Bilhah Yinon: The Woman Who Created a New, Better World – From Scrap

Bilhah, who was murdered along with her husband on October 7, was an artist full of optimism, compassion, and good-heartedness. She dedicated her life to educating younger generations to love and preserve nature. The adorable children's book character she created is part of her legacy.

Mor Peled | 18.09.24

Bilhah and Ya'akov Yinon, and the book “Parparit, Gruti and Me" [Hebrew], written by Bilhah Yinon. Photo from her daughter’s Facebook page

”Gruti”, a riff on the Hebrew word gruta’ah (junk, scrap), is made of a can of juice, duct tape, bits of cloth, and plastic bottles. But for Bilhah Yinon, author of the books Gruti and Parparit, Gruti, and Me, Gruti is a guard dog and loyal friend she created to help connect us to nature and remind us to protect it. One could perhaps translate Gruti as “Scrappy”.

The book Gruti, which came out in 1993, is part of a long-standing vision of Bilhah’s, a vision in which members of the younger generation would be taught to protect nature, recycle, and create. Bilhah Yinon was an artist, an art teacher, and an educator, as well as a credentialed parental instructor at the Adler Institute. She lived in Netiv Ha’Asarah, a moshav (a cooperative agricultural community) located on the northern border of the Gaza Strip.

At age 56, she took an early retirement and set up a studio on the moshav. There she worked, taught, and produced art – primarily using the Mandala Method which serves as a form of meditative exercise and an artistic expression of universal human values, while also strengthening concentration and balance.

The studio is the only part of the home Bilhah shared with her partner Yaakov that remains standing today in Netiv Ha’Asarah. The events of October 7 cut their lives short – but they did not destroy the dreams, artworks, and love which Bilhah spread to her students, to her family, to her five children to whom she devoted her books, and to everyone who knew her.

Whatsapp Image 2024 08 25 At 12.30.38 (1) — Children’s books written by Bilhah Yinon and kept at the National Library: *Gruti* and *Parparit, Gruti, and Me*

Bilhah was designated as the last “missing person” of October 7. In early August 2024, the IDF confirmed that it had identified her body. That cursed morning, three terrorists infiltrated Netiv Ha’Asarah. Yaakov was murdered in the massacre and his body was identified.

Bilhah, meanwhile was designated as a “missing person” because there was no sign that she had been taken to Gaza and because no sign of her remains was found at first. Since the two were together, the family expected to hear the worst and even sat shivah for both of them the day after the massacre. Despite this, the ultimate confirmation of her death was painful, forcing the painful feelings and trauma back to the surface.

Her daughter Maayan Yinon spoke to us about Bilhah’s books which can be found at the National Library, as well as her mother’s worldview: “My father would always laugh at mom that she was a trash collector. She was really ahead of her time when it came to recycling. She would do amazing things,” Maayan told us. “I remember her artworks hanging up since I was a baby. It was part of the mindset of her and my father, who’s an agronomist. They had a connection to nature and the land, and she believed that the less you bought, the better.”

In the book Gruti, a lonely child decides to make himself a dog from scrap – who then becomes his friend. The child presents the dog to his parents, who aren’t big on the idea at first, but who later help their son collect more elements for his dog-doll. Gruti protects the child, the home, and the garden and reminds the family to protect nature.

Whatsapp Image 2024 08 25 At 12.30.39 — “*Cover the can with cloth, glue on a mouth, eyes and ears using cloth or felt…”* – instructions for how to make your own “Gruti” at the end of the book

In the book’s sequel Parparit, Gruti, and Me, the child and his good friend Gruti find a plastic bag in the street. They turn it into a butterfly doll called Parparit (“female butterfly” in Hebrew), who teaches them to be happy and dance. The two books contain a detailed description for children on how to make their own “Gruti” and “Parparit” with bottles, caps, bags, and more at the back of the book.

Maayan has the original Gruti doll from the book: “Originally, my mother and Maurizio the illustrator submitted the book’s text and illustrations to a scholarship fund and they won first prize. That’s how she published it. I remember her excitement when the books came, we were all excited. All the grandchildren were given a workshop on how to make their own Gruti and Parparit. At the party for my daughter’s fourth birthday, she and mom prepared a play for kindergarten based on the [Levin] Kipnis story, Shloshah Parparim [Three Butterflies]. Mom made three butterflies just like Parparit.”

Whatsapp Image 2024 08 25 At 12.35.42 — *“When Dad came to tell me good night, he saw Parparit in my bed…”* – From the book *Parparit, Gruti, and Me*

Literature, creativity, and the art of reading storybooks were all a part of Bilhah’s everyday life. She very much missed her grandchildren who live in London. Every morning, she would get up to read them a story by Zoom, and the grandchildren would sit and listen to Grandma Bilhah.

Bilhah’s connection to her children and grandchildren, both in Israel and abroad, was exceptional, and she chose to communicate with them using her various senses as well as their own creativity:

“She believed that that we’re allowed to feel anything and that [the children] should express their inner creativity. Her house was almost entirely devoid of things you needed to ‘protect’ and you could always act freely, even if something fell down. There was a lot of creativity around – paper, markers and blocks. You could always find something to do which didn’t involve watching a screen. This was at the core of the atmosphere in that house,” Maayan said.

“There was a ‘rage corner’ in the yard. Whoever was really angry and needed to get out their anger – got to do it there. She would give the children plates and you could break or throw them in that corner which had many shattered fragments of all sorts of plates. I am sorry I didn’t understand then just how much she understood children and youth. It took me time to understand, but the grandchildren were simply privileged to have a grandmother and grandfather who were very sensitive to their needs and who really understood them. No judgment.”

מהמשפחה — Bilhah reading a book to her grandchildren in London. Photo courtesy of her daughter Maayan

Bilhah and Yaakov were special people, who were connected to the land and who had a great deal of humor and love in their hearts. Bilhah would come each time with a new creative idea and Yaakov would encourage her and support her and her desire to do what she wanted. She used various materials from everyday life in her works, even collecting stones from around the world to create art that was full of life.

In the books she managed to publish, Bilhah wrote happy stories about magical places. Through these stories, she succeeded in delivering deeper messages about love, friendship, and overcoming difficulties, while weaving together reality and imagination. Today they carry on the memory of their author, who was murdered by Hamas terrorists – a woman who left behind a legacy which continues to touch many hearts.

“I learned from mom about the importance of ‘communicating at eye level’ with children and adults, on the possibility of creating in almost any situation, that it’s worth it to paint together or do something simple, a pleasant jaunt together, it’s very important,” Maayan said. “It was important for her to accumulate good experiences together and teach that the nature around us is just as sensitive as we are and that it’s important to protect it.”

Capture — *With great sorrow we announce the death of our grandfather and grandmother, our beloved mother and father, Bilhah and Ya’akov Yinon…”* – an obituary notice published on the Facebook page of Maoz Yinon, son of Bilhah and Ya’akov, on October 8, 2023

The family went through very difficult days upon learning of the certain death of Yinon, even though they already knew and assumed this was the case. Maayan, a body-mind therapist by profession, deals with the pain admirably:

“These are very challenging days. We feel great sadness and anger. But I want to stress – we have received love which accompanies us. First of all, the love of my parents is very much felt even now, and we also received love and support from many good people along the way. Every opportunity to talk about them, and any project done or planned in their memory provides hope and belief for me that we can establish a reality of gentleness, sensitivity, and beauty in this world even in terrible and difficult times.

“This is mom’s legacy. She would succeed in creating a magical, amazing, beautiful world within a complicated reality. She would find creative solutions for renewal amidst depression. So, if I choose to be here, then I must think how I want to feel. It’s true that it’s very hard right now. I don’t feel happiness, maybe for a few brief moments. But I do succeed in experiencing a sense of gratitude, for the family I had and have, and the parents I had.”

Lives Lost: The Works of the October 7 Fallen – A Special Project

The Search for a Jewish Book That Was Ordered to Be Destroyed 470 Years Ago

This incredible story begins with a quarrel among printers in 16th century Venice, which soon escalated to the point of burning Hebrew books on the orders of the Inquisition. The story continues with a globe-spanning search for a particular book saved from that fire. How does it end? With a twist of course…

Daniel Lipson | 11.09.24

Rescued from the flames: Commentary on Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Judah Lerma, Venice 1553

The smell of smoke reached the noses of the Jews of Rome as they stood in synagogue for Rosh Hashanah prayers on September 9, 1553. The smoke was coming from the Campo de’ Fiori, where thousands of volumes of the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud were burned on the orders of the Inquisition.

It all started a few years earlier, with an ostensibly marginal event in the history of Italian Jewry. Marco Antonio Giustiniani, scion of an aristocratic family in Venice, opened a new print shop, becoming a business rival of Daniel Bomberg’s famous printing press, which had enjoyed a monopoly on the printing of Hebrew books, and especially the Babylonian Talmud, for 30 years. Giustiniani printed an edition that was almost identical to Bomberg’s Talmud, with a few important additions. The competition between them grew more and more intense, and within three years Bomberg was forced to shut down his business.

יוסטיניאן — Tractate Makot, Babylonian Talmud, Giustiniani Press, Venice 1550

But hostility in the Hebrew printing sector only increased after this. Rabbi Meir Katzenellenbogen, the Rabbi of the Ashkenazi community in Padua, who was also known as the Maharam of Pauda, sought to publish Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah with his own glosses. Giustiniani refused for reasons of commercial viability but printer Alvise Bragadin agreed to take up the project. Following his printing of the book, Giustiniani copied the glosses to his own edition. Two editions, by Bragadin and Giustiniani, came out in 1550.

רמבם בראגדין — Maimonides’ *Mishneh Torah* with glosses by the Maharam of Padua, Bragadin, Venice 1550

Giustiniani explained in his book’s introductions that his aim was to lower the prices. Bragadin, meanwhile, accused his competitor of attempting to take over the market, raising prices, and ruining his work.

בראגדין מאשים — Bragadin accuses Giustiniani of fraud. Printed at the beginning the second part of his published edition of Maimonides’ *Mishneh Torah*

From here onward, things only got more complicated. The Maharam turned for advice to Rabbi Moshe Isserles, the Rema, in Krakow. The Rema ruled that Bragadin was in the right and forbad the purchase of Giustiniani’s editions of the Mishneh Torah. Still, scholars believe that Bragadin was not entirely above board, either, as it appears that either he or his workers also copied corrections from Giustiniani’s edition without providing credit or an explanation.

This commercial rivalry quickly devolved into a religious firestorm revolving around the printing of the Talmud. According to scholar Meir Benayahu, Bragadin planned to print an edition of the Talmud after Giustiniani had already done so. To prevent this, Giustiniani turned to Pope Julius III in Rome on the grounds that Bragadin’s Talmud contained anti-Christian content. In response, Bragadin said the same of Giustiniani’s Talmud. The Pope convened a council, which decided on August 12, 1553 to burn all Talmudic books on the next Rosh Hashanah.

The books of the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud were then burned in the Campo de’ Fiori in Rome on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, in 1553. The Pope then ordered this be done in all other Italian cities. In the following months, books were burned in Bologna, Venice, Ancona, Ferrara, and elsewhere. Officials of the Inquisition, who carried out the order, were not choosy in deciding which Talmudic volumes to burn, which meant that they simply burned most of the Hebrew-language books they found in the Jewish homes they searched. Only in May 1554 did a Papal order go out clarifying that only Talmudic books containing anti-Christian texts should be burned, and that Jews were permitted to hold other books which did not contradict the view of the Church.

Could it be that the only book to survive ended up at the NLI?

One of the books which went up in flames was the new volume by Rabbi Judah Ben Samuel Lerma: a commentary on Pirkei Avot (Masechet Avot). Two weeks after his book’s print run ended in Venice, the fire was lit in Rome. A month later, books were burned in Venice, with all 1,500 copies of Rabbi Lerma’s new book going up in flames instead of being sold to customers. But Lerma did not give up, and sat down to write his book anew:

They burned all the books I printed … Not one page was left to me from that printing, neither from the copy, and I was forced to go back and write it from my mind as in the beginning. And after I wrote three chapters of it, I found one book from the printing in the hands of Gentiles who took it from the fire, and I bought it with dear money and I saw that I was granted this by God, May He Be Blessed, and I made the second more complete than the first and I added many interpretations of wisdom…
(From the introduction to the second edition)

Fortunately for Rabbi Lerma, he managed to get his hands on a single copy of the first edition. The second edition came out in 1554 and was called Lechem Yehudah or “The Bread of Judah”. It was longer and included sermons integrated between the chapters.

A few years ago, I searched for Lechem Yehudah in the National Library’s online catalog. I saw that we had two copies: according to the catalog, they were published in 1554 by Tuvia Puah’s print shop in Sabbioneta, Italy.

Then I noticed something strange: there was another copy of the commentary on Pirkei Avot. From 1553.

Could it be that the only copy of the first edition, which somehow survived the flames in Rome, was here at the National Library of Israel?

קטלוג שלנו — Two editions of the book in the National Library catalog. One from 1554, and the other – 1553

I immediately ordered the book from our Rare Books Collection. It arrived within an hour. It wasn’t large, and had a simple grey cover. I opened it carefully and excitedly… but to my disappointment and surprise, it was a blurry photocopy rather than the original book. I looked through various inventory lists to see where we got it, but all they said was “copy.” Thank you, Captain Obvious.

So the only copy of Rabbi Lerma’s first edition was not in our collection. But we did have a photocopy, which meant the original was somewhere to be found. But where?

I searched catalogs in Israel and abroad, but in vain. The photocopy contained no stamp or registry number of a library. It could be the original was in the hands of a private collector or an institution disconnected from the global library network. I couldn’t find anything.

Plot twist: an anonymous tip

In 1850, Rabbi and bibliographer Eliakim Carmoly (1802-1875) printed a book in Frankfurt called Divrei Hayamim Kibnei Yihya which tells the story of the family of Don Yosef Nassi, who were Portuguese conversos. The book lists his descendants and the story of his family in Italy. It mentions how his great grandson, Rabbi Gedaliah, wrote a book called Shalshelet HaKabbalah, where he also addressed the burning of books in Italy. Rabbi Carmoly noted in a comment that he added the story of Rabbi Lerma from the introduction to the second edition of his book. And here’s where it gets interesting:

And here according to these things [the introduction to Lechem Yehudah – D.L.], the reader will deduce that only one book remained of the first printing bought by the author with dear money, and this is not [true – D.L.], for we saw two and three of these books.

And to prove that he personally saw such a copy, Rabbi Carmoly described what was written on the cover, also noting the number of pages, the book’s physical size and even the precise date upon which its writing was completed.

So there were at least two copies of this unique book somewhere in the world. But I had no leads, and I eventually just forgot about them.

One day while sitting at the NLI’s reference desk, a man approached me for help in locating a particular book. During our conversation, the matter of the Rome book burning came up, and he asked me if I knew the story of Rabbi Lerma’s book. I said that I did, adding that I knew there was an existing copy, but had no idea where it was. The man smiled and said the book could be found in Oxford. He then got up and left, and I never saw him again. My curiosity was rekindled.

I then checked the online catalog of the Bodleian Library at Oxford University, trying all sorts of spelling variations. I still came up empty.

More recently, I contacted the staff at the Bodleian regarding their collection. The librarian explained that antique Jewish books are not included in the online catalog but are instead registered in the printed Cowley catalog. Sir Arthur Ernest Cowley was an English librarian and Orientalist who ran the Oxford Library 100 years ago. One of his most famous works is A Concise Catalogue of the Hebrew Printed Books in the Bodleian Library. The Cowley catalog is written in English and claims to be a complete and precise list of all Jewish and Hebrew books at Oxford, as of 1927. Cowley worked 13 years to prepare it. On page 363, under Judah Lerma, I found both Rabbi Lerma’s books, the first of which is the 1553 edition of his commentary on Pirkei Avot.

From the Cowley catalog. The two books from 1553 and 1554 with their shelf numbers at Oxford]

The book’s shelf number in the catalog attests to its origin, as Opp. is short for Oppenheim, a reference to the book collection of Rabbi David Oppenheim (1664-1736), who was the Rabbi of Prague, owner of a huge and important book collection, and an author of books himself.

When he became the Rabbi of Prague, he left his large library with his father-in-law in Hanover, Germany. When he passed away in 1736, his granddaughter inherited the collection and later sold it to a relative in Hamburg. When the collection was put up for sale again, the books were listed under a catalog entitled Kohelet David. Page 208 mentioned Rabbi Lerma’s book from 1553.

Lehem660 — From Kohelet David, Rabbi David Oppenheim book catalog

In 1828, Rabbi Oppenheim’s collection was sold at a particularly low price to Oxford University and delivered in 34 boxes.

I turned to the deputy curator of the Judaica collection at Oxford. She checked the book for me and even sent over a photograph of the cover. You can see that despite some scribbled technical notes that have been added here and there, it’s clearly the same book that we have a photocopy of. The book saved from the Inquisition at Venice is now on the shelves of the Bodleian Library at Oxford. The lost book had been found!

השוואה 1153 — Right: Photocopy at the National Library of Israel. Left: the original book. (Courtesy of the Bodleian Library at Oxford)

But this incredible discovery at Oxford was not the end of the story. Remember how Rabbi Carmoly said there was more than one copy he saw? Well, I found another! And it was not simple at all.

The National Library’s Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts has been cataloging Hebrew manuscripts for 70 years. The National Library of Israel itself has some 14,000 physical Hebrew manuscripts in its collection. There are some 110,000 additional Hebrew manuscripts spread around the world, all of which are cataloged at the National Library, with copies of each one also preserved in our collection, in the form of either a digital scan or a photocopy.

One of the Jewish manuscript collections found abroad is that of the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence, Italy. The library, which is based on the private collection of the noble Medici family, was opened to the public in 1571. Like other such collections, the Medici collection is also cataloged by us based on the Laurentian catalog from 1757.

Among the manuscripts we have cataloged is one titled “A Commentary on Pirkei Avot by Judah Lerma: Venice Press, 1553″ (פרוש מסכת אבות ליהודה לירמא: דפוס ויניציאה, 1553) which I found. And so it turned out that among the manuscripts in the old catalog was a single printed book, another copy of Rabbi Lerma’s original book which was ordered burned by the Inquisition! According to the description, the book is attributed to Rabbi Isaac Abarbanel even though the true author is mentioned – “Iudas ben Samuel Lerma”. The book contains no direct reference to Abarbanel and the source of the error is unclear.

Commentary on Pirkei Avot, from the Laurentian library catalog, 1757

I of course turned to the Laurentian library, where they explained that sometimes old printed books end up in the manuscript collection. This specific book appears to have been in their library from its beginnings in the sixteenth century. A few years after the catalog was printed, the printed books were then delivered to the Magliabechiana Library, which is today the Florence National Library.

I immediately went to their digital catalog, and once again, it was far from easy. Titles of Hebrew books in the catalogue are written phonetically using Latin letters rather than in Hebrew. This is what is written in the title:

Pyrwš Mskt ʼbwt ʼšr ḥbr h.r Yhwdh yzyyʼ bn ʼyš ḥyl rb pʻlym km.r Šmwʼl Lyrmh sprdy zlh.h

Or as we would say:

Peirush Masechet Avot Asher Hiber Harav Yehudah YZYY”A [Yireh Zera Ya’arich Yamim Amen] Ben Ish Hail Rav Pe’alim Kemoreinu Rav Shmuel Lermah Sefardi zlhh (zichro lechayey ha’olam haba).

“A Commentary on Pirkei Avot Written by Rabbi Judah […] son of an exemplary and industrious man, our teacher Rabbi Shmuel Lerma Sefardi, may his memory be a blessing for the world to come”

Rabbi Carmoly was right. There were at least two surviving copies of the book – one in England and one in Italy.

Maybe I will get to visit these libraries and see the books for myself. In the meantime, we will need to get a better scan than the old one we have. And this time, to avoid the need for such exhaustive searches, we should really note the source.

The Kaminitz Hotel: Where Theodor Herzl Couldn’t Get a Room

If you were visiting Jerusalem in the late 19th century, and were a person of means and stature, you might have enjoyed the accommodations of the city's first modern Jewish hotel. Unless of course, your name was Theodor Herzl... We dug through the hotel's guest book and went on a journey back in time.

Miryam Zakheim | 05.09.24

History of Israel Jerusalem Jews of the Ottoman Empire Land of Israel היסטוריה ישראלית

Theodor Herzl, studio photograph. The photograph is preserved by Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi (Israel Revealed), the L'Avenir Illustre ("The Illustrated Future") newspaper collection, Morocco, and is made digitally available on the website of the National Library of Israel thanks to the collaborative efforts of Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, and the National Library of Israel. In the background: drawing for an advertisement for the Kaminitz Hotel.

The Middle Eastern sun beat down on the crowded, filthy streets of the Holy City. Towards the end of Ottoman rule, Jerusalem wasn’t a particularly attractive tourist destination to put it mildly, though certain groups of Jewish and Christian pilgrims did embark on the risky journey even during this period, for primarily religious reasons.

Winds of change began to blow over the city during the latter half of the 19th century. The great colonialist powers helped the Ottoman government wrest back control of Jerusalem, after a brief period of Egyptian rulership under Muhammad Ali and Ibrahim Pasha. In exchange for this aid, the international powers were given a foothold in the famous city, which still struggled to display the grandeur many expected of it.

Britain, Prussia, and France were the first to establish their own institutions and compounds in Jerusalem, and other superpowers followed. Churches and cathedrals were built alongside consulate offices, and this helped attract visitors from all over the world.

The Jews weren’t sitting idly either; Jewish philanthropists who made their fortunes abroad (the most famous being Sir Moses Montefiore) invested in land purchases, sparking a building boom that extended beyond the walls of the Old City. Thus, the “New City” was born. While it was perhaps a bit dangerous in those early days, the living conditions in the new neighborhoods were far better than those within the Old City walls. Meanwhile, the Zionist movement was growing stronger, and it too set its sights on the city from which it drew its name. People like Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, the reviver of the Hebrew language who arrived in 1881, came to settle in Jerusalem, breathing new life into the stone alleyways.

All this led to a lively influx of tourists, visitors and guests of different sorts– Jews, Christians, and Muslims, traders, statesmen, and religious pilgrims. There were people and families in quantities and types that the city hadn’t seen for centuries. Among them was a man named Herzl, whose peculiar story we will elaborate on further down.

One individual by the name of Menachem Mendel Boim of Kaminitz realized that anyone would could provide a decent place to stay in the city would be exploiting a tremendous economic opportunity. Menachem Mendel grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family in Kaminitz (also spelled Kamyenyets or Kamenets), Lithuania, but dreamed of raising his children in the Land of Israel. When he was betrothed to Tzipa, the daughter of Rabbi Uri Lipa, he conditioned their marriage on her family’s acceptance of their immigration to the Holy Land. But a few years later, when the young couple finally fulfilled the husband’s dream, things began to go awry.

Fl7664821 — The Kaminitz family at the entrance to the hotel on Jaffa Street. This picture is from the Jacob Wahrman Archive, the National Library of Israel.

The Kaminitz family, who adopted the name of their original hometown, settled in Safed, where they faced an assortment of tribulations: During the 1833 plague, Tzipa and Menachem Mendel lost their firstborn son; during the 1834 Syrian Peasant Revolt (the region was considered part of Ottoman Syria at the time), they experienced physical violence and their home was looted; and the 1837 earthquake left them destitute and homeless.

They decided to move to Jerusalem. There, in the Holy City that was slowly beginning to show signs of modern development, they built their guest house – the first Jewish hotel in the modern Land of Israel. It was quite a modest inn, but it was clean and respectable with its European stylings, providing accommodation along with Tzipa’s excellent home-cooked meals to tourists of all religions who made their way to Jerusalem.

Capture4 — “*opening its gates to our brothers, lords and counts, who come to visit our holy land, and who find their tables here finely prepared for their pleasure…”* – a pathos-drenched advertisement for the Kaminitz Hotel in the *Havatzelet* newspaper, January 1, 1909 [Hebrew]. From the National Library’s Historical Jewish Press Collection.

Although it was the first of its kind, this modest establishment wouldn’t have entered the annals of history had it remained as it first was. It was Menachem Mendel’s son, Eliezer Lipman Kaminitz, who took the family business to the next level. First, he moved the hotel to Jaffa Street (it was located in a previous incarnation of what is now Jerusalem’s well known Clal Center), but he wasn’t satisfied with that location. In 1883, he rented a building situated between Ha-Nevi’im (The Prophets) Street and Jaffa Street from the Volhynia Kolel and officially opened the new, modern “Hotel Jerusalem”. Despite Eliezer’s attempts at rebranding, the establishment quickly became known to all as the newest incarnation of the, by now familiar, “Kaminitz Hotel”.

This was no longer a modest inn offering only clean beds or a decent breakfast. A garden was planted in the courtyard and a wide path was paved for carriages. The hotel rooms were equipped with all the comforts of the era: chamber pots, mosquito nets, and bathing basins awaited travelers who often arrived dusty and tired. The hotel lobby offered a daily page summarizing the latest international headlines from the Reuters News Agency. In the center of the room stood the pinnacle of modern technology in the form of an elegant telephone device. The telephone number was 53.

Modernization took over all aspects of the hotel’s management, including its marketing. Advertising posters were designed and sent to selected newspapers in Europe, and the Kaminitz family signed deals with travel agents who met tourists arriving at the train station and offered them tour packages that included the finest accommodations to be found in the area – the Kaminitz Hotel.

Capture2 — Drawing for an advertisement for the Kaminitz Hotel, Jerusalem. The image is preserved by Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi (Israel Revealed), the Shoshana Halevi Collection, and is made digitally available on the website of the National Library of Israel thanks to the collaborative efforts of Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel.

Business was booming and the guests, for the most part, were very pleased with the service, the cleanliness, and the excellent food, which had a good reputation among local Jerusalemites as well. For example, as the British consul’s wife Elizabeth Finn wrote, European bread could only be obtained at Kaminitz.

Although the meals at the hotel were strictly kosher and one of the spacious rooms was designated as a synagogue and Beit Midrash (Jewish study house), guests came from all over the world and from a wide range of religions and nationalities.

In the hotel guest book, preserved today at the National Library, you can find the complements showered upon the establishment by its guests (mostly male, since the custom of the time mandated that when couples and families arrived at the hotel, it was the man who was given the privilege of inscribing his impressions). The guest book entries were written in Yiddish, 19th-century Hebrew, Arabic, English, French, German, and many other languages.

Alongside plenty of unclear signatures and unfamiliar names, one can also find the autographs of a range of well-known figures. Among the hotel’s guests were people like Baron de Rothschild, Ahad Ha’am, Nahum Sokolow, Lord Herbert Samuel, Joseph Carlebach, Menachem Ussishkin, Dr. Joseph Klausner, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, Henry Morgenthau Sr., Naftali Herz Imber, and others.

Dedupmrg804086707 Ie78635708 Fl78636792 — The Kaminitz Hotel’s guest book, preserved at the National Library of Israel. A stunning variety of languages and handwriting styles

There is only one dubious guest experience at the famous hotel that we’re aware of, and it involved Theodor Herzl.

Herzl arrived in Jerusalem to meet with the last German Emperor, Wilhelm II, who was then visiting the Holy Land. Given everything described above, the Kaminitz Hotel was Herzl’s preferred choice of accommodation. He booked rooms in advance – for himself and for the several companions who joined him.

But the Emperor’s visit was an Olympic-scale event for Jerusalem, which, despite its historical significance, was still a relatively small city. The demand placed on tourism and transportation services was immense, and Herzl, who had fallen slightly ill with a fever during the trip, ran into complications.

The train that was supposed to arrive on Friday afternoon in Jerusalem was either delayed or at full capacity, and the Zionist visionary had to wait for a later train that was not on the original schedule but was added due to the overload. Reports on this are somewhat contradictory, but one thing is clear – the train with the ailing and miserable Herzl only arrived at the Jerusalem station in the evening, after the Jewish Sabbath had already begun.

Capture7 — Herzl at the Western Wall during his visit to the Land of Israel. This photograph is preserved in the Rosh Pina Archive and is digitally available on the website of the National Library of Israel, thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Abraham Blum Rosh Pina Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, and the National Library of Israel.

The hotel carriage that was supposed to be waiting for him at the station was no longer there, and Herzl adamantly refused to use any other carriage so as not to offend the Sabbath-observant Jews in the city. Lacking any other option, the small group set out on foot, at the slow pace of someone feeling unwell and unused to the Middle-Eastern weather and rough roads.

The travelers weren’t too bothered. They were sure they would soon arrive at the hotel and enjoy a good meal, a bath, and a warm bed, where Herzl could recover for his meeting with the German Emperor. But an unpleasant surprise awaited them. Once the Sabbath had begun, the hotel staff assumed that Herzl wouldn’t be arriving that day. There was a long waiting list full of German nobles and military men who had accompanied the Emperor to Jerusalem, so the staff figured there was no need to leave the rooms empty. When Herzl arrived, someone else was sleeping in his bed.

There is general consensus about the story so far, but from this point on, it differs depending on the teller. It was late at night and Herzl had no place else to go, so he had no choice but to stay within the confines of the hotel. What happened next seems to be a matter of opinion.

According to the most uneventful version of the story, he was given a tiny, uncomfortable room to share with one of his companions. Other versions claim that he had to make do with an old bed that was dragged out of storage and placed in a corridor without any privacy, or that Herzl simply slept on a pool table in the lounge since there were no beds available.

Either way, the members of Herzl’s small entourage were less than impressed with the hotel after this miserable experience. The next morning, they left and spent the remainder of their time in the country at “Stern House” near the Mamilla neighborhood.

This unpleasant incident didn’t affect the business of the Kaminitz family, who by then had become successful hoteliers, opening establishments in other cities including Hebron, Jaffa, Jericho, and Petah Tikva.

Capture8 — The next generation expanded the family business. Pictured: Abraham Bezalel, Eliezer Lipman Kaminitz’s eldest son. This picture is preserved by Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi (Israel Revealed), the Julius Jotham Rothschild Collection, and is made digitally available on the NLI website thanks to the collaborative efforts of Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, and the National Library of Israel.

As for the hotel itself, by the early 20th century, the building was too small to meet demands, and it moved to a more spacious building near the Old City’s Jaffa Gate.

When World War I broke out, the Ottoman authorities confiscated the building on Ha-Nevi’im Street. Since then, it has served as a post office, school, residential building, and workshop.

If you make your way to Ha-Nevi’im Street in Jerusalem, you can see a faint shadow of this once magnificent hotel. The building still stands today, neglected and gloomy, with the threat of demolition looming over it due to insufficient interest from the authorities.

Whatsapp Image 2024 06 05 At 11.30.04 — Impressions in Arabic of a different era in Jerusalem: “… *when I arrived at this place, I found only comfort and tranquility*,” from the guest book of the Kaminitz Hotel, which is preserved at the National Library of Israel.

The Jerusalem Talmud: The Beta Version of the Gemara

The Babylonian Talmud and Jerusalem Talmud had roughly the same starting point, so why did only one of them become a canonical book?

Bar Nativ | 04.09.24

Jewish books Jewish Culture Judaism Land of Israel סודות כתבי היד העבריים

Drawing by E.M. Lilien

The Babylonian Talmud and Jerusalem Talmud are like the Coke and Pepsi of Jewish literature.

They were created in the same period and deal with the same subjects, but one achieved eternal glory and the other is a bit… bleak.

What makes a book canonical? One thing’s for sure: It’s not the book itself.

Let’s begin with a story:

For hundreds of years, Jews were forced to accept the fact that Seder Kodashim, one of the six orders of the Jerusalem Talmud, simply didn’t exist.

Some were sure it had disappeared, and some thought it had never existed. Until one day in the year 1905, when it simply popped up, out of nowhere

The mysterious copy was signed by the printer “Shlomo Algazi, AKA Friedländer.”

Algazi, who presented himself as a “pure Sephardi,” claimed that a single copy of Seder Kodashim had ended up in the possession of his brother in Turkey, and that he had copied it. The book was a huge success and the money started flowing in. But that’s when things started to go wonky.

שער סדר קדשים — Jerusalem Talmud, Seder Kodashim, 1909

The buyers soon noticed all sorts of puzzling details. The language and style matched the rest of the Jerusalem Talmud, but there was hardly any new information presented in these hundreds of new pages. Suspicions were raised.

Slowly, readers began to realize that the entire book simply contained variations on existing sources, and Algazi was accused of forgery.

He of course denied any wrongdoing and explained that the fact that the new order lacked new information was exactly the point! He argued that since the text already appeared in other places, no one thought it was worthwhile to preserve Seder Kodashim in its own right.

The readers weren’t convinced and even debated whether it was better to hide the book away or burn it. The lively debate reached its peak when rabbis published pamphlets in favor of Algazi, with sharp titles like “Avenging Sword” and “Answer to the Fool.”

חרב נוקמת — The “Avenging Sword” pamphlet, 1911

But it soon emerged that these pamphlets were written by none other than Shlomo Algazi, AKA Friedländer. Ultimately, Algazi confessed that he hadn’t actually found the book, and that he in fact wrote it himself.

He then also admitted that he wasn’t exactly Sephardi and that his name wasn’t Shlomo. He confessed that his real name was Zosia and that he was just an ordinary man from the very Eastern European town of Beshankovichy.

When I heard this story, I chuckled. But I was also curious about how such a large part of the Jerusalem Talmud could simply disappear. Seder Kodashim is one of the six orders of the Mishnah, upon which both the Jerusalem Talmud and the Babylonian Talmud are based.

It isn’t even the only part that is missing from the Jerusalem Talmud. Entire chapters from other tractates have been lost over the years. Moreover, if you compare the Jerusalem Talmud to the Babylonian Talmud, you discover that the discussions in the former are much less developed and have been less thoroughly edited.

What happened? How is it possible that we have the Babylonian Talmud as a complete and developed work, while the Jerusalem Talmud seems like something you might have ordered on Ali Express?

I found the answer in this letter:

Nnl Aleph11383352240005171 Ie161057506 Fl161057523 — A letter written by Pirqoi Ben Baboi that was found in the Cairo Genizah, late 8^th century

Discovered in the Cairo Genizah, the letter was written approximately 1200 years ago by a Babylonian Jewish sage named Pirqoi Ben Baboi. Aside from the fact that his name is particularly fun to say, he provides a glimpse into an interesting moment in the history of the Jerusalem Talmud.

At the time that Ben Baboi wrote the letter, a halakhic struggle was underway between the rabbis of the Land of Israel and those residing in Babylon. Ben Baboi tried to convince the Jews of the Holy Land to adopt Babylonian Halakha, as embodied in the Babylonian Talmud. However, the community in Israel stood by the Jerusalem Talmud, which was created in the city of Tiberias, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Upon encountering this resistance, Ben Baboi then redirected his efforts to communities outside the Land of Israel that were still undecided between the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds.

In a letter to the community in the North African city of Kairouan, he writes that it is forbidden to follow the Halakha as it appears in the Jerusalem Talmud.

Take the following as a somewhat shocking example of differences in the two Talmuds’ halakhic rulings.

According to the Babylonian Talmud, an engaged couple is forbidden from being alone together to prevent them from engaging in forbidden relations before the wedding. In contrast, the Jerusalem Talmud allows the couple to meet alone before the wedding and even engage in intimate relations. Why? When the Land of Israel was under Roman rule, it was decreed that the local governors had the “right of the first night” with every virgin. The Jews of the Land of Israel preferred the bride and groom to consummate their marriage before this could happen, and thus possibly prevent rape.

Ben Baboi argues that customs of this nature are reasonable when facing harsh decrees imposed by the authorities. However, once the decrees are no longer imposed, it is forbidden to continue following them. He asserts that the entire Jerusalem Talmud is filled with these types of irrelevant rulings.

Lilien The Samaritan — Drawing by E.M. Lilien

There’s another issue as well: Even before the Talmuds were written down, they were transmitted orally from generation to generation. Ben Baboi claims that due to the harsh political situation, oral transmission in the Land of Israel was fragmented; People transmitted the knowledge, stopped when Torah study was prohibited by the rulers, and then tried to pick up where they had left off when it was permitted again.

What that means is that various fundamental principles which weren’t written down, or details that were handed down orally from generation to generation, simply dissipated over time. Imagine trying to reconstruct the Passover Seder without ever having experienced it. You might manage to understand more or less what’s happening, but a lot will be lost in the process.

Ben Baboi’s letter was another step towards the downfall of the Jerusalem Talmud. Its standing was questionable, so fewer copies were made, fewer people worked to interpret it, and it hardly ever served as a basis for halakhic rulings. Editors did not continue to refine the text over generations, as was the case with the Babylonian Talmud, and halakhic discussions came to a halt at an early stage, as can be seen in the book itself.

I find this process fascinating. The two Talmuds had similar starting positions and the Jerusalem Talmud even possessed a certain advantage. But one failed because the audience didn’t engage with it, and that engagement was essential.

Books aren’t preserved simply because they are “important” or “sacred”. A pile of words becomes a canonical text only if people consider it meaningful. The point here isn’t about the book itself; the encounter between people and the book is the whole story.

What’s interesting to me about studying old texts isn’t so much the content itself. After all, it’s not really relevant to my life. What interests me is understanding what happens in the space between a book and its readers – both those who preserved it until now and those who are currently trying to interpret it.

In other words, every encounter with a text enriches the text itself – the interpretation, the editing, and the meanings attributed to the words. When I read a text that has passed through many hands, I don’t just see the book placed before me; I engage in a dialogue with everyone who has engaged with it previously. And that’s pretty awesome.