Hamelitz, July 22 1889; Kaplan 1910, 90 – 94; Breuer 1976, 20; Benayahu 1953, 21; Freeze 1977, 160.  Luria 1633, paragraph 58.  Halevanon, March 25, 1874; August 16, 1876.

3 “Do not give your strength to the rabbinate!”

27

Some married man, or even a bachelor who has learned the laws of permitted and prohibited foods, who has neither status or honor in his own city, will travel to whichever rabbi he chooses and will request to receive ordination. The one receiving ordination does a great favor to the one conferring it, [spreading the latter’s] fame as one who ordains rabbis in Israel.³³

In an attempt to resolve this problem – which, as we have mentioned, was already prevalent in earlier centuries – some in the late nineteenth century proposed establishing a basic set of criteria for determine a candidate’s eligibility for smikha. This, however, failed to yield any results.³⁴ We can thus assume that at an early stage in his career, the young Torah scholar realized that the number of potential candidates far outnumbered the number of available jobs and realized that his path to the rabbinical throne would not be easy. For this reason, some rabbinical candidates took the trouble to receive ordination from the most famous rabbis, hoping to improve their chances of prevailing over competitors. For the same reason, many took pains to receive letters of recommendation from these rabbis, “packages of certifications from the great rabbis of the time with much exaggeration of titles”, to quote Yaacov Lifshitz.³⁵ Such letters would include an accounting of a young rabbi’s scholarly virtues as well as his excellence in preaching and interacting with the public.³⁶

3 “Do not give your strength to the rabbinate!”³⁷ While still learning in a yeshiva, or in a community beit Midrash, the young student had to make decisions about his future. One would think, given his options that the community rabbinate was the most logical choice; it was a position in which he could realize the knowledge he had acquired, both in terms of halachic rulings and in the economic aspect. However, a review of the data available to us demonstrates that most yeshiva or beit Midrash graduates eschewed the rabbinate. We can propose a number of reasons for this reluctance: 1) Villages and

 Guttman 1904, 134; Hamelitz, August 14, 1878; Heilperin 1952, 44– 48; Hazefirah, February 17, 1888; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 90; Bersson 1901, 36 – 38.  Shprintz 1912, Introduction.  Halevanon, March 25, 1874.  Kosovsky-Shakhor 2003, 209 – 210; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 59; Grunwald 1921, 32; Rabiner 1956, 1– 3; Vildman 1913, Approbations; Levin 1928.  Graubart 1930, 71.

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small towns, especially those without a local yeshiva, did not generally enjoy a social level that could provide a proper scholarly and cultural environment for those who had spent two or three years studying in yeshivot such as Volozhin, Mir, or Ramailes.³⁸ 2) Among some of the more talented students, those who seemed most worthy of filling the roll of community rabbi, were those who felt that their scholarly talents may reflect analogous talents in trade and finance. Such students naturally turned to the latter vocations that, at the time, were considered more prestigious and preferable to the rabbinate.³⁹ In addition, it should be noted that successful merchants and businesspersons, seeking good marriages for their daughters, specifically sought the most talented yeshiva students. Thus, many yeshiva students, who found such a marriage, would soon find themselves working in the businesses of their in-laws.⁴⁰ Interestingly, we often see the young men who had opted to pursue careers in business, filling rabbinical roles in towns and communities, years later. This was not, however, due to a retrospective realization of the importance of the rabbinate or disillusionment from the world of business, but rather something far more trivial – failure. This could be the result of a young man’s inability to successfully navigate the intricacies of the business world, or due to the business failures of his in-laws. R. Levi Ovtsinsky [1871– 1941] attests to the extent of this phenomenon: “I worked in business and I, like most students, did not succeed in business”.⁴¹ Only at this stage, after they had lost everything and were seeking a livelihood, would these scholars turn to the almost only option available for monetizing their scholarly potential and knowledge garnered from years of study – the community rabbinate, as described in the following text, written by R. Moshe Nissan [1835 – 1878]: In my youth, I fled from the rabbinate and eschewed the use of the crown of Torah. [Instead,] I chose to try my hand at trade. However, man’s thoughts are vanity and God did not bless my trade. In the year 1862 I lost thousands of rubles and was left with nothing. Finally, I was forced to make a living from the rabbinate.⁴²

A review of the biographies of community rabbis in the time and place under study shows that even some of the most prominent scholars and rabbis of the

    

Cohen 1901– 1904, II, 38. See, for instance, Shmuel 1926, 19; Friedman 1926, 6; Grade 1982, 41. Caplan 2002, 74– 75. Ovtsinsky 1908, 165. Nissan 1875, Introduction; Feinberg 1909, Introduction; Hamodi’ah, May 19, 1910.

3 “Do not give your strength to the rabbinate!”

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period, some of whom even went on to occupy a central place in the “rabbinic republic”, underwent a similar process.⁴³ 3) The community rabbi’s life was largely dominated by his communal work. The following description, written by Zvi Hirsh Lifshitz, who was himself a member of a rabbinic family, portrays this reality vividly: The house of the rabbi is designated for trouble and strife. Every man who is bitter and distressed, every itinerant, and every beggar, anyone whoever has had his house or store burnt down, every exile and wanderer, every man seeking charity, hear the same answer: “to the rabbi! He sits tranquil and quiet, he has his bread, his life is secure, and he has expertise!”⁴⁴

A firsthand account of this difficult aspect of the community rabbi’s life appears in a letter written in 1899 by rabbi Meshulam Roth [1875 – 1962]: The rabbi is enslaved with his entire and body and soul to his community, days as well as nights, without proper regulation and order … at any time, anyone can enter his chambers and disturb him from his studies, to pester him to their hearts’ content. Ever since I have arrived here, I have been unable, despite my best efforts, to rid myself of people and disturbances, to relieve myself of the hindrances and wasting of time which trouble me.⁴⁵

It is therefore quite understandable that some students viewed the rabbinic route favorably, and even received the training necessary to fill this role, but ultimately failed to realize their dream in light of the difficult life of the community rabbi. In summary, it seems that the bitter lament of R. Yehuda Leib Graubart [1862– 1937] certainly did not encourage the young student to choose the career of a community rabbi: Good man! Do not come hither. Do not give your strength to the rabbinate! Flee from it! Be a craftsman or a trader. Whether you make more money or less, you will eat your bread and

 This group included, along with many others, rabbis Mordekhai Eliasberg, Ben-Zion Bunimovsky, Shlomo Mordekhai Brodno, Avraham Yaacov Brook, Issachar Ber Graubart, Moshe Shmuel Horowitz, Meir Simcha Ha-Cohen, Aharon Vain, Shmuel Nakhman Wasserman, Moshe Zakheim, Shimon Zarkhi, Malkiel Tennenbaum, Avraham Shimon Traub, Zvi Hirsh Levitas, Yekutiel Zalman Landa, Shmaryah Yehuda Medalia, Shmuel Mohilever, Eliyahu Haim Maizel, Yoel Gershon Mindlin, Avraham Dov Margaliot, Nakhman Margaliot, Avraham Yitzhak Maskil Le-Eitan, Avraham Baruch Soloveichik, Ephraim Samonov, Gavriel Feinberg, Shabtai Feinberg, Shneur Zalman Fredkin, Yoel Yitzhak Katzenelenbogen, Zvi Hirsh Rabinowitz, Shmuel Rabinowitz, Eizik Leib Shapira and Shaul Shapira.  Lifshitz 1901, 11; Tsirelson 1897, 14.  Heitner 2006, 32.

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[benefit from your] handiwork, in peace. Do not worry about the public … rather mingle with the people; see but do not be seen. Fear God, and do not hate others.⁴⁶

In fact, spending an extended amount of time in yeshiva or beit Midrash was considered an ideal, albeit not necessary, stage in the life of the young Jew who displayed a talent for learning; it was perceived as the fulfillment of the ideal form of learning: Torah study for its own sake. As Immanuel Etkes claimed, the consensus in the scholarly milieu in nineteenth century Lithuania was that “it is not fitting for a young student to study Torah with the goal of becoming a rabbi”.⁴⁷ We can thus see in the high demand for ordination, a long-term investment, an attempt to ensure one’s ability to contend with other candidates over rabbinical posts in the future and a contingency plan if other opportunities failed to materialize. That being said, throughout the period studied in this book, there was no shortage of rabbinic candidates, even in small or remote communities.⁴⁸ There were several reasons for this phenomenon: 1) the rabbinate was conceived as the highest and ultimate expression of internalizing the religious ethos, and the community rabbinate as an opportunity to actualize this ethos by sharing it with the wider public.⁴⁹ Those driven by such an ethos saw in the position a calling, and therefore ascribed little importance to the troubles described above.⁵⁰ 2) In the period under study, there has been a consistent deterioration in the employment situation in local Jewish society.⁵¹ Because of the growing difficulty in finding sources of income, young yeshiva students were forced to seriously consider the possibility of becoming community rabbis, even if the vocation was not their first choice. This is also the reason why some were even willing to compromise and receive a rabbinical appointment in small or remote towns. For example, we can cite the case of R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein, born in Bobruisk in White Russia, who due to financial straits was compelled to search far and wide for a rabbinical post, going so far as Novozybkov in Bryansk district. In addition, the constant growth of the yeshiva and beit Midrash graduates, which

 Graubart 1930, 71; See also Zalman 1889; Eiger 1969, 125 – 128.  Etkes 2002, 225; idem 1988, 386 – 388; Blazer 1900, 112; Shik 1880 – 1884, Yoreh De’ah, 227; Mikhelzon 1914, 22.  For reasons of young people joining the ranks of the clergy, see Malony & Hunt 1991, ch. 2.  Graubart 1930, 71; Friedman 1926, 133, 141.  For a detailed analysis of a similar phenomenon among the clergy, see Malony & Hunt 1991, 19 – 21.  Lederhendler 2008; Rubinow 1907, 500; Caplan 1993, 220. On this aspect among the clergy of the Russian Orthodox Church, see Freeze 1978, 127.

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in turn led to a growing number of potential candidates, especially in late nineteenth century – contributed to this trend.⁵² 3) The exemption from being drafted into the Russian army, enjoyed by those who served as community rabbis, was, without a doubt, an important factor for those considering pursuit of the rabbinic vocation.⁵³ Given these considerations, many students must have suppressed their reservations and concerns.⁵⁴ Due to the reasons mentioned above, many of those vying to be community rabbis did not hale from the scholarly elites, and were even far from the ideal candidates, whether in terms of their personalities or their ability to contend with the halachic challenges. Nevertheless, and as opposed to the claim of Uriel Gellman that real Talmudic scholars eschewed rabbinic posts,⁵⁵ the community rabbinate in the nineteenth century, in small communities and large, boasted some of the greatest Talmudic scholars of the time.⁵⁶ Some of them were invited by communities, often large ones of high repute, to fill the rabbinic throne;⁵⁷ some saw in the position a calling – even a challenge⁵⁸ – and others accepted the job due to financial straits. This latter category is described vividly by contemporaries: In his youth, the boy spends time in various yeshivot; he eats bread with salt but not be sated; he sleeps on the ground and live a life of pain. Afterwards, he finds a redeemer, a man who gives him shelter and his daughter as a wife, who promises him [wealth as great] as mountains. However, immediately after the wedding [his father in law] says to him, “I have nothing to do with you; I have already given you a wife, what more do you want from me? You have your prayer shawl and your watch. Take your staff in hand, and exile yourself to a place of Torah, prosper and ride on until you will be ready to serve as a community rabbi. As for I, this is the kindness I am willing to do for you: I will provide for your wife for a year or two, even though it is your obligation to sustain her as is written explicitly in her marriage contract. This groom, what will he do? He

 Stampfer 1999, 320.  Zalkin 2006, bnei elohim.  Stampfer 2010, Missing Rabbis, 281. On the assumption that the choice of a priest’s career constitutes a possible solution to a variety of psychological and personal conflicts, see Bloom 1971, 66.  Gellman 2012, 21, 113 – 123.  This group included, along with others, rabbis Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein, Yosef Zachariah Stern, Yosef Rozin, Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim, Eliyahu Haim Maizel, Shmuel Mohilever and Meir Simcha Ha-Cohen.  Epstein 1928, III, 1274; Dessler 2000 – 2013, II, 491; Hamelitz, March 14, 1861; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 50; Eliasberg 1897, xx.  Gertner 2013, 125. On a similar phenomenon among the rural clergy, see Zondag 2004, 257.

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takes his staff in hand and walk until he arrives at one of the yeshivot, staying there until the rabbis give him smikha, and he becomes an ordained rabbi.⁵⁹

Thus, after vacillating and deliberating, the young scholar would finally embark on his long journey, hoping to find himself, at its end, sitting upon a rabbinic throne. After receiving ordination, and before actively searching for open rabbinic posts, some young scholars would spend time further preparing themselves for their future role. Some, such as Bali Binyamin Dimant [1839 – 1894], spent time in the local beit Midrash in the town of their in-laws, studying with the town rabbi, and assisting him in his tasks, sometimes even filling in for him during his absence. Others would spend this period serving as morei tzedek,⁶⁰ or as preachers (magidei meisharim), rabbinical judges (dayyanim), schoolteachers (melamdim), and rabbis in yeshivot⁶¹ and synagogues in various communities.⁶² In some senses, this period was a compensation for the lack of theoretical rabbinic training during the student’s study in yeshiva, as well as an opportunity to receive practical experience, preparing him for future challenges and familiarizing him with the position. Finally, this period could significantly contribute to the advancement of the young scholar’s candidacy as a potential heir to the local rabbi after he finished his tenure – especially if the young scholar was his son or son-in-law.

4 “An Absent Rabbi is the Norm” When word spread that, a rabbinic post had become vacant, whether because the previous rabbi had moved on to another community or passed away, it may have seemed to the young scholar that his road to the rabbinic throne  Hamelitz, November 10, 1891.  Ovtsinsky 1908, 51; Schwarzberg 1934, 6; Dubnow 1925, 143.  Goldberg 1931, Introduction  This group included, along with others, rabbis Zeev Avrekh, Avraham Haim Ideltsik, Moshe Berman, Moshe Goldsmidt, Shmuel Goldsmidt, Aharon Gintsburg, Yehoshua Nathan Genessin, David Dainovsky, Yehoshua Falk Horowitz, Israel Heller, Yaacov Nahan Hendelsman, Nakhum Weisblat, Pesakh Zukhovitsky, Yehuda Zolar, Moshe Zaksh, Avraham Zalman Zardin, Avraham Dov Margaliot, Yaacov Yoel Sorkin, Shaul Padva, Shalom Yosef Feigenbaum, Yaacov Flekser, Shlomo Fruman, Avraham Friedman, Binyamin Kolker, Yitzhak Rabinowitz, Israel Rabinowitz, Meir Rabinowitz, Mordekhai Rabinowitz, Eliezer Rubashov, Moshe Ronin, Moshe Noah Rapoport, Yitzhak Nahan Stark and Haim Shapira.

4 “An Absent Rabbi is the Norm”

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had finally been opened. However, he quickly learned, to his dismay, the lack of necessary correlation between a vacant rabbinic post and the intention – or willingness – to fill it. According to the perception that the community rabbi plays a central role in community life, and certainly according to the prevailing view in Orthodox historiography that sees the local rabbi as the leader of the community, one would think that with the vacancy of the position the community institutions would look, as soon as possible, for a suitable candidate for this position. This was indeed the case in some communities where measures were swiftly taken to fill the post as soon as possible. In some rare cases this was even done soon after the death of the previous rabbi. Such was the case for example in the Jewish community of Kėdainiai [Lithuania]. When rabbi Avraham Shimon Traub [1813 – 1876], passed away, his son, R. Shlomo Zalman Traub [1829 – 1911], was appointed as the community rabbi, “and already in the cemetery all agreed unanimously, and all signed upon it”.⁶³ However, when we examine the rabbinic appointment process in more than sixty communities, the average time it took to select a new community rabbi was one year.⁶⁴ In many communities, however, the rabbinic appointment process would be deferred for an extended period, sometimes even lasting a number of years. Like many of the phenomena discussed in this book, the delay in finding a community rabbi had deep roots in the history of the Jewish communities in Central and Eastern Europe, as well as in the Jewish communities in the East.⁶⁵ Thus, for example, The Council of Four Lands saw necessary to publicize in the middle of the seventeenth century a decree obligating “every Kehilla to appoint a head of rabbinical court and a “moreh tzedek” [A local Torah scholar, sometimes even with ordination who was appointed to this position by the community institutions. His income was based on payments in exchange for providing services to those seeking their halachic advice]. Such an injunction shows that it was a prevalent enough to require public censure from an authoritative body. Thus, for example, only after this decree was issued, the Jewish community of Poznan appointed a rabbi in 1666, after “much time with no rabbi in charge”.⁶⁶ We can further learn about the prevalence of the trend from decrees issued by the Council of Moravia (1656) and the Council of the State of Lithuania (1664) regarding the obligation of the selected rabbi not to delay his arrival for a period of more than three months.⁶⁷ Furthermore, in many cases, the absence of a community rabbi was     

Hamagid, February 9, 1876. Nisanboim 1900, 107; Eshkoly 1948, 185; Halevanon, December 31, 1872. Benayahu 1953, 35 – 36. Weitz 1938, 52. Heilperin 1952, 106; Dubnow 1925, 134.

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not limited in time or scope, and the interim between rabbis could extend to a number of years: Community

Years without a community rabbi

Minsk

 – ;  – ;  – 

Dubno

 – 

Vilna

Since late th century

Leszno

 – 

Pinsk

 – 

Poznań

 – 

Kalisz

 – 

Slonim

 – ;  – 

Ravitch

 – 

Brest

 – 

Chişinău

 – 

Skaitskalne

 – 

Šiauliai

 – 

Radom

 – 

Telšiai

 – 

Częstochowa

 – 

Ukmergė

 – 

Działoszyce

 – 

Seirijai

 – 

Vitebsk

 – 

Białystok

 – 

Eišiškės

 – 

Vawkavysk

 – 

Łomża

 – 

4 “An Absent Rabbi is the Norm”

35

The case of a community, whether a small one or even a large one with an important status in the Jewish world, not rushing to fill rabbinic posts,⁶⁸ has not eluded the attention of scholars of Jewish society in Eastern Europe. Haim Gertner and Shaul Stampfer have already noted the significant number of communities, which had no community rabbi in the nineteenth century, especially towards the century’s close. However, whereas Gertner, who studied the phenomenon in Galicia, attributed this reality to the lack of candidates who met the formal requirement set by the government,⁶⁹ Stampfer attributes it to the declining status of the community rabbinate already in the late eighteenth century, a trend which would only be exacerbated in the nineteenth.⁷⁰ However, Gertner’s explanation is irrelevant as far as the Russian Empire is concerned, there being no formal requirements to be a “spiritual rabbi,” standards being reserved for the official “Crown rabbi”.⁷¹ As far as Stampfer’s claim, even if we accept that the community rabbinate suffered from a diminished status, an examination of the relevant sources reveals additional causes behind the phenomenon – some of which were not related to a principled stance towards the rabbinate but rather to personal, political, economic and social factors. To demonstrate this, I will present some of the most common of causes: A. In many cases, a deceased community rabbi would leave behind a widow and even several orphans. Because the financial agreement reached between the rabbi and the community did not address such a contingency, widows and orphans could expect to find themselves in a very difficult economic situation. Therefore, in some communities there were attempts to address this issue by creating a formal obligation on the community’s behalf, to financially assist the family of a deceased rabbi. However, because the funds designated by the community to support the rabbi and his family were limited, it was impossible to support a widow and her children while also paying the salary of a new rabbi, especially not for any protracted period.⁷² Given these circumstances, various communities decided to defer the appointment of a new rabbi for a number of years, using the rabbi’s salary, or part of it, to support the previous rabbi’s widow.⁷³ Such a situation could leave a community without a rabbi for an indefinite amount of time.

     

Hamodi’ah, February 7, 1914; Warshaviak 1996, 169; Hayehudi 1936, I. 232. Gertner 2013, 28 – 30; Berkovitz 1999, 70. Stampfer 2010, 282– 295. On this institution, see Shohat 1976. Hamodi’ah, April 27, 1910. Kagan 1990, 322; Hazefirah, November 5, 1897; Hamelitz, May 5, 1897.

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B. One of the issues faced by many rabbis in the period and under discussion was irregular payment of their salaries, sometimes even for long stretches of time. I will discuss the causes of this phenomenon in later chapters, but here we should mention two of the most common. One is the community’s inability to meet its financial obligations. This could lead, among other things, to the appointment of one rabbi for two or more nearby communities.⁷⁴ Thus, for example, in the late eighteenth century, rabbi Aryeh Leib Shalman served as the rabbi of the Jewish communities of Kretinga, Palanga, and Darbėnai in northwestern Lithuania, at the same time. The second reason for the irregular payment of the rabbi’s salary was the unwillingness, or in some cases the inability of leaseholders of taxes on various goods (meat, salt etc.) or the provision of vital services (such as bathhouses) to pay their dues, despite their obligation to set aside predetermined sums from their income to pay the rabbi’s salary. Against this background, various sectors in the community actively worked to delay, as much as possible, the appointment of a new rabbi. This was made possible by the political and economic status of such circles as well as the extent of their influence over the local community. C. However, the primary and most common reason for delaying the appointment of a new community rabbi was the internal disputes associated with the process (see more below). A review of the many sources describing the appointment process demonstrates that controversy over rabbinical candidates was an inherent part of the selection process, as R. Pinhas Eliyhu Meizels described it: “when a rabbi is missing from a city, opinions abound. One will pick one rabbi, another will pick another rabbi, and thus dispute will arise”.⁷⁵ As shown by scholars of the history of the rabbinate in Germany, Holland, Italy, France and the East, this phenomenon was certainly not unique to the area discussed here.⁷⁶ Nevertheless, the picture arising from the following descriptions, suggests that the extent of the phenomenon grew over the course of the nineteenth century in Eastern Europe, reaching unprecedented proportions: Who does not know of the divergent opinions and the schism of hearts, which has overtaken this community [Inowroclaw] because of the selection of a rabbi? Who does not recall

 Ovtsinsky 1908, 73.  Meizels 1924, I, vol. II, par. 30; Hazefirah, July 3, 1896; Hayom, December 14, 1886.  Carpi 2003, 56; Tal 2010, 100; Breuer 1991, 213; Harel 2017, 160 – 165; Berkovitz 1999, 62; Teller 2000, 344; Levitats 1943, 152.

4 “An Absent Rabbi is the Norm”

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the arguments exchanged for years between the different groups? Who is not astonished by the multitude of rabbis who have applied for this position, came to be tested, but their desire to be selected was left unfulfilled? This [rabbi] did not find favor in someone’s eyes, and this rabbi was not considered honest. Another [rabbi] was not accepted by those whose hearts throb with the spirit of the [modern] era, and another [rabbi] was not deemed suitable and fitting. Thus, an important Jewish community sat like a widow, despairing, for many years.⁷⁷

Another source also echoes this account: It is a great matter to select a rabbi. Even in peaceful cities, it will empower the Satan, summoning him to dance and incite men and families against one another. [The selection of rabbi] caused a commotion in our community [Hadytch], susceptible to hardship and condemned to dispute. Moreover, the discord within it has burst into flames, reaching the heavens. The candidates who came to our city left as soon as they arrived, and the masses know that it is a time of strife.⁷⁸

While in many communities in nineteenth century’s East and central Europe the source of most disputes was a conflict between traditionalists and modernists,⁷⁹ in the area discussed here discords over the selection of rabbis generally lacked an ideological component. Moreover, as already mentioned by Shaul Stampfer,⁸⁰ in many cases the dispute did not even revolve around the qualities or shortcoming of a specific candidate. The controversy was instead an extension of local power struggles between opposing interest groups, especially those divided along economic lines.⁸¹ For example, between those who claim that the son or son in law of the previous rabbi had the right to succeed him, whereas others wished to curtail this right.⁸² Likewise, a dispute between two influential local families who vie over who would control this prestigious position.⁸³ Regardless of underlying causes, these conflicts and disputes caused constant delays in the appointment of a new rabbi, so much so, that some potential candidates were unwilling to even apply for the post. A notable example of the latter was R. Aharon Samuel Tamrat [1869 – 1931], who described for the readers of Hamelitz the

 Hamagid, May 6, 1862.  Hamelitz, July 9, 1886; October 27, 1896.  See, for example, Kerem khemed 1841, 5. 244– 251.  Stampfer 2010, 280.  Reines 1880, 29; Hayom, January 19, 1887; Hamelitz, January 16, 1896; Hapisgah 1904, 104 Feivelson, Eternity, 44– 45; Levin, Novoaleksandrovsk; Bier, Glory.  Weitz 1938, 86; Hashakhar 1876, 652– 653; Lifshitz 1873, I, Para. 7; Hamelitz, February 5, 1896, June 25, 1899; January 7, 1903; Feivelsohn 1914, 51– 52  Balaban 2003, II, 639 – 651; Karo 1824, 11; Hazefirah, June 6, 1890; Hundert 1992, 118 – 122.

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reasons why he declined to compete over a rabbinical post in a certain community: As a rule, I will not bestir myself to wander about in new locales and to rise through the ranks of the rabbinate, since many rabbis, better and greater than me, dwell “in the coverture of the steps”, due to those who grab and who jump ahead, passing them in every way … I do not feel that I have any talent for prevailing in the terrible competition which today dominates the rabbinic market.⁸⁴

One way to overcome the challenges posed by a vacant post was to appoint a temporary rabbi for a short period of time.⁸⁵ Alternatively, some communities would employ the services of a rabbi from nearby town or city.⁸⁶ Nevertheless, and as argued correctly by Shaul Stampfer, a Jewish community could function even without a community rabbi and without significantly harming the basic religious lifestyle its residents.⁸⁷ Answers to halachic questions – primarily those concerning kosher food and family purity – could generally be provided by a local Torah scholar or by a moreh tzedek. ⁸⁸ For example, the moreh tzedek took the place of the community rabbi when it came to officiating at weddings as well as in other areas under his authority. As David Shifman [1828 – 1903] describes in the case of the Jewish community of Zamość: They realized that the absence of a rabbi had become a fact, and that the presence of a rabbi would be a loss. In this time, many rabbis in small cities, besides failing to improve the prestige of their people, would also incite factions to fight with each other. [This being the case,] why should they appoint a rabbi who in his haughtiness and superiority would trample on the heads of the people, while failing to fulfil his duties? They concluded, therefore, that they should appoint a moreh tzedek to rule on issues of permitted and prohibited food, but would have no responsibility over community issues.⁸⁹

This also applied to the judicial system, which operated mainly in large urban or rural communities. The local rabbinical court, which was comprised of local Torah scholars, occupied itself with sundry subjects, from presiding over monetary disputes to issuing divorce documents [Like the morei tzedek, the court was also not supported by community funds, and the disputants in a court case

 Hamelitz, November 17, 1897..  See, for example, Tal 2010, 134; Margaliot 1910, 42.  Hamelitz, December 11, 1903.  Stampfer 2010, 279.  Ovtsinsky 1908, 154; Grunwald 1955, 31; Dessler 2000 – 2013, IV, 471; Feivelson 1914, 43.  Hamelitz, April 6, 1879; Halevanon, September 4, 1872; September 17, 1880; Manekin 2001, 171.

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would pay the salaries of the rabbinical judges, beadles and court scribes].⁹⁰ The public sermon, which was also one of the rabbi’s traditional duties, could also be filled by a local preacher [magid meisharim], or an itinerant preacher. Thus, a community could operate for an extended period without a community rabbi. Primarily, only the sight of his empty chair in the synagogue, marked his absence. We can thus understand young Torah scholars who favored the option of serving as a community rabbi but failed to pursue this goal once they had concluded their studies in yeshiva. In fact, if we examine the system of the various rabbinic job-holders in communities – such as morei tzedek, preachers, rabbinical judges and synagogue rabbis, who all studied for a number of years in yeshivot and batei midrash – we see that many scholars began their rabbinic career after filling one of these positions. Some would continue serving in such positions for the rest of their lives, while others saw it as a springboard to a rabbinic post. At this point, let us return to our protagonist, the young yeshiva graduate, searching for an open rabbinic post. All of the factors discussed in this chapter must have had a real effect on his decision making, sometimes directly and usual indirectly. Thus, for example, if the rabbinic post he desired lay in a community that was lethargic in its attempts to fill the position, then our yeshiva graduate would have to expand the scope of his search. However, even if the cases described did not affect him personally, they still affected the number of available rabbinic posts and thus reduced the likelihood that he would attain the object of his desire – a rabbinic post.

 Klausner 1938, 96.

Chapter 2 “So that his honor may dwell in our midst” 1 Finding a Rabbi Delays and obstacles aside, at some point the community institutions would decide to appoint a community rabbi. Generally, this was not motivated by any concrete impairment to religious life in the community but rather by a hallowed tradition that regarded the rabbi an inseparable part of Jewish communal life.¹ In some places, this tradition was enshrined in explicit ordinances, defining any Jewish collective with a minimum amount of families or taxpayers as a Kehilla and obligating it to appoint a moreh tzedek or a rabbi. The organized selection process that became prevalent in the Ashkenazi cultural sphere – e. g., who was considered a suitable candidate and whether to appoint a local or someone from elsewhere – can already be discerned in the early fourteenth century.² Sometimes local ordinances even dictated criteria for the selection process, such as restrictions on familial connections between candidates and those entrusted with choosing them, prerequisites for candidates, such as a minimum age or a minimum number of years of marriage, and terms of employment, such as whether the rabbi could be allowed to have another source of income during his tenure.³ As was the practice in the Middle Ages,⁴ the selection of the rabbi was the prerogative of the “Kahal”, the highest institution of local Jewish community. Sometimes another, broader body also needed to provide its assent to the appointment, such as the council of the elite members of the community or all the taxpayers.⁵ However, it should be recalled that in earlier eras the Kahal was not an entirely autonomous body. In fact, until the late eighteenth century, the appointment of a community rabbi in Poland was dependent, first and foremost, on the approval of local authorities (and this continued to be the procedure in Austria up until the nineteenth century).⁶ For the Jewish com-

 Hamelitz, May 11, 1897.  Heilperin 1952, I, 1; Benayahu 1953, 13; Schwarzfuchs 1993, 50; Yuval 1989, 377; Breuer 1976, 9 – 10, 18; Zimmer 1999, 15; Bonfil 1979, 17– 26; Weitz 1938, 48.  Wetstein 1892, 21; Evron 1967, 107; Heilperin 1952, 97, 117; Dubnow 1925, 187, 243, 266; Nadav 1997, 161, 173; Meisel 1962, 51; Schwarzfuchs 208, 253.  Sonne 1941, 169; Nadav 1997, 476; Buber 1903, 103; Meisel 1962, 264– 265; Evron 1967, 432; Tal 2010, 110; Weitz 1938, 39; Assaf 1922, ch. 2.  Benayahu 1953, 16 – 17.  Wetstein 1909 – 1913, 8; Hundert 1992, 103, 145; Assaf 1922, 35 – 36; Teller, 2000; Teller 2004. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-003

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munities in the Tsarist Empire, the need to receive government approval was dispensed gradually after the final partition of Poland and the Russian take-over the area known as the Pale of Settlement. At the beginning of the Russian period, the rabbi still carried an official, recognized status, and approval from the authorities was still required.⁷ However, beginning in 1835, with the creation of the institution known as the Crown Rabbinate,⁸ the traditional rabbi, known as Spiritual Rabbi, lost his official status (except in Congress Poland). As a result, government authorities had no say in the latter’s appointment.⁹ This trend became more pronounced in the early 1850’s with the publication of an ordinance which required all weddings and divorces be officiated by the Crown Rabbi. Ceremonies performed by anyone else – including the Spiritual Rabbi – were not considered legally binding.¹⁰ There was not even a super-communal body with any kind of authority over the various communities and their appointment choices, as was the case in France or in Moravia (in the form of the State Rabbi).¹¹ Thus, each Jewish community in the Pale of Settlement had complete autonomy to choose whomever it saw fit to serve as its Spiritual Rabbi. It is important to emphasize that selecting a community rabbi meant more than simply filling an organizational role. Prevailing in the collective consciousness was a holistic conception of what a rabbi ought to be, be it his character or the tasks he was expected to fulfill. As described by Shmuel Yosef Finn: Every community which decides to select for itself a rabbi or a moreh tzedek, wishes to find a spiritual man who will lead them with a life of Torah to which they are accustomed […] The rabbi or moreh tzedek must be like a watchman leading his community. He must observe and know what they lack. He must awake them and induce them to do all that is good and beneficial for themselves. He must oversee the education of the boys and steer a path for the fathers to raise their children on the basis of Torah, morality, and Derekh Eretz, […] This is the obligation of the rabbi and moreh tzedek. ¹²

It is safe to assume that not every community had the same set of priorities when it came to selecting a rabbi.¹³ Nevertheless, during the period under discussion, the process of selecting a rabbi did follow some relatively uniform conventions. Those who considered themselves suitable candidates were expected to submit

 Ettinger 1995, 255.  On this institution, see Shohat 1976; Lederhendler 1989; Greenbaum 2005.  Hamelitz, July 23, 1863; June 9, 1898; Hazefirah, April 9, 1890;  Levanda 1874, 800.  Berkovitz 1999, 61; Miller 2007– 2008.  Hakarmel, March 2, 1870; see also Y. L. Tsirelson, 1929, “ne’um”, otzar hakhayim 5. 209 – 212.  Halevanon, February 20, 1880.

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their application and to present semikha certificates, as well as recommendation letters. They were also expected to make their debut before the local community in the form of a public sermon. Applicants were ranked, sorted, and a final candidate was selected. We should, however, distinguish between the process as conducted in large, prestigious urban communities, and communities in smaller towns or villages. In the former, the practice was to offer the rabbinic throne to famous, wellknown figures, who were also expected to serve as the community’s chief rabbinical justice (Av Beit Din). This practice, based on large communities’ own sense of self-importance and facilitated by the financial resources at their disposal, had already become a norm in previous eras. Accounts from communities such as Amsterdam, Hamburg, Frankfurt Oder, Metz, Prague, Pressburg, Poznan and others clearly support this.¹⁴ Likewise, well known Jewish communities in East European cities, such as Brest, Minsk, Lublin, Mogilev, Grodno, Kobryn, Panevėžys, Kaunas, Riga, Białystok and Slonim followed the same procedure.¹⁵ A characteristic example was the appointment process of the rabbi of Minsk in the second half of the nineteenth century. In 1862, after the deaths of R. David Tevel and R. Moshe Shmuel Pinnes, who served as head of the rabbinical court, it was announced that “the community of Jews in this place have deliberated and decided to call upon the rabbi and great genius Yosef Feimer from Slutsk, to be head of court, and the rabbi of our city. In the coming days they will petition him with an open letter to accept this post”.¹⁶ However, the heads of the community in Slutsk declared that “great is the honor of our rabbi in our eyes, and we will hold onto him and support his endeavors so that his honor may continue to dwell in our midst”.¹⁷ Due to this opposition, the Jewish community of Minsk ultimately failed to appoint rabbi Feimer as their community rabbi. The lengths to which the Jewish community of Minsk was willing to go to appoint a prestigious rabbinic figure is illustrated by an incident that took place in the 1880’s.¹⁸ After the post had remained vacant for some twenty years, it was decided that the time had come to appoint a community rabbi. At first, In light of this, a search committee was established with the participation of fifteen members of the commu-

 Dukkes 1903, 53, 75; Perles 1907, 27– 29; Epstein 1928, III, 1274; Avril 1932, 34; Schwarzfuchs 1986, 256; Loker 1988, 114; Hirshler 2008, 92– 93; Tal 2010, 104.  Hamagid, August 5, 1857; Hamelitz, March 14, 1861; Feinstein 1885, 221; Hamodi’ah, November 8, 1913; Der moment, August 25, 1926; Shahor 1993, 290, 308.  Hamelitz, July 10, 1862; Hakarmel, July 18, 1862.  Hakarmel, September 5, 1862.  Eisenstadt 1899, 34.

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nity.¹⁹ The “great rabbi”, in this case, was none other than R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, the community rabbi of Kaunas and one of the most prominent and famous rabbis in Europe at the time. Since, according to several sources, he was apparently in financial difficulties,²⁰ the community of Minsk presented him with the following offer: “[in order] to support the great rabbi needs, he will be given between 2,000 – 3,000 rubles, besides, the community will provide a regular sum of money as is the practice to [give to] rabbis. We also were willing to give the chosen rabbi a fine home with fine furniture, payed for by the community”. This was a very generous offer, and considering the great prestige ascribed to the rabbinate of Minsk, it is no surprise that on principle R. Spector “was inclined to accept the rabbinic scepter” offered to him. He, however, had one condition: that “our community would provide him 2,000 rubles in advance as a loan that will become a grant in the future”.²¹ However, upon hearing that R. Spector might leave their city, the community of Kaunas began to publicly discuss the possible consequences of such a move.²² Yaacov Lifshits, the rabbi’s loyal, personal secretary, made a concerted effort to scuttle the negotiations with the Jewish community of Minsk. As was his practice, Lifshits avoided discussing the personal interests driving rabbi Spector to consider accepting the offer from Minsk. Instead, he explained Spector’s deliberations by pointing to communal issues such as the community’s ill treatment of local Torah scholars, or the poor economic conditions suffered by local rabbis and morei tzedek. If Spector was to leave Kaunas (so Lifshits argued), this could have a detrimental effect on the community’s welfare system. The obvious conclusion was that every effort should be made to keep him in the city because: “a community which appoints a great rabbi will find him to be a vessel filled with the blessing of unity; and there shall be peace for he who is near and he who is far”. By turning the focus of the discussion to the poorer classes of the commu-

 For a similar process in the Białystok Jewish community, see Herschberg 1949, I, 178.  In statements made by his secretary, Yaacov Lifshitz, during the negotiations, he claimed that Spector’s willingness to positively examine the Minsk community’s proposal, stemmed from “various issues”. On this see Halevanon, March 19, 1880. Many years later, after Spector’s death, Lifshitz claimed that it was the sum of two thousand rubles that Spector needed to marry his orphan granddaughter, See Lifshitz 1897, 91.  According to one source, the Minsk community even agreed to “pay fifteen thousand rubles of his debts in Kaunas”, Mordekhai ben Hillel, 1901, Hador, 16. For another example of payment of previous debts as a condition for receiving a rabbinic position in another community, see Yaffe collection, letter from December 17, 1886.  On the self-perception of the Kaunas Jewish community as worthy of a “great rabbi,” see Hamodi’ah, November 17, 1911. To a similar event that took place in Vilna when news spread about the possible departure of Rabbi Haim Ozer Grodzinski, see Der Moment, August 25, 1926.

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nity, and the circumstances of local morei tzedek, Lifshits diverted community attention from Spector’s monetary demands, depicting him as a figure chiefly concerned with the good of the community.²³ Lifshits’s personal motives should, however be kept in mind; as Spector’s personal secretary, he wielded significant political clout and had every interest to keep Spector in Kaunas. Whether or not Lifshits’s claims had any substance, the Jewish community of Kaunas acceded to at least some of Spector’s demands.²⁴ The problem was that the members of the finding committee in Minsk were willing to acquiesce to these demands as well. Ultimately however, public opposition in Minsk – it seems, due to the financial strain it would place upon community funds – prevented the plan from moving forward: “The great rabbi declined to take the money or the rabbinical post, for those who opposed [him] sent letters and telegrams to dissuade him from coming to our city”.²⁵ Once the community leadership had failed to attract R. Spector, the finding committee continued its efforts and turned to another “great rabbi,” R. David Friedman from Karlin. Once again, however, they failed to attract him to accept the position.²⁶ The question of who to appoint rabbi was only resolved two years later. R. Yerukham Leib Perlman (1835 – 1896), one of the most talented Torah scholars of the time, that later even known as the “great rabbi of Minsk”, was chosen to fill the rabbinic throne in this city.²⁷ The case of two communities fighting over one rabbi was neither unique nor exceptional. A similar incident took place in 1914. In this case, the two sides were

 Lifshitz 1897, 91; Lifshitz was well aware of the details of the negotiations with the Minsk community. This can be deduced from one of his main arguments, that “the community that will not be able to keep the rabbi will not earn the three or four thousand rubles a year designated for charity, of which the poor will be saved”, Halevanon, March 9, 1880. Indeed, three thousand rubles is the grant offered to Spector by the Minsk community.  From his testimony, it is difficult to know what Spector’s true motives were, as well as his exact financial demands, due to Lifshitz’s practice of explaining the need to finance the marriage of an orphan bride or the possibility of holding the deliberations of the local court properly, goals perceived as legitimate because of their religious significance. For a public discussion in this community regarding the selection of a community rabbi at the beginning of the twentieth century, see Unser Leben, January 24, 1911.  For a detailed discussion of this case, see Ivri Anokhi, January 23, 1880; Hazefirah, February 20, 1880.  Hamelitz, July 13, 1880.  Eisenshtadt 1899, 34. A similar controversy, no less severe, arose in Minsk in 1869 regarding the renewal of the appointment on of the Crown Rabbi Zalkind Minor, see Hakarmel, Marc 21, 1869.

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the Jewish communities of Chişinău and Radom.²⁸ The affair began in 1908, when R. Yehuda Leib Tsirelson (1859 – 1941) was chosen to serve as the community rabbi of Chişinău. This was after the city had not had a rabbi for many years. His appointment was renewed in 1913. However, during this period, a small group of his opponents maneuvered to withhold his salary, traditionally funded by the kosher meat tax. While the community made sure that his salary would not be affected, this lack of faith prompted Tsirelson to search for a rabbinical post elsewhere. Among others, he turned to the community of Radom in Poland, which just so happened to be searching for a prestigious, famous rabbi at the time. During the negotiations, which took place without the knowledge of the community of Chişinău, a preliminary contract was drafted. According to the people of Radom, Tsirelson even helped draft the contract although it was never actually given to him. Tsirelson even sent an emissary to Radom on his behalf, “to spy on all the matters of the city”. At the same time, an emissary was sent by the Radom Jewish community to Chişinău to receive rabbi Tsirelson’s explicit assent. Tsirelson did not just agree, he gave his commitment in writing, which was delivered to the heads of the Jewish community of Radom. Thus, in the elections that took place in Radom, a clear majority chose Tsirelson as the community rabbi.²⁹ Immediately afterward, “the writ of rabbinic appointment was written and signed in accordance with the will of rabbi Tsirelson, by all parties in the community”,³⁰ and a delegation was sent to Chişinău with a writ of rabbinic appointment. When word got out in Chişinău, a communal effort was made to dissuade rabbi Tsirelson from carrying out his plan. Among other things, they claimed that the writ given to him by the community of Radom was only signed on the condition that the community of Chişinău would agree. Their efforts proved successful, and Tsirelson informed the people of Radom that he could not move to their city. In order to solve the dispute, while the Radom delegation was still in Chişinău, both sides agreed that the issue should be resolved by R. Shmaryhu Noah Schneerson of Bobruisk, and both agreed to accept his ruling.³¹ The arbitration process began in the beginning of March 1914. Schneerson ruled that the community of Radom “had won the

 For details, see Sha’arey Torah, 1914, 8, booklet 7. 1– 6; ibid, booklet 8, 1– 4; ibid, booklet 9, 1– 2; Heint, April 15, 1914; Wax, 1876 – 1877, para. 68 – 69; See also Bacon 1999.  Hamodi’ah, February 27, 1914.  On similar negotiations conducted by Rabbi Haim Berlin with the Volkovysk community while serving in the Kremenchug community, see Shahor 1993, 315 – 316.  To the detailed text of the arbitration agreement, see Sha’arey Torah, 8, booklet 8, 1– 2.

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case, both legally and morally”.³² However, despite his earlier commitment, Tsirelson decided not to obey the ruling, and even ignored an offer by the community of Radom to hold another court case headed by three of the most prestigious rabbis in Poland. At the same time, the community of Chişinău took measures to prevent the ruling being implemented; they turned to the authorities, asking them to prevent rabbi Tsirelson from leaving the city before the end of his tenure, as stipulated in his original appointment.³³ This was the end of the controversy. Despite the picture described, it is clear that both in the case of Minsk and that of Radom, in addition to Spector and Tsirelson there were many other rabbis who considered themselves suitable candidates for these positions. In other words, the problem of filling rabbinic posts was not from want of suitable candidates, but rather a consequence of the high bar set by communities who expected a community rabbi with a prestigious image and a high public status. Because a rabbinical post in a large city was considered an honor, a vacancy meant many rabbis would apply for the post. For example, during the selection process for the community rabbi of Kaunas in 1913, no less than ten candidates, some of the most prominent and famous rabbis of the time, were proposed.³⁴ Because the demand for rabbinic positions far outweighed the supply, the community had an acute advantage, which was also reflected in the status of the rabbi who was chosen. Here we should note that smaller communities sometimes also aspired to appoint a “great rabbi,” even when they were unable to bear the heavy financial burden this would entail.³⁵ Thus, even in these communities with less stringent criteria, reputation and experience were certainly sought after. The claim, prevalent in Orthodox hagiography, that some rabbis preferred to serve in small communities so they could dedicate the majority of their time to Torah study, is typical idealization of the past. The reality was quite different. A rabbinic post in a large, prestigious community was considered the culmination of a rabbinic career. From the cases described above, it is clear that the elitist selfperception of large communities considerably limited the chances of certain candidates from receiving the job. Thus, talented rabbis who were either young, at the beginning of their careers, or had only served in small communities and failed to push their way into the collective consciousness of the public, had trouble finding positions that matched their talents.

 Ibid, 3. For a similar halachik discussion in the case of “a cantor who had been in his city for some time … and after that he was hired for another city”, see Katzenelenbogen 1989, para. 142.  Sha’arey Torah, 8, booklet 9, 2.  Hamodi’ah, April 3, 1914.  See, for instance, Hamelitz, February 12, 1886.

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2 “It is Difficult to be a Prophet in One’s Own City” If we return to medium and small communities, sometimes, the first option was to fill a rabbinic position by exhausting the most available and immediate option – that is, by bequeathing the rabbinate to the son or son-in-law of the previous rabbi. This practice was a venerable one, deeply rooted in the history of Jewish communities, and the subject was discussed extensively in community ordinances, rabbinic literature,³⁶ and public discourse,³⁷ and has featured prominently in academic scholarship.³⁸ In fact, many sons and sons-in-law of incumbent rabbis considered themselves natural successors and eagerly awaited for the position to become open. They sometimes assumed that a rabbinic post rightfully belonged to a father or father-in-law as usucapion (Hazakah),³⁹ and maintained that he had the right to pass onto his heirs.⁴⁰ Until the position became vacant, many of these would-be successors would serve in various rabbinical positions (as described above), or even as the rabbis of smaller communities. They considered this both a training period as well as a springboard to the position they desired. With the death of the incumbent rabbi, the possibility of bequeathing his position to his son or son-in-law was considered, and sometimes even realized. This could be for one of the several reasons mentioned above, or due to the rabbi’s explicit request, a clause in his will, pressure from his widow, or a recommendation of a famous rabbinic figure.⁴¹ In some cases, while it was decided on principle that the position be bequeathed, but the heir was still too young or had yet to receive rabbinic ordination, the community was sometimes willing to wait for the heir to attain the training or age required. During this time, the

 De Modena 1862, yoreh de’ah, para. 85; Te’omim 1864, 92; Lifshitz 1873, para 7; Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 59; Shik, 1880 – 1884, yoreh de’ah, para. 228; Tennenbaum 1891, IV, para. 82; ibid, V, para. 24; Borenstein 1913, hilkhot shvu’ot, para. 312; Shmuel 1926; Shvadron 1992, IV, para. 143; Valdenberg, 1985 – 1998, III, para 29; Shternbukh 1986 – 2002, hoshen mishpat, para. 719.  Hashakhar, 7, 652– 653; Hamelitz, November 28, 1882.  Benayahu 1953, 37; Hoenig 1972; Breuer 1991, 213; Berkovitz 1999, 62; Schwarzfuchs 1999; Stampfer 1999; Roth 2006; Shapira 2007; Borenstein-Makovetsky 2010; Stampfer 2010, 284; Gertner 2013, 336 – 345; Yarden 2015, 177.  Some of the halachic authorities were of the opinion that the rabbi could not even forgive the Hazaka, belonging to his sons. See Frenkel 2000, para. 33.  For bequeathing the position among the Orthodox clergy in Russia in the period under review, see Freeze 1978, 126.  Hamelitz, January 7, 1884; Marc 17, 1896; February 4, 1901; Hazefirah, May 13, 1896; Hamodi’ah, September 25, 1912; Ha’ohel 17, 1– 2. 78.

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rabbi’s family did everything in its power not to lose its hold on the rabbinic usucapion (Hazakah), sometimes hiring a moreh tzedek who filled the position of the future-rabbi until the latter was suitable to serve.⁴² Similarly, if the deceased rabbi was childless, or if none of his children was a suitable candidate – as happened, for example, in 1899 in the town of Viešintos (Lithuania) – it was sometimes stipulated that the successor marry the daughter of his predecessor.⁴³ We can see the prevalence of this practice from an advertisement published by the Jewish community in the town of Telekhany after the death of R. Yeshaayahu Eliezer Ilovitsky (1842– 1914): “the people of the city have decided not to accept any rabbi. Rather, they will search for an unmarried man with rabbinic ordination, one suited to the rabbinic crown, to marry the daughter of the deceased rabbi, and [receive] with it the rabbinate, as is already the custom in the cities of Israel”.⁴⁴ As far as appointing the heir, in many cases the deceased rabbi’s family would enlist the aid of famous rabbinic figures attending the funeral, having them essentially force their opinion on the community. This happened after the death of R. Moshe Yitzhak Segal (1812– 1870), rabbi of the town of Augustów. During his funeral, attended by rabbis Yehoshua Eliashsohn (1799 – 1871) of Seiny, Eliezer Simkha Rabinowitz (1832– 1911) of Suwałki, and Shmuel Mohilever of Radom, they asked those present “to care for the orphans, […] and to send for the rabbi’s son-in-law, rabbi Katriel Aharon Natan, that he should come here and accede to the throne of his deceased father-in-law. The community leaders did not leave the synagogue until they had drafted and signed the writ of his rabbinic appointment”.⁴⁵ Although rabbi Segal’s son-in-law, R. Katriel Aharon Natan (1842– 1921), lacked any experience as a community rabbi, and even though there were other candidates who were no less, if not more qualified, R. Mohilever and his two partners based their decision not on R. Katriel’s scholastic excellence or his public status, but rather his familial connections and the importance of assuring the financial welfare of the deceased rabbi’s orphans.

 Hamodi’ah, November 10, 1911; For criticism of this phenomenon, as well as for cases in which the family of the designated rabbi hired a “chick whose eyes were not opened, who is not even familiar with the names of the non-kosher animals”, see Hamelitz, January 7, 1903; Benayahu 1953, 38 – 40.  Hamelitz, September 3, 1899. For similar cases, see Hamelitz, June 24, 1892; June 28, 1892; July 7, 1897; February 23, 1898; May 8, 1899; January 10, 1900; Hazefirah, January 14, 1901; Hapeles 4. 64; Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910; January 31, 1913; July 11, 1913; July 18, 1913; August 29, 1913; Shapiro 1999, 18; Ezrakhi 2014, 155.  Hamodi’ah, May 1, 1914; May 15, 1914; July 24, 1914.  Hamagid, May 18, 1870.

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In this context, a certain conception developed – in the public discourse of the time as well as in academic studies – that many communities considered inheritance of the rabbinate preferable to other options. Some scholars have even pointed to several advantages yielded by such an option; most significantly, the appointment of an heir bypassed internal communal tensions and thus avoided a rift in the community, a common occurrence in such cases.⁴⁶ Moreover, in many such cases the rabbi’s widow and her associates in the community supported the appointment of an heir, since it would, among other things, guarantee her financial future.⁴⁷ Indeed, according to the statistic presented by Haim Gertner, at the beginning of the nineteenth century inheritance of the rabbinate was the practice in no less than a one-third of the Jewish communities in Galicia examined by him.⁴⁸ However, the present study found the contrary to be the case: in the Lithuanian Jewish cultural area, inheritance of the rabbinate was not common. Of the 1,500 community rabbis examined, only 150 (10 %) were the son or son-in-law of the previous rabbi, both in big and small communities. This was despite the position espoused by many halachic authorities that children should inherit the rabbinic positions of their fathers.⁴⁹ Thus, it seems that there is no evidence to back-up Shaul Stampfer’s claim that the rabbinate was frequently inherited in the late nineteenth century.⁵⁰ The vast majority of rabbis examined in this study were chosen from a wide selection of candidates, including the sons and sons-in-law of incumbent rabbis, who had grown up in rabbinic families, but who nevertheless had to vie over the position just like everyone else. Indeed, in the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere the phenomenon of the rabbinic family – that is, a family in which rabbinic activity was passed down from one generation to the next – was certainly a reality. That being said, it is important to distinguish between a rabbi’s son who inherited the actual rabbinical post of his father, and one who inherited the vocation of his father but filled a rabbinical post elsewhere. Findings from an analysis of the biographies of sons and sons-in-law of community rabbis indicates that many of them served as rabbis in other communities – not the community in which their father or father-in-law had served. A close reading of contemporary sources can help us understand why this was case. First and foremost, it should be borne in mind that the selection of a rabbi constituted an opportunity for various elements in the community, espe-

 Stampfer 1999, 318; see also Feivelsohn 1914, 51– 52.  Hamodi’ah, February 14, 1913; June 12, 1914.  Gertner 2013, 223. On this phenomenon in the neo-Orthodox circles in Germany, see Breuer 1991, 213.  See, for instance, Tennenbaum, V, para. 24.  Stampfer 2010, 284.

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cially those belonging to the local elite, to exercise their political and economic power, and to strengthen their influence over the community’s central religious authority, as can be seen from the description of R. Yehuda Leib Margaliot (1747– 1811) of Bazanów: In their haughtiness, the leaders and rulers of the community did not want to appoint over themselves a famous, respectable, and righteous rabbi. This would require them to submit to him, and to give him the power to punish wrongdoers for their crimes. They prefer to choose a rabbi who will submit to them, one with no power. And when the rabbi wishes to correct some matter pertaining to the law in the community, everything will be done by consulting them. He will have to speak to them softly and flatter them [in order to convince them] to agree with him.⁵¹

In some cases, appointing the son of the previous rabbi actually served the interests of this group, especially if he was young and inexperienced.⁵² Nevertheless, during the second half of the nineteenth century, with the rise of the “politic of the masses”, the power equation was complicated by the intensive involvement of the masses in local political issues – including the selection of the community rabbi.⁵³ Yet, the idea that bequeathing the rabbinate to an heir depended on the assent of the community members seems as a modern idea, actually it has a strong basis in halachic literature.⁵⁴ In any case, appointing a rabbi based on a system of inheritance, rendered the selection process unnecessary, preventing various power players, including the “masses,” from taking advantage of the opportunity. We can also note that plans to appoint the son or son-in-law of the previous rabbi prompted in some cases sharp opposition, depending on his character and personality, which did not always place him in an advantageous position to follow in his father’s footsteps.⁵⁵ Furthermore, opposition to inheritance of the rabbinate sometimes resulted from ill will between the late rabbi and other figures in the community.⁵⁶ In such cases, they considered the transition period an

 Margaliot 1786, 42.  Hamelitz, February 8, 1883.  See, for instance, Hazefirah, September 9, 1880; April 21, 1896; Hamelitz, January 7, 1903; Hamodi’ah, September 11, 1912. For a halachic discussion of this question see Teleshevsky 1897, 13; Lapidot 2006, 161– 162.  See, for instance, Shik 1880 – 1884, yoreh de’ah, para. 228; Sofer 1912, orahk haim, para. 12.  Hamelitz, May 12, 1884; October 26, 1899; Hmodi’ah, February 16, 1911; Taviumy 1949, 14; Levin 1997, 557.  For a similar phenomenon in Altona, Hamburg and Wandsbek communities at the beginning of the eighteenth century see Dukkes 1903, 14. See also Kark 1996, 15; Harel 1999; In order to deal with this sensitive and complex issue, R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelson offered to solve the problem by means of regulations, but this did not happen, Feivelson 1914, 240 – 242.

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excellent opportunity to publicly voice their grievances and call for a change in “direction”. In some cases, opposition to appointing the rabbi’s designated heir could also heighten tensions within the deceased rabbi’s family – for example, a power struggle between the rabbi’s son and one of his sons-in-law. When opinions were so divided, opponents of the heir would present an alternative candidate (or candidates), selecting them based on their superiority to the heir – in terms of age, knowledge, or public status.⁵⁷ In light of the aforementioned, it seems that the conclusion of R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim (who actually did inherit the rabbinic throne of his father in Panevėžys) that “it is not good that the rabbinate should be handed down as inheritance”, sums up well the sentiment which prevailed in the time and place under discussion.⁵⁸

3 “They Travelled from the Four Corners of the Earth” As noted above, bequeathing the rabbinate was not a widespread practice during this time, and in most cases, communities sought candidates elsewhere. The news of vacant rabbinical posts were disseminated through various channels, such as letters sent to various communities,⁵⁹ or word-of-mouth from merchants and wagon drivers. In the second half of the nineteenth century, information began to be disseminated via a new medium – the nascent Jewish press.⁶⁰ For example, the following advertisement was published in Hamagid in 1875: We, the Jewish community of Simferopol, seek a man with much insight and fear of God, a man in whom wisdom, knowledge, and understanding are combined, a man who is good and does good to others, who speaks peace, from forty years and up, and who has been crowned with ordination from the greatest rabbis of our time. He must also know how to respond to questions posed to him about the laws of the kingdom, as he will sometimes need to stand before the authorities. After he is examined and searched and found to have these virtues, then he will have the pleasure and satisfaction to sit upon the rabbinic throne of our community, and we will crown him with its crown and fully provide his

 Lifshitz 1873, para. 7. On the confrontation between R. Shmuel Mohilever and R. Haim Halpern (the son of the previous rabbi) on the question of who will serve as the next head of the rabbinical court in Białystok see Herschberg 1949, I, 178 – 179. See also Hamelitz, April 19, 1893.  See Hamelitz, July 25, 1890. On a similar trend related to the reforms in the Russian Orthodox church see Freeze 1978, 37.  Shteinshneider 1900, 16.  On a searchable advertisement for a rabbi for the Hamburg Jewish community, published in the Jewish press in 1850 see Dessler 2013, 179. For the contemporary Jewish press as a tool for disseminating useful information, see Kouts 1999; idem 2006; Tal 2011, 222– 223; Orchan 2013, 41– 68.

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wages. Every rabbi and moreh tzedek who desires this position should send us copies of his recommendations from those who gave him ordination, and inform us about details of his yearly salary, and then we will present him with a fitting document.⁶¹

Such advertisements were common in the Jewish press of the time, significantly expanding the pool of potential candidates for any vacant rabbinic post.⁶² In this case, the majority of necessary information has been provided, allowing a young rabbinic scholar to consider whether he met the requirements to contend for such a post. Thus, for example, the abovementioned notice required applicants to be over forty years old, to be able to prove their skills in sermonizing and to have some proficiency in Russian; this significantly reduced the number of suitable candidates. On the other hand, no previous experience as a community rabbi was required. In other words, even someone who had only served as a moreh tzedek or rabbinical judge could submit his application. At the same time, newspapers were also used to disseminate, in parallel, details about young yeshiva graduates who wished to present their candidacy for vacant rabbinical posts. When a young scholar, or a community rabbi searching for a new post elsewhere, found potential vacancies, he could take several measures to begin advancing his candidacy. Some did this by corresponding in writing with influential figures in relevant communities.⁶³ Others turned to famous rabbis living nearby. Thus, for example, in a letter written by R. Haim Berlin in 1892 to R. Yosef David Shahor (1860 – 1906), the community rabbi of Antopol, the former implores him to help him receive the prestigious rabbinical post of the Jewish community of Kobryn.⁶⁴ However, many young scholars searching for rabbinical posts preferred to embark on job-hunting searches, sometimes lasting for a long time, hoping in the end to receive a signed writ of rabbinic appointment. These travels, which became part of the public arena in the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere, are described vividly by a contemporary: They [the candidates] traveled from all four corners of the earth and camped in Kaunas and they travelled from Kaunas and camped in Prienai, and they travelled from Prienai and

 Hamagid, December 15, 1875. See also Hamelitz, June 15, 1883; Hamodi’ah, April 26, 1912.  See, for example, the advertisement of the Jewish community of Lidzbark, Hamagid, June 3, 1863; August 19, 1858; Hamelitz, November 27, 1875; December 9, 1903; Hazefirah, January 19, 1876; June 6, 1890.  Dessler 2013, 179, 183.  Shahor 1993, 291. See also the request of R. Zelig Reuven Bengis to Rabbi Yosef David Shahor to assist him in receiving the position of the rabbinate in the community of Antopol, ibid, 342. See also the appeal of R. Naftali Amsterdam to R. Yitzhak Blazer, Blazer 1974, 208.

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camped in Balbieriškis, and they traveled from Balbieriškis, and they camped in Sloboda. This is the way of the wandering rabbis in our time … they move about the four corners of the earth, and to all the places in which they are not known.⁶⁵

These young scholars, however, soon realized that their way would be far from paved. For example, they would learn that just because a vacancy was being advertised, did not mean it actually existed. Sometimes the post had already been filled. Other times, the advertisement was the work of disgruntled individuals in the community, embroiled in a dispute with the incumbent rabbi, publishing the advertisement with the sole purpose of humiliating their opponent.⁶⁶ During his wanderings, the young scholar also learned that he was not the only one vying for the position. Until the mid-nineteenth century, the number of contenders for any given rabbinic post was on average five.⁶⁷ In the second half of the nineteenth century by contrast, this number rose dramatically, sometimes reaching dozens for each position. A number of factors contributed to this trend: a decline in employment opportunities; a significant drop in the number of available rabbinic posts – the result of economic hardship and the decline in population due to trans-Atlantic immigration; the expansion of the yeshiva system, and the concomitant rise in graduates who sought employment befitting their studies;⁶⁸ and the greater availability of information regarding vacancies thanks to the wide dissemination offered by Jewish newspapers. This change was widely commented on in the public discourse of the time. Notably, those most intimately familiar with this phenomenon, the community rabbis, took an active part in the discussion.⁶⁹ Thus, for example, Pinhas Lintop, the rabbi of the town of Biržai, wrote that “in these difficult times halachic scholars have abounded sevenfold from what was, so much so, that every small town which has a vacancy, is courted by hundreds with ordination”.⁷⁰ Likewise, Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn (1867– 1928), the rabbi of the Jewish community of Kupiškis, also bemoaned that “whenever the question of the rabbinate in any town arises, dozens and dozens of rabbis come through its gate, and many come all at once, one is preaching in

 Hamelitz, July 16, 1896.  See, for instance, the ad published in the newspaper Hamelitz about a vacant rabbinic position in Darbenai (Hamelitz, January 30, 1889). Two weeks later, a denial was published in the same newspaper stating that the previous ad had been posted by “people who hate the rabbi”, (Hamelitz, February 18, 1889).  Sofer 1912, hoshen mishpat, para. 160; Eshkoly 1948, 185; Litt 2008, 128 – 129.  Zakheim 1904, II, 93; Stampfer 1999, 320.  Hamelitz, September 12, 1895; Eshkoly 1948, 195; Shapira 1964, 19. To a similar reality in German-speaking area, see Breuer 1991, 212.  Kneset Hagedolah, III. 18 – 27; Weiner 1975, 12; Kotik 2005, 55.

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the evening and another preaches the next morning”.⁷¹ Because of the surplus in demand for rabbinic posts, young scholars were even willing to accept positions in small remote communities, leaving their wives and children behind.⁷² This influx was only exacerbated when a vacancy opened in prestigious, well-known communities, when “many of the rabbis are jumping [at the opportunity] to ascend the throne”, in rabbi Haim Berlin’s words.⁷³ In a broader context, these young scholars searching for rabbinic posts, can be compared to permanent itinerant workers – a phenomenon which prevailed in the time and place under discussion in both Jewish and non-Jewish society.⁷⁴ This practice has been discussed not only in the context of rabbinic circles but also in wider circles who have seen it as a sign of the decline of this institution. The low public image of the community rabbinate, which was associated with this reality, also exposed these hosts of competitors to satire, such as in the following text: Nothing can compare to the joy felt by yeshiva students when they hear that one of the rabbis has died. They all move from their place and are spurred into action. Those bent over books awake, those with ordination begin to whisper, hats are ironed, Sabbath cloaks are cleaned, sidelocks are curled, and travel bags are packed. They all move, and wander, and run, and travel, and deceive one another, and surpass each other. Seven yeshiva students will seize hold of one rabbinic post with force and trickery.⁷⁵

When they arrived at the town with a vacancy, these young scholars would begin to promote their chances of receiving the job in a frenzy. This was accomplished by availing themselves of the services of “local agents”, such as inn owners, but mainly through lobbying in local influential circles, or by presenting their letters of recommendation.⁷⁶ To bolster their candidacy, some would travel with a pres-

 Hapisgah X. 98 – 108; Hazefirah, October 29, 1886; Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913.  See, for instance, Blazer 1974, 212, 238.  Shahor 1993, 290.  Anderson 1980; Stamper 1995.  Hamelitz, May 21, 1897. To the social image that accompanied such struggles in the ranks of the clergy, see Freeze 1977, 145.  Zakheim 1904, II, 93; Ovtsinsky 1908, 165; Rabiner 1956, 1– 3; Landa 1958, orahk haim, para. 15; Bergman 1998, 271; Heitner 2006, 28, 56; Ehrenreich 2007, 124; Dessler 2008, 399. During the struggle for the rabbinate in Riga, both sides made an effort to win the support of R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, see Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 59. On a rabbi who won a rabbinate position based on the apparent recommendation of Rabbi Spector, see Hamelitz, February 10, 1892. To the reflection of this reality in the popular folklore, see Druyanov 1956, I, 173. See also Grade 1982, 39.

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tigious relative or a well-known rabbi, who served as a sort of “promoter”.⁷⁷ Such a promoter was known to sometimes play a decisive role in the final choice of candidate. Such was the case of R. Avraham Yitzhak Kook (1865 – 1935), who was interested in a rabbinic post in the small community of Žeimelis in northern Lithuania. To promote his candidacy, Kook arrived with his father in law R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim, a famous rabbi at the time. According to account of the latter, the young candidate delivered a sermon, as was the practice, “and the community leadership were satisfied by my guarantee that he is suited for halachic ruling. I also showed them his ordination papers, and they immediately crowned him rabbi”.⁷⁸ Those who could not boast such an impressive advocate as R. RabinowitzTe’omim, found themselves facing a number of challenges. One source of disillusionment among these young scholars was the number of experienced morei tzedek and existing community rabbis seeking their fortunes in new locations and contending for the same position.⁷⁹ Because of their previous experience, good connections, or prestigious image, they were considered preferable to candidates who were young and inexperienced. As a contemporary describes it: “every community desires to appoint a rabbi who has already served as a rabbinical judge in one of the communities; a rabbi with extensive experience who already has a reputation in the world – not a new rabbi who has never used the crown of Torah”.⁸⁰ Thus, for example, when R. Haim Berlin, the rabbi of the Jew-

 Waks 1876, I, 2; Hazefirah, August 26, 1889; Weitz 1938, 17; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 59, 67. About R. Mordechai Gimpel Yaffe’s efforts to help his son-in-law, R. Zvi Walk, to find a rabbinic position, see Yaffe Collection, letters of August 11, 1882; May 21, 1883; June 1, 1887. For R. Yaffe’s efforts to assist R. Yaacov Dov Rapoport to accept the position of the rabbinate in Derechyn, see Dessler 2008, 342– 350. On the efforts of R. Eliyahu Barukh Kamai to assist his son in receiving a rabbinic position, see Dessler 1999, 224.  Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 67. It is possible that Kook needed the assistance of his father-inlaw because he did not yet have rabbinic ordination. On the advice of his father, on his way to Žeimelis he visited R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein, which gave him an ordination, see Rafael 1986, 246. According to another source, the one who helped him to accept this position was R. Israel Meir of Radin, Karlinski 1936, 22. R. Rabinowitz-Te’omim often helped rabbis from his relatives, and those who were close to him, in receiving rabbinical positions. See Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27– 28. See also R. Eliyahu Levin’s testimony that he received a rabbinic post only when R. Eliyahu Shik “traveled personally to the city of Traby and received a Torah crown for me”, Levin 1900, 4.  Goldberg 1931, introduction.  Hamelitz, November 10, 1891, November 5, 1883; Pervoznik 1907, introduction; Weiner 1975, 12. In a searchable advertisement published by the Jewish community in Glasgow, Scotland, it was noted: “the right will only be for those who have already sat on the seat of the rabbinate in

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ish community of Kobryn, arrived in Kremenchug to attend a wedding of a relative, he was petitioned by “the heads of the community to accept the rabbinic crown in their community”.⁸¹ Furthermore, many communities actually preferred older candidates nearing the ends of their rabbinic careers: It is an accepted opinion in large and medium communities alike, that when it comes time to appoint a rabbi, they disqualify a candidate with a black beard, whose hairs have yet to grey, and who has never served as a rabbi previously. They prefer an old rabbi who has assumed the rabbinic throne in some small town, who has already experienced toil, hardship and shortage, whose hands and spirit grow tired from this work, who wishes for the rest he deserves after so many years of hardship.⁸²

The preference for older rabbis was unrelated to whether or not they had the skills for the job. As explained in a letter penned by R. Meshulam Roth, who served as a rabbi in a small community and searched for a rabbinic post in a larger one: “for I know the practice in the large communities of our land: they will not deign to accept a young rabbi, even if his virtues and knowledge be as lofty as cedar trees”.⁸³ In such a “buyer’s market”, some young candidates would resort to every method at their disposal to achieve their goals – so much so, that “the battle over the rabbinic throne is like the battle of merchants in the market; everyone will spill the blood of his fellow for nothing, each one will honor himself at the expense of his friend”.⁸⁴ We even hear of would-be rabbis who went so far as to try deposing incumbent community rabbis, especially those who had grown old.⁸⁵ In any case, the prevailing mood was that “almost all the rabbis in the small towns of Lithuania and Samogitia and many of those from the cities of Po-

one of the cities of Russia”, Hamodi’ah, May 1, 1914. On a similar concept in the selection of community pastors, see Nesbitt 1995, 164.  Shahor 1993, 300. About a similar request from the Jewish community of Panevėžys, see ibid, 308. See also Hayom, August 15, 1886.  Hamelitz, December 25, 1899. Heitner 2006, 32. See also: “In Pruzhany, almost all the distinguished members of the community leadership wanted to appoint the Gaon of Kosow, and only some of them disagreed because he was young and they preferred an older rabbi”, Yaffe collection, a letter from August 30, 1882.  Roth, private collection, letter from July 7, 1903.  Hamelitz, May 21, 1897. See also: “Like peddlers and merchants who publicly declare the nature of their wares and visit many towns to find buyers – many of the young rabbis visit towns in order to find a vacant rabbinical position”, Halevanon, March 25, 1874. About a similar phenomenon regarding finding a clerical job in the villages, see Freeze 1977, 145.  Hamelitz, August 23, 1897; Cohen 1902, 11.

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land and White Russia, are appointed by virtue of their own lobbying when they come to assume a rabbinic throne”, as attested by one rabbi.⁸⁶ The large supply of candidates created problems not only for the potential candidates. It also disrupted life in the communities. They had trouble withstanding this onslaught and found it difficult to conduct a decent, orderly selection process. To solve the problem, communities had to contrive creative strategies for conducting the selection proceedings. As described by R. Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg (1884 – 1966), who at the beginning of his career served as rabbi in the town of Pilviškiai: In small towns, a practice has spread to cast the names of the candidates into a box; whoever’s name is drawn wins the rabbinate. […] It is, however, well known that the “lucky” man who wins the “lottery” is the one whose perseverance and success have allowed him to spread a net of conspiracies and guiles, and all sorts of open and secret “recommendations”, which only men lacking self-respect are capable of.⁸⁷

The many accounts about the difficulty of receiving a rabbinical post, especially those pouring forth from the hearts of rabbis who had experienced the challenge themselves, leave no room for doubt about the historicity of this picture.

4 “Matchmakers of Communities with Vacancies” Given this reality, a new factor emerged – agents or mediators, “matchmakers of communities with vacancies”, in the parlance of the time,⁸⁸ who offered their services to candidates and communities alike. These agents played an important part in the publicization of vacant rabbinic posts; in parallel, they represented different candidates in the selection and filling of these positions. Availing himself of an agent, a rabbinic candidate received a dual benefit (at least so it seemed): besides the hope that the agent would successfully promote his candidacy, he could also save the time and effort needed to travel to communities with vacancies, some lying far-afield – sometimes only to find that a desired position had already been filled. Moreover, the sum paid to an agent was usually not more expensive than the costs of travelling frequently to conduct “job-talks” in various communities. Likewise, because of this system, a community seeking

 Hamelitz, July 29, 1897.  Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911, July 22, 1910.  Hamelitz, May 2, 1889; Margaliot 1715, introduction.

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a new rabbi could also save itself the trouble of bargaining with a large number of candidates. These agents were usually concentrated in a large city to which young scholars and rabbis searching for jobs would arrive from neighboring locales.⁸⁹ The character of these agents and their works practices can be learned from the generally critical portrayals of the time: Messengers and matchmakers travel from town to town and perpetuate dispute in Israel. The majority of these matchmakers are large and fat, talented scholars who have forgotten their studies, or rich men who have become impoverished, and they stand between the rabbi and the community. It is enough to advertise in a newspaper that in such-andsuch a town the rabbi has died, and they will swarm there like locusts, each one bearing recommendation letters and endorsement letters on behalf of his candidate, and blackening the reputation of the other candidate, who likewise wants, through his matchmakers, to attain the position.⁹⁰

Even though this system could have benefitted both sides – candidates and communities – in actuality, it proved to be mostly obstructive. Some agents represented many candidates, all vying for the same position; the connections they forged with communal authorities were not always free from “favors”; the claims that matchmakers conveyed to candidates about their level of influence on the decision makers of a given community, sometimes proved exaggerated or unfounded; and some were even accused of blackmailing candidates who refused to avail themselves of their representation.⁹¹ Nevertheless, many candidates employed them – especially if they lacked any connections in other communities or did not have the time and sources to travel in search of posts.⁹² With time, the use of this institution, as problematic as it was, became widespread. This was despite the negative effect it had on the character and image of the community rabbinate. Rabbi Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg describes well the prevailing situation at the beginning of the 1910’s: “if the matter is a free-for-all, and the rabbi’s selection is to be handed over to messengers and ‘diligent matchmakers’ who turn

 Hamelitz, July 16, 1896; October 27, 1896; Grade 1982, 20.  Hamelitz, September 25, 1896, August 20, 1886; August 29, 1886; September 7, 1886; July 14, 1897.  The following is a quote from a letter sent by a “matchmaker” to one of the candidates he represented for the position of rabbi: “Here they are interested in receiving him for a rabbi, so send me my salary to the address below, and I will try to finish it. And if not …”, Hamelitz, July 14, 1897, July 16, 1896; November 16, 1896; Zakheim 1904, II, 93; Hamodi’ah, July 22, 1910.  Hamelitz, January 26, 1899; Heitner 2006, 28.

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it into a laughingstock in the eyes of the community, then I worry that Torah will be forgotten from Israel”.⁹³ Whether caused by agents promoting their candidates or by the candidates themselves, the commotion surrounding the appointment of a community rabbi meant that an organized selection process was practically impossible. Therefore, some communities would announce through Jewish newspapers that interested candidates should submit their candidacy in writing only, and should not arrive in person to promote themselves. These announcements were reinforced by sanctions, ranging from penalizing a candidate who arrived without an express invitation by not paying his travel fees, to disqualifying a candidate who did not follow procedure. Some communities preempted this by announcing, sometimes along with the announcement of a rabbi’s departure or death that the entire process would be conducted and initiated by the community, directly or through agents, and that therefore candidates should not apply or visit at all.⁹⁴

5 “There is no shame, no justice, and no trust in a friend” One would think that choosing the community rabbi would be conducted in an orderly fashion, dictated by well-defined criteria, and that the ultimate goal was to fill the position with the most suitable candidate. Disagreements as to how suitable different candidates were, is of course, unavoidable. Moreover, when it came to selecting a rabbi, who would not only serve as a judicial and halachic authority but also as an ethical role-model, arguments would, one would think, revolve around ideas and abilities. And in truth, we can reasonably assume that many of those involved in the selection process genuinely did want to find and appoint the most suitable candidate according to these criteria. Thus, for example, to promote the selection process and manage it in an organized fashioned, the Kahal in certain communities would create a “search committee” entrusted with sorting candidates and voting as to who was most suitable. The finding committee would sometimes even consult prestigious rabbis and request their opinions about which candidate to choose.⁹⁵ That being said, because there were concerns that certain candidates would receive special treatment – because

 Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911, September 22, 1911.  Hamelitz, June 15, 1883; December 17, 1883; July 18, 1844; August 30, 1886; September 25, 1889; June 28, 1892; February 28, 1896; May 15, 1896; July 7, 1897; Hazefirah, November 20, 1885; April 10, 1892; April 8, 1896; October 18, 1898.  Halevanon, May 14, 1880; Hamelitz, November 21, 1884.

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they were relatives of a committee-member or because of the personal interests of one or many committee members – the trust placed finding committees was very low. Therefore, there were repeated attempts to minimize their influence,⁹⁶ in many cases, turning the process into a convoluted and heated battlefield, becoming the nexus of conflict between different local power players and other parties who considered the process an excellent opportunity to promote personal, familial or political interests.⁹⁷ By virtue of the power they wielded (usually financial in nature), such parties tried to take control of the process and divert it to follow a course more to their liking. Thus, for example, local butchers were particularly interested and involved in the selection process. As a future rabbi’s decisions about the kashrut of their wares could have a significant impact on their livelihood, they naturally preferred a younger less experienced candidate, one entirely subject to the whims of the community for his income. A rabbi known for his lenient halachic rulings on kashrut was also an attractive option.⁹⁸ Likewise, nepotism was not unknown; rabbis, especially famous ones, would take pains to have their sons, sons-in-law, or relatives appointed as rabbis.⁹⁹ One of the central questions discussed in this context, was the identity of those who comprised the selection body. In earlier eras, the practice was that the community’s elected leadership would select the rabbi, sometimes in conjunction with the bourgeoisie taxpayers.¹⁰⁰ In our time period, however, the privilege of this elite – which had sometimes manifested itself in the institution of the Kahal in the form of body which selected the community rabbi – had almost entirely disappeared. From mid-nineteenth century onwards, especially after the dissolution of the Kahal by the Russian authorities in 1844, Jewish communities in the Pale of Settlement were overtaken by what amounted to anarchy.¹⁰¹ This was especially true in terms of the power once held by the Kahal, which now lacked any centralized guidance. We therefore see a growing trend of democratization in the selection process. A new contender joined the fray: the “masses,” that is, community members who did not belong to any political, economic, or intellectual elite but who still participated, fully or partially, in the final decision

 Hamagid, December 7, 1875.  Reines 1880, 29; Hazefirah, May 5, 1896; Levitats 1943, 152.  Weiner 1975, 12.  Sofer 1889; Hazefirah, December 8, 1903; Eiger 1969, 95 – 96; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 83.  Sofer 1912, vol. 6, para. 55; Lev 1992, 33 – 34.  Shohat 1977.

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whom to appoint as rabbi.¹⁰² Their influence on the final decision was significant: “when the time comes, when our turn has arrived to choose from among us people who will lead us, then even those who are empty-headed, mischievous and young, who know not how to distinguish between good and evil, spread their grace on the candidate they wish. And with them comes both disdain and shame”.¹⁰³ The political power of the masses is demonstrated by cases in which they would select a candidate without consulting the “honorable ones of the city”.¹⁰⁴ Thus, for example in certain communities, local groups would organize themselves and send a writ of rabbinic appointment to their preferred candidate, bypassing the accepted communal selection process. A well-known case is the controversy which attended the appointment of a rabbi for the community of Kobryn in 1897. The details are documented in the following letter which was sent to one of the candidates, R. Schneerson, by a group of local community members: As we gather and discuss the differences of opinion that prevail in our community regarding the selection of a rabbi and head of rabbinical court for our community, we have seen fit to inform you, that for reasons best known to us, the you cannot be chosen as the rabbi and head of rabbinical court for our community. And when we find people who go from house to house and gather signatures from individuals to appoint you and place upon you the rabbinic throne without convening a general assembly, and this is against the regulations and laws of our community! And it could lead to strife and quarrel in our community, which would besmirch and disgrace the honor of the Torah and would be a public desecration of God’s name. Therefore, we request you not to accept such a writ of rabbinic appointment until it be the unanimous opinion and will of our entire community, according to the community regulations and according to the law and the rulings of the Torah. Then there will be peace for us and all of Israel, and may it be pleasing to the listener. We the undersigned (sixty-nine people).¹⁰⁵

Despite this unambiguous message, Schneerson had every intention of acting upon the writ he had received. His correspondents, however, made it clear

 Hayom, August 15, 1886. In this context, it should be noted that this situation was not unique to the Jewish community. Thus, for example, in the eighteenth century the appointment of rural priests in Russia was made, primarily, by their election by members of the rural community, when the approval granted by the church institutions was a rubber stamp only, Freeze 1977, 58 – 59, 157.  Hazefirah, September 9, 1880; Halevanon, March 25, 1874; Cohen 1902, 11; Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911; February 27, 1914; Lapidot 2006, 161– 162. On the influence of this process on the institution of the rabbinate, see Hator, February 19, 1921.  Hamelitz, January 26, 1899; March 21, 1899; January 7, 1903; Burstein 1927, introduction.  Hamelitz, August 17, 1897.

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that some opponents “are men of arms and fists” who would do more than just publish letters in newspapers … during this controversy, both sides employed a range of tactics, conventional and otherwise. As one contemporary put it: “some do not abhor even deceit, flattery, and bribery”.¹⁰⁶ Likewise, to make clear to one candidate or another that it was worth his while to withdraw his candidacy “one from this group will leap forward and check [the rabbi’s] shortcomings, and even if none are to be found, he will nonetheless wickedly libel him”.¹⁰⁷ Another way to obstruct a candidacy was to publicize a commitment to oppose in every way possible his appointment, affixed with signatures of community members.¹⁰⁸ As can be expected, such disputes did not remain confined to the Jewish community. At times, a side would use a familiar, old weapon, one famous from the battle against Hasidism – informing on their opponents to the authorities.¹⁰⁹ At other times, the police were even called in to separate the disputing parties.¹¹⁰ Thus, there were rabbis who had gained the community rabbinate, and even received a writ of rabbinic appointment, but nevertheless decided not to accept it and to continue their search, mainly because they were signed by people who assumed that “the rabbinic writ is not a binding contract”.¹¹¹ In the summer of 1870, Yekhiel Mikhl Pinnes, a young rabbi who had grown up and been educated in the Lithuanian-Jewish cultural sphere, began to publish a series of articles in the Hebrew press dedicated to evaluating the state of the community rabbinate.¹¹² In these articles, Pinnes explicitly and publicly touches upon some of the fundamental problems plaguing the rabbinic institution, including the selection and appointment process. As was his practice, Pinnes had no qualms about displaying the most problematic elements of the process. Such is the case in the following passage, published in the summer of 1870 in Halevanon, the mouthpiece of conservative Jewish circles in Eastern Europe: When a rabbi is old and sated with years, when he rises heavenward to the divine courts, or to the mountain of God to settle in the holy land, when he departs, a storm will approach, uprooting mountains and breaking cedar trees. Old rabbis along with new, those rich in their knowledge and those small-minded and mentally impoverished, fearers of God along with those who deny him, humble and ascetic, those lenient in judgment along

      

Hazefirah, July 8, 1897; Hamelitz, October 27, 1896; November 6, 1896; Cohen 1902, 11. Hazefirah, January 19, 1876. Grodzensky 1992, III, para. 79. See, for instance, Hamelitz, November 6, 1880; April 19, 1893. Hamelitz, January 7, 1903. Hamelitz, August 20, 1886; August 29, 1886; September 7, 1886. Halevanon, August 18, 26, 1870; Hakarmel, October 27, November 6, 1870.

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with those small-minded like women – all together in a tumult, they will sour like eagles to the city, increasing commotion, in anger and rage, in confusion and bedlam, sewing discord and strife between a slave and his master. They will spark discord between families, and a city with eighteen prayer quorums will be split not into 18 factions but into 180. One person will rise up to be zealous for the Lord and for the honor of Torah when he sees his son in law has acquired an ordination but is not appointed as a community rabbi; another one cannot bear that a young one, whose fathers merits aid him from the heavens, should be rejected in favor of a low-born man who merely knows how to rule something kosher or not. A fire burns in Jacob and a dispute has been ignited in Israel.¹¹³

With these words, Pinnes revealed to all one of the main facets of the selection process – dispute. It could be argued that this was nothing new. Disputes had raged in Jewish communities from time immemorial and examples abound in the sources.¹¹⁴ Numerous factors could spark a dispute, and disputes could be expressed in myriad ways with diverse results. Already in the fifteenth century, R. Israel Isserlein wrote: “we have seen communities been destroyed by disputes”.¹¹⁵ Alternatively, as Yekutiel Yehuda Grunwald (1890 – 1955) put it: “the disputes and quarrels have destroyed the communities. And were we to document all the squabbles and disputes in the communities in Hungary, five large books would not suffice”.¹¹⁶ In the Eastern-European context of the present study, intra-Jewish disputes had has been discussed mainly in the context of the quarrel about the Hasidic movement. One, therefore, might think that the basis of disputes in Eastern Europe was primarily ideological. However, a review of the sources shows that the tradition of dispute, confrontation, controversy, and quarrels had deep roots in Jewish communities in Eastern Europe even before the conflict between the Hasidim and their opponents. Conflicts were, in fact, often-unrelated to religious conceptions or ideology at all. The scope of the phenomenon seems to have been comprehensive. As one contemporary lamented: “there is no city or community in which its people live in peace and in which a man helps his fellow. Nothing good or useful has been produced due to the hatred, jealousy, and dispute, which constantly prevails in our midst. And unfortunately, this terrible disease has struck roots in the hearts of our brothers, the Children of Israel, so much so that there is almost no cure for them”.¹¹⁷ The many reports of this phenomenon¹¹⁸ allow us to under-

    

Ibid; idem 1872, 105 – 110. Ben Avner 1990; Shapira 2007. Isserlein 1882, para. 126. Grunwald 1921, 29 – 32. See also Dessler 1999, 461. Hamelitz, April 1, 1873.

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stand the variety of causes that could spark disputes – competition over livelihood,¹¹⁹ fighting over community positions,¹²⁰ leasing the meat tax,¹²¹ conflict between artisan guilds,¹²² and discord over the renovation of the local bathhouse,¹²³ etc. The impression arising from these sources is that dispute was an inseparable part of Jewish society’s daily life. One Jew from the community of Gadyach wrote in despair that “people do not only quarrel over food and livelihood, over community issues, because of the rabbi, the slaughterer, the beadle or the like – they fight for the sake of fighting, as if they were adjured by oath to constantly fight with one another”.¹²⁴ Alternatively, as Yehuda Leib Yonatan (1894 – 1960) put it: “after a year or two of peace, without pogroms or harsh persecution, life in the town became grey and boring, and as a cure for this boredom, dispute was kindled”.¹²⁵ These disputes, which reflected deeper social trends, were not limited to the public discourse. Sometimes matters could devolve into physical, even violent, altercations, slander to the authorities, and endless proceedings in courts.¹²⁶ This of course, all came at a personal and communal cost.¹²⁷ These conflicts were also known to have a negative influence on religious life. For example, in one case, due to a dispute between two local groups regarding the renovation of the bathhouse, one of the groups barred women from entering to perform their ritual immersion.¹²⁸ Elsewhere, because of a dispute revolving around hiring a preacher for the community, the rabbi stopped issuing kashrut rulings and the rabbinical judges stopped presiding over court cases.¹²⁹ In a third community, a marriage ceremony became the nexus of a struggle between the supporters of two different candidates for the community rabbinate, each side arguing that their rabbi should officiate.¹³⁰ In  See, for instance, Hazefirah, June 28, 1876; Hamelitz, May 9, 1884; Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913; Rabinowitz 1925, para. 47.  Hazefirah, July 12, 1876.  Hamelitz, April 6, 1879; April 30, 1885; September 16, 1886; Marc 18, 1879; Hazefirah, December 5, 1877; December 3, 1878; February 12, 1884; Halevanon, October 11, 1878; Hayom, May 6, 1886.  Hamelitz, April 30, 1885.  Hamelitz, October 28, 1879.  Hamelitz, August 29, 1882.  Hamelitz, July 9, 1886.  Yonatan 1956, 26.  Hakarmel, August 22, 1866; Hamelitz, August 29, 1882; Klausner 1942’; Kovner 1998, 118 – 119.  Hamelitz, November 10, 1893; Evron 1967, 432.  Hamelitz, August 29, 1882.  Hamelitz, September 16, 1886.  Hakarmel, August 22, 1866.

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a fourth community, the sale of the leavened food to a non-Jew before Passover was dragged into a dispute between two candidates for the local rabbinate.¹³¹ The main place in which disputes took place publicly was in the synagogue. Most arguments actually broke out on the Sabbath or on festivals, days on which the majority of community members attended synagogue. It should be recalled that in Eastern Europe, the synagogue, the beit midrash and the ritual bath were the almost exclusive communal spaces which could be considered Jewish in all their respects, not just physically and practically but also in the communal consciousness. In the minds of the Jews of a city, these were the only places with a clear and visible Jewish significance, a sort of extraterritorial space, removed from the general milieu. To a considerable extent, the synagogue and beit midrash were considered by local Jews a second home, a place to express their Jewish identity in all its respects.¹³² Moreover, the internal organization of the synagogue, in terms of seating placement and positions filled, constituted a microcosm of the socio-economic hierarchy of communal society.¹³³ It is therefore not surprising that internal communal debates, whether personal ones or those with communal significance, would come to the fore in a time and place in which most of the local Jews were gathered – that is, during prayers in synagogue on the Sabbath. Thus, besides serving as a place of prayer, many synagogues became “conflict zones”, a place for local Jews to argue and struggle over matters related to the prayer itself,¹³⁴ as well as anything else on the public agenda.¹³⁵ As described colorfully by Mordekhai Menahem Litevsky (1856 – 1921): “Why should the prayer houses of the Hebrew people differ from those of other peoples of the world? Only chaos is heard therein, elders are not respected even by children. Over any type of honors in the synagogue people will come to blows”.¹³⁶ And indeed sometimes, this “conflict zone” could take on a very literal meaning when differences of opinion deteriorated into physical violence.¹³⁷ The long-term significance of such a reality was that dispute came to be seen as

 Hamelitz, May 12, 1884.  Lifshitz 1901, 79 – 80.  Hakarmel, August 14, 1866.  Levinsohn 1839, II, 149; Hamelitz, February 22, 1881; Blazer 1974, 215.  Hamelitz, March 18, 1879; June 10, 1879; August 17, 1880; Zimmer 1975, 45; Carpi 2003, 215.  Hazefirah, April 25, 1888.  Heller 1902, yoreh de’ah, para. 80; Hamelitz, March 18, 1879; January 10, 1884; August 31, 1885; January 7, 1903; Hazefirah, April 21, 1896.

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something permanent, and sometimes prominent in the collective life and historical memory of the local community.¹³⁸ The presence of dispute as a permanent fixture had a concrete impact on the selection of the community rabbi.¹³⁹ Thus, the public space in many communities turned into a battlefield, upon which supporters of different candidates for the rabbinate clashed. As one contemporary describes: The once quiet and peaceful city quickly turns into a killing field; peace is put away, and strife and contention, aggressive curses, and a wicked fist assume its place. The members of the community who had once lived in silence and tranquility now fight with each other, and rabbis are gathered to the city to conquer it like generals only generate the pyre larger and scandal abounds.¹⁴⁰

We can see how common the phenomenon was from the way Yaacov Lifshitz, one of the most prominent spokespersons of the rabbinical circles put it: “We can count more than twenty respectful towns and villages in which the fire of dispute and unwanted deeds are performed due to the rabbinate and its corruption”.¹⁴¹ If someone like Lifshitz, who had dedicated many years of his life to defending the good name of the rabbinate, decided to publicly showcase this reality in print, we can conclude that circumstances had deteriorated significantly and had reached a nadir. This is also the impression one gets from the following passage, written by R. Leib Noah Bass, the rabbi of the community of Šaukotas in Lithuania, published in Hamelitz at the beginning of 1903: I shall not speak about a certain community in which, before it had the chance to place a rabbi on the throne, had forty of its people placed on the bench of the accused in the magistrate’s court. I will also not tell of what took place in a certain community, in which the beit midrash was turned into a killing field and filled with the blasts of war because the masses had chosen a rabbi without first consulting with the honorable members of the community. And who knows what would have become of this war in the end had the police not intervened – they are the only ones who these people fear; only they can silence them. Likewise, I will not speak about one community, where, in last Festival, those on the “side” of one rabbi, led him to the canopy in the beit midrash, as is the practice, and were set upon

 Halevanon, November 21, 1876; Hamelitz, June 1, 1899; Goldberg 1902, 14; Zakheim 1904, II, 90; Finn 1915, 115 – 118, 126, 270; Klausner 1937, 142; idem 1942, 79; Gershony 1975, 94.  This phenomenon, like the others discussed above, also had long-standing roots in the history of the Jewish communities. See, for instance, Weitz 1938, 17; Evron 1967, 432; Lederhendler 1989, 44– 46; Kagan 1990, 295; Breuer 1991, 213; Berkovitz 1999, 62; Carpi 2003, 56; Tal 2010, 100; Teller 2000, 344; idem, 2011, 8 – 10; Gertner 2013, 98 – 162; Harel 2017, 160 – 165.  Hazefirah, April 19, 1876, November 28, 1886; June 10, 1896; Hamagid, April 28, 1880; Hayom, January 19, 1887; Hamelitz, December 11, 1887; Ovtsinsky 1908, 145; Dzubas 1944, 7.  Halevanon, November 21, 1876.

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by his opponents, who in their rage tore the canopy from above the rabbi’s head. Many staffs were broken on the shoulders of these two lovely sides.¹⁴²

The sentiment was shared by R. Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg, who in 1911 lamented the selection process as follows: “there is not a day in which a rabbi is not being chosen in one of the Jewish communities, large or small, and the question ignites the fire of dreadful dispute within the community”.¹⁴³ These statements of Lifshitz, as well as rabbis Bass and Weinberg, came from the very heart of the rabbinical world – not as an external critique, reflecting an anti-rabbinic agenda – and were published in the most popular public platforms with a wide dissemination. This attests more than anything to the nadir to which the community rabbinate (as well as social and communal institutions in general) had descended during our time period. The general impression from all of the above, is that these bitter, protracted conflicts could have a long-term effect on the ability of communities to properly function. From a sociological perspective, these communities represented forms of social organization suffering from significant weaknesses in terms of basic norms and values. The institutions of these organizational structures were essential unable to function and impose order and discipline, a catastrophic state of affairs inevitably leading to dissolution. Due to the importance of ensuring the future of the community and preserving its ability to function, when selection process reached a dead end, there were attempts to calm tempers and settle disputes with the aid of external arbitrators. Usually this arbitration was managed by famous rabbis who were considered prominent public figures whose opinion would be accepted by both sides.¹⁴⁴ One approach taken by these rabbis was to propose a third candidate as a compromise.¹⁴⁵ In other cases, such as the dispute over the appointment of a rabbi in the community of Dvinsk in 1888, the dispute ended only with the involvement of prestigious Jewish personages, mainly those belonging to a higher economic class.¹⁴⁶ Finally, it should be noted that the controversy continued to be a central feature in the process of choosing a community rabbi in the years following the First World War.¹⁴⁷

     

Hamelitz, January 7, 1903. See also Hazefirah, December 8, 1903; Tsirelson 1932, para. 108. Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911. Kol Yaakov, July 23, 1908. Hamelitz, December 30, 1881. Hamelitz, December 11, 1887. Heint, December 15, 1930; February 12, 1935; Bacon 1998; idem, 1999.

Chapter 3 “With Money or its Equivalent”: Buying the Rabbinate 1 “With Money, a Deed, or Intercourse” Because the appointment of a rabbi was frequently attended by dispute, accepted standards for conducting the process were often treated as suggestions more than rules. With this context, we can understand the free hand taken by powerful locals when it came to the selection process, the identity of the chosen candidate, and the exercise of fairness during the process. Thus, for example, while in the middle Ages clauses in communal ordinances sometimes prohibited the appointment of rabbis in communities in which they had first or second-degree relatives,¹ this was not issue in the time we are studying and was not discussed as part of the public discourse over the rabbinate at all. At the same time, we find another, informal path to the rabbinate, one often more influential than nepotism. I am referring to the practice of buying a community’s rabbinical position. In the winter of 1897, Meshulam Roth – a 22-year old scholar with rabbinical ordination, who had served as rabbi of the community of Melnitsa – decided to accept an offer to serve as rabbi in the community of Tolmechnik in Galicia. It was not his first choice. He had already investigated other options – including the communities of Nadvorna and Rozintov. However, once negotiations with these communities have failed, and having received no response from the community of Botoshani, despite actively reaching out to them, and realizing that he was the preferred candidate among the members of the community in Tolmechnik, he decided to accept their offer. It soon became clear, however, that the position came with a metaphorical – and literal – price tag, as he describes in one of his letters: To my sorrow, they coveted money, claiming that they needed it to build a ritual bathhouse. They expected the chosen rabbi to pay this out of pocket, a large sum of 5000 or more. Only then could he hold the scepter of the rabbinate in their community.²

Roth’s goes on to express his disappointment that the members of the community “do not set their sights on a man who is suited to the rabbinic cloak, to

 Benayahu 1953, 20; Schwazfuchs 1986, 81.  Heitner 2006, 29. See also Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 74. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-004

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serve in prestige in their community; to them, money is the answer to everything”. Despite his indignation, it is unlikely that the request came as a surprise. As a rabbinic scholar, well-versed in halachic discourse, it is safe to assume that Roth was aware of the long history of halachic discussions revolving around the sale of rabbinic posts. Moreover, it is unlikely that he was ignorant of a phenomenon which was the subject of a lively three-decade-long public debate, featuring prominently in the Jewish press of the time. We can also assume that this practice was discussed among young rabbis courting various communities. Indeed, his letters describing the episode show that he took the request for granted, and even treated it as the norm. He does not protest, on principle, to the idea of buying and selling rabbinic positions. It is the specifics and practical details of the request which perturb him: For apart from the fact that I do not have the ability to pay a sum as large as 5000 or more, in a small town with a small income, spending such a considerable sum, is not worth it. This is certainly so for a man who hopes in the future, by the grace of the Almighty, to be seated upon the rabbinic throne in one of the large cities, paying a much lower price for it.³

When the leaders of the community of Tolmechnik realized that Roth had no intention of paying, they began to look elsewhere. At one point they were even on the verge of signing a rabbinic writ of appointment with a young rabbi “who was willing to pay from his own wealth the large sum of money they wanted”. However, upon reconsidering, and realizing that the negotiations with the other candidate had stalled, Roth concluded that to advance his rabbinic career he would need to accede to the request at least in part: “I am willing to pay my own money to their treasury, but not the great fortune that they have requested”. For unclear reasons, Roth’s negotiations with this community were never finalized. It was only two and half years later, in the summer of 1899 that Roth would assume a rabbinic throne, this time in the community of Khorostkov. Here also the rabbinate came at a price – a sum of 7,000 crowns. Half of the sum was to purchase “usucapion (Hazakah) of the rabbinate”, from the widow and heirs of the previous rabbi.⁴ The other half was designated for “community needs”. This episode showcases an important aspect of the rabbinate which has received scant attention in scholarship – the sale and purchase of rabbinic posts.⁵ One possible explanation for this lacuna is the assumption, once held by many

 Ibid.  Heilperin 1896, para. 60.  Bacon 1996, 80 – 81; Berkovitz 1999, 64; idem, 2004, 77; Teller 2011.

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scholars, that the phenomenon was marginal and that Roth’s is not representative of wider trends. This overly optimistic assumption lacks any basis in reality; the phenomenon of purchasing rabbinic posts was actually quite widespread. As Roth admitted: “two things prevent a rabbi or head of rabbinic court from being appointed in Galicia – money and age. The rabbinic candidate must first place money in the pockets of the community and its prestigious members, and then they appoint him, without anyone bothering to check whether or not he is actually suited to the position”.⁶ As will become clear below, the practice was not just prevalent in large communities; it could also be found in small towns. Moreover, what Roth considered as a “Galician” phenomenon, was even more accepted in the Jewish communities of Lithuania and Poland. Interestingly, few other subjects related to the history of the community rabbinate have been discussed as frequently and in so much detail in the contemporaneous public discourse only to merit so little attention from scholars.⁷ A review of extant sources shows that the practice had its roots already in the late middle Ages.⁸ In the sixteenth century we begin to find numerous accounts attesting to it in various communities in western, central, and Eastern Europe.⁹ The large number of texts discussing the subject shows that already at this time the rabbinate was frequently purchased. Moreover, the practice was in the minds of many not just normal but sometimes even appropriate. This is demonstrated by the lack of effort to conceal the practice, so much so, that transaction details were even entered into official community records. For example, an entry in the ledger of the Jewish community of Berlin reads: Our rabbi, R. David has been accepted as the head of rabbinic court of the holy congregation of Frankfurt Oder … and it has been agreed upon by the chief and leader Reb Feitl to give to the treasure of our community a sum of 150 Reichsthaler each year in exchange for the rabbinate of his brother in law.¹⁰

The recurring attempts to correct the practice only attest to its unremitting pervasiveness. However, during the sixteenth-century, enactments to curtail the practice were legislated by both communal bodies and super-communal ones, such as The Council of Four Lands in Poland, The Council of Lithuania, and  See, for instance, Shverdshorff 1901, 4– 6.  It is not surprising that this phenomenon is completely absent in the discussion of the methods of appointing community rabbis conducted in contemporary rabbinic journals. See, for example, Yarden 2015.  Assaf 1922, 37; Ben-Sasson 1959, 221– 228.  Fram 1997, 57.  Meisel 1962, 108. See also Heilperin 1952, 177.

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The Council of Moravia. By following discussions of the phenomenon, especially those in rabbinic literature and codices of enactments, one can see that as the centuries passed, the practice not only did not decline but even spread throughout eastern and central Europe.¹¹ One of the many accounts attesting to this is that of R. Shaul ben Moshe: I came here, to the holy community of Lomza, which accepted me as a rabbi and head of rabbinic court. The people favor me, and have accepted me with sincere motivations, not asking for any expenditure in exchange for the rabbinate […] This is unlike other communities in our country [emphasis added, M.Z.]; in every city and town, they accept the rabbi in exchange for the large, hefty sum of money the rabbi pays to the local lord and to the community. Due to our many sins, this breach has grown widespread in our country.¹²

When a rabbinical post was vacant in a large, prestigious community the temptation to sell the position and the willingness to buy it were even greater. To name just one example, in the mid-seventeenth century the rabbinical post of Krakow was bought for R. Yitzhak Yosef Te’omim, by his father-in-law.¹³ It seems that with time, buying the rabbinate grew into a countrywide problem, as demonstrated by the growing frequency of its mention and the recurring attempts to contend with it through rabbinic legislation, some of which was articulated in a particularly acrimonious tone.¹⁴ A watershed in the history of purchasing rabbinical posts, and an excellent example of the practice, took place in 1745 in the Jewish community of Vilna. During this period, the community owed large sums of money to several people and bodies, the majority of whom were non-Jews. One of the wealthy men in the community, Yehuda Safra Vedayana (yeso“d), offered to repay these debts on the community’s behalf in exchange for appointing his son-in-law Shmuel ben Avigdor, rabbi. Suffering from financial straits, and due to his prestigious status, the community could not refuse and after lengthy deliberations, the leadership of

 Margaliot 1715, 4; Eisenstadt 1733, II, para. 152; Berliner 1768, para. 23, 27; Karo 1790, 15; Emden 1897, 67, 127; Margaliot 1910, 15, 68; Horowitz 1928, 28, 52; Klausner 1938, 127– 128; idem, 1942, 9, 79; Levitats 1943, 152; Heilperin 1945, 246, 400; Dinur 1955, 106 – 109; Shohat 1961, 93; Horowitz 1978, 42; Kagan 1990, 168, 473; Berkovitz 1999, 64; Balaban 2003, II, 644; Hundert 2009, 264; Teller 2011.  Shaul ben Moshe 1774, introduction. See also Trau 1964, 61; “One rabbi wanted to give us a thousand Groschen to give him the rabbinate in our town”, Margaliot 1715, 4.  Horowitz 1978, 42. On a similar case in Lublin see Heilperin 1945, 407; Agnon 1969, 47.  Brakhia 1662, introduction; Buber 1903, 111.

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the community officially agreed to the deal. The rabbinic post was sold to R. Shmuel and his father-in-law in exchange for 24,000 złoty.¹⁵ The fact that this event took place in Vilna, which boasted one of the largest and most prestigious Jewish communities in Europe, was seen by some as a stamp of approval. It may explain why, twenty years later, the rabbinic post of nearby Minsk, was sold for 8,000 złoty,¹⁶ and why in 1780, an ordinance was passed in the community of Poznan stipulating that “a chosen rabbi shall not pay less than three hundred złoty to the community treasury”.¹⁷ In the latter case, there is reason to believe that the community’s financial woes may have also played their part.¹⁸ Thus, over the years selling the rabbinate became a norm. An example of its prevalence in many communities is the case of the community of Pruzhany, where the rabbi who received the position was required to pay a sum of 1,000 złoty in exchange for an exceptionally long tenure of ten years.¹⁹ In terms of the mechanics of selling the position, a number of creative methods were developed such as purchasing directly,²⁰ providing the community with a loan (sometimes one that they had no intention of paying back),²¹ paying off the community’s debts,²² or simply a tendency among some communities to prefer candidates with financial means.²³ Sometimes it was rabbis themselves who bought the position; other times, it was bought for a family member – a father, a son, a son-in-law, or a brother in law.²⁴ Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, we begin to see a rise in the number of accounts attesting to the practice’s prevalence.²⁵ As one contemporary put it: “In Poland a rich man can purchase for his son or son-in-law a rabbinic throne, as if he were buying an apple for his child, even if the rabbi in question is young and intellectually impoverished”.²⁶ This claim, already voiced in the first

           

Finn 1915, 115 – 118, 126, 270; Klausner 1937, 142; idem 1942, 79. Klausner 1942, 57. See also Gershony 1975, 94. Perles 1907, 8. Assaf 1922, 38. Friedlander 1983, 75. Assaf 1922, 39. Tennenbaum 1891, hoshen mishpat, para. 12. Heilperin 1952, 3. Klausner 1938, 127. Evron 1967, 159. Emden 1762, 26; Meisel 1962, 108; Hamelitz, September 26, 1891. On this subject in the writings of Dr. Solomon Polonus, see Klausner 1942, 49. Karo 1824, 11. See also Teller 1998, 145 – 146.

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quarter of the century, was not unfounded, and the trend would only become more pronounced in the second half of the century. Beginning in the 1870’s, the issue of purchasing and selling rabbinic posts began to occupy a prominent place in Jewish public discourse. This is especially evident in the Jewish press of the time. Anyone who thought that those participating in this discourse, especially those critiquing the practice, were exaggerating, was sorely mistaken. He needed only to look around him and listen to the sound of “rabbinical transactions” emerging from numerous Jewish communities in Lithuania and elsewhere. The rabbinate was sold in Baisogala, Kletsk, Kobryn, Lygumai, Mir, Piaseczno, Slonim, Raguva, Zhornishche and others.²⁷ In his writings, R. Zvi Yehezkel Mikhelzon tells how one of his acquaintances told him that when he tried to receive the rabbinate in a certain city, and already gave fifteen hundred rubles to the community leaders, suddenly, another rabbi came and the rabbinate fell in his hand.²⁸ In such a state of affairs, even Yaacov Lifshitz, considered the “lead defendant” of the eastern European rabbinate in the nineteenth century, was forced to admit in the 1870’s that “there are those who have offered to buy this position for full price. These deeds happen every day in our time”.²⁹ As explained by R. Shraga Zvi Tennenbaum, a candidate had no chance of attaining a position “without paying them, as is the practice in certain cities in Galicia”.³⁰ In the words of R. Yitzhak Shmelkish: “the rabbinate in small towns has become a commodity”,³¹ sold to the highest bidder. The following discussion of the practice in urban communities in Lithuania in the early second half of the nineteenth century is an excellent example: Our town has adopted the practices of its ancestors and has built a pagan altar upon which to make sacrifices to the god of gold and silver, appointing a rabbinical judge who comes in exchange for gold and silver. 1,000 rubles were paid by one scholar for the rabbinate of the town of Seletz, which was sold in an auction. The town of Malecz sold the rabbinate in perpetuity. It handed over the crown but with collateral, for its rabbi was still young, and had yet to merit donning rabbinic adornments, for he could not yet pay all the money which he had promised to the members of the community. And who knows if the men of the community of Malecz would have agreed to wait until he had amassed the money, had not a pres-

 Ivri Anokhi, December 8, 1876; Hayom, August 15, 1886; Hazefirah, May 3, 1876; November 28, 1886; December 8, 1903; Hamelitz, September 12, 1895; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 49; Rabinowitz 1993, 16; Shahor 1993, 290.  Mikhelzon 1924, 15.  Halevanon, March 25, 1874.  Tennenbaum 1899, hoshen mishpat, para. 12. See also Ha’or 1883 [4], 98, 131.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 74. See also Rabinowitz 1888.

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tigious leader of the community, the rabbi’s father’s father in law, rebuked them, warning them about losing a candidate as good as him. […] It is like merchandise traded by merchants.³²

Towards the end of the century, the practice began to transcend internal communal politics; sales began to be conducted publicly. Thus, according to the account of R. Zeev Horowitz, he attained his rabbinical post in the town of Stryszow just “because his father gave money to the men of the city”.³³ All of the above cases refer to rabbis who purchased the position from community institutions. However, over the years another method grew in popularity. I am referring to the practice of buying “usucapion (Hazakah) of the rabbinate”, from the incumbent rabbi or his family members. This method of purchase had the advantage of bypassing the clear ethical and halachic issues with buying a rabbinic post as well as avoiding the public censure this could often entail.³⁴ The buyers were usually young rabbis who had trouble finding vacant rabbinic positions. They saw it as an opportunity to guarantee their future career as well as a way to supplement their training, gaining practical experience working for the community rabbi. This was possible because many community rabbis – or after their deaths, their widows – considered themselves entitled to the rabbinate, “owning” the right to it in some sense and treating it as personal property. As mentioned above, one challenge for a community in the event of a rabbi’s demise was the expectation that it would provide for his widow – at least for a brief period. Because in many cases the communities tried to ignore this problem, widows of deceased rabbis treated the family ownership of the rabbinate as personal property – something they could sell in order to ensure their economic future.³⁵ Paradoxically, the practice of selling the rabbinate lent credence to the idea that it was something that could be “owned”. If the position had been purchased, then it made sense that it should be treated as personal property. This assumption had far-reaching repercussions when the time came to transfer the position from one rabbi to the next. If the right to the rabbinate is owned it can-

 Halevanon, September 18, 1872,  Yerushalimsky 1901, II, para. 1.  To the various aspects of this issue as expressed in halachic discourse, see Mediny 1896, VIII, 116 – 117; Teleshevsky 1897, 13; Haft 1904, para 3; Rozin 1954, para. 294; Shperber 2002, hoshen mishpat, para. 304. On an attempt to limit the use of this mechanism, see Makhzikey Hadat, October 19, 1897.  Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910.

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not be transferred without the owner’s consent; moreover, the “owner” may do with this right as he wishes and may even sell it to someone else.³⁶ As far as the incumbent rabbi was concerned, this system benefitted him in two ways: 1) “ownership” could often be sold for a lucrative sum. 2) The young rabbi would assist the incumbent community rabbi, who continued to receive his full salary, with his various duties. As far as the purchaser was concerned, this transaction all but guaranteed him a rabbinic post in the future. With this background, we can understand the case of R. Yehuda Orlansky, who, when he grew old “decided to no longer continue to serve as rabbi and published an announcement that he wished to sell his usucapion (Hazakah) of the rabbinate. When word got out, a young rabbi [Yosef Rudnik, M.Z.], a student of R. Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin of Volozhin, a talented Torah scholar and a renowned preacher, came to the city and purchased the rabbinic throne”.³⁷ We should also not be surprised to read the following advertisement, which appeared on the front page of Hamelitz in June of 1899: A young man, a rabbi who has received ordination from the rabbi of our city, his name is Eliyahu Feldman, seeks a rabbinic post in some community, and also has 1,000 rubles at his disposal to purchase the usucapion (Hazakah) of the rabbinate. He has served the rabbi of our city for several years, is proficient in Torah study, has extensive expertise in the Talmud and can rule on practical halakhah. He has excellent virtues, is righteous, and can speak well with upright logic, in matters of heaven as well as matters of earth. The community, which accepts this precious man as its rabbi, will be pleased by him.³⁸

In parallel, some candidates offered to “pay out of pocket to compensate the rabbi’s wife and son” as explained by R. Haim Berlin, in his description of the struggle over the rabbinate of the community of Kobryn in the early 1890s.³⁹ Likewise, there were communities that had an explicit or implicit expectation that a new rabbi would marry the widow or daughter of his predecessor. Alternatively, he was expected to donate part of his salary to support the widow or daughter for a set period.⁴⁰ Because this greatly alleviated the financial burden placed on community institutions, candidates who were willing to assent to these conditions were given precedence in the selection process.⁴¹ In practice, this was a “covert” way of purchasing the position. “In this time, it is an open secret known

     

Rabinowitz 1962, para 26. See also Benayahu 1953, 36. Sawitzky 1968, 127– 128. Hamelitz, June 6, 1899. For a similar ad. see Hamodi’ah, July 1, 1910. Shahor 1993, 290. Hamelitz, March 17, 1896; Hapeles 1901,122; Weiner 1975, 12. Hapeles 1903, 590.

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to all,” explained Yehuda Leib Kantor, “that the rabbinate is purchased with detestable money”.⁴² It bears noting that treating a religious-communal position as a commodity, its latent economic potential something to be capitalized on, was not unique to Jewish society. A similar state of affairs prevailed in the Eastern Orthodox Church as described in detail by Ioann Stefanovich Belliustin, a rural priest active in Russia in the mid-eighteenth century.⁴³ A review of contemporaneous records can explain why the community rabbinate became a tradeable commodity. Until the late eighteenth century, before the partition of Poland, the appointment of the rabbi was subject to the approval of local authorities who had an obvious interest in capitalizing on appointments.⁴⁴ As shown by Murry Rosman, rabbinic posts were essentially leased from the local duke.⁴⁵ This changed after the region was annexed to the Russian Empire in the late eighteenth century as established in the decree of 1804: “In the places of landowners, the Jews also can select rabbis and Kahal council members without the interference of landowners, to whom tax collecting is forbidden for the Rabbinate”.⁴⁶ Jewish communities suffering from financial woes sought funding to repay their debts and to invest in other communal projects. At one point, “communities would say ‘the community needs a rich rabbi, for we owe thousands in debt”.⁴⁷ Selling a rabbinic position was seen not just as an opportunity to repay a community’s debts but also a way to finance public projects such as renovations of the synagogue or ritual bath. The fact that these projects were communal and religious in nature was even used to justify privileging a candidate’s means over his scholarly acumen or skill as a preacher – the ends justified the means.⁴⁸ Likewise, prestigious locals who had an influence on the selection process, saw it as an opportunity for significant profit. In the mid-nineteenth century, with the large number of candidates vying for any rabbinic post, supply and demand was a major factor. Naturally with so many candidates and so few rabbinic posts, some sought to take advantage of the situation, for both public benefit as well as personal gain. The principle of supply and demand was also felt in the religious sphere of non-Jewish society. The substantial number of can-

 Kantor 1901.  Belliustin 1985, 110.  Heller 1862, 7; Klausner 1942, 115; Hundert 1992, 144– 145; Teller 2011.  Rosman 1990, 199 – 204; Emden 1762, 26; Lederhendler 1989, 28; Hundert 2009.  Полное собрание законов Российской империи. Собрание первое. Том 28. 1804– 1805. СПб., 1830. С. 731– 737.  Margaliot 1715, 4; Horowitz 1648, 32; Benayahu 1953, 87– 88.  Hapeles 1903, 590.

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didates is cited by I. S. Belliustin as the main factor driving the practice of purchasing rural ecclesiastical positions.⁴⁹ However, it soon became clear to a candidate that his willingness to fund public projects was not enough to guarantee his appointment. This was because other candidates were doing precisely the same thing. From this developed the practice of promising local, influential community members personal favors, sometimes even in the form of a bribe. A review of contemporaneous sources shows that alongside public, formal negotiations between the community leadership and prospective rabbis, rabbinic candidates sought to promote their candidacy by making payments to members of the selection committee.⁵⁰ An explicit testimony to this method is already evident in a responsum penned by R. Moshe Sofer in 1800, written in the aftermath of pandemonium caused by four candidates vying over a rabbinic position. A few days after one of them was selected: There was the sound or a raging tumult, for many members of the community had received bribes from the relatives of that rabbi in exchange for appointing him. In a letter sent from one of the members of the community to his brother who lived in the rabbi’s hometown, he asked him to accept his portion of the bribe on his behalf. He also warned him to be careful to allocate a portion to each person promised, for if not, there would be no rabbi, for these were the original terms of the agreement.⁵¹

While this scandal took place in a single community in the early-nineteenth century, by the second half of the century, with the rising number of candidates and diminishing number of rabbinic posts, inhibitions about the practice waned. It became almost de rigueur that a candidate would “buy friends who would side with him against his competitor who had also bought new friends”.⁵² Candidates tried, either directly or through interceders, to buy the support of anyone they could influence the selection process. As R. Hillel David Trivush put it: “their appointment depends only on the local powerful people and is sometimes assisted by money”.⁵³ Examples abound. In the town of Krakės “those pursuing the rabbinic crown are mostly men of means, who bribe prominent members of the community with hundreds of rubles”.⁵⁴ Likewise, in Podgaitse, some claimed that the retiring rabbi, Shimon Meller, had bribed many people in exchange for

     

Belliustin 1985, 110. Berliner 1768, para. 27. See also Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907. Sofer 1912, hoshen mishpat, para. 160. See also Grunwald 1921, 47. Hamelitz, May 2, 1889. Hayom, December 21, 1886. See also Horowitz 1905, 133 – 134. Ivri Anokhi, December 8, 1876.

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appointing his son, Yona.⁵⁵ In Druskininkai, as described by R. Yitzhak Margaliot, “many expect handouts, for a young scholar from Vilna dispatched a ‘matchmaker’ who secretly promised five candidates a sum of four hundred rubles each”.⁵⁶ In Ivye.⁵⁷ In Zhuprany “they chose a young scholar who already has the rabbinic throne in a small town but realized the profit involved in accepting the position in their community, and had expended his entire wealth on his selectors, paying each nine hundred rubles”.⁵⁸ In Slonim, “their hearts yearned for profit, and any rabbi who would not pay a hefty sum as a ‘matchmaking’ fee is driven away”.⁵⁹ In Piaseczno, the father in law of one candidate promised “to the masses a sum of five hundred rubles in exchange for appointing his son in law rabbi. An additional sum of ten rubles would be given to each person in exchange for supporting this rabbi and barring other candidates from the city”.⁶⁰ By contrast, in an exception that proves the rule, in “a certain community” the heads of the community agreed “not to accept any bribe or financial incentive from the rabbi they would choose to serve in glory in their community and who would serve as their head of rabbinical court, neither for the city’s good nor for themselves”.⁶¹ With time, candidates began to diversify their methods. This is evident in the following account about the practices in small Lithuanian towns in the early twentieth century: One yeshiva student wanted to pay 1,000 rubles for the rabbinate in our town. In the town of Josvainiai, a rabbi and a yeshiva student found themselves in the same inn. After bickering and strife, and desecration of heaven and the Torah, they reached an accord. One condition of this illusory peace-deal was that rabbi would be obliged to pay the yeshiva student a sum of five hundred rubles. In exchange, the yeshiva student would withdraw his candidacy for the rabbinate of Josvainiai. Likewise, all the friends of this yeshiva student would support the rabbi and sign his writ of rabbinic appointment. If, however, they did not fulfill this condition, the rabbi would be allowed to subtract from the yeshiva student’s fee, a sum of 25 rubles for each missing signature of the yeshiva student’s friends. What did rabbi do? He ingratiated himself with his enemies, the friends of the yeshiva student from, and secretly gave each of them a sum of 10 rubles to abstain from signing his writ of rabbinic appoint-

      

Halevanon, May 3, 1878. Caplan 1993, 219. Hamelitz, January 6, 1888. Hamelitz, February 8, 1898. Hayom, August 15, 1886. Hamelitz, September 12, 1895. Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 74.

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ment. Thus, the rabbi could subtract from the sum paid to the yeshiva student 25 rubles for each signature and made a profit of 15 rubles for each non-signature.⁶²

By the first decade of the twentieth century, the appointment process had further deteriorated, as evident from the way it is discussed in the rabbinic discourse of the time, for example, in rabbinic journals, such as Kol Yaacov and the newspaper Hamodi’ah. In the discussions that preceded the rabbinic congress convened in Krakow in 1903, the appointment of rabbis for a fee was also raised: “The rabbinate has become a hoe to dig with, and all those involved in holy work have become like priests rummaging for tithes in granaries and like peddlers in towns”.⁶³ Likewise, Rabbi Avraham Zakheim claimed: The rabbinic crown is bought with money and its equivalent, and with many ignominious deeds. In the end, the rabbinic crown is worn by he who has paid the most money and the highest fees to the powerful ones of the city and to the ruffians among the masses. Because the rabbinate is purchased in so many ignominious ways, and because the matter is dependent on the city’s powerful members who decide to whom the town will be sold, increasing one’s expenditure and intercession [fees] is beneficial and confers an advantage.⁶⁴

R. Zakheim, who was well acquainted with the state of the rabbinate in this region, pointed to the prominent role played by agents in distributing bribes: If we investigate how a rabbi is appointed in our time, we find that first, “matchmakers” come to the city to scout it out, to learn who are the heads of the community, who can be bought by a bribe of money and who with a bribe of words. Afterwards, secret “matchmakers” arrive, disguised as merchants or donning some other mask, so that the people do not realize that they are there on the rabbis’ behalf. After that, their emissaries arrive and turn the city into a concoction. They raise their voices: “we want only this rabbi, he is good for us and we support him, and if you do not heed our voice then the city will be overturned like Sodom and Gomorrah”. Leading them are local people who have received money from the rabbi in exchange for intercession, and they are the heads of the community and its honorable ones. This is how the vast majority of our rabbis are appointed in the communities of Israel.⁶⁵

A similar picture arises from a letter written by R. Yaacov Shor, the rabbi of the community of Kuty;⁶⁶ in a responsum from R. Haim Eliezer Daitch of Bonyhad;⁶⁷

     

Hamelitz, June 25, 1899. Cohen 1901, 25; Hazefirah, December 8, 1903; Bahar“n 1912 Zakheim 1904, II, 92– 93. Zakheim 1910, I, 3. Shverdshorff 1901, 4. Daitch 1913, para. 82.

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in a letter from R. Shlomo Shkolnik of Plateliai in Lithuania, who lamented that “in our country it is very hard to attain a rabbinic position without paying money”;⁶⁸ from R. Asher Grunis of the community of Wilczyn, who discusses “the great scandal which has taken place in the rabbinic world, in which many tread on the heads of the holy people with ‘an outstretched arm’ – that is, a bribe”;⁶⁹ in an article in the newspaper Hazefirah on the appointment of a rabbi in the community of Izabelin in 1901, in which the writer praises the community for not “selling the rabbinic throne in exchange for profit as is done in prestigious communities in our time”;⁷⁰ in an article penned by Zeev Kaplan and published in the newspaper Kol Yaacov in 1907: “for the rabbinate is sold for money and bought for money, whether it is public money for the good of the community or the money of bribes given secretly to the heads of the community”;⁷¹ R. Yekhiel Weinberg’s claim, that “the election process is up to the heads of the smaller communities, who are usually idiots and uncouth, bribes and cheaters”⁷², and the account of R. Avraham Zeev Bernstein, published in Hamodi’ah, about “the rabbis who are involved the selection process – each one must contribute some of his own ’flesh and blood’”.⁷³ Likewise, in the colorful paraphrase of Naftali Freind of the first Mishnah in Tractate Kiddushin: The rabbinate is acquired through money, a contract and intercourse.⁷⁴ How? When a yeshiva student wishes to be appointed as a rabbi, or when an incumbent rabbi wishes to be appointed in another city, he amasses all the money he can – whether his own or that of his father, father-in-law or family members – and mortgages anything he can. If this is not enough, he signs a Deed of interest loan from whomever he can, and comes, personally or through his agent, to the place of the position, and gives generously to the community and to individuals, to all important and brazen people, until he succeeds in receiving the appointment. Thus, he acquires the rabbinate from money, a Deed, or intercourse.⁷⁵

A variation of this theme is employed by R. Shlomo Yosef Zevin: “the rabbinic throne stands on three pillars: bathhouses, markets, and coins”.⁷⁶ Due to ethical

        

Dessler 2008, 516. Kol Yaacov, October 10, 1907. Hazefirah, January 26, 1902. Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907. Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911 Hamodi’ah, July 22, 1910. The verb “to come” in Hebrew is ambiguous – arriving or intercourse. Kol Yaacov, June 25, 1908. Hamodi’ah, November 24, 1911 [Tractate Shabbat, 33:2].

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issues of giving and receiving bribes,⁷⁷ the practice directly affected the scholarly ability, suitability, and status of many community rabbis. As described by R. Nahum Greenhouz, the rabbi of Trakai in Lithuania: The rabbis are humiliated when they come to serve a holy purpose. They flatter every mischievous empty-headed person, every boor and every brazen one, so that they will assent to appoint him the rabbi of their community. And if they cannot be won by flattery, they can be won by money. As for the rabbis who are truly suited to ascend the ranks and to serve as rabbis of decent communities, if their pockets are empty they will never prevail; their reputations will remain shrouded in darkness and they will serve in small towns.⁷⁸

Naturally, as the demand for rabbinic positions – along with the possibility of receiving concrete favors – rose, the tension and competition between potential beneficiaries was exacerbated, that is, between the decision makers of the community.⁷⁹ The repercussions of this competition were not long in coming: “fights, struggles, disputes and informing break out”.⁸⁰

2 “An evil thing has been done in Israel” Although purchasing the rabbinate was widespread and even considered by some the norm, many sources attest to discomfort and aversion to the practice. Some even critiqued the practice harshly. Already in the sixteenth century, super-communal bodies sought to contend with the issue, chief among them was The Council of Four Lands. In 1587, the council made the following decision: No rabbi shall seek to attain a rabbinic post by providing a loan or gift, whether personally or through others, and that no one may seize rabbinate, whether it is through gold, silver, or money, or through other practices, be they money or otherwise, anything leading to profit. We obligate ourselves with a mighty and powerful bond to declare war on any one who refuses. We will pursue him and destroy him, we will repulse him with both hands and sep-

 “Can we hope that the rabbi will consider before him the commandment of ’do not be afraid of any man’? If from the beginning of his coming to dwell in his community, he is obsequious to them and asks for their closeness to naughtiness. Can we rely on the rabbi to apply to him a law ’you shall not respect persons in judgment’, if he does not uphold justice?”, Hamelitz, June 19, 1896.  Hamelitz, November 19, 1896; July 14, 1897; Hamodi’ah, July 22, 1901; March 29, 1912.  For explicit testimony of such an event, see, for example: “After receiving the rabbinic contract of Lipno in 1893, and the heads of the community went to meet me […] one of them approached me and whispered in my ear that I would give him a sum of three hundred rubles”, Mikhelzon 1924, 14– 15.  Hazefirah, May 17, 1886.

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arate him from every community in the Diaspora and from all the sanctity of Israel, he will be excommunicated in this world and the next, and we will publicize his shame for all to see.⁸¹

This ruling was signed by thirty of the most prominent rabbis in Poland and was republished twice more in the conventions of 1590 and 1597.⁸² The Jewish community of Poznan also adopted it as a binding regulation.⁸³ The continuing attempts to outlaw the practice demonstrate the small influence of the initial decree. Our evidence also shows that the practice spread beyond Poland. For example, a decree issued by the The Council of Lithuania, published in 1628, stated that the regulations adopted by The Council of Four Lands would be binding in Lithuania as well.⁸⁴ Likewise, The Council of Moravia also voiced an opinion on the sad state of rabbinate. Beginning in 1650 it made a number of enactments, stating that “a rabbi who seeks the intercession of the ruling authorities to receive an appointment shall be punished by excommunication”.⁸⁵ A turning point in the public campaign against this practice was the proclamation issued by the rabbis of The Council of Four Lands in 1640. In it, they threatened anyone involved in buying or selling rabbinic posts with heavy sanctions.⁸⁶ That The Council of Four Lands, the highest body of Polish Jewry, resorted to public declarations with such strong language, accompanied by threats of punitive sanctions, likely attests to practice is continuing prevalence. The proclamations were even issued in Yiddish along with Hebrew, so that even those not belonging to the rabbinic-scholarly elite could understand them. They use stern and exhaustive language, leaving no room for interpretation or loopholes and threaten violators with excommunication. The decrees were affixed with the signatures of the greatest rabbis of the time. But the practice did not disappear. This is why The Council of Four Lands reaffirmed the enactment in 1641,⁸⁷ and The Council Lithuania reaffirmed it in 1691, 1695, and 1720.⁸⁸

 Heilperin 1945, 4. This regulation was a cornerstone in the criticism of the sale of the rabbinate, and was published repeatedly during the period under discussion here. See, for example, Nisanboim 1900, 27– 28; Shapira 1902, I. para. 6; Kaplan 1910, 84.  Heilperin 1945, 5, 13.  Harkavy 1899, II, 14.  Dubnow 1925, 43.  Heilperin 1952, 3, 138.  Heilperin 1945, 62– 65. Friedberg 1904, 15; Lewin 1905, 19. This proclamation was with time the constitutive text of the struggle against the phenomenon. The full text was published in Halevanon, August 17, 1872. See also Hazefirah, June 24, 1890; Ha’or 1883, 131– 134; Shverdshorff 1901, 7– 12.  Heilperin 1945, 66.

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It is only natural that those directly hurt by the practice, also voiced their condemnation – i. e., the rabbis themselves. The practice not only impaired their ability to properly fulfill their responsibilities but also posed a major obstacle to those unable to amass the requested money. Thus, many rabbinic voices critique the practice, describing its corruptive influence on both the public space and the rabbinic institution itself. For example, R. Shabtai Sheftel Horowitz of Poznan wrote: There are some bankrupt communities that are interested in appointing a rabbi who is wealthy, rejecting men of stature and virtue due to their poverty. And I praise the great rabbis of Poland who have declared a ban against individuals and communities, on he who gives and on him who receives, whether himself or through his emissaries. But in our great sins, some do not accept chastisement and violate the bans and curses written in this book, causing the people to stumble.⁸⁹

During the seventeenth century, we continue to see rabbis working feverishly to eradicate the practice, such as R. Yom Tov Lipman Heller, who served, in mid-17th century, as a rabbi in Mikulov, Wien and Krakow: “we reinforced the words of the earlier authorities, and compounded them with enactments and bans on those who accept such rabbis”.⁹⁰ Nevertheless, it was to no avail. The feeling that the struggle was futile and hopeless is also reflected in the words of R. Moshe Hagiz, published in the first third of the eighteenth century: O how I am confounded! Tremors seize me when I think of how they decide to accept rabbis in exchange for money. I see no one in this orphaned generation who can seal the breach, who can properly correct this terrible matter, who can legislate and ban with all authority every such community in the Diaspora.⁹¹

In the second half of the nineteenth century, with the emergence of the Hebrew press, this issue dominated a significant portion of the public discourse. One of the first signs for this appeared in 1866, in an overview of the state of the rabbinate in the community of Poznan, written by Yaacov Sapir,⁹² as well as a year

 Dubnow 1925, 225, 231, 243.  Horowitz 1648, 32. The argument regarding the discrimination of poor Torah scholars in the competition for the positions of the rabbinate has revived in this discourse throughout the period discussed here. See, for instance, Shapira 1902, I, para. 6; Cohen 1902, 12.  Heller 1862, 36.  Hagiz 1733, 85. See also Margaliot 1715, introduction; Shor 1840, Rosh hashana, 25; Landssofer 1757, introduction.  Halevanon, September 18, 1866.

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later in an article published by Haim Yona Gurliand.⁹³ However, while these two writers simply reference the decree of The Council of Four Lands, the first signs of a more serious discussion came from Yekhiel Mikhl Pinnes in 1869. A member of rabbinic circles, Pinnes was one of the first public figures in Eastern Europe to show an awareness of the democratization overtaking Jewish public discourse, and one of the first to understand the important role played by the print press in this regard. In his article “Tikkuna shel umah” (correcting the nation), published in the newspaper Hakarmel in October 1869, Pinnes exposed the sale of rabbinic posts to public scorn, while also giving his readers an idea of its prevalence: The rabbinic, if attained through money, bestows no honor on he who bears it. To our dismay, we see that charlatanism continues to spread in the realm of the rabbinate. Whoever offers the highest price for the rabbinate, has purchased it. And the brazen ones and leaders who have benefit from his gift of money, will seat him upon the rabbinic throne. This is done publicly, shaming the Jewish community which sells the rabbinic throne for a sum of money to the highest bidder. In our time and in our provinces, we have seen this with our own eyes and heard it with our own ears.⁹⁴

Sensing that his words were falling on deaf ears, and realizing he was doing little more than speaking to himself, Pinnes sought to rejuvenate the public discourse pertaining to this issue. His first move was to publish in August 1872 the full text of the Yaroslavl decree. ⁹⁵ It should be noted that the newspaper even published the original Yiddish text of the decree, the lingua franca of the Eastern European Jewry. Beginning in September 1872, Pinnes published a series of articles dedicated to this issue. To give greater to weight to his words, he now adopted three strategies. First, he painted a vivid and concrete picture, describing specific cases in which the rabbinate was bought in various communities; second, he anchored his claims in the unequivocal stance of the great halachic authorities of previous generations who had condemned the practice. This included citing the 1640 decree of The Council of Four Lands.⁹⁶ Third, he appealed directly to the Jewish political and religious leadership, placing upon their shoulders responsibility for what was taking place: “If you do not rise up to this task, you, leaders of Israel – the eyes of community, its teachers and guides – if you do not stand up and unanimously circumscribe this evil, you shall be held account-

   

Halevanon, October 30, 1867. Hakarmel, October 27, 1870. Halevanon, August 7, 1872. Pinnes 1872, 74– 78.

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able!”⁹⁷ However, aware of their conflict of interests, Pinnes decided to take a step further, pressuring those involved by publicly exposing them. He turned to “all honorable writers”, calling upon them “to ready yourselves for a war of writers; seize hold of your pen, and subject to eternal disgrace those who sell and those who purchase, the merchants and the emissaries who take part in negotiating over the rabbinate”.⁹⁸ Yet, feeling the ineffectiveness of public criticism, Pinnes adopted an even harsher tone, describing those involved in the sale of rabbinic posts as those “who have turned it into a merchandise bought and sold in the market by pandering and scheming, the likes of which are otherwise known only to fishmongers”. And if this was not enough, he pointed to the misplaced priorities of the rabbinic world at the time: “For salted fish on Passover you rise up, printing a modern book in the format of the talmud, that raises your ire; in Etrog (citrus medica) from Corfu you smell the whiff of Reform, but when this despicable thing is done in Israel you remain silent?!”⁹⁹ Joining Pinnes were others such as Shmuel Yaacov Yatzkan who vividly described how “gold coins fly into all outstretched hands; everything takes place in the light of day, before all of Israel, all see and all know why this rabbi has assumed the throne”.¹⁰⁰ Pinnes, however, was not alone. The public criticism of this practice would only grow more pronounced as time went on, appearing in articles published in various periodicals,¹⁰¹ as well as in the rabbinic discourse, that many of those who took part in it, such as Yaacov Lifshitz, rabbis Hillel David Trivush, Pinhas Lintop, Yehuda Leib Tsirelson, Menahem Landa, Shlomo Yosef Zevin and Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg, did not hesitate to fully expose to all the nadir to which the community rabbinate had descended.¹⁰² The issue was also discussed openly and at length in responsa and sermon literature.¹⁰³ These sharp criticisms did not fall on deaf ears, and the sense of disgust surrounding the selection of community rabbis was articulated at length in the contemporary Jewish press of the

 Ibid, 78.  Hazefirah, May 3, 1876.  Halevanon, August 9, 1876.  Hamelitz, November 16, 1896.  See, for instance, Ha’or 1883, 33 – 42, 97– 100, 129 – 134; Hazefirah, June 20, 22– 26, 1890; Hamelitz, May 17, 1897.  Halevanon, November 21, 1876; Hayom, December 21, 1886; Knesset Hagedolah 1891, 18 – 97; Hapeles 1901, 408 – 421; Guttman 1904, 135; Hamodi’ah, March 17, August 4, October 5, 1911.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 74; Heilperin 1896, para. 60; Tennenbaum 1899, II, para. 18; idem, hoshen mishpat, para. 12; Broin 1901, I, introduction; idem 1903, 35; Shapira 1902, I, para. 6.

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time.¹⁰⁴ The prevailing public opinion was reflected in critical, bitter accounts addressing this practice: “Interceders who are paid”; “This rabbi turns to treachery, whispering to individuals to his right and left, until thousands of voices proclaim – ’long live the rabbi’!”; “They chose one man who had given them his money. They value gold and silver more than words of Torah”; “The many jump up and purchase [it]”; “Money alone shall be exalted on that day”; “Nine tenths of them, care for nothing but their own gain”; “Their hearts desire nothing but to fill their stomachs with the ’stew of the community’”; “They have turned the rabbinate into a milking cow, even demanding their share [of it] in public”; “The rabbinate has been turned into a commodity and a possession”; “At first they interceded with money, afterwards through improper means, now, every man’s sword is pointed at his fellow”. Despite the intensity of this vitriol, the criticism failed to yield any concrete results; all attempts to curtail the purchase of rabbinic posts from community representatives, or the practice of bribing local authorities, were unsuccessful. Yaacov Lifshitz, secretary of rabbi Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, who was intimately acquainted with all aspects of the rabbinic world of Eastern Europe, pointed not only to the scope of the practice and its underlying causes, but also to the unlikelihood of successfully uprooting it: What shall we do to remove this flaw, which besmirches the honor of Torah? Shall we speak to the bourgeois who desire the rabbis’ money, Will they listen to us!? Our words would be in vain. Any honorable member of bourgeois in a small town is “needy”, and the value of one hundred rubles is more important to him than our rebuke! Many of the “middlemen” know which honorable ones have empty pockets so they can give them bribes! Only a candidate with enough money can become the rabbi of the community! We all know that the ancient decree forbids a rabbi from scheming and providing secret gifts. However, those who intend to become rabbis in the future have already made the people forget this, as the decree does not please them. And if our rabbis were to renew the ancient decree, I doubt that their words would avail, for there are those who work hard and scheme to make people forget. Moreover, the members of our nation are clever, and were a decree passed they would simply stop giving gifts publicly, as they do now, and give them in secret instead. And if they would not travel themselves they would send their money through emissaries. For the gates of scheming cannot be sealed.¹⁰⁵

Relevant sources show that at the dawn of the twentieth century, little had changed. Prominent rabbis of the time endeavored to situate the issue at the center of public and rabbinic discourse; it was subject to internal rabbinic dis-

 See, for instance, Hazefirah, June 20, 22– 26, 1890.  Hazefirah, May 17– 18, 1886. See also Rabinowitz 1912, introduction.

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putes¹⁰⁶ and featured in newspapers, especially in rabbinic periodicals like Kol Yaacov and Hapeles. ¹⁰⁷ This discourse was characterized, with a few exceptions,¹⁰⁸ by attempts to combat the sale of rabbinic posts not with ethical or halachic arguments but rather by suggesting enactments that would formalize and regulate the selection process. This, it was hoped, would curtail as much as possible the use of disreputable strategies, such as bribery. Notably, a common thread running through these proposals was the suggestion that the authority to select a community rabbi be transferred from local authorities to super-communal rabbinic bodies.¹⁰⁹ Heavy sanctions were also advocated, for example, that a rabbi who attained a position unethically would be threatened with all of his halachic rulings being invalidated.¹¹⁰ One writer suggested: “someone wishing to obtain an ordination must obligate himself with a stringent prohibition that if it is found that he or someone on his behalf gave money to be appointed as rabbi, then he shall be forbidden from serving as a rabbi for the rest of his life”.¹¹¹ Those making these proposals were well aware of the gap between the public’s acclamation of such declarations and the actual chances of their being implemented. In any case, most of the proposals were intentionally worded in vague terms without offering any concrete penalties.¹¹² This is presumably the reason why R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn summarized his discussion of the topic by proposing that not only should “the aforementioned enactments be articulated explicitly in writs of ordination, they should also be published in every community, forcing the heads of the community to convene, accept them and ratify them, entering them into the community ledgers as a testament, lending them  Cohen 1960, 22.  “In such a generation that it is almost a mitzvah to take from the chosen one to be a rabbi for the building of the synagogue, ritual bath and the like – it is easy to understand that a mitzvah entails a mitzvah […] to humiliate the rabbi who is accepted for money. In every city there is a man or woman who is meticulous in observing this commandment … in such a generation that the appointment of a rabbi does not depend on the knowledge of the Torah and the fear of Heaven alone … especially in this time that without money no rabbi can move from one town to a bigger one … In order to root out this disease we need to renew the earlier ban of the ancients, not to appoint any rabbi for money, and the rabbi who will give money for a rabbinical chair will not be allowed to rule Halacha”, Kol Yaacov, June 8, 1907.  See, for instance, Hapeles 1901, 408 – 421; Zakheim 1904, II, 94– 95.  Hamelitz, August 14, 1878, April 11, 1898; Reines 1880, 29; Hazefirah, September 30, 1886; Hayom, January 19, 1887; Hapeles 1901, 340 – 349, 734– 738; Cohen 1904; Hapisgah 1904, 35 – 40, 98 – 108; Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907.  Hapeles 1901, 340 – 349.  Hapisgah 1904, 105.  Hamelitz, February 2, 1883.

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communal authority”. However, the only way of enforcing this would be through “a gathering of the great rabbis of the generation”.¹¹³ Regardless, the sheer number of these proposals demonstrates beyond a doubt both the prevalence of the phenomenon as well as the helplessness felt by those seeking to eradicate it. While a number of communities did adopt measures to help prevent such transactions, rabbis Pinnes, Lintop, Trivush, Greenhouz and Feivelsohn, as well as Yaacov Lifshitz and their compatriots ultimately failed to arouse any real interest in the issue among the community elites who remained in charge of selecting and appointing rabbis. Presumably, this was because of the profits reaped by the many of those involved in the process. Likewise, the criticism offered by non-rabbinic authorities failed to elicit any substantial response.¹¹⁴ The criticism essentially remained a monologue and as acrimonious and virulent as it was, none rose to answer it. Beginning in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, we see a significant shift in the strategies employed by the vehement opponents of this practice in rabbinic circles. I am referring to the rabbinic councils convened for the express purpose of discussing the rabbinate’s declining status.¹¹⁵ The sale of rabbinic posts was one of the issues discussed. This reflected a process which had already begun some years prior – an attempt to create a Rabbinic Republic, driven by the sense that the rabbinic world was declining in status and authority. Processes of radicalization overtaking the maskilic circles, and the growing trends of secularization in Jewish society are just two of many forces blamed for this decline.¹¹⁶ It was only natural that many felt the need to consolidate rabbinic ranks and operate within broader frameworks. The classic model of dealing with important public issues was adopted – convening of rabbinic conference, to clarify issues on the public agenda and to formulate a plan of action. The assumption guiding the promoters of these initiatives was that the authority of the “great rabbis of the generation” (gedoley hador) extends beyond the realm of halacha. As explained by Shmuel Noah Gottlieb in the introduction to his book Ohalei Shem: From the time Israel became a nation, those bearing the banner of Torah have been the commanders of the nation leading the camp of war. They have sacrificed themselves to

 Hapisgah 1904, 108.  See, for instance, Hamelitz, February 2, 1883; May 2, 1889; September 12, 1895; November 26, 1896; May 21, 1897; July 9, 1897; February 8, 1898; February 8, 1900; Hazefirah, November 28, 1886; Rabinowitz 1888, 25; Hamagid, February 14, 1901; Hapeles 1901, 340 – 349; Hador 1901, 35/4.  On a conference of this sort that convened in Vilna in the mid-1890s, see Bier 2011, 48 – 50.  Zalkin 2006, Orthodoxy.

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grasp the lantern of Torah and to light the way for the nation. Their watchful eyes have observed all the needs of the nation, whether spiritual or material, and the entire nation has bowed its head to the general discipline in the spirit of the Torah imposed by those bearing its banner.¹¹⁷

One of the first rabbinic assemblies was convened in 1900 at the behest of R. Eliezer Gordon from Telšiai in North Lithuania.¹¹⁸ It was meant to address some of the essential problems plaguing the community rabbinate at the time. The participants, most of them community rabbis from the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere, discussed among other things the practice of purchasing rabbinic positions. For example, seeking to discontinue the practice of purchasing a position under the guise of funding the widow of the previous rabbi, the members of the assembly decided that “a rabbi may not give a sum greater than half of his yearly salary for this purpose”.¹¹⁹ It seems that they thought that such a relatively small sum would not constitute an incentive to buy the position. Another attempt to curtail this method of purchasing rabbinic posts was made in the discussions, which took place before the rabbinic assembly convened in Krakow in 1903. Based on the assumption that “if the members of the community agree among themselves that the new rabbi must provide for the orphans and widow of his predecessor,¹²⁰ then they will be unable to choose the rabbi who is actually the best for them”. Therefore, it was proposed that “a new rabbi should be forbidden from giving any money for this purpose”.¹²¹ However, it was also emphasized that the community had an obligation to resolve this issue and find funding from other sources. It was suggested that only after a candidate had attained a position, could the widow or her children “sell their right to be supported by the community”. A more moderate approach to this issue was proposed by R. Avraham Borenstein of Sokhaczew and his colleagues. In principle, they argued, there is no reason to forbid a direct financial relationship between a rabbinic candidate and the widow of his predecessor. However, given that such a connection often proves problematic, it is preferable that the widow be supported by communal funds.¹²² As mentioned above, another way of circumventing the halachic or moral issue associated with buying a rabbinic post was to define a pay Gottlieb 1912, 9.  Cohen 1901, 10; Hapeles 1901, 699 – 701; Hapisgah 1904, 35 – 40.  Hapeles 1901, 112.  See, for instance: “The rabbi who will be accepted by our community is obligated to compensate the late Rabbi’s widow, in the amount of one thousand rubles”, Hamodi’ah, February 21, 1913.  Guttman 1904, 136.  Kol Yaacov, September 12, 1907.

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ment as a “gift” or “loan”. The rabbinic assembly in Lithuania addressed this practice as well: “we have agreed to prohibit this, whether it is initiated by the rabbi or the community”.¹²³ We might be tempted to assume that the decision reached by these Lithuanian rabbis, signed by some of the most prominent rabbis of the time, would have an immediate effect on the issue, perhaps even leading to a steep decline in its prevalence. However, the problem in this text, as is clear to anyone wellversed in these types of rabbinic formulations, was the lukewarm language employed as well as the glaring omission of the issue of bribery (a phenomenon which was, without a doubt, well-known to the signatories). The nature of the document is most evident from the fifth article, which is meant to threaten those who violate the proposed regulations with sanctions: We beseech the great rabbis in each and every town and city, that if one rabbi violates one of these aforementioned articles, then the rabbis in the neighboring locales of the city should strive to inform the members of the community about the prohibition, and tell them that it is prohibited to seek any ruling from such a rabbi who has violated the prohibition.

In other words, the rabbis are requested to “strive … to inform, and to clarify”. The document omits any explicit invalidation of a rabbi appointed via sale or bribery. Specifically, the other party of the deal, the sellers themselves – usually local prestigious community members, who more or less did as they pleased – are left unmentioned.¹²⁴ Furthermore, even before these rabbis arrived at any decisions, the signatories all agreed to the following proviso: “whenever the famous great rabbis of our generation do not approve them, these regulations shall lack any validity or strength”.¹²⁵ In this light, and because such no clear agreements were reached, it seems doubtful that anyone took the document seriously.

 Hapeles 1901, 122; Rabiner 1968, 149 – 150.  “The community leader does in his community as a person who does within his own, and he is the one who appoints a rabbi as he wishes, if only the rabbi understands to throw money into his large and wide pocket … without looking at the Torah and the fear of Heaven of the new rabbi. For what would the poor fellow who sought “sides” and “sides of the sides” do with pity and supplication, and suddenly all his labors came to nothing because someone else understood the will of the community leader who had decided to sell the rabbinate secretly to the highest bidder?”, Hapeles 1901, 483.  Rabiner 1968, 147. One of the rabbis addressed by R. Gordon on this subject was R. Shaul Katzenelenbogen of Šilalė. On his opinion, see Katzenelenbogen 1989, para. 57.

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The limited effectiveness of this document does not mean that the issue disappeared from the public agenda. Alongside further rabbinic conventions, which addressed this issue,¹²⁶ rabbinic voices offered sharp self-criticisms and called for action. An example of this is R. Yaacov Shor who emphatically argued that “it is a great obligation to seal the breach and decree both the appointers and the appointees, a decree the likes of which was wisely formulated by the rabbis of The Council of the Four Lands”.¹²⁷ Other voices emerging from the rabbinic world expressed their bewilderment at the inactivity of the “great rabbis of the generation [gedoley hador]”. Thus, for example, R. Israel Haim Broin wrote in the introduction to his book Beit Israel (1901): A disgrace of God’s name! An evil thing been done in Israel! The rabbi pays great sum of money, and the more rubles counted, the greater his benefit. Woe to the generation in which this takes place! It is the sin of the great rabbis of our time, who must be the first to hold back the proud waters which threaten to drown our souls. Now money answers everything. It is through money that the rabbi rises up and assumes the throne of honor, the throne of the rabbinate, eliciting much contempt and wrath.¹²⁸

Some participants in this discourse pointed to the possible repercussions of such behavior, showing how it hindered the rabbi’s ability to properly serve his community as well as having a detrimental effect on the institution’s image in the eyes of the Jewish masses. Furthermore, as was well known, most candidates lacked the financial resources needed to purchase the position. Most could not even muster a bribe. To overcome this challenge, candidates were forced, in the best case to enlist the assistance of their family, or to use their dowry money from their wedding. In the worst case, they had to take out loans or agree to subtract the required sum from their future salary.¹²⁹ Keenly aware of the possible impact these circumstances could have on the community rabbinate, some demanded: That they should not burden the new rabbi with a debt he could not bear without becoming indebted to others for a long period of time. The rabbis and communities that allocate large sums of money for the previous rabbi’s widow, not from the community treasury but rather

 About the Rabbinical Conference that convened in the city of Sátoraljaújhely in 1901 see Shapira 1902, I, para. 6. See also Hamodi’ah, July 18, 1913.  Shverdshorff 1901, 6. See also Hazefirah, June 23, 1890.  Broin 1901, introduction. See also Hamelitz, February 8, 1900; Yerushalimsky 1901, 145; “We look at the situation of our generation and see that it is bad, the land has disintegrated, many have corrupted the words of our forefathers … Nevertheless, the great rabbis whisper and turn a blind eye”, Shapira 1902, I, para. 6.  Cohen 1902, 13.

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by placing the burden on the new rabbi, leaving most rabbis debt holders for long period of time, shall stand up for their crimes. For the community shall be required to accept a lowly rabbi, minimizing the honor of Torah. And through them the honor of Heaven is minimized, God forbid.¹³⁰

No less problematic, and perhaps even more so, were the possible repercussions that negotiations based on purchase could have on the rabbi’s ability to serve as the moral compass of his congregation. This did not just apply to the morally questionable act of purchasing the position in the first place but also to the methods, rabbis were forced to resort to cover the initial expenditure. For example, some would extort money in exchange for appointments subject to their approval – such as the community slaughterer.¹³¹ As R. Haim Eliezer Shapira explains: “if they see that the rabbi pays money without qualms, what will the common people think? They will certainly think that the matter is halachically permitted”.¹³² Shapira, however, was an exception to those discussing this question, and even issued a halachic ruling that automatically invalidated any rabbinic appointments based on unsuitable methods.¹³³ And rabbi Shaul Katzenelenbogen wrote in summary: “a rabbi that wishes to be suited to the rabbinic crown, should distance himself from all such things”.¹³⁴ Despite their efforts, the chance that the criticisms offered by rabbis Shor, Broin, Shapira and their colleagues would find attentive ears was never high. This was primarily because of the platform upon which it was voiced – the classical rabbinic genre – responsa literature. This obstacle, which did not elude the notice of the rabbis of the time, seems to have been one of the factors behind the attempt to contend with the problem with the rabbinic conference held in Krakow in 1903.¹³⁵ The driving force behind the assembly was R. Aharon Mendel Cohen, who was well aware of the phenomenon. In one of his letters to the participants, he declares that “the rabbinic throne shall not be found through money or schemes”.¹³⁶ Thus, in a draft distributed in advance of the conference, the following prohibition was proposed: “it is forbidden for a rabbi to give a bribe for community needs in order to be appointed. Likewise, it is forbidden

 Borenstein 1913, para. 465.  “It is necessary to make regulations regarding the money which rabbis take when they approve a ritual slaughterer in their city”, Kol Yaacov, June 8, 1907.  Shapira 1902, I, para. 6.  Ibid.  Katzenelenbogen 1989, para. 57.  On this conference, see Rabinowitz 1903; Cohen 1902; Cohen 1960, 12– 13; Manekin 2001, 173 – 179; Bacon 2009.  Cohen 1960, 16.

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to bribe any member of the community”.¹³⁷ Due to the great importance of the issue, the planned agenda of the assembly included a special discussion of this issue.¹³⁸ However, the discussion was “surprisingly” cancelled in the last moment, most probably due to the efforts of R. Eliyahu Akiva Rabinowitz.¹³⁹ Another issue on the agenda of the assembly was the establishment of a rabbi’s union.¹⁴⁰ R. Aharon Mendel Cohen, who had conceived the idea, even drafted a statute for this union, addressing all aspects of the community rabbinate.¹⁴¹ In the first article, opening a section on “the rabbinic post”, it is stated: “the union must completely nullify the sale of rabbinical posts”. This attempt fared no better than its predecessors did. Rabbinic posts continued to be sold publicly.¹⁴² Despite the feeling that critics were toiling in vain, one man remained undaunted and committed himself to keeping the struggle alive. This was R. Avraham Borenstein, the leader of Sochaczew Hasidim, who worked with what can almost be called a sense of desperation, to restore the community rabbinate to its former glory. In the late summer of 1907, R. Borenstein published a “great announcement” signed by two other Hasidic leaders, R. Avraham Mordekhai Alter of Gur and R. Yerakhmiel Israel Yitzhak of Alexander, as well as by 280 other rabbis, the vast majority of whom hailed from Poland and Galicia.¹⁴³ The announcement was distributed in hundreds of copies in different communities, and was even published two week later in the journal Kol Yaacov. ¹⁴⁴ Its background and the feeling of urgency driving it are already evident in its opening lines: In the past years, our hearts have been pained by the scandals pertaining to the appointment of rabbis in their communities. In some places they purchase the rabbinate with a fee exacted by the members of the community, with a bribe paid to individuals, or with both methods at once. This practice has spread to several communities and has become a norm, until they will not accept any rabbi unless he gives a bribe to the few or to the many. To them this has all become as if permitted and they do not even feel shame when they contemptuously violate the explicit rulings of our former great rabbis.

       

Guttman 1904, 135 – 136; Cohen 1902, 15; Cohen 1960, 13, 22– 23. Guttman 1904, 18. Hamagid, August 20, 1903. On rabbi Rabinowitz, see Salmon 2002– 2003. Cohen 1960, 69 – 79. Bahar“n 1912. On the reasons for the failure of the Rabbis’ Conference, see Kol Yaacov, September 12, 1907. Borenstein 1913, yoreh de’ah, para. 465. Kol Yaacov, September 12, 1907.

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After this introduction – which makes clear that the phenomenon was not just limited to “some small communities” – the authors review in detail the long history of the sale of rabbinic posts. Likewise, they draw attention to the body of ordinances and halachic rulings which were meant to contend – albeit unsuccessfully – with the problematic trend. They also reiterate the egregiousness of the practice as well as the fact that “the decrees and prohibitions remain binding today”. The authors were, however, aware that given the practice’s prevalence and scope, the wheel of time could not simply be turned back. This was especially so, for rabbis who had already been appointed through improper means. In terms of the future, the authors assume an unwavering, unambiguous, and uncompromising stance: From this day forward, we the undersigned warn all our brethren the children of Israel – especially those dwelling in Poland in which this decree and declaration have been made – not to appoint any man to serve as rabbi through a bribe of money, whether given by himself or others, even if his relatives or others pay out of their pockets requesting nothing in return, regardless of whether the money will go to the community treasury – even for religious purposes such as building a synagogue, a study house or a ritual bath, or for the individuals of the city.

The authors knew that the only chance of initiating change was by explicitly threatening violators with heavy sanctions: The rabbi, who violates this covenant and oath, has forfeited himself. He shall be separated from the community of Israel and be excommunicated from both this world and the World to Come. His rulings may not be relied upon. If he declares a ritual bath valid, he shall be ignored. No explanation or apology shall allow him to once again serve as a rabbi and teacher in Israel, neither in this city or another.

However, as we saw above, by addressing these threats to only one of the parties involved in the transaction, the authors were essentially obfuscating. Those with the power to accept bribes, those upon whom such decisions ultimately depended, could overcome these sanctions and ensure that their preferred candidate would be appointed rabbi and would be immune from any real harm. The authors of the document sought to close this loophole as well. They issued a stern warning to this group: The excommunication shall also apply to those who receive money, and we have come to warn that the money attained, whether given to an individual or to the many, is an abomination. It is detestable money that shall never see any sign of blessing.

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A look at this last article, which only emphasizes the ethical problems of taking bribes, testifies more than anything else to the weakness of the document signatories. They realized that due to the hierarchical makeup of the Jewish community, which was headed by men of means, not by rabbis, any attempt to impose real sanctions was bound to fail. It can be assumed that this was clear to those who read the document as well, especially those who controlled these power structures. The writers were also aware that it was not just the political and economic elites who opposed the initiative. Various groups within the rabbinic world itself did not look fondly on the effort. To this end, the authors made an unambiguous appeal to “the rabbis of this country” to “stand beside this enactment with all strength and might”. Their justification for this demand was the fact that their status in the rabbinic world stresses the authority that this entailed: We request and warn all the rabbis that henceforth they shall stand beside the enactments with all strength and might. And if it be heard that in some place, people have gone out and acted in contrast to the enactment and decree, then the rabbis near to that town shall be obligated to warn in writing the members of that community, as well as that rabbi, calling them to turn away from this wicked path. Furthermore, we warn that if there be any doubt or question about this matter, those to rule in such a case will be none other than the great rabbis of the country.

They even took a further step. They called upon rabbis who attended funerals of deceased rabbi to publicly “read the notice in the synagogue in front of the entire community, to motivate them at that time, so they will know not to even consider doing anything that contravenes the ‘announcement’”. This unambiguous and highly detailed “announcement”, which left no doubt as to the inherent problems of buying and selling rabbinical post, was not ignored. Although no one disputed its basic principles, some questioned its effectiveness. For example, R. Yehuda Leib Graubart of Staszow, publicly, explicitly, and with an air of realism noted the futility of re-issuing such a decree: This decree – that a rabbi shall not be appointed in exchange for paying money – first legislated in 1587 in Lublin, has not spread in Israel. Several times before, our rabbis have published decrees and severe punishments, legislating against appointing any rabbi based on gold and silver, paid to the individual or to the many. However, no one pays this any heed, and the matter has become in the eyes of the masses a laughingstock and the subject of jest. If in better, earlier times, the leaders could not withstand the test, and money induced them to violate the decrees of the sages, what can we do in our day? – Even if it is certainly a fitting and nice thing to observe the enactments of our rabbis, their memories be a blessing. There is no doubt that the righteous and upright will not give or receive money, publicly or secretly. Conversely, there is no doubt that many will find

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ways to circumvent the decrees – bribery cannot be regulated – and they shall do their deeds in the dark so that none can examine or investigate it.¹⁴⁵

It is unclear to what extent Graubart’s approach, a mixture of realism and cognizance of the limitations of rabbinical authority, was accepted in rabbinic circles at the time. What is clear is that the practice did not disappear. About a year after the “announcement” was published, the issue continued to be a centerpiece of the rabbinic and public discourse of the time, especially in OrthodoxJewish newspapers. The reins of this discourse, once held by Yekhiel Mikhl Pinnes, were now taken up by R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn, the rabbi of Kriūkai and Kupiškis in Lithuania. In a long article, published in the journal Hapisgah, he once again enumerated the by-now well-known litany of arguments and condemnations. However, unlike his predecessors, R. Feivelsohn focused on describing how the practice of selling the rabbinate affected the rabbi’s ethical and halachic authority: If a rabbi is not akin to an angel of the Lord when he is tested, what teachings can the members of the community ask for, and what rebuke can they learn from him? If the rabbi rebukes a member of his community – for example, if his business violates the Sabbath or festivals, or if he steals, cheats or trespasses – will he not simply say in his heart: Rabbi, remove the beam from your own eyes!¹⁴⁶

Besides his theoretical discussion, Feivelsohn proposed some solutions.¹⁴⁷ However, as in the past, there was nobody to listen. After all, “the plague has spread, the great rabbis of the generation have no power to protest”, as R. Yekhiel Mikhl Leiter put it.¹⁴⁸ Other attempts to curtail the practice were made in the form of rulings of the rabbinical conferences, which proved equally ineffective. For example, the first decision reached by the founding assembly of the Rabbis’ Union in Poland (convened in 1913), was “to express their protest against the sale of the rabbinate for money”.¹⁴⁹ The participants did expressed their protest, but things continued as they were, as confirmed beyond a doubt by the continuing public – primarily rabbinic – discussions about the issue. For example, according to Yekutiel Yehuda Grunwald, “because of some ‘mixed multitude’ which has risen to power, giv-

    

Graubart 1928, III, 178. Hapisgah 1904, 103. Feivelsohn 1914, 44– 47, 106 – 110. Leiter 1933, para. 8. Hamodi’ah, July 11, 1913.

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ing ‘sweets’ to some individuals as hush money”.¹⁵⁰ Another example is R. Zvi Yehezkel Mikhelzon’s long, detailed discussion about this issue, punctuated by concrete example which he summarizes as follows: “words cannot describe the desecration of God’s name in our time. The matter has been publicly permitted and an evil thing had been done in Israel, that a rabbi pays high prices for their positions. Woe to the generation in which this has happened!”¹⁵¹

3 “What else can he who gives bribes do?” There were other opinions, however, about this issue, some of which provided a more nuanced perspective. Some sought to downplay the extent of the problem, claiming that it was marginal in scope. Furthermore, they argued that the Jewish community recognizes and respects its rabbi. His authority and the faith placed in him are a consequence of his erudition – not the methods he has been compelled to use in order to attain his position.¹⁵² Others noted that the money paid by candidates did not go directly into the pockets of community decision-makers. It was more akin to an “agent’s fee”.¹⁵³ Moreover, the money was often used for worthy causes, such as funding community needs and supporting the widow of the previous rabbi.¹⁵⁴ Some proposed, in this context, that “if the community needs money, a rabbinic candidate may provide a loan, as long as it does not exceed 1,000 rubles”.¹⁵⁵ It was also argued that although the practice directly affected the selection process of non-locals who submitted their candidacy – after all, it could be overcome by simply appointing someone local – it was still better to appoint an external candidate even at the expense of improper conduct. This is because selecting a local candidate could entail internal disputes driven by local family interests – a problem avoided by appointing non-locals.¹⁵⁶ Another argument frequent raised was that those making the payments should be distinguished from those receiving them. The latter, according to this argument, are those responsible for the practice’s prevalence. They deserve censure. As R. Shalom Mordekhai Shvadron put it: “the blame should be placed

 Grunwald 1955, 161.  Horowitz 1905, 133; Mikhelzon 1924, 13 – 14. See also Shvadron 1911, para. 8; Hamodi’ah, January 25, 1912.  Hazefirah, February 17, 1888; Hapeles 1903, 201– 209.  Hapeles 1903, 203.  Hapeles 1903, 590.  Cohen 1902, 15.  Hapeles 1903, 590.

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on the shoulders of the leaders of the city who appoint the rabbi and violate the prohibition of ‘thou shalt not take a bribe’”.¹⁵⁷ The rabbinic candidate by contrast, has been foisted into a difficult reality which he neither chose nor benefits from: “he only seeks his bread and knows in his heart, that if he does not give money, as dictated by these people, he will not appointed as a rabbi in this community. And if to his dismay, his fellow rabbi is cleverer than him and gives a gift in secret, what sin and what crime is there in this?”¹⁵⁸ And if all of this was not enough, those seeking to justify bribery, found an excuse in a far-off land – America. Because of the dearth of open rabbinic posts, so it was argued, there was a real danger that a frustrated candidate who has not received a position would resort to immigrating to America, which was perceived at that time by Orthodox circles as a place where a traditional Jewish way of life could not be maintained. This being the case “it is better to commit one sin than to violate many Sabbaths in America”. A close review at these arguments clearly reveals that they tended to shift the blame from rabbis who purchased their positions to other parties. Given that those expressing these opinions usually belonged to rabbinic circles themselves, this is not at all surprising. Some contemporaneous rabbis were well aware of the complex reality which rabbinic candidates were forced to contend with, and sought to find solutions to the halachic dilemmas associated with selling and buying rabbinic posts. Some argued that when it came to rabbinic positions, essential aspects, such as a candidate’s suitability or the ability of the community to support him, should be separated from the question of how the position was purchased. According to this line of thought, the latter was secondary in importance and should not be treated as something which could disqualify a candidate.¹⁵⁹ Other rabbis claimed that because a rabbinic post constitutes a source of income for a rabbi and his family, purchasing it is akin to paying money in exchange for one’s livelihood or “receiving from the community a regular salary, in exchange for paying a fee”.¹⁶⁰ Another solution offered was to look at the rabbinic position in terms of Hazakah, which the candidate had to buy from the members of the community,

 Shvadron 1911, para. 8.  Hazefirah, July 12, 1876; May 3, 1876; February 14, 1877; December 31, 1878; Hamodi’ah, July 18, 1913; Hapeles 1903, 590; Leiter 1933, para. 8; “It is well known to all that the rabbi who gives money does not give with good will, only because of necessity, and it is forbidden to call him evil person, since the superiors in the towns are greedy, and this rabbi will do what?”, Shvadron 1911, para. 8. For severe criticism of this claim, see Shapira 1902, I, para. 6.  Kevod Halevanon, August 9, 1876; Eikhenstein 1895, I, para. 8; Yerushalimsky 1901, II, para. 1; Leiter 1933, para. 8; Shvadron 1911, para. 8; Ilana Dekhayey 1914, 47– 48.  Itinga 1893, para. 126; Eikhenstein 1895, I, para. 8; Ilana Dekhayey 1914, 47– 48.

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and which became his property, which he, in the future, could sell to another.¹⁶¹ That being said, the majority of the above-mentioned rabbis were united in their opinion that a rabbinic post purchased through bribery to individuals, as opposed to a public payment for community needs, was invalid, as R. Moshe Nahum Yerushalimsky wrote: Indeed, in those places in Poland affected by this plague – that rabbis give money to prominent individuals in secret, and they select them, for it is known that the selectors can only be swayed by bribery – this is certainly considered “being appointed in exchange for money”, which the Talmud and halachic authorities rule invalidates his rabbinical appointment, and it is forbidden to treat him with honor. Therefore, all the great rabbis of the generation should rise up in unison to annul this evil practice and announce that any rabbi chosen in such a fashion will be stripped of his rabbinic crown and shall not enjoy the status of a rabbi. For it is forbidden by both the laws of the state as well as the laws of the Torah.¹⁶²

It seems likely that these arguments found attentive ears. Those involved in the sale and purchase of the position certainly paid heed. Apparently, the ineffectiveness of decrees, stemmed, among other things, from their wording. A careful review of these texts shows that the sanctions proposed, meant to create some form of deterrence, were only directed at those purchasing positions, which is the rabbis who sought to attain vacant positions. The other parties to the transaction, the heads of the community, were almost never threatened. This was likely because most drafters of enactments were unwilling to openly confront them. After all, many signatories had received their own rabbinic posts from these very same community leaders. In light of this, and as long as the heads of the community felt no real threat, there was nothing to motivate them to change. In other words, threats directed against rabbis who purchased their position lacked any meaningful content because they were defended by their “business partners”. This reality significantly weakened many rabbis who abstained from contending for open positions. As R. Aharon Shmuel Tamrat explained: I cannot believe in the healthy disposition of communities today. I do not believe that any community is capable of unraveling the networks which materialize and fill the space of a community with an open vacancy, to privilege the ruling of someone dwelling far-off in his quiet home over those jumping about and amassing around the city turning it over from every side”.¹⁶³

 Yerushalimsky 1901, II, para. 1. See also Yuval 1989, 364– 393; Borenstein-Makovetsky 2010.  Yerushalimsky 1901, II, para. 1.  Hamelitz, November 17, 1897.

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In conclusion, business continued as usual – some people sold the rabbinate, others bought it, and still others protested.¹⁶⁴

 Hazefirah, December 21, 1910; Yagdil Torah 1910 – 1911, II, 16; Feivelsohn 1914, 126 – 127, 240; Mikhelzon 1925, 13 – 14; Dzubas 1944, 22, 24; Shekhter 1953, 130; Cohen 1960, 73; Roth 1956 – 1962, para. 37; Shternbukh 1986 – 2002, para. 356; Heitner 2006, 55 – 56.

Chapter 4 On the Verge of the “Promised Land” 1 The Sermon – “Words that Please the Heart” As opposed to larger communities in which professional preachers were responsible for delivering sermons, most communities, especially smaller ones, considered preaching the rabbi’s duties.¹ Therefore, regardless of whether the selection process followed accepted procedures, one of the main tests by which potential candidates were evaluated was their ability to deliver a public sermon. This was, after all, the only way for the members of the community to get an impression of a candidate’s talents, at least his rhetorical ones. Other talents, such as his erudition were not really testable, especially if the candidate was young or unknown.² Every rabbinic candidate was required to deliver a sermon. This would usually took place on sabbath afternoon, when community members were free from other engagements. As one contemporary rabbi explained: “I sought to visit a community with no rabbi, to preach my message along with other young rabbis”.³ If a candidate lingered for some time in a prospective community, taking time to develop connections or find locals to intercede on his behalf, he would sometimes deliver several “trial sermons,” in a number of fora and to different audiences.⁴ The candidate found himself in a delicate and complex situation. As noted by Marc Saperstein and Motti Benmelekh, a preacher generally projects his authority to his audience in his sermon.⁵ In our scenario, the reverse was true. The candidate-preacher was actually subservient to his audience – it was his audience who would determine his financial and professional future. As explained by Breuer, this state of affairs clarified to the potential rabbi, practically and theoretically, where he would be situated in the communal hierarchy in the future.⁶ Because the sermon mediated between two cultural levels – higher culture and

 Hakarmel, Marc 2, 1870; Rabinowitz 1877, introduction; Buber 1903, 112; Biber 1907, 206; Perles 1907, 32; Gliksberg 1940; Sonne 1941, 169; Benayahu 1953, 43 – 46; Meisel 1962, 30, 266; Posner 1962, 11; Breuer 1976, 123; Sofer 1979, 21; Ehrenreich 2007, 74. On the sermon in the church system in Russia, see Bukhovitch 1992, 150 – 175.  Karo 1824, 12; Hamagid, July 31, 1872.  Hamelitz, July 29, 1897. See also Kaufmann 1899, 128; Shekhter 1953, 130; Breuer 1991, 214.  Hayom, August 15, 1886; Heitner 2006, 55.  Saperstein 1989, 54– 59; Benmelekh 2003, 69.  Breuer 1991, 214. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-005

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popular culture,⁷ and because most of the audience lacked any significant scholarly background, it behooved the candidate who wished to demonstrate his skills to build his sermon from less rigorous or scholastic texts, such as the homiletics and legends. This allowed him to highlight his rhetorical skills as opposed to his scholarly acumen.⁸ Candidates who were naturally eloquent tended to wield their talents. For example, in a certain suburb of Vilna, “the masses chose for themselves a rabbi who came from afar and who won their hearts with his sermons”.⁹ A similar episode took place in 1882 after the death of the rabbi of Žeimelis in Lithuania: “before the High Holidays, R. Shalom Elhanan [Yaffe] arrived in our town and delivered some good and precious sermons. The members of the community convened and decided to appoint him rabbi over the community”.¹⁰ This emphasis on eloquence and rhetorical skill could inspire a deep sense of disillusionment among young yeshiva graduates. During their years of study, a time they considered a prerequisite for ascending the rabbinic throne, they had not paid any attention to the rhetorical element of the rabbinical vocation; they certainly had received no official training in this regard. The extent of this disillusionment is evident in the following two texts. The first was written by Moshe Reines, whose father, R. Yitzhak Yaacov Reines, served as the rabbi of several Jewish communities in Lithuania: In the small towns, the masses have the upper hand, and those who select the rabbi are the tailors, shoemakers, and the like. If the rabbi does not know how to deliver a public sermon, even if his stature in Torah is as tall as cedar trees, he will not be accepted as rabbi. The tailor or shoemaker will not engage the rabbi in discussing complicated religious issues. They will not listen to trenchant analysis or logical argumentation. If they listen to the rabbi, and he speaks words which please them – Good. However, if not, then his fate is fixed; he will go back the way he came.¹¹

Likewise, R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn writes: Preaching has become the pinnacle of the rabbinate. If the rabbi lacks the tongue to teach or speak publicly, his fate in all communities will be the same – he will be rejected in favor of a lesser man. Sometimes, there will be a man lacking in Torah learning, with neither fear

 Bonfil 1992; Turniansky 1996.  Levinsohn 1839, 351.  Hazefirah, April 21, 1896. See also Hamelitz, August 2, 1897; Hamodi’ah, September 22, 1911.  Hamelitz, November 21, 1884. In this case, the timing was not coincidental, since the High Holidays, in which the community rabbi played a central role, the community urgently required to fill the role. For a similar case in the Slonim, see Hayom, August 15, 1886.  Reines 1888, 103. See also Hamelitz, June 15, 1883; August 20, 1886; Ovtsinsky 1908, 145; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 67. On Moshe Reines, see Reines 1890, 5 – 17.

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of Heaven, nor good deeds or virtues, who has, however, a rhetorical talent, he will prevail over those whose little fingers are wider then his loins in their knowledge of Torah. With what shall he win this victory? With the sound of songs which captivate the hearts of simple people, the majority of the community’s population. This is the practice in many towns – that the primary evaluation of the rabbi is the craft of preaching – and who is not skilled in sermons?¹²

Thus, for example, when R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim arrived in the town of Mir, he delivered “a sermon on legends with the purpose of receiving the rabbinate”.¹³ It should be noted that this emphasis on rhetoric was not limited to the Jewish milieu. Rhetorical abilities played an even more decisive role when it came to the selection of the region’s rural priests. This is the basis of the Russian poet and publicist Ivan Petrovitch Pnin’s appeal to the students of theological seminaries to bear in mind that their audiences are usually comprised of simple people not scholars, and that therefore the art of speaking should have a central place in the seminary’s curriculum.¹⁴ We further learn about this requirement in the description of priest Ioann Stefanovich Belliustin of an event took place in a church in which the priest, who was not a talented speaker, began to deliver a sermon: “It goes without saying that most of the listeners flee from the church at the very beginning of the sermon. Those who remain wait for the end of the irritation, boredom, and disgust for the priest and his sermon”.¹⁵ These considerations notwithstanding, in many cases several scholars would attend a candidate’s sermon. These were sometimes the local rabbinical judges or preachers and their impression of the speech could influence who would ultimately be selected as the community rabbi. They, for their part, expected a scholarly sermon revolving around a complex Talmudic passage or an intricate halachic problem. They wanted the candidate to demonstrate his scholarly and intellectual abilities – not just his eloquence.¹⁶ Because they saw themselves as members of scholarly elite, and did not feel beholden to a rabbi-preacher – they certainly did not need his intercession to access canonical Jewish texts – such an occasion served as an opportunity to demonstrate to the entire community their own scholarly abilities. Moreover, it was also a chance to send the can-

 Hapisgah 1904, 104. See also Levinsohn 1839, 151; Hamagid, December 15, 1875; Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907; Altman 1964; Caplan 2002, 182.  Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 92. See also Hamelitz, July 29, 1897.  Pnin 1966, 156.  Belliustin 1985, 179.  Kotik 1989, 123.

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didate a clear message to the effect of: “if you are chosen as the community rabbi, your halachic rulings will be subject to our constant criticism”. The dilemma facing the rabbinic candidate as he prepared his sermon was a consequence of the two competing models of the ideal rabbi that circulated in many communities. The “scholarly rabbi” with the ability to rule on challenging religious issues, versus the “pulpit rabbi” who could rule only the basic religious issues, such as dietary regulations or financial disputes, but was primarily an eloquent speaker.¹⁷ Naturally, most community rabbis were situated on a spectrum between these two poles, depending on their own personality as well as the character of the community in which they were active. When, however, time came to contend for a rabbinic position, when various powers in the community would categorically define the type of rabbi they were looking for, one’s ability to attain the position was heavily dependent on the power relations between the respective supporters of these two models. This being the case, a candidate had to navigate carefully between these two approaches. Over-emphasizing one aspect of the rabbinic vocation over another could drive one group, who had a different set of priorities, to not support one’s candidacy and even to actively seek to scuttle it.¹⁸ To a considerable extent, a contemporary Jew’s attitude towards these sermons was a means of signaling his intellectual-social status. This can be seen in the account of R. Moshe Horowitz who served as the rabbi of Lygumai in North Lithuania: Those who hold the Torah dear consider it a disgrace and a dishonor to listen to words spoken from a man at a pulpit. Even those whose knowledge of Torah and halacha is doubted by their acquaintances believe that it is unbefitting for them to listen to sermonizers and preachers if they wish to be considered Torah scholars. Thus, they hope to cultivate among others the belief that they too belong to the faction of scholars. Therefore, when a rabbi comes to speak from the pulpit, the only ones to attend are the course people, people from the street. And the rabbi’s heart will grieve when he sees for whom he labors.¹⁹

In sermonic literature, trial sermons are very rare. For reasons known best to them, most community rabbis chose not to include in their books the sermons they had delivered to the community as a test – or at the very least, they did not bother to characterize them as such. As a result, we should be wary about reaching sweeping conclusions based on our discussion of the few trial sermons on record.

 Hamelitz, July 17, 1897; Dessler 2008, 516; Hacohen 1933, 137– 143.  Pesakhovitch 1954, 567.  Horowitz 1911, 3.

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One rabbi to leave us an organized collection of public sermons, both those he delivered as a rabbinic candidate as well as those he delivered upon his appointment, is Yitzhak Rabinowitz (1823 – 1868) who served as the community rabbi of Częstochowa from 1859 to 1868. He opens his collection with a sermon, which he delivered “when I stood before the community to be tested”.²⁰ Well aware of the inherent difficulties of delivering a sermon to a diverse audience, he chose to be open with them about the dilemma: I have been called today by you to teach the people knowledge. Sometimes, a preacher will stand and teach people the ways of life, and sometimes he will demonstrate his prowess in Torah and wisdom. There are those among you with wisdom and knowledge of Torah, who come here not to learn but only to judge. However, there are also humble, innocent people who wish to hear the word of God from he who speaks it.²¹

Rabinowitz adopted a unique strategy: he split his sermon in two, employing two discourses addressed to two separate target audiences – the masses, on the one hand, and the local Torah scholars, on the other.²² To justify this tactic, he chose to open his first sermon with a quote from the homiletics: The Sages have already said that a person who wishes to speak his discourse, his Legend, or his homiletics in public, should begin with a parable. Therefore, my brothers, when I stand here today to speak to you about dialectics of halacha and homiletics, I consider it an obligation to choose my words to the best of my abilities.²³

By this citing, Rabinowitz overcame his primary obstacle. He presented himself as willing to accommodate both those interested in legends and homiletics, as well as those who wished to hear halachic dialectics. Nevertheless, his first sermon is directed specifically to the intellectual-scholarly elements of the community, showing that he considered them more influential. In this sermon, he discusses the caution and responsibility a sage must adopt when he wishes to deliver a sermon or offer rebuke. As befitting the public audience to whom the speech was delivered, Rabinowitz adopted a scholarly discourse, sometimes employing a dialectic method and citing a wide range of sources. Among other

 Rabinowitz 1863, 1– 4.  Ibid, 3.  It should be noted that the possibility of splitting the sermon into two sermons was not available to most of the candidates, which supports the assumption that Rabinowitz was the preferred candidate in this community. For a similar tactic taken by R. Yosef Shlofer in the community of Slonim, see Hayom, August 15, 1886.  Rabinowitz 1863, 1.

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things, this was meant to showcase to the local scholars his extensive expertise in all genres of Jewish canonical texts. In his second sermon, Rabinowitz directed his words at the “people”. It seems that the latter had complained as follows: “we have seen this man’s honor and prowess in clever speech and the dialectics of halacha and Legends; but this avails us not. Indeed, the High Holidays are approaching, and the people wish to have their hearts awakened with ethical and moral rebuke”.²⁴ At the beginning of this sermon, he explains to his audience why he specifically chose to direct his first sermon to scholars: “for a person who comes from afar should not open with moral rebuke, and it is unbefitting of the community’s honor to receive rebuke from every claimant”. The use of this justification was meant to appease “the humble and innocent” that is, the masses; it was meant to raise their self-esteem as individuals and as community members. While this may have been the real reason for the order Rabinowitz chose, it is not impossible that practical considerations dictated it: perhaps he was aware that those with the most power to select a candidate in that particular community were the local scholarly elites – not the common people. Regardless, it is clear that he considered it important to open a dialog with the masses, hoping that this would make it easier for him to serve as the local rabbi, if and when he was selected. As he says: “today I have come to fulfill your requests”. The majority of the sermon was dedicated to ethical rebuke. Rabinowitz discussed man’s obligation to choose between good and evil, and, in the spirit of the High Holidays, urged his audience to dedicate their time to prayer and to take pains to attend public prayers with a quorum. However, while ostensibly presented as rebuke, it is clear from the content and focus of this sermon, that he made every effort to remain neutral – that is, to adopt a discourse which was vague enough so that no individual could construe the rebuke as personal. Nevertheless, Rabinowitz was aware of the fact that some of the members of his audience did not approve of his candidacy. The ideal tactic in such a situation would be, one would think, to appease them with a conciliatory tone, perhaps even resorting to flattery; perhaps he should have ignored them entirely. However, he adopted a different strategy, one quite risky for anyone looking for wide public support of his candidacy – he chose to confront his detractors openly. “Within this community,” Rabinowitz said, “it is inevitable that there be those with an evil eye, who have different opinions, who seek a pretext against me”.²⁵ It seems that his willingness to publicly confront his opponents

 Ibid, 5.  Ibid, 3.

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head on stemmed from the knowledge that they were a minority with marginal influence over the selection process. It behooves us to reiterate that for every rabbinic post there were several competitors. Every candidate meant another sermon. Thus, while the candidate himself may have ascribed great importance to the success of his sermon, it is likely that unless he was already a favorite, or unless the potential group of selectors had yet to hear several sermons already, their attentiveness to an individual sermon was somewhat limited. Unless he was a talented speaker, they would be difficult to impress with words alone.²⁶

2 From a letter of intent to the rabbinic writ of appointment The sermon was usually the second-to-last stage of the journey towards the community rabbinate. However, even if the candidate had cleared the hurdle of the public sermon, and even been formally selected for the position, it was still premature to celebrate. At this point, there was an additional obstacle – negotiations over the terms of his employment. Naturally, the sources documenting these proceedings are limited. Most of the details we do have come from earlier periods in which the communal institutions still operated in an official capacity and thus left behind relevant documentation. However, as the power of these institutions waned, and certainly after 1844, when the Kahal was officially disbanded in the Russian Empire, negotiations became far less formal. Nevertheless, it is possible to reconstruct, at least in part, this stage of the appointment process and it cannot be overstated the concrete influence these negotiations could have on the rabbi’s future relationship with his community and his ability to serve it. A rabbi learned that he had been chosen from an informative “letter of intent”. This letter, worded in flowery prose, represented an official offer which included several prerequisites and sometimes even a draft of the terms of employment.²⁷ Some candidates would reject the offer outright, be it because they had already received a position elsewhere,²⁸ because the opening conditions offered were, in their mind, unreasonable,²⁹ or because they had learned from their own

 For an example, see Yaffe, Collection. Letter from July 31, 1882.  See, for instance, Frumkin 1900, 35 – 36; Dukkes 1903, 54– 55; Hamodi’ah, November 19, 1911; Sofer 1979, I, 17; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 61; Dessler 2004, 84; Hirshler 2008, 92– 93.  Katzenelenbogen 1732, orakh haim, para. 8.  Aleksandrov 1932, 56.

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sources that the letter did not necessarily represent the voice of the entire community (a scenario described in the previous chapter). For those who accepted the letter of intent, the document represented a starting point for negotiations about practical considerations as well as terms of employment.³⁰ If both sides reached an agreement, a rabbinic writ of appointment – the community rabbi’s contract – would follow. In broad terms, the existence of a rabbinic writ, which was existed in some form in the late middle Ages, represented an important stage in the professionalization of the rabbinate. Before dwelling on specific terms of employment, we should note that most extant rabbinic writs clearly delineate the hierarchical relationship between the community institutions and the rabbi. Naturally, the heads of the community were concerned that, despite the restrictions placed upon him in the rabbinic writ, the rabbi would, after his appointment, operate independently, perhaps even flouting the accepted norms of the community. They, therefore, would take extra measures to avoid such an outcome. Thus, for example, the rabbinic writ that R. Yekutiel Yehuda Teitelbaum received from the community of Sátoraljaújhely stated: “we have accepted you to tend to the flock of his people for six years. However, you must obey the words written herein, and if you violate even one of them your position will be terminated, and your salary discontinued!”³¹ Likewise, in the community of Żółkiew it was stipulated that “the rabbi who will, God willing, be accepted by our community must swear to uphold all the decrees enshrined in the community ledger, both those directly applicable to the rabbi as well as those pertaining to the community as a whole”.³² The rabbi’s total subservience to the powerful members of the community and to community ordinances was one of the reasons that some Torah scholars, even some of the most talented ones, had qualms about taking on a community position.³³ The most prominent example of this trend was a clause in the rabbinic writ limiting the rabbi’s term to a specified number of years. Generally, the term was set to three years, in a few cases it could be as long as six years, and in some very rare cases, it could be longer.³⁴ R. Yehuda ben Bezalel (the Mahara“l of Prague)

 Dukkes 1903, 54– 55; Levin 1973, 52; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 61; Sofer 2001, 8; Hirshler 2008, 76 – 78; Dessler 2013, 165 – 167.  Berger 1999, 579.  Buber 1903, 112. See also Dubnow 1925, 244.  Emden 1897, 112.  Bukhner 1835, 81; Heller 1862, 107– 109; Landshot 1884, 28 – 29; Kaufman 1897, 13, 25, 29; Dukkes 1903, 22, 116; Perles 1907, 19; Ovtsinsky 1908, 144; Schwarz 1937, 18; Sonne 1941, 153, 156, 177; Katz 1969, 253; Breuer 1976, 117; Friedlander 1983, 125; Schwarzfuchs 1986, 83; Hilde-

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describes this already in the sixteenth century: “the rabbis in these lands are all dependent on the heads of the community, for once a year or every three years they repeat the process of appointing the rabbi”.³⁵ He further notes that the rabbi is completely reliant on the political establishment of the community: “and how can he not fear those into whose hands he is delivered; how can he not wonder if they will restore him as rabbi?!”³⁶ Term limits were not merely stated in rabbinical writs. They were also enshrined in super-communal ordinances, for example those drafted in Lithuania in 1623: “The rabbi who serves for a limited period, if, when his time has expired, they do not re-accept him, then he is removed from the rabbinate, and they need not inform him before the end of his term”.³⁷ Likewise, we find numerous references to this phenomenon in halachic literature,³⁸ writings of community rabbis,³⁹ in community records,⁴⁰ official ordinances,⁴¹ in belles letters, in news articles discussing the happenings in various communities,⁴² and, to a lesser extent, in scholarly literature.⁴³ Thus, in the rabbinic writs examined for this study, including those given to famous and prestigious figures such as R. Haim of Volozhin, almost none offered the rabbi an unlimited term.⁴⁴ While there have been many attempts in rabbinic literature to downplay the importance of this issue, some going so far to claim that it was the rabbi’s prerogative

sheimer 1992, 26; Moriah 1992, 104; Zefunot 1991, 99; ibid 1994, 93; Caplan 1993, 217; Berger 1999, 596; Ehrenreich 2007, 74; Hirshler 2008, 76; Litt 2008, 115, 121, 127.  Yehuda Liva ben Bezalel 1961, 194.  Ibid.  Dubnow 1925, 10; Heilperin 1952, 97.  Sirkis 1697, 24/2; Eisenstadter 1852, yoreh de’ah, para. 95; De Modena 1862, para. 90; Epstein 1893, hoshen mishpat, para. 333; Kook 1985, mishpat, hoshen mishpat, para. 21.  Heller 1862, 107– 109; Bakhrakh 1896, introduction, 127; Dessler 2013, 167.  Kaufman 1897, 13, 22; Meisel 1962, 24, 28, 37, 80, 324; Evron 1967, 120, 176, 278, 335; Schwarzfuchs 1986, 83, 90; Moriah 1992, 102– 107; Zefunot 1994, 93; Nadav 1997, 156 – 158; Tal 2010, 135– 136.  Ettinger 1995, 255; the principle of time allotted to community rabbis was established in the Austrian law by the end of the eighteenth century, see Manekin 2016.  Hamelitz, May 21, 1863; August 10, 1880; Halevanon, April 13, 1881; Hazefirah, November 18, 1891; Slonimsky 1894, 6; Buber 1903, 12; Dukkes 1903, 6; Biber 1907, 207; Weitz 1938, 18; Eshkoly 1948, 182; Friedlander 1983, 72.  Ben-Sasson 1959, 178 – 180; Shohat 1961, 92.  See, for example, Ha’Eshkol 1898, 181; Katz 1993. In the Caucasus there were communities that used to accept the new rabbi for a trial period of one year, and “if they liked, he could stay with them for good”, Chorny 1884, I, 22.

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to end his term not the community’s,⁴⁵ the historical picture tells a different story, and the communities would wield their power as they saw fit. This being the case, the rabbi had to stand for “re-election” every few years, and, as we will explain below, this could have significant repercussions on this behavior.⁴⁶ We should note here that a limited term was not unique to community rabbis. The Crown Rabbis also had to go through a re-selection process every three years.⁴⁷ Even minor religious functionaries, such as slaughterers, were not allowed to serve indefinitely.⁴⁸ This practice was so entrenched in the organizational culture of Eastern European communities that it was transported to new Jewish centers established in the United States and Australia in late nineteenth century.⁴⁹ Based on this conception, the rabbi’s terms of employment were formulated. Usually the community institutions made decisions, though in pre-partition Poland the authorities as well as super-communal bodies had also had a say⁵⁰. Nevertheless, the community institutions left some latitude as to who conducted the negotiations in practice.⁵¹ Like any negotiation, supply and demand played a crucial role. Thus, as described above in the context of finding and choosing a rabbi, here also we must distinguish between cases in which a community petitioned their ideal candidate⁵² – which meant that the candidate had greater power to negotiate his terms – and cases of a young scholar competing for the position with many others. Preferred candidates, i. e., famous rabbis, would carefully review the offer. They could do this by consulting with the community’s previous rabbis or by gathering information about this community through friends of family members.⁵³ That being said, it should be borne in mind that it was usually large, well-off communities who would offer the position to famous rabbis. Because the rabbinic thrones of such communities were considered prestigious appointments, a community’s negotiating power remained relatively high. This can be seen, for example, in the letter of intent sent by the Jewish community

 See, for instance, Eisenstadter 1852, yoreh de’ah, para. 95; Epstein 1893, hoshen mishpat, para. 333; Grodzensky 1970, I, 252– 253.  Heller 1862, 109; Halevanon, February 2, 1876; Weitz 1938, 18, 49 – 51; Meisel 1962, 21; Breuer 1976, 25; Nadav 1997, 159; Tal 2010, 102.  Tal 2011, 266; Wachstein 1934, 13.  Hamelitz, June 1, 1899; Grunwald 1955, 39.  Hamagid, June 2, 1869; Braude 1960, 48.  Heilperin 1952, 111; Litt 2008, 129.  Hazefirah, December 21, 1910; Finn 1915, 6; Sonne 1941, 168, 172; Meisel 1962, 210, 265; Litt 2008, 129.  Heller 1862, 107– 108; Ha’Eshkol 1898, 181; Frumkin 1900, 35 – 36; Nadav 1981.  Shahor 1993, 308; Dessler 2013, 165 – 167.

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of Poznan to R. Akiva Eiger: “we call upon you, man of God, to be God’s prince in our midst and to be a rabbi and halachic authority. However, we will only accept you if you are willing to uphold the clauses described in our community ledger”.⁵⁴ This delicate balance of power served as the basis for elaborate negotiations, negotiations which sometimes floundered if the candidate or the community were unwilling to accede to the other side’s demands.⁵⁵ As for the young scholar, who had attained the position after a long and arduous process, he was usually forced to accept the terms of employment offered to him and was unable to engage in any real negotiations. As discussed above, if negotiations were conducted, they would revolve around both matters of principle as well as practice. In terms of principle, rabbinic candidates were concerned about the level of authority they would enjoy upon accepting the position. As we have mentioned, the selection of a rabbi often sparked contentious debate between different factions in the community. Therefore, the possibility that the rabbi’s opponents would refuse to accept his authority was far from a theoretical concern.⁵⁶ For this reason, in various rabbinic writs, this issue is addressed explicitly. For example, in the rabbinic writ sent by the community of Pruzhany to R. Shaul Zelig Meirov in 1860 it is stated: “we have all agreed to accept upon us as rabbi and head of rabbinical court, the great R. Shaul Zelig. We shall act in accordance with his words. And God forbid that any man in our community should disobey his honor’s opinion, whether it be something large or something small, as required according to our holy law and as required for him to lead our religious life”.⁵⁷ Similar stipulations were made in regard to the rabbi’s areas of purview such as his authority over the cantor, the slaughterer, the butcher, and the rabbinical judges. To avert and minimize the effectiveness of such pockets of resistance, some rabbis would, already during negotiations, demand assurances that their authority would be uncontested in these areas. Thus, for example, in the 1870s, during the negotiations between the representatives of the community of Stawiski and R. Haim Aryeh Mishkovsky, the latter required that “all those entrusted with the religious duties from the cantor to the beadle, from the slaughterer to the butcher, shall be under my com-

  61;  52; 

Heilperin 1945, 274. Zalmanovitch 1902, 21; Heilperin 1945, 278; Eiger 1969, 101– 112; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, Dessler 2013, 165. Hamelitz, September 12, 1868; June 1, 1899; Be’ikvot Hapisgah 1929, 10 – 17; Lichtenstein 1960, Shahor 1993, 310. Friedlander 1983, 125.

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mand for better or for worse. And if I finds any fault in them, I may depose them and grant their honor and glory to others”.⁵⁸ As for practical considerations, negotiations would address the rabbi’s obligations and rights – both of which were expressly defined in the writ of rabbinic appointment. When it came to terms of employment, most rabbinic writs focused on the rabbi’s obligation to his community. A review of extant sources reveals a long list of such obligations.⁵⁹ First and foremost, the rabbi was required to live within the community, a necessity given the services he was expected to administer as part of his position.⁶⁰ Therefore, the beginning of the rabbi’s term, which was specified in the letter of intent or in the writ of rabbinic appointment, overlapped with his physical arrival in the community. In some cases, it was explicitly stipulated that the rabbi must live in the community with his family.⁶¹ Likewise, certain communities forbade the local rabbi to serve another community at the same time.⁶² The rabbi’s regular duties included answering day-to-day halachic inquiries;⁶³ supervision of ritual slaughter and of food products sold in the community;⁶⁴ involvement in the community’s judicial system;⁶⁵ and involvement in various aspects of community religious life (setting prayer times, delivering sermons at predetermined time, and the like);⁶⁶ as well as being generally active in the community’s public life.⁶⁷ In addition to these duties, the rabbi was expected to give daily classes to different groups within the community.⁶⁸ As far as the rabbi’s educational responsibilities, a review of extant sources reveals two trends. In some communities, the rabbi’s official duties included supervision of studies in

 Hazefirah, June 16, 1879.  Katz 1969; Schwarzfuchs 2000, 51– 54; Hundert 2004, 84– 85.  Heilperin 1945, 274; Herschberg 1949, I, 104; Meisel 1962, 108.  Sonne 1941, 169; Herschberg 1949, I, 104; Meisel 1962, 231; Breuer 1976, 123; Nadav 1997, 170 – 171; Berger 1999, 596 – 597; Ehrenreich 2007, 74.  Heilperin 1952, 117.  Weinberg 1956, 219.  Halevanon, September 4, 1871; Wetstein 1892, 19; Trunk 1927, orahk haim, para. 6; Heilperin 1952, 50, 90; Katz 1969; Sofer 1979, 21; Tal 2010, 124.  Heilperin 1952, 22; Weinberg 1956, 219; Meisel 1962, 15, 108, 266; Evron 1967, 114.  Ha’Eshkol 1898, 181– 182; Weinberg 1956, 219; Meisel 1962, 39; Breuer 1976, 14.  Finn 1915, 36; Sonne 1941, 159. About R. Akiva Eiger’s involvement in community organizing to combat the cholera epidemic in Poznan in 1831, see Wreschner 1905.  Hamelitz, January 2, 1862; Kaufmann 1889, 128; Ovtsinsky 1908, 144; Sonne 1941, 152, 169; Meisel 1962, 15; Friedlander 1983, 15; Yarden 2015.

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the local education institutions.⁶⁹ In others, especially in the nineteenth century, taking an interest in the community’s educational facilities was seen as “a humanitarian obligation, to make an effort on behalf of the members of his community and to supervise the needs of the public and the various educational institutions, not as part of his position – for we have never found written in a writ of rabbinic appointment given to a rabbi in Israel that he must supervise and oversee such institutions – but rather as a private individual whose words are heeded and who has the ability to object”.⁷⁰ As a rule, the smaller the community, the more the rabbi’s duties. As described by R. Eliyahu Moshe Levin: In the large communities, the rabbinic position is split between different individuals: one person will rule on food products, another will rule on marriage and divorce, one will rule on monetary matters, and another will preach, teaching the people the path of God which they must walk, and every sage specializes in one subject. Unlike this is the rabbi who presides in small community. For all details and issues that require judgment and ruling will entangle him. Occasionally he will preach, or any matter that the community requires of him.⁷¹

The rabbi’s rights were also stipulated in the writ of rabbinic appointment. In this context, it is important to distinguish between the rabbi’s right to receive wages for his work, a clause appearing in every writ,⁷² and additional rights resulting from negotiations between sides.⁷³ If community rabbis regarded the statement in Ethics of the Fathers “make not the rabbinate a crown wherewith to magnify thyself” as mere aphorism, then the end of this statement “nor a spade wherewith to dig” was certainly seen as nothing more than advice, and

 Hamagid, July 17, 1862; Kaufman 1889, 128; Kol Yaacov, September 15, 1908; Grunwald 1921, 60; Dubnow 1925, 73; Sonne 1941, 170; Heilperin 1952, 2, 4; Meisel 1962, 15; Evron 1967, 146; Sofer 1979, 21; Zefunot 1994, 94.  Halevanon, February 20, 1880.  Levin 1900, 4.  Hamelitz, January 2, 1862; Kaufman 1889, 124– 128; Kaufman 1897, 11– 12; Cohen 1898, 13; Ha’Eshkol 1898, 181; Dukkes 1903, 22; Biber 1907, 206; Perles 1907, 12; Ovtsinsky 1908, 75; Schwarz 1937, 17– 18; Weitz 1938, 39; Sonne 1941, 153; Klausner 1942, 152; Eshkoly 1948, 179; Herschberg 1949, I, 104; Meisel 1962, 15; Breuer 1976, 117; Levin 1977, 35; Sofer 1979, I, 17; Nadav 1981, 72; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 61; Schwarzfuchs 1986, 83; Zefunot 1991, 99 – 100; Moriah 1992, 102– 107; Caplan 1993, 217; Nadav 1997, 156; Berger 1999, 573 – 575, 579 – 581; Ehrenreich 2007, 73; Litt 2008, 115.  To a basic survey of public support for rabbis from ancient times to the eighteenth century, based mainly on rabbinical sources, see Reines 1952.

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not an obligation.⁷⁴ During the period discussed her, a rabbinic position was considered the livelihood of the rabbi and his family. Therefore, great importance was ascribed to the size of his salary.⁷⁵ This attitude is seen clearly in the public discourse arising from contemporary sources. That being said, our ability to provide precise data about the income of community rabbis is limited. This is because, beginning in 1835, community rabbis lacked any official status in the Russian Empire, and therefore the details of their position and the salary they received, were not entered into the community’s expense records.⁷⁶ To reach as accurate an estimate as possible, and to contextualize data in relationship to other trades as well as fluctuations in the purchasing power of the local currency, the following discussion will focus on the Pale of Settlement between the years of 1795 and 1914, a time when the Russian Ruble [₽] was the only legal tender used in the region.⁷⁷ When discussing the level of a community rabbi’s pay a number of variables must be considered: 1. Time: this relates to fluctuations in the prices of basic products (housing, food etc.) as well as the level of salary accepted in other professions in the same time and place. 2. The character of the community: a distinction must be drawn between communities of different sizes. Salaries in urban communities were not the same as those in small towns and rural villages. This division, however, is not completely schematic, because sometimes towns and rural communities would

 Orthodox historiography offers a wide range of justifications for this reality. See, for instance, Hazefirah, September 30, 1880; Daitch 1913, III, 82; Epstein 1928, III, 1207. See also Etkes 1991, 206, 238.  Daitch 1913, III, 82. On the beginning of the phenomenon of hiring rabbis for payment, see Yuval 1989, 15 – 17, 403 – 404. To the halachic sources dealing with this question, see Lowenthal 2007, 643 – 662.  A common way to deal with this legal situation, and yet to allow the payment of salaries to the “spiritual” rabbis, was by appointing them as Crown Rabbis’ assistants. See Hamelitz, September 2, 1896; Lifshitz 1897, 106; idem 1968, II, 96; Ovtsinsky 1908, 75; Assaf 1922, 45 – 46; Shohat 1976, 13 – 16. For community rabbis’ salaries in previous periods, see Buber 1903, 112; Benayahu 1953, 32; Meisel 1962, 53; Zefunot 1990, 105 – 106; Tal 2010, 65, 105, 137.  During the nineteenth century, there were several changes in the monetary system in the Polish areas. From the end of the partition of Poland in 1795 to 1850, the złoty was used as legal tender, and from that year on it was replaced by the Russian Rubel. Although the Polish monetary system was consolidated with the Russian one in 1863, due to differences in economic conditions, product prices, and income levels among the general population in Congress Poland and the Pale of Settlement, the following discussion does not relate to the income of the community rabbis in Poland. On the problematic nature of such a discussion, see Mironov 2010, 49 – 51.

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offer rabbis salaries far higher than the norm if they had large sums of money at their disposal. 3. Experience and reputation: generally speaking, rabbis at the beginning of their careers would receive a lower salary than those who had previously served in one or more communities as well as those with a reputation.⁷⁸ From the data at our disposal, we can conclude that in the last decade of the eighteenth century, a rabbi’s basic annual salary in a town community (without any other additions) ranged from 30 – 80 ₽. This, of course, depended on the size of the community and the financial resources at its disposal.⁷⁹ This statistic corresponds to the salaries received by rural priests in the Russian Empire during the same time.⁸⁰ From the beginning of the nineteenth century, we have more data at our disposal and we can, therefore, provide a broader and more detailed picture, both chronologically as well as in terms of community sizes. Thus, from the beginning of the century until the judicial reforms of Tsar Alexander II (in the 1860s), the annual income of town’s community rabbis was, on average, 120₽, depending on the size of the community.⁸¹ For example, at the beginning of his term in the community of Izabelin in 1837, R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector received an annual salary of 40₽.⁸² When he received his second position, two years later in Bereza, his salary was raised to 52₽,⁸³ and when he was chosen in 1846 to serve as the rabbi of Nieśwież, his salary rose dramatically to 200₽.⁸⁴ For perspective, we can note the growing disparity during this period between the income of rabbis and the average salary of rural priests, which ranged from 25 to 75₽ per year.⁸⁵ During this time, we see a significant gap between a rabbi serving in a rural community or a town and a rabbi serving in an urban community. For example, already in the first decade of the nineteenth century, the salary of the rabbi in the Jewish community of Minsk was more than 150₽ annually. By mid-century, the rabbi of the Slonim was receiving an annual salary of more than 450₽.⁸⁶ From the

 For a case in which a large community had to accept a young rabbi whose salary level was low due to the need to allocate a large sum to support the previous rabbi’s widow, see Hamodi’ah, March 29, 1912.  Levitats 1943, 153 – 154.  Freeze 1977, 120.  Frumkin 1900, 21; Shteinshneider 1900, 36; Ovtsinsky 1908, 144; Margaliot 1910, 173; Levitats 1943, 153 – 154; Herschberg 1949, I, 166; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 19; Levin 1988, 218.  Lifshitz 1897, 6.  Ibid, 7.  Ibid, 8, 10.  Freeze 1977, 135.  Levitats 1943, 154; Levin 1973, 49.

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1860s, and especially after the reforms of Alexander II, the nominal annual income of town rabbis rose to 250₽ on average, a 100 % increase.⁸⁷ This trend would only grow stronger in the period between 1880 and 1914 when the average annual salary of an urban rabbi was about 1600₽,⁸⁸ and in a town 450₽ or more.⁸⁹ To get an impression of the meaning of these sums, and assuming that the level of one’s salary influenced one’s social status, it behooves us to examine the salaries of other members of the population at the time. Thus, for example, we can compare the salaries of rabbis to agricultural laborers, a group that, during the second half of the nineteenth century constituted about 10 % of Jewish wage earners in the Baltic region.⁹⁰ According to data published by Boris Mironov, the annual salary of these workers was 190₽.⁹¹ Likewise, the annual salary of 60 % of those who belonged to the three largest professions in Jewish society in town during this period (storeowners, merchants, and artisans) was between 100 and 300₽, and 88 % of traditional elementary school teachers between 150 – 250₽.⁹² The annual salary of a teacher in a Jewish public school in 1902 ranged from 250 to 500₽ depending on experience and subject taught.⁹³ We can conclude from all this data that the level of income promised (though not always given) to a community rabbi in a town was equal to that of the middle-class families in his community. Without a doubt, and as we will explain further in the second half of this book, this could have a significant impact on the rabbi’s public status as well as his ability to serve his community.

 Hazefirah, September 17, 1878; August 5, 1879; Hamelitz, July 30, 1879; May 31, 1888; June 7, 1896; Lunsky 1917, 10; Epstein 1928, III, 1186; Frumkin 1928, 24; Friedlander 1983, 215; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 48.  Ivri Anokhy, January 23, 1880; Hazefirah, February 20, 1880; Hamelitz, July 9, 1886; August 24, 1886; December 11, 1887; June 17, 1891; February 5, 1896; Hamodi’ah, July 16, 1912; RabinowitzTe’omim 1984, 62, 75, 86, 93. In 1907, rabbi Haim Ozer Grodzensky was offered to serve as the rabbi of the community of St. Peterburg at a salary of 4000 rubles a year, Grodzensky 1970, I, 233.  Hazefirah, January 2, 1883; May 11, 1886; April 19, 1896; Hamelitz, February 5, 1883; June 27, 1884; July 14, 1884; September 1, 1884; February 27, 1885; November 27, 1885; February 27, 1886; February 28, 1886; September 28, 1886; April 27, 1888; February 25, 1891; July 28, 1891; June 19, 1896; July 7, 1897; June 13, 1899; August 2, 1899; Reines 1888, 102; Hamodi’ah, December 19, 1913; Caplan 1993, 217; Yaffe, collection, letter from December 17, 1886; Kotik 1989, 123.  Zalkin 2013.  Mironov 2010, 66. Mironov’s calculations are based on an estimate of 264 workdays a year. The calculation presented here is based on 300 working days per year.  Lestschinsky 1961, 24, 38.  Hazefirah, January 31, 1902.

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As mentioned above, community rabbis in the Pale of Settlement (excluding Congress Poland) lacked any official status. As a result, their salaries could not be paid from the community budget.⁹⁴ To circumvent this issue, Jewish communities developed a series of payment methods, the main one being funding the rabbi’s income by the taxes paid by community members. The most common model was paying the rabbi’s salary from the “meat tax”, exacted during the slaughter of any cattle, sheep or poultry. As one rabbi explained “for in most communities the practice is that the salaries of the public religious servants of the community be paid by the tax on slaughter, and the responsibility for collecting be placed upon the slaughterer”.⁹⁵ The slaughterers and/or butchers who deposited the income gained from these taxes in the community coffers were required to separate a set sum equal to the rabbi’s salary and to pay him directly.⁹⁶ In other communities, the rabbi’s salary was paid from income gained from leasing the bathhouse,⁹⁷ leasing the flour grinding tax,⁹⁸ or selling alcohol,⁹⁹ candles,¹⁰⁰ salt,¹⁰¹ citrons on the festival of Tabernacles,¹⁰² yeast¹⁰³ and kerosene.¹⁰⁴ Another way to fund the rabbi’s salary was to grant him exclusive rights to sell certain products: such as candles,¹⁰⁵ salt,¹⁰⁶ kerosene,¹⁰⁷ yeast,¹⁰⁸ matzot (unleavened bread for Passover)¹⁰⁹ and citrons,¹¹⁰ or by allowing him  Hazefirah, April 9, 1890; Hamelitz, September 19, 1880; March 1, 1891; June 17, 1891; Tshernovitch 1954, 67.  Hamelitz, April 26, 1881; April 19, 1885; February 10, 1888; February 12, 1888; March 9, 1888; March 24, 1888; September 12, 1888; April 8, 1889; June 28, 1891; February 13, 1896; April 11, 1892; December 19, 1896; December 13, 1903; Zederbaum 1870, 77; Litvin 1884, para. 146; Hazefirah, January 4, 1889; February 4, 1889.  Hazefirah, August 29, 1877; April 17, 1883; May 11, 1886; April 19, 1896; Hamelitz, July 30, 1879; April 26, 1881; February 5, 1883; June 15, 1883; Toibesh 1855, yoreh de’ah, para 3; Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, II, para. 46; Katzenelenbogen 1989, para 83; Berger 1999, 573 – 575; Heitner 2006, 64.  Hazefirah, December 13, 1881; September 12, 1882; April 9, 1890; Hamelitz, December 7, 1880; July 10, 1885; March 6, 1891; Rabinowitz 1908, yoreh de’ah, para. 12; Tshernovitch 1954, 67.  Hamelitz, January 17, 1870.  Hazefirah, April 27, 1880.  Hamelitz, May 4, 1883; February 25, 1891; Marc 4, 1891; Hazefirah, January 8, 1884.  Hamelitz, May 3, 1881; August 11, 1899; Lifshitz 1901, 10.  Hazefirah, August 5, 1879; Rabinowitz 1908, yoreh de’ah, para. 12.  Hazefirah, January 8, 1884; Hamelitz, February 27, 1885  Hazefirah, January 8, 1884.  Hamelitz, February 2, 1885; May 15, 1885; February 19, 1889; Hazefirah, October 5, 1896.  Hamelitz, May 3, 1881; Lifshitz 1897, 25; Sawitzky 1968, 127.  Hamelitz, May 20, 1883; February 2, 1885; Hazefirah, October 5, 1896.  Hamelitz, February 27, 1886; Lifshitz 1897, 25; Jaffe 1997, 112; Chemerinsky 2002, 32.  Anoshshiky 1881, II, 87.  Hamodi’ah, October 20, 1911.

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to lease the “meat tax”¹¹¹ or the “bathhouse tax”.¹¹² In some communities, the rabbi’s salary was paid from the budgets of various community institutions such as the elementary school for orphans and poor family’s children.¹¹³ In most communities, the rabbi’s salary was also supplemented with certain privileges with monetary value. Among these, we can note: housing, materials for heating and light,¹¹⁴ funds from the charity collected for Passover,¹¹⁵ provision of four species on the festival of Tabernacles,¹¹⁶ as well as supplementary income from officiating weddings, circumcisions ceremonies, and administering divorces ceremonies and funerals throughout the community,¹¹⁷ participated in judicial hearings,¹¹⁸ over sawing ritual slaughter,¹¹⁹ and exemption from the taxes paid by other community members.¹²⁰ In some communities, his widow would receive a pension upon his death.¹²¹ Additionally, the rabbi received certain privileges that while lacking monetary value still had social worth, such as a respectable seat in synagogue for him and his wife,¹²² as well as the privilege of being called to the Torah on every sabbath and holiday.¹²³ An exception which proves this rule is the rabbinic writ of appointment given in 1859 to R. Yitzhak Meir Alter, the leader of Gur Hasidic sect.¹²⁴ According to this writ, he would not be bound by any of the restrictions mentioned above (living within the community, limitations on hiring family members and more). This was possible, of course, because of the inherent hierarchical structure of the Hassidic society, according to which the subordination of the Hasidim to their leader is absolute. Meaning, the community saw itself automatically subject to his authority and therefore allowed him complete latitude to do as he wished.

 Hamelitz, February 23, 1883; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 75.  Levitats 1943, 153 – 154.  Hamelitz, May 31, 1888.  Landa 1833, 99; Ovtsinsky 1908, 72, 75; Herschberg 1949, I, 104; Horowitz 1978, 44; Zefunot 1991, 99 – 100; Moriah 1992, 106; Tal 2011, 284.  Perles 1907, 12, 18; Eshkoly 1948, 180; Moriah 1992, 106.  Cohen 1898, 13; Sofer 1979, I, 21; Nadav 1997, 292.  Hamagid, January 1, 1873; Kaufman 1897, 13; Biber 1907, 207; Klausner 1942, 152; Heilperin 1952, 52; Katz 1969, Friedlander 1983, 75.  Biber 1907, 206; Klausner 1942, 152; Katz 1969; Breuer 1976, 118; Friedlander 1983, 75.  Kaufman 1897, 11, 20.  Evron 1967, 231, 235, 241, 328, 386; Yuval 1989, 368; Moriah 1992, 106.  Nadav 1981, 73; Litt 2008, 127.  Perles 1907, 12, 19; Meisel 1962, 30, 108, 266; Moriah 1992, 106.  Cohen 1898, 13; Sofer 1979, I, 21.  Levin 1977, 35.

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Generally speaking, all the members of the selection body would sign the rabbinic writ. This was meant to, among other things, give the chosen rabbi the impression that his selection was the subject of wide consensus and that hardly any pockets of resistance remained.¹²⁵ As a rule, it seems that, above all else, writs of rabbinic appointment evince the limits of the rabbi’s status both in terms of the length of his term as well as his authority.¹²⁶ In summary, in most cases the power of the community was greater than that of the candidate, and the writ of rabbinic appointment generally corresponded to pre-determined principles.

 Friedlander 1983, 75.  Schwarzfuchs 1993, 21.

Epilogue “To one who is great in Torah study”? At this point, the selection process has ended, and the rabbinic candidate has reached his destination. The length of this journey can be seen from the following chart: Age of receiving first rabbinic position

Percentage of rabbis studied

 and under

.

 – 

.

 – 

.

 – 

.

 – 

.

 – 

.

 – 

.

over 

.

This table reflects the arduous and protracted path that candidates had to traverse before receiving their first rabbinic appointment.¹ Most notable here is the fact that 40 % of the rabbis studied only began their rabbinic careers when they were 30 or older (the most common age for receiving a rabbinical appointment was 28).² This was despite the relatively short average life expectancy of the rabbis studied (that is, those who died before World War I) which was 62.³ We should still, however, bear in mind, as we will describe in detail below that

 It is not possible to present data regarding the average length of time of searching for a position in the rabbinate, since we do not have statistically significant data regarding the average age at which the candidate completed his studies in the yeshiva. The current data indicate that before the first rabbinate, about 5 % of the candidates were employed in “intermediate positions” (local religious authorities, preachers, rabbinical judges, yeshiva heads), and 3.5 % of them in other occupations.  Hamodi’ah, September 8, 1910.  According to the data presented by Tolts (1996, 166 – 167), the common life expectancy of Jewish men in the Russian Empire at the end of the nineteenth century was 45 years. The data presented here arise from a detailed examination rather than from statistical calculations, and I have no satisfactory explanation for this difference. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-006

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for many this was only the first stop in their long “rabbinical journey”. Sometimes they would “stop” at two, three, four, or even more communities. Once one of the candidates (or some of them) were chosen as a community rabbi, the other candidates were required to search for a position and a source of income elsewhere.⁴ Some did not give up so easily and continued to wander the towns of Eastern Europe in hopes of realizing their dream. Others picked a parallel path, which allowed them to actualize their yeshiva studies in different ways: they served as rabbinic scholars, as preachers, as synagogue rabbis in large communities, or as teachers in various rabbinical academies.⁵ As a rule, it seems that in the conflict between a conception of the community rabbinate as a form of religious leadership⁶ and the market forces, which determined who would fill the position (based primarily on very practical concerns), it was the latter that won out.⁷ Appointing a community rabbi solely based on his talents, character, or public profile was not a reasonable aspiration for most communities.⁸ It seems that this issue, more than anything else, attests to the continuing decline in the authority of the rabbinic elite during this era. So far had the rabbinate deteriorated, that its own members lamented “for the hearts of all fearers of God ache for our generation which is not as it should be and in which the great rabbis of the generation are unable to voice their protest”.⁹

 As part of the preparations for the 1903 Rabbinical Conference in Krakow, a proposal was made to establish a fund to support these young scholars, see Cohen 1902, 16.  Aleksandrov 1932, I, 14– 15; Sherman 1996, 26.  Halevanon, August 9, 1876; Lifshitz 1884, 51; Gottlieb 1912, 10; Berakhyahu 1998, 222– 228. For a similar perception of the clergy, see Bloom 1971, 50 – 51.  About this dilemma in the world of the community rabbi in the United States in the twentieth century, see Angel 2001, 11.  Hamodi’ah, September 22, 1911.  Shvadron 1911, para. 8.

Part II

Chapter 5 Upon the Rabbinic Throne 1 The Rabbi’s Welcome Yesterday, the great rabbi Yehonatan (who served as the head of the rabbinical court in the city of Marijampolė, son the great, renowned R. Mordekhai Eliasberg) came to our city, to assume the rabbinic throne. Ten of the notables of the city travelled to greet him, giving him an honorable reception. When he arrived at the train station near our city, we sent for him a carriage drawn by four galloping horses, and all the stores [in the city] were closed. The entire street in front of the synagogue was filled with people. When the great rabbi arrived at the courtyard of the synagogue, the city’s notables helped him down from his carriage and led him to the great beit midrash which was filled with light, and all [the members] of the large congregation shouted out in unison “welcome!”.¹

The clamorous “welcome” that greeted R. Yehonatan Eliasberg when he arrived in Vilkaviškis in December 1887, was a pivotal moment in his life, marking his transition from young Torah scholar to community rabbi. For him, it symbolized the culmination of a long journey, driven by hopes and dreams and beset by challenges and disappointments. This was a new beginning. The time had come for him to finally apply his studies, to implement everything for which he had labored, and everything he had dreamed of over the past years. Now, as was the usual practice, almost any internal community politics that had preceded the selection process were muted. To name another example, at the welcoming ceremony organized by the community of Włocławek for R. Gershon Rabinson we learn that: “among those present were many who had objected to his selection. However, now they showed him signs of affection and respect”.² However, before our protagonist could begin his work as the community’s rabbi, one task still remained: the rabbinic sermon, his inaugural address to the community. Unlike the trial sermon, which he had delivered while contending for the position, this sermon (also known as the “entrance sermon”) was a ceremonial event. Within the context of traditional Jewish society, it symbolized the beginning of a new stage in the rabbi’s life, analogous to the speech traditionally delivered by a Jewish boy at the age of 13 (Bar-Mitzvah), or a groom at his wedding.³ Now, freed of the restrictions that had shaped his trial sermon,

 Hamelitz, December 2, 1887; Hayom, December 16, 1887. For similar ceremonies, see Hamagid, February 27, 1861; September 9, 1874; Halevanon, June 19, 1872; Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910.  Hazefirah, May 5, 1896.  Agnon 1969, 16. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-007

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the rabbi had an opportunity to speak candidly to his new community, to lay out his tenets and principles, to explain to them how he viewed his new position and how he intended to fulfill his duties. However, like trial sermons, the number of recorded inaugural sermons is quite limited. Nevertheless, from those few that are available, we can paint at least a partial picture of this element of the community rabbi’s career. On September 24, 1859, less than two weeks after his trial sermon, R. Yitzhak Rabinowitz delivered his inaugural sermon to the community of Częstochowa, “the sermon inaugurating the rabbinate before the eyes of the entire community”.⁴ The timing here was no coincidence. A sense of urgency pervaded Rabinowitz’s selection due to the approach of the High Holidays, a period in which the rabbi was expected to play an active role in the religious life of the community.⁵ The character of rabbi Rabinowitz’s sermon differed from that of the two trial sermons discussed in the previous chapter. One would think – especially given the festive air – that he would deliver a sermon on uncontentious topics – something scholastic, or perhaps a discussion of generic moral issues. However, after a short formal introduction, Rabinowitz began immediately to broach a pivotal issue – the community rabbi’s public status and authority. In his view, a rabbi’s primary role is to be a spiritual and moral mentor for the members of his community, “for I know what things are proper for the man whom God has appointed to serve his community”. That being said, Rabinowitz was well aware that merely claiming such authority was not enough to consolidate his status: “for [in this] community there are many who refused to believe that the [rabbi’s] opinion may be more informed than their own”. This included both the masses to whom “many of the [rabbi’s] actions and statements seem strange”, as well as those who “deem themselves to be scholars”. As for the first group, Rabinowitz explained that he would “lower himself to the level of the lowly, [raising them up] with [his] arms of wisdom”. This goal could be achieved in three stages: 1) direct contact with members of the lower classes of society 2) gaining their trust 3) cultivating their religious and spiritual values. As for the more significant challenge, the local Torah scholars, he intended to allay their concerns by presenting himself as “a leader who knows how to deal with the character of each and every person”. In other words, he will respect and appreciate each one according to his talent and scholarship. In general, it seems that Rabinowitz sought to establish himself as the spiritual leader of all sectors of the Jewish

 Rabinowitz 1863, 10 – 14.  The short time between the two sermons hints at the possibility that Rabinowitz was apparently the preferred candidate.

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community, while underscoring the importance of striking a balance between the rabbi’s desire to serve as a spiritual guide and his ability to realize this aspiration in practice. This rabbi’s willingness to broach such a sensitive question points to a substantial amount of self-confidence coupled with a healthy dose of realism. A similar theme runs through the inaugural sermon delivered by R. Yosef Haim Karo to the community of Pniewy in 1840.⁶ Like Rabinowitz, Karo also focused on the qualities of a community rabbi and his obligations as a community leader – including the importance of tailoring sermons to better conform to the character of his audience. That being said, he does not limit his discussion to abstract theory, and actually lists the rabbi’s obligations: rebuking individuals and the community, serving as a role model, helping the needy, and eschewing immoral behavior such as embezzlement or extortion. Like Karo, in the summer of 1904, R. Aharon Levin delivered a sermon to the Jewish community of Sambor, which also focused on what he deemed to be the rabbi’s primary duties: promoting charity, managing education, rebuking community members, and peace making.⁷ Interestingly, Levin adopted the same tactic we described in the context of the trial sermons – splitting the sermon in two. In the first part, he discussed some traditional legends, adopting a more homiletical discourse aimed at a wider audience. In the second part, he proceeded to discuss scholastic issues, appealing to the local scholarly elites.⁸ Other rabbis in their inaugural sermons discussed other topics – e. g., the obligation to give fair trials⁹ and to act as peacemakers,¹⁰ as well as the community’s concomitant obligation to ensure a dignified livelihood for the community rabbi.¹¹ Some, however, such as Shneur Zalman Fredkin, when he was appointed rabbi of Lublin, dedicated their entire sermon to scholastic issues.¹² It can be assumed that both rabbis Karo and Levin were aware that any commitments made in a public forum, could be thrown back at them by their opponents in the future (and what rabbi did not have opponents?). However, the commitments made, while numerous, were still very generic, certainly allowing for very broad interpretation. Furthermore, it should be borne in mind that the inaugural sermon was viewed by both the rabbi and his audience as a ceremonial

 Karo 1895, V, 16 – 21. Apparently this was his second rabbinical post, Trunk 1967, 26; See also Urbach 1967; Kook 1990.  Levin 1905, 3 – 28.  Ibid, 18 – 28.  Varshaviak 1925, V, 6 – 9.  Meizels 1924.  Ish Horowitz 2011, 213.  Fredkin 1932. See also Agnon 1969, 17.

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occasion – the contents were not viewed as a binding “platform”. Thus, even when disputes erupted between the rabbi and various groups in the community, we never find the rabbi’s opponents invoking the program presented during his inaugural sermon, even when their grievances directly related to topics explicitly broached. After the rabbi had concluded his sermon, he could still enjoy a grace period, especially if the beginning of his tenure coincided with the holiday season, when he was expected to prepare a major public sermons, or to make himself available to answer urgent Kashrut questions (especially before Passover). However, this period was certainly short. Before long, the rabbi was expected to juggle the full gamut of tasks required of a community rabbi – both those mentioned in his writ of rabbinic appointment but also many that were not.

2 “My Peoples’ Servant” At the beginning of their careers many young community rabbis viewed themselves (perhaps subconsciously) as religious leaders, as the spiritual shepherds of their new communities. For those who served in medium or small towns in the Lithuanian-Jewish cultural sphere, this conception was reinforced by the analogous roles filled by the region’s rural clergy. As described by Saulius Sužiedelis, the rural priest in Lithuania was expected to serve as the community’s highest moral authority, enjoying no small amount of social prestige.¹³ However, even if the young rabbi had the luck of assuming a rabbinic throne without being embroiled in community controversies, it soon became clear that his day-to-day activity would be far more complex than anything he had expected when he had first embarked on his journey. Thus, in one of his letters describing his time as a community rabbi, R. Meshulam Roth writes: The rabbi is enslaved with his entire body and soul to his community, days as well as nights, without proper regulation and order. […] At any time, anyone can enter his chambers and disturb him from his studies, to pester him to their hearts’ content. Ever since I have arrived here, I have been unable, despite my best efforts, to rid myself of people

 Sužiedelis 1977, 359. Kayris 1957, 37– 38. The difference between the status of the Catholic priest in the Lithuanian rural society and that of the Orthodox priest in the Russian rural society is apparently related to the role played by the Church in preserving the Lithuanian ethnic identity as well as in the struggle for liberation from the burden of Russian rule. On the status of the Church in Lithuania, see Sužiedelis 1988; Udrenas 2000; Staliūnas 2007, 131– 188.

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and disturbances, to relieve myself of the hindrances and wasting of time, which trouble me.¹⁴

These words – written just a few years after Roth finally realized his dream of receiving a rabbinic appointment – point to the sense of disillusionment and helplessness that seized many community rabbis, certainly those who had once viewed the role a challenge or a calling.¹⁵ This can be attributed to the gulf that separated the ideal image of the rabbi – someone who spent his time primarily learning Torah or giving halachic rulings, perhaps also finding time to serve as a moral exemplar and a spiritual shepherd of his community – and the rabbinic vocation in practice: a public servant who was pestered on a daily basis by community members who wanted their money’s worth from the man whose salary was paid from their taxes. A summary of the community rabbi’s daily routine illustrates this well, as described by R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn: There – in a bitter, small, meager city – sits the rabbi. In the morning, after prayers he gives a lesson on a chapter of Mishnah; between afternoon and evening prayer – he gives another lesson; after the evening prayer, a lesson on the Talmud; on the Sabbath – a lesson on the weekly Torah portion and a sermon. Every day he gives rulings on a variety of halachic questions, what is permitted and what is forbidden; He is the most important figure in all local associations. The rabbi sits in his chamber, and after much work and labor ruling on the [kashrut] of animal lungs for six hours, an aggrieved woman will suddenly burst in [and shout out] “O rabbi, please save me!”¹⁶

In the reality of small-town life, in which the rabbi sometimes was the only scholarly authority, his role entailed a number of other activities: supervision of the slaughtering and the kashrut system;¹⁷ overseeing Sabbath observance,¹⁸ overseeing the community education system;¹⁹ managing the local yeshiva (if there was one);²⁰ administering religious ceremonies, such as weddings, circumcisions, divorces, and funerals (even though all of these were de jure the prerog-

 Heitner 2006, 32. See also Hazefirah, September 30, 1880. To similar things written by a parish priest, see Malony & Hunt 1991, 40.  Hamagid, June 12, 1870; Lifshitz 1884, 38; Emden 1897, 112; Frumkin 1900, 61; Lifshitz 1901, 11; Yaffe 1913, 63; Etkes 1991, 238.  Hapeles 1902, 612– 619; Pesakhovitch 1954, 567.  Halevanon, September 4, 1871; Hazefirah June 16, 1879; Hamelitz, February 21, 1888; Heilperin 1952, 91; Tal 2010, 124.  Roth, private collection, letter from November 3, 1898; Heilperin 1952, 85; Tal 2010, 148 – 149.  Evron 1967, 146.  Dubnow 1925, 73.

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ative of the Crown Rabbi);²¹ participating in the community’s leadership meetings (when these were convened);²² collecting money for various community projects, such as building, renovating, and operating religious institutions (the synagogue and the ritual bath);²³ assisting the sick, needy, and poor; and participating in fire rescue activities.²⁴ In small communities or neighborhood communities, the rabbi also served as a judge and an arbiter of local disputes.²⁵ All of which was in addition to various duties that called him from outside of the community.²⁶ The extent of the rabbi’s involvement in arbitration and adjudication can be gleaned from the account of R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn, who had much experience in this area: When a father is deceased, and his children bicker over the inheritance; when there is controversy between two partners to a business, or between a home-owner and his neighbor, a craftsman and his apprentice, one man and another, or any matter that involves negotiation between two parties, many come of their own free will to the rabbi, so that he may resolve their disputes. Thus, the rabbi spends nights and days, laboring and working to resolve a dispute or to formulate a compromise, serving as a go-between. He investigates and studies [the case] to find common ground between the disputants and to make peace between them.²⁷

While the rabbi was most “Jewish figure” in town, sometimes he was also approached by members of the local non-Jewish population. This usually took place when local Jews had business relationships with their gentile neighbors – for example, the rabbi would be consulted when a Jew and a non-Jew signed a contract or when a Jew and non-Jew had a financial dispute.²⁸ In larger communities, where the onus of responsibility placed upon the rabbi exceeded his abilities, rabbinical judges or other scholars were appointed

 Posner 1962, 11; Freeze 2002, 141.  Finn 1915, 37; Nadav 1997, 96.  Halevanon, February 20, 1880; Hamelitz, February 27, 1881; September 7, 1881; May 7, 1886; July 3, 1891; Evron 1967, 359.  Halevanon, January 17, 1870; June 3, 1874; Hamelitz, June 24, 1879; April 24, 1899.  Hakarmel, February 27, 1867; Hamelitz, May 30, 1870; August 17, 1880; May 18, 1883; September 16, 1886; April 22, 1892; November 2, 1896; August 24, 1898; Hazefirah, December 20, 1881; Grunwald 1921, 25; Abrahams 1954; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 90; Spitzer 1994, 90 – 92.  For a detailed list of the functions of the community pastor, many of which were also relevant to the community rabbi, see Malony & Hunt 1991, 24– 25.  Hapeles 1902, 612– 619.  Abramowicz 1999, 94.

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to assume responsibility for some of his tasks.²⁹ However, the many complaints about the overwhelming number of responsibilities are evidence that many a rabbi was chronically overworked.³⁰ While not every rabbi was actively involved in all the duties described above, R. Haim Yirmiyahu Flansberg of Balbieriškis gives tangible expression to the rabbi’s complex, and sometimes impossible, work environment: The community rabbi is encumbered to the point of exhaustion by his burdens. He must rule on all aspects of religious life, receiving every day hundreds of different questions. Community members approach him so that he can make peace between them, and when a man and his wife come with grievances, he must either settle their dispute or oversee a divorce; sometimes even non-Jews will cast their hopes at him, seeking his arbitration. In all these cases the rabbi is required to listen to them all, in addition to delivering sermons several times each year, as the tradition is that [the rabbi] teach [the people] the path they should walk and the actions they should perform. Three distinct charges – a religious authority, a peacemaker, and a preacher – are united [and placed] upon the shoulders of the rabbi, and [many rabbis] are weakened by the amount of duties that saps a man’s strength.³¹

With this background we can better understand the lament of R. Yehoshua Lang, who, after serving as rabbi for twelve years in three different communities, characterized himself as a “slave laborer”.³² Indeed, as mentioned above, the rabbi could alleviate the burden of his workload by appointing a local scholar to rule over some religious issues. However, filling such a position, especially if it was assumed by a skilled scholar, might pose a potential threat to the rabbi’s status in the present or the future. Therefore, many chose not to avail themselves of this particular solution.³³ It is likely that there was some correlation between the reason the rabbi initially chose his career path, and the level of disillusionment inspired by his dayto-day tasks. One who had always seen in the rabbinate a calling, likely saw nothing wrong with – or at least did not complain about – the many tasks entrusted to him. He may even have actively looked to expand his duties and responsibilities.³⁴ By contrast, some rabbis, usually those who saw themselves

 Hamagid, July 17, 1862; Levin 1900, 4. On the authority of the rabbinical courts in the Russian Empire, see Orshanski 1877, 363 – 373.  Tsirelson 1897; Hakol, May 31, 1907; Shahor 1993, 293. To a similar feeling among the rural clergy, see Malony & Hunt 1991, 39 – 40.  Halevanon, March 12, 1880; Hapisgah 1897, I, 14.  Lang 1876, introduction. See also Malony & Hunt 1991, vii; Grade 1982, 35.  Hamodi’ah, February 21, 1914.  Bloom 1971, 51– 52; Braude 1960, 44, 52.

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as servant bureaucrats (as per Malony & Hunt’s definition),³⁵ sought an escape from their impossible predicament. Some claimed: Our holy charge is to teach the people the actions they must perform in terms of the religious laws, and to deliver sermons on the Sabbath. [This being the case,] why [should] the correction of the [problems] of the community concern us? Let the rich concern themselves with charity, and the educated with education. We have done that which was required of us, and the time left over after our work should be a reward, a time to study, think, review, and conceive new ideas in Torah.³⁶

Other rabbis justified their exclusive focus on halachic adjudication and lessons to the local bourgeois by noting that when it came to public issues no one heeded their opinions regardless.³⁷ While some rabbis voiced their grievances, as we have seen, many may have simply borne the burden in silence, possibly fearing that complaining too much might cost them their position. An interesting sociopsychological analysis of this situation was offered by psychologist and rabbi Jack Bloom: The pulpit is a paradox. It both is and is not a sanctuary, yet for many men it offers a way to live, an unspoken deal between what one is and what the environment needs. People need clergy; they need some men to be different, to be “wholly other”, to be exceptions. Some men choose to do just that. For some it is a sanctuary in which they can live and be useful. Others find that they have fled into a trap.³⁸

While the context in which these words were written (the role of the community rabbi in the United States) is far different from that under discussion, Bloom’s insights are still quite relevant. A review of the sources that describe the frustration experienced by community rabbis shows that one issue that particularly bothered them was the lack of time for independent study.³⁹ It should be recalled that all rabbis began their careers after having spent some years studying in a yeshiva, the forge of their spiritual and intellectual characters.⁴⁰ Daily study, the essence of a yeshiva student’s life, was deeply embedded in the mentality of rabbis; it was considered a permanent fixture in their lives, both during their years in Yeshiva as well as

     

Malony & Hunt 1991, 9. Hakarmel, March 2, 1870. Ibid. Bloom 1971, 73. Bergman 1998, 51– 52; Bier 2011, 126. Zalkin 2007.

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afterwards.⁴¹ Therefore, the constant occupation with the various tasks required of the rabbi, was viewed by some as wasting time that could be better spent studying Torah – a situation that every Talmud scholar did his utmost to avoid.⁴² Thus, for example, in one of his letters R. Eliyahu Rogoler, who served in the city of Kalisz, laments: “there is no time to study on a regular basis”.⁴³ Rabbi Haim of Volozhin, who served as the rabbi of his hometown, even provides the following interpretation of the Mishnah: “Hate the rabbinate” [Ethics of the Fathers 1:10]: the rabbis of communities “love the rabbinate but hate their work, to rule on religion and financial issues with wide knowledge and penetrating depth”.⁴⁴ One ray of hope for these frustrated rabbis was the receipt of a halachic query, especially if it required the exercise of scholarly and intellectual talents. Unfortunately, even this opportunity was often taken away from them: “for due to distress and the limited time, no one discusses any issue seriously whatsoever”.⁴⁵ Occasionally, the rabbi would be confronted by questions that went beyond the classic issues (i. e., Kashrut, laws of immersion in the ritual bath, and the laws of Sabbath and the holidays). Dealing with more complex halachic issues – such as divorce law, the status of a wife whose husband was missing, or the halachic approach to a new technological innovation⁴⁶ – could certainly have enriched the spiritual-intellectual life of the local rabbi. Properly contending with such a question could require many hours studying relevant sources, as well as consulting scholars and rabbis from other regions. However, routine tasks could limit the time the rabbi could dedicate to dealing with these interesting and complex questions – only exacerbating his feelings of frustration and disillusionment. For rabbis in smaller towns, another factor contributing to their feelings of despair was the culturally impoverished milieu in which they served. While some towns had local yeshiva, in most cases, no such institution was to be found. For example, R. Hillel David Trivush, who had studied in Vilna and Grodno, when appointed rabbi of the town of Vilkija, “found no one there upon whom to pour forth his thoughts on Torah”.⁴⁷ In general, one can say that for a young Talmud scholar, a village or town represented an intellectual wasteland, accentuated by the sharp transition from the scholastic world of the yeshiva, pla-

      

Avrekh 1898, introduction; Yaffe 1913, 63. Frumkin 1900, 61; Freid 1938, I, 116 – 121; Heitner 2006, 32. Etkes 1991, 197. See also Mikhelzon 1924, 17. Etkes 1991, 206. Stern 1898, orahk haim, para. 92. Be’ikvot Hapisgah 1929, 11.

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ces of intellectual ferment and activity, to a life dominated by the most quotidian of tasks. This feeling was aggravated by the lack of scholastic literature, even the most basic texts, at the rabbi’s disposal. This was a fairly common problem for those living in smaller towns or rural regions. As R. Eliyahu Rogoler put it: “I have no books to study”.⁴⁸ We can thus understand the sense of loneliness that plagued many young rabbis, as expressed, for example by R. Zeev Wolf Avrekh, who served as the Rabbi of the community of Mažeikiai in northwestern Lithuania in the late 1800s: Against my wishes, I was forced to leave the yeshiva, my deeply beloved and the delight of my heart, and to accept a rabbinic position in a new commercial town, the city of Mažeikiai, whose people are small in quantity but large in quality. For almost all of them are Torah scholars, men of knowledge, enlightened in words of truth. Nevertheless, being occupied by their many activities and their extremely intensive commerce, they do not have the time to take pleasure and entertain themselves constantly with the wisdom of Talmud, as I so desire. Therefore, I have found no way here to give external expression to my ideas and innovations in Torah. For my city of Mažeikiai, as I have said, is small, and, therefore, many books, both the old, as well as the new ones published by the great scholars of our generation in their great discernment, have not reached [my town] and cannot be found within it.⁴⁹

Sometimes a rabbi could solve this problem by more heavily involving himself in the scholarly-intellectual activity of the city. He could give regular lessons to members of his community,⁵⁰ or even establish a small local yeshiva (As happened in the towns of Krakinava, Krynki, and Švenčionys, to name but a few.⁵¹ Indeed, many rabbis delivered daily public lessons, teaching both halacha and legends. However, in most cases the intellectual ability of those attending these lessons could not compare with that of the rabbi; teaching did little to enrich his spiritual-intellectual life. As for establishing a yeshiva, this was no simple task. It required cooperation and the willing assistance from various communal bodies, a situation which was relatively rare at the time (See below). Other  Etkes 1991, 200. See also Reizin 1866, introduction: Lifshitz 1901, 79 – 80; Goldshlag 1909, 4; Valk 1928, 8; We have no research that attempts to reconstruct a rabbi’s library in a local community. There were, however, rabbis who had a rich library. This is evidenced, for example, in the list of books appearing in a series of articles by Rabbi Yosef Zachariah Stern, rabbi of the Jewish community of Šiauliai in northern Lithuania in the second half of the nineteenth century, Halevanon, August 5, 1869, and in subsequent issues.  Avrekh 1898, introduction. A similar phenomenon prevailed among the rural clergy as well, see Bloom 1971, 51; Burnett 2000, 75; Pfister 2000, 51– 52.  Kotik 1989, 122.  Hamodi’ah, March 23, 1911; March 30, 1911; April 6, 1911; Puchovsky 1894, 9; Haskin 1928, 7– 8.

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preferable options, preferred by more than a few rabbis, to engage in the need for scholarly intellectual activity, included finding a teaching position in a nearby yeshiva or getting more involved in judicial activity as a rabbinical judge.⁵² This too was not always simple: teaching positions in a nearby yeshiva were extremely scarce, especially before the 1860s. The same held true for a rabbinical judge position, which was only an option in very large towns and cities. Another way of overcoming intellectual solitude was to correspond in writing with other rabbinical colleagues about halachic issues.⁵³ While this entailed no small degree of work, especially for a community rabbi who was considered an important religious authority,⁵⁴ it had the potential to add some variety to the rabbi’s daily routine. It also represented participation in a social-professional network, a virtual rabbinic republic of sorts, comprised of members with shared values and a shared, internal professional, ideological, and sometimes even political discourse, driven by a sense of calling or responsibility. A rabbi’s position on a given issue was also a way for him to project his religious authority, to those within his community as well as those without. A prominent example of this was the public discussions that revolved around the traditional abstinence from legumes (that are not considered leavened) in Passover in the early spring of 1868. Due to a severe famine at the time, there was doubt as to whether the relatively minor prohibition should be nevertheless maintained. R. Shimon Traub of Kėdainiai, in Lithuania, assumed an independent and unique stance on the issue, differing from the majority of other rabbinic figures in the region.⁵⁵ The character of a local rabbi’s religious-intellectual discourse can be discerned by analyzing his correspondence with his rabbinic contemporaries. Generally, a rabbi would send letters to other town-rabbis, his equals in terms of their rank within the scholarly hierarchy of Eastern Europe, as well as to two or three superiors, the great rabbinic authorities of his time. Thus, the writer could define his relevant discussion arena. A good example of such intellectual activity is of R. Menahem Pervoznik, who served in the town of Rechytsa in the early twentieth century. An review of his book Teshuvot Menahem reveals that among his addresses were community rabbis and Torah scholars in the following communities: Bobruisk, Dvinsk, Girkalnis, Kobylniki, Krāslava, Ludza, Mažeikiai, Panevėžys, Pukhavičy, Raseiniai, Švenčionys and Vilna. These were all com-

 Etkes 1991, 398 – 401.  Pervoznik 1907; Rabinowitz 1925, inner cover; Katzenelenbogen 1989.  Shahor 1993, 293.  Hakarmel, June 1, 1868; Epstein 1893, orahk haim, para. 453; Lifshitz 1968, II, 72– 73; Kovner 1998, 265; Friedlander 2004, 192.

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munities situated at the heart and center of the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere. The intellectual void could also be filled by the composition of books – commentaries, responsa literature, halachic compendiums, collections of sermons, ethical works, as well as the publication of articles and in rabbinic periodicals and collected volumes. Some community rabbis, such as Hillel David Trivush and Avraham Yitzhak Kook, even launched and edited their own rabbinic periodicals (Hapisgah; Itur Sofrim). Many others used the emerging Jewish press of the time as a forum for publishing learned compositions, as well as for voicing their opinions on the public issues of the day.⁵⁶ Literary activity of this sort conferred three important benefits: 1) The very act of writing could alleviate to some extent the growing feelings of frustration induced by intellectual isolation. This was especially true for rabbis who served in remote, small towns. This is vividly described by R. Yehoshua Lang: “my soul mourns, my heart wails within me, it says: ‘why do you slumber’? why have you hidden and fled”.⁵⁷ An example of this is R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein, who during his time serving as rabbi of the town of Novozybkov, composed a commentary on R. Tam’s Sefer Hayashar, entitling it Or Layesharim. 2) This kind of writing, which essentially constituted a dialogue with a broad array of opinions and halachic approaches, served as a replacement for actual human contact with contemporary Torah scholars and rabbis.⁵⁸ 3) Publication of a book that belonged to these genres could bring its author fame, something that could improve his public image and even serve as a springboard for a position in a larger community or in a super-communal yeshiva.⁵⁹ Indeed, of the 1,500 rabbis reviewed in this study, 400 published a book of some kind. Because some rabbis published two or more books, the complete number arrives more than 900.⁶⁰ In this context, it should be noted that many of these

 See, for instance, Hamodi’ah, May 24, 1910. Many of the rabbis mentioned in this book have published articles on religious and public issues in a wide variety of newspapers and periodicals, such as Hatevunah, Hatzofe, Hapardes, Hayare’akh, Halevanon, Knesset Yisrael, Knesset Hagedolah, Sedei Hemed, Beit Vaad Lehakhamim, Shelomey Emuney Yisrael, Hapeles, Hmodi’ah, Yagdil Torah, Der Yud, and many more.  Lang 1876, introduction.  See, for example, a series of articles by R. Shlomo Yosef Zevin in the Hamodi’ah newspaper in the years 1912– 1913.  See, for example, Levin 1928, iii-iv.  This large volume of published books is a prominent expression of the process of expanding the dissemination of knowledge through books and periodicals, which is directly related to the expansion of the education system, and therefore the increase in the number of potential readers.

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rabbis spent their lives working on a book, however, for various reasons (such as the large printing costs entailed), they never made it to press and remained in manuscript.⁶¹ This number of books is all the more impressive if we bear in mind the book shortages in small towns and villages, a factor that significantly limited a rabbi’s ability to easily reference relevant halachic or theological literature.⁶² An important part of the community rabbi’s intellectual and public life was his preaching.⁶³ Like most topics discussed in this book, this phenomenon has been barely studied in scholarship, at least not in any kind of systematic or methodical way. Thus, for example, in his magnum opus “Haderashah Beyisrael”, R. Shimon Gliksberg provides detailed overviews of the activity of itinerant preachers, and analyzing the sermons of such famous rabbis as Yehoshua Heller, Zvi Hirsh Rabinowitz, Eliyahu Shik, Yosef Dov Soloveichik and Yaacov David Vilovski.⁶⁴ However, the sermons of the hundreds of lesser-known rabbis from the time, which can shed important light on their spiritual profiles, as well as the characters of their audiences, are treated with just a few short remarks.⁶⁵ One might expect that preaching would be a marginal part of the community rabbi’s life. After all, traditionally (and as was often articulated explicitly in the rabbinic writ of appointment) the rabbi was only required to deliver a public sermon twice a year – on the Sabbath between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur (“Shabbat Shuva”), and the Sabbath before Passover (“Shabbat Hagadol”). On other Sabbaths, public sermons could be delivered by local preachers (who were usually only active in larger communities) or by itinerant preachers who made their living wandering from town to town.⁶⁶ That being said, our sources demonstrate that many rabbis did not limit themselves to these two Sabbaths, and gave sermons on regular Sabbaths, holidays, and at special occasions. This is attested by the 135 of the rabbinic publications, reviewed in this study,

 For instance: Zvi Yehuda Rabinowitz-Te’omim, Ohaley Yehuda, Alfey Yehuda; Moshe Yitzhak Avigdor, Pardes Rimonim, Nit’ey Avigdor; Zvi Hirsh Noruk, Derashot Upeshatim; Nakhman Yehuda Margaliot, She’elot Uteshuvot. For the cost of printing a book of this kind in the second half of the century, see Dessler 1999, 65.  Lifshitz 1901, 60 – 62.  Hakarmel, March 2, 1870; Rabinowitz 1877, introduction; Cohen 1898, 13; Biber 1907, 206; Buber 1903, 112; Perles 1907, 32; Gliksberg 1940; Sonne 1941, 169; Eshkoly 1948, 179; Benayahu 1953, 43 – 46; Meisel 1962, 30; Posner 1962, 11; Breuer 1976, 123; Sofer 1979, 21; Ehrenreich 2007, 74.  Gliksberg 1940, 432– 445.  Ibid, 444.  Ibid, 446 – 456; Levinsohn 1839, 351– 352; Meshulam Roth, private collection, letter from September 25, 1901. About the world of local preacher in the Vilna Jewish community, see Ilfas 1941.

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that were completely, or at least partially, dedicated to the author’s public sermons. Assuming that every rabbi gave at least two sermons a year, and that not all sermons were published, it is reasonable to assume that rabbinic preaching of this sort was quite widespread. Likewise, the fact that Jewish publishing houses produced so many works belonging to this genre, some including sermons for each Sabbath of the year, attests to the relatively high demand for them, primarily from members of the rabbinic circles themselves.⁶⁷ Naturally, a rabbi’s sermon in honor of a festival would revolve around both halachic and legendary issues.⁶⁸ This phenomenon, which already characterized the community rabbinate in earlier periods,⁶⁹ is evident to anyone who reads many of the rabbinic sermon-collections published. For example, a collection published by R. Haim Tuvia Melinik of Volchin, Tovei Hakhayim, included sermons for Rosh Hashanah (8), “Shabbat Shuva” (8) Yom Kippur (3), Tabernacles, Simhat Torah, “Shabbat Hagadol” (8), the last day of Passover, Pentecost (2) as well as sermons for some other Sabbaths such as “Shekalim”, “Zakhor”, “Hakhodesh”, and “Nakhamu”. A collection published by R. Yehoshua Freidin of Ozernitsa, Even Yehoshua, included sermons for Rosh Hashana (2), “Shabbat Shuva”, Yom Kippur, Tabernacles, Hanukkah, “Shabbat Hagadol”, Pentecost, as well as sermons for the Sabbaths “Shekalim”, “Zakhor”, and “Hazon”. A collection published by R. Eliezer Yehoshua Shapira of Žemaičiu Naumiestis, Derashot Eliezer, included sermons for “Shabbat Hagadol”, Passover (2), Pentecost (3), “Shabbat Shuva” (3), Tabernacles, Simhat Torah, as well as a sermon for “Shabbat Zakhor”.⁷⁰ A detailed analysis of the sermons prepared by town rabbis during this period exceeds the bounds of the present study. However, even a brief review of collections published by rabbis who served in medium and small communities reveals a number of important insights about this facet of the rabbi’s life. A review of such sermons reveals that they were not simply an instrumental affair, but rather an activity that demanded some level of intellectual exertion. To prepare a sermon, a rabbi generally had to dedicate time to studying the sources and putting his insights into words, certainly if the sermon was scholastic in nature.⁷¹ That being said, there was a prominent trend among sermon-writers to

 See, for instance, Kahana 1867; Sapir 1909.  See, for instance, Valershtein 1899.  Eibeshitz 1798.  Melinik 1911; Freidin 1888; Shapira 1929;  “I was preoccupied for four hours with the preparation of a sermon dealing with halacha and Aggadah and moral rebuke”, Meshulam Roth, private collection, letter from September 25, 1901.

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make extensive use of motifs drawn from Legends and Homiletic literature, the consequence of the cultural and intellectual character of their audience.⁷² Sometimes a rabbi even needed to create a sermon that contradicted his fundamentalideological approach. For example, R. Meshulam Roth of Khorostkiv, discusses in one of his letters the challenges he faced when preaching to the members of his community: I preach halachic dialectics and legendary homilies, but my heart matches not [my words], for often, I know that what I say is impossible according to true logic and criticism and healthy intellect. [Nevertheless], I am forced to adapt my sermons to the character of my audience, to make sweet statements that will fit their old tastes, and thus my words will be pleasing, treated as wise, and I will elicit good-will from the members of my community. However, my spirit murmurs bitterly within me. For I have wasted for naught my strength, ascending the mountains of subtle [inquiry] and hovering over the peaks of trenchant dialectics, even though my soul is well aware that these matters are not the true Torah.⁷³

Rabbi Roth’s great disillusionment emerges clearly from this account. For even when he tried to create a shared space for scholarly discourse, for himself and for the members of the community, he soon found that not only was the intellectual gulf between them impassable, but that he was also forced to state things that were opposed to his most basic worldviews. Furthermore, this was an essentially irresolvable dilemma because the rabbi was regularly, and consistently forced to “elicit good-will from the members of his community”. Regardless, the public sermon was without a doubt a significant part of the community rabbi’s intellectual and public life. And it seems that the intellectual element of sermon-preparation represented the rabbi’s one, and almost only, opportunity to fill the role of “master of the city” – not by ruling on halachic issues, but by molding the religious and moral values of his community members. It was a chance for him to stand before his community and provide guidance without mediation or oversight. Some rabbis treated the sermon not just as a public duty, but also as an opportunity to broach issues of a public nature, albeit picking their words carefully, often fearing that rebuke, if too explicit, would actually elicit the opposite response. As R. Reuven Bulka of Ottawa put it: “it would be an illusion to think that just because the rabbi has spoken, the members of the community would be willing, without any reservations, to follow his instructions”.⁷⁴

 Margaliot 1920, para. 602. On the complexity of preparing a sermon by a community rabbi, see Weiss 1991.  Meshulam Roth, private collection, letter from August 1901.  Bulka 1991, 153.

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At the beginning of the twentieth century, an ancillary sermon-literature grew in popularity. I am referring to publications such as the annual Measef Derushi, first published in 1912, which, in the words of its editor, included “wonderful sermons, hand-picked explanations of the Bible, statements of the Sages, and lofty ideas for every time of the year that will bring blessing and great utility to the sermonizers and preachers who need material for their speeches”.⁷⁵ Even if we may look with some degree of skepticism at the author introduction to the second volume that “this collection […] is already considered indispensable for every preacher,” one cannot deny that they were popular: “a few thousand copies were sold over the course of two years, and the second edition has already been printed in its thousands”. While one can assume that not all community rabbis availed themselves of this tool, the preponderance of such works presumably contributed to the improvement of the contents of rabbinic sermons (at least cosmetically) not to mention the image of rabbis who used them. Henceforward, a community rabbi did not need to dedicate an undue amount of time to prepare a sermon and could regale his audience with original and brilliant commentaries whenever he wished. All he had to do was to employ the appropriate rhetorical devices and turn the written text into a grand verbal performance. Thus, R. Shimon Gliksberg notes that the sermon-collections that have been published have become “a useful and beneficial tool” for many rabbis. Here again we see a parallel to the world of the rural priest who, during the same time and in the same region, was forced to contend with similar challenges. As priest Belliustin describes the way rural priests would create their sermons: Ordinarily, the sermon is a compilation of several sermons from the last century, which the priest splices together, adding his own explanations here and there in the text. The least he could do, one might think, would be to copy from modern preachers and not dare change a single word! But no, how could they do that? It would be immediately said that he copied it; if he selects carefully, however, then everyone will say it is his own work!⁷⁶

This situation, however, was viewed with scorn by some prominent rabbinic scholars. As they saw it, many rabbis were being required to, or perhaps even wanted to, ingratiate themselves to their communities, all at the expense of the essence and purpose of a classical sermon. This is the background for the harsh criticism voiced in an open letter published by R. Yehezkel Abramsky in 1910:

 Segalovitch 1912; Liven 1902.  Belliustin 1985, 179.

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In our day, the sermons delivered by rabbis bear the mark of parliamentary speeches. They are but words. For whoever’s speeches have no grounding in the Oral Torah, and merely hover about in the air, this is all the better as far as the masses are concerned. And if some old rabbi, who keeps the ways of his fathers, will try to deliver a sermon about the Passover laws from the pulpit on “Shabbat Hagadol” – as was the practice of his predecessors, immediately the [members] of his audience slip out one by one, and no one remains to hear him, with the exception of the beadle who stays at his post out of respect. During this time, there is no one to disturb the rabbi with a beautiful answer or a challenge that requires further study.⁷⁷

3 Public Activities While the rabbinic writ of appointment did not require the rabbi to involve himself in any public issues besides those it specified, there were some rabbis who, like their community members, gave the rabbinic vocation a broader interpretation. In this context, the rabbi was seen as someone who ought to be involved in various aspects of community life, primarily those of a personal, social, or public nature. In some communities, this quality was even taken into account during the selection process.⁷⁸ The rabbi’s involvement in a variety of issues is illustrated in the following list of the concerns brought before the rabbi, as described in the colorful prose of R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn: When the horse of a poor wagon-driver dies, when the sewing machine of a tailor [breaks], when the daughter of a pauper has reached a marriageable age, when a poor man’s house has burnt down, whatever the trouble may be, and whatever the obstacle, dispute or calamity – to whom do these people pour out the sorrow of their hearts? Behold it is the rabbi! He is a waterskin [to collect] tears and a treasure house to [store] the groans of all these aggrieved people!⁷⁹

Some rabbis even assumed the role of banks. Because such institutions hardly existed in the region, people needed a place to store their money. Likewise, if a sum was the subject of dispute, and needed to be put in safekeeping during the legal proceedings, there was nowhere to store it. The rabbi, who was seen as a reliable figure, far from any suspicions of embezzlement or theft, was seen as the ideal solution. It was also a safe solution: because his position

 Yagdil Torah 1910, 188. See also Hator, February 22, 1921.  Hamelitz, September 23, 1880.  Hapeles 1902, 615.

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was imbued with an air of sanctity, it was unlikely that anyone would actually try robbing him.⁸⁰ In terms of public issues, the rabbi was viewed by many, especially those belonging to lower classes, as their representative, tasked with defending the interests of the weak and downtrodden – the poor, widows, orphans, wives with lost husbands, people with disabilities and the mentally ill. Thus, for example, in the second half of the nineteenth century, when many young women in Eastern Europe were abandoned by their husbands and left without a divorce, some community rabbis came to their aid – whether by publishing advertisements in newspapers or by taking advantage of their connections with their rabbinic colleagues in other communities.⁸¹ Likewise, some rabbis would spearhead initiatives or collect money for public needs, such as ransoming Jewish prisoners or constructing religious buildings (the synagogue and the ritual bath).⁸² In other cases, the rabbi would manage issues that had ramifications for the public life in the community, such as dividing up funds for communal institutions.⁸³ In cases where urgent public action was needed, and the communal institutions were indisposed to do their part – for example, coming to the aid of Jewish soldiers drafted into the Russian army – many naturally turned their eyes to the rabbi, hoping, and sometimes even pleading, that he wield his religious and ethical authority.⁸⁴ And if this was not enough, some rabbis involves themselves in issues outside of their communities, such as representing the community to various government bodies,⁸⁵ or concerning themselves with super-communal issues, even those unrelated to their immediate environs, for example the dispute between the printing press of Romm in Vilna and of Shapira in Slavuta; signing petitions related to internal Jewish issues; and even involvement in episodes that pertained to the rabbinic world at large.⁸⁶ These public activities could mold the self-perceptions of community rabbis, as expressed in the following words of R. Shimon Traub: “who shall participate and intercede, to [allay] the sorrow and poverty of the public in small towns? Who shall keep watch of the public

 Hamelitz, July 5, 1886; Druyanov 1956, I, 144; Nadav 1997, 222.  Hamagid, August 14, 1857.  Hamagid, August 22, 1861; Hamelitz, May 7, 1886; July 3, 1891.  Hamelitz, August 24, 1885.  Hazefirah, January 11, 1881; Hamelitz, January 21, 1887; April 24, 1899; Zalkin 2006, bnei elohim.  Hamelitz, November 1, 1860.  Hakarmel, June 1, 1868; Hamelitz, January 21, 1887; Hapeles 1902, 615; Shteinshneider 1900, 22– 26; Borenstein 1913, para. 465; Harel 2015.

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behavior, and the education of children according to the spirit of the time and the desire of the government? Is it not the guardians of the Torah and the rabbis?”⁸⁷ Despite the wide range of activities occupying their time, many community rabbis in towns and villages tirelessly sought even more ways to allay their feelings of cultural suffocation, not to mention exhaustion, as the years passed. As R. Meshulam Roth put it: “I am like a dog in a cage, and I feel like the air will suffocate me”.⁸⁸ This feeling, as well as the need to conduct a dialogue with other Torah scholars and rabbis, were the impetus for the itinerancy of many small-community rabbis. These rabbis took frequent trips outside of their communities for various purposes: to arbitrate disputes in other communities (sometimes between rabbis and the communal institutions or the butchers);⁸⁹ to participate in the welcoming ceremonies of other rabbis in nearby communities,⁹⁰ to attend their farewell ceremonies,⁹¹ or sometimes their funerals;⁹² to gather approbations or signatures from “pre-subscribers” for their new books,⁹³ as well as to tend to personal family affairs.⁹⁴ An important part of such trips was meeting their rabbinic colleagues, other community rabbis and people renowned for their scholarly accomplishments, or important figures in the Jewish scholarly world at the time.⁹⁵ This is also the backdrop for the active participation of rabbis from small communities in various rabbinic conferences, such as that convened in Vilna in May 1913 to discuss, among other things, the growing phenomenon of women whose husbands had left for America leaving them without a divorce, as well as the founding assembly of the Rabbis Association in Poland.⁹⁶ This

 Hamelitz, February 21, 1867. See also Knesset Hagedolah 1890, 31.  Meshulam Roth, private collection, letter from August 1901. See also Grade 1982, 35. On a similar feeling among the rural clergy, see Malony & Hunt 1991, 18.  Hamelitz, October 15, 1872; July 20, 1880; November 2, 1880; February 14, 1882; July 9, 1886; May 31, 1888; Hazefirah, July 2, 1891; Hapisgah 1897, 7; Shtern 1898, orahk haim, para. 17; Hamodi’ah, November 25, 1910; Grunwald 1955, 134; Lichtenstein 1960, 62; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27; Kovner 1998, 132; Kosovsky-Shakhor 2003, 165 – 166.  Halevanon, October 13, 1875.  Hayom, December 14, 1887.  Hakarmel, July 29, 1864; Hamagid, January 1, 1873; Halevanon, May 9, 1879; June 18, 1880; Hamelitz, January 20, 1890; September 17, 1898; Hamodi’ah, December 29, 1910; July 24, 1914; Hapeles 1904, 64, 126.  Meirovitch 1876, 2– 20.  Shahor 1993, 299.  See, for instance, Pervoznik 1907, para. 33; Hamodi’ah, August 10, 1911.  Hamodi’ah, May 30, 1913; July 11, 1913.

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could slake the small-town rabbi’s intellectual thirst, constituting a compensation of sorts for feelings of intellectual poverty and social isolation.⁹⁷ Many rabbis were able to find some sort of balance, fulfilling their duties to their community and its needs, and dealing with the difficulty and frustration this could entail. Others preoccupied themselves with issues that lay beyond the domain of their communities, at the expense of their local responsibilities (as defined in their writs of appointment) or what was expected of them. Such rabbis sometimes exposed themselves to harsh criticism as a result. Thus, for example, R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein “did not consider it fitting or proper that some rabbis would invest too much time on the issues of the collective, abandoning their obligations and those things which fall under their exclusive purview: teaching Torah, ruling halacha, and keeping an eye on the doings in their community, to protect its religion, morals, modesty and general wellbeing”.⁹⁸

 For the loneliness of the cleric, see Bowers 1964, 3 – 8.  Epstein 1928, III, 1194.

Chapter 6 The Rabbi and His Community 1 Two Leaders, One Crown Despite the long, arduous path to the rabbinic throne, and despite the oppressive workload the rabbinic vocation entailed, some rabbis did manage to develop cordial and even close relationships with members of their communities. Many rabbis were filled with a hope, sometimes even a conviction, that the position would afford them the opportunity to actually influence community life – especially spiritual and religious life. However, it would soon become clear that realizing these lofty aspirations would be far from simple: the situation, it turned out, was far more complex than anticipated. The most common problem and the most formidable challenge faced by community rabbis was dissent over the nature of their public status. For younger rabbis, having emerged from that scholarly ivory tower which was the yeshiva, this was their first encounter with the real world. And, as they would learn, it was a world that demanded a significant amount of patience, tolerance, and flexibility. One particularly thorny issue of this world was the rabbi’s relationship with various community figures who did not accept his appointment.¹ In many cases, bickering factions in the community failed to reach an agreement as to the best rabbinic candidate. In other cases, while one candidate was officially chosen, supporters of the rejected candidate refused to accept the decision.² When such disagreements erupted, a few scenarios could unfold. One option, as mentioned above, was to postpone (for a specific amount of time or indefinitely) the appointment of a community rabbi. The second option was to lead a protracted rebellion against the outcome of the selection process. This could be accomplished by simply refusing to accept the rabbi’s authority or by resorting to threats, violence,³ blackmail,⁴ or appealing to powerful figures outside the community – all with the goal of replacing the selected rabbi with someone else.⁵ In extreme cases, the conflict between the rabbi’s supporters and his detractors could tear a

    

Hamelitz, November 17, 1885; Be’ikvot Hapisgah 1929, 12– 13. Lapidot 2006, 92. Halevanon, April 25, 1879; Hamelitz, August 10, 1880; May 10, 1891. Heitner 2006, 36 – 37. Hamelitz, May 19, 1884; Trunk 1967, 22.

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community in two, leading to the establishment of a separate breakaway community in the same locale.⁶ A common solution was to appoint a second rabbi – usually one of the candidates who had initially been rejected.⁷ This, of course, represented a sweeping vote of no-confidence for the rabbi who had been officially chosen. This contentious reality posed a serious challenge to the community rabbi, especially if he was young and inexperienced. However, the appointment of two or more community rabbis was not unknown already during the middle Ages.⁸ Sometimes, this could derive from practical concerns: for example, if the incumbent rabbi grew old, and was not interested in continuing to work, or simply was unable to keep up with the needs of the community. In such cases, a young rabbi or alternatively a young Talmud scholar who had failed to obtain a rabbinic post by conventional means, could be appointed to assist the elderly rabbi with his duties.⁹ Such a move preserved the status and authority of the official rabbi, yet at the same time meant that the majority of his duties would now be taken over by his “assistant”.¹⁰ Another possibility, that developed as urbanization began to overtake Eastern European Jewry, was to create sub-communities in the neighborhoods and suburbs of larger cities. These sub-communities could appoint their own rabbis and religious functionaries.¹¹ Theoretically, the rabbis of these sub-communities were subject to the authority of the city’s official rabbi. However, because these sub-communities and their rabbis desired independence, this hierarchy could become more theory than practice.¹² However, the “dual rabbinate,” were rooted usually not in organizational or structural concerns but simply internal communal conflicts, as described by R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn: A large group of young scholars comes to conquer and vanquish the city, so much so that a city can never appoint just one rabbi without being put under siege. With no other choice, what does one do? One selects, with a mighty [hand] and an outstretched arm and with great feats … two rabbis! Such a sight, which was unbelievable, but a few years ago, no longer elicits much wonder now. It has almost become the norm.¹³

 Hazefirah, April 29, 1879.  Daitchman 1871; Hayom, February 13, 1886; December 14, 1886; Hamelitz, May 2, 1889; Zefunot 1994, 90 – 92.  Horowitz 1978, 239.  Hamelitz, March 14, 1888; June 7, 1899; Hapeles 1902, 166.  On a similar phenomenon among the rural clergy, see Belliustin 1985, 112– 117.  Knesset Hagedolah 1890, 97; Zalkin 2002, issakhr, 131– 132.  Yerushalimsky 1901, Kevod Hakhamim, para. 5 – 9.  Feivelsohn 1914, netzakh, 44.

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There were even cases of communities that appointed three or four rabbis, often without there being any substantial religious differences between the factions (e. g., Hasidim vs. Mitnagdim).¹⁴ The phenomenon of multiple rabbis in one community was not limited to the region discussed in this book. From other regions in Eastern Europe, emerge numerous analogous accounts, in chronicles,¹⁵ halachic literature,¹⁶ hagiography,¹⁷ scholarship¹⁸ and the public discourse.¹⁹ This could be in town communities such as Tauragė, Merokhova, Kosava, Iwye, Izabelin, Berezne, Dzisna, Hadyach, Svislach, Voranava, Konotop, Kėdainiai, Biaroza, Radviliškis, as well as larger urban communities such as Khelm, Minsk, and Polotsk.²⁰ The sheer number of accounts, the fact that the issue was the subject of intensive discussion in the public discourse, and the lack of conflicting testimonies all point to a phenomenon that was quite common. The appointment of a second (or even third or fourth) rabbi did not necessarily take place concurrently with the first rabbi’s appointment. Sometimes, an additional rabbi was chosen only much later, after the supporters of the unsuccessful candidate had amassed sufficient political power and financial resources. In other cases, an additional rabbi was appointed not due to dispute that arose during the selection process but rather from subsequent conflicts – a dispute that for one reason or another split the community along factional lines. For example, in some communities, people would put together a Hassidic sub-community and demand their own rabbi.²¹ In either case, these circumstances could have a significant influence on the status of the rabbi who had originally been selected. It obviously impacted his symbolic status as the “master of the city”, but also exacted a practical toll: it impeded his ability to carry out his  Hamelitz, April 12, 1881; December 27, 1887; April 16, 1891; November 10, 1891; April 19, 1893; November 10, 1893; Hazefirah, November 28, 1886. To the reflection of the phenomenon in popular folklore, see Druyanov 1956, I, 158.  Chorny 1884, I, 228; Dukkes 1903, 14; Zaltzman 1947, 30; Eshkoly 1948, 73; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 90; Kook 1985, II, para. 451; Zuriel 2002, I, 460; Heitner 2006, 36 – 37.  Weiss 1894, orahk haim, para. 5; Yerushalimsky 1901, 144– 145; Tsirelson 1932, para. 108; Tennenbaum 1976, yoreh de’ah, para. 82; Shternbukh 1986, II, para. 722; Kevod Hakhamim 1989, 210 – 217.  Eliach 1991, 355; Bergman 1998, 28 – 29; Bier 2011, 26.  Wetstein 1904, I, 3; Teller 2000, 340 – 341.  Hamelitz, January 2, 1883; June 19, 1887; July 26, 1887; September 2, 1887; April 18, 1888; Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907; Hamodi’ah, August 9, 1912.  Hamelitz, February 26, 1871; November 28, 1882; June 27, 1884; March 1, 1885; October 29, 1886; January 3, 1888; February 13, 1890; October 27, 1896; November 2, 1896; September 6, 1897; June 1, 1899; Hazefirah, October 31, 1876; May 13, 1896  Pesakhovitch 1954, 568. Zalkin 1999.

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duties during protracted communal conflict.²² It could also take a toll on his financial wellbeing, his income being completely dependent on communal funds (more on this below).²³ Sometimes this reality could even have an immediate effect on the day-to-day life of the community’s residents. First and foremost, paying the salary of not one but two rabbis diverted funds from other projects and initiatives: “the money that is spent to have many rabbis in the city, should be divided between the city’s paupers and the impoverished bourgeois,” as one contemporary put it.²⁴ It also certainly did not contribute to the positive image of local community rabbis, especially when two local rabbis would dispute the kashrut of the meat slaughtered in the town.²⁵ As a rule, most sources that discuss this issue point to the fact that a preponderance of rabbis in one town or city, originating in internal communal disagreements and disputes, did not just perpetuate an already problematic situation but also made things worse. As one contemporary explains: The number of rabbis is greater than the communities, for great is the number of communities in which there are two or three rabbis. How numerous are the disputes “for the sake of heaven” in the various communities! There is no one to judge between one rabbi and another, to determine who will go and who will stay, who will assume the rabbinic throne and who will leave the city.²⁶

On the other hand, some people were quite happy to have multiple rabbis in one city. First and foremost were the young yeshiva students searching for open rabbinic posts. They certainly benefited from the growth in demand. Likewise, powerful or influential figures in the community were happy to have recourse to this option if the current rabbi did not fit their needs. As with other aspects of the rabbinate discussed in this book, the phenomenon of multiple rabbis in one community would only increase as the nineteenth century drew to a close. One proof of this is that already in the 1880s the issue was discussed extensively in the public discourse. However, the situation would become even worse, so much so that the editor of Hamelitz – who believed that “so many young rabbis trespass [on the positions of others] that no one even thinks to put an end to this offensive conflict” – decided to publish in his newspaper a collection of halachic

 Hamelitz, January 2, 1883; February 10, 1890; January 7, 1903; Hapisgah 1904, 38; Cohen 1960, 24; Shvadron 1992, III, para. 335.  Tennenbaum 1899, IV, para. 82.  Hayom, March 15, 1886.  Cohen 1960, 24.  Hamelitz, April 19, 1893. See also ibid, January 27, 1884; Kol Yaacov, August 15, 1907; Pesakhovitch 1954, 568.

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rulings from famous rabbinic figures that defined the practice of appointing another rabbi as “trespassing,” strictly forbidding it.²⁷ However, as with the practice of selling rabbinic positions, halachic arguments failed to inspire change, and the phenomenon would continue unabated deep into the twentieth century.²⁸ Some sought to deal with the appearance of a second rabbi by turning to the halachic-legal system, i. e., they would summon the offender to a rabbinic court.²⁹ However, most community rabbis simply reconciled themselves to the reality, primarily because they worried that overstepping their hand in their attempts to rid the town of a competitor could jeopardize their own position. It bears mentioning that, again like other aspects of the rabbinate discussed in this book, a similar phenomenon can be seen among the non-Jewish clergy. The presence of two priests in one city was nothing unique, especially in communities with two Christian denominations. Naturally, this could sometimes result in conflict. As Shemaryahu Levin wrote in his colorful prose: “two priests treat each other just like two rabbis in a small town that cannot afford to pay either them – like two cats in one bag”.³⁰ Naturally, rivalries and tensions could develop between the two rabbis, often echoing the existing tensions between their respective supporters. In an attempt to resolve such tensions, arbitration could be sought. Rabbis from nearby towns, who were accepted by both sides of the conflict, could be called in. In most cases, however, these attempts proved ineffective. As R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn attests: “when rabbis are brought to resolve the issue of two appointed rabbis, they often adopt the famous compromise of Rav Papa: ‘therefore let us say [yes to] both.’ They say the ‘Kaddish of Rabbis’ and travel in peace to their home, praising themselves for successfully satisfying both parties. As for the community, [it is consumed] by an eternal fire that cannot be extinguished!”³¹ In general, we must remember that no one had prepared the young rabbi to deal with the most common dilemma of the rabbinic vocation; he had never learned how to address highly sensitive public or controversial situations. To name a few examples: internal disputes could revolve around the organization and management of the community; issues related to emigration; ideological and political affiliations; and the operation of the local educational institutions. The rabbi had to navigate carefully between his personal halachic-ethical posi-

    

Hamelitz, April 23, 1899. See, for instance, Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911; Kevod Hakhamim 1989, 210 – 217. Hamodi’ah, January 2, 1914. Levin 1944, 28. See also Bergman 1998, 28 – 29. Feivelsohn 1914, 44– 45, 241. See also Hamelitz, February 4, 1890.

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tion on the issue and the social political reality in which he found himself.³² The danger of imperiling his community-paid income was a true sword of Damocles hanging over his head. “If the rabbi wishes to bring some order to the education [system] or the teachers”, R. Avraham Zakheim wrote, “if he wishes that not everyone who calls himself a teacher be so, and that not every boor and impoverished shop-owner, with little precise or clear knowledge of the subject-matter should teach students, especially if they know nothing whatsoever about education or pedagogy, what shall the rabbi do if the candidate for teacher is someone’s relative and if that someone is powerful and rich? Will they forgive the rabbi for curtailing his income?”³³ An excellent example of such a contentious public issue was an incident that took place in the Jewish community of Slonim in the early 1880s. At that time the local rabbi, Yosef Rozin, launched a fundraising campaign to build a new synagogue after the previous one had burnt down a year earlier. A group of local families, whose children were slated to be drafted into the Russian army, beseeched him to use the money instead to free their children from the draft. The rabbi, however, refused, citing the halacha “one does not shift money from one charity to another”.³⁴ The rabbi’s refusal, not surprisingly, plunged him into a bitter dispute with the desperate families. As mentioned above, one forum in which the rabbi could express his views on such issues was the public sermon. However, unlike the itinerant preacher, whose salary was not paid by the community and who did not face the constant peril of dismissal, the community rabbi had to tread carefully. One option, the favorite strategy it seems, was to simply avoid broaching such issues – for example, it behooved the rabbis to avoid discussing how the lists of draftees to the Russian army were put together. The majority of rabbis simply did not discuss these issues publicly, fearing that it would bring down upon them the wrath of various community figures.³⁵ Another option was to discuss timely issues but without taking a clear stance one way or another.

 On a dispute between the rabbi and the ’head of the community’ about the legitimacy of card games, see Perles 1907, 23 – 24.  Zakheim 1904, 87.  Hazefirah, December 20, 1881.  Zalkin 2006, bnei elohim.

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2 The Rabbi and the Local Elites The phenomena discussed until this point were deeply rooted in the organizational structure of the Jewish community at the time, as well as the preferential statuses enjoyed by local elites.³⁶ I refer to local figures who had amassed a significant amount of political or financial power (or both), and who exercised this power in local-community politics. They were the de-facto leaders of the community and its institutions. As discussed previously, rabbinic writs of appointment already attest that community institutions did everything in their power to prevent the community rabbi from amassing an undue amount of authority or influence. As R. Yehuda Leib Margaliot described acrimoniously: In their haughtiness, the leaders and rulers of the community consider it beneath them to appoint over themselves a famous, respectable, and righteous man. This would require them to submit to him, and to give him the power to punish wrongdoers for their crimes. They prefer to choose a rabbi who will submit to them, one with no power. When the rabbi wishes to correct some matter pertaining to the religious law in the community, everything will be done by consulting them. He will have to speak to them softly and flatter them [in order to convince them] to agree with him.³⁷

For this reason, a model that in Italy and Germany developed already in the late Middle Ages – the rabbi who is subject to the authority of the communal institutions – spread to communities throughout Europe.³⁸ This did not relate to halachic adjudication but rather to the rabbi’s place in the management of public life in the community, for example excommunication or collecting taxes. Thus, the rabbi was informed how the hierarchical structure of the local community would function from the beginning. For example, in the rabbinic writ given to R. Yohanan ben Saadia by the community of Verona in 1539, it was stated: “as far as communal issues are concerned, the rabbi shall be obligated by any request made by the community or its leaders to enact or excommunicate or to agree about some measure or issue, or anything related to the community’s dealings with individuals and the many”.³⁹ Likewise, in Vilna it was established that

 Margaliot 1786, 42.  Ibid. See also Hapeles 1901, 482; Yehuda Liva ben Bezalel 1961, netiv hadin, ch. II; Hakarmel 1879, 217.  Sonne 1941, 146; Breuer 1976, 61; Schwarzfuchs 1993, 19; Berkovitz 1999, 59; Berkovitz 2004, 75.  Sonne 1941, 152, 168, 169, 182. See also Kaufman 1889, 124– 128; Wetstein 1892, 18 – 19; Kaufman 1897, 13, 22; Kol Yaacov, September 15, 1908; Kober 1947; Katz 1969; Breuer 1976, 117– 118; Nadav 1997, 156 – 158.

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“when the leaders of the community call the rabbi to participate in a meeting, for whatever purpose, he must come immediately without any delay. It goes without saying that he may not refuse to attend any meeting deals with any judgement or public issue”.⁴⁰ These rules were enforced in different times and places, including the rabbi’s involvement in the daily life of his community members. In the rabbinic writ given to Isaac Bernays by the Jewish community of Hamburg in 1821, this was spelled out in no uncertain terms: “the rabbi cannot rebuke any man for religious behavior or failure to observe the commandments”.⁴¹ In most rabbinic writs issued in our region, such matters were not so explicitly worded – the writ given to Bernays reflects the special circumstances of the Jewish communities in German-speaking Europe. Nevertheless, as modernization (and secularization) crept into the towns of Eastern Europe during the second half of the eighteenth century, many a rabbi realized that the right to admonish his community members have been taken away from him (see below). Thus, even if no one openly questioned the rabbi’s right to adjudicate halacha or to preside over a rabbinic court, they were nevertheless careful to keep a firm system of checks and balances in place. For example, in the community of Berlin it was ruled that “in any rabbinic court case or ruling, the rabbi must be accompanied by two judges who will be appointed by the leaders of the community”.⁴² Similar restrictions were placed on the rabbi when it came to conferring ordination, the amount of money that could be exacted as a penalty in a rabbinic court,⁴³ as well as to whether or not he could represent the community to external bodies.⁴⁴ However, the restrictions placed on the rabbi not only related to his involvement in community life. In some communities, a rabbi was forbidden from engaging in any kind of negotiations or from leaving the city without receiving permission from the designated community institutions.⁴⁵ Likewise, in some communities, laws were put in place to avoid nepotism. For example, there were rules as to whether or not the rabbi could appoint his relatives to public positions, what businesses they could engage in, and whether the rabbi was allowed to participate in legal proceedings in which they were involved.⁴⁶

 Finn 1915, 37.  Yerushatenu 2007, 91– 103.  Meisel 1962, 30. See also Finn 1915, 37; Berger 1999, 532– 534; ibid, 544– 546.  Kaufman 1897, 25, 27; Evron 1967, 327.  Bakhrakh 1869, 12.  Biber 1907, 314; Herschberg 1949, I, 104; Heilperin 1952, 111; Moriah 1992, 104; Nadav 1997, 171.  Buber 1903, 9, 10, 112; Heilperin 1952, 111; Sonne 1941, 177; Meisel 1962, 108; Nadav 1997, 83, 156, 171.

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As mentioned, as far as the local elites were concerned, the rabbi, by dint of his religious authority, and in some cases due to his personality, could easily become a competitor; the elites therefore consistently did their best to prevent this from happening. Thus, in many cases the rabbi was subject to the whims of the local elites. Examples emerge from rabbinic literature, chronicles, popular folklore, and numerous other sources, all pointing to a phenomenon that was widespread.⁴⁷ The rabbi’s subservience to powerful leaders in the community was a consequence, among other things, of the fact that “the rabbi has neither a stick nor a whip to enforce his authority, and how, then, can he engage in battle with someone stronger than him?”⁴⁸ If we bear in mind that more than a few rabbis owed their position to local elites, then this subservience could be viewed as “part of the deal”.⁴⁹ Some claimed that the problem was exacerbated when the chosen rabbi was a local: in such cases, it was argued, his subordination to the elites was even greater.⁵⁰ This hierarchy had important ramifications for the personal and familial aspects of the rabbi’s life. Specifically, the rabbi was constantly worried that his term would not be renewed when the tenure set in his rabbinic writ ends, or even be terminated immediately.⁵¹ It should be recalled that for the rabbi, being dismissed did not just mean losing a source of income; it also meant that he would receive a negative reputation as someone who stood up for himself, as someone who refused to accept the authority of communal institutions. This could make getting a new rabbinic position in another community somewhat difficult. Therefore, the rabbi had basically no choice but to bend to the will of the rich and powerful, even when this was at the expense of his own honor as well as the honor of the rabbinate as a whole. As the Mahara“l put it: “the rabbi fears the bourgeois. If he does not do as they wish, this will lead to many an obstacle”.⁵² This reality, which dated back to earlier periods, closely resembles what religious psychologists Malony and Hunt have referred to as a “push”, i. e., a situation in which a religious figure feels a lack of control over

 Hator, February 19, 1921; Druyanov 1956, 145, 148, 158; Kotik 1989, 168. On a similar phenomenon in the non-Jewish rural area of the Russian Empire, see Freeze 1977, 150; Belliustin 1985, 134, 194.  Hazefirah, September 20, 1889. See also Hamelitz, August 5, 1891.  Hamelitz, September 25, 1896; November 26, 1896; Lifshitz 1901, 10.  Levinsohn 1839, II, 352.  Hamelitz, May 21, 1863; November 10, 1893; Hamagid, July 25, 1877; Slonimsky 1894, 6; Yehuda Liva ben Bezalel 1961, netiv hadin, ch. II.  Yehuda Liva ben Bezalel 1961, netiv hadin, ch. II; Hakarmel 1879, 217– 222.

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his area of activity.⁵³ This, it seems, was the reason why many community rabbis avoided confronting local elites over one of the cardinal issues that dominated the discourse of nineteenth century Eastern European Jewry – how lists of Jewish draftees into the Russian army were put together.⁵⁴ If before the rabbi’s selection this tendency was clearly manifest in both the proceedings of the process as well as in the explicit wording of the rabbinic writ of appointment, then after his appointment it became abundantly clear that these were not just hollow promises but rather a permanent reality. At first, when the rabbi and elites first got to know each other, the latter would in some cases try to win over the former with an accommodating approach, sometimes even granting various favors.⁵⁵ For the new rabbi, cooperation came with some clear advantages. Most notably, it could serve him in good stead in the future when he needed the support of the elites to launch initiatives – especially those with public significance.⁵⁶ However, quite often, conflict with the local political elites was only a matter of time. Thus, R. Eliyahu Akiva Rabinowitz claimed that “the slaughterers not only do not listen to him, they try to place themselves in charge of him. The bourgeois force him to follow their will, correcting him with what they consider good advice. The impertinent residents of the city cast fear and awe upon him with their great strength. And the rabbi is still as a stone, because due to his young age, he trembles from the sound of a falling leaf and capitulates to [opposition] from every direction”.⁵⁷ Our sources point to a long list of conflicts between community rabbis and the leaders of the community.⁵⁸ When a conflict did erupt – for example when a rabbi’s halachic ruling was thought to affect their economic or public status – they had no qualms about putting the rabbi in his place and reminding him where he stood in the hierarchical pyramid of the community: The rabbis are dependent on the desires of the leaders and rich men. If a rich man is incensed at the rabbi for not paying him double the respect [he deserves], or [if the rich man grows angry] at the challenge posed [according to his warped logic] by the rabbi’s enactments, then he will plot against [the rabbi] to depose him from his throne, despite his

 Malony & Hunt 1991, vii.  Zalkin 2006, bnei elohim.  Knesset Yisrael 1888, 17– 32; Hamelitz, January 21, 1898; Kovner 1998, 118.  Halevanon, September 4, 1872; Landa 1958, yoreh de’ah, para. 1.  Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910.  Perles 1907, 23 – 24; Grunwald 1921, 25; Be’ikvot Hapisgah 1929, 12; Lichtenstein 1960, 52; Dessler 2004, 151– 152; 2008, 300. For a theoretical discussion in this aspect of the rabbi’s life, see Braude 1960, 48 – 49.

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innocence. With ruses he will wage war against him and persecute him needlessly; he will attack the rabbi’s source of income, the rabbi’s salary for his work on behalf of the community, until the rabbi relents, seizes hold of the corner of the rich-man’s robe; [only then will the] rich man forgive him.⁵⁹

As mentioned, most rabbis made peace, some more than others, with this reality, especially when they realized that their options were fairly limited. Those who accepted these circumstances assumed that towing the line would allow them to fulfill the majority of the tasks and duties required of them while also keeping their jobs. And in many cases the well-behaved rabbi would earn a grace period during which he could dedicate himself to his work with little adversity. The problem was, as more than a few rabbis would learn, that even assenting to having one’s authority curtailed, brought only an illusory peace. As described above, the selection of a new rabbi could spark vicious disputes between different segments of the community. Participating in these disputes were men of political and economic power, members of interest groups (such as the slaughterers), as well as the family of the previous rabbi, or alternatively those who opposed the rabbinate being inherited if the previous rabbi’s relative was chosen. Naturally, even after one candidate was chosen, and even if the decision was accepted by the majority of community members, pockets of resistance would not just disappear overnight, especially among those from whom the decision exacted a personal, economic, or political toll. We thus see situations in which the rabbi was thrust into a protracted conflict with his detractors. Such struggles not only harmed the rabbi himself but also negatively impacted the public authority and status of his opponents. As Shmuel Yosef Finn saw things: “these two authorities go into battle, the leadership versus the rabbinate, and they fight with rage until both fall with no hope of revival”.⁶⁰ In passing, it is worth noting that once again this phenomenon was echoed in the life of the rural priest in Russia.

3 The Rabbi versus the Butchers and the Slaughterers One of the more complicated relationships the rabbi had with community members was with the butchers and slaughterers. It should be recalled that the rabbi

 Hakarmel, June 15, 1869. See also Hamagid, April 15, 1869; Halevanon, September 4, 1872; August 30, 1876; Reines 1880, 21; Hamelitz, April 19, 1893; November 10, 1893; Hmodi’ah, December 5, 1913; Rabinowitz 1913, 6; Agnon 1969, 47.  Finn 1915, 26.

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was deemed the highest halachic authority when it came to the kashrut of food sold throughout the community, especially regarding the validity of ritual slaughterer. For the meat of an animal to be considered kosher, it must not only be slaughtered according to strict rules, it must also have no significant diseases or physical injuries, both external and internal. For that reason, the slaughterer had to also check certain parts of the slaughtered animal in order to ascertain it was not considered a tereifa. The practice was that the butcher would buy live animals, hand them over to the ritual slaughterer,⁶¹ and only afterwards sell the meat in his store. Usually the slaughterers were seen as reliable when it came to keeping and enforcing the laws of kashrut. However, sometimes doubts would arise about the kashrut of a slaughtered animal, in which case, the final say belonged to the community rabbi. If the rabbi examined an animal and ruled that the meat was not kosher, the butcher was forced to sell the meat to a non-Jewish butcher or directly to the non-Jewish population, usually at a much lower price than what he would receive for kosher meat. According to some estimates, the number of animals disqualified after slaughter can reach 25 per cent – a significant financial toll for the butcher.⁶² To avoid financial loss, some butchers would sell non-kosher meat as if it were kosher, ignoring the rulings of the ritual slaughterers as well as the halachic rulings of the rabbi.⁶³ While, I do not claim that most butchers did not care about the laws of kashrut and were happy to sell the Jewish population non-kosher meat,⁶⁴ the delicate balance of power certainly had the potential to erupt into full conflict between rabbis and butchers. For example, the grounds for invalidating the meat were not always unambiguous; the rabbi could have, if he had wished, made a case for ruling it kosher. This could spark conflict with the butcher. Likewise, if a rabbi ruled several animals bought by a single butcher to be not kosher, the butcher would not be too pleased. In other words, rabbis and butchers naturally had what to argue about.⁶⁵ If we recall that butchers were significant economic power-players in many communities, some even belonging to the local political and economic elites (who “hold the salaries of the slaughterers and rabbis in their hands like

 Rabbis who served in small communities were also sometimes served as ritual slaughterers, such as R. Yekutiel Zalman Levitas, who served in Dobele at the beginning of the twentieth century.  Yerushalimsky 1901, kevod hakhamim, para. 13.  See, for instance, Emden 1884, II, para. 24; Grunwald 1955, 24– 26.  About such a reality in the interwar period, see Kaniel 2010.  Landa 1859, yoreh de’ah, para. 1; Zadok ben Yehoshua 1889, introduction: Lunsky 1917, 13; Eshkoly 1948, 181.

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clay in the hand of a potter”), then it is no surprise that in such a battle the rabbi was at a marked disadvantage.⁶⁶ At the center of these dispute was the kashrut status of the slaughtered meat, a matter under the authority of the ritual slaughterer. Because the rabbi and slaughterer depended on each other for their financial wellbeing, their relationship could be equally fraught. The slaughterer’s right to practice, the validity of his slaughter and his income all depended on the approval of the local rabbi. In many cases, a recommendation letter from the rabbi of the slaughterer’s previous community or from some other rabbinical authority was required.⁶⁷ It is important to note that, in practice, the slaughterer was only paid for slaughtering animals that were ruled to be kosher. This was despite the explicit halachic principle that “the slaughterer should be paid for invalid animals just as he is paid for kosher animals so that he shall have no incentive to be lenient in order to be paid”.⁶⁸ There were rabbis who, as attested by R. Aharon Cohen, “received money from the slaughterers in exchange for their approval,” and who even defended slaughterers from attempts to depose them from their positions.⁶⁹ Sometimes, however, local slaughterers would refuse to submit to the community rabbi’s authority, especially if the rabbi in question tended to be strict.⁷⁰ Practically speaking, this was enough to kindle a dispute, especially if a young inexperienced rabbi was going up against an older, practiced slaughterer.⁷¹ The problem was exacerbated when the rabbi reached the conclusion that the slaughterer should not be trusted at all. This could be due to the latter’s religious or ethical profile, due to the conflict of interests that emerged when the slaughterer also served as the community’s butcher, or due to practical concerns, such as his old age afflicting him with unsteady hands that could not properly render the slaughter valid. Furthermore, the slaughterer was required to periodically present his knives for the rabbi’s inspection and thus was constantly subject to rabbinical oversight.⁷² If the slaughterer’s reliability, skill, or religiosity did not stand up to the rabbi’s scrutiny, the rabbi could forbid eating animals slaugh-

 On an attempt to prevent such a situation, see Hazefirah, June 16, 1879.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, hilkhot shekhita, para. 59; Hamodi’ah, September 6, 1912; Grunwald 1955, 40; Dessler 1999, 57, 222; 2004, 186.  Danzig 1828, 1/9; Valdenberg 1985, para. 22.  Cohen 1902, 13; Shor 1840, 1/12; Hamelitz, June 20, 1887. On the status of the slaughterer in a big community in Poland in the early modern period, see Reiner 2006, 15 – 16.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, hilkhot shekhita, para. 59.  Hamelitz, March 25, 1879; Lichtenstein 1870, III, 5/5; Angel 2001, 14.  Natansohn 1865, I, para. 269; Shik 1880, yoreh de’ah, para. 12; Hamelitz, June 24, 1887; Tsirelson 1906, yoreh de’ah, para. 9; Grunwald 1955, 24– 26, 62, 65, 85 – 88, 109 – 111.

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tered by him, or try to depose the slaughterer and appoint someone else in his stead.⁷³ Besides these concerns, the rabbi could forbid eating the meat of a new slaughterer for economic-political reason. For example, if it was thought that a new slaughterer was an interloper who was negatively affecting the income of other local slaughterers.⁷⁴ Such a concrete violation of the slaughterer’s authority and income, necessarily forced him into conflict with the rabbi, sometimes even when the rabbi was the slaughterer’s relative.⁷⁵ In contemporary sources we find a number of disputes of this sort. For example, in the following account: Dispute has devoured the Jewish communities in Poland. There is almost not one community, in which the rabbi and ritual slaughterer are not at odds. It is not a sincere dispute. Rather each one attempts to vex [the other] and they both try to cut off [each other’s] incomes. The rabbi wishes to depose the slaughterer, and the slaughterer finds the rabbi at fault, and each one finds supporters, using them to fuel the fire. It becomes a raging blaze until no order or proper discipline [remains]. In my town, this fire has blazed for nine years, and the people all fight each other, the supporters of the rabbi and the supporters of the slaughterer.⁷⁶

Refusing to accept the authority of the rabbi when it came to a matter of such central importance essentially represented a sweeping subversion of his authority as the local adjudicator. As one rabbi put it: “if the rabbi, master of the community, has no power against his slaughterers and butchers, what shall be of the Torah!?”⁷⁷ The rabbi’s willingness to yield on this issue could lead to his authority being questioned in other halachic areas, essentially rendering his very position irrelevant. Thus, many rabbis sought to nip the trend in the bud, adjuring slaughters to not practice without their permission,⁷⁸ or by wielding letters of  Hazefirah, February 14, 1882; Levin 1973, 32– 33; Shapira 1892, yoreh de’ah, para. 18.  Hamelitz, August 5, 1891.  Landa 1834, para. 23; Halevanon, December 26, 1879; Hazefirah, September 20, 1881; February 12, 1884; November 18, 1887; Hamelitz, August 17, 1880; December 2, 1887; December 6, 1887; December 11, 1887; August 31, 1891; April 3, 1899; Hayom, November 17, 1887; Trivush 1899; Hamodi’ah, January 5, 1911; Shwarzberg 1934, 6; Grunwald 1921, 51. On a similar phenomenon, in Jewish communities in the Caucasus region, see Chorny 1884, I, 224– 225.  Hamelitz, March 1, 1910. See also Slonimsky 1894, 6; Cohen 1902, 38; Yerushalimsky 1901, kevod hakhamim, para. 12.  Shperber 2002, yoreh de’ah, para. 116; See also Landa 1834, para. 23; Shapira 1902, iv, para. 67; Trunk 1927, orahk haim, para. 6.  See, for instance: “a rabbi asked me about the slaughterers in his community that did not fulfill the oath that they had long sworn, that they would not slaughter without a permit from him. And after he warned them not to slaughter, they did not obey his warning and slaughtered without his permission”, Spector 1889, yoreh de’ah, para. 2.

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support written by the great rabbinic figures of the time.⁷⁹ Sometimes in a single community, a number of slaughterers were active and, as is only natural, competition could lead to outright fights. Some slaughterers would try to invalidate the meat of their competitors and would seek to enlist the rabbi’s view to support their claim.⁸⁰ The rabbi could thus find himself being drawn into someone else’s battle. And in truth there was usually no escape, for whether or not he got involved, someone would be upset.⁸¹ Because they were rooted in personal interests, especially economic interests, conflicts of this sort could be severe and could sometimes spread to the entire community and even beyond, each side enlisting the support of people outside of the community (such as the community’s former rabbis).⁸² In some cases, matters would devolve into attempts to involve government authorities. In other cases, some sought to settle the dispute using arbitration.⁸³ In the extreme cases, the dispute between the supporters of the rabbi and the supporters of the slaughterer could actually split the community in two. The latter could organize themselves as a sub-community, establish their own synagogue,⁸⁴ select their own rabbi, and hire the services of a slaughterer who did not acknowledge the community rabbi’s authority.⁸⁵ This in turn could spark another kind of dispute. The upstart slaughterer could be considered a “trespasser” whose meat, according to most halachic authorities, was to be treated as if it were not kosher.⁸⁶ One famous example of the aforementioned issues took place in Kharkov in the late 1870s. A group of butchers in the city hired their own slaughterer who did not acknowledge the authority of the community rabbi, Avraham Yehezkel Arlozorov.⁸⁷ When the rabbi publicly declared that the meat sold in the store of one of these butchers was not kosher, conflict erupted and even spread beyond the confines of the community. To settle the matter, some of the most fa-

 Hapisgah 1897, I, 7; Hamodi’ah, August 25, 1911; Shahor 1993, 373;  Spector 1889, yoreh de’ah, para. 1.  Hamelitz, July 20, 1880; Dessler 2008, 381.  Hamelitz, November 10, 1887.  Mikhelzon 1924, para. 43; Mikhelzon 1937, para. 25; Grunwald 1955, 132– 155; Bier 2011, 44.  Hamelitz, August 17, 1880.  Hamelitz, February 13, 1890.  Halberstam 1892, yoreh de’ah, I, para. 9; II, para. 8; Yerushalimsky 1901, kevod hakhamim, para. 3; Ozar Hakhayim 1925, 81– 83; Grunwald 1955, 105 – 108.  On this dispute see Hazefirah, September 7, 8, October 2, November 15, 1887; Hamelitz, June 23, August 16, September 2, 30, October 21, 26, 28, November 10, 17, 1887; Knesset Hagedolah 1890, 28 – 32; Yerushalimsky 1901, kevod hakhamim, para. 9; Heawar 1975, 198 – 206; Mundshein 1999; Kosovsky-Shakhor 2003, 165 – 166; for a similar event see Litvak 1900.

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mous rabbinic figures of the time were brought to intervene: Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, Eliyahu Haim Maisel, Elazar Moshe Ish Horowitz and Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, to name a few. The dispute in Kharkov, which due to its extensive coverage in the Jewish press had an influence beyond the community, was not considered an exceptional occurrence in the discourse of the time.⁸⁸ For example, R. Dov Ber Helman of the Jewish Community in Janavičy, wrote: “it is an open secret that in case of a slaughterer, who raises his head in defiance against the rabbi and his rulings, to the point where he will sometimes claim that all the rabbi’s rulings result in people eating non-kosher meat, not any of the local bourgeois seek to blunt him”.⁸⁹ The extent of the phenomenon was so great that R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim, who was involved in the arbitration of a number of disputes among butchers, slaughterers, and rabbis, concluded that the only way to solve the problem was by establishing “enactments regarding the rabbis and slaughterers and their disputes. My suggestion is that the rabbis of every district must watch over this issue, and when such conflict arise, three rabbis should be chosen, and they should arrive in the community in which there is a dispute, be it is to serve as intermediaries or to give the proper ruling and pursue justice”.⁹⁰ However, just like the purchase of rabbinic positions, Rabinowitz-Te’omim’s words were unheeded. Not only did his suggestion impinge upon the interests of various power-players in different communities, there was regardless no central system in place during this time and in this region for ruling, judging or enforcing such an enactment.

4 The Rabbi and the Rabbinical Judges Even if the rabbi developed a reasonable working relationship with the butchers and slaughterers in his community, this was no guarantee for peace. Fights with slaughterers and butchers were rooted in economic interests. However, another potential source of conflict with the community rabbi, in urban or town communities, emanated from a group whose issue with the rabbi was usually religious or halachic in nature – I am referring to the rabbinical judges and local scholars.⁹¹ The roots of this conflict began already during the selection process. As we have discussed, many young Talmud scholars saw rabbinical judge and  The conflict even got satirical descriptions in the Hebrew press, Hayom, June 23, July 18, 1887; Hamelitz, July 26, 1887.  Hamodi’ah, February 2, 16, March 24, 1911.  Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 90.  Shteinshneider 1900, 102– 118.

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local Talmud scholar positions as a springboard to the communal rabbinate. Generally speaking, when they did receive a rabbinic position, it would be in a different community than the one in which they had served as minor religious functionaries. Sometimes, however, older local rabbinical judges and Talmud scholars would serve a community for many years. When it came time to select a community rabbi, they thought themselves to be the natural candidates. It should be noted that these were usually people with much experience ruling on religious matters, and/or presiding over financial disputes, and some of them even were renowned beyond the confines of their community.⁹² However, as discussed in previous chapters, professionalism or years of experience did not necessarily stand one in good stead when it came to being selected as rabbi. Experienced rabbinical judges and Talmud scholars were viewed by the local elites as potential sources of competition, people who had at their disposal not only scholarly renown but also a familiarity with the local political groups and alignments within the community. Because the local elites generally preferred a candidate from another community, local rabbinical judges and Talmud scholars viewed the community rabbi as an obstacle to their aspirations for communal advancement, as well as an affront to their professionalism, whether he was a young inexperienced rabbi or a rabbi who had already served one or two communities, and certainly if he was appointed as the head of the community’s rabbinical court.⁹³ We thus see these scholarly figures constantly questioning community rabbis’ halachic rulings, at times even enlisting the views of rabbis from other communities to reinforce their indignation. Dispute over halachic issues was a normal and accepted part of the world of halachic adjudication. And one could think that such opposition was nothing more than a case of fruitful halachic argument. However, when we find a local rabbi turning to a wellknown halachic authority, such as R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, asking for his opinion on his halachic ruling that does not suit the opinions of “all the learned people in the community”,⁹⁴ one gets the impression that the disputes were not entirely sincere. This blow to the rabbi’s authority could become heated when a young rabbi interfered in issues that were considered the purview of rabbinical judges and local Talmud scholars. Matters were even worse when a young rabbi offered an opinion about complex halachic issues. This phenomenon, which was already evident in the earliest years of the community rabbinate, was seen in the eyes of

 Stampfer 2010, 295 – 298.  Eiger 1969, 96 – 100; Dessler 2013, 471.  Spector 1889, orahk haim, para. 12; Bergman 1998, 57– 58.

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many halachic authorities as unbefitting, to put it lightly. As R. Meir Katzenelenbogen said already in the sixteenth century: “an even greater evil I have seen: that one young rabbi who has just received ordination will praise himself loudly, take a staff and whip in hand, and begin ruling on the laws of divorce, without seeking the advice of other older halachic authorities in the community. They should leave such rulings to those older men who are more experienced, and they should observe and learn until they are older”.⁹⁵ A classic example of a fraught relationship between the rabbi and the communal rabbinical judges was the case of R. Yosef Zachariah Stern in Šiauliai in North Lithuania. In the summer of 1861, after the community rabbinate had been vacant for almost eight years, Stern was selected. A member of a rabbinic family, having previously served for eleven years as the community rabbi of Jasionówka, and having just before his appointment published the first volume of his responsa Zekher Yehosef, Stern was the natural choice and the most qualified candidate.⁹⁶ However, shortly after he was selected, “a great dispute erupted in our city between the rabbi and the rabbinical judges”, a dispute that grew so bad that it split the community in two for several years.⁹⁷ A review of contemporary sources suggests that the catalyst of this dispute was the question of the rabbi’s right to intervene in halachic questions brought before the local rabbinical court. For example, the validity of a divorce certificate, which the rabbinical judges ratified and the rabbi invalidated, as well as questions related to the kashrut of local meat.⁹⁸ In this case, the rabbinical judges claimed: “for while the rabbi’s knowledge may be broad in the sea of Talmud, he is not experienced in practical rulings and will thus render a distorted judgment”. In other words, while the rabbi’s theoretical knowledge was not in question, they claimed that he should refrain from interfering in questions under the purview of the local court. While this may have made sense in another context, it was an odd claim to make about Stern. Stern had years of experience giving halachic rulings with communal significance before arriving in Šiauliai. His published responsa were evidence of this. Such disputes were not a rare occurrence in Jewish communities, and usually the sides would find a modus vivendi that allowed the rabbinic institution to continue to function properly. In this case, however, not only did neither side

 Isserlesh 1883, para. 55. See also Kevod hakhamim ateret paz 1989, 210 – 217.  On the publication of rabbinical literature as an auxiliary factor in accepting a position as a rabbi, see Yaffe 1900, introduction; Kviat 1899, 9; Kupritz 1899, haskamat harabbanim; Lubetzky 1912, haskamat hage’onim.  Hakarmel, March 13, 1870; Hamelitz, May 30, 1870; Halevanon, July 23, 1872.  Hakarmel, February 23, 1867; Hamelitz, December 6, 1869; May 30, 1870; Halevanon, January 31, 1870.

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back down, but all attempts to resolve the dispute – including attempts at arbitration led by famous rabbinic figures, costing the community hundreds of rubles – amounted to nothing. Moreover, if this was not enough, in 1870 Stern tried to depose one of the local slaughterers, rekindling and exacerbating the dispute. Further attempts by the rabbinical arbiters to put an end to the controversy yielded no results.⁹⁹ While intense disputes and attempts to undermine the authority of the local rabbinic court were not unheard of in Šiauliai,¹⁰⁰ a second look at the sources may provide a specific reason for the initial eruption of the conflict as well as its protracted duration. The three rabbinical judges who presided over the rabbinic court at the time, were Eliezer Lunz (1812– 1892), who had served previously for sixteen years as the rabbi of Tytuvėnai, and began to serve as a rabbinical judge in Šiauliai in 1851; Haim Rabinowitz (1831– 1876), son of Šiauliai’s previous rabbi and author of the work Hafla’ah Shebearakhin; and Michael Daitch (1810 – 1884) who had previously served as the rabbi of Laižuva and Šiaulėnai, and had served as rabbinical judge in Šiauliai since 1854. Daitch was close to the previous community rabbi, and it seems that the latter had even helped him receive this position in the first place.¹⁰¹ As one can see, two of the three rabbinical judges were twenty or so years older than Stern. The third was the son of the previous rabbi; presumably he thought he should have been chosen, not Stern. While we do not know if the first two rabbinical judges applied for the rabbinic vacancy, we know that Michael Daitch, who served in between rabbinic tenures as the head of the local rabbinical court,¹⁰² considered himself a natural successor. Thus, Daitch’s hostility towards Yosef Zechariah Stern went beyond the internal communal and familial discourse. A review of Daitch’s correspondence with contemporary rabbis allows us to reconstruct the challenges Stern faced in his first years serving as rabbi in Šiauliai. During the aforementioned dispute, revolving around the validity of a divorce certificate that was ratified by the rabbinical court of Šiauliai, Daitch tried to enlist the support of other well-known rabbis. In 1864, he turned to Shlomo Kluger of Berezhany, one of the most important halachic authorities of the time.¹⁰³ In an addendum to Kluger’s responsum, which

 Ibid.  Rabinowitz 1925, para. 47.  Rabinowitz 1925, para. 30; Kagan 1990, 601. For a rabbi in a small community who received a position of a rabbinical judge in a large community, see Hamodi’ah, September 11, 1912; Tsirelson 1932, para. 109; Sherman 1996, 107.  Daitch 1904, para. 5.  Ibid, para. 3. On Kluger see Gertner 2013, 208 – 239. It is reasonable to assume that this argument (in reverse) was the basis for a description of the confrontation between Stern and the rab-

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unambiguously supported Daitch’s stance, he wrote: “the author of Zekher Yehosef (i. e. Stern) changed the way the name Dov is traditionally written in a divorce certificate, and I said to him it is not good that he should innovate in order to bask in the glory of his innovations. Why should he deviate from the rest of people and trust in his own wisdom when his innovative perspective is [actually] nothing?” This harsh and dismissive attitude towards Šiauliai’s rabbi, clearly shows us Daitch’s opinion of the “master of the city”. This was also echoed in a responsum from 1864, in which Daitch claimed: “Rabbi Yosef Zekhariah in his hubris and pride believes himself powerful enough to challenge even our rabbi Eliyahu of Vilna!”¹⁰⁴ In light of this, it is not particularly surprising that at the bottom of some of his letters and responsa, written during Stern’s tenure, Daitch styles himself “mara de’atra”.¹⁰⁵ Daitch’s anger and indignation were not simply because he had failed to “win” the rabbinic throne. That Stern was relatively young, was willing to independently rule halacha according to his own considerations, as was willing to contest the opinions of three experienced rabbinical judges certainly played a part. This sentiment is expressed well in a note the Daitch added, many years later, to a responsum he authored in 1837, when he was 27, during his first tenure as a community rabbi: This matter I wrote in my young age, when I first came to reside in the city of Laižuva, a small town with few people and a lack of books. And because I was still young, I crawled and feared to stand up for my opinion and to establish the correct law according to the determination of my young mind. Therefore, I proposed the matter before the three pillars of halachic adjudication upon whom I relied, to know what the rabbinical judges in Israel should do, and how they truly ruled about a matter that is so common in the great towns.¹⁰⁶

By emphasizing how Daitch himself behaved when he was young, he clearly criticized Stern, expected to be equally humble. As time passed, not only did the controversy grow from a small squabble between the community’s rabbinical judges and rabbi into a conflict of communal proportions, the local Russian authorities even tried to get involved – though

binical judges on the question of how to write names in the divorce certificate, in the poem “Kutzo shel yod”, written by Yehuda Leib Gordon, who lived in Šiauliai during those years.  Daitch 1904, para. 8.  Ibid, para. 6 – 9. Sometimes this title was attached to the rabbi of the community, even though he did not receive an official appointment. See Gershony 1975, 94.  Daitch 1904, 20.

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with no more luck than anybody else.¹⁰⁷ Furthermore, the controversy made its way onto pages of the Hebrew press of the time, seemingly unrelated to public accusation Daitch faced of embezzling funds the community set aside for orphans.¹⁰⁸ Because Daitch enjoyed the wide support of the Jewish community in Šiauliai, although Stern remained the community’s official rabbi, in practice, he was completely marginalized from public life.¹⁰⁹ True, not every dispute between community rabbis and local rabbinical judges led to an actual split in the community as took place in Šiauliai. Nevertheless, the tension, and often hostility, between the two groups was a common and well-known issue.¹¹⁰ At the center of these disputes and conflicts with rabbinical judges (and sometimes morei tzedek as well) stood the very concept of the mara de’atra – “master of the community,” and it was subjected to the inspection of public opinion.¹¹¹ In theory, the power of the “master of the community” was relevant only to religious matters. However, as most residents of the community were not learned enough to truly understand the subtle differences lying at the basis of scholastic disputes, the resolute stance of local Talmud scholars against the ruling of the community rabbi could be viewed as an attempt to undermine his status and authority on a far deeper level. In this context, it bears mentioning that the dispute between rabbi and rabbinical judges had further repercussions for the life of the community rabbi. As mentioned, the rabbi often had trouble finding companionship in the community; it was hard to find someone with whom he could discuss canonic texts, such as the Talmud. The only people who were actually capable of engaging him in this kind of discourse were the rabbinical judges and local Talmud scholars. The conflict with people who should have been his most natural companions, left the rabbi intellectually, and even socially, isolated – just one more problem with which he had to contend.

 Hamelitz, October 31, 1870. An echo of these events is seen in the letter of R. Mordekhai Gimpel Yaffe, Stern’s father-in-law, Yaffe collection, letter from September 10, 1876.  Halevanon, June 11, July 9, 1873. A close reading of this text indicates that the supporters of Daitch do not refute this claim, but rather complain that the editor of the paper gave room for the claims of one side only without hearing the other side. The publisher explains that the claims against Daitch have already been published in the Hebrew press, and that “we published the orphan’s complaint for the third time in the hope that Daitch would justify himself to public opinion,”, but Deutsch did not bother to do so.  Halevanon, July 17, 1872; Zalkin 2006, Social Status.  See, for instance, Protocol 1929, 56; Klausner 1942, 11, 77; Abrahams 1954, 43; Shapira 2007, 31.  Burstein 1927, 5.

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The picture that arises from all these accounts, i. e., a series of challenges that were foisted upon the community rabbi shortly after his appointment, is a very problematic one to say the least. In practice, it seems, that for any rabbi who wished to stand up for his principles and views, especially his conception of the role of the community rabbi, conflict with one (or all of) the three mainstays of the community – the economic, political and intellectual – was inevitable.¹¹²

5 The Rabbi and the “People” It was not only the elites, who sought to curb the rabbi’s authority. The middle, and even lower classes also had an axe to grind. Despite the attempts of rabbis to cast themselves as spiritual leaders, these social classes saw the rabbi as a Torah scholar, an expert at resolving halachic issues, primarily those pertaining to the proper way of daily behavior. However, and in contrast to trends in the Hasidic world of the time, when it came to wider issues, such as the approach to education, moral dilemmas, or public behavior and conduct, many members of the community gave little weight to the rabbi’s view; they seldom even consulted his opinion. The rabbis were well aware of this. As one put it: When some matter of halacha eludes the members of the community, they send their servants to seek our opinion. The Torah teachers and the local scholars if they are faced by some difficulty in the meaning of the Talmud and its commentaries, they will have scholastic conversations with us to show-off their trenchant skills and vast knowledge. However, the bourgeois will not come to us to learn about education or measures for bettering society. And who shall listen to us if we urge them to do charitable deeds, to raise funds to improve the local education system and to see to the needs of the poor and all such similar matters that are based on knowing the ways of the world and require financial expenditure?¹¹³

During those years the region suffered from an economic crisis. Some, therefore, even claimed that the community rabbinate was an unnecessary burden on dwindling community funds. In the words of contemporaries, especially those suffering the most from the economic hardship, the rabbi is “another idle

 Hamelitz, September 25, 1896; Tsirelson 1897, 14.  Hakarmel, March 2, 1870. See also Hakarmel, May 21, 1868; Hazefirah, August 29, 1877; September 24, 1889; Hamagid, February 14, 1901; Lifshitz 1901, 10; Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913. To a similar reality that characterized the community rabbinate in the United States in the second half of the twentieth century, see Angel 2001, 11.

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mouth to feed”.¹¹⁴ While these social strata lacked the sheer coercive power of the traditional elites, when they thought that the rabbi had overstepped his authority, they had a number of other methods at their disposal – from not accepting his authority, to, in exceptional cases, the exercise of verbal and even physical violence.¹¹⁵ The curbing of the rabbi’s authority – or to put it differently, his complete dependence on the members of his community – was not limited to organizational or technical factors. Sometimes the rabbi had to defend himself against a public smear campaign;¹¹⁶ to bend his opinion on public matters to better fit the views of “that terrifying many headed beast that is called ‘the masses’”.¹¹⁷ This was regardless of whether or not a particular issue had the support of his rabbinic colleagues in adjacent towns or neighborhoods or even the support of the rabbinic leaders of the time.¹¹⁸ To make matters worse, some rabbis were forced to give up on their authority even in matters pertaining to prayer and the synagogue.¹¹⁹ In other cases, the rabbi saw moral wrongdoings taking place right before his eyes but had no choice but to look the other way and swallow his words. As Yekhiel Mikhl Pinnes, who was intimately familiar with the community rabbinate, put it: “For the towns that appoint for themselves a rabbi, might as well have made a[n explicit] condition of his employment that he listen to wrongdoing yet be silent, see corruption and be still, all for the sake of peace”.¹²⁰ While the rabbi was usually considered the local halachic authority, there were even cases where he had to deal with attempts of force upon him another approach.¹²¹ This was not just in small towns, but even in larger communities with famous and prestigious rabbis who enjoyed generous salaries. This is because “their entire will and yearning to appoint a great person as the rabbi of their community is so they can bask in the glory of the greatness that resides in their midst. It is not to benefit from his leadership and his overflowing moral power, his greatness in Torah, or his just ways”.¹²² In this context, it is worth mentioning that the involvement of members of the middle and lower

 Hamodi’ah, April 3, 1914.  Hamelitz, August 5, 1891; May 25, October 17, 1899; Litvak 1900, 7; Graubart 1930, 69. To a similar phenomenon in local non-Jewish society, see Belliustin 1985, 136.  Hazefirah, September 17, 1878.  Hamelitz, April 19, 1886.  Hamelitz, September 20, 1889; December 4, 1903.  Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 91.  Halevanon, August 9, 1876; See also Reines 1880, 19; Hamagid, January 31, 1905.  Margaliot 1786, 42; Hamelitz, November 30, 1883.  Hamelitz, March 14, 1884.

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classes in the affairs of the community rabbi was part of a wider trend. Alexander Zederbaum, editor of Hamelitz, who was at home with the discourse of the time put it as follows: “over the last twenty years (1860 – 1880), our eyes have seen the emergence of a new [phenomenon] among Russian Jewry: public opinion. It has its advocates and its dissidents who [in periodicals] publicly weigh in using their intellect and logic on everything they deem important”.¹²³ Thus, as the political power of the middle – and even lower – classes rose, especially in the second half of the nineteenth century, so they became more actively involved in the rabbinate. “Can such a rabbi”, R. Avraham Zeev Bernstein asked, “launch a campaign on behalf of the honor of religion, to conquer the young ones, to teach them to love the Torah and fear heaven and demand that they keep the practical commandments – after all his flattery and submissiveness, after dissembling, bowing, and prostrating before them?”¹²⁴ Because of this trend, the rabbinic world began to be filled with a growing sense of crisis. Some voiced the view that the selection process had to be reevaluated, and that the selection body be comprised only of the “elite of the city, the men of Torah and virtue”.¹²⁵ The average Jew would usually not publicly challenge the deeds of powerful community figures; the repercussions were not worth it. Therefore, the rabbi, who was a far easier target, became the object of their dissatisfaction. He was considered culpable not only because he was seen as someone who cooperated with an immoral and unjust system, but also because he benefited as a result. Sometimes this could lead to a complete split between the rabbi and large swathes of the community, or at least its representatives.¹²⁶ In such conflicts, the rabbi generally lacked the upper hand. “He trembles and quakes with fear from the beadle and butcher. He is like a doormat to the lowliest of tailors,” as Yitzhak Leibush Peretz put it.¹²⁷ An echo of the deep sense of humiliation experienced by community rabbi of the time arises from the following passage written by R. Avraham Zakheim: Every strongman or arrogant person can damage the rabbi and harm his livelihood. For we see in the communities of our land, both big and small, that rabbis are sitting on pins and needles because of certain individuals who oppose them. [It could be because] the rabbi did something that they did not like, whether it be a private matter or something public, or [the

  gust   

Hamelitz, January 7, 1886. Hamodi’ah, July 22, 1910. See also Knesset Hagedolah 1890, 18 – 19; Hamelitz, March 27, Au5, 1891. Cohen 1902, 11. Hamelitz, September 12, 1868; Lichtenstein 1960, 52; Tzinovitz 1962; Hirshler 2008. 422– 423. Peretz 1961, VIII, 55. See also Druyanov 1956, I, 149.

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person in question] did not win a rabbinic court case presided over by the rabbi, or [some other matter deriving from] jealousy, pride, and competition. For this reason, rabbis are afraid to involve themselves in public matters, for it is impossible to please everyone. The rabbi cannot simply refuse to listen to what they have to say or ignore what they do, for his material circumstances are uncertain; he depends on them and fears them more than is befitting. If the rabbi wishes to bring some order to the education [system] or the teachers, if he wishes that not everyone who calls himself a teacher be so, and that not every boor and impoverished shop-owner with little precise or clear knowledge of the subject-matter should teach students, especially if they know nothing whatsoever about education or pedagogy … What shall the rabbi do if the candidate for teacher is someone’s relative and if that someone is powerful and rich? Will they forgive the rabbi for curtailing his income? Furthermore, the rabbi generally lacks spiritual or material influence to force the students and their parents to heed his voice. All of this is like naught compared to the many troubles and evils that will erupt and challenge the rabbi if he has the gall to try saving the oppressed from his oppressors (who are usually powerful strong men). For when a man harms one of [these oppressors] it is [considered] a “Mitzvah” to persecute and oppress him as much as possible, and in their communities, they have great power to harm others, especially the rabbi. There are many more things of this type related to public matters as we see in the communities of Israel and as is known to all.¹²⁸

To a great extent it encapsulates the state of the community rabbinate in Eastern Europe during the second half of the nineteenth century. The accepted practice for settling these kinds of disputes was an arbitration council usually comprised of rabbis serving in neighboring cities.¹²⁹ However, in many cases the effectiveness of such a body was very limited, especially because the interested parties involved in these disputes tended not to accept any compromise that would require them to relinquish their power or give up on economic profit. For this reason, R. Avraham Zakheim argued, If only the rabbis would be wise and abandon private, small matters, and band together to help each other, to raise up and strengthen the circumstance of the rabbis and the rabbinate, to stand beside a persecuted rabbi at no cost, to come to his community and rebuke his persecutors as much as possible, and to restore peace and order – then they could free themselves from the difficult situation in which they currently find themselves.¹³⁰

 Zakheim 1904, 86; For a similar situation of the rural priest in Russia, see Freeze 1983, 61.  Hamelitz, July 30, 1861; January 25, 1884; September 8, 1889; December 13, 1898; Halevanon, October 2, 1872; October 25, 1878; Hazefirah, May 25, 1897; Stern 1898, orahk haim, para. 17; Frumkin 1900, 38 – 39; Zalmanovitch 1902, 28 – 29; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27.  Zakheim 1904, 89 – 90. For a similar discourse about the priesthood in Russia in the eighteenth century, see Freeze 1977, 184.

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This idea, as expected, never came to fruition – because it would require the permission of the government, which as we have seen did not recognize the spiritual rabbi regardless, and also because the rabbinic world of that time found it difficult to engage in any kind of public activity that required widespread cooperation. Likewise, the proposal discussed in 1913 at the founding assembly of the Association of Rabbis in Poland – to create a super-rabbinical body entrusted with settling disputes between rabbis and their communities – was never realized. In spite of everything said, it behooves us to ask why the concept of “honor of Torah,” embodied and represented by the figure of the community rabbi, had no meaning in the minds of many contemporaries? While it is tempting to attribute the lack of respect to processes of secularization that began to enter into the Jewish societies in this region beginning in the late nineteenth century, such a theory fails to stand up to historical criticism. As we have seen above, attempts to curtail the community rabbi’s authority, sometimes reaching the point of unapologetic derision or effrontery, were quite common even in earlier periods. Therefore, because this was a society in which a religious ethos played such a central role in the minds and hearts of the population, the answer to this question must be sought, at least in part, in the figure of the rabbi himself. As described in the first part of this book, two interrelated processes during the nineteenth century significantly contributed to the declining esteem for the community rabbinate: the surfeit of unqualified students with ordination, and the intense competition over open rabbinic positions.¹³¹ Thus, while R. Yaacov David Vilovsky could claim that “the rabbis in large cities and towns were certainly great in Torah, and when a large community wished to select a rabbi, they could be very picky,” he also alluded to a pervasive problem, when he contrasted this to “the rabbis in small towns who are not all particularly learned or talented in Torah study”.¹³² Furthermore, in light of the corrupt selection process that preceded the rabbi’s appointment, some claimed: “the money spent in exchange for the rabbinate is the main reason for the lowliness of Torah in our land”.¹³³ In other words, corruption meant that a rabbi selected could not be guaranteed to have a high scholarly or moral profile. The less suitable candidates usually found a place in rural communities or small towns.¹³⁴ Naturally, in such cases (which were certainly not rare), people would before long realize what  Yaacov Lifshitz attributed this reality, as usual, to the “new rabbis”, see Lifshitz 1884, 61; Hamodi’ah, September 7, 1911.  Vilovsky 1908, introduction. See also, Yaffe, collection, letter from December 17, 1886.  Cohen 1902, 40.  Halevanon, August 16, 1876; Ovtsinsky 1908, 71.

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kind of rabbi they had, for example when it came to his ability to rule on halachic issues.¹³⁵ This determined the attitude of rural and town Jewry to the rabbi, allowing them to overcome the lofty conception of the rabbi as “the master of the community”. So prominent was this phenomenon, that R. Yehuda Leib Graubart publicly denounced it in unambiguous terms: “there are fools that do not see the world as it really is and do not realize the scorn and ridicule that is rained down upon them, and they deliver ridiculous sermons and praise themselves thinking that everyone enjoys [hearing] their fantasies and words”.¹³⁶ And indeed, some of those who had to listen to such rabbis could actually justify a derisive attitude by noting the critiques emerging from the rabbinic world itself; those unsuited for rabbinic ordination were not much appreciated in rabbinic circles either. As R. Haim Halberstam put it in one of his responsa: “pay no heed to the rabbis of towns who prattle and make noise but do not understand the matter”.¹³⁷ This, it seems, is the context for Yaacov Lifshitz’s words written in the early 1870s: While there may indeed be found in the medium and small towns great rabbis and sages, who are acquainted with the needs of the era and know how to weigh their words carefully and with justice, what can they do if in our time the Torah is on the verge of collapse, and a rabbi who was less fortunate, and did not merit to be appointed in a famous or prominent community, will not muster the confidence to stand up and reveal his true opinion, to act as an “authority”?¹³⁸

When the typical community rabbi looked around him, he could not help but notice that the rabbis appointed by the Hassidim, or the head of Yeshiva, were treated very differently; they enjoyed a status that at its core was far different from their own, and they enjoyed no small amount of authority and influence. These two groups of rabbis benefited from their special status, and although each one derived it from a different source, they had similar public profiles – they were accorded almost limitless authority over halachic adjudication in their communities, and were truly treated as spiritual and moral authorities. This was a consequence of the fact that their statuses did not depend on a local communal institution. They rather drew their authority from the scholarly/spiritual-religious powers ascribed to them by their students and followers. Therefore, as Mendel Piekarz has shown, there was a large gap between the

 Hamelitz, November 19, 1896; Levin 1900, 4; Kevod hakhamim ateret paz 1989,  Graubart 1930, 68.  Halberstam 1892, hoshen mishpat, para. 25.  Halevanon, August 23, 1872. To the image of the community rabbi at the beginning of the twentieth century, see Hazman, March 5, 1903.

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self-conception of members of the traditional rabbinate and the leaders of Hasidic courts.¹³⁹ This reality certainly did not contribute to the self-conception of the community rabbi as a leader; it certainly detracted from his motivation to overcome the challenges that stood before him. Therefore, as Yitzhak Leibush Peretz wrote with no small amount of cynicism: “the rabbi’s authority extends to nothing but the questions of purity of women and the gizzards of chickens”.¹⁴⁰ When a rabbi realized he had been embroiled in a severe conflict with members of his community, he essentially had two options. One was to leave his position and to search for a new position elsewhere. The problem was, as mentioned above, that there was a low supply of open rabbinic positions; few rabbis jumped at the prospect of resuming the job-search. The other option, usually the preferable one, was to make every effort to hold onto his position within the community, even at the price of navigating a protracted dispute with large swathes of his community.¹⁴¹ This, for example is precisely what did Avraham Yehoshua Heschel, the rabbi of Pakruojus in Lithuania, when he found himself in 1890s embroiled in conflict with the majority of his community – he held fast and refused to relinquish his position.¹⁴² It seems that the following words summarize in a concise manner the complexity of the role of the community rabbi: The clergyman, when he chooses to be the representative of his faith, is often seen by his constituency as the embodiment of love, and he is expected to give more love than he may get. Indeed, what he gets may often be hostility, disguised and otherwise.¹⁴³

 Piekarz 1999, 15 – 59.  Peretz 1961, 54.  On the implications of the psychological aspect that accompanied this conflict on the rabbi’s decision, see Braude 1960, 49 – 51.  Hazefirah, May 25, 1897. See also Halevanon, September 4, 1872.  Bloom 1971, 64.

Chapter 7 The Rabbi and His Family 1 “Poverty is Virtue for a Rabbi” As discussed above, during negotiations over the writ of rabbinic appointment, the rabbi’s salary was one of the issues addressed. Communities provided rabbis a variety of sources of income, both direct and otherwise. A review of the incomes of most community rabbis from this period shows that rabbis of small and medium communities tended to earn salaries that equaled those of middle-class families. Over the course of the nineteenth century, the nominal wages of rabbis rose consistently, but without keeping pace with the rising cost of living. To get an idea of the community rabbi’s real wages, it is important to examine the data presented in the first part of our book, which relates to the issue of inflation. Over the course of the nineteenth century, the Russian Empire suffered a chronic deficit that it covered by printing massive amounts of paper money. This resulted in steep devaluation of the Russian ruble,¹ and thus, real wages lagged behind the rise in basic costs of living (housing, heating, food, and clothing).² This lag was only exacerbated in the 1850s and 1860s when the Russian banking system was beset by a disastrous financial crisis.³ While these circumstances can account in part for the numerous complaints about the steady decline in the financial wellbeing of community rabbis, it should be borne in mind that they were no worse off than other members of their society. Some rabbis actually made a very reasonable living – usually those who had other sources of income at their disposal, such as a business managed by themselves or by their family members. Nevertheless, one of the oft-discussed issues in the nineteenth century (both in internal rabbinic discourse and public discourse) was the difficult financial straits that beset more than a few community rabbis. This was certainly not a new phenomenon; many accounts attest to similar difficulties in earlier periods.⁴ However, from the beginning of the nineteenth century, a significant decline is evident. For example, in a petition published in Vilna in 1823, the

 Ukhov 2003.  Mironov 2010, 57. On the effect of inflation on the income level of the rural clergy, see Freeze 1983, 56.  Hoch 1991.  Landa 1859, orahk haim, para. 15; Feinberg 1909, introduction; Epstein 1928, I, 748; III, 1649; Weitz 1938, 39 – 40; Eiger 1969, 119 – 120; Tal 2010, 108. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-009

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local rabbinic scholars complained of financial woes so dire that “their wages alone are not enough to cover even the most basic expenses, and they have already gone into significant debt”.⁵ This difficulty was showcased in the newspapers of the time. As described by Mikha Yosef Berdichevsky: “I am the son of a rabbi who was the son of a rabbi; how can I see their poverty and lack? Most rabbis are impoverished paupers and are as good as dead”.⁶ In this context, it bears noting the great similarity between rabbis, especially those served in rural areas, and priests of the Russian Orthodox church, who suffered analogous financial hardships.⁷ What caused these financial woes? Sometimes, it is true, objective financial difficulties were to blame. Many Jews in the Pale of Settlement suffered during the financial crises of this period – not just the rabbis. Recessions had a direct impact on the funds available to the community, and small communities were particularly hard pressed to come up with money during such times.⁸ Thus, for example, during an economic crisis in the Russian Empire in the 1890s, we find a concomitant rise in complaints about delayed payment of community rabbis. Sources also point to cases in which a second or third rabbi was appointed in the community. Sometimes supporters would set aside comparable community funds for this second rabbi, leading to an immediate and significant drop in the income of the first.⁹ Likewise, disputes between the community members and the rabbi, which could have a direct impact on his income, were exacerbated as the masses became more heavily involved in public life, including the selection process.¹⁰ For example, if an individual was unhappy about the rabbi’s halachic or judicial ruling, he could retaliate by trying to delay payment of the rabbi’s salary.¹¹ It seems, however, that another element contributing to the rabbi’s financial straits was the specific payment system adopted by Jewish communities – a system which ideally should have guaranteed the rabbi’s financial wellbeing but

 Zalkin 2001, 6.  Hamagid, August 23, 1888. See also Halevanon, March 25, 1874; Hazefirah, February 20, 1880; Hamelitz, July 14, 1884; January 24, 1899; Hayom, December 9, 1886; Kneset Hagedolah 1890, 18 – 19; Yagdil Torah 1910, 16 – 18; Heint, January 6, 1927; Schwarz 1937, 41; Levitats 1981, 90; Kotik 1989, 139, 229; Breuer 1991, 209; Dessler 2008, 516.  Freeze 1977, 117; idem, 1983, 55 – 56; Himka 1979, 38; Balkelis 2010.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, II, para. 73; Hayom, December 5, 1886; Hamelitz, November 28, 1882; February 8, 1883; April 13, 1883; January 14, 1890; Hazefirah, April 29, 1886; Cohen 1901, 19; Perles 1907, 41; Heilperin 1952, 234.  Hamelitz, July 10, 1885; August 28, 1885; April 16, 1891.  Reines 1880, 19.  Hamelitz, November 19, 1896; Zakheim 1904, II, 87.

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which in practice was clunky, inefficient and exceedingly problematic. The root of the problem according to most community rabbis was that “they are appointed not by the government but by the people. Therefore, their incomes come from unreliable sources”.¹² To highlight this point, some noted the difference between themselves and the rabbis serving in Congress Poland. There, unlike in the Pale of Settlement, there was no dual rabbinate, no “spiritual rabbi” and “crown rabbi”.¹³ The rabbi in Congress Poland enjoyed an official, recognized status in every sense of the word. As Haim Braverman wrote at the beginning of the 1890s: “the salaries of the rabbis of Poland are not from yeast or candles taxes; [the rabbis] do not depend on the opinion of the masses and are not required to bow their heads to every despised and rejected person. Most rabbis in Poland live comfortably, with little difficulty, and lack almost nothing”.¹⁴ The unofficial status of the spiritual rabbi in the Pale of Settlement had a concrete influence on his salary. Since he was not recognized by law, and had no formal status, he could not be paid directly by community funds.¹⁵ To bypass this bureaucratic obstacle, communities developed a system by which the rabbi’s salary was paid indirectly. For example, various communities granted the rabbi’s family a monopoly on the sale of basic items such as candles, salt, and yeast.¹⁶ In another popular model, the rabbi’s salary was paid by community-taxes levied on basic items such as meat, yeast, salt, oil, alcohol and candles.¹⁷ The right to sell these items, as well as the permit to provide public services (such as running the bath-house) were leased to those who won tenders issued for this purpose. Whoever won the tender would collect the tax associated with the sale of these products. In the terminology of the time, these were called “leasers of the meat tax”, “leasers of the candle tax”, etc. The tenders stipulated that part of the sum collected would not be transferred to the community coffers but rather directly to the rabbi. This not only provided an economic basis for maintaining a spiritual rabbi, it also allowed a certain amount of flexibility in using the community budget, which was controlled, at least partially, by the government.¹⁸

 Hamelitz, February 21, 1891.  For a discussion of the division of labor between the two rabbis, see Halevanon, May 11, 1881; Freeze 2002; Tal 2011, 261– 265.  Hamelitz, May 2, 1891. See also Slonimsky 1894, 6; Levin 2016, 360.  Lifshitz 1884, 38; Hamelitz, October 3, 1884; May 31, 1888; February 27, 1891; Hayom, December 5, 1886.  See, for instance, Grade 1982, 17.  Hayom, March 30, 1886; Herschberg 1949, II, 150; Levin 1973, 26.  Levin 2016, 353 – 357.

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This arrangement was in theory supposed to assure the spiritual rabbi a stable income. However, in practice things were far less ideal. Sometimes objective issues were at fault, such as when the payment method designated – for example a monopoly on the leasing of certain products – was simply not enough to support a rabbinic family.¹⁹ Likewise, the rabbi’s salary could suffer if it was he, who personally leased a certain tax. This could sometimes lead to direct competition with a wealthy individual interested in leasing the same tax.²⁰ However, a review of contemporary sources reveals that the problem was not necessarily a low salary or a lack of resources, but rather the sometimes-significant gap between the money the rabbi was promised, and the money he actually received.²¹ Thus, for example, a common claim appearing in the public discourse of the time was that the rabbi’s salary would be withheld for weeks, months, and sometimes even longer.²² In rare cases, the rabbi’s salary was discontinued altogether, as befell rabbi Shlomo Zalman Traub, the rabbi of the Jewish community of Kėdainiai.²³ It should be noted that this phenomenon was not unknown in earlier periods and the issue was even addressed explicitly in certain community ordinances.²⁴ However, due to the sheer number of accounts discussing the issue in our period, there is no doubt that things became drastically worse during the nineteenth century. The prevalence of this phenomenon, even in large communities such as Ekaterinoslav, can be seen from the following article, published by Avraham Harkavy in Hamelitz in the 1880s: According to the prevailing law, the salaries of rabbis come from the coffers of charity, an unreliable well of sustenance. For if the rabbi does not find favor in the eyes of one of the appointees, they will cut off his salary, as already happened to the rabbi of [this] city, who for many years received his salary from the study hall’s funds. But now, [new] beadles have arisen; they cut off his salary as soon as they assumed their positions, and his food was provided only with great difficulty by the [taxes collected by the] slaughterers.²⁵

 Hamelitz, May 15, 1885; February 19, 1889; March 6, 1891; Hazefirah, April 19, 1896; Hamodi’ah, May 2, 1912.  Hamelitz, July 30, 1879.  Hayom, June 4, 1886; Hamelitz, June 17, 1891; Burstein 1927, 4; Klausner 1942, 81; RabinowitzTe’omim 1984, 65; Heitner 2006, 69.  Hazefirah, February 25, 1879; April 27, 1880; May 11, 1886; April 19, 1896; June 19, 1896; Ivri Anokhy, January 23, 1880; Hamelitz, February 8, 1883; May 14, 1883; July 9, 1886; February 13, 1891; January 26, 1892; February 16, 1896; Hamagid, May 15, 1884; Epstein 1928, III, 1186; Schwarz 1937, 38 – 39; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 62.  Hamelitz, October 27, 1896. See also ibid, April 13, 1883; July 20, 1883; July 9, 1886; September 28, 1886; Hazefirah, February 4, 1879; July 6, 1880; March 14, 1892; Cohen 1901, 19.  Heilperin 1952, 194.  Hamelitz, May 19, 1888; Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913.

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However, the aforementioned explanation for the difficult financial circumstances of community rabbis does not exempt us from asking the follow-up question: why did the funds allocated for the rabbi’s salary not reach him? Again, objective challenges were certainly an issue. For example, when the government placed restrictions on how the money raised from the meat tax could be used;²⁶ when the community suffered a deficit;²⁷ or when the bathhouse, which had served as a source of the rabbi’s income, collapsed.²⁸ In such cases, attempts, not always successful, were made to shift the onus of the rabbi’s salary to other tax-leasers. This process could take some time and, in the short term, could take a significant toll on the rabbi’s salary. It bears mentioning that sometimes payments were not discontinued due to a direct confrontation between the rabbi and community members. Sometimes disputes between different figures in the community, even those not directly related to the rabbi himself, were responsible. For example, a protracted conflict over the taxes that leasers were required to transfer to the community or a dispute between the meat-tax leaser and community bodies.²⁹ It should be recalled that the meat tax was a set rate based on the amount of meat purchased, regardless of the financial power of the buyer. It is only natural that such a taxation system, which was essentially regressive, and which required low-income households to pay a relatively larger percentage of their income than those better off, could financially harm the middle and lower classes – especially during an economic crisis or a recession. This led to growing discontentment among the weaker classes, especially as Jewish society in the nineteenth century began to be exposed to socialist ideologies. Those belonging to lower socio-economic demographics felt that the rabbi was partly (or even primarily) responsible for the financial burden they were forced to bear. The significance of this problem was noted by R. Naftali Freind, who served the community of Różan: The rabbi spills his blood like water until he merits seeing his meager salary. He is the target of every brazen-person’s arrow. How can we expect great things from [these rabbis] suffering a decline in their livelihood? How can we expect them to stand at their posts and wage war against sinners? If there is no flour, there is no Torah!³⁰

 Hamelitz, May 3, 1881; February 10, 1890; Hazefirah, March 14, 1892; Hamodi’ah, April 3, 1914.  Hamelitz, April 5, 1888; January 14, 1890; June 17, 1891.  Hazefirah, December 22, 1881; September 12, 1882; Hayom, March 30, 1886.  Hamelitz, April 26, 1881; December 27, 1887; December 13, 1903; Hazefirah, July 14, 1886; Zalkin 2002, hakatzavim.  Kol Yaacov, June 25, 1908. See also Lifshitz 1901, 10.

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These grumblings were sometimes translated into action. Local entrepreneurs both Jews and non-Jews (who were not subject to the community’s authority), competed with Jewish tax-leasers by lowering prices. This could lead to drastic drop in the income of the latter, thereby impeding their ability to keep the terms of their tender agreement and to transfer to the rabbi the funds allotted to him.³¹ Another issue could be growing public pressure to lower tax rates. Regardless of the specifics, such uncertain circumstances affected the income of Jewish tax-leasers, which in turn influenced the income of the rabbi – and to make matters worse, some locals simply ignored the rabbi’s exclusive right to sell certain products, undercutting him by offering prices that are more competitive.³² In most cases, however, the root of the problem lay elsewhere. As mentioned, in many cases, the rabbi found himself between those with whom he had cordial and proper relations and those who opposed him and his actions. The latter tirelessly looked for ways to prevent the rabbi from garnering any independent power. One common and relatively easy strategy for attaining this end was to assail the rabbi’s salary.³³ For example, despite their formal agreement,³⁴ many tax-leasers did everything in their power to avoid paying the rabbi the required amount, usually in a bid to raise their own profits.³⁵ A well-known example relates to the economic hardships of the rabbi of the Jewish community of Panevėžys. In this case, it had been agreed that the rabbi’s salary would be paid by the tax-leaser of the bathhouse. The leaser, wishing to explain why he had not fulfilled his obligation, simply claimed that the “money has disappeared”. Attempts were made to cover this deficit by raising the meat tax placed on the butchers. The butchers, however, flatly refused.³⁶ In another case, the source of the issue was “a slaughterer who hatched a plot with the butchers to steal the tax [money]: he would slaughter for them without collecting the tax, and they would split the profits between them”.³⁷

 Hamelitz, May 18, 1883; Hazefirah, January 8, 1844.  Hamodi’ah, October 20, 1911.  Hazefirah, August 29, 1889; Hamelitz, October 27, 1896; Pesakhovitch 1954, 568  Hamelitz, May 15, 1885; November 2, 1896; Lifshitz 1901, 10; Tshernovitch 1954, 67; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 75.  Hazefirah, August 29, 1877; April 27, 1880; September 13, 1881; July 14, 1886; September 10, 1889; March 14, 1892; Hamelitz, December 7, 1880; April 26, 1881; December 27, 1887; April 16, 1891; July 28, 18891; Hamagid, May 15, 1884; Litvak 1900, 7; Lifshitz 1901, 10.  Hamelitz, December 7, 1880. April 26, 1881.  Valkin 1938, II, yoreh de’ah, para. 28.

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Of all the sources of the rabbi’s income, the most unreliable was the tax on slaughtering and selling meat. As described previously, the relationship between the community rabbi and the butchers and slaughterers was often fraught and was thus naturally predisposed to constant conflict. Therefore, it is not surprising that when tensions reached a peak, usually because the rabbi had invalidated one of the butcher’s or slaughterer’s animals, they would retaliate by striking at his salary. Sometimes this would manifest in a delayed payment, as R. Aharon Moshe Toibesh wrote: “there was once a rabbi who was appointed in a city and was to be paid from a set amount from every animal [slaughtered]. The slaughterers solemnly swore that they would give him the allotted amount and even added that were they to withhold his salary, their slaughter would be considered invalid. However, the slaughterers broke their word and did not pay him. They claimed that it was their prerogative to decide when they wished to pay the amount levied from every animal, for no time-frame had been stipulated”.³⁸ Moreover, from different sources we learn that even completely discontinuing the rabbi’s salary was not an uncommon occurrence.³⁹ For all these reasons, it is not surprising that rabbis complained that their salaries were insufficient to pay for basic medical care⁴⁰ and certainly unexpected expenses such as dowries for their daughters⁴¹ or travel fees to attend rabbinical conferences.⁴² It should be further noted, that more than a few rabbis had already borrowed money to purchase their rabbinic position, exacerbating an already unreliable financial situation.⁴³ Some rabbis could not even support their families.⁴⁴ The problem was so pervasive that no one blinked an eye when one rabbi, who had served his community for twenty years, hung notices in the synagogue “beseeching and pleading like a pauper, begging for mercy, so that neither he nor his family would die of starvation”.⁴⁵ As a rule, and as described by R. Yehuda Leib Graubart, the prevailing view was that “anything given to the rabbi is enough for him”.⁴⁶

 Toibesh 1855, yoreh de’ah, para. 3. See also Tsherniak 1895, II, yoreh de’ah, para. 245.  Hazefirah, August 29, 1877; Hamelitz, August 17, 1880; July 28, 1891; June 1, 1899; Halevanon, April 13, 1881; Trivush 1899.  Hamelitz, May 14, 1883; February 16, 1896; Hazefirah, August 27, 1896; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 64; Tal 2010, 105.  Hamelitz, December 7, 1903; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 64; Tal 2010, 105.  Cohen 1902, 36; Kol Yaacov, August 30, 1907.  Leiter 1933, II, para. 18.  Hamelitz, February 27, 1885; Bergman 1998, 48.  Hamelitz, February 27, 1885. See also ibid, May 14, 1883; Hazefirah, August 9, 1898.  Graubart 1930, 68.

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The rabbis did not have any effective tools for contending with this reality. It is true that “During the convening of the Kahal, [an agreement is drafted] signed by every member, not to mention an oral agreement, enforced with an oath and [a threat of] excommunication, agreed upon by community and rabbi alike, and reinforced by a community ordinance, carrying the penalty of excommunication, that no slaughterer should slaughter animal or fowl without payment reaching the rabbi, or without his permission”.⁴⁷ However, to the rabbis’ dismay, no system existed for enforcing this agreement, or, as one contemporary put it, “it is true that the rabbi’s salary is allotted by the members of the community. However, this salary is more akin to ‘money with no definitive claimant.’ [=none wish to bear responsibility for it]”.⁴⁸ As recommended by halachic literature, the rabbi could theoretically force the slaughterer to pay his designated salary by issuing a sweeping disqualification of his meat.⁴⁹ However, this approach was problematic for two reasons. First, by forbidding the consumption of the slaughterer’s meat, the rabbi was effectively blocking his very source of income.⁵⁰ Second, such a tactic would place the rabbi in outright conflict with both the slaughterer and the butchers – a situation best avoided.⁵¹ For this reason, most rabbis did not avail themselves of this strategy, sometimes paying the price by agreeing to a halachic compromise, which they did not favor. As far as powerful community members were concerned, it was best that the rabbi be completely dependent on them. It is likely that even if the rabbi did complain to them about his wages, he was unlikely to receive a sympathetic response. For example, as seen in the following case that took place in the community of Geisin: A “call for help” notes have been posted in synagogues and study halls – the voices of the rabbis in our community who complain before the leaders and rich men of our community due to their bitter lot and urgent situation, for their souls melt from hunger and they have not the means to manage their households. Their bread is scant and their water meager. Thus, they beseech the rich men that they agree in their great beneficence to pay heed to their dire circumstances and find some way to support them – even if it be just enough to get by.⁵²

 Roth 1956, I, para. 17; Yaffe collection, letter from February 23, 1881.  Kneset Hagedolah 1890, 18.  Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, II, para. 73; Grunwald 1955, 112.  This issue is discussed extensively in the halachic literature. See, for instance, Valkin 1938, II, yoreh de’ah, para. 30; Grunwald 1955, 70.  Grunwald 1955, 69.  Hamelitz, March 6, 1891. See also Druyanov 1956, I, 158, 160; Grade 1982, 15 – 16.

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The authors of this text go on to explain that similar calls for help had been published three times previously, but to no avail. Considering these circumstances, some rabbis reconciled themselves to this reality: “the rabbi must speak softly to sinners and somehow appease them, asking that they do him no harm. He must use all the means at his disposal, even those that are unpleasant, and which cast his honor into the dust. For the rabbi knows that if he is to destroy this one support, then he and his household will be doomed to starvation, for how else will the members of his community feed him?”⁵³ Other rabbis abandoned the rabbinic world entirely for this very reason, and just a small minority, however, embarked on a veritable “campaign” to get what was rightly theirs. One method was to enlist the support of famous rabbis to pressure the community to stand up to its obligations.⁵⁴ Another possibility was to bring in external authorities as arbiters. This is what took place in the community of Pelcowizna, near Warsaw, where a conflict erupted over the issue of slaughter. Three arbiters, rabbis from nearby communities, were brought in. In this case, the arbiters ruled, “the butchers should pay the rabbi for his efforts and rulings, both for animals ruled to be kosher and those that are not, and thus reach a compromise. Alternatively, the rabbi should receive from the slaughterers [a set rate of] 3 rubles each week, and then they will be exempt from paying for his halachic rulings. The rabbi may choose by which system he shall be paid for his work”.⁵⁵ However, the fact that rabbis continued to complain about delays in their payments throughout the period shows that the effectiveness of such measures was small to non-existent. Another method to break the deadlock was to go on a “halachic strike”. Rabbis who believed all hope was lost and felt that no one paid them heed could threaten to stop answering halachic questions related to kashrut and other prohibitions. If the rabbi served as a rabbinical judge, he could also refuse to preside over court cases.⁵⁶ The assumption underlying such a move was that Jewish society cared about the laws of kashrut, the Sabbath, and family purity, would be unable to function without the regular rulings of the rabbi. However, due to the consequences of such a drastic course of action, and certainly because there was a real concern that such a strike would force people to eat non-kosher meat or to

   

Hazefirah, September 13, 1889. Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 72. Mikhelzon 1937, para. 25. Hamelitz, September 16, 1886.

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transgress other halachic prohibitions, it was not a choice taken lightly. As R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim put it: Although it pains me, I have been forced to adopt this strategy. Rabbis greater and better than me in Torah and good deeds, even rich rabbis, do this all the time. Nevertheless, I did not have the audacity to do so until I had consulted the elder and great rabbi of the generation from Kaunas (R. Yitzhak Elhanan Spector, M.Z.). He answered me that there is no concern for prohibition and that he too has done thus, and this is the practice throughout the Jewish Diaspora. ⁵⁷

We thus learn that this was not a rare phenomenon, and issues such as those encountered by R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim, and other rabbis in the Jewish-Lithuanian cultural sphere, were present in Jewish communities in other locales as well. With this background we can better understand the threat to launch a halachic strike which was included in a petition drafted by rabbis in Vilna in 1823.⁵⁸ Similarly, when the rabbis in the community of Geisin (Podolia), felt that the “call for help” they had published (cited above) was failing to yield results, they publicly informed the community that “if they shall not rise up to take pity on them and support them, then they will be forced to cease giving halachic rulings on questions related to kashrut”.⁵⁹ However, even if the threat itself proved ineffective, various rabbis did not hesitate to implement it. Thus, in the community of Anykščiai, “the rabbi stopped answering questions of kashrut or giving judicial rulings, because for several months he had not been paid”.⁶⁰ Likewise, in the community of Vitebsk: When the rabbis saw that evil had befallen them, that none paid them heed or made efforts on their behalf, then they ceased to issue rulings on the questions of slaughterers and butchers regarding invalidate meat; they removed their supervision from them. They also hung notices in all the synagogues to publicize the matter – so that those who tremble before the word of God would be wary of a case of possibly invalid meat. Then the people of the community gathered to find some source by which to pay the rabbis’ salaries. However, what was the result of the assembly? As soon as they convened, they dispersed, and nothing was achieved. The butchers knocked on the rabbi’s doors every day with their ques-

 Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 64– 65. To a similar halachic approach to “melamdim”’ strike when their wages are not paid, see Feinstein 1959, hoshen mishpat, para. 59. To a similar phenomenon among the rural clergy, see Pfister 2000, 55.  Zalkin 2001, 6. To a similar situation of rabbis in Vilna in the late nineteenth century, see Kneset Hagedolah 1890, 18 – 19.  Hamelitz, March 6, 1891.  Hamelitz, August 22, 1882.

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tions. Nevertheless, no one would answer them. Thus, a cry rose up from the community: “who shall feed us kosher meat”.⁶¹

However, as occurred in Vitebsk, as well as Panevėžys, economic considerations overpowered, at least temporarily, halachic ones. For example, Mikha Yosef Berdichevsky described what happened to his father, the rabbi of the community, when his source of income, the sale of yeast, was attacked: “In vain did my father cease to give halachic rulings or preside over court cases for several weeks”.⁶² Thus, in practice these strikes generally failed to achieve their goal. For this reason, there seemed no choice but to heed the advice of Binyamin Litvak: “the words of the butcher who provided you bread you shall observe, and his voice you shall heed. If you do thus, you will be able to endure”.⁶³ What saved many rabbis from complete destitution was the payments they received outside of their regular salary for presiding over various religious functions (for example, weddings, funerals, divorces, or arbitration of disputes in neighboring communities⁶⁴), as well as income from the work of the rabbi’s wife.⁶⁵ Other rabbis supplemented their income with side jobs.⁶⁶ However, such payments were meager at best. Therefore, to endure day-to-day expenses, some rabbis were forced to borrow large sums of money,⁶⁷ to subsist on charity gathered on their behalf from individuals, or to simply beg.⁶⁸ Thus, it is no surprise that some rabbis, beset by difficult times, found themselves engaging in unsavory practices: “Despite the rabbi’s will and nature”, R. Yehuda Leib Graubart explains: “he grows accustomed to receiving gifts, and afterwards [begins to] pursue and even demand bribes – for he is forced to do so to preserve his life”.⁶⁹ For example, some rabbis demanded money in exchange for issuing “slaughtering certificates”.⁷⁰ This is likely the reason why in popular folklore, the rabbi, who often served as a rabbinical judge, was also portrayed as prone to taking bribes.⁷¹

 Hazefirah, March 14, 1892; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 62; Cohen 1901, 19.  Berdichevsky 1960, 4.  Litvak 1900, 7.  See Roth, private collection, letter from November 3, 1898.  Hamelitz, July 23, 1897; Levin 1973, 157; Etkes 1986, 101– 102.  Kol Yaacov, June 25, 1908; Hazman, April 16, 1903.  Benditman 1875, 8; Hazefirah, September 24, 1889.  Hazefirah, February 4, 1879; February 20, 1880; Hamelitz, January 26, 1892; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 72.  Graubart 1930, 70.  Cohen 1902, 13.  Druyanov 1956, I, 165 – 167.

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Persistent want and the need to depend on donations and charity could place the rabbi on the lowest level of the socio-economic ladder. A heart wrenching account of this reality was offered by journalist Nahum Babitzky, a member of the editorial board of the newspaper Zeit, in an article published in 1903: It is the practice of rabbis in small communities to wander about the neighboring towns and to collect donations. It is worth seeing, if only once, how the rabbi will arrive in a town and knock on the doors of generous people, asking them to collect a sum of money on his behalf. Each time, they tell him to come back later, and he leaves that city retracing his steps, having gained nothing. The origin of this custom is the conditions of rabbis in small communities. They have no standard salary from a reliable source and sustain themselves from irregular wages; their side jobs become their main livelihood. Therefore, where else will they receive their bread if not by begging in the towns?⁷²

Because of these circumstances, in the late 1880s several rabbis launched a public campaign to gain official government recognition of the traditional rabbinate, hoping that this this would help regulate salaries.⁷³ The very willingness to raise such a proposal attests to an acute sense of desperation in rabbinic circles: official government recognition of the rabbi’s position would undoubtedly bring government intervention in the selection process – a move with significant consequences. This, it seems, was the reason why others sought to solve the problem “at home”: convening rabbinical assemblies, as took place a few times in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.⁷⁴ Thus, as part of a plan to establish a rabbinic union, proposed at a rabbinic assembly that convened in Krakow, it was suggested that the “issue of [the rabbis’] livelihood which is owed to them by their community should be regulated, so that it shall be forbidden for anyone to cut off their livelihoods”.⁷⁵ Another option discussed in the public discourse at the beginning of the twentieth century was to establish a central assistance fund for rabbis. According to this plan, every rabbi would be required to transfer to the fund a yearly premium. A set rate or whatever he could afford. The funds would be used to support rabbis with low incomes, those who were sick and old, or those who needed help “when their daughters had matured [and required a dowry] and the like”.⁷⁶ However, this model – a combination of the traditional charity system and concepts of mutual assistance stemming from socialist ideology – never became a reality. Thus, some rabbis decided to seek their fortunes in

    

Hamelitz, December 7, 1903. See also Druyanov 1956, I, 159; Peretz 1961, VIII, 54. Hamelitz, May 31, 1888; February 27, 1891. See, for instance, Hamodi’ah, July 18, 1913. Cohen 1901. Hamelitz, December 7, 1903.

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another community, one that was known to be more reliable in making payments.⁷⁷ Others left the rabbinate all together, pursuing a more stable living in other trades.⁷⁸ The picture emerging from all these descriptions is that when it came to funding the rabbi and his activities, the community institutions functioned less as a financial system and more as a regulatory system. The problem was that in many cases those entrusted with ensuring the necessary funds reached the rabbi failed to uphold their duties, whether it was because they could not stand up to powerful tax-leasers or because they simply had no interest in making the effort. A well-known example of someone who suffered from this situation is R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim, who served as the community rabbi of Panevėžys: “a great rabbi lives with no trustworthy source of livelihood,” was how one contemporary described his predicament. “The people of his community pay him no respect and no one pays heed to his circumstances. After much suffering, want, and poverty, the leaders of the community convened more than twice and decided to collect donations every month on his behalf. However, until this day, the rich men and leaders of the community have found no other source of income for the rabbi and his family”.⁷⁹ The following words written by R. Yesha’ayahu Reikher capture well the feelings of many rabbis in small communities at the turn of the century: What is the life of a rabbi? It is a life of poverty and pain. He is like the arrow target of every boy and ignoramus, he is oppressed and plundered by these “archers”; neither the fire of his religion nor his vision can be spread. His meal is a dry crust and he is thin from want.⁸⁰

It is unsurprising that this constant economic hardship was what prompted more than a few rabbis to make drastic life changes. For example, an advertisement published by R. Raphael Gordon on the last page of Heint in the late 1910s, said the following: A message to rabbis: I wish to travel from the community of Vasilkov to the Holy Land, but the men of the community require money to pay me the money they owed me, approximately 2000 rubles. Therefore, any rabbi that has this amount can come here and receive the rabbinic position.⁸¹

    

Epstein 1928, III, 1649. Elioeinai 1984, 10. Hamelitz, January 14, 1890. Hapeles 1902, 165 – 167. See also Shlez 1880, ch. 4. Heint, November 28, 1910.

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Nevertheless, and despite everything described, most community rabbis preferred to fill out their tenure. If we take into consideration all the interests and pressures describe, it seems that the dilemma can be boiled down to a single fundamental conflict: authority versus responsibility. In other words, how willing was the rabbi to give up on certain prerogatives – be it those granted to him in his rabbinic writ or those traditionally associated with the position – in order to fulfill his most basic communal responsibility: preserving halacha as the basis of local Jewish social life? The biographical accounts examined for this study show that in most cases greater weight was given to responsibility than to authority, despite the personal and communal toll this entailed.

2 His Helpmate: The Rabbi’s Wife One obvious question after discussing the relationship between the rabbi and his community is the role played by his wife. A detailed answer to this question is impossible: the subject has received scant attention in scholarship on the history of Eastern European Jewry. True, Yemima Hovav, Paula Hyman, ChaeRan Freeze, Tamar Salmon-Mack, Shaul Stampfer and others have highlighted important aspects of the lives of Jewish women in the traditional societies of the time. Their studies allow us to describe in broad strokes certain aspects of the life of the rabbi’s wife: her average age of marriage, how she and her husband conceived their respective roles, her spiritual world, as well as factors contributing to family crises and divorce.⁸² Nevertheless, given that the community rabbi’s family life had a unique character, relying on these broad studies of Jewish women to present a full picture of the “rabbinic family,” is unsatisfactory. We lack good statistics about the average age of marriage of both rabbis and their wives.⁸³ Likewise, we know little about the socio-economic profile of the rabbi’s wife, about her employment habits, or her views about whether her husband should accept a

 Hyman 1998, 121– 141; Freeze 2002; Chovav 2009; Stampfer 2010, 7– 85; Salmon-Mack 2012.  As ChaeRan Freeze showed, the average age of first marriages among Jews in the Pale of Settlement rose steadily during the nineteenth century, and reached 26 at its end. There is no reason to assume that as far as the yeshiva students or young sages are concerned, some of whom have dedicated themselves to a rabbinic career, the picture is different. See Freeze 2002, 82– 86. See also Hamelitz, November 10, 1891; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 22– 23; Sofer 2001, 38. For an extensive and detailed discussion of the patterns of marriage in Jewish society in this area, see Salmon-Mack 2012, ch. I.

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given rabbinic position.⁸⁴ Whether or not she was the daughter of a rabbi herself, it can be assumed that the problematic aspects of a rabbi’s life, which must certainly have had a concrete impact on his family life, were, at the very least, a matter of interest to her.⁸⁵ Furthermore, in cases of rabbis who saw in their vocation a calling, a conflict could arise between the attention paid and time dedicated to these two obligations – his position and his family.⁸⁶ For example, as described above, not only was the rabbi’s home a public space, but also, as described by Zvi Hirsh Lifshitz “doomed to calamity, bickering, and fighting”. In other words, even the one area of life under her control, the home, was taken away from her.⁸⁷ It is reasonable to assume that in the conflict between a feeling of mission and economic stability (real or imagined) on the one hand, and a feeling of subjugation to the community, the low salary and the travels every few years were the most important factors.⁸⁸ Likewise, it is not entirely clear how willing a rabbi’s wife was to play the role of “his wife”, due both to the expectations from community members, as well as to her own personality.⁸⁹ The main obstacle to answering this question is the small imprint the rabbi’s wife has left in our sources. True, in sources from the beginning of the period discussed in this book, specifically collections of communal ordinances from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which addressed the rabbi’s position, there are some references to the rabbi’s wife. For example, in Acta Electorum of the Jewish community of Poznan, it was ruled that when certain restrictions on dress were placed on the men and women of the community, the rabbi’s wife would be exempt.⁹⁰ Likewise, she would be allowed to receive “fish and cakes from women giving bitrh”.⁹¹ As for our period, in more biographically oriented sources – personal as well as hagiographical – the rabbi’s wife was sometimes described as the typical “woman of virtue”. Her primary role was to support her husband and help him carry out his task to the best of his ability – primarily by

 On the world of community rabbis’ wives in Israel in the twentieth century, see Lowenthal 2007, 140 – 147. On the status and roles of the rabbi’s wife in Jewish society in North America, see Freedman 1990; Rubin Schwartz 2006; Landau-Chark 2008.  Eliach 1991, 94– 95.  Malony & Hunt 199, 56.  Grade 1982.  About the difficulties that accompanied emigration from the birth area in the Russian Empire at the end of the nineteenth century see Anderson 1980, 69 – 89.  Rubin Schwartz 2006, 5.  Evron 1967, 393, 394.  Ibid, 302, 387.

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dedicating her time to supporting her family financially.⁹² Furthermore, the rabbi’s wife features prominently in popular folklore: there she is described either as a sage woman whose common sense and practical wisdom far surpassed that of the rabbi himself, or alternatively as a reprehensible figure.⁹³ However, unlike the sources that discuss the lives of the Eastern Orthodox clergymen during this period,⁹⁴ most Jewish sources, including the Jewish press, barely mention the rabbi’s wife as an independent individual. Very few even bother to mention her or to discuss the tasks with which she was entrusted. This phenomenon is equally true in rabbinical letters – the exception being a few mentions such as those in the letters of R. Meshulam Roth who laments, “As a rabbi’s wife, my delicate and intelligent wife is very limited in her ability to lead her life”.⁹⁵ It is likely that the absence of the rabbi’s wife from sources, as well as her portrayal in folk literature, derives from the status of women in Jewish society in general during that time and place: i. e., her complete exclusion from public communal life. Therefore, even rabbis’ wives who played a significant role in turning the rabbi’s home into a public space were effaced from communal memory – neither they nor their activities were deemed worthy of mention in any form of discourse taking place outside of the home. For this reason, it is difficult at this point to present even a preliminary picture of this elusive figure, especially as far as her involvement and influence on her husband’s ability to serve as the rabbi of the community. However, the figure of the rabbi’s wife does appear in some sources, primarily the Jewish press, in a very specific context: when the community rabbi passed away and left behind a widow and sometimes orphans. Because the financial agreements reached between the rabbi and his community usually did not address such a contingency, and because the rabbi’s wife was usually not a local and thus was not supported by her immediate family, she and her children could find themselves facing economic hardship.⁹⁶ The rabbi, who was aware of this possibility, sometimes included in his will a request for the community to

 Be’ikvot Hapisgah, I, 1929, 13 – 14; Freid 1938, I, 58; Zaltzman 1947, 31; Sawitzky 1968, 127– 128; Etkes 1986, 101– 102; Kotik 1989, 229, 231; Eliach 1998, 94– 95.  Druyanov 1956, I, 149 – 150, 160; II, 213 – 214, 223 – 224; 231, 237; Singer 1966; Grade 1982.  For an extensive and detailed discussion of the world and the image of the village priest’s wife, see Belliustin 1985, 112– 120.  Roth, private collection, letter to Y. L. Landa, August 1901. See also Blazer 1974, 209 – 210.  Hazefirah, February 25, 1879; June 19, 1896; Hayom, December 29, 1886; Hamelitz, July 17, 1890; May 1, 1896; Feivelsohn 1914, 109. To a similar situation of widows of priests in the Orthodox Church, see Freeze 1978, 141.

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care for his widow.⁹⁷ In some communities, attempts were made to contend with this situation by making a formal commitment to support the rabbi’s family after his death with a single sum of money,⁹⁸ a yearly allowance for a certain amount of time,⁹⁹ or a condition that the new rabbi be required to marry the wife or daughter of the deceased one.¹⁰⁰ However, even when such monetary arrangements were agreed upon, the community had limited financial sources at its disposal and therefore could not support both the former rabbi’s widow and orphans while also paying for the salary of a new rabbi – at least not for any extended amount of time. Therefore, various communities limited the support that could be provided to a rabbi’s widow to one year (the amount of time usually required to find and appoint a new rabbi).¹⁰¹ Alternatively, some communities stipulated: “so long as the widow and orphans are living here with no support, no [new] rabbi will be accepted in our city”.¹⁰² Nevertheless, even the promise to support the rabbi’s widow did not always translate into reality. An example is the community of Poznan, which already in the seventeenth century experienced this issue: The widow of our late R. Moses loudly cries out due to the debt owed to her by the congregation. She lays down her pride and goes from one leader to another every month asking for support. However, none pays her heed and she is rebuffed repeatedly. Therefore, the Kahal will give her every first of the month thirty złotys, and the [members] of the Kahal also obligate themselves to treat her with justice.¹⁰³

Thus, one can see that even if there was a ratified agreement to support the rabbi’s widow, the communal institutions did not have to adhere to it. In this case,

 Hamelitz, February 21, 1900.  Hamelitz, November 25, 1896.  Hakarmel, July 29, 1864; Hazefirah, February 12, 1884; July 4, 1888; August 26, 1896; October 13, 1896; March 3, 1897; Hamelitz, April 4, 1891; February 23, 1892; February 5, 1896; July 2, 1896; October 27, 1896; January 18, 1897; June 13, 1899; September 3, 1899; Halevanon, September 17, 1880; Hapeles 1903, 381, 509, 570; Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910; Margaliot 1910, 146; Tal 2010, 106. On a similar phenomenon in Jewish communities in North America in the nineteenth century, see Rubin Schwartz 2006, 226 – 227.  Hamelitz, February 23, 1898; Hapeles 1904, 64; Levinsky 1936, I, 27. On the marriage of a young priest to the daughter of an older priest, see Freeze 1978, 137.  Hamelitz, February 4, 1890; April 3, 1891; January 18, 1897; March 11, 1897; May 21, 1899; Hazefirah, May 23, 1899. On a widow of a rabbi who tried to capitalize the annual grant given to her by selling this “Hazakah” to a rabbi who was interested in the rabbinate in her community, see Hamelitz, December 19, 1899.  Hamelitz, March 17, 1896; May 5, 1897; Hazefirah, November 5, 1897; Kagan 1990, 322.  Evron 1967, 120. See also Dessler 2004, 280.

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the widow was left with no choice but to turn to a higher community authority. While this body tried to settle the issue and did its best to guarantee her financial future, the issue resurfaced again five years later in communal ordinances. These attest not only to her difficulty exercising this right but also her social status: “every holiday, the Kahal is obligated to collect money to distribute among unmarried women and the poor, as well as to attend to the needs of the widow of our late rabbi Moses”. Thus, just a few years after her husband’s death, R. Moses’ widow found herself at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder, associated with the weakest classes of the community! Such occurrences were a recurring feature of the nineteenth century, as attested by descriptions of the funerals of community rabbis. The practice was that the rabbis of neighboring communities would attend a rabbi’s funeral, showing their respects and delivering eulogies. However, when they realized that no arrangements had been made for the rabbi’s widow, they would sometimes meet with the heads of the community to discuss the issue and do their best to guarantee the financial stability of the deceased rabbi’s wife. In these discussions, several options were considered, and only after the subject had been settled would the funeral ceremony proceed.¹⁰⁴ This delay was akin to the practice of “Ikuv Keri’ah” (“delaying the reading of the Torah”), a form of protest by which a community member would voice his or her opposition to an egregious wrongdoing by interrupting prayers in synagogue and refusing to allow them to continue until his or her problem was addressed. In our case as well, the funerary ritual was intentionally delayed until a solution was found to the predicament of the rabbi’s widow. It is important to note that in most sources that describe this delicate and complicated element of the rabbi’s family life, it is not the locals who launch the initiative to tend to the rabbi’s widow – it is rather his colleagues. As we saw above, the rabbi’s livelihood was far from stable. It is therefore not surprising that those who were not meticulous about paying the rabbi in his lifetime acted no differently after his death. His widow had no tools to enforce the clause in the rabbi’s will that asked the community “to provide for my wife for the rest of her life”.¹⁰⁵ In fact, she had no way to force the community to care about even the most pressing needs of her family. The extent to which rabbis who attended the funerals of their colleagues were justified in their interference and concern is attested to by the following cases:

 Hazefirah, July 29, 1898; Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910; Bergman 1998, 203; Grade 1982, 108.  Benditman 1875, 8.

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After the death of R. Yehoshua Heller of the community of Telšiai in 1880, the community failed to pay his widow the rabbi’s salary, which had been withheld for several months prior to his death. In response, his widow refused to vacate her house, which belonged to the community.¹⁰⁶ Another case was of the widow of R. Meir Yona Bernitzky of Svislach, who died in 1891. In negotiations that took place between the heads of the community and four rabbis from neighboring communities who attended the funeral, the rabbi’s widow was promised the following: a stipend of three rubles a week for a period of two years; payment of the rabbi’s salary that had been withheld for the last half year of his life; and additional payments amounting to 744 rubles in total. The rabbis involved insisted that the agreement be put in writing and signed. However, for the next five years the heads of the community did everything in their power not to fulfill the terms of the agreement. Only after the elderly widow resorted several times to “Ikuv Keri’ah” in synagogue, and when the details of her predicament were publicized in the Jewish press, did she manage to gain a measly 60 rubles. The woman therefore requested legal aid from the local magistrate’s court. This threat finally prompted the heads of the community to resolve the dispute via arbitration with three rabbis from neighboring towns.¹⁰⁷ Because the arbiters failed to appear, the woman returned to the magistrate’s court. The court however refused to accede to her request because she did not have in her possession the written agreement. Her attempts to receive the original documents from the heads of the community were greeted with excuses. At this point, the elderly widow was willing to reduce her claim to 55 rubles; even this, however, was met with refusal. In desperation, she turned to R. Yehonatan Eliasberg of Vilkaviškis, one of the rabbis who had originally negotiated the terms of her support. R. Eliasberg for his part sent a letter to the heads of the community, beseeching them to end the affair and to give the widow the reduced sum. To exert pressure on them, R. Eliasberg published the letter in the Jewish press.¹⁰⁸ We do not know how this controversy ended. Nevertheless, this case clearly attests to the kind of relationships that communities had with the widows of their rabbis. The fact that this episode, which was widely publicized, failed to elicit any public outcry, neither within the community itself nor elsewhere, demonstrates that this was not an uncommon occurrence. Two years later, R. Eliasberg passed away. In this case, because he was a popular figure in his community, the initiative to tend to the financial wellbeing

 Hamelitz, July 20, 1883.  Hamelitz, June 19, 1896.  Hamelitz, November 17, 1896.

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of his widow was taken up by the “heads of the community as well as its rich men and generous donors”. After a short discussion, it was decided to establish a fundraising campaign to cover the expenses. When the required sum had been reached “they put [the terms] into writing and signed [a contract] to provide the widow with the rabbi’s salary for three years. After this time, they would give her a yearly stipend of 500 rubles for a period of seven years”.¹⁰⁹ It should be noted that although in this case locals spearheaded the initiative, the funeral was nevertheless delayed until the widow’s future had been resolved. Like other aspects of the community rabbinate, the financial prospects of the rabbi’s widow were still a relevant issue at the beginning of the twentieth century. This issue resurfaced in the public discourse of the time, while attempts were made to come up with a concrete solution to the problem. Thus, for example, when R. Yitzhak Noah Levinbuk of the community of Alytus passed away, his rabbinic position was passed onto his son. Yet, it was stipulated that “he shall divide his salary equally with his mother”.¹¹⁰ Likewise in 1910, two years after his involvement in the financial dispute between the Jewish community of Pinsk and the widow of R. Zvi Walk, R. Haim Soloveitchik proposed to establish a pension plan for community rabbis: “Just as every community provides for the livelihood of the rabbi and his family, so too shall they insure his life, such that when he is old or after he has passed away, his family can support itself with the insurance money”.¹¹¹ However, this proposal, like most proposals aimed at improving systemic problems within the community rabbinate, was left unanswered. Considering the above, we can characterize the community’s attitude toward the rabbi’s widow as paralleling their attitude to her husband when was alive. In the minds of many community members, the right of the rabbi and his family to even basic support, not to mention anything beyond this, was not a “vested right”. At best it was viewed as an act of charity that the community might be inclined to provide if it so chose.

 Hamelitz, November 24, 1898.  Hamelitz, February 4, 1901.  Hamodi’ah, May 10, 1910.

Chapter 8 Facing Reality 1 “Something Trampled on by All” The challenges and frustration faced by many community rabbis only grew more pronounced as the nineteenth century drew to a close. Secularization had begun to make inroads into the Jewish towns of Eastern Europe, the political climate was unstable, pogroms swept across the southern parts of the Pale of Settlement, and Jews were immigrating overseas in massive numbers. All these factors contributed to the notion that the old Jewish world was quickly disappearing. The rabbi himself, looking around him, could not help but feel the winds of change, which left their mark on the two social circles to which he belonged. First, the rabbinical milieu itself, populated by many of his fellow community rabbis, had become virtually unrecognizable. For young members of the Jewish intellectual elite, new horizons more attractive than those offered by the study hall were opening up – academia and law, to name two examples. There were also community rabbis who sought ways to transcend the traditional scholarly-cultural boundaries associated with their vocation. For example, as explained by R. Meshulam Roth in a letter penned in the late 1890s: “Every wisdom is primed and capable of developing and coming into fruition in a wise heart. I will make an effort to climb the ladder of European enlightenment and to complete the scientific and linguistic studies that I require”.¹ Likewise, many talented individuals with rabbinic potential found a home in the attractive ideological movements that had begun to thrive in the Jewish street;² others made their way to America. With talents diverted elsewhere, the spiritual and intellectual profiles of many rabbinic candidates saw a steep decline. The severe repercussions this had on the rabbinic world as a whole (which of course effected the world of the individual community rabbi as well) were described by R. Zalman Antsilevitz of Mozyr: One of the main causes that has led to declining honor of Torah in the eyes of many of our people is the lightheadedness with which our brethren treat the receiving of a rabbinical post. The young-married scholars and the slaughterers have cast down the yoke of our great rabbis in every place. They have made themselves leaders and have built themselves

 Roth, Private collection.  Dinur 1958. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-010

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their own platforms, doing as they see fit in their own eyes. They have taken a great part in desecrating the honor of Torah. The rabbinate has become something trampled on by all.³

In addition to the rabbinic world, the rabbi’s immediate surroundings were also undergoing rapid and sometimes radical changes; i. e., his community was not what it once was. Rapid processes of secularization, extensive migration, and the all-encompassing popularity of nascent mass-movements and ideologies – all of these irrevocably changed the face of traditional Jewish society. Thus, for example, rabbi Kalman Maggid of Armyansk described the changes taking place around him and expressed his despair in the face of this new reality: The Sabbath is desecrated in public: shops are open from morning until dusk as if it were a weekday. I have appealed to them and warned them in vain about this failing – in both sermons and private conversations. However, my voice is like a voice in the wilderness. Judaism here has reached a breaking point; the spirit of the Torah is in a state of decay and is caught in its death throes; schoolchildren are snatched out of “Heder” in their youth. The new generation accepts secular education and slowly distances itself from Judaism. To my great despair, I have seen this sight throughout the Jewish communities of Ekaterinoslav province.⁴

According to R. Antsilevitz, the inevitable outcome of this new reality was that “it is difficult to take a mountain, lift it like a cauldron above the heads of each one of our brethren the children of Israel and say: submit to our decisions!” Shalom Epstein voiced a similar sentiment in an article published in the Spring of 1899: “The conditions of life and the views of our brethren in these times nullify the power of rabbis if they try to rule over [their community members] with a mighty hand”.⁵ Or, as R. Yehezkel Abramsky put it: “I know many [rabbis] who when they see their lowliness and inability to carry out any proper action are seized by awful despair. Their eyes speak their sorrow and they dwell among the people in fear and awe, each one [restricted] to his immediate surroundings; outside of this domain, their influence cannot be discerned at all”.⁶ The enduring sense of disillusion, rooted in the gap between the spiritual world of the religious functionary and the changing circumstances of his community members, was not unique to the community rabbi or even to the period described in the present book. Similar expressions of exasperation emerge from the writings of community rabbis in earlier periods as well. For example, the bitter words of

   

Kol Yaacov, September 12, 1907. See also Hamelitz, January 12, 1883. Yagdil Torah 1909, 263. See also Hapeles 1901, 563; Cohen 1902, 15. Hamelitz, May 5, 1899. Hamodi’ah, May 24, 1910.

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R. Akiva Eiger: “I find more bitter than death the matter of the rabbinate. I have been drowned in the depths of the rabbinate, which has become a stumbling block for my body and soul. I am weary of my life because of the rabbinate. Many corpses has the rabbinate left in its wake”.⁷ Local rural priests of the time⁸ as well as community rabbis outside of Europe voiced similar sentiments. It seems that such sentiments represent an inseparable part of the job of a religious functionary. Various proposals were raised in the rabbinic discourse of the time to contend with these growing feelings of disillusionment and despair. For example, some proposed the creation of a broad organizational network of rabbis; others called for the convening of a congress of rabbis from all ends of the Russian Empire. As described above, rabbinical assemblies did convene from time to time to discuss the “state of the rabbinate”. Unfortunately, both organizers and participants could not help but notice that such initiatives generally failed to produce concrete solutions.⁹ Another way of responding to a world in flux, a method that became particularly popular at the turn of the twentieth century, was through Orthodox print media. The first attempts to use the print press to give a voice to the disillusionment pervading the rabbinic world can be found in the newspaper Halevanon (1863 – 1886), due in no small part to the intensive efforts of Yaacov Lifshitz,¹⁰ as well as the newspaper Kol Makhzikey Hadat (1879 – 1914) which appeared in Lemberg.¹¹ This trend grew more pronounced at the beginning of the twentieth century with the appearance of the periodical Hapeles (1901– 1905) and somewhat later in the newspaper Hamodi’ah (1910 – 1915). The editors and many of the writers of these papers emphasized the importance of an Orthodox newspaper, touting it as an important medium for discussing the fundamental issues plaguing the rabbinic world at the time as well as a way to meet the challenge of more secular Jewish journalists. In this context, Hamodi’ah was presented as “laying the straight path for Orthodox literature, to inspire hearts, to awaken those asleep, to stand strong before the breach – [resisting] with great strength and might irreligious literature. For Orthodoxy has power and vigor yet; it has valor and force to stand before the gate and defend Judaism”.¹² However, while the Orthodox print press certainly constituted an important forum for

 Eiger 1969, 115 – 117.  Belliustin 1985, 133 – 134.  Hazefirah, December 8, 1903; Hakol, May 31, 1907; Kol Yaacov, August 22, 29, 1907; September 5, 12, 1907.  Lifshitz 1968, II, 99 – 102.  Alfasi 2006, 347– 365; Kesher 49 (2017), 126 – 142.  Hamodi’ah, September 22, 1910.

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rabbinic discourse, it is difficult to point to any cases of it actually solving the fundamental issues afflicting the community rabbinate.

2 “They camp in the place they have arrived but then move on” One of the identifying marks of community rabbis, a practice unique to their vocation, was the use of a specific acronym to sign their letters: khop“k – khoneh po kehilat … (Encamped here in the community of …). It is unclear when rabbis began to append this phrase to their signatures; in our period at least, it was already an established convention. This is particularly interesting because no other job-holders in the Jewish communities of the time used analogous terminology, i. e., no other figures viewed themselves as merely encamped – as opposed to settled – in a community. Barukh Epstein, author of Mekor Barukh, a figure very close, (in both kinship and mentality) to the circles of community rabbis in Eastern Europe offered an explanation for this strange phrase: Rabbis traditionally embellish the signatures of their name and city with the wording “encamped here in the Jewish community of …”. This phrasing should be understood as follows: The rabbi’s mission is to camp, rest, and relax in his community, and then move on. This is similar to the camps of soldiers: they camp in the place they have arrived but then move on.¹³

In other words, the use of this terminology reflected a concrete historical reality. It meant that the rabbi regarded himself not as a permanent resident of the community that he served but only a temporary resident. This conception was embedded in the public consciousness of the time and was even given expression in belles-lettres. Thus, for example, in Haim Grade’s book that discusses rabbis and their wives, the author portrays a head of a community voicing his bewilderment at a local rabbi who has never even considered moving to another community as done by many of his colleagues.¹⁴ The practical implications of this transitory lifestyle were that at any given moment at least one out of every two community-rabbis was uncertain about his future. This could be due to his own initiative (his desire to move elsewhere), or due to internal community politics leading to his dismissal or an initiative to appoint another rabbi. Thus, the obvious question arises: what was the cause of this phenomenon? The rabbi, as

 Epstein 1928, III, 1644.  Grade 1982, 4.

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we have described, invested significant time and effort to receive his position; surely something especially compelling was necessary to force him to relinquish it. One such motive was offered by Barukh Epstein who quoted his father, R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein, the community of Novogrudek, who characterizes the duties of community rabbis as follows: To keep a watchful eye and an attentive heart over the spirits of their community members. To consider, investigate, critique, examine, and mend every damage and breach in their moral lives, [to correct] their behavior towards Heaven and towards other people, in morals and ethics, in their modesty and proper behavior, to rectify and benefit, to remove evil and prevent wrongdoing, to teach them and guide them upon the path of the Torah and its commandments.¹⁵

A rabbi who had accomplished these goals, who had helped the members of his community reach their full religious potential, should go on his way and begin the process anew in another community. One can certainly paint the itinerancy of rabbis, their perpetual travels from one community to the next, in a positive light. On the one hand, this reality afforded the rabbi some degree of independence; in theory at least, he was not beholden to any local figures. The option to move to another community, especially in cases when the rabbi’s relationship with the members of his community had soured, afforded him the opportunity both to reevaluate his task as well as granting him a second chance to implement it. Furthermore, such moves often offered the rabbi the opportunity to refresh and enrich his ideological and spiritual world. Like the yeshiva student who attended different yeshivot and was thus exposed to different discussions, discourses, and scholarly methods, the rabbi as well, could, through his wandering, make inroads into new circles of discourse, and receive many chances to realize his aspirations. From the community’s perspective, this situation had some potential advantages as well. First, the fact that every few years saw the replacement of the dominant religious figure of the community provided an opportunity for those who lacked a common language with the presiding rabbi – sometimes regarding questions of an existential nature – to find a more receptive ear in his successor. Second, and no less important, when a rabbi’s tenure was associated with internal communal tensions, his departure had the potential to douse the flames. These considerations aside, we find that approximately half of the rabbis reviewed in this study, preferred the familiar status quo over the unknown, and served their entire professional lives in a single community. For this reason, it seems that what we have presented represents

 Epstein 1928, III, 1645 – 1647.

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an idealized picture of the world of the community rabbi during this time and place. There were rabbis who were happy with their position and saw no reason to go seek their fortunes in other communities, while others, feeling they had fulfilled their duties in their current community, looked elsewhere. However, even if we do accept this approach, an analysis of contemporary sources demonstrates that in more than a few cases the rabbi and his community failed to reach such an ideal situation. As described by R. Yaacov Emden: “Many rabbis of [this] generation might as well be proclaimed as dead. Woe to the rabbinate that buries its members, they who hope for nothing but to breathe their last breaths”.¹⁶ Assuming that the challenges described in some detail in the previous chapters of this book represented an inherent part of the rabbinate, the community rabbi had at his disposal four possible courses of action: 1) To remain at his current position while reconciling himself to a difficult reality. Reasons for this could be the low supply of alternative positions, an aversion to the intense competition necessary to earn a new rabbinic post, or the assumption that other communities would pose similar challenges and difficulties. 2) To leave the rabbinic vocation all together and to choose either an entirely new vocation or one related in some way to the rabbinate (such as teaching, serving as a rabbinical judge, acting as a preacher, or ruling on halachic questions). This was the course chosen, for example by rabbis Dov Mikhlin and Zvi Hirsh Rabinowitz.¹⁷ Naturally, this choice entailed no small amount of disadvantages: the psychological toll of giving up on a dream cultivated over the course of many years; the fact that choosing this option represented concession to failure; the equally short supply of such positions; and the less-than-prestigious social and economic status they offered; the memory of failure burned into the minds of those who had tried their luck in other pursuits before turning to the rabbinate, and the fear of embarking into the unknown. 3) A possibility that became increasingly relevant and even attractive beginning in the 1890s was immigration, usually to America.¹⁸ This choice also came with its difficulties: most notably abandoning a well-known cultural and familial setting; the conception of America as a spiritually impoverished country; and the uncertainty that a suitable position could be found there.

 Emden 1761, para. 223. See also Dessler 2013, 209 – 211.  Shlez 1880, ch. IV; Hamelitz, November 28, 1882; Hazefirah, August 20, 1897; Weitz 1938, 61; Elioeinai 1984, 10.  There were also rabbis who combined some of the possibilities described here, such as the transition between two or three communities in Eastern Europe, and then emigration to America. On this see Caplan 2002, 88 – 94; Alroey 2011.

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4) The most popular option was to leave one’s current community and seek a rabbinical position elsewhere.¹⁹ It should be noted that already upon their first job-search, many young rabbis internalized the mentality of transience associated with their vocation. Therefore, the movement from one community to the next was considered an inherent component of a rabbinic career. Furthermore, there is reason to assume that sometimes the initiative to move to another community originated from none other than the rabbi’s own wife.²⁰ Regardless, this course of action was also not free of concerns, be it because of the chronic shortage of open rabbinic positions or because those available were offered by communities notorious for their mistreatment of their rabbis, such as Vitebsk, Šiauliai and others. The Jewish community of Plock, for example, was infamous as “the community that consumes its rabbis”.²¹ As with other facets of the rabbi’s life discussed in this book, it is important to draw a distinction between famous rabbis and their average or obscure counterparts. For the former, the move from one community to another usually represented the aspiration to serve a larger more prestigious community, or alternatively a desire to serve a community that offered significantly higher pay , like R. Meir Leibush ben Yekhiel, known as “Malbim”. For this, some were even ready to move from a more traditional conservative community to a community that included “sinners and public violators of the Sabbath”.²² Other group of “wandering” rabbis included less-famous figures who were serving small communities but were interested in finding positions in larger ones. An example of this appears in an advertisement published in Hamodi’ah: “A great rabbi in Torah, a famous Hebrew author, a public activist, serving a small community, seeks [a rabbinic position] in an important community. Recommendations [can be provided] by the great rabbis and the great Hasidic masters”.²³ It can be assumed that besides the economic pressures described above, the decision to move to a larger community, and to some extent to a less known environment, was motivated by a desire to escape the limited intellectual-cultural space offered by a small community-life, or, in some cases, by the adoption of modernist ideas about living in a non-homogeneous human society.²⁴ This was despite the advice of R. Zvi Yehezkel Mikhelzon that “it is great foolishness this running from a

 Halevanon, March 15, 1879; Hamelitz, August 20, 1886; Horowitz 1978, 50; Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1984, 19, 86; Kook 1985, hoshen mishpat, para. 21; Heitner 2006, 55.  Grade 1982, 5 – 6, 15.  Hamelitz, November 30, 1880.  Shahor 1993, 310. See also Roth, private collection, letter from July 7, 1903.  Hamodi’ah, July 29, 1910.  Anderson 1980, 6 – 8.

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small community to a large one when there is no need to do so. [Such people] bring upon themselves greater troubles – living in a large metropolis is difficult – and it [is ridiculous] to specifically make efforts to this end”.²⁵ In general, the aspiration itself was viewed as legitimate – even when one gave up the position of community rabbi in favor of a lesser position – such as a preacher, because it was in a larger community. Another related reason that rabbis wished to move to different communities was their desire to improve their working conditions, as rabbi Mordekhai Gimpel Yaffe described “the circumstances of rabbis dwelling in medium and poor communities”.²⁶ Considering the challenges faced by many rabbis in their communities, such as their payment being withheld or suffering general economic hardship, it is not surprising that some preferred the unknown. One such rabbi was Yekutiel Zalman Landa, who served the Jewish community of Vitebsk. After having not received a salary for two years, he decided to leave the city and to move to St. Petersburg.²⁷ Some rabbis moved for personal reasons: their own marriage,²⁸ a desire to improve the marriage prospects of their children,²⁹ or when the community was, due to objective challenges, unable to continue paying their salary.³⁰ Worthy of note is the role played by famous rabbis in these processes of itinerancy and wandering. Due to their public status, such figures would sometimes receive appeals from rabbis in towns, requests for assistance or advice in their attempts to extricate themselves from this less-than-ideal situation. The information gathered by these rabbis, was an invaluable source of information about the treatment of rabbis in different communities, their working conditions, and the like. One such example is the letter of R. Mordekhai Gimpel Yaffe of Pruzhany: “the matters of the rabbinate are distant from me, except when they seek [my assistance]. The rabbi of Krevo asked for advice whether to move to Vidzy. I stopped him for I know the community and its people from my youth, and [I know] that [it is a community] steeped in controversy”.³¹ These famous rabbis would

 Mikhelzon 1924, 17; See also Tsirelson 1932, para. 109.  Yaffe collection, letter from December 17, 1886. See also Hakarmel, September 5, 1862; Kahana 1867, introduction; Hamelitz, March 30, 1886; Segalovitch 1898, introduction.  Hamagid, May 15, 1884; Tzinovitz 1957, 185.  Hamelitz, November 5, 1883.  Roth, private collection, letter to rabbi Yaffe, undated.  For example, Rabbi Yehoshua Alter Wildman planned to leave Konska Wola, after the town was burned to the ground.  Yaffe collection, letter from December 17, 1886. See also Shahor 1993, 369.

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often provide others looking for new communities warm letters of recommendations, usually at the initiative of the latter.³² From Barukh Epstein’s words cited above, one can conclude that the decision to end the relationship between the rabbi and his community was the prerogative of the rabbi alone. However, it should be recalled that Epstein, a member of a rabbinic family, was less than an objective observer. While the prevalent view in halachic literature was that a presiding rabbi could not be dismissed,³³ the reality was often quite different. As we have shown in the first part of this book, when the rabbinic writ of appointment was drafted and signed, the community made sure to preserve its right and the authority to end a rabbi’s tenure – subject to the principles and agreements reached between the two parties.³⁴ This was manifested in clauses that limited the period of the rabbi’s tenure. In practice, the relevant clauses in rabbinic writs were not merely relegated to empty words on paper. In various communities, they were implemented – for example, if a rabbi grew too old to fulfill his duties.³⁵ I do not mean that rabbis were regularly dismissed by their communities, but rather that the community was very careful to preserve the right to implement such a measure and sometimes did so in practice.³⁶ This was, of course, well known to the rabbis themselves. An echo of the phenomenon even exists in responsa literature. For example, R. Eliezer Waldenberg expresses his concern that “when the [rabbi] does not give the halachic rulings they desire, and does not act according to their will, the bourgeois will choose another rabbi whom they accept”.³⁷ Likewise, that the rabbi should serve a second or third tenure was not a certainty. Various communities were meticulous about conducting a selection process every few years – as mandated by community ordinances or when the contract of the incumbent rabbi came to an end. Zvi Horowitz, in his book about the rabbis of Poland, writes the following: “for it was their practice in those days to appoint a rabbi for a defined period of time, 3 years or at most 6. And after this time had elapsed, or when the rabbi’s watch has ended, they would accept an-

 Landa 1859, orakh haim, para. 15; Kahana 1895, iii; Kupritz 1899, approbations; Pervoznik 1907, approbations; Lubetzky 1912, approbation of R. Yehuda Gordon; Rabinowitz 1925, para. 30; Kosovsky-Shakhor 2003, 209 – 210.  See, for instance, Shmelkish 1875, yoreh de’ah, para. 59.  Dubnow 1925, 10, 39.  Heilperin 1945, 278 – 287; Shlez 1880, ch. III.  Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913; Brawer 1966, 10.  Waldenberg 1985, XVIII, para. 50. See also Natansohn 1865, para. 62.

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other rabbi or renew his contract”.³⁸ Indeed, this was exactly what happened in the sixteenth century in Poznan and Prague,³⁹ the seventeenth century in Altona, Tiktin and Bamberg,⁴⁰ the eighteenth century in large communities such as Amsterdam, Lwow and Krakow,⁴¹ as well as in the late nineteenth century in Simferopol, and in the small community of Sapotskin in the vicinity of Grodno.⁴² When these rabbis completed their tenure in one community, they would look for an open position elsewhere and so on. Some served various communities within a specific region, others wandered farther afield. For example, in the sixteenth century, R. Eliezer Ashkenazy served in various communities across Europe and the Mediterranean: Egypt, Cyprus, Italy and Poland.⁴³ A review of extant sources shows that rabbis were not only required to leave their position after their contracts had expired. Sometimes they were forced to leave in the middle of their tenure – prompted by direct or indirect pressures that left them no choice but to abandon the community.⁴⁴ Such measures were exercised against various rabbis, both famous ones who served in large urban communities as well as those in smaller towns and villages. Among the many examples, one can cite the trials and tribulations suffered by one of the great rabbis of Poland, R. Yaacov Polak;⁴⁵ the struggle of R. Shmuel ben Avigdor in Vilna;⁴⁶ the expulsion of R. Aryeh Leib Gintsburg from the community of Minsk;⁴⁷ as well as R. Haim’s [of Volozhin] abandonment of his position in the community of Ukmergė, a mere year after receiving it.⁴⁸ Likewise, during the period discussed in this book the rabbi’s opponents did not always wait until his tenure had come to an end. In some cases, communal institutions or other powerful figures took pains to discontinue the rabbi’s tenure long before its scheduled expiration. This could unfold in two major ways. The one was formal –

 Horowitz 1978, 49. The fact that these words were written by a writer who was a member of the rabbinic circles gives them great significance.  Weitz 1938, 49 – 51.  Kaufman 1897, 13; Buber 1903, 12; Nadav 1997, 159.  Horowitz 1928, 28; Weitz 1938, 18; Tal 2010, 136.  Halevanon, February 2, 1876; Hazefirah, November 18, 1891.  About his wanderings among these communities, see Diglenu 1925, edition 11, 22– 24; 1926, edition 1– 2, 22– 23; 1927, edition 2, 13 – 14.  Hamelitz, July 30, 1861; Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913; Finn 1915, 129; Weitz 1938, 53; Taikhtel 1974, 220; Dynner 2006, 65; Miller 2011, 115. For reference to this issue from an unconventional point of view, see Landa 1833, 88 – 89, 111– 115.  Wetstein 1909, 11.  Finn 1915, 129.  Eisenshtadt 1899, 15 – 22; Maggid 1899, 35.  Shmukler 1909, 14. See also Epstein 1928, II, 945; Weitz 1938, 51; Zimmer 1999, 30, 38 – 41.

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i. e., an attempt to officially end the rabbi’s tenure prematurely. As seen above, conflict between rabbi and community was not something new to the nineteenth century. In order to defend rabbis from unfair dismissal it was ruled by The Council of Four Lands that no other rabbi should be accepted until “justice is properly served between the rabbi and the community”.⁴⁹ During the period discussed here, proceedings followed a fixed process, which included arbitration by three non-local rabbis.⁵⁰ Such process took place, for example, in the town of Pasvalys in North Lithuania in the late nineteenth century. In 1870, Binyamin Bali Dimant was appointed rabbi of the community. Shortly after receiving the position, he apparently found himself embroiled in conflict with the communal institutions regarding his exclusive right to sell salt as the basis of his income. According to Dimant’s opponents, not only were local government officials responsible for his appointment, forcing it upon the community; they were also his business partners. For this reason, the two parties turned to R. Yosef Zacharia Stern, rabbi of the Jewish community of Šiauliai, and presented before him their respective claims.⁵¹ Stern, who claimed that he was forced to “intervene in this dispute against my will”, suggested that the disputants present their cases before a rabbinic court accepted by both parties. He concluded by expressing the hope that “they would make an effort to walk the path of peace”. We do not know how this stage of the dispute ended. However, ten years later, after the rise of new community leadership, the conflict re-erupted with greater intensity. At this point, the opponents of Dimant struck at his income and apparently publicly shamed him as well.⁵² As was the practice, the dispute was handed over to the arbitration of three of the most important rabbis of north Lithuania: Alexander Kaplan of Kupiškis, Nehemia of Ramygala, and Mordekhai Eliasberg of Bauska. They were later joined by R. Eliyahu David Rabinowitz-Te’omim of Panevėžys.⁵³ In the arbitration ruling, which was published in full in the Hebrew press,⁵⁴ the four agreed that “while we found no reason to cast aspersions on the rabbi’s honor”, they accept his decision to leave his rabbinic post.⁵⁵ Reading between the lines, it can be assumed that in exchange for his concession, Dimant received some kind of compensation. Regardless, his opponents ultimately pre-

 Te’omim 1909, 18; Heilperin 1945, 473.  See, for example, Halevanon, September 11, 1874.  Stern 1898, orakh haim, para. 15 – 17.  Hamelitz, August 24, 1883; December 17, 1883; January 14, 1884.  Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27.  Hamelitz, January 25, 1884.  Sometime later, the local rabbinate was given to R. Mordekhai Rabinowitz, the father-in-law of rabbi Rabinowitz-Te’omim (Rabinowitz-Te’omim 1982, 27).

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vailed, and he was forced to travel far to the south to serve as community rabbi of Simferopol.⁵⁶ Another example to a move that eventually led to the dismissal of a community rabbi, took place in the Jewish community of Telšiai in north Lithuania in the 1880s, during the tenure of R. Avraham Aba Werner, who served as both rabbi and head of the rabbinical court.⁵⁷ It seems that two years prior to the event, relations between R. Werner and the community institutions had soured. According to one source, over the course of this period, the rabbi did not receive his salary. At the same time, a group of locals attempted to hire a rabbinic scholar, representing the de-facto appointment of a second rabbi. When R. Werner traveled to Kaunas to tend an issues related to the residence-rights of Jews in the surrounding villages, his opponents seized the opportunity to send a rabbinic offer to R. Eliezer Gordon, who at that time was serving as the community rabbi in the town of Kelmė. R. Gordon accepted the offer, ignoring R. Werner’s claim that this could mean that he would never receive the money owed to him by the community. When R. Werner returned to Telšiai, he informed the community leadership that he was willing to step down provided he would receive the money owed to him. However, the community leaders not only had no issue with the arrival of R. Gordon, but also agreed to nothing except “to pay back what is owed to him over a long period and in installments”. R. Werner turned again to R. Gordon, requesting that “he not cut off his livelihood”, or alternatively that he refuse to assume the position until the debt was settled. Once again, R. Gordon refused the request and R. Werner was officially dismissed. With no other choice, he was forced to leave the rabbinic throne and to move to Helsinki, where he had been offered a similar position.⁵⁸ The second non-formal type of dismissal took place when locals exerted pressure on the rabbi, believing that he had harmed them in some way. R. Eliyahu Meir Feivelsohn described such an event: “A person who was not acquitted in a rabbinical court case or a strongman whose counsel about city matters [was not heeded] threatens the rabbi with a day of reckoning soon to arrive – ‘I will

 Kneset Hagedolah 1890, 32– 34.  Hamelitz, July 20, 1883. The editor of the newspaper who published the article noted that “the writer is a reliable person”. During these years, the poet Yehuda Leib Gordon, who moved from Telšiai to St. Petersburg but a few years earlier, was a member of the editorial board of this newspaper, and it is reasonable to assume that the information about the event was obtained through his connections in this city. Ten days later, one of Telšiai’s residents was furious that after the article was published “some locals were very upset,” but he did not deny the facts, Hamelitz, July 30, 1883.  From the early 1890s, Werner served as rabbi of the ultra-Orthodox congregation in London.

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show the rabbi who and what I am! I will seal his source of livelihood and that of his family’”. The result was, as he describes, that these figures succeeded in “forcing the rabbi of the city to leave without any alternative rabbinic position. And this famous rabbi was forced for many days to wander about with no bread”.⁵⁹ This reality was the fate of several rabbis. For example, R. Azriel Aryeh Rakovsky was forced to leave his position in the community of Plock after seventeen years due to a movement to depose him initiated by the locals.⁶⁰ Likewise, R. Yekhiel Lasky was forced to step down from the rabbinic throne in Sompolno, a mere seven months after his appointment.⁶¹ Apparently, rabbis threatened with dismissal could, directly or indirectly, marshal in their defense the stance of the great halachic authorities. As described above, these types of controversies were sometimes presented to contemporary rabbis and halachists. A review of the rabbinic discourse of the time shows that most halachists did not see anything essentially wrong with limiting a rabbi’s tenure. As noted by R. Moshe Isserlesh: “In a place where it is the custom to accept a rabbi for a predetermined amount of time, or the custom is to choose whomever they wish, they are allowed to do so”.⁶² That being said, when it came to actually dismissing a serving rabbi before the end of his tenure, things were somewhat more complicated. A prevalent view among halachic authorities was that while the rabbi could choose to step down from his position whenever he wanted, the community could only dismiss him when his tenure, as stipulated in the writ of rabbinic appointment came to an end, unless “they found in him some wrongdoing”.⁶³ Replacing one rabbi with another was impossible according to some of the participants in this discussion. The serving rabbi is considered to have hazaka over the rabbinic position, they claimed.⁶⁴ Another relatively rare approach stated that local customs were the determining factor: “If it is the local custom to [remove] the rabbi when the time comes and to appoint others in his stead, then there is no place to doubt [the legality of such an action]”.⁶⁵ However, even if the prevalent halachic approach maintained that one

 Hamodi’ah, December 5, 1913.  Hamelitz, November 30, 1880.  Hazefirah, July 3, 1896.  Shulhan Arukh, yoreh de’ah, para. 245. See also Sofer 1912, orakh haim, para. 206.  Eisenstadter 1852, yoreh de’ah, para. 95; Medini 1891, VIII, ma’arekhet hazaka bemitzvot, para. 1; Epstein 1893, hoshen mishpat, para. 333; Sofer 1912, orakh haim, para. 206; Taikhtel 1974, 220 – 231.  Frenkel 1885, yoreh de’ah, para. 21; Yerushalimsky 1901, 145; Daitch 1913, III, para. 82; Shperber 2002, hoshen mishpat, para. 304.  Palachi 2000, V, para. 283.

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could not simply force a rabbi to leave his position, attempts to exercise or appeal to these halachic rulings were quite limited. It seems that the reason that rabbis forced to leave their position rarely appealed to the Halacha in their defense can be attributed to two factors: The one is that halachic authorities or at least some of them, ignored the historical reality or at least pretended to do so. It is difficult to take seriously R. Moshe Sofer’s claim that “We have never heard such a thing that after his time has elapsed, he should leave his rabbinate”, as well as R. Yekhiel Mikhl Epstein’s assertion that “this is the custom in all of the Jewish Diaspora”. They surely were aware of the halachic and historical discussions revolving around the dismissal of rabbis – not to mention that this was precisely what was taking place around them. Therefore, it seems that the halachic discourse on this issue was essentially disconnected from reality; its relevance to real-life events was consequently very marginal. The second factor is that community rabbis understood well how little powerful locals felt subject to the rulings and instructions of great halachists, at least when it came to the question of the rabbinate. As we have seen at length, such figures simply ignored the halachic prohibition of buying and selling rabbinic positions and the political and economic elites flagrantly ignored such instructions. Likewise, locals did not seem too concerned that in failing to pay the salaries of their rabbis that they were committing some halachic wrongdoing. One can certainly assume that those participating in rabbinic arbitration councils, who were often called to preside over such cases, were well aware of the halachic discourse revolving around this issue and even cited such precedents in their rulings. However, they also knew the reality and the limits of their power. Therefore, their primary goal was to bring the two sides to compromise. In some cases, the rabbi’s departure was a traumatic event for the community – especially if the locals had admired the rabbi and when he left on good terms as opposed to controversial circumstances. In such cases, community members did everything in their power to stop a rabbi from leaving – and sometimes even succeeded. For example, when the rabbi was “in their hands in matters related to money”, as described by rabbi Haim Berlin when he tried to leave the community of Kremenchug.⁶⁶ In other cases, when the community rabbi decided to accept a position elsewhere, the locals made peace with his departure. For example, in 1858, when R. Yekhiel Heller informed the community of Suwalki that he planned to leave and serve as the rabbi of the community of Plungė, the

 Shahor 1993, 315, 369. On the consent of R. Shimon Shkop to respond to the pleas of members of his community, Bryansk, not to leave them for the rabbinate of Šeduva, see Hmodi’ah, September 15, 1910.

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locals “begged the rabbi not to leave them like sheep without a shepherd or pathfinder”. Ultimately, however, they did not stand in his way.⁶⁷ To demonstrate the extent to which nomadism was an essential component of rabbinic life, it is worth reading how Aharon Teleshevsky, son of R. Levi Yitzhak Teleshevsky describes the employment-history of his father: He received a rabbinic writ from a settlement in Ekaterinoslav province, and he made his dwelling there. Then they call him to be a rabbi in a suburb of the city of Ekaterinoslav. However, because of the dispute and strife that prevailed there, and which caused improper events, he picked up and received a rabbinic position in Uzava, of that province. Because my father was a God-fearing man and his heart truly trembled before God’s word, he could not remain a rabbi while watching wrongdoing; he could not watch as men, who were responsible for the kashrut and the heads of the community, willfully violated the laws of the Torah. He fought with them and they embittered his life, persecuted him, and robbed him of peace until his soul could no longer bear them. Then he received a position in a large settlement in the province of Kherson. This community was notable for its constant disputes – and the rabbi as a hired laborer of the community was the target of their arrows. Therefore, my father could not dwell there and left. Then his soul was weary of the rabbinic position. Then the members of his home town of Uvarovichi called him to fill the position of their rabbi who had passed away. However, when the members of his household began to multiply, and his salary was not enough to sustain them, he accepted a rabbinic position in Žytkavičy, and from there he was called to Nosovka, in Chernigov province, to serve as rabbi. There was the end of his wanderings.⁶⁸

As described above, Teleshevsky was not alone. A review of our data demonstrates that only half of the community rabbis examined in this study (about 1,500) served only one community over the course of their life. 26 % served at least two communities, 13 % three communities, and 21 % four or more.⁶⁹ A similar picture arises from a review of contemporary literature, especially hagiography.⁷⁰ A careful examination of this data does not point to a correlation between the wandering-patterns of a rabbi and the extent of his fame or prestige, the size of the community he served, and the existence of a tradition of bequeathing the

 Hamagid, July 15, 1858. On a similar phenomenon in the context of the Lithuanian Catholic clergy, see Sužiedelis 1977, 361– 362.  Teleshevsky 1909, 3.  These figures does not include service in communities outside of Europe, such as America and Palestine.  See, for instance, Horowitz 1978. The examination of the sources does not show any correlation between the extent of the wandering of one rabbi or another and his family status or status in the rabbinical world.

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rabbinate within the community he left or within the community at which he arrived.⁷¹ The very fact that almost half of the community rabbis examined in this study served in one community alone does, it seems, point to some degree of stability. As far as we know, some community rabbis succeeded in forging good relationships with their community members and some even were honored and valued as a result.⁷² However, given the greater number of accounts testifying to the difficulties that faced the community rabbi, his shaky public and social status, and his interminable financial woes, it seems likely that this reality did not necessarily derive from the great satisfaction his present position provided. Aversion from the long and complicated process of finding a new rabbinic position as well as the fact that the average age for finding one’s first rabbinic position was 28, may also have been important factors. Given these circumstances, it appears likely that a rabbi forced to choose between serving a community under complex and sometimes even impossible circumstances on the one hand, or the tiring process of contending for a new position, with small chances and unpredictable results on the other, would often favor the former. Nevertheless, if we take into account the period of yeshiva-study, the long journey in search for a position, as well as the fact that about half of the rabbis served in two or more communities, we can safely conclude that community rabbis represented one of the least stable groups in Jewish society at the time, if not the least stable of all. While religious functionaries frequently moved from one community to the next (slaughterers for example),⁷³ no other group in Jewish society viewed itself as one that should not, a priori, strike permanent roots in a given community. It was the only vocation that lived with a mentality of instability and peripateticism. At this point, the rabbi who decided to leave his position, or who was dismissed, could seek alternative employment in three other domains: 1) Other communities in Eastern Europe, including Galicia.⁷⁴ It can be assumed (and is suggested by an analysis of our data) that this was the preferred area for job searching for most rabbis. This was due to the (relative) geographical proximity as well as the familiar cultural milieu. An analysis of the travels of fifty

 As written in the introduction, this book does not deal with the ideological aspects of the community rabbis’ world. Therefore, I have not examined the correlation between the pattern of wanderings of one rabbi or another and his tendency toward conservatism or openness to non-traditional worldviews.  See, for instance, Halevanon, June 23, 1870; Graubart 1932, 241; Gluskin 1946, 22.  See, for instance, Kamin 1901, introduction.  Gertner 2013, 333.

2 “They camp in the place they have arrived but then move on”

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rabbis serving in four or more communities indicates that in the vast majority of cases the communities in which they served were in the heartland of the JewishLithuanian cultural sphere. Rabbis from this region traveled beyond Poland or to southern Ukraine or to the Caucasus, only in search for their first rabbinic position, were they were unemployed for a relatively long period, or because they had been offered a prestigious or well-paying position in one of these regions. The problem was that the chances of finding an alternative position close-by were relatively low. There was a surfeit of young talmud-scholars and experienced rabbis, who contended for every open rabbinic position. Chances became even harder to come by in the last two decades of the nineteenth century. This was because of the declining numbers of open rabbinic positions, a result of the massive trans-Atlantic migrations, which led to a concomitant decline in the size of the Jewish populations in this region. For this reason, some rabbis found positions in far-flung communities in the depths of Russia, regions in which residence required a special government permit. While receiving such a permit could take a long time and was not always guaranteed, some nevertheless took the risk. This was despite the anxiety this entailed, as attested by one contemporary: “The rabbis always fear the sound of a fallen leaf, and always have one foot where they are and the other elsewhere. All their dwelling is temporary, and the rabbis have no rest day or night. The only reason they travel into the heartlands of Russia is because of the daily challenges in the Pale of Settlement where it is extremely difficult to find a rabbinic position”.⁷⁵ b) Jewish communities in central and western Europe. The downside of this area was that it was part of the German-Jewish cultural sphere, which had undergone far-reaching religious and cultural changes over the course of the nineteenth century. Because many communities had adopted Reform Judaism, there was a drastic drop in the demand for Orthodox rabbis. Thus, the chances of finding a rabbinic position there were low as well.⁷⁶ 3) New Jewish communities across the Atlantic Ocean, primarily in North America.⁷⁷ Regardless of whether our protagonist turned to a nearby town, made his way to another community in Eastern Europe or in German-speaking lands, or traveled far across the sea, our discussion clearly demonstrates the sense of temporariness that characterized the rabbinic vocation. The rabbi’s signature on his letters, “khop”k” (encamped here, community …), encapsulated an important

 Kol Yaacov, June 11, 1908.  Lowenstein 1997.  Caplan 2002.

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component of his identity, his desire not to abandon the rabbinate despite the heavy price of perpetual instability and a life of constant wandering.

Epilogue “Master of the City”? In this book I explored the status of the community rabbi in the Pale of Settlement during the nineteenth century and his relationship with his community. He was known as the “master of the city”, one of the most prevalent titles used in both rabbinic literature as well as the Jewish public discourse to characterize the community rabbi’s position. This title originally limited to the halachic aspects of his position – i. e., his exclusive right to issue local halachic rulings. However, as time went on, the term began to transcend the boundaries of halacha, and some began to view the local rabbi as a figure whose views should carry decisive, and perhaps even exclusive clout, when it came to social and political issues as well. Regardless of the the halachic basis for such a view, this conception rose to prominence in rabbinical and hagiographical discourses; the rabbi came to be seen as the final word on a wide number of issues on the public agenda.¹ Indeed, in both popular memory as well as hagiographical accounts, the “master of the city” was remembered as a distinguished and powerful force in local Jewish communal life. This can be seen, for example, in the words of Shmuel Noah Gottlieb: Ever since Israel became a nation, the flag bearers of the Torah have been commanders of the nation, leaders of the camp. The Torah sages in every generation did not limit their activities to the four cubits of the laws of kashrut and family purity – but rather cast their gaze upon the spiritual and material needs of the nation. Israel, the holy nation, did not stray left or right from all that the elders and scholars of Torah instructed them. The spirit of Torah was sovereign throughout the House of Israel, in private lives, communal affairs, public needs, and issues pertaining to the nation as a whole. And the entire people bent its head, submitting to the discipline in the spirit of Torah and according to its flag-bearers.²

It should be noted that this conception has extended beyond the confines of the popular and hagiographical discourses emerging from an Orthodox milieu; it has gained traction in academic discourse as well. This is exemplified by the claim: “For more than a thousand years, the rabbis served as the leaders of the Jewish people”.³ The materials gathered, and conclusions reached by this study cast substantial doubt on the relevancy of the term “master of the city”.

 For various examples regarding the status of the local rabbi in meta-halachic areas, see Tennenbaum 1891, V, 113; Feinstein 1959, yoreh de’ah, III, 81; Tekhumin 2002, 21– 32.  Gottlieb 1912, 9 – 10. See also Kneset Hagedolah 1890, 28 – 32.  Stern 2011, 79. See also Berkovitz 2004, 264, 266. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-011

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That is to say, this study undermines the idea that the rabbi was an exalted and venerated figure – at least in the time period and geographical region discussed in this book. However, as I have shown, even before this time period, the community rabbi’s authority, whether it was his communal influence, or even his halachic power, was heavily curtailed by the community and its representatives. This was accomplished through formal rules and measures as well as social and political power structures. In the period discussed in this book, the rabbi’s power was, in other words, severely limited – a fact that had an important influence on his public status. This was a consequence not only of the many issues discussed at length in this book, but also due to the fact that beginning in the 1860s, the rabbinic institution as a whole was targeted as part of a wider assault on traditional institutions – launched in the public discourse and the Jewish print-press, spearheaded at first by those subscribing to a post-enlightened worldview, and later by socialists. True, this criticism was not specifically aimed at community rabbis. The rabbinic world as a whole was targeted. Nevertheless, as the rabbinic world of the time was comprised primarily of community rabbis, it was they who bore the brunt of these critiques. Currently, there is no dedicated study describes the level of influence that this anti-legitimization campaign had on the rabbinic world as a whole. There is, however, little doubt that its influence was felt primarily among the young generation – those who grew up during the Sturm und Drang era, at the end of the nineteenth century. It is true that some community rabbis – by virtue of their personality, erudition, or cordial relations with their community members – earned significant public authority and recognition with their communities and farther afield. However, as indicated by the public discourse of the era, as well as the many sources revolving around this issue, many of the rabbis of small and medium communities were forced to serve under the limitations and constraints described in detail in this book, preventing them from leaving their mark on a reality in flux. Thus, describing the “second-circle” rabbis, author and publicist Mordekhai ben Hillel Ha-Cohen, wrote the following: The rabbis have ceased to be honored by the people. Business partners and merchants no longer turn to the rabbis to judge their cases or to help them to reach a compromise. Even the middle-class bourgeoise, not to mention members of the upper-middle class and the rich have no desire to marry their daughters with rabbis. When it comes to communal issues or the public needs, the voices of rabbis are not heeded. All in all, the state of rabbis is awful, both materially and spiritually.⁴

 Ben Hillel 1904, 273.

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This feeling was not limited to spectators. Those within the rabbinic milieu were equally aware of this reality and feared that the very existence of the rabbinate was in peril. This can be seen clearly in the desperate appeal of R. Avraham Shimon Traub, that already in the 1860s attests that: “only with difficulty are the voices of any of the rabbis heard. Let those who will hear, hear, and let those who refuse to hear, refuse”.⁵ Likewise, R. Yekhiel Yaacov Weinberg, whose voice was a ubiquitous presence throughout the Jewish public discourse at the beginning of the 1910s, wrote: The rabbinic question demands an immediate and complete solution, a radical solution, a solution that will dispel controversy and incoherence and will showcase the rabbinate as a strong, paved road, so that it will no longer hang upon air alone. My friends! The rabbinate will be turned into stomping grounds for every ignoramus and boor; every untalented person who cannot succeed in other trades [will want to] become a rabbi. The lowliness of the rabbinate will lead Torah to be forgotten; the rabbinate will be abandoned by those fruitful talents that are in our midst. Can we really demand that the people venerate rabbis whose rabbinic character is so inadequate? [Can we do so] if they have lost the honor that is accorded to them by virtue of their Torah [learning]? The time has come for the great leaders of our nation to gather and save the rabbinate, which is in danger of decay.⁶

It can be argued that these writers were less concerned about rabbis than they were pained by the general state of the Jewish community at the time. Discussions of the community rabbinate were, in effect, discussions of the Jewish communities, and especially the local economic and political elites. These elites were responsible for shaping every facet of the community rabbi’s professional life: from the moment he applied for a position up to his final days when he made plans for the future of his wife and children. It was they who essentially determined the character of the community rabbinate during the time period discussed here. Thus, one of the main conclusions of this study is that the community rabbi was a tragic victim to the social, political, and economic circumstances of the time – an embodiment of the lament of the Talmudic sage, Rabbi Yohanan: “Woe to the rabbinate, which buries its possessor”.⁷ “The historian cannot know what transpired in the souls of history’s protagonists – their hidden motivations, the movements of their subconscious”, wrote Yoav Gelber.⁸ Nevertheless, we can say with some confidence that, left to his own devices, the community rabbi would have preferred to dedicate most of his time

   

Hakarmel, May 21, 1868. Hamodi’ah, August 4, 1911. Babylonian Talmud, tractate Pesakhim, 87/2. Gellber 2007, 84.

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to study, teaching, halachic adjudication, and shaping the religious and ethical life of his community members. Instead, he was forced to contend with a reality in which his views were a lone voice in the wilderness. In this context, it seems that the “trial period” of many rabbis, the protagonists of our book, was extremely short. The powers opposing the rabbis greatly outmatched them; the odds of successfully contending with such adversity – of realizing their calling, of doing what they had imagined they would do as rabbis when they had studied in yeshiva – were astronomical from the onset. One can say many things about the community rabbi. However, it appears that, when it came to anything lying beyond the narrow confines of halacha, he was seldom accorded the status of a “master of the city”.⁹ It is likely that his voice was sometimes heard in discussions of a public nature. But it was one voice out of many. This reality also had an impact on the rabbi’s status outside of the community and influenced the general character and perception of the community rabbinate during this period.¹⁰ If indeed, as argued above, the community rabbinate was in a state of crisis during this period, this raises the question: How and why did this reality persist up to the end of the period? The answer to this question is related, in my opinion, more than anything else, to community interests. First, it should be recalled that this was a society in which religion and halacha constituted inseparable parts of its culture and consciousness. Even when some members of a community became secular, the majority of the community still required – on a daily basis – a religious-halachic authority who could be consulted regarding questions of kashrut, family purity, sabbath observance, and more. True, as we explained in the first part of this book, this communal need could be satisfied through other channels as well: for example, by a local scholar, as opposed to an appointed rabbi. Nevertheless, a community’s maintenance of a rabbi without a doubt contributed to its image and prestige – certainly to outsiders. Second, in light of everything discussed in this book, we can conclude that the weaker the socio-economic and public status of the rabbi was, the easier it was for a community to maintain him. A powerless rabbi with little influence posed no meaningful threat to powerful community figures. Furthermore, as described above, quite often, the rabbi did not even constitute a financial burden. From another perspective – that of the rabbis themselves – the existence of a community rabbinate, however weak or feeble, nevertheless guaranteed some level of employment for hundreds of yeshiva graduates. Likewise, it offered a

 Hutner 2004, para. 132; Lowenthal 2007, 606 – 619.  Hamelitz, April 25, 1869.

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chance, even if it was a very small one, for some amount of social mobility – be it improvement in one’s economic conditions or meriting prestige and status within the “rabbinic republic” of the time. All of these interests guaranteed that the community rabbinate would be maintained one way or another – even if it was by virtue of nothing more than inertia. As described in the introduction to this book, this study was limited to an exploration of the social and economic aspects of the community rabbi’s life in a specific time and place. It seems, however, that much of the data presented here, as well as the discussion and conclusions, can serve as a basis for the exploration of a wide range of issues that have yet to be broached. For example, future studies could explore the ideological orientations that characterized these rabbis; their scholarly-halachic discourse; the relationship between their position and their conservative or liberal leanings; the status and public image of the community rabbi throughout the twentieth century; and the ways in which the community rabbinate was shaped in new Jewish communities – those communities established by the millions of Jews who emigrated from Europe in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Likewise, the relationship between the world of the rabbinate and that of the community clergy, only glossed upon in this book, deserves a more detailed study – certainly in places where the geographical, and sometimes even cultural, divide between Jewish and non-Jewish communities was less than rigid. Another subject, which naturally lies beyond my expertise as a historian, is a discussion of the psychological aspects of the community rabbi’s world. Studies of this type, which have gained greater attention in scholarship on the clergy, would, without a doubt, be an important contribution to completing the picture which I tried to sketch in broad strokes in the present study. * When I first embarked upon this long journey to trace the footsteps of these rabbis, my presumption was that my research subjects would be important and influential figures within their communities. I also thought that community members would do everything in their power to honor and respect them. However, due to everything discussed in this book, when I reached the end of this exciting journey, I felt the same as Yesha’ayahu Sonne, whose contribution to the study of the rabbinate is invaluable: “We are used to viewing the community rabbi as the pillar of the Jewish community and its internal religious life, a counterpart to the leaders who represented the community in its secular life. The fact that religious life was a critical factor in the lives of nineteenth century Jewry planted the seeds for the view that, in previous centuries, the rabbi was a powerful communal

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force. The documents which I have discussed here will undermine this prevalent outlook”.¹¹ Likewise, I believe that the words of R. Meir Shapira, written in the early 1920s, clearly and sharply encapsulate the conclusions implied by this book: In years to come, when a historian decides to write a history of the Jewish people and to chronicle its different time periods, he will study the cultural life of each generation, evaluating and rendering judgment according to his own opinion and perspective. When he arrives at the activity of rabbis in our time, he will find empty pages, sheets devoid of writing. When he arrives at our present day, he will find rabbis who neither move nor act, rabbis who neither influence nor do anything at all.¹²

 Sonne 1941, 146.  Varshaviak 1925, 156.

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Index of Names and Sites Abramsky, Yehezkel 140, 194 Aisheshuk 18 Altona 50, 202 Altshul, Akiva 19 Alytus 192 America 98, 143, 187, 189, 193, 198, 207, 209 Amsterdam 42, 52, 202 Amsterdam, Naftali 52 Antopol 52 Antsilevitz, Zalman 193, 194 Anykščiai 182 Arlozorov, Avraham Yehezkel 159 Ashkenazy, Eliezer 202 Augustów 48 Avraham Mordekhai Alter of Gur 93 Avrekh, Zeev Wolf 32, 134 Babitzky, Nahum 184 Baisogala 73 Balbieriškis 53, 131 Bamberg 202 Barzily, Isaac 4 Bass, Leib Noah 66, 67 Bauska 203 Bazanów 50 Belarus 5, 19 Belliustin, Ioaan Stefanovich 13, 76, 77, 103, 140, 146, 153, 167, 188 Bengis, Zelig Reuven 52 Benmelekh, Motti 101 Berdichevsky, Mikha Yosef 174, 183 Bereza 115 Berezhany 163 Berezne 147 Berkovitz, Jay 3 Berlin 70,152 Berlin, Haim 45, 52, 54, 55, 75, 206 Berlin, Naftali Zvi Yehuda 4, 75, 160 Berman, Moshe 32 Bernays, Isaac 152 Bernitzky, Meir Yonah 191 Bernstein, Avraham Zeev 80, 168 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110711622-013

Białystok 19, 34, 42, 43, 51 Biaroza 147 Biržai 53 Blazer, Yitzhak 30, 52, 54, 188 Bloom, Jack 4, 31, 121, 132, 134, 172 Bobruisk 19, 30, 45, 135 Bonfil, Robert 3 Bonyhad 79 Borenstein, Avraham 89, 93 Bornstein-Makovetsky, Lea 3 Borochov, Abba Yaacov 22 Braverman, Haim 175 Brest 34, 42 Breuer, Mordechai 3, 49, 53,101 Brodno, Shlomo Mordechai 29 Broin, Israel Haim 91, 92 Brook, Avraham Yaacov 29 Bryansk 30, 206 Bulka, Reuven 139 Bunimovsky, Ben-Zion 29 Caplan, Kimmy 3198 Chernigov 6, 207 Chişinău 34, 45, 46 Cohen, Aharon Mendel ,92, 93, 121 Corfu 85 Cyprus 202 Częstochowa 34, 105, 126 Dainovsky, David 32 Daitch, Haim Eliezer 79 Daitch, Michael 163, 164, 165 Darbėnai 36 David Tevel 42 Derechyn 55 Dimant, Binyamin Bali 22, 32, 203 Diskin, Yehoshua Leib 22 Dobele 156 Don-Yehiya, Eliezer 22 Druskininkai 78 Dubno 34 Dvinsk 67, 135

Index of Names and Sites

Działoszyce 34 Dzisna 147 Egypt 202 Eiger, Akiva 4,60, 111, 112 195 Eisenshtadt, Avraham Zvi 22 Ekaterinoslav 6, 176, 194, 207 Eliasberg, Mordekhai 29, 125, 203 Eliasberg, Yehonatan 22, 125, 191 Eliashsohn, Yehoshua 48 Emden, Yaacov 198 Epstein, Barukh 22, 196, 197, 201 Epstein, Shalom 194 Epstein, Yekhiel Mikhl 55, 136, 144, 197 Etkes, Immanuel 4, 30 Feigenbaum, Shalom Yosef 32 Feimer, Yosef 42 Feinberg, Gavriel 29 Feinberg, Shabtai 29 Feivelsohn, Eliyahu Meir 53, 87, 88, 96, 102, 129, 130, 141, 146, 149, 204 Feldman, Eliyahu 75 Finn, Shmuel Yosef 41 155 Flansberg, Haim Yirmiyahu 131 Flekser, Yaacov 32 France 3, 36, 41 Frankfurt Oder 42, 70 Fredkin, Shneur Zalman 29, 127 Freeze, ChaeRan 186 Freeze, Gregory 13 Freidin, Yehoshua 138 Freind, Naftali 80, 177 Friedman, Avraham 32 Friedman, David 44 Fruman, Shlomo 32 Galicia 4, 6, 35, 49, 68, 70, 73, 93, 208 Geisin 180, 182 Gelber, Yoav 213 Genessin, Yehoshua Nathan 32 Germany 3, 36, 49, 151 Gertner, Haim 4, 35, 49, 163 Gintzburg, Aryeh Leib 202 Ginzburg, Aharon 32 Girkalnis 135 Glasgow 55 Gliksberg, Shimon 137, 140

241

Goldsmidt, Moshe 32 Goldsmidt, Shmuel 32 Gordon, Eliezer 4, 89, 90, 204 Gordon, Raphael 185 Gordon, Yehuda 201 Gordon, Yehuda Leib 164, 204 Gottlieb, Shmuel Noah 88, 211 Grade, Haim 196 Graubart, Issachar Ber 29 Graubart, Yehuda Leib 29, 95, 171, 179, 183 Greenhouz, Nahum 81, 88 Grodno 6, 7, 19, 42, 133, 202 Grodzinski, Haim Ozer 43 Grunis, Asher 80 Grossman, Avraham 3 Grunwald, Yekutiel Yehudah 63, 77, 96 Gurliand, Haim Yona 84 Ha-Cohen, Bezalel 25 Ha-Cohen, Meir Simcha 29, 31 Ha-Cohen, Mordekhai ben Hillel 212 Hacker, Joseph 3 Hadyach 147 Hagiz, Moshe 83 Haim of Volozhin 4, 20, 109, 133 Halberstam, Haim 171 Halpern, Haim 51 Halpern, Raphael 22 Hamburg 42, 50, 51, 152 Harel, Yaron 3 Harkavy, Abraham 15,176 Heller, Israel 32 Heller, Yehoshua 137, 191 Heller, Yekhiel 206 Heller, Yom Tov Lipman 83 Helman, Dov Ber 160 Helsinki 204 Hendelsman, Yaacov Natan 32 Heschel, Avraham Yehoshua 172 Holland 36 Horowitz, Eliezer Moshe 22 Horowitz, Moshe 104 Horowitz, Moshe Shmuel 29 Horowitz, Shabtai Sheftel 83 Horowitz, Yehoshua Falk 32 Horowitz, Zeev 74

242

Index of Names and Sites

Horowitz, Zvi 201 Hovav, Yemima 186 Hungary 3, 63 Hyman, Paula 186 Ideltsik, Avraham Haim 32 Ilovitsky, Yeshaayahu Eliezer 48 Ish Horowitz, Elazar Moshe 160 Israel Meir of Radin 55 Isserlein, Israel 26, 63 Isserlesh, Moshe 205 Italy 3, 36, 151, 202 Iwye 147 Izabelin 80, 115, 147 Jalowka 19 Janavičy 160 Jasionówka 162 Josvainiai 78 Kahaniu, Moshe Nehemiah 22 Kalisz 34, 133 Kamai, Eliyahu Barukh 55 Kaniel, Assaf 4 Kantor, Yehudah Leib 76 Kaplan, Alexander 203 Kaplan, Zeev 80 Karlin 44 Karo, Yosef Haim 127 Katzenelenbogen, Meir 162 Katzenelenbogen, Shaul 90, 92 Katzenelenbogen, Yoel Yitzhak 29 Kaunas 6, 42 – 44, 46, 52, 182, 204 Kėdainiai 18, 33 Kelmė 204 Kharkov 159, 160 Khelm 147 Kherson 6, 207 Khorostkov 69 Kiev 6 Kletsk 73 Kluger, Shlomo 4, 163 Kobryn 42, 52, 56, 61, 73, 75 Kobylniki 135 Kolker, Binyamin 32 Konotop 147 Konska Wola 200

Kook, Avraham Yitzhak 55 136 Kosava 147 Kosow 56 Krakės 77 Krakinava 134 Krakow 26, 71, 79, 83, 89, 92, 121, 184, 202 Krāslava 135 Kremenchug 45, 56, 206 Kremer, Eliyahu [“Vilna Gaon”] 4 Kretinga 36 Krevo 200 Kriūkai 96 Krynki 134 Kudirkos Naumiestis 21 Kupiškis 53, 96, 203 Kurland 6 Kuty 79 Laižuva 163. 164 Landa, Menahem Mendel 26, 85 Landa, Y. L. 188 Landa, Yekutiel Zalman 29, 200 Lang, Yehoshua 131, 136 Lapidot, Alexander Moshe 21 Lasky, Yekhiel 205 Leiter, Yekhiel Mikhl 96 Lemberg [Lwow] 195, 202 Leszno 34 Levin, Aharon 127 Levin, Eliyahu 55, 113 Levin, Reuven 22 Levin, Shemaryahu 149 Levinbuk, Yitzhak Noah 192 Levitats, Isaac 7 Levitas, Yekutiel Zalman 156 Levitas, Zvi Hirsh 29 Lewin, Daniel 4, 82 Lifshitz, Yaacov 26, 43, 44, 66, 67, 73, 85, 86, 88, 170 f., 195 Lifshitz, Zeev Dov 22 Lifshitz, Zvi Hirsh 29, 187 Lintop, Pinhas 53, 85, 88 Lipniszki 21 Lipno 81 Litevsky, Mordekhai Menahem 65

Index of Names and Sites

Lithuania 5, 12, 18, 30, 33, 36, 48, 55, 56, 66, 70, 73, 80 – 82, 89, 90, 96, 102, 104, 109, 128, 134 f., 135, 162, 172, 203, 204 Litvak, Binyamin 183 Łomża 34 London 204 Lublin 42, 71, 95, 127 Ludza 135 Lunz, Eliezer 163 Luria, Shlomo 26 Lyck 17 Lygumai 73, 104 Maizel, Eliyahu Haim 29, 31 Malecz 73 Manekin, Rachel 4 Margaliot, Avraham Dov 29, 32 Margaliot, Nakhman 29, 137 Margaliot, Yehuda Leib 50, 151 Margaliot, Yitzhak 78 Marijampolė 125 Maskil Le-Eitan, Avraham Yitzhak 29 Mažeikiai 134, 135 Medalia, Shmaryah Yehuda 29 Meirov, Shaul Zelig 111 Meizels, Pinhas Eliyahu 36 Melinik, Tuvia 138 Meller, Shimon 77 Meller, Yona 78 Melnitsa 68 Merokhova 147 Metz 42 Mikhelzon, Zvi Yehezkel 73, 97, 199. Mikhlin, Dov 198 Mikulov 83 Mindlin, Yoel Gershon 29 Minor, Zalkind 44 Minsk 6, 19, 21, 34, 42 – 44, 46, 72, 115, 147, 202 Mir 18, 19, 22, 28, 73, 103 Mironov, Boris 114, 116 Mishkovsky, Haim Aryeh 111 Mogilev 6, 42 Mohilever, Shmuel 29, 31, 48, 51 Moravia 33, 41, 71, 82 Mozyr 193

243

Nadvorna 68 Natan, Katriel Aharon 48 Natansohn, Yosef Shaul 4 Nehemia of Ramygala 203 Nieśwież 115 Nissan, Moshe 28 Noruk, Zvi Hirsh 137 Nosovka 207 Novogrudek 25, 197 Novozybkov 30, 136 Odessa 17 Olsvanger, Yitzhak Zeev Orlansky, Yehudah 75 Ovtsinsky, Levi ,28 Ozernitsa 138

22

Padva, Shaul 32 Pakruojus 172 Palanga 36 Pale of Settlement 4 – 6, 8, 9, 16, 41, 60, 114, 117, 174, 175, 186, 193, 209, 211 Panevėžys 42, 51, 56, 135, 178, 183, 185, 203 Pasvalys 203 Peretz, Yitzhak Leibush 168, 172 Perlman, Yerukham Leib 22, 44 Perlmutter, Yechiel Aharon 16 Pervoznik, Menahem 135 Piaseczno 73, 78 Piekarz, Mendel 171. Pilviškiai 57 Pinnes, Moshe Shmuel 42 Pinnes, Yekhiel Mikhl 26, 62, 63, 84, 85, 88, 96, 167 Pinsk 19, 34, 192 Plateliai 80 Plock 199, 205 Pniewy 127 Pnin, Ivan Petrovitch 103 Podgaitse 77 Polak, Yaacov 202 Poland 4 – 6, 9, 12, 40, 41, 45, 46,70, 72, 76, 82., 83, 93, 94, 96, 99, 110, 114, 117, 143, 157 f., 158, 170, 175, 201, 202, 209 Polonus, Solomon 72

244

Index of Names and Sites

Polotsk 147 Poltava 6 Poznan 33, 34, 42, 72, 82, 83, 111, 112, 187, 189, 202 Prague 42, 108, 202 Pressburg 42 Prienai 52 Pruzhany 56, 72, 111, 200 Pukhavičy 135 Rabinowitz, Alexander Ziskind 19 Rabinowitz, Eliezer Simkha 48 Rabinowitz, Eliyahu Akiva 93, 154 Rabinowitz, Haim 163 Rabinowitz, Israel 32 Rabinowitz, Meir 32 Rabinowitz, Mordekhai 32, 203 Rabinowitz, Shmuel 29 Rabinowitz, Yitzhak 32, 105, 106, 126, 127 Rabinowitz, Zvi Hirsh 29, 137, 198 Rabinowitz-Te’omim, Eliyahu David 21, 31, 51, 54, 55, 103, 160, 182, 185, 203 Rabinowitz-Te’omim, Zvi Yehuda 137 Rabinson, Gershon 125 Radom 34, 45, 46, 48 Radviliškis 147 Raguva 73 Rakovsky, Azriel Aryeh 205 Ramygala 203 Rapoport, Moshe Noah 32 Rapoport, Yaacov Dov 55 Raseiniai 135 Ravitch 34 Rechytsa 135 Reikher, Yesha’ayahu 185 Reines, Moshe 102 Reines, Yitzhak Yaacov 8, 102 Riga 42, 54 Rogoler, Eliyahu 133, 134 Ronin, Moshe 32 Rosman, Murry 76 Roth, Meshulam 29,56, 68 – 70, 128, 129, 139, 143 188, 193 Różan 177 Rozin, Yosef 31,150 Rozintov 68 Rubashov, Eliezer 32

Rudnik, Yosef 75 Russia 12, 30, 47, 56, 61, 76, 101, 155, 169, 209 Salantai 18, 21 Salmon, Yosef 4 Salmon-Mack, Tamar 186 Sambor 127 Samogitia 56 Samonov, Ephraim 29 Saperstein, Marc 101 Sapir, Yaacov 83 Sapotskin 202 Sátoraljaújhely 91, 108 Šaukotas 66 Schneerson, Shmaryhu Noah 45, 61 Schorn-Chutte, Louise 11 Schwarzfuchs, Simon 3 Scotland 55 Šeduva 206 Segal, Moshe Yitzhak 22, 48 Seiny 48 Seirijai 34 Shahor, Yosef David 52 Shalman, Aryeh Leib 36 Shapira [Family] 142 Shapira, Eizik Leib 29 Shapira, Eliezer Yehoshua 138 Shapira, Haim 32 Shapira, Haim Eliezer 92 Shapira, Meir 216 Shapira, Shaul 29 Shapira, Yehoshua Ayzik [“Aizel Harif”] Shaul ben Moshe 71 Shifman, David 38 Shik, Eliyhu 2255, 137 Shkolnik, Shlomo 80 Shkop, Shimon 206 Shlofer, Yosef 105 Shmelkish, Yitzhak 73 Shmuel ben Avigdor 71, 202 Shohat, Azriel 7 Shor, Yaacov 79,91, 92 Shvadron, Shalom Mordekhai 97, 98 Šiaulėnai 163 Šiauliai 34, 134, 162 – 165, 199, 203 Šilalė 90

21

Index of Names and Sites

Silber, Michael 3 Simferopol 51, 202, 204 Skaitskalne 34 Slavuta 142 Slobodka 18, 19, 22 Slonim 18, 19, 34, 42, 73, 78, 102, 105, 115, 150 Slutsk 42 Sofer, Moshe 477, 206 Sokhaczew 89 Soloveichik, Avraham Baruch 29 Soloveichik, Yosef Dov 137 Soloveitchik, Haim 192 Sompolno 205 Sonne, Yeshaayahu . 215. Sorkin, Yaacov Yoel 32 Spector, Isaac Elhanan 4, 21, 25, 31, 43, 44, 46, 54, 86, 115, 158, 160, 161, 182 St. Petersburg 17, 200, 204 Stampfer, Shaul 4, 35, 37, 38, 186 Stanislawski, Michael 4. Stark, Yitzhak Nahan 32 Staszow 95 Stawiski 111 Stern, Yosef Zachariah 21,134, 162 – 165, 203 Suwałki 48 Sužiedelis, Saulius 128, 207 Švenčionys 134. 135 Svislach 147, 191 Tamrat, Aharon Samuel 37, 99 Tauragė 147 Teitelbaum, Yekutiel Yehuda 108 Teleshevsky, Aharon 207 Teleshevsky, Levi Yitzhak 50,207 Teller, Adam 4 Telšiai 34, 89, 191, 204 Tennenbaum, Malkiel 29 Tennenbaum, Shraga Zvi 73 Te’omim, Yitzhak Yosef 72 Tiktin 202 Toibesh, Aharon Moshe 179 Tolmechnik 68. 69 Tosfa’ah, Shmuel Avigdor 21 Traby 55 Trakai 81

245

Traub, Avraham Shimon 29, 33, 135, 142, 213 Traub, Shlomo Zalman 33, 176 Trivush, Hillel David 77, 85, 88, 133, 136 Tsioni, Aharon Zelig 22 Tsirelson, Yehuda Leib 45, 46,85 Tytuvėnai 163 Ukmergė 34, 202 Ukraine 5, 209 Uvarovichi 207 Uzava 207 Vain, Aharon 29 Vasilkov 185 Verona 151 Vidzy 200 Viešintos 48 Vilkaviškis 125, 191 Vilkija 133 Vilna 4, 6, 7, 17 – 19, 21, 25, 34, 43, 71, 72, 78, 88, 102, 133, 135, 137, 142, 143, 151, 164, 173, 182, 202 Vilovsky, Yaacov David 22, 170 Vitebsk 6, 7, 34, 182, 183, 199. 200 Volchin 138 Volhynia 6 Volkovysk 21, 45 Volozhin 4, 18 – 22, 25, 28, 75, 109, 133, 202 Voranava 147 Waldenberg, Eliezer 201 Walk, Zvi 55, 192 Wandsbek 50 Warsaw 17, 181 Wasserman, Shmuel Nakhman 29 Weinberg, Yekhiel Yaacov 15,57, 58, 67, 80, 85, 213 Weisblat, Nahum 32 Werner, Avraham Aba 204 White Russia 30, 57 Wien 83 Wilczyn 80 Wildman, Yehoshua Alter 200 Włocławek 125

246

Index of Names and Sites

Yaffe, Mordekhai Gimpel 165, 200 Yaffe, Shalom Elhanan 102 Yatzkan, Shmuel Yaacov 85 Yehuda ben Bezalel [Mahara“l of Prague] 108, 153 Yehuda Safra Vedayana 71 Yerakhmiel Israel Yitzhak of Alexander 93 Yerushalimsky, Moshe Nahum 99 Yohanan ben Saadia 151 Yonatan, Yehuda Leib 64 Yuval, Israel 3 Zakheim, Avraham 23, 79, 150, 168, 169 Zakheim, Moshe 29 Zaksh, Moshe 32 Zamość 38

Zarasai 18 Zarkhi, Shimon 22, 29 Zardin, Avraham Zalman 32 Zederbaum, Alexander 168 Žeimelis 55, 102 Žemaičiu Naumiestis 138 Zevin, Shlomo Yosef 80, 85, 136 Zhornishche 73 Zhuprany 78 Zimmer, Eric 3 Zohar, Zvi 3 Zolar, Yehuda 32 Żółkiew 108 Zukhovitsky, Pesakh 32 Žytkavičy 207