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 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.

“Israel’s Miss Manners” Extends an Outstretched Hand

While researching the history of Israeli social etiquette at the National Library, Noa Bavly accidently stumbled across a particular book that had once belonged to her great-grandmother, Hanna Bavly - Israel's own "Miss Manners"…

Noa Bavly | 28.08.24

History of Israel Israeli Culture Jewish Art

Hanna Bavly, Israel's queen of etiquette, and the book "Hanna Bavly is Rolling in Her Grave", written by her great-granddaughter Noa Bavly - images courtesy of Noa Bavly

When I was about to graduate from Bezalel Academy of Art and Design, I started thinking about my final project. I decided to create a book from scratch – designing it, forming the concept, choosing the format, the fonts and the images as well as the type of paper. I even made the book cover myself using several techniques and stitched and bound it by hand. In a digital age, I wanted to go back to the fundamentals and create a book whose pages cannot be swiped with a finger.

In order to choose a subject, I looked at my family and surroundings. I wanted to choose a personal subject that would also be relevant and timely. This led me to the idea of writing about current Israeli society from a historical and personal perspective, using the writings of my great-grandmother, the late Hanna Bavly, who was nicknamed “Israel’s Miss Manners.”

Noa5 — Hanna Bavly visiting a chemical plant in South Africa, photo courtesy of Noa Bavly

The production of the book required extensive and serious cultural and historical research. In my research I went to the National Library of Israel. Searching for books on manners and etiquette, I found an American book from the 1980s (The New Etiquette by Marjabelle Young Stewart, St. Martin’s Press) and took it out. Upon opening the book, on the inside cover, was a surprise. An outstretched hand from the past. In the first page of the book was an inscription that noted the book had once been a part of my great-grandmother Hanna Bavly’s personal collection (she had hundreds of books on the subject), and was donated to the National Library by her son after her death.

Noa9 — Noa Bavly was surpised to learn that the book she had loaned from the National Library of Israel (*The New Etiquette* by Marjabelle Young Stewart, St. Martin’s Press) was donated to the NLI by her own great-grandmother, Hanna Bavly

But as I said, Hanna Bavly’s meticulous manners were just a starting point for a timely and relevant statement. The book I designed focuses on manners—or more precisely—the lack of manners in Israeli society. It draws a line between the iconic figure of Hanna Bavly (whose name became synonymous with manners and etiquette) and contemporary Israel.

Noa10 — Hanna Bavly was Israel’s leading expert on etiquette and manners. Above is a page from *The New Etiquette* by Marjabelle Young Stewart, which Bavly donated to the National Library of Israel

The book’s third chapter, titled “The Dream and Its Downfall” contrasts Hanna’s manners and etiquette advice from her “Questions and Answers” column that she wrote from the early 1960s until the late 1980s with cringeworthy, embarrassing, humorous, vulgar, and iconic moments in Israeli culture and public life. The chapter focuses on four aspects in which vulgarity prevails: interpersonal relationships, politics, table manners and road rage.

Noa6 — Two of Hanna Bavly’s newspaper columns on etiquette – on the left Hanna advises one of her readers not to intervene in the work of the waiting staff at a restaurant, even when a pile of dirty dishes is waiting to be removed. On the right – Hanna advises a woman who is consistently ignored by her husband during social encounters to take initiative and not wait to be introduced – “Introduce yourself, with your full name and position, to any person whom you feel it is right and necessary for you to know. It is likely that after a few such independent introductions, your husband will change his practice.” – courtesy of Noa Bavly

The other three chapters include an introduction to the history of manners in both Israeli and universal context, a chapter on the life and work of Hanna Bavly and a closing chapter featuring relevant academic articles that broaden the perspective and view.

Poster — A poster promoting a lecture and Q&A session in Tel Aviv with Hanna Bavly, titled “Our Manners – What We Have and What We Desire”, November 11, 1967. The Tel Aviv – Yafo City Archives, available via the NLI digital collection

I tailored the design to match the content of the chapters: the first two chapters, focusing on the history of manners, etiquette, and Hanna Bavly herself, as well as the fourth (academic) chapter, are designed with restraint and sophistication. The third chapter however, which contrasts Hanna’s polite advice with Israeli reality, is designed in a wild style reminiscent of trashy tabloids.

I designed the book in a way that recalled Hanna’s columns – just like Hanna, I too decided that a serious message can best be conveyed with a healthy dose of humor. I kept the original titles and Q&As of Hanna Bavly’s columns and incorporated them in my book ironically. This choice contributes to the critical, ironic and amusing language of the book.

*Hanna Bavly is Rolling in Her Grave*, by Noa Bavly

The book Hanna Bavly is Rolling in Her Grave is my final project for the Department of Visual Communication at Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem. I am grateful and appreciative to my final project mentor, Idan Vaaknin, for his close and enriching guidance. He was the perfect role model teaching me a lot and providing me with a significant experience. I am hoping to publish my book soon so stay tuned.

You can find more of Noa Bavly’s art at: instagram.com/noartnb/

Remembering Ephraim Kishon, Israel’s Champion of Satire

Israel is marking a century since the birth of its greatest satirist. No doubt, he would have a lot to say about the current state of Israeli society…

Hillel Kuttler | 25.08.24

History of Israel Israeli Culture

Ephraim Kishon in his office, 1971, photo by Boris Karmi, the Meitar Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

During Iftach Leibovich’s childhood in Jerusalem, the family would play a board game called Havila Higiya (“A Package Arrived”). The premise was this: You receive a letter stating that something reached the post office and to come pick it up. Along the way, you confront obstacles to attaining the package: missing identification papers, needing a new photo for the ID and so on.

The game was all too realistic for Israelis used to the daily struggles of accomplishing basic tasks in a bureaucracy-laden society.

“It was the stupidest game and the most brilliant game,” said Leibovich.

Havila Higiya was created by Ephraim Kishon, still acclaimed as the greatest humorist, satirist and social commentator in Israel’s history. Kishon, who died in 2005, was born 100 years ago this month.

Ephraim Kishon in 1966, photo by Boris Karmi, the Meitar Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

One of his legacies is that Leibovich is the artistic director of the Israel Comedy Festival in Honor of Ephraim Kishon, a week-long celebration held each August at Jerusalem’s Incubator Theater.

The event includes lectures and stagings of Kishon’s work, along with contemporary comedic plays and stand-up appearances.

Experts tie Kishon’s keen observations of society, from the perspective of an average Israeli, to his being an outsider. Kishon was a Holocaust survivor from Hungary whose name — he was born Ferenc Hoffmann — was Hebraicized by a port official upon immigrating in 1949.

Chaim Topol and Esther Greenberg in the film *Sallah Shabati*, written and directed by Ephraim Kishon. From the Chaim Topol Archive, courtesy of the family and with the cooperation of the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, the National Library of Israel and the University of Haifa (colorization by MyHeritage)

He quickly learned and mastered Hebrew and soon was penning columns in the language in local newspapers. He went on to write books and screenplays and make films. Two of the five movies he directed, Sallah Shabati (1964) and The Policeman (1971), which he also wrote and co-produced, earned Academy Award nominations as best foreign-language films.

997001754100405171 — A promotional poster for the 1971 Oscar-nominated Hebrew film *The Policeman*, written and directed by Ephraim Kishon and starring Shaike Ophir, the Jerusalem Cinematheque – Israel Film Archive Collection, available online via the NLI digital collection

11026 004 23 — Ephraim Kishon pictured with Shaike Ophir and wife at the premiere of the film *The Fox in the Chicken Coop*, May, 1978. Photo by Danny Gotfried, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

The Family Book (titled in its English translations as My Family, Right or Wrong), Kishon’s 1977 collection of essays and fiction stories about home life during his early years in Israel, is said to be the second-most-purchased book in Hebrew after the Bible.

500 Golden Globe — Topol and Kishon with the Golden Globe, *Maariv*, February 19, 1965, the Historical Jewish Press Collection at the National Library of Israel

Both Leibovich and Ziv Hermelin-Shadar — who at the festival hosted podcasts discussing each of the films screened daily, dubbed “Kishoncasts” — cited The Family Book as a key influence.

It was the first book Leibovich’s father gave him — the boy was about 13 — and, “from that, I became a big fan of Kishon,” he said.

Hermelin-Shadar was about 10 when he first read it. “It’s a book that’s very Jewish and very family-oriented,” he said. “It makes me laugh. Kishon, in his stories, is trying to live life, and other people are ruining it for him. He succeeds in capturing the wackiness … of Israeli society.”

11026 003 02 — Ephraim Kishon with Menachem Begin, Israel’s Prime Minister at the time, at the premiere of the film *The Fox in the Chicken Coop*, May, 1978. Photo by Danny Gotfried, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Such wackiness arose recently over a play scheduled for this summer’s festival. The play’s promotional poster unintentionally sparked a controversy Kishon might’ve enjoyed.

The poster shows the faces of three men and the play’s title, Naked. The word is meant as a metaphor for the show’s theme as a behind-the-scenes look at how a circus operates. No one is nude. But some Jerusalem residents presumed indecency and pressured the mayor’s office to withdraw its funding for the festival and to shut down the show. Leibovich wrote a long letter defending the work and stressing that no one appeared naked.

“It’s poetic that this happened at a Kishon festival,” he said. “To make a big deal about it was a farce. There was nothing for me to fight against because there was nothing to censor.”

The show’s three performances proceeded as scheduled.

11026 007 44 — Ephraim Kishon with Yitzhak and Leah Rabin, at the premiere of the film *The Fox in the Chicken Coop*, May, 1978. Photo by Danny Gotfried, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israely

Kishon’s accomplishments went hand-in-hand with insecurity. Alongside placards of his films and plays on his office’s walls appeared articles written by critics.

990044968010205171 — Ephraim Kishon in his office, 1973. Photo by IPPA staff photgrapher, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

“He felt he wasn’t appreciated. He wanted more love from critics,” said Hermelin-Shadar. “He was a great success, but felt that he wasn’t accepted here as [such].”

Following his father’s death at his summer home in Switzerland, Rafi Kishon was asked to develop a one-man show for Tel Aviv’s Cameri Theater. As a veterinarian, he’d spoken about animals on numerous television programs and was comfortable appearing before the camera. But writing and performing in the show, Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Ephraim Kishon, was extra-gratifying, he said.

He performs it monthly at the Cameri — it’s now titled Ephraim Kishon: Humor, Life and Films — and accepts private bookings from groups. The appearances involve screening movie clips and telling stories about his father.

“What I say is unique about Ephraim Kishon’s humor is that it unites Israelis of all types,” he explained.

“I take it as a compliment when I perform and people say, ‘The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.’ It’s a good feeling to walk in my father’s shoes.”

997009327551305171 — Ephraim Kishon in his office, 1971, photo by Boris Karmi, the Meitar Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Leibovich, too, has walking in mind. For a Kishon festival, he’d like to organize an interactive version of Havila Higiya, with participants following the game’s instructions to traipse around Jerusalem in an effort, challenging as it promises to be, to pick up a package at the post office.

“I’ve dreamt of it,” he said, “since the first festival.”

Writer-editor Hillel Kuttler can be reached at [email protected]