How the Inmates of a Concentration Camp Celebrated the Festival of Freedom
Despite the lack of food, the threat of deportation, and the difficult prison conditions, Jewish prisoners at the Gurs concentration camp in southern France insisted on celebrating Passover at any price. One of them wrote the Haggadah they read from by hand – from memory.
1941 was a difficult year for the Jewish People. This was the year in which the persecution and discrimination which was their lot since Hitler rose to power formed into the “final solution” for erasing the Jewish People and its memory entirely – in Nazi-occupied Europe and the whole world. This was also the year in which the first death camp was established on Polish soil, in the city of Chelmno.
In that same cursed year, on a different war front, prisoners of the Gurs concentration camp in southern France gathered to celebrate the Jewish festival of freedom – Passover. When evening came, the men – husbands, brothers, and sons – arrived in the women’s barracks. There, with empty hands and full hearts, they held a Seder. “And soon the old and pleasant tune of this night echoed: “Ha Lachma Anya” [Poor Man’s Bread]. There was no meat and wine for the holiday meal, but thanks to the initiative of one of the prisoners, these persecuted Jews had a Haggadah with which to celebrate.
Aryeh Ludwig Zuckerman had been imprisoned at Gurs for over a year. At this camp near the Spanish border, some thirty people died from hunger and disease every day. In the face of the suffering and the despair of the twelve thousand Jews imprisoned at Gurs, Zuckerman decided to take action that Passover.
Zuckerman was every inch an educator, and was known as one of the most energetic figures in the camp. He organized Torah and shop classes, as well as cultural activities that included plays and concerts performed by denizens of the camp. Zuckerman was also one of the managers of the camp clinic and its Chevra Kadisha burial society.
He wanted all the prisoners in the camp to have something for the approaching holiday of Passover. Since they had no way of securing food, he took responsibility for matters of the spirit and worked on writing the Haggadah in Hebrew letters.
Indeed, he wrote the Haggadah in his own handwriting and from memory (as can be seen from a number of errors he made). His daughter recalled how he engraved the whole Haggadah in Hebrew letters, aside from the songs at the end of the Haggadah, which were engraved in Latin letters.
According to Rabbi Leo Ansbacher, a fellow prisoner who helped Zuckerman put out the Haggadah, Zuckerman wasn’t able to write it all down. As Passover approached, he rushed to send it to Rabbi Shmuel René Kappel. The Rabbi, a chaplain of the French Army Corps, took Zuckerman’s papers to Toulouse and had it printed in thousands of copies.
Rabbi Leo Ansbacher, Gurs Camp, 1941-2, Yad Vashem, Photographic Archive b 926/5
In an anonymous testimony written after Passover of 1941, one of the prisoners remembered the enormous difficulty of celebrating the Festival of Freedom in conditions of terrible uncertainty. The anonymous witness told of how the “feast” of this seder was poorer than anyone had ever seen.
“Many received, in addition to the matzah, a little salad instead of maror, charoset, and an egg. Only some of the people got to eat a meal, albeit in tiny portions. There were those who were fortunate and received food packages, and then shared the food fairly among all those seated.”
But what they lacked in the material, they made up for in spirit. The thousands of prisoners in the camp insisted on adhering to tradition even in the face of the death that was all around them. Thanks to them and the work of Zuckerman, Ansbacher, and their partners, the spirit of the holiday was maintained, and there was even a sense of hope:
“A refreshing April night and moist spring wind descended on the dark lanes between the shacks. From within the shacks, lights burst forth and voices were heard saying the blessing after the meal and singing. The song of the words sung and heard innumerable times, was the song of the uplifting of the spirit, of consolation and hope.”
The song Chad Gadya in Latin letters, the Gurs Haggadah
The next morning, Rabbi Ansbacher received irregular permission to conduct the Passover holiday prayers in the camp yard. The Rabbi held the prayer in the open air and also gave a sermon with words of consolation to the camp prisoners during the Yizkor prayers for the dead.
The painter Fritz Schleicher was there to immortalize the event (below). He himself was murdered in Auschwitz on October 5, 1942.
On May 1942, Zuckerman understood that the Jews were being deported east to Poland. He and Rabbi Ansbacher, together with the Jewish leadership in the camp, worked to smuggle the camp’s Jews out before they could be sent to the death camps there. Thanks to his friendship with the man in charge of burial for non-Jews in the camp, a friendship he’d formed as part of his work in the Chevra Kadisha, Zuckerman was smuggled out of the camp together with his family inside of a coffin. After making it out, he took care to find a hiding place for them in the forests in the south of Belgium. After doing so, he joined the Belgian underground to fight the Germans. He died in Belgium in 1958.
Rabbi Ansbacher was seized earlier and imprisoned. He was on the list of those to be deported, but managed somehow to escape and find shelter in Spain – where he survived.
The Passover Haggadah of the Gurs camp is one of two Haggadahs written in southern France during the Holocaust in the period of the Vichy regime. In 1999, Yad Vashem republished it to retell the story to new generations.
On May 1942, Zuckerman understood that the Jews were being deported east to Poland. He and Rabbi Ansbacher, together with the Jewish leadership in the camp, worked to smuggle the camp’s Jews out before they could be sent to the death camps there. Thanks to his friendship with the man in charge of burial for non-Jews in the camp, a friendship he’d formed as part of his work in the Chevra Kadisha, Zuckerman was smuggled out of the camp together with his family inside of a coffin. After making it out, he took care to find a hiding place for them in the forests in the south of Belgium. After doing so, he joined the Belgian underground to fight the Germans. He died in Belgium in 1958.
Rabbi Ansbacher was seized earlier and imprisoned. He was on the list of those to be deported, but managed somehow to escape and find shelter in Spain – where he survived.
The Passover Haggadah of the Gurs camp is one of two Haggadahs written in southern France during the Holocaust in the period of the Vichy regime. In 1999, Yad Vashem republished it to retell the story to new generations.
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Further Reading
The Gurs Haggadah: Passover in Perdition, edited by Bella Gutterman and Naomi Morgenstern, translated from the Hebrew by Nechama Kanner, editing by Yaacov Peterseil. Jerusalem: Devora Pub, Yad Vashem
The Story of a Nation That Redeems Its Captives
From Abraham who saved his nephew from captivity, to IDF helicopters carrying Israeli hostages back from Gaza - for thousands of years, Jews have fought, paid any sum necessary, and even endangered their lives to redeem and save their brethren from captivity and imprisonment
One of them was the father of the Jewish nation. The other was his nephew, who joined the biblical Patriarch in leaving their place of birth on an almost mad journey to a new land. It took some time, as well as a brief adventure in Egypt, before they finally settled in Canaan. But then, the nephew fell captive – he and all who were with him. It happened because of a war they had absolutely nothing to do with, between different groups of petty monarchs with outrageous names like Kedarlaomer and Amraphel.
When Abraham heard his nephew Lot had fallen captive, he did not hesitate, even for a moment. He got his family and entourage together – a mere 318 people, all told – and set out to pursue the four captor kings and their armies, who had just won a decisive victory in the Valley of Siddim (near the Dead Sea) against five other kings. The pursuit began nearby in Sodom and reached all the way to Damascus, but Abraham was finally able to save Lot: “And also Lot … he returned and also the women and also the people” (Genesis, 14:16).
Abraham meets with Melkitzedek. 15th century. St. Peter’s Cathedral in Leuven, Belgium
With the captives now freed, the King of Sodom and the King of Salem (Shalem, Jerusalem of today) received Abraham and his people with flowers and gifts (well, bread and wine, anyway). Abraham handed them the loot he was able to take in battle. He went to war not to get rich, but to save Lot and the others taken captive with him.
This is probably the first incident of captives being freed in the recorded history of the Jewish nation.
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Judaism considers human captivity to be a grievous sin. One of the Ten Commandments is “Thou Shall Not Steal” – and this commandment in fact refers to kidnapping – stealing people, not inanimate property. The punishment for this is death – “And he who steals a man and sells him, and he is found in his hands, will be put to death” (Exodus, 21:16).
Consequently, and possibly also due to our past, as a nation redeemed from captivity and slavery in Egypt, freeing captives from their captors has become a supreme moral value in Judaism. Something that must be done.
Maimonides says this of the imperative to free captives:
“And you have no greater commandment than the redemption of captives, for the captive is to be classified among those who hunger as well as those who thirst, those who are naked and those who stand on the brink of death.”
(Hilchot Matnot Aniyim, 8:10-11)
“Jew! Have you fulfilled your duty to save prisoners […] Raise up your donation quickly to redeem the hostages”, a pashkevil poster from the National Library’s Pashkevil Collection
According to Jewish law, redemption of captives comes prior to many other things, including even taking care of the non-captive poor. It is even permissible to sell a Torah scroll to redeem a captive with the proceeds.
When a man marries a woman, he makes ten commitments to her, one of which is an obligation to redeem her if she is taken captive.
We are told of how King David himself fulfilled such an obligation. While David was busy with a certain Philistine mess in another part of the country, two of his wives – Achinoam and Avigail – were staying in the city of Tziklag. The Amalekites living in the area exploited the absence of King David and his army to attack the city, burn it to the ground, and take all the women and children captive.
When King David returned to a burned and empty city, he made the decision to pursue the Amalekites, even though he could only take some 400 men with him for the purpose, of whom 200 soon deserted. Fortunately, they caught an Egyptian youth along the way, the slave of one of the captors. He directed them to the Amalekite camp, where David and his men found their enemies “drinking and reveling because of the great amount of plunder they had taken” (the women, we can reasonably assume, were considered part of this “plunder” – 1 Samuel 30:16).
David and his men had the advantage of surprise, and they slaughtered many looters and drove the rest to flight, leaving the property almost entirely intact and many women shaken, but still alive.
Slave market in Constantinople, 19th century. William Allen
But superhero style rescue missions, even if told of our fathers and kings, have not been the main method the Jewish people have used to redeem their captives over the centuries.
During the long years of exile from the Land of Israel, all the leaders of Jewish communities could do was collect money – ransom – to free captives from bondage, or convince other, richer communities to help them out.
The Cairo Genizah, for instance, contains correspondence between Maimonides and various Jewish communities dealing with the redemption of captives – how many and where, and how much it would cost to free them. Among the letters is a receipt signed by Maimonides’ hand, relating to a sum donated for the redemption of captives. The text of the receipt explains that the donation came from the donor’s sale of his property.
Receipt signed by Maimonides. Cambridge University, TSNS309.12
The captives redeemed by the communities in Egypt weren’t friends or relatives of the donors, they were Jews who usually came from distant lands such as Mesopotamia and Southern Europe. They were typically were taken captive by pirates or highway robbers and were brought to cities in North Africa to be sold into slavery.
The concept of being taken captive and the difficult experiences entailed were not foreign to the members of Jewish communities, no matter where they were based. Even if they didn’t experience it personally, these people had been raised on stories of exile – in Egypt, Babylon, and later the exiles of the Second Temple period and the horror stories of the captives taken to Rome.
The Jewish captives were their brothers, and it was a great mitzvah to redeem them, even at great expense. Even if they didn’t know them from Adam.
There were cases where the effort to redeem captives failed – where they died due to sickness or abuse. There were also times when freeing captives helped to create new communities or strengthen existing ones.
“Redemption of Captives” – Generations raised on the importance of the commandment to redeem captives have resulted in extensive literature on the topic
Such was the case with the legendary “Four Captives.” According to the story, these were four sages who left Babylon, or the city of Bari in Italy, depending on who you ask. Their ship was ambushed by pirates on the Mediterranean, and they were taken captive. In that time, the late 10th century, about 150 years before Maimonides was born, Babylon was the spiritual center of the Jewish People. Jews in communities in North Africa, Italy, and Spain were almost entirely religiously dependent on the sages in Babylon and their religious rulings, which could only reach them after months of travel, in the best-case scenarios.
The pirates did not offload all the captives at once, instead offering their human cargo at the various ports they visited on their voyage. Thus were the four sages spread out across a very broad geographic expanse – from Egypt in the east through Morocco to Spain in the west. At each of the locations where one of the sages was redeemed, that sage eventually helped to establish a new independent spiritual Jewish center.
Rabbi Moses Ben Hanoch and his son, also called Hanoch, reached Spain. They were redeemed with a princely sum by the community of Cordoba, which was then a small, developing community. No-one in the community knew the ragged individuals they saved, yet they did not hesitate to pay more than the community could afford to rescue them. Their adherence to the commandment of redeeming captives paid off in spades: They eventually understood who Rabbi Moses was, and he was appointed as head of the city’s Jewish school. Over time, Cordoba became an important and significant Torah center, and its flourishing alongside other communities helped form the basis of Spanish Jewry’s Golden Age.
Letter from the Rabbis of Sefrou to the Rabbis of Meknes (both cities in Morocco) regarding the redemption of Jewish captives in the hands of Berber tribes
But things weren’t always so simple. Jewish efforts to free their captives at any price created a problem, and it was clear to the sages that this might actually encourage the kidnapping of Jews specifically. This is why the sages of the Mishna enacted the following regulation:
“We do not redeem the captives for more than their worth, because of Tikkun Olam (repair of the world).”
This regulation, which decrees that captives should not be redeemed for more than their market value, required people to put their feelings aside, and prefer the rational strategy that considered the long term good of the nation over the desire to ease the pain of a suffering mother or daughter.
But this regulation was not always strictly adhered to. The Gemara tells of Rabbi Yehoshua Ben Hananiah, who redeemed a child from the Romans (the Gemara does not tell us if the child was captured alone or with his family). When the effort to redeem the child ran into trouble, he said “I will not move from here until I have ransomed this boy for whatever money may be asked.” And indeed, the Gemara says that he paid a very large sum of money for the child, much more than he was worth. Was it because of mortal danger that he ignored the regulation, or because he knew this child could become a great leader? It is not clear. In any event, per the story, the freed child grew to become the famous Rabbi Ishmael.
One leader who did demand that the regulation be applied – to himself – was Meir of Rothenburg, “The Maharam”, who was born Meir Ben Baruch in 1220 CE in the city of Worms, Germany. Worms is a beautiful town with a rich Jewish history. A number of great Torah sages emerged from Worms whose teachings formed a solid foundation for Ashkenazic Jewry for generations, but the city was also the sight of a terrible massacre of Jews, and the Jewish quarter itself was destroyed a century after the Maharam’s death.
In his youth, the Maharam studied with the great sages of France. Upon returning to Germany, he very quickly became the main Rabbinic authority of Ashkenazic Jewry. Towards the end of his life, the Jews of Germany were increasingly persecuted and he, who believed every Jew must do everything they can to reach the Land of Israel – set out on the difficult journey. But the law of that time forbade the Jews from leaving Germany’s borders. He was caught in Italy and handed over to the German authorities.
The Maharam of Rothenburg was imprisoned in a fortress in the city of Ensisheim, to the dismay of his students and family. The community obviously wanted to redeem him – he was their undisputed leader – and apparently, they even began to collect the necessary funds. But the German ruler demanded an exorbitant sum, and the Maharam – perhaps with the hope of being freed for a more reasonable sum later on – commanded them not to pay the ransom. He died a few years later in prison, leaving behind the commentaries he wrote in his cell, after being provided, reluctantly, with a parchment and quill to write with.
Even after his death, the German authorities would not release his body to be buried. It was only 14 years later that a rich Jew named Alexander Ziskind Wimpen came forward and paid a fortune for the body’s release. He himself was buried alongside the Maharam in the Worms cemetery, where the adjacent graves of the two can still be found, with the gravestones telling part of this story.
Gravesites of the Maharam of Rothenburg and Alexander Ziskin Wimpen at the Worms cemetery
The story of the Maharam of Rothenburg is but one of many. In Christian Europe, Jews were perhaps not sold into slavery or used as props in cruel gladiator fights, but they continued to be taken captive and imprisoned in terrifying fortresses and prisons, oftentimes without a fair trial or even a trial at all.
Jewish community pinkasim (ledgers) from all over Europe are filled with side notes on diplomatic efforts to redeem captives, documentation of prayers to free prisoners, or lines in the accounts mentioning sums allocated for such purposes. Success in this field, so it seems, was hard to come by.
Many years later, during the era of the British Mandate in the Land of Israel, redemption of captives took a sharp turn. No longer a question of paying ransom (or bribes to Ottoman officials), the prisoners in British jails now often had a military background – these were members of the underground forces seeking to liberate the country. Alongside (largely failed) diplomatic efforts, the members of the Jewish community or Yishuv and the underground fighters returned to the ways of their forefathers from the Bible – the way of armed struggle.
On May 4, 1947, the Irgun (Etzel) raided Acre Prison to free the underground prisoners held there. This was a complex operation which included coordination among a number of teams, including the prisoners themselves. The Irgun members disguised themselves as members of a British engineering unit and maintenance crew, and a firefight broke out with a British paratrooper force guarding the jail.
The Jewish Yishuv was in tumult. Forty-one Jewish prisoners managed to escape, six of whom were killed and another eight recaptured. Three members of the attacking force were also killed and another three were captured and later executed. In addition, more than 180 Arab prisoners also broke out of jail that day. Most of them were caught, but some – including dangerous criminals with significant potential for killing Jews later on – managed to stay on the outside.
Was this a heroic action redeeming captives, or a needless suicide mission that endangered the Yishuv? In a speech that Menachem Begin, the head of the Irgun, gave on the radio three days later, he said the following:
“Once again, our blood has been spilled and has saturated the hills of Galilee. But it is not the blood of the butchered, but rather the blood of fighters and heroes, giving birth to new heroes, cultivating a new heroism, bringing freedom to the homeland and a life of honor to the people.”
In his eyes, at least, this was a glorious return to the days when the Jewish People could defend itself, even at the cost of blood.
Since the State of Israel was established and to this day, we have been dealing with different and complex aspects of redeeming captives – from soldiers taken in battle to citizens taken as hostages by murderous terrorist organizations.
May it be that all those who have not yet returned from captivity merit us the chance to fulfill the commandment of redemption of captives, and may they return home, all of them.
Prayer’s Light in Wartime’s Darkness
Since the horrific events of October 7 and the subsequent war, a large chorus of voices have turned to the heavens, hoping to deal with their pain and confusion by praying to a higher power. This has been a typical Jewish response to war since biblical times, and continues into the modern age. Let’s explore some of these powerful wartime prayers, and find out where they truly come from.
Chief Rabbi of the IDF Shlomo Goren in Sinai reciting prayers for the IDF soldiers, 1970, Eitan Haber, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel
Israel is at war. How does that sentence make you feel? What is your response?
Some people feel anger at this, an anger that spurs them forward as they spend time volunteering, sharing content online about the conflict, and donating money to various Israeli causes.
Conversely, some people feel helpless or mournful, not knowing quite what to do with the difficult emotions that this war raises for them.
And at the same time, many people, when trying to deal with this turmoil, simply turn to a higher power – asking “why”, begging “please”, saying “help”.
During this time, there is of course not just one valid response, but the response that is perhaps often left unacknowledged, and sometimes seemingly adverse to outside commentary, comes from that last group of people – those who are, right now, grappling with, or turning to, their faith.
The Jewish Agency for Israel and the Sephardi Chief Rabbi Shlomo Amar urge Jews to say a specially composed prayer on Passover 2007 for Israeli soldiers held captive since the Lebanon War, The Australian Jewish News (Sydney), April 6, 2007, the Historical Jewish Press Collection at the National Library of Israel
This war, unfortunately, does not mark the first time in history that so many Jews have been massacred, and with each tragic slaughter of the Jewish people, a large chorus of voices turns to the heavens. Often the words which leave the mouths of these Jews during times of distress such as these are pre-prescribed: they come from a prayer book, are read in order and adhere to rituals which were determined long before our lifetime.
But these are not the only prayers that count. Spontaneous words from the heart have almost always had a place in Judaism, a fact that is somewhat surprising given the ostensible rigidity of the religion, and the structures upon which it relies.
But nonetheless, we can see that this is undeniably the case. Once upon a time, as told in the Book of Samuel, a biblical woman named Hannah stood at the entrance to the Tabernacle at Shiloh, rocking silently back and forth and muttering to herself, as tears welled in her eyes. The Jews around her assumed that she was a drunkard and looked unkindly upon her. However, what was really occurring was a silent but supremely powerful turning-point within the Jewish religion. Hannah was saying a silent prayer – without a prayer book, without a quorum of men, without prescribed words. Just a woman praying silently from the heart.
Since then, the idea of making up and reciting personal prayers has gained legitimacy, but while Hannah’s prayers focused on her childlessness, the concept of personal prayer really took off and became common within Judaism in the context of war.
King David is famous in Jewish tradition for having been an astute warrior and conqueror. Many of the Psalms that appear in the Bible are traditionally attributed to King David, and there is even a belief that he composed some of these hymns for his troops to use in prayer during war. For example, Psalms 20: 8-10 reads:
“These trust in chariots and these in horses, but we-we mention the name of the Lord our G-d. They kneel and fall, but we rise and gain strength. O Lord, save [us]; may the King answer us on the day we call.”
Another famous and even earlier biblical example of prayer entering Jewish liturgy during times of war is the story of how the biblical forefather Jacob prepared for his reunification with his estranged brother Esau. Jacob is warned that his brother is approaching, accompanied by 400 men. Fearing for his life, he decides to compose a prayer for salvation. Jacob’s prayer (Genesis 32: 10-13) echoes the words of the prayer we know today as Ha-Gomel, which is recited whenever a soldier returns from war, to this very day.
Chief Rabbi of the IDF Shlomo Goren in Sinai reciting prayers for the IDF soldiers, 1970, Eitan Haber, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel
We have many famous examples from the Holocaust of prayers being written to suit the spiritual needs of the suffering congregations and individuals during that time of great trauma. Jewish author and poet Alexander Kimel, for example, created a set of prayers for the victims of the Holocaust after surviving the ordeal himself. These prayers are now usually read as part of the Yahrzeit service on the High Holy Days, but many of the Jews reading his words do not know just quite how recently these prayers were actually composed.
Similarly, most synagogues around the world recite the Mi Sheberach prayer for the safety of Jewish soldiers each week on the Sabbath. To the casual listener, this classic prose might sound hundreds of years old, but that couldn’t be further from the truth! While the original Mi Sheberach blessing for the recovery of sick Jews dates back to the 12th century, it was only adapted for use when praying for Jewish soldiers by the former Chief Rabbi of the IDF, Rabbi Shlomo Goren, in 1956, while Israeli troops were fighting in the Sinai Campaign.
In 2006, during the Second Lebanon War, the eminent Rav Ariel Bar Tzadok wrote a prayer for the welfare of the state of Israel, using sources from Sefer Shoreshei HaShemot. Again, these prayers were adopted by the nation, and synagogues were soon full of people fervently repeating Ariel Bar Tzadok’s words in the hope that they would bring success in battle.
Then, in 2014, during Operation Protective Edge, Rabbi Dr. Nathan Lopes Cardozo was compelled to write the “Prayer on Behalf of the Jewish Soldiers Going into Battle” whose profound meaning touched many Jewish hearts around the world and became a constant daily chant for lots of Jews in various global congregations.
Newspaper article explaining new High Holy Day prayers written for Israeli soldiers fighting in the War of Independence, the Sydney Jewish News, 25 November 1949, the Historical Jewish Press Collection at the National Library of Israel
And even now, Rabbi Yitzchak Yosef, the Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, and a man steeped in tradition, has requested that all Jewish congregations say his newly-written “Prayer for the Success of Am Yisrael” every day until the end of this current dreadful war. This novel prayer has become the new-normal in many synagogues around Israel, who pledge to read it aloud each day until the end of the war in Gaza.
President Chaim Herzog, Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir, the Ashkenazi and Sephardi Chief Rabbis and others at a service in Jerusalem to offer prayers for the well-being of Jewish troops fighting in the Gulf, 1991, David Mizrachi, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel
So, while some people think of Jewish prayer as something stagnant or pre-prescribed, it is clear to see that this is very much not the case, especially during times of war. In fact, much of the war-time liturgy that so many Jews rely on for comfort, was composed in the recent past by modern Jews who felt just as much longing for safety, success and peace as we do today.
The Abridged Prayer Book for Jews in the Army and Navy of the United States, 1917. In addition to the expected material, it includes specially composed prayers for war, a “Prayer for the Government,” national anthems, “America”, “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “Hail, Columbia,” plus a calendar for 1917-1920, Jewish Welfare Board by Jewish Publication Society of America, the National Library of Israel
For those who utilize prayer to connect to the current war in Israel, it may come as some comfort to know that the words that many believe to hold so much power do not need to have been written over 2000 years ago. They can be as heartfelt as the inner feelings of parents missing their children, rabbis guiding their communities, and individuals standing on the precipice of uncertainty, unsure of how to look at the world around them, who instead look up to the sky and open their mouths to see what words fall out.
And who knows which of the prayers from today’s wars will end up etched on the pages of prayer books used by our great grandchildren for generations to come.
A Jewish Game of Thrones: The Bloody Tragedy of the Hasmonean Dynasty
We think we know them from the story of Hannukah and its miracles, but the heroic victory of Judah the Maccabee was just the prologue to the broader story of the Hasmonean Kingdom – a story that begins with a single family's dream of an independent Judea, continues with military and political glory papering over deep internal rot, and ends with destruction and the death of a beautiful queen at the hands of her husband
Miriam the Hasmonean on her way to execution, painting by Edward Hopley
“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” – Frank Herbert
If there is a story where we almost never stop at the right point and almost never reach the (bitter) end, it’s the story of the Hasmoneans.
Every year, on the 25th of the Hebrew month of Kislev, we celebrate the moment of a glorious victory – a victory which seemed almost impossible, a true miracle. But this victory is really just the prelude to the story of the Hasmoneans, as both a family and a historically unique monarchical dynasty in the annals of the Jewish People.
To understand who they were, we would do well to re-examine the familiar Hanukkah story, and look beyond the usual “happily ever after” bit where we usually stop, to see what came after that glorious moment.
The Angel of the Maccabees, by Gustave Dore
It all started with a rebellion. Or perhaps the persecution that preceded it? They were tightly connected.
In the first half of the second century BCE, Jerusalem was ruled by the Seleucids, who we often call “the Greeks” in our Hannukah stories and prayers. Seleucus I was among the generals who inherited parts of Alexander the Great’s sprawling empire. The Seleucid Empire, though smaller than Alexander’s, still stretched from Asia Minor, Mesopotamia, Syria, and the Land of Israel, all the way to the Indus River at its height.
Antiochus IV, who ever so humbly called himself Epiphanes (“God Manifest”) and who has been commemorated by kindergarten teachers throughout the Jewish world as “Antiochus the Wicked”, rose to power at a bad time for his kingdom: his father had just suffered a very serious defeat at the hands of a new rising power to the west – Rome. He lost significant parts of his empire to the Romans (and other nations which jumped on the opportunity), and was forced to sign a humiliating surrender agreement which included astronomical reparations.
In the meantime, Jerusalem and the surrounding area of Judea had for centuries, since the famous Edict of Cyrus the Great, enjoyed a degree of religious autonomy, with the Jewish the High Priest presiding over worship at the Temple. The territory had been ruled by a series of empires which toppled one another – the Babylonians, the Medes, the Persians, the Macedonians, the Ptolemies, and now the Seleucids. But for most of this time, the Jews had a varying measure of religious freedom to maintain their worship in the Temple and the commandments and laws of their faith.
Historians are divided on what led Antiochus to change this arrangement which had worked so well for all his predecessors, but whatever the reason – he decided to intervene in the religious practices in Jerusalem and Judea, outlawing all Jewish rituals and desecrating the Temple.
It is here that the story we all know and love begins, though the degree of accuracy often varies in the telling: Mattathias the priest and his five sons raised the banner of rebellion. Whether the spark was an attempt to force the residents of Modi’in to bring a sacrifice to the Greek gods, or the story of Mattathias’ daughter Hannah, who rebelled against the terrifying decree of “the first night” – either way, battle was joined. Significant portions of the Jewish People gathered round Mattathias and his sons upon hearing the battle cry “Whoever is to God to me” (or something to that effect), sick of the cruel Hellenic oppression and willing to die to return to observing the Torah and its commandments in the open.
Mattathias and the Apostate, by Gustave Dore
Judah the Maccabee, the third of Mattathias’ sons, formed and led the small rebel army – at first, with guerilla actions and later in organized, open battles against the Seleucid army. He went up to Jerusalem with his soldiers and managed to take over large parts of it, most importantly the Temple – which was cleaned and purified. Jewish religious rituals resumed.
This is where the story of the miracle of Hannukah more or less ends – Judah the Maccabee defeated the armies of the Hellenistic empire and relit the Menorah or candelabrum in the Temple. The year was 164 BCE. Since then, every year, and in memory of the victory of the Jewish light over Greek darkness, we celebrate the holiday of Hannukah.
Mattathias, meanwhile, had passed away a year before, and did not get to see his sons’ success.
This event was not only the “happy ending” we celebrate every year, but rather the beginning of the long path to Jewish independent rule in Jerusalem and the Land of Israel – a rule which would ultimately become a monarchy for all intents and purposes and which would end in blood. Plenty of blood.
Season One – The Brothers
To be honest, it was bloody from the beginning.
Peace did not come after Judah’s famous initial victories. The Seleucids were not so quick to give up the lands they had ruled, and although the decrees of Antiochus (which had proven themselves to be a rallying cry for the majority of Jews to join with the Hasmoneans against the Seleucids) were rescinded, the Hellenistic kings continued to send troops to fight the rebels in Judea.
Six years after the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days instead of one, Judah was defeated by the general Bacchides, falling in the Battle of Elasa. His brother Eleazar also perished when he was trampled to death by one of the Seleucid army’s war elephants. For a while, it appeared the original status quo had been restored – the Greek religious persecutions had been undone, but so too, it seemed, had the Hasmonean victory.
The Heroism of Eleazar, by Philip James de Loutherbourg
The Hasmoneans and their supporters, however, were not gripped by despair. The leadership of the rebellion was taken up by another Hasmonean brother – Jonathan, who was a gifted commander and perhaps more importantly – a skilled diplomat. He returned the Hasmoneans to Jerusalem after a series of military victories, while working primarily at the diplomatic level, especially by cleverly exploiting the endless infighting among those claiming the Seleucid crown. He convinced the Seleucid authorities to give him effective control, and in 150 BCE, he received the titles of strategos (general) and “meridarch” (akin to a civil governor).
Jonathan managed to hold these title for seven years before being murdered by a Seleucid ruler – Diodotus Tryphon. He was replaced as leader by Simon – the last brother left alive.
All these stormy events in Judea were accompanied by a family situation which had no equal throughout history: While still alive, Mattathias had been the clear leader of the rebellion, even though his age likely prevented him from participating in the battles themselves. After his death, he left the leadership to his five sons, advising them to follow Judah – who was not the eldest, but whom Mattathias considered the most appropriate one to lead the nation in war.
And they indeed followed Judah, just as they would later follow the brothers who succeeded him.
Scholars question almost every detail about this period, but one thing still remains unequivocally clear – Mattathias’ sons did not fight amongst themselves. The torch kept being passed from one brother to the next as the fight against the Seleucids continued and the brothers died one after the other, with the next one’s leadership never being questioned by his siblings.
Simon, the last of the brothers, was the one who secured full independence for Judea. He didn’t yet call himself a king, but the moment he fully took the reins of civilian control from the Seleucids and the tax burden was lifted (in 140 BCE) is the moment from which we officially begin counting the years of Hasmonean reign.
The First Book of Maccabees (15:1-9) tells of this moment:
“Antiochus, son of King Demetrius, sent a letter from the islands of the sea to Simon, the priest and ethnarch of the Jews, and to all the nation, which read as follows:
“King Antiochus sends greetings to Simon, the high priest and ethnarch, and to the Jewish nation […] I authorize you to coin your own money, as legal tender in your country. Jerusalem and its sanctuary shall be free. All the weapons you have prepared and all the strongholds you have built and now occupy shall remain in your possession. All debts, present or future, due to the royal treasury shall be canceled for you, now and for all time. When we establish our kingdom, we will greatly honor you and your nation and the temple, so that your glory will be manifest in all the earth.”
Simon was a wise and beneficent ruler, chosen by an assembly of the people to be their “leader and high priest forever, until a trustworthy prophet should arise”. He conquered additional cities in the Land of Israel such as Gezer and Jaffa, and even succeeded in taking over the Acra – the fortress of Greeks and Hellenized Jews that had remained a thorn in the side of residents of Jerusalem for so long.
Six years passed in relative quiet since that happy day of independence, until family strife encouraged by the Seleucids brought about tragedy and betrayal. Simon’s father-in-law, Ptolemy son of Abubus, who received control of the city of Jericho and its surroundings while maintaining secret relations with the “current” Antiochus (VII), invited Simon and his sons to a feast at his home, where they were cruelly murdered, as Ptolemy hoped to gain the throne of Judea for himself.
Unfortunately for him, one of Simon’s sons – John Hyrcanus – didn’t attend that bloody feast, surviving his father and becoming the Prince and High Priest in his stead.
Season Two – The Bloody Rule of the First Kings
During the reign of John Hyrcanus, Mattathias’ grandson, the internal rift between the different religious factions deepened. Hyrcanus had begun his rule like his father and uncles before him – as a religious leader and priest ruling by virtue of broad public support. But a number of choices he made and disputes regarding his position (can a High Priest be a military leader engaged in conquest and killing?) pushed his form of rule towards that of an absolute monarchy relying on force-of-arms, little different than what could be seen in the surrounding Hellenistic monarchies. His successors would continue to enhance this trend. Greek culture began to become dominant in the institutions and customs of the ruling class. John (Yochanan) was the first to take a Greek name – Hyrcanus – and after him, this practically became the standard.
Hyrcanus ruled Judea for 31 years, the first Hasmonean ruler to die of natural causes. Before his death, he sought to hand over rule to his wife. But his son, Judah Aristobulus I didn’t like the idea, and when his father died, he simply imprisoned his mother and most of his brothers and declared himself King.
Hasmonean coins. The power to mint coins was an important marker of economic and political independence
The rule of the first King in Judea since the Biblical era was not a model of benevolent government, nor did it leave a significant mark on history. But Aristobulus I did apparently make at least one good decision: He married a woman named Salome (Shlomtziyon) Alexandra. She was the sister of Simon Ben Shetach – one of the greatest of the Pharisees and the president of the Sanhedrin – but she would yet stand out in her own right.
Aristobulus died from an illness just one year after coming to power. Salome Alexandra freed his imprisoned brothers (his mother died in jail), and married the oldest of them, who was still younger than her – Alexander Jannaeus.
Alexander Jannaeus was a king from the very first, with all that entails. He set out on extensive campaigns of conquest and vastly increased the size of his kingdom, taking over the Hellenistic coastal cities, and conquering Gaza and large swathes of the east bank of the Jordan River.
Map of the Land of Israel and the Hasmonean Kingdom following the conquests of Alexander Jannaeus. From the Eran Laor Cartographic Collection at the National Library of Israel, courtesy of Amir Kahanovitz
According to most testimonies, Jannaeus was a cruel and tyrannical ruler who did not hesitate to use foreign mercenaries to massacre his opponents, of which there were many. He did not heed the mood of the people, and at least two significant rebellions occurred during his reign. During one of these, it is said that over 800 rebels were hung on the city walls, as Jannaeus held a vulgar banquet in front of them. He even wanted to execute his brother-in-law, a leader of the Pharisees, but Salome Alexandra managed to hide her sibling and save his life.
After less than thirty years on the throne, Alexander Jannaeus died in a manner similar to his namesake – from a disease he was stricken with during one of his campaigns. He was succeeded, finally, by a woman. His wife.
Season Three – The Days of the Good Queen Salome
Salome Alexandra was considered by many to be the best monarch of the bunch, certainly when it came to internal affairs. She brought the people, who were largely affiliated with the Pharisee party, back on her side, and her rule excelled in its almost unprecedented economic and political stability.
In her day, for the first time since Judah the Maccabee renewed the rituals of the Temple, the leadership was split up – Salome Alexandra ruled as Queen, but she granted the title of High Priest to her eldest son – Hyrcanus II.
Her second son, Aristobulus II, refused to reconcile with his mother’s reign and his brother’s priesthood. At first, he sufficed with leading the military elite, which set out on a number of campaigns in the name of his mother the Queen, but at the end of her life, when it was clear she was dying and unable to fully manage the kingdom, he gathered a loyal army around him, took control of many fortresses, and declared himself King.
Queen Salome Alexandra (Shlomtziyon), by Guy Bartholomew. Rome, 1751.
The figure of Salome Alexandra, and the fact that she was unable to quell the hostility between her two sons, provided historian Flavius Josephus with the opportunity to take a swipe at all women:
“A woman she was who showed no signs of the weakness of her sex […] and demonstrated by her doings at once, that her mind was fit for action, and that sometimes men themselves show the little understanding they have by the frequent mistakes they make in point of government; for she always preferred the present to futurity, and preferred the power of an imperious dominion above all things, and in comparison of that had no regard to what was good, or what was right. However, she brought the affairs of her house to such an unfortunate condition, that she was the occasion of the taking away that authority from it, and that in no long time afterward, which she had obtained by a vast number of hazards and misfortunes, and this out of a desire of what does not belong to a woman, and all by a compliance in her sentiments with those that bare ill-will to their family, and by leaving the administration destitute of a proper support of great men; and, indeed, her management during her administration while she was alive, was such as filled the palace after her death with calamities and disturbance.”
But even he could not help but admit:
“However […] she preserved the nation in peace. And this is the conclusion of the affairs of, Alexandra.”
Salome Alexandra died at the age of 73, after ruling Judea for 9 years.
Season Four – Brothers at War
Hyrcanus the High Priest, also known as Hyrcanus II, who Josephus (and not only him), described as “weak minded”, didn’t want to fight his brother at first. His mother left Aristobulus’ wife and sons with Hyrcanus to serve as a bargaining chip in the fight for the throne, but he chose not to use them and arrived at an agreement with Aristobulus – he would continue to serve as High Priest and Aristobulus would be King.
A return to sanity, mutual respect between brothers and good old-fashioned family values? Well, not quite.
Over time, Hyrcanus began to develop close ties with a fellow named Antipater the Idumaean. Antipater’s son would become one of the era’s most famous historic figures, but we’ll get to him in a bit. Antipater succeeded in convincing Hyrcanus not to give up the throne, and with the help of the King of the Nabateans, they set out to fight Aristobulus in Jerusalem. The war that broke out between the two brothers was bitter and cruel and was accompanied by the looting of everything dear and holy to the earlier Hasmoneans – by both of the warring sides. Now they didn’t even need a wicked Antiochus to desecrate the Temple and kill priests and sages – they did it themselves.
While this was going on, the Roman general Pompey strolled into town, carrying orders to expand Rome’s territories in the East. Throughout the Hasmonean Kingdom’s history, the Romans had cast a long shadow from the West but had refrained from intervening in Judea’s internal affairs, as its rulers were wise enough to repeatedly sign peace treaties with it.
This was about to change. Both Hyrcanus and Aristobulus now expected Pompey to judge which of the two was more deserving of ruling Judea. They travelled to see him in Damascus, as did a delegation of the Judean people, who came to ask the Roman general take down the entire Hasmonean family – they’d had enough power struggles and corruption.
Was this simple naivete or just a clumsy attempt at political maneuvering?
Either way, Pompey’s response was one of the greatest historical demonstrations of the idiom: “When two are fighting, the third wins”. He quickly seized the opportunity to take over the Judean kingdom himself. He went up to Jerusalem, besieged it, and after just three months and 12,000 dead Jews, he entered the Holy of Holies in the Temple. Aristobulus II was imprisoned and Hyrcanus II was declared an “Ethnarch” a pathetic puppet ruler on behalf of Rome.
The year was 63 BCE. The Hasmonean Kingdom, the only example of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel since the biblical kingdoms (and for the next 2,000 years), had lost its independence.
Season Five – The Last Hasmonean Queen
It was the end of the Hasmonean Kingdom, but not the end of the dynasty. Like the final season of a tired drama series full of violence and intrigue that refuses to end – the sons and daughters of the Hasmonean family stuck around, continuing to play inseparable roles in the government of the Roman client state.
Meantime, the effective ruler was Antipater – the man who incited Hyrcanus II to go to war for the throne in the first place. Antipater appointed his son, one Herod, as governor of the Galilee. Hyrcanus II and Herod were sworn enemies who didn’t miss an opportunity to humiliate or harm one another. This toxic relationship reached its peak with the poisoning of Antipater by Hyrcanus’ people. Antipater died and in order to “compensate” Herod, Hyrcanus gave him his granddaughter (also Aristobulus’ granddaughter due to marriage within the family) – Miriam the Hasmonean – as a wife.
Miriam, or Mariamne, was apparently a very impressive woman. Josephus described her thus:
“a woman of an excellent character, both for chastity and greatness of soul […] yet had she all that can be said in the beauty of her body, and her majestic appearance in conversation”
At the end of an exhaustingly long era of battles and intrigue, Herod became King of Judea under the Romans. Miriam his wife, who could be Queen herself by right due to her lineage, became the partner of one of the most notorious Jewish rulers in a court full of discord.
Herod is probably the most famous king of this era of Jewish history, but his rule, no matter how glamorous, was subordinate to the central government in Rome and is not considered part of the Hasmonean dynasty. To the contrary, he feared the legacy of the Hasmonean kings, and in order to reduce their influence and reputation, he even slashed Hyrcanus’ ears to make him unfit for the priesthood and executed most of what was left of the royal family, including the mother and brother of his wife Miriam.
His relationship with Miriam, his Hasmonean queen, was a roller coaster of almost mad passion interwoven with mutual accusations – she for his murder of her family, he for her disloyalty.
In the end, he sentenced her to death himself.
“…she went to her death with an unshaken firmness of mind […] and thereby evidently discovered the nobility of her descent to the spectators, even in the last moments of her life.”
Thus did Josephus describe the last moments of the last Hasmonean queen in his classic work, “Antiquities of the Jews”, just a few years after her family’s kingdom had lost its independence, and less than a hundred years before the complete destruction of Judea and the Temple itself.
Mariamne Leaving the Judgment Seat of Herod, by John William Waterhouse
The Hasmonean Kingdom was but a brief flash of Jewish independence in a torn and bloodied land dominated for millennia by empires, kingdoms, and other polities. A land the Jewish People never left and never ceased to dream of. It began with a great hope – the realization of the vision of five faithful brothers who worked together for decades and gave their lives to see it through. It was a kingdom full of Jewish pride which served as a testament to the power of the spirit and a shared fate. Yet it succumbed, soaked in blood, to its own failings and self-destructive acts. The story of the Hasmonean Kingdom offers a historical lesson on everything that can go wrong when a government is tainted with corruption and reliant solely on force.
