The Patrons and Their Poor: Jewish Community and Public Charity in Early Modern Germany 9780812297263

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The Patrons and Their Poor

JEWISH CULTURE AND CONTEXTS Published in association with the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania series editors Shaul Magid, Francesca Trivellato, Steven Weitzman A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

T H E PAT RONS and T H E I R P O OR Jewish Community and Public Charity in Early Modern Germany

Debra Kaplan

Un iver sit y of Pen nsy lvan i a Press Phil adelphi a

Copyright © 2020 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 A Cataloging-in-Publication record is available from the Library of Congress ISBN 978-0-8122-5239-2

For my parents, Susan and Robert Kaplan

contents

Note on Currencies and Translations

ix

Introduction

1

Chapter 1. Early Modern Jewish Communities and Their Records

9

Chapter 2. Something Happened to Charity in Early Modern Europe

27

Chapter 3. Charity, Economy, and Communal Discipline

48

Chapter 4. The Residential Poor

68

Chapter 5. The Transient Poor

96

Chapter 6. Constructing a Community of Donors

123

Epilogue. Charity Across Borders

156

Appendix. Foreign Jews in Frankfurt’s Judengasse, 1694

167

Notes

173

Glossary of Foreign Terms

209

Bibliography

213

Index

231

Acknowledgments

237

note on currencies a n d t r a n s l at i o n s

Several types of currencies were used in diferent cities of the Holy Roman Empire. In Frankfurt and Worms, sums were denoted in one of two currencies: the gulden or the reichsthaler. Each of these was divided into kreutzer, batzen, and pfennig. reichsthaler = 90 kreutzer gulden = 60 kreutzer schilling = 3 kreutzer = 12 pfennig batzen = 4 kreutzer In Hamburg, the lübische mark was used. Each lübische mark was equivalent to one-third reichsthaler. In Altona, Danish currencies were used that corresponded to currencies in Hamburg. Although Denmark later moved to the kurant system, the documents with which I consulted denoted currencies using the Hamburg system. I have maintained currencies as they appeared in the original texts; to help readers convert between currencies, the following rates may be used: 2 2/3 reichsthaler = 4 gulden = 8 lübische mark = 240 kreutzer Unless other wise noted, all translations are my own.

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Introduction

On October 1, 1657, Lazer, a Jewish refugee from Wilno, approached the leaders of the Jewish community in Frankfurt am Main. Already in the summer of 1655, Muscovite forces had invaded the city, starting a six-year occupation that led many inhabitants of Wilno to leave their homes.1 Lazer, one such refugee, brought with him to Frankfurt several ritual items that had been in use in Wilno, among them a special curtain for the ark housing the Torah scroll, embossed with golden letters and intended for use on the occasion of a circumcision on a Sabbath or holiday.2 Apparently desperate for funds, Lazer sought to sell this communal artifact to the Frankfurt Jewish community for its appraised value of one hundred reichsthaler. Wishing to assist Lazer, the rabbi and the lay leaders of the community started an official collection to raise money to purchase the curtain. To enable many residents to participate in this charitable act, they decided that individuals could each contribute a minimum of half a gulden, whereupon a note with the individual’s name would be placed in a box. When the sum of one hundred reichsthaler had been raised, the Frankfurt community purchased the curtain from Lazer. They then drew the name of one of the donors, a man by the name of Lazer Miess, out of the box. Miess was selected to oversee the use of the curtain and to ensure that it would be hung only on Sabbaths and holidays on which circumcisions took place in the synagogue. Should more than one circumcision be scheduled for the same day—one in the new synagogue and one in the old—the curtain was to be used in the old synagogue. Finally, it was “explicitly decreed that when the holy community of Wilno will be swiftly reinstated and reestablished as it once was, as is our hope, they will not be permitted to redeem this curtain back, because it was purchased from them on this condition [that it remain in Frankfurt].”3 This transaction exemplifies many dynamics characteristic of early modern Jewish public charity. The Jewish community aided a needy refugee by establishing a formal collection on his behalf, including public announcements proclaimed in the synagogue on three occasions.4 Indeed, charity was a dominant aspect of

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early modern Jewish piety, as legal rabbinic texts and sermons stressed the ethical and moral imperative to aid the poor. Yet this virtuous action was also blended with communal self-interest. The curtain, a highly prized work of art, was purchased by the community of Frankfurt with the explicit understanding that it was to remain in Frankfurt for perpetuity. This was not only an act of piety intended to assist a refugee community in its time of need; rather, the purchase was also inspired by the desire to own what must have been a magnificent piece for the synagogue. Poor relief certainly provided support for the indigent and marginal members of society; yet it also signified family or communal status and reinforced bonds of kinship, ethnicity, and patriarchy.5 Research on gift giving and on charitable activities conducted by anthropologists, sociologists, and historians has clearly demonstrated that gifts and donations were often driven by altruistic as well as egoistic motives. When giving gifts, donors were not simply being generous; they frequently expected something intangible in return.6 Liturgical texts, rituals, and wills, for example, reflect that early modern Jews held a profound belief that donating charity would redeem the donor’s soul.7 Yet gifts allotted merit in heaven and simulta neously granted public recognition or other forms of social status on earth. In early modern Jewish communities, rituals of public charity were frequently performed in communal spaces such as the synagogue, where donors’ generosity would be visible. In addition, many gifts were inscribed into official records, some of which were read aloud. Being seen, heard, or written about were all performative elements of charity rites, which rewarded donors with public acknowledgment of their largesse.8 Liturgical blessings performed publicly for benefactors and their families in exchange for their generosity, for example, merged heavenly and earthly forms of recognition. During a charity ritual performed on holidays known as matnat yad, a blessing was recited in honor of all the donors. In Worms, the benediction read:9 “He who has blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, may He bless this holy congregation, they and their wives and their sons and all that belongs to them, on account of the charity [matnat yad] for the honor of God, and the honor of the Torah, and for the honor of the holiday. As a reward, may the Holy One, Blessed be He, protect them, and save them from all troubles and travails, and may He send blessing and success to all their handiwork, and may He bless them, and merit them to go on pilgrimage [to the Holy Land] with all the people of Israel. Amen.”10 In many early modern communities, these blessings were pronounced individually, listing donors by name, thereby afording

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them public recognition and bestowing upon them requests for heavenly and earthly rewards.11 Patterns of giving, therefore, tell us about both donors and recipients—not only about their finances but about their values, perceptions, roles in society, and the dynamics of power that existed between and among those who gave and those who received. The Patrons and Their Poor uses the lens of public charity to provide an intimate portrait of the early modern Ashkenazic community. The prism of charity allows for this expanded view of daily life in the Jewish community for three reasons. First, since public charity involved both donors and recipients, it encompassed various strata of the community.12 This included the wealthy communal leadership that administered the charity funds, communal members (both middle-class and well-of), and the various types of poor who were deemed eligible or ineligible for assistance. Examining rituals of charity allows us to draw additional distinctions within these classes along the lines of gender and marital status. Diferent opportunities for donation were available to male and female donors, and commensurate degrees of public recognition were granted in exchange for their gifts. This book argues that over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, communal authorities sought to reduce both the acknowledgment and autonomy of female donors, whose donations were increasingly subsumed in the official record as family gifts. Unmarried adults were also excluded from certain forms of communal donations and from the public commemoration of those gifts and of those donors. Second, by the sixteenth century, charity had become more standardized, institutionalized, and communally administered. The purchase of the curtain from Wilno by the Frankfurt Jewish community exemplifies this trend, as seen by the heavy involvement of the communal leadership in creating a formal and regulated process for donating. Intensive management of issues large and small was emblematic of Jewish communal life at this time. Moreover, the administration of charity overlapped extensively with other aspects of the community’s budget. That budget, however, was not large enough to support what seemed like an endless influx of poor. Communal leaders therefore had to decide whom to support, and their decisions inform us about communal values and hierarchies that shaped daily life. Third, the increased administration of public charity by Jewish communal leaders did not occur in a vacuum. Between the late fifteenth and eighteenth centuries, the number of poor of diferent faiths rose exponentially throughout Europe. New systems were developed to regulate their presence, eventually

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leading to the formation of the modern welfare state. During this same period, public charity became increasingly institutionalized in Christian communities of western Europe. In many German towns and cities, local governments took control over charity from the church, often in the wake of the Protestant Reformation. Whereas Catholics understood charity as a means for the donor to procure merit in heaven, Protestant reformers, by contrast, insisted that the act of giving could not in and of itself yield salvation.13 The latter nevertheless believed that a proper Christian community should care for the poor. Luther and other reformers therefore advocated that charity be shifted from clerical to municipal control. Earlier scholarship had thus linked the increased civic management of charity to reformed theology. Yet later research, which allowed for a broad comparison of Catholic and Protestant communities, has since demonstrated that from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, both Catholic and Protestant communities sought to curtail and regulate the poor, often in similar ways.14 Across confessions and throughout Europe, civic plans were instituted to relieve poverty. The growing number of poor necessitated a practical, rather than a solely theological, approach to charity.15 Because poor relief was highly regulated by Christian municipal leaders over the course of the early modern period, they delegated the task of regulating the Jewish poor to the Jewish community living in their respective cities. Exploring the communications between Jewish and Christian leaders, as well as the specific manner in which Jewish communal leaders opted to implement and enforce those policies, allows for a robust and concrete discussion of the relations between the Jewish and Christian communities and a better understanding of the shared spaces they inhabited. This analysis moves beyond pointing to parallels between contemporaneous Jewish and Christian communities and argues that there was often a direct connection between their policies of poor relief. The Patrons and Their Poor thus provides a full-blown analysis of the Jewish community across various vectors, taking into account the intracommunal dynamics of class, gender, and marital status, as well as exploring its relations with the Christian authorities outside it. The story of Jewish public charity is an integral, and largely unrecognized, part of a larger narrative of early modern European poor relief. This Jewish story is deeply intertwined with, yet also distinct from, that of the Christian community surrounding it.16 Indeed, it would be a mistake to view the deep parallels in Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish poor relief as the dawn of a secular, rather than a religious, approach to charity, as Max Weber and various subsequent scholars

I n t rod u c t i on

5

have argued.17 The institutionalization of charity in the early modern period remained deeply rooted in theology and piety.18 Sometimes theological distinctions led to diferences in how poor relief was meted out. For example, hospitals for foundlings and licensed public pawnshops were present in Catholic, rather than Protestant, regions.19 Jewish poor relief similarly reflected particularly Jewish theological understandings of charity, remembrance, merit, and death, although these ideas were not as hotly contested among rabbis as they were in debates between Catholic and Protestant thinkers. Yet theology did not completely shape practice, for realities on the ground difered from prescribed religious ideals across all three communities.20 Early modern Catholics, Protestants, and Jews were all battling a similar problem. Confronted with an increase in the number of people seeking aid from a limited budget, authorities were forced to make tough decisions, prioritizing who should receive support, and how much. Given this dilemma, leaders from various religious confessions distinguished between the worthy and unworthy poor and, over time, built institutions to enclose the poor and to discipline them.21 Many ideas about poor relief, including mistrust and fear of the poor, and the desire to support only the “worthy” among them, date back to the thirteenth century. Yet it was not until the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries that communal poor ordinances were instituted to control the poor.22 Nicholas Terpstra recently argued that both Catholics and Protestants saw it as a moral obligation to care for the poor physically and spiritually. He points to various systems of enclosure implemented in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that were used to purify the “donating” community and simultaneously contain and reform the many migrants and refugees, the latter being viewed with suspicion and hostility.23 By the eighteenth century, municipal governments in most cities had prohibited begging house-to-house and had founded institutions to employ those poor they deemed worthy.24 Notwithstanding the similarities in the framework of public charity across regions and confessions in Europe, there was a decidedly local aspect to the precise policies and intricacies of poor relief, particularly in German lands.25 In an attempt to capture both the broad strokes and the fine details of Jewish public charity, this book focuses on three major urban Ashkenazic Jewish communities from the western part of the Holy Roman Empire: Altona-HamburgWandsbek, Frankfurt am Main, and Worms. The leaders of these three communities corresponded with one another about poverty and debt, coordinated their eforts to give, and informed one another when encountering a fraudulent collector. Yet despite their commonalities and collaboration, each of

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the three communities possessed distinctive features. The Jewish communities of Frankfurt and Worms each date back to the medieval period, while AltonaHamburg-Wandsbek was settled by Jews only in the late sixteenth century, facilitating a comparison of the development of public charity in older versus newer communities. Moreover, the Jewish populations in the three locations difered in size. The Jewish community of Worms was much smaller than that of Frankfurt, while the community in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek developed from a small to a large community during this time. Finally, the first two communities were confined to ghettos, while the third community was forged across European political boundaries. Examining what these three communities had in common and how they difered from one another because of their local contexts allows for a deeper, more nuanced study of the development and institutionalization of Jewish public charity. Chapter 1 traces the history of these three communities, pointing to demographic changes and the growth of administration and record-keeping that made the early modern Jewish community distinctive. Chapter 2 discusses the expansion and regulation of public institutions of charity from 1500 to 1750, a period that witnessed the appointment of several official administrators and the establishment of fixed procedures for collection. It explains the developments in poor relief that transpired during the early modern period and sheds light on the class of communal officials who managed public funds. Faced with constant deficits, the communal leadership devised myriad ways to fill its cofers, including instituting mandatory payments, taxes, and fines. Honors in the synagogue were acquired through donations, and transgressions were disciplined by levying financial penalties to be paid to charity. Chapter 3 focuses on the links between charity, honor, and discipline, against the backdrop of the economic necessities that drove the communal leaders to develop these policies. Chapters 4 and 5 shift the focus to look at charity from the bottom up, attempting to answer an important yet understudied topic: Who were the poor, and how did they fare in these Jewish communities? The term “poor” actually encompassed a wide range of individuals whose experiences in the Jewish community difered markedly from one another. Until now, scholars have largely shied away from a deep analysis of the diferent categories of poor in early modern European Jewish communities. After all, many poor individuals were illiterate and lacked the means or skills to record their lives. Moreover, most historical sources, such as tax records, are silent regarding this segment of the population.

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Michel Mollat explained decades ago that “difficulties with the sources deepen our ignorance of actual poverty.”26 Consequently, historians of various societies across time periods have utilized sources written by others about the poor to reconstruct their lives. Quantitative data from institutions such as soup kitchens, hospitals, and orphanages ofer some insight into the poor. Another common approach is to examine theological and ethical writings that deal with the poor.27 These same methodological challenges apply to the study of the poor in premodern Jewish communities of Europe, for sources about the Jewish poor are similarly limited in number. Using various types of communal and municipal records, along with rabbinic writings and analyses of rituals, these chapters separate the poor into two broad categories, each of which is, in turn, explored in greater depth. Chapter 4 focuses on the residential poor, including official members of the community, their kin who lacked official communal membership, and poor laborers such as domestic servants, guards, teachers, and students. Also present in Jewish communities were the transient poor, who traveled in search of daily sustenance and who are the subject of Chapter 5. The lines dividing the diferent types of poor were both highly regulated and quite porous. Losing a job led to a swift demotion in status from laboring poor to that of an itinerant beggar seeking employment and aid. There were further distinctions within these groups. Men and women, single individuals and married couples, pregnant women, children, orphans, and the physically and mentally disabled all received varying levels of care. Diferent expectations were set as to their behavior within the community, depending on age, gender, and marital status. The same social hierarchies that were used to diferentiate between the poor were applied within the community of donors. Chapter 6 analyzes the form and evolving content of official communal donation records, which acknowledged and preserved donors’ largesse for posterity. These documents were consciously constructed, with some residents being intentionally omitted from the record. Unmarried men and women and foreigners were excluded, and over time, married women’s donations were subsumed as part of family gifts. These records fashioned a highly specific community of donors, documented in a manner that would enhance familial prestige. The Patrons and Their Poor is the first book to explore the intersections between these diferent sectors of the community, from wealthy patrons to the homeless and stateless poor. In Jewish communities, particularly in Frankfurt and Worms, the two ghettos studied here, rich and poor individuals lived together in the same houses, and thus a study of charity is essential to understanding daily life.

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This analysis of public charity draws on sources in German, Hebrew, and Yiddish, culled from various archival and manuscript collections in Germany and Jerusalem, as well as early printed works. These include communal balance sheets, donation lists, housing and burial records, and the logbooks that charity collectors used as they disbursed funds to local and foreign poor. Although these records were essential to regulating the poor, they have until now been ignored by scholars. Along with these data, the book examines a broad mix of descriptive sources, including rituals and contemporary customs, rabbinic responsa, criminal cases, police records, correspondence between communal officials, templates for and actual letters of solicitation, and even a contemporary poem written by a poor individual. Because this book examines the dynamics within Jewish communities through the lens of charity, the scope of the inquiry is limited to public and communal forms of charity and does not include private charity and confraternities. While these fascinating and historically significant forms of giving did flourish in early modern Europe and are briefly surveyed in the overview in Chapter 2, they are not the main focus. Rather, this book examines charity as undertaken and administered by the official apparatus within each Jewish community. That examination is conducted against the particular historical backdrop of poor relief in early modern German cities between the sixteenth and mid-eighteenth centuries. The conclusion of the book considers the transregional aspects of early modern public charity, which were essential to the philanthropic networks that developed in the nineteenth century. Scholars have shown that an essential aspect of the formation of a community is the decision to provide certain individuals with benefits, while declining to award those benefits to others.28 As standardized systems for poor relief developed in Christian and Jewish communities in early modern German cities, leaders of these communities made decisions balancing the competing demands of piety and budget.29 Ultimately, their choices were shaped by a blend of cultural and religious assumptions and by a changing reality that necessitated dealing with a large segment of needy individuals.30 Determining which poor were to obtain what level of care and which donors were to receive specific forms of public recognition was thus an essential expression of communal belonging, identity, and self-fashioning.31 The study of public charity opens a new frontier for understanding daily life in early modern Jewish communities.

chapter 1

Early Modern Jewish Communities and Their Records

A visitor to early modern Frankfurt who had crossed into the city over the Main River from the direction of Sachsenhausen would have seen the city’s cathedral ahead as he entered the city. The plaza in the cathedral’s shadow, the neighborhood that the medieval Jewish community had once called home, would have attracted him with its Garküchen, the eateries and carts where a traveler might obtain a meal.1 Had he looked to the east after having crossed the river, he would have seen the curved wall of the Judengasse, which separated the Jewish ghetto from the rest of the city (see Figure 1). This Jewish space within the city confined Jewish residence to a separate, demarcated area, which Jews could not leave overnight. At the same time, the ghetto granted the Jews a space of their own within the Christian city.2 Jewish communities maintained a certain degree of autonomy, electing their own leaders, administering justice in rabbinic and lay courts, and governing a growing number of institutions.3 The lay leadership maintained its own copious records of meetings held and decisions reached, creating what was essentially an archive of the policies they had enacted and their implementation on the ground. The relationship between the Jewish communal leaders and the local Christian authorities was complex—mirroring, to some degree, the duality of the ghetto. Just as the ghetto marked the Jews as separate while conferring on them an official place within the city, so too, did early modern Jewish communities— whether situated in ghettos or not—simultaneously function autonomously and in conjunction with the larger Christian cities in which they were located. The lay leaders of early modern Jewish communities regulated almost every aspect of residents’ daily lives, and yet, that regulation was conducted in close dialogue

Figure 1. Map of Frankfurt. Matthäus Merian der Ältere, Großer Stadtplan von Südwesten, Vogelschau auf Frankfurt am Main, 1628. Copyright: Historisches Museum Frankfurt, Horst Ziegenfusz.

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with municipal authorities. The policies and practices adopted within the Jewish community were often the result of collaboration with the Christian leadership in and around the city.4

Frankfurt and Its Judengasse Following a municipal decision in 1460, Frankfurt’s ghetto, known as the Judengasse, or Jewish lane, was formally established in 1462. Jews had lived in Frankfurt since the eleventh century; the city had proved a desirable locus for trade, as it was situated on the Main River and was home to one of the largest commercial fairs.5 The first community of Frankfurt, which had lived in the bustling city center abutting the cathedral, had been decimated in a violent attack in 1241. A “second” Jewish community flourished in the city during the thirteenth century.6 Their homes and synagogue were located in the very same neighborhood, while the cemetery, which was constructed in the late thirteenth century, was at that time just outside the city.7 Mere decades later, the burial grounds were incorporated into the city as it expanded; this same cemetery continued to serve the Jewish community after its forced relocation from the city center to the Judengasse on the outskirts of Frankfurt, right next to the cemetery.8 The cemetery remained outside the ghetto walls.9 The ghetto was a narrow, curved street, approximately 330 meters long. It was enclosed on one side by the city wall and moat, and on the other by a newly constructed wall that closed the Jewish street of from the rest of the Christian city. Three gates were built to allow passage between the ghetto and the other streets in Frankfurt.10 Although Jews were required to live in the Judengasse, it was nevertheless a permeable space. Other than on Sundays and Christian holidays, the three gates were unlocked during daylight hours, with both Christians and Jews entering and exiting freely. Several decades after the establishment of the Judengasse, Protestantism was slowly adopted in Frankfurt, as it was in many other cities in the Holy Roman Empire.11 Frankfurt was one of the empire’s most important cities, site of the emperor’s coronation from the mid-sixteenth century on. Reformed preaching began in 1522. That and the founding of the local gymnasium in 1520 helped spread reformed theology among the people. The formal adoption of Lutheranism was a slow process mired in imperial and local politics. Although the city magistrates identified themselves as Lutherans during the 1530 Augsburg Reichstag, they did not sign the Augsburg Confession, the official Lutheran creed,

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which was crafted there. The councilors forbade Catholic worship in the city in 1533, and a lengthy legal proceeding was brought against the city in imperial court. Both Martin Luther and his fellow reformer and confidante Philip Melanchthon corresponded with the city officials at this time. The city joined the alliance of Lutheran princes, the Schmalkaldic League, in 1536, at which point the magistrates officially adopted the Lutheran creed.12 In the wake of losses to the emperor during the Schmalkaldic war in 1548, Frankfurt was forced once again to permit Catholic worship in the city, during what is known as the Interim period. With the coming of the Peace of Augsburg in 1555, Frankfurt was declared a Lutheran city. While Catholics and Reformed ser vices were permitted in the city, all city magistrates were to be Lutherans.13 The Jewish minority remained in the Judengasse. The flocking of Protestant refugees, primarily from the Netherlands, to the city in the latter half of the sixteenth century created economic opportunities for Jewish moneylenders, one of several factors causing a spike in the local Jewish population. When the ghetto was first constructed in Frankfurt, the community comprised approximately 150 Jews out of a total population of under ten thousand inhabitants. Immigration as well as an increased birthrate led to a rise in population, to approximately 20,200 residents.14 The Jewish population also increased, in three waves: during 1520–1536, after 1550, and again in the 1580s and 1590s. First, Jews who had been expelled from other cities in the German-speaking realm resettled in Frankfurt.15 Second, the need for liquidity led the city council to encourage Jewish migration. Economic opportunities for moneylenders abounded for multiple reasons, among them the fact that transactions conducted at the prestigious local fair frequently required cash. Finally, in the late sixteenth century, Calvinist and Lutheran refugees who were merchants flocked to the city, increasing the demand for loans.16 By 1614, more than 2,500 Jews were living in the Judengasse. In that year, the Jews of Frankfurt were expelled for a period of two years. This expulsion occurred in the wake of the Fettmilch uprising, a rebellion led by Vincenz Fettmilch against the city council. Frankfurt’s city council had comprised three “benches,” two held by patricians, and the third by guild members. Angered over the control that this oligarchy had over their lives, the burghers, led by Fettmilch, rebelled and pillaged the Judengasse, incensed at the perceived collaboration between the city’s leaders and local Jewish moneylenders.17 In 1616, the Jews returned to the ghetto under a new set of regulations, known as privileges. The formal privileges acquired in 1616, termed Stättigkeit in German, shaped Jewish life in Frankfurt for nearly two centuries.18 Its statutes regulated rights

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of residence, economic activities, marriage, and communal membership, imposing limits on the Jewish presence in the city. Thus, only twelve couples were permitted to marry per year. Emphasis was placed on the second-class status of the Jews in the Christian city.19 The text of the Stättigkeit was used to adjudicate disputes between the Jewish community, local burghers, and city magistrates. By 1700, Frankfurt had experienced remarkable growth. Its population reached 27,500 residents, and it had become a center for exchange and banking.20 The Jewish community continued to grow as well and, by the turn of the eighteenth century, numbered more than three thousand inhabitants. But in 1711, a massive fire broke out in the rabbi’s house, engulfing and ultimately destroying almost all the homes and communal spaces in the Judengasse. Another fire, albeit smaller, destroyed part of the Judengasse in 1721. For several years after the fires, as the ghetto was reconstructed, Jews moved temporarily out of the Judengasse, primarily to the streets proximate to the ghetto.21 Sources from the eighteenth century report on individual Jews who were present in the Christian areas in Frankfurt and also document Jewish warehouses outside the ghetto.22 When the French bombarded the city in 1796, a third fire swept through the ghetto; its walls were never completely rebuilt. Technically, however, Jewish residence continued to be limited to the ghetto until 1811.23 In many ways, the community living inside the Judengasse was a discrete and self-sufficient corporate body. The ghetto housed two formal synagogues in one complex, known as the old and new synagogues. Additional quorums for prayer were established in the communal hospice and in individual homes.24 A yeshiva (school for young Jewish men) was established in the Judengasse and was one of the best-known institutions for Jewish learning in western Europe. Frankfurt was also home to the most respected rabbinical court in western Europe.25 As will be discussed in Chapter 2 at length, the ghetto also housed a hospital; additional communal institutions were established and managed by the communal leaders over the course of the eighteenth century.26 As is described in detail below, the lay leaders of the community wielded extensive power over the lives of communal members. Yet their power was by no means unfettered; many decisions regulating communal life were subordinate to the Christian municipality. For example, all building in the ghetto was regulated by the Christian authorities.27 Decisions regarding who would be registered as an official member of the community were likewise coordinated and registered at the Christian city hall. Individual Jewish residents appeared before the Christian municipal courts, sometimes even suing the Jewish communal leaders over a decision the former deemed unjust, such as the location of a grave, or denial of

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the right to remarry.28 Individuals and the community as a whole appealed many decisions to the Imperial Aulic Council, the Reichshofrat, in Vienna. As citizens of the Holy Roman Empire, the community and its residents maintained and exercised their right to appeal to this imperial supreme court. The relationship between Frankfurt’s magistrates, burghers, and Jews was at times heavily afected by decisions coming from Vienna. Frequently, the same legal case can be traced in records of the Jewish community, the municipality, and the imperial council. Thus, a deep understanding of the community and its functioning must take into account various layers of intersecting authorities and interest groups that shaped Jewish daily life in Frankfurt.29

Worms and Its Judengasse Following the establishment of the Judengasse in Frankfurt, the Worms municipality also constructed a ghetto, no later than 1480. This city on the left bank of the Rhine, known for its wine production, had been one of the most important Jewish centers in medieval Ashkenaz, beginning no later than the eleventh century.30 The local Jewish cemetery, Heiliger Sand, is the oldest surviving cemetery in Europe, with a tombstone dating from 1077. During the eleventh century, the Jews of Worms built a synagogue in the northern section of the city, near the inner city wall. In the twelfth century, a local couple subsidized the construction of a women’s synagogue adjoining the men’s synagogue, and a ritual bath, or mikveh, was erected behind the men’s synagogue as well.31 Worms was regarded by early modern Jews as an ancient, and therefore important, community. The eighteenth-century rabbinic emissary from Jerusalem, Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulay, who visited there, referred to Worms as a “holy” community, citing its long history and the traditional myths associated with its past. In his description of his travels, he noted the grave of the renowned medieval Jewish scholar Rabbi Meir b. Barukh (Maharam) of Rothenburg (d. 1293). He also cited the mythical story of how the Worms city wall shifted to a concave form in order to embrace the pregnant mother of the medieval commentator Rashi (d. 1105), when a passing wagon threatened to harm her and her fetus.32 When the magistrates of Worms decided to confine Jewish residence to a ghetto in the late fifteenth century, they enclosed the street that housed the medieval synagogue, the ritual bath, and many Jewish homes. Thus, the Jews of Worms were not evicted and relocated, as had been the case in Frankfurt. Instead, a new wall was constructed around them; together with the inner city wall,

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which already abutted the Judengasse, it served to enclose the Jewish residents in a separate quarter. Two gates were installed, and each morning, after a bell sounded, the gates were unlocked, permitting Jews and Christians to enter and exit. At night, the gates were locked again.33 The area of the Judengasse comprised a curved street as well as a back alley that jutted out behind the synagogue, known as hintere Judengasse. It originally encompassed forty-two houses with approximately 250 residents.34 In 1500, the total population of Worms, including the Jews, is estimated to have been between six thousand and seven thousand residents.35 Its Romanesque cathedral remained the seat of the Catholic bishop through the early nineteenth century, but by the early modern period, Worms had formally adopted Lutheranism.36 In Reformation history, the city is most famous as the site of Luther’s refusal to recant his teachings; its Jewish inhabitants resided only a few streets away from the square in which Luther took his stand.37 The city was also home to a community of Anabaptists and was a central location for the failed negotiations between moderate Catholics and Protestants in 1540–1541. Under the Peace of Augsburg in 1555, the city’s mostly Lutheran population and its Catholic minority were both officially recognized.38 In the early seventeenth century, urban discord reached Worms once again, as a result of the Fettmilch uprising in nearby Frankfurt. In 1615, the Jews of Worms were expelled from the Judengasse.39 Like the Jews of Frankfurt, they returned to the ghetto in 1616, with new regulations governing their lives and their interactions with their Christian neighbors. The synagogue, which had been ransacked during the violence, was rebuilt in 1620. At that time, David ben Joshua Oppenheim of Worms donated money to construct a school adjacent to the synagogue, known today as the Rashi chapel. Oppenheim also subsidized the repair of the cemetery, located a kilometer outside the Judengasse.40 The pink-hued gravestones, constructed in the same distinctive sandstone as the famed cathedral of Worms, needed restoring in the wake of the uprising (see Figure 2). After the Fettmilch uprising, both the city and the Judengasse experienced a substantial population increase. By 1630, seven thousand to eight thousand individuals were residing in Worms.41 Records from 1619 list just under seven hundred Jews residing in about a hundred houses in the Judengasse.42 As was the case in Frankfurt, as the population of the ghetto increased, the living conditions became more and more dense. During the seventeenth century, battles over Worms persisted. During the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648), Worms was invaded by the Lutheran Swedes, whose presence, as we shall see, disrupted some of the rites of Jewish charity.43

Figure 2. Heiliger Sand cemetery, Worms. Photograph by author.

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The presence of troops in and around Worms inevitably led to an increase in poverty. The local population sufered tremendously during the war, and by 1650, two years after the war had ended, the number of residents in Worms had dropped to between four thousand and five thousand.44 This historic city near the shifting border between France and the empire was again attacked during the Nine Years’ War. The city was burned by the French on May 31, 1689.45 A few families continued to live in the rubble.46 Only after ten years did the Jews return to the Judengasse and begin to rebuild their homes, synagogue, and communal institutions. The population climbed slowly, and the Jewish population remained relatively small. In 1710, there were about 4,231 residents in the city, 100 of them Jews. By 1766, there were approximately 5,159 residents, only 120 of them Jews.47 The ghetto of Worms remained in place until 1806, when Napoleon conquered the city.48 Like the Jews of Frankfurt, those of Worms were connected to Christian authorities within and outside the municipality. While there are many more extant documents detailing the daily interactions between Frankfurt’s magistrates and Jewish community than there are for Worms, records indicate that the dynamics were similar. The protocols of the city magistrates include dozens of policies regulating the Jewish community, and contact between the city magistrates and Jewish communal leaders was a normative part of life. For example, the magistrates entered the Judengasse to ensure that buildings conformed to code.49 In one instance, the Worms magistrates and the Jewish community sparred over the construction of a Jewish bakery in the Judengasse in the eighteenth century.50 While the Jews wanted to build and manage a bakery of their own in the Judengasse, local Christian bakers feared the competition and petitioned the magistrates to close the bakery, obligating Jews to continue to patronize Christian-owned bakeries.51 This tug-of-war between Jews, magistrates, and burghers reflects the complicated relations between the three parties and shows that Jewish communal autonomy in early modern Europe was not absolute. The fact that Worms was an imperial city surrounded by other territorial princes also afected the Jewish community. Aside from its dealings with the city magistrates, the Jews of Worms paid taxes to neighboring authorities, including the bishop, the noble von Dalberg family, and the elector of the Palatinate.52 Moreover, throughout the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth centuries, the rabbi of Worms served as the rabbinic leader of various smaller rural communities.53 The rabbi, in particular, and the Jewish community, more broadly, therefore maintained relations with Christian authorities well beyond the city walls.

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Figure 3. Map of Hamburg, 1572. G. Braun and F. Hogenberg, Beschreibung und Contrafactur der vornembster Stät der Welt, 1:24. National Library of Israel, Eran Laor Cartographic Collection, Shapell Family Digitization Project and The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Department of Geography—Historic Cities Research Project. Note the presence of ships, highlighting Hamburg’s port.

The Establishment of Kehillat Ah”u Unlike Frankfurt and Worms, the Jewish community in Altona-HamburgWandsbek was first established in the early modern period. Hamburg, a thriving port city at the nexus of the Elbe and Alster Rivers, was a natural harbor, as the Elbe flowed directly from the city into the North Sea (see Figure 3). A large number of immigrants traveled to Hamburg, and the city’s population rose exponentially as a result. By 1600, there were approximately forty thousand residents in the city, reflecting a doubling of Hamburg’s population in a mere fifty years. By 1680, there were sixty thousand residents, and by 1750, the city boasted ninety thousand inhabitants.54 Among the many immigrants were Portuguese Jewish merchants, former conversos who sought to return to their ancestral faith far from the reach of the Inquisition. Hamburg, a Lutheran port city close to Amsterdam, the latter arguably the central community for conversos returning to Judaism, was thus a desirable destination.55 These Portuguese merchants, whose settlement was encouraged by the senate that led the expanding Hanseatic city, first arrived in Hamburg in the late sixteenth century. Approximately 150 Sephardic Jews lived in Hamburg in 1612, a number that increased rapidly to more than 1,200 individuals by 1652.56 The first Ashkenazic Jews to arrive served as their

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domestic servants. While it is difficult to estimate the precise population of Ashkenazim, there were seventeen or eighteen families serving in this capacity before 1648.57 Ashkenazic Jews had also settled in nearby Altona, an area that today is a borough of Hamburg, but that was ruled by the Danish crown from the midseventeenth through the mid-nineteenth centuries.58 As late as the mid-sixteenth century, Altona was a fishing village with no more than fifteen houses; by 1664, it had developed into a town with 3,000–3,400 residents, a number that increased to 12,000 in 1710 and 30,000 by 1750.59 Additional Jews settled in Danish-ruled Wandsbek, to the city’s east (today part of the contemporary city of Hamburg). The entire population of Wandsbek was only about 500 at the close of the eighteenth century.60 While the Danish crown granted the Jews rights in exchange for taxes, their relationship with the Hamburg senate was not free of tension. The Jews were subject to heavy taxes, and on several occasions, there was considerable strife over whether and where they might construct a synagogue in Hamburg.61 The Ashkenazic Jews were expelled from Hamburg in 1649, a decision fueled by the antisemitic writings of the Lutheran theologian Johannes Müller; their presence was formally permitted again in 1657. In August 1730, violence against Jews swept through the city for several days.62 Yet the proximity of these three areas to one another and the economic competition between Altona and Hamburg at times led Hamburg’s Lutheran senate to adopt more moderate policies than its clergy would ideally have approved; Catholics, Jews, Mennonites, and Calvinists resided in Altona and Wandsbek.63 Despite the diferent and competing political authorities that ruled over these three locales, from a Jewish perspective, the boundaries were blurred. Some Jews who held privileges of residence in Altona lived and worked in Hamburg.64 In 1671, the Ashkenazic Jews from these three communities officially united as one community despite being located in diferent political jurisdictions. Known as Kehillat Ah”u, an acronym for Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, the community shared a rabbi, regulations, and a cemetery. The triple community, as it is known, remained united until 1812, when it was formally dissolved.65 The rabbi of the triple community was based in Altona, where the community constructed a new synagogue in 1682. The main cemetery, shared by the Portuguese and Ashkenazic communities, was located in Altona as well. Additional cemeteries were located in Wandsbek; in nearby Ottensen, where the first Ashkenazic cemetery had been established; and, following the plague in 1713, in Hamburg proper.66 The Altona cemetery and the ritual baths

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in that city became and remained the central institutions for the Ashkenazic community.67 The Jews of the triple community did not reside in a Judengasse, although before 1710, the Jews of Hamburg were restricted to various districts. After that date, they were able to reside throughout the city.68 Archival documents from the 1740s depict diagrams in which Jewish and Christian homes were proximate to one another, although the strife over the location of the synagogue indicates that there were limits to neighborliness.69 While the earliest Ashkenazic community in Altona and Hamburg comprised a few dozen families, their number steadily grew. Tax records from 1725 list 208 Ashkenazic households from Altona, Hamburg, and Wandsbek.70 Of those, 126 households were in Altona, 46 in Hamburg, and 36 in Wandsbek. Sixteen households were governed by widows, and the remaining households are listed with either the male patriarch or a married couple as taxpayers. By definition, Jews in the triple community maintained relations with different Christian rulers, since some community members paid their taxes to the Danish king in Copenhagen, while others paid taxes to Hamburg and interacted with its senate. As was the case in Frankfurt and Worms, leaders of the Jewish community dealt with the Christian authorities on a daily basis. Research on Hamburg’s Jews demonstrates that the magistrates were deeply aware of the happenings in the Jewish community, including the famous controversy between Jacob Emden, a local scholar of great acclaim, and the community’s chief rabbi, Jonathan Eybeschutz.71 Not only were there contacts between individual Jews and the Christian authorities, but the leaders of the Jewish community also coordinated and communicated with the Christian leaders. Policies adopted in the senate were passed on to the Jewish community for implementation; Jewish communal ordinances were at times shared and translated for municipal authorities.72 The ubiquity of turning to municipal authorities for justice was captured in a popular Yiddish song. It tells the possibly fictive story of an eastern European Jew who fled to Altona-Hamburg, abandoning his wife.73 Although he had not divorced her, he married a second woman in Hamburg, and his first wife traveled to find him to demand a divorce.74 The first wife turned to the rabbinical court, which demanded that he cease living with his new wife until they could investigate and issue a ruling. When the husband did not comply, his first wife turned to the Christian city council. The incorporation of turning to the Christian authorities in a popular song indicates that this was a prevalent phenomenon that would resonate with singers and listeners.

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The Administration of Early Modern Urban Jewish Communities At the same time as the respective Jewish populations of Frankfurt, Worms, and Kehillat Ah”u began to grow, a comprehensive communal structure evolved to govern each community. A plethora of administrators were appointed or elected to run the community and its institutions. While many of the terms for these administrators were culled from Talmudic and classical sources, the titles took on specific meanings in the early modern period and could vary from one region to another. The lay leaders, or parnassim, controlled many aspects of daily life in the kehillah, the community. Parnassim were generally elected for two-year terms and often came from wealthy and powerful families. In seventeenth-century Frankfurt, for example, conflict raged between community members who resented the concentration of power in the hands of a few individuals.75 Alongside the parnassim were tax collectors, a variety of charity collectors, scribes, and sextons, and ne’emane ha-kahal, who served as witnesses or notaries to various economic transactions. During this era, the parnassim increasingly sought to control numerous, even minute, aspects of individuals’ private lives, a phenomenon that peaked in the eighteenth century. Communal leaders issued takkanot (sing., takkanah), or Jewish communal decrees, legislating matters of dress, shopping, ritual practice, and consumption.76 Beginning in the sixteenth century, the parnassim took control over local Jewish education, which had been managed by individual families during the Middle Ages. In the early modern period, communal leaders set hours, wages, and vacation days for local melamdim.77 Communal institutions were also increasingly regulated by the lay leadership. In exchange for taxes paid to the political authorities, the kehillah maintained its own synagogues, ritual baths, cemeteries, and rabbinical courts. In Altona, early modern parnassim legislated which ritual baths could be used, determined fees for immersion, and appointed administrators to collect the fees.78 Individuals purchased or inherited specific seats in the synagogue, and their sale and resale was recorded by communal officials.79 In order to punish members of the community who had transgressed accepted norms, the parnassim sometimes restricted the use of synagogue seats or curtailed participation in ritual activities for a specified period of time.80 Thus, when in 1692 a newly married couple in Altona gave birth to what seemed to be a full-term baby just four months after their wedding, the father of the baby, Moses ben Abraham ha-Kohen, was barred from receiving any communal honors, other

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than on the anniversary of a loved one’s death, for a period of three years. Since the father was a kohen, a priest, he was also forbidden to participate in the priestly blessing of the community on festivals. For ten years, he was also to be excluded from any position of communal leadership. His wife was restricted from sitting in the first four rows of the synagogue for ten years. The baby, too, was punished, and was not awarded the status of communal membership, even though the parents were official members of the kehillah.81 The social discipline applied here to punish and deter premarital sex mirrors contemporary Christian practices, in which municipal authorities sought to maintain social order through a mix of regulations and discipline.82 Many takkanot regulated ritual practice and were unique to Jewish communities. Some were even copied from one community to another.83 Others reflected early modern norms more broadly. Communal decrees directing women and men to dress according to their economic status, for example, mirrored many of the sumptuary laws issued in various municipalities.84 Certain takkanot were essentially Jewish regulations created to implement municipal policies within the Jewish community. Ordinances enacted by the Jewish community that banned begging or increased the amount of charity collected, for example, were often promulgated in direct response to the Christian magistrates’ policies limiting the influx of poor. Ascertaining the rationale behind communal ordinances is no simple matter, as frequently, ordinances were driven by more than one factor. For example, various takkanot sought to regulate practices within the synagogue. Some of these were actually a means of generating revenue, since much public charity was collected in synagogue, as a form of compensation for honors received there.85 When the need for charitable donations escalated, communal leaders enacted policies to ensure that enough men who were sufficiently wealthy would be present in the synagogue. It is essential to note that although similar ordinances were enacted across various Jewish communities, it was often particu lar local circumstances, whether within the Jewish community or within the larger context of the Christian city, that led to their enactment. In 1707 in Frankfurt, for example, the parnassim ordered all men to pray only in the two official synagogues; they were not to pray in any of the smaller quorums that had been established over the previous twenty-five years. Moreover, anyone who purchased synagogue honors in one of the smaller synagogues was to be fined a hefty sum of twenty reichsthaler.86 The explicit mention of purchasing honors in the synagogue strongly suggests that the goal of this policy was to ensure that potential donors pray in the space in which charity was collected,

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rather than in an alternate prayer group, in which there was no collection for the communal chest.87 It is possible to discern the specific impetus for this ordinance by examining where it was placed in the communal record book, the pinkas. This entry immediately follows one from 1688, in which a new study hall was established and guidelines for its management and use were established. Specifically, communal leaders sought to draw hierarchical distinctions between the new study hall and its rabbi, on the one hand, and the established school and the head of the rabbinical court, on the other.88 The decision to record the 1707 promulgation immediately following the ordinance governing the study hall is telling; it was a topical, rather than a chronological, grouping that led the scribes to insert these texts consecutively. Since the latter ordinance limited prayer services to quorums that had been established twenty-five years earlier, and the study hall had been established twenty years earlier, it may be that the community sought to halt any competing prayers in the latter institution.89 By contrast, in Altona-Hamburg, similar communal ordinances were enacted, yet these were in direct response to a new municipal policy rather than to competing communal institutions. In the early eighteenth century, Hamburg’s senate instituted a new restrictive city ordinance outlawing begging as part of a reform to its poor relief program. In turn, city officials instructed the Jewish communities to halt all begging. Enforcing a no-begging policy strained the overall communal capacity to care for the indigent, since those who had previously begged could no longer rely on private handouts and now turned to communal charity collectors for aid.90 As a result of the ban on begging, the parnassim in 1728 ruled that no one would be permitted to pray in a smaller synagogue and that all members of the community were required to attend the main synagogue. This would ensure that there would be enough men to receive, and later pay for, honors during ser vices.91 The revenue was directed to the communal charity fund. Lay leaders further stipulated that synagogue honors were to be granted only to married men who were financially able to pay the commensurate donation in exchange. Several months after having enacted this new policy and still desperate for cash, the parnassim decreed that anyone who owned a seat in the synagogue was to be taxed one reichsthaler. Only those who had paid the tax were to be granted honors in the synagogue.92 The idea of regulating synagogue policies to raise money for charity was common in several Jewish communities, and it may be that Jewish communal officials corresponded with one another to share strategies for addressing common problems, such as raising enough money to care for the poor. This does not obviate the need to explore the local context within the Jewish community

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and in the larger city. As the previous examples demonstrate, intracommunal concerns as well as municipal policies could lead to emendations of ritual practice in the synagogue. The Altona example demonstrates that parnassim were frequently in dialogue with their Christian counterparts. The latter were often well apprised of what was transpiring in the synagogues and Jewish communities, just as the parnassim were up-to-date on city afairs. Recent scholarship has shown that Jewish rabbinical courts interfaced with local and imperial courts and that rabbis’ appointments were sometimes conducted with the input and consent of regional political authorities.93 The ongoing collaboration between Jewish and Christian leaders and their entanglement with each other is an important corrective to a somewhat romantic picture of premodern Jewish autonomy championed by earlier scholars of Jewish history.94 In fact, the degree of autonomy granted to Jewish communities was managed carefully by early modern city leaders and thus, far more measured than scholars previously acknowledged. Often, Christian municipal authorities delegated specific directives to Jewish communal leaders, who then implemented these policies within the Jewish community using their own legal frame and cultural context. In addition, individual Jews sometimes eschewed rabbinic and lay Jewish tribunals, seeking justice in non-Jewish courts, frequently interacting with the municipality, territorial princes, and even the emperor, and their respective judicial systems.

Communal Records As the administration of Jewish communities grew, lay officials increasingly documented their contracts, transactions, policies, and infractions of these policies, and they grew to rely on paperwork as a means for navigating conflicts and enforcing rules.95 These documents were essential to the new and growing communal administration. Beginning in the mid-sixteenth century, an array of communal record books known as pinkassim were copiously kept and maintained in Ashkenazic Jewish communities in the Holy Roman Empire, eastern Europe, and northern Italy. The pinkas kahal, the official communal logbook, recorded many important decisions enacted by the parnassim.96 Such a pinkas comprised communal takkanot, as well as ad hoc decisions regarding individual cases. Entries about hiring communal employees and rabbis, fines penalizing individuals who violated a communal ordinance, and decisions about ritual slaughter or prayer ser vices are all topics that can be found in pinkassim in the Ashkenazic

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realm. Pinkassim were kept in a chest under lock and key, often stored in a room known as the kahale stübe, the community room. Communal legislation from Altona-Hamburg details the cataloging of these communal texts: All the pinkassim of the community’s records shall be placed in the same chest, organized, and they [should be entered] into the registry [catalog], so that it can be found by anyone who searches for it. This is aside from the privileges [communal rights granted by Christian authorities] that will be in the hands of one parnas, and it shall be inscribed into the communal pinkas as to whose hand they have been given. And the copy of the privileges97 shall be placed in the communal chest, and none of the leaders of the community may take any of the communal records to his home, under penalty of losing his appointment and other punishments as seem fitting in the eyes of the communal leadership together with the rabbi.98 Only those in power had access to these documents, and even they did not have unfettered access to the records. Communal officials consulted the pinkassim as needed. They were used as an archive to prove the veracity of later claims and to examine past policies.99 Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, additional types of pinkassim were maintained in German Jewish communities. Each communal official—tax collectors, charity collectors, sextons, rabbinical courts, and judges— seems to have faithfully kept a pinkas detailing his official work. Some communities maintained their own copy of every economic contract signed by community members, of their prenuptial and marital contracts, and of their wills.100 The widest range of preserved pinkassim is from Altona-HamburgWandsbek. That community had four treasuries: one for each individual community and one joint treasury of the triple community.101 Altona and Hamburg each had its own tax and charity collectors who needed to coordinate with their counterparts in the other community, yielding pinkassim with tax and donation records from Altona and from Hamburg.102 Recording, writing, and consulting with documentation was common practice among contemporary Christians, who simultaneously saw an increase in bureaucracy, paperwork, administration, and archiving.103 This culture of recordation was perhaps unsurprising in an era of print, in which the written word was seen as authoritative.104 Jewish pinkassim represent a parallel practice, one that was done at the initiative of communal leaders and not at the behest of Christian authorities. Although parnassim

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shared information with the Christian authorities, pinkassim were utilized solely to manage internal communal afairs and typically were not (and often could not be) read by Christian authorities. The paper trail of policies and of the daily administration of communal affairs permits historians to observe both the real and the ideal in early modern Jewish communities. Poor relief is a particularly well-documented phenomenon, as communal officials relied heavily on logbooks and permits to manage the poor. These documents tell two intertwined stories: the top-down story of how public charity expanded in early modern urban Jewish communities, which is the subject of the next two chapters, and the bottom-up story in which the individuals seeking poor relief and those providing it can be seen more clearly, subjects treated in the remainder of this book.

chapter 2

Something Happened to Charity in Early Modern Europe

In the twelfth century, R. Eliezer b. Nathan (Ra’avan) noted that the relatively new Jewish community of Frankfurt am Main lacked a hever ‘ ir, an official communal charity collector.1 In the mid-fourteenth century, communal charity began to be formalized in Frankfurt, when a hospice for the ill and poor was founded.2 By the early sixteenth century, Frankfurt’s Jewish community boasted a sophisticated and expansive infrastructure of public charity, which included both institutions and official administrators. Relief for the local poor was managed by charity collectors, gabbaim, who were overseen by the lay leadership of the community. In addition, numerous benevolent confraternities were founded from the late sixteenth century through the early eighteenth century.3 Notwithstanding that many large medieval Jewish communities did have gabbaim, the systemization and regulation of public charity and its distribution by formal institutions, which were themselves governed by appointed officials, intensified in the early modern period. These trends are typical of both Jewish and Christian communities in western Europe at this time.4 The pace at which these processes were implemented varied slightly from place to place, and the specific forms that the institutionalization took difered somewhat between particu lar religious communities. Nevertheless, from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, prescribed structures and procedures for regulating public charity were put into efect and, over time, expanded. A torrent of records was created to document and manage the organization, collection, and distribution of charity. What processes transpired during the early modern period, leading to the increasingly formalized structure and governance of public charity?

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Jewish Public Charity in the Ancient World Most references to charity in the Pentateuch deal directly with agricultural forms of poor relief. The Bible mandates designating certain portions of the harvest for the local poor to collect.5 During the Second Temple period, a theology developed that viewed charity as a loan for which God provided the surety. The concept was that just as a person would be inclined to lend money to a poor individual should a king serve as the loan’s guarantor, so should one donate charity to the poor, since God was guaranteeing the loan. This argument can be found in both Jewish and Christian sources, including Ben Sira, the New Testament, Tobias, and other texts.6 As Gary Anderson has argued, the image of a heavenly treasury, in which an individual could accrue rewards from God, was often invoked in the context of charity. By giving charity, one was, in efect, amassing credit with God, and thus, by definition, a donor could not sufer a loss by giving to the poor.7 In the ancient period, the belief that donating charity could yield material benefits to the donor further developed. Rabbis in Palestine recounted stories detailing how donors were blessed with discovering hidden treasure and how, due to the meritorious actions of those who gave charity, entire communities were rewarded with rain. They marshaled these stories in order to raise money for their institutions.8 As Alyssa Gray has observed, rabbis in the Land of Israel and in Babylonia served as formal collectors of charity, which attests to their involvement with the Jewish community beyond the study hall.9 Classical Jewish texts such as the Mishnah and Tosefta prescribed that Jewish communities were to have formal institutions for poor relief, including a kuppah, a public charity fund, and a tamhuy, a type of soup kitchen to feed the poor.10 Yet the particular form that charity took in practice varied over time and across geographic location. While in some Jewish communities, there were robust and highly developed mechanisms for distributing aid, in other contemporaneous communities, poor relief was handled mainly through private gifts or on an ad hoc basis. Often, charity was organized similarly among diferent faith communities residing in the same locale. Thus, for example, certain parallels can be seen between Roman practices and Jewish practices in the ancient world.11

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Public and Private Charity in the Middle Ages Among medieval Jewish communities, public charity found its most organized expression in and around Cairo. As Mark Cohen has explained, Cairo’s public charity was referred to as mezonot—literally, “food”—because its primary function was to distribute bread to the poor. This institution was a combination of the Talmudic tamhuy and kuppah.12 In Ashkenaz (northern France and the Holy Roman Empire), by contrast, there was more private charity than there were public institutions, and the degree of public charity varied from community to community. In the twelfth century, some medieval German communities, such as Frankfurt, lacked any formal communal fund to which communal members were obligated to donate on a regular basis. There, charity was donated solely on an informal and private level. Other communities had an organized kis shel kahal, a communal fund managed by administrators. In some cases, the fund was primarily drawn from voluntary private donations, while in other communities, it was obligatory for residents to donate to the fund.13 As Judah Galinsky has shown, Jewish communities of medieval France had limited forms of public charity. The late thirteenth-century R. Isaac of Corbeil commented that in his work, the popular Sefer mitzvot katan, he purposefully refrained from explicating the Talmudic laws of kuppah and tamhuy because “they are not in practice in this kingdom.”14 R. Joseph Hayyim b. Moses, a legal authority in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, similarly stated that there were communities with no central charity fund. Discussing the pious practice of donating a tenth of one’s income to charity, the sage opined on what percentage of the tithe could be apportioned to one’s relatives.15 R. Joseph ruled that up to half the amount could be donated to relatives and that the other half should be donated to other poor individuals. His description as to how to disburse the remaining 50  percent that was to support nonrelatives reveals the diversity among communal structures for administering charity: “in a city in which there is a treasury, half should be brought to the treasury; and in a city without a treasury, he [the donor] should give half to poor that are not his relatives, such as foreign poor or poor students, and half he should retain for his relatives. [emphasis mine].”16 R. Joseph’s instructions highlight that in some communities, there was a communal treasury, managed by a gabbay, and that the poor could receive aid from that general fund. By contrast, in localities lacking a central communal fund, poor relief was solely dependent on the financial ability and goodwill of wealthier residents to provide support to the poor.

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Even in places where there was a treasury, it was customary for residents to allocate 50  percent of their tithe to their own relatives, meaning that a significant amount of poor relief was provided by wealthier relatives to their poorer kin. Poor individuals would look first toward their relatives, even in those communities with a central fund. The family similarly served as the primary caretakers for the mentally ill during the Middle Ages, a norm that shifted for some families during the early modern period.17 Many private or individual gifts ultimately administered by a charity collector were donated on specific holidays or else preceding an individual’s death.18 The Nürnberg Memorbuch, a medieval Jewish memorial book, lists individual Jewish men and women who opted to donate to various communal causes at the end of their lives for the sake of their souls. Their gifts were often earmarked for specific purposes, such as providing lighting for synagogue, a critical need in an age before electricity. Elisheva Baumgarten’s work on the Memorbuch highlights the centrality of voluntary gifts by individual donors as a source for funding public initiatives. For example, after 1298, more donations were earmarked toward a newly constructed cemetery.19 Support for communal institutions thus came not through an enforced bequest or a mandated contribution to a communal fund but rather, largely through individual donations to these newly developing institutions. Of course, as individual donations became increasingly common, a set of communal norms and expectations were formed, according to which it was assumed that a pious person would donate.20 Such peer pressure across a community ensured that communal institutions would be funded by individual donations, even if said donations were, for the most part, not formally required.21 End-of-life donations among Ashkenazic Jews strikingly parallel contemporaneous Christian gifts known as pro anima, gifts given at the end of one’s life for the sake of one’s soul. This parallel reflects the deep impact that the local context had on the form of charitable giving that became normative among Jews in a given area. For example, in the Jewish community, individual men and women donated money, silver, cloth, and books. Their gifts were recorded in a communal manuscript that was read aloud liturgically in the synagogue to commemorate them after their death.22 Similarly, as Charlotte Stanford’s analysis of necrologies in medieval Strasbourg demonstrates, local Christians donated a diverse range of items—including clothing, land, animals, jewelry, and silver—to cathedral funds or hospitals. The donor’s name and donation were recorded in a manuscript stored in the church. The priests associated with the particular fund would subsequently recite masses for the donor’s soul on the anniversary of his or her death.23 Notwithstanding the blatant similarities between Jewish and

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Christian practices, nuanced diferences connected to the form and timing of the liturgical commemoration were important demarcations and expressions of the theological diferences between Judaism and Christianity.24 A comparison of the end-of-life gifts donated by Jews in Ashkenaz with those donated by Jews in medieval Spanish communities further highlights the central role of local context in determining how charity was donated. In medieval Spain, rabbinic responsa and wills document the popularity of the hekdesh, a term that in the medieval Spanish context often referred to individual bequests donated at the end of one’s life.25 Part of the allure of the hekdesh was that gifts were privately administered by trustees appointed by the donors, keeping decision making out of the hands of local communal officials.26 As Judah Galinsky has demonstrated, the hekdesh in Spain reflected cultural norms unique to Spain, where Jews, Christians, and Muslims lived side by side. The individual hekdesh trust bears structural similarities to the Muslim waqf; its purpose, donating on behalf of one’s soul proximate to one’s death, closely mirrored contemporary Christian pro anima donations.27 Whereas in Ashkenaz, these gifts had a liturgical component, Spanish Jews did not adopt such a practice and believed that the gift alone was enough to ensure merit. Ashkenazic Jews, like their Christian neighbors, sought out liturgical commemoration in exchange for their gifts.28 The thirteenth century witnessed several important developments in public charity in Ashkenaz. A central institution for poor relief was established in several communities. Also known as the hekdesh, this institution was the equivalent of the medieval Christian hospice.29 Like its Christian counterpart, the Jewish hekdesh provided shelter for travelers and for the local sick. The first hekdesh was founded in 1210 in Regensburg; a hospice was founded in Cologne in 1247 or 1253.30 In addition, in the mid-thirteenth century, some communities in Germany and southern France began to issue ordinances mandating that residents tithe their income and bequeath at least some of that tithe to a communal fund.31 This may point to an increase in mandatory public charity, although the practice seems to have declined in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when community structures faltered following the Black Death (1398–1349).32

Poverty Among Jews in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, additional hospices were founded in other German cities. As Israel Yuval has noted, this development was contemporaneous with a change in Jewish legal status. Whereas in the thirteenth century,

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Jews were servi camerae—imperial chamber serfs deemed the chattel of the emperor—over the next two centuries, individual cities increasingly purchased the right to determine their own local Jewish policies.33 Under the older model, the entire Jewish community had been granted privileges by the emperor, while under the newer model, privileges were granted to individuals, often for shorter periods of time and in conjunction with their ability to pay taxes. The hospices began to provide care not only for the itinerant poor and other travelers but to those local poor who could not secure an individual privilege and whose rights of residence instead depended on their being considered residents of the hekdesh.34 In the wake of the Black Death, a wave of expulsions of Jews swept across the Holy Roman Empire.35 Because of the aforementioned legal developments, which placed the regulation of Jews in the hands of local authorities rather than under imperial control, the duration and pace of the expulsions varied from city to city. By the early sixteenth century, most Jews in the empire had been expelled from the cities where they had lived; the Judengassen of Frankfurt and Worms are among the exceptions. While some Jews migrated east to Italy or Poland, others moved into the rural areas surrounding the cities from which they had been expelled.36 Other moved into the newly established Judengassen in Worms and Frankfurt. The expulsions of Jews from most cities in the empire dramatically increased the number of local and itinerant poor.37 Indeed, migration and, with it, poverty rose across Jewish, Catholic, and Protestant communities in the early modern period, often as individuals fled their home communities, seeking refuge from wars or expulsions.38 Disasters also struck at home, leading to greater need among the local population. In the three communities under examination in this book, events specific to each city led to a spike in poverty and to increased demand for relief. In Worms, war was a major cause of poverty. During the Thirty Years’ War, Jewish residents were heavi ly taxed and sufered financially. In addition, the presence of troops in and around the Rhineland led some Jews residing in nearby villages to flee to the large, fortified imperial city.39 Worms sufered even greater losses in the Nine Years’ War, when the city was burned and left almost vacant. Having lost their homes, local Jews and Christians were themselves in need of charity. In Frankfurt, the fires of 1711 and 1721, which destroyed many homes in the Judengasse, sharply elevated poverty among Jews. Moreover, as the most prominent Ashkenazic Jewish community in the west, Frankfurt attracted many poor migrants, including those seeking refuge from the Nine Years’ War. The rabbi of Worms, R. Yair Hayyim Bacharach, was among the refugees who moved to

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Frankfurt after the French burned his native Worms.40 The fair in Frankfurt also encouraged travelers to visit the city and partake of its resources. The ports of Altona and Hamburg likewise attracted many laborers, especially in the eighteenth century. Among Jews, refugees from eastern Europe made their way westward after the Cossack uprisings in 1648–1649 and during the subsequent wars in Poland in the 1650s and 1660s.41 Their presence in Altona-Hamburg was so well-known that the story of an eastern European refugee who abandoned his wife and family to seek his fortune in the triple community was documented in a popular Yiddish song.42 Eastern European refugees likely also made their way to Frankfurt and to Worms.

Regulating Poverty The swelling numbers of the poor in early modern Europe led to new administration of poor relief in Christian cities. Thomas Max Safley stated that “something happened to charity in early modern Europe.”43 Cities throughout western Europe were struggling to regulate the growing numbers of the poor, and in Protestant cities in the decades following the Reformation, charity had become the provenance of the state rather than the church. In Frankfurt, magistrates took control of poor relief in the 1530s, and battles over recently closed nunneries and charities were waged in the imperial court.44 In Hamburg, a communal chest was opened to care for the local poor, and ordinances regulating hospitals and confraternities were issued in the late 1520s. Further changes to poor relief were implemented in the eighteenth century. Hamburg was a center for such change, and the model developed there was copied elsewhere. The new municipal regulations limited or banned begging altogether, and the poor were put to work. The new legislation diferentiated between various types of poor, separating the worthy poor who should work from the unworthy poor who were to be banned. The municipality subsequently constructed institutions such as work houses to accomplish these goals.45 City officials expected the Jewish communal leadership living in the city to implement the municipal policies regulating the poor within the Jewish community. Leaders of the three Jewish communities similarly promulgated policies to govern how to give charity, to whom, how much, and through what means, particularly as the number of Jewish poor individuals, particularly those without formal membership in a Jewish community, increased. Ordinances enacted in Jewish communities were tailored to the demands set by local magisterial poor

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relief policies. As we will see, the kehillah in Worms had a far more flexible policy of granting newcomers official membership than that of Frankfurt, because the latter city monitored and regulated the presence of foreigners more intensely than the former.46 In Altona-Hamburg, new policies of employing the poor and banning the unemployed were adopted as day laborers flocked to the ports seeking work. The policies enacted by Hamburg’s senate shaped guidelines for poor relief, taxation, and synagogue rituals within the Ashkenazic community.47 Jewish as well as Christian communities expanded their institutions of public charity between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries, regulating them through the appointment of administrators and the use of documents. The institutionalization of poor relief exemplifies the broader phenomenon of increased bureaucracy and administration during the early modern period.

The Charity Collectors Every urban early modern Jewish community had administrators of the main charity fund, known as gabba’e tzedakah (sing., gabbay). They made the decisions about whom the community would support and what support was due, collected the necessary funds, and recorded all donations in a logbook. The position of gabbay was usually a two-year appointment that demanded an investment of time and money. In Worms, two gabbaim, referred to as gabba’e hekdesh, were appointed to manage and disburse the general charity funds. One of the two gabbaim was to be a parnas, while the other was to be a head of household.48 Each of the two gabbaim served a two-year term, but they were appointed on an alternating basis, so that every year on Hanukkah, one new gabbay was appointed and the other began his second year of ser vice. The collector serving the second year of his twoyear term had primary responsibility for income and expenditures, but he was to meet weekly with his counterpart and all decisions were to be made jointly.49 In Frankfurt, there is mention of four gabbaim in 1555, but in 1633, there were only two gabba’e tzedakah.50 In 1633, Frankfurt’s parnassim decreed that all decisions other than those dealing with small amounts of cash were to be jointly rendered and approved by both gabbaim. These two men oversaw five individuals who were tasked with helping the former distribute charity funds; the latter wrote down the sums that they had disbursed and gave the lists that they had compiled to the gabbaim each week.51 Given the size of Frankfurt’s Jewish community, it is likely that additional manpower was needed to regulate its poor.52

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In Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, there were five gabba’e tzedakah: three were appointed from Altona and two from Hamburg. They were instructed to coordinate with one another and to ensure that they distributed equal amounts of funding when setting the rates of stipends awarded to the local poor.53 Only those of an elite social status were appointed as charity collectors. In Worms, one gabbay was to be a parnas; in Altona-Hamburg and Frankfurt, the position often served as a stepping-stone toward becoming a parnas. Takkanot from the triple community from 1675 state that one had to serve as a tax or charity collector before becoming a parnas.54 The takkanot from Frankfurt from 1674 similarly ruled that from that date forward, in order to be elected as a parnas, one had to have previously served or else concurrently serve as a gabbay tzedakah. It was possible to be exempted from this requirement for life by paying the substantial fee of a hundred gulden.55 This clause suggests that the task was onerous and that some wished to avoid serving as gabbay tzedakah if they had the financial means to do so. The gabbaim were men of economic means. In Altona and Hamburg, takkanot specified that gabbaim were to be individuals who had been evaluated for tax purposes as having earned four thousand schillings in Hamburg and a thousand marks in Altona.56 In Hamburg, a takkanah mandated that gabba’e tzedakah must be willing to lend fifty reichsthaler to the charity cofer, should it be running low.57 Similarly, when the Frankfurt community was faced with challenges in collecting donations that had been pledged, gabbaim were told that if they did not successfully collect the required sums, they would be personally obligated to pay the shortfall.58 In Worms, the gabbay hekdesh who was serving the second year of his two-year term was similarly expected to lend the charity collection money from his own pocket, should the funds run low. He was to be reimbursed at the end of his ser vice, if necessary, by the second gabbay, who was about to begin his second year in the position.59 Various logbooks of gabbaim indicate that these officials did, in practice, lay out their own money to cover debts in the charity fund.60 An additional symbol of the economic status of the gabbaim was the fact that in some communities, they were expected to host a party on Hanukkah, the date on which their term began.61 In Worms, this party was quite elaborate. On the first day of Hanukkah, the gabbay who was beginning the second year of his two-year term held a party in the community’s room, the kahale stübe. The party was to be “important, and suitable for [hosting] the parnassim.”62 He was permitted to invite his relatives and other community members. On the second day, he was required to host the parnassim at a meal in his home. On the third

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day, the newly appointed gabbay held a party in his home. At this party, known as the Wein-Süppe, the gabbay fed the guests wine, soup, and two eggs. Whereas Juspe Schammes, the sexton of Worms during the seventeenth century, indicated that he had witnessed several consecutive parties at which the new gabbay also served other “cooked foods, roasted meat, and good things,” Yair Hayyim Bacharach reported that in addition to wine and eggs, the gabbay served dairy.63 The elaborate parties emphasized the status of the charity collector, his relationship to the lay leaders, and the significance of his position in the community. Sources in Frankfurt confirm that being invited to the party held by the gabbaim was a mark of social status—although in Frankfurt, the party was far less elaborate. In the early seventeenth century, Frankfurt was plagued by internecine strife between an older oligarchy and newer families. In 1628, after their conflict had reached the municipal court, the emperor, and the Jewish Council of the Four Lands in Poland, the two parties reached an agreement. From that date forward, parnassim were elected from both camps.64 Later that year, in December, the parnassim ruled that the gabbay tzedakah was to hold the party at his own expense. He could invite ten people, including the rabbi, students of the yeshiva, the cantor, and the sexton, as well as communal officials from both camps.65 The decision to legislate who was to be invited to the party, done with explicit reference to the compromise that had been reached, indicates that this social event had the potential to disrupt the new arrangement; therefore, the parnassim sought to deter additional conflict by limiting the guest list. By contrast, in 1641, when communal dynamics had improved, the parnassim decided that they would contribute wine to the party; the gabbay would be responsible for all other costs but was permitted to invite whomever he wished.66 Not only did early modern Jewish communities formally appoint and publicly recognize their charity collectors, but they also standardized the times at which gabbaim were to collect funds from members of the community.67 In Worms, charity collectors met individually with each head of household twice a year to collect any outstanding pledges to the charity cofer. One meeting took place on the eve of Rosh Hashanah and the other on Ta‘anit Esther, the fast day preceding Purim.68 The meeting was conducted in the courtyard of the synagogue or at the entrance to the cemetery.69 The gabbaim would select additional days on which they might go from house to house to collect outstanding debts. There was also a formal process for extracting money that had been deposited in the two cofers, or kuppot, situated on the left side of the entrances to the men’s and women’s synagogues. The two gabbaim were instructed to open

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the cofers five times a year, in each other’s presence.70 Coordination and oversight among the gabbaim were common practice.

Additional Forms of Early Modern Charity Additional administrators were formally appointed to manage other charitable funds. A specific cofer for the poor of the Holy Land was set up in early modern communities, and two charity collectors were appointed to manage the collection.71 Prior to that, Ashkenazic Jews had provided assistance to Jews in the Holy Land, but these donations took the form of individual contributions donated at the end of one’s life. While individual Jews in early modern times continued to bequeath money to the poor of the Holy Land at the end of their lives, the process was formalized through the designated cofer and collectors. Special collections were undertaken for the poor of the Holy Land on specific holidays, such as the eve of Purim.72 Gifts earmarked for them were recorded in a special logbook designated for that purpose and were documented by receipts. In the Portuguese community in Hamburg, collections for the poor of the Land of Israel were also collected at circumcisions and from the funds amassed in the synagogue.73 During the early modern period, official emissaries were sent by the four major Jewish communities in the Holy Land—Jerusalem, Hebron, Tiberias, and Safed—to collect money from Jewish communities in western Europe. These emissaries traveled from place to place, emptying the designated coffers in each location, soliciting and recording future pledges from individuals and the community and collecting past pledges. In some locations, funds from the designated coffer were forwarded by the gabbay to the emissary, who did not personally visit each town.74 In other locations, residents of the Jewish communities in western Europe might pledge a voluntary yearly or multiyearly sum to the collection, which they would fulfill over time.75 Special funds were also collected to dower brides, since the amount of money required for a dowry increased dramatically during the early modern period, intensifying the need for external support.76 Many young women worked as domestic servants to earn money toward their dowry. In some communities, including Altona, lay leaders set aside special communal funding to assist young brides.77 Upon betrothal, a maidservant who had served in the community for four years was eligible to receive financial support from a communal fund.78 Support for

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dowering brides could also come from a mix of private and public funding. In the early eighteenth century, Goldy bat Ephraim of Altona received five reichsthaler from the communal chest toward her dowry. She received an additional eight reichsthaler from Hirsch Popert, who had been entrusted with a sum bequeathed by her relatives.79 Wealthier relatives and acquaintances continued to dower brides through private gifts. For example, the son-in-law of Juspe Hahn of Frankfurt, Moses Reisdarum, received aid in dowering his two daughters when the two fires that tore through the Judengasse in 1711 and 1721 ruined him: “The people of our community are merciful, the sons of merciful people, and doers of mercy, and they graced me and were of aid and assistance to me with their bodies and with their money, to support me and my family, and to dower my two daughters with substantial gifts.”80 A member of an elite rabbinic family, Moses received sustenance as well as financial aid to dower his daughters. Private bequests continued to be an important source of funding for the poor. Wills and court cases associated with implementing the wishes of the deceased demonstrate that individuals often left money toward various causes, including the dowering of brides. In Worms, for example, Aaron ben Simha, a doctor from Lviv, was memorialized for having earmarked “a certain sum” toward dowering brides.81 The bequeathed funds were often used as principal invested by the community, with the investment returns used to dower local brides in need of assistance. In some instances, relatives of the deceased were given priority in funding.82 At least four private funds managed by the Jewish community of Frankfurt were founded in 1717, 1725, 1736, and 1749. The proceeds were used as per the donors’ instructions for dowering poor brides, supporting the local poor, or for financially supporting the synagogue.83 Judah ben Samuel, known more commonly as R. Treitlin, was a case in point. Upon his death, he bequeathed money to three communities: Worms, Frankfurt, and Friedberg. Each community was given an amount of money proportional to its size. The returns on the invested principal were to support young men’s learning, to clothe male students in need of financial support, and to dower brides.84 Specific gabbaim were appointed to oversee R. Treitlin’s fund in Worms and were to be aware of the needs of young scholars and poor brides who might benefit from the fund. In addition, they were to ensure that no young men went “naked and barefoot.”85 Their appointment is another sign of the heavy administration common in early modern communities. A similar fund was donated by Shlomo bar Moshe, who donated a thousand gulden to the same three communities. The revenue that his donation generated was to be distributed to support young men studying Torah.86 Since no special gabbaim were mentioned in

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conjunction with Shlomo’s donation, it is possible that Treitlin had donated an even larger sum that required direct management. Even more gabbaim were appointed to oversee other funds. In Frankfurt, gabba’e kuppah were charged with overseeing education, first mentioned in 1619. In 1661, the community replaced the gabba’e kuppah with three gabba’e talmud Torah.87 Poor students’ educations were funded by the community and were supervised by these special administrators in Frankfurt, Worms, and AltonaHamburg-Wandsbek.88 Additional systems of publicly run charity were instituted in early modern communities to help travelers, many of whom were poor. The tax collectors issued meal vouchers (pletten) to some of the travelers for meals that were often hosted at the homes of community members.89 The obligation to host guests was determined by the member’s financial and tax status.90 Thus the memoirist Glikl of Hameln recounts that when she and her husband had been hosted in Emden by her husband’s relative Abraham Stadthagen, he also hosted six travelers who held orhim pletten, vouchers for traveling guests.91 Glikl similarly praises her daughter and son-in-law in Metz for graciously hosting her and other honored guests, as well as guests who were hosted through the pletten system.92 Various descriptions of pletten in communal decrees suggest that there were vouchers of variable amounts and that partial vouchers could also be issued.93 In late eighteenth-century Frankfurt, some pletten guaranteed a guest a place to sleep, while others were designated for meals on Shabbat.94 Some travelers arrived without vouchers. In Altona, the parnassim decreed that an important (wealthy) guest who arrived without a plet would be entitled to receive pletten for three weeks. It was also possible for a community member to recommend that a particular guest receive vouchers, and it was at the discretion of the lay community leadership to determine whether these would be issued.95 In Altona in 1729, lay leaders decided that all pletten must be signed by the tax collectors and could be handled only by six designated appointees, with representation from both Altona and Hamburg.96 Poor travelers who arrived in these three communities without vouchers might nevertheless receive support from the gabbay.97 Travelers unable to receive pletten availed themselves of the hekdesh, the hospice intended to house the sick as well as the poor travelers.98 As noted above, records of a hekdesh date back in Frankfurt to the fourteenth century. Between 1460 and 1463, following the relocation of the Jews to the newly constructed Judengasse, a new hekdesh was built.99 The hekdesh in Worms was also founded in the fifteenth century.100 These institutions formed part of the infrastructure developed in the late medieval

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and early modern periods, designed to address the growing number of poor who lacked membership in Jewish communities.101 The history of the hekdesh in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek most clearly reflects the intense process of institution-building in early modern Jewish communities. As a newly founded kehillah, Altona naturally did not have a hekdesh at its inception. As Glikl of Hameln reports, refugees from Wilno had arrived in Altona after fleeing Poland in the mid-seventeenth century. “At that time,” she notes, “there was no hekdesh.”102 When the refugees fell ill, Glikl’s family took them into the family attic, where Glikl’s eighty-four-year-old grandmother, Mata, insisted on tending to them three or four times a day. Mata contracted their illness and died ten days later. While we do not have the date for the founding of the hekdesh in Altona, archival records from the late seventeenth century document some of its expenses. By the eighteenth century, a comprehensive set of regulations had been drawn up, dictating the level of care provided in the hekdesh. These protocols specified how many meat meals and how many dairy meals residents would receive, how much their families were to contribute if they had local relatives, and how many candles and bedsheets would be provided.103 The relatively rapid pace at which this new institution developed reflects the intensive development of charitable and communal institutions in the early modern period. Moreover, the regulations highlight the intensive administrative and bureaucratic processes that accompanied institution-building. The early modern period also witnessed the birth of benevolent confraternities in the Ashkenazic community. Similar voluntary pious associations, hevrot, had been established in thirteenth-century Spain and in sixteenth-century Italy.104 In 1564, the first Ashkenazic confraternity, a burial society, was founded in Prague.105 Similar confraternities spread throughout central and western European communities.106 Male confraternities were founded first; corresponding female societies often followed.107 In Frankfurt, there were two burial societies. The first, one of the oldest confraternities founded in Europe, dates to the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century. The second was likely founded in the 1630s, when the plague created demand for additional care for the dead.108 Over the course of the eighteenth century, other types of confraternities were founded.109 The earliest, a confraternity that tended to male members of the community who were ill, was founded in 1738. It was established because the hospice provided sick care only to the transient poor, not to community members. A second male society for sick care was founded in 1756; a similar female society was founded in 1761.110 In 1763, a society

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known as Rodfe shalom was founded. Its ordinances from 1786 state that, among other benevolent work, the society chopped trees for firewood.111 Confraternities such as these undertook various charitable activities. The recipients of these activities varied. In some cases, they were poor individuals; in others, support was provided internally only to members of the society, most of whom were at least middle-class.112 Membership in a confraternity was a marker of social status. Such was the case in Worms, where there were two burial societies by the seventeenth century. The first society, hevrah gomle hasadim, built the coffin and ritually prepared the corpse for burial.113 The second society, hevrah kaddisha de-kavranim, prepared the grave and buried the dead. Members of the burial society were considered to be among the elite. They celebrated the society at a yearly banquet on the first of the month of Adar, paid membership dues, and even had special liturgy and their own logbook.114 Names of the members of this society were engraved on a special silver beaker that was used during the banquet.115 The elite status associated with the society is clearly marked on these engravings. Two influential court Jews, Samson Wertheim and David Oppenheim, were members of the society, although neither resided in Worms.116 Both men were born in Worms and were connected to the kehillah through family ties. Their inclusion in the society, despite residing elsewhere, marks membership in these hevrot as prestigious. Other confraternities in Worms were dedicated to religious study. One circle, known as kuppat mishnayot, studied on weekdays after the evening prayer. They had official takkanot, two dedicated gabbaim, and membership dues that were used toward the celebratory banquet held upon completion of the cycle of learning the entire Mishnah.117 Additional learning groups met in homes rather than in the synagogue.118 A confraternity dedicated to dowering poor brides was also established in the eighteenth century.119 In Altona and Hamburg, confraternities were founded as early as the late seventeenth century; women’s confraternities were established in the nineteenth century. In addition to local burial societies, a society was established in 1696 to help dower poor brides.120 Glikl mentions several confraternities for the study of Torah that met in the late seventeenth century.121 In 1711, a confraternity for visiting the sick was established.122 Another confraternity, referred to without a specific name, is mentioned in the 1720s and 1730s in one of the Altona pinkassim. Members of that group were involved in collecting clothing for poor children.123 The fact that Portuguese Jews also had hevrot likely further encouraged the establishment of confraternities among Ashkenazic Jews, as did

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the fact that Ashkenazic Jews were divided among three locations, making the creation of smaller groups more convenient, particularly for study.124

Documenting and Regulating Public Charity Another marker of the heavy regulation of public charity in early modern communities was the wide array of records generated by poor relief. Each charity collector maintained a pinkas in which he recorded each transaction. Juspe Schammes explained that in Worms, the gabbay serving in the second year of his two-year term was responsible for record-keeping: The gabbay tzedakah is required to designate a pinkas, in which he will record all the income and expenses, organized, and written in a nice hand, so that it can be read thoroughly, and every week [should be recorded] on a separate page, and [he is] to write the total [income and expenses] at the bottom of each page, so that the calculation is made easier. And his counterpart, who was appointed more recently but who is not [primarily] responsible for the income and expenses this year, is nevertheless required every Sunday to copy every line of income, so that he will also know what is in the fund.125 This was carried out in practice, as seen in the pinkas hekdesh from Worms from 1737, which corresponds perfectly to Juspe’s description. The logbook begins on Hanukkah, and each week of the year is recorded on a set of two facing folios, one listing the weekly income that the gabbay collected, and the other itemizing what he disbursed (see Figure 4).126 Weeks are labeled according to the weekly Torah readings, and several additional folios were inserted for holidays that fell on a weekday. The neatly inputted entries strongly suggest that what we have is a second draft. The gabbay would initially have jotted down transactions as they transpired, later copying the information about the income that he had received and the expenses that he had incurred into his official pinkas in an organized and legible manner.127 In Frankfurt, charity collectors recorded the expenses that they had incurred each time they spent ten gulden. Both charity collectors were present for the act of recording. The established gabbay, who would have been in the second year of his term, was permitted to withdraw ten gulden from the charity box at a time. After he had spent that sum, he would record the specific

Figure 4. Pages from a charity collector’s logbook. Worms, 1737. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662. Note how many fewer items are included as income (on the left) than as expenses (on the right).

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expense or expenses for which it was used, after which he was permitted to withdraw another ten gulden. The newly appointed gabbay, who was responsible for the key to the charity cofer, was present for the recordation. Decisions as to whom would receive support were not made without consultation. Indeed, the gabbay was expected to discuss any expenditure in excess of three gulden with communal authorities.128 In Altona and Hamburg, several types of pinkassim document how charity was collected and disbursed. One extant pinkas includes data from holidays and days on which stipends were disbursed to the poor.129 Other pinkassim record what each individual owed to the charity fund. Thus, the honors (mitzvot) purchased by male members of the community in the synagogue were recorded by the charity collector, who would later consult his records to ensure that payment had been made. There was a separate page for every male member of the community, and both the honors he had received and the payment that he rendered were noted on the page.130 In sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Worms, honors granted in the synagogue were not recorded in a separate logbook. Rather, the gabbay recorded the names of those who had been honored in his general charity pinkas.131 Every six months, the gabbay was to update his records and collect payment, if it had not already been made.132 Juspe Schammes noted that on Simhat Torah, when many honors were sold, gabbaim would bring the old logbook so that they could see who had purchased a specific honor in previous years, and at what price. If they noted that a particular honor had typically been sold during the year rather than on Simhat Torah, gabbaim were permitted to wait and sell that honor later in the year. These consultations with the old pinkas were to ensure that the highest possible donation would be procured for charity.133 In Altona, too, gabbaim brought a copy of the charity records to the collection that they conducted on Simhat Torah.134 Receipts were issued to residents who gave charity, likely as proof that they had paid what they had pledged (see Figure 5). These could be handwritten, or even printed, as seen in similar receipts that were issued to community members who paid their taxes (see Figure 6).135 This practice ensured that both the individual and the collector maintained copies of the transactions, which could be used as proof of payment in the case of a dispute. Receipts were also used to issue reimbursements to officials who had incurred an expense on behalf of the community. In one example from the logbook of the tax collector in early eighteenth-century Hamburg, the collector was reimbursed 350 schillings after he had submitted a receipt.136 The pinkassim of the

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Figure 5. Handwritten receipt issued for payment of charity to the poor of the Holy Land, Altona. CAHJP, AHW 31 I.

Figure 6. Printed receipt for tax collection, Hamburg. CAHJP, AHW 1025.

tax collectors in Altona were subject to an audit process (see Figure 7). The community’s shamash noted in his pinkas that the tax and charity collectors were eligible for reimbursement if their books were deemed reliable.137 This process was meant to prevent theft or fraud.

Conclusion A poor individual seeking assistance in one of these three early modern Jewish communities would have, depending upon the year, encountered a variety of well-organized options for receiving care. Various systems, each with designated administrators, were in place to provide relief to poor residents, domestic servants, travelers, and foreigners.138 The basic similarities between the organization of charity in these three communities underscore the systemic nature of public charity. Almost all urban Jewish communities in the empire and even beyond had common structures for collecting and disbursing charity.139 Records

Figure 7. Audit in tax collector’s logbook, Altona-Hamburg. CAHJP, AHW 35, fols. 14v–15r.

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that collectors maintained enabled them to track debts and payments and to attempt to balance the communal budget. Fortunately, they also enable historians to trace the development of public charity and the support provided to the poor. The increased organization of poor relief paralleled the laicization and subsequent standardization of charity in the three Lutheran cities in which these communities were situated. Indeed, just as poor relief was managed by the municipality in each city, so, too, did public charity become intermingled with the broader finances of the Jewish kehillah, which is the subject of the next chapter.

chapter 3

Charity, Economy, and Communal Discipline

In sixteenth-century Worms, charity collectors maintained a small green logbook in which they inputted the sums they had collected and the relief they had doled out. In this very pinkas, they also recorded honors and seats given out in synagogue, as well loans made to and from the charity fund.1 Such communal records attest to the wide range of tasks for which the charity collectors were responsible and demonstrate that charity was a central strand of communal economic life. Indeed, it is difficult to disentangle public charity from taxes, fines, and funds used for the upkeep of communal spaces. In contemporary times, it may seem as though charity and taxes constitute discrete spheres, although some countries’ tax codes do recognize individual gifts to charity by rendering those gifts deductible.2 In the early modern period there was a far hazier distinction between charity and taxes. The high expenses incurred in running a Jewish community and its institutions—poor relief among them—necessitated collecting as much revenue as possible from communal members. In order to raise funds, communal leaders levied obligatory taxes on their members. In addition, donations were encouraged by rewarding donors with public recognition, particularly in the space of the synagogue. By contrast, transgressive behavior was often disciplined by levying a fine on the guilty party, to be paid to the charity fund. The blurred boundaries between charity, taxes, and fines can be seen clearly in the mixed administrative tasks shouldered by the various administrators appointed to oversee poor relief, on the one hand, and tax collection, on the other. As we will see, tax collectors doled out charity, while charity collectors were responsible for synagogue upkeep and other finances not directly related to the poor.

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To ensure that community members paid what they owed to the charity fund, strict disciplinary measures were enacted for enforcing payment. Permission to marry and to participate in religious rituals were conditioned on payment of debts owed to the community, whether from taxes or fines that were due, or charity that had been pledged.

Communal Expenses and Debts Running a community in early modern Europe was expensive. Larger urban Jewish communities such as Frankfurt, Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, and Worms maintained various institutions that required maintenance—among them, the synagogue, cemetery, ritual bath, hospice, and courts. Communities employed a wide range of employees: a rabbi, at least one cantor, scribes, guards, caretakers for the hospice, and firefighters, among others. Communal leaders were also responsible for ensuring that children were educated; they cared for the poor and for the mentally and physically ill. In addition, they had to pay taxes—at times, to more than one Christian authority. To manage communal afairs, administrators had to buy logbooks and pay scribes for recording ordinances. Sometimes documents required binding or notarized seals, which also cost money.3 As communities grew in size, and as poor refugees and migrants made their way to these communities, their costs only escalated. The logbook of the tax collector from Altona during 1687–1691, for example, includes a long and diverse list of communal expenses. Taxes were transferred to the Christian authorities. Communal officials were reimbursed for expenses they had incurred, and officials who were salaried were paid. At least some of the sexton’s and cantor’s home rentals were covered by the community and are listed as expenses. In addition, the cantor was given gifts before the holidays. The rabbi was paid his salary and was granted financial assistance for a wedding he was making. One communal official received assistance paying for his mother’s tombstone. The local Christian smith was paid for repairs that he made in the cemetery, and the glazier was paid for repairing a window in the synagogue. Scribes were paid for writing ordinances, and the cost of binding a pinkas was incurred. Teachers were paid by communal officials, likely for the education of the poor. Guards, watchmen, and messengers received salaries or one-time payments.4 Gifts to the poor are intermittently listed in the tax collector’s records.

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A late eighteenth-century record from Worms lists the expenses that one communal official, R. Abraham, had incurred when traveling on communal business; he submitted this list for reimbursement. This one list detailing a single month’s expenses for one administrator similarly highlights the steep costs a community could generate. Abraham’s expenditures on this communal business included travel by wagon to and from Speyer, as well as additional travel to Heidelberg and Worms; payment for use of a horse; fees paid for lodging; fees paid for procuring assistance from domestic servants, for sending messengers, and for securing written documents; and a fee paid to the Christian authorities. Also included on his list of expenses are four entries of funds given to the poor, as well as one for a virgin. These last items were most likely charitable donations undertaken by Abraham on his journey.5 Abraham’s expenses totaled 841 gulden and eleven batzen, a significant sum. We do not know whether this kind of travel and its concomitant expenses were typical, but it does highlight the significant costs that a community could incur in a single month. Just as early modern European municipalities necessitated funding to run the various enterprises under their auspices, so did Jewish communities require the same, as ser vices were provided to Jewish residents by the community, not by the city. Furthermore, as a minority population, Jewish communities faced additional burdens, such as additional taxation not levied on other populations, particularly during wars. In 1630, for example, Frankfurt’s lay leaders listed various high taxes that had been imposed on them. The special poll tax they owed to the emperor came to 1,500 reichsthaler. They also had to make a payment to “appease” the archbishop of Cologne. Their general communal expenses, payments to the Christian authorities, and fees for street cleaning and maintenance led them to borrow four thousand reichsthaler. The principal and interest would have to be repaid through communal taxes, which the tax collectors were urged to collect assiduously.6 References to the debts the community had accrued by borrowing money from Jews and Christians alike can be found in later years as well.7 These high expenses were almost certainly connected to the Thirty Years’ War, which was ravaging Europe.8 In Worms, explicit mention is made of the financial impact of the war on the Jews.9 The communal sexton, Juspe Schammes, romanticized the prewar period, saying that at that time, all community members paid taxes to the tax collectors “without any burden.” He contrasts this with the situation during the war, when he penned his custom book:

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And now, since the war has raged, and pennies have gone from our pockets, and expenses have increased and multiplied, and it has reached a point that every week it is necessary to levy a collection, and even if one sends an emissary one hundred times to [bring] a head of household [to the collectors], most do not pay attention and do not come, for lack of funds [to pay]. And it is under a great burden that one can collect from the heads of household, and it is necessary to go house-to-house, to each house of a Jew, and to speak to their hearts both softly and with force, and there are those about whom we have to make an announcement in the synagogue and force them [to pay].10 Special collectors were appointed to collect these taxes, and they maintained a pinkas, reporting all income and expenses to the parnassim.11 In Altona, too, heavy taxes were levied on the Jewish community. A poll tax was imposed on the Jews in 1682, which led them to worry about the number of poor residing in the community, who would not be able to contribute to the tax; the community would nevertheless be expected to pay a sum for each resident, shouldering the cost for those who could not pay themselves.12 In addition to all the routine expenses and special taxes, communities required funds to care for the poor: the local poor, who might require assistance with rent, taxes, food, medical care, and holiday purchases, as well as the itinerant poor, who migrated to communities seeking aid. Expenses associated with poor relief only increased the deep deficit at which these communities frequently operated because more aid was needed than charity collected. The Worms gabbay recorded the wide gap between the income he had received and the expenses for which he had paid in his logbook dating from 1737. He recorded a deficit in all four of his quarterly reports. The first quarter ended with a deficit of 721 gulden, 5 batzen, and 2 pfennig; the second quarter with a deficit of 282 gulden, 6 batzen, and 12 pfennig; the third quarter with a deficit of 815 gulden and four and a half batzen; and the fourth quarter with a deficit of 695 gulden, 9 batzen, and 14 pfennig.13 Indeed, about a week before the first quarter had ended, the gabbay had counted all the money received between the start of his term (on Hanukkah) and Purim. The total amount collected in these four and half months (that year was a Jewish leap year, so an extra month was added to the calendar) “from the men and women’s synagogues, and what we received in the courtyard of the synagogue [where debts were paid before Purim], and from the money from purchasing honors in the

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synagogue and from all we collected” came to 99 gulden, 12 batzen, and 12 pfennig.14 Given that the communal deficit in that quarter alone was over 721 gulden, it is easy to understand the urgency surrounding raising funds for the community.

Loans to and from the Charity Chest It is evident why Jewish communities appointed the charity administrators from among the wealthy; in cases of deficit, gabbaim were expected to pay for charitable expenses from their own pockets.15 Wealthier community members also lent money to the communal chest for larger expenditures. David Oppenheim of Worms (not the chief rabbi of Prague) loaned 3,206 gulden to rebuild the cemetery in the seventeenth century, after Jews returned from having been expelled for two years. According to the receipts, he had been repaid three thousand gulden. The two charity collectors then paid him the remainder, partially from the cofer and partially from their own pockets. Presumably, the cofer did not yet have enough funds to repay Oppenheim.16 The charity fund served as a central financial institution, at times requiring loans and, more frequently, providing loans.17 For example, in the 1570s, R. Eslingen’s wife borrowed money from the communal charity fund. The gabbaim noted in their logbook that they lent her three thaler on the basis of the number of sheets of the Torah scroll that her husband had gifted to the community, which was in use in the sanctuary. They lent her an additional sixteen batzen on account of another unnamed item that she had given to them as collateral.18 As will be discussed in Chapter  6, individuals used collateral to ofset debts incurred when burying or memorializing their relatives in the communal memorial book. Should they temporarily not have funds available, they would give an item to the gabbay as collateral, redeeming it once they were able to pay these costs.19 In Worms, the charity fund was a clearinghouse for many complex financial arrangements. In 1632, for example, the community of Worms purchased a variety of ritual items at the Frankfurt fair, including wax and etrogim. After all the sales and purchases had been concluded, the rabbi of Worms was owed money by the community. This debt was ofset by a sum that he owed to the gabbaim for the burial of and memorial candle for Ettel, a woman who had died in his home. The gabbaim paid the rabbi the sum that they owed him from the charity

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fund after having deducted these costs, and Ettel’s son repaid the debt for the costs associated with his mother’s death.20

Public Charity and Public Honors Gabbaim were tasked with collecting and administrating the charitable fund. Most funds that they collected for public charity were linked to moments when an individual had been honored in the public space of the community. Weekly honors in which residents were called to the Torah, opened or closed the ark, or other wise participated in ser vices, mandated a donation to the cofer.21 Some honors in the synagogue were sold to congregants during the ser vice; still others were mandated at life-cycle rituals such as marriages or upon illness.22 On the festival of Simhat Torah, charity collectors conducted a public auction of many of the honors that would be granted during the upcoming year: Between the afternoon and evening prayers, when Simhat Torah commences, the [male] heads of household sit on stools in the inner courtyard of the synagogue and the sexton and his assistant [lit., “young man”], or his friend, sell the mitzvot, as they walk from north to south and from south to north, between the seats of the heads of household, there in the inner courtyard. And the two gabba’e tzedakah sit on the side, in the place where the parnassim sit at the time of their meeting, and in their hands is the pinkas hekdesh and they see from it how the mitzvot were sold in the past, so that they will know how to sell [this year] for the good of the charity fund.23 Each donor who purchased an honor was publicly acknowledged multiple times, often both aurally and visually. Had he purchased an honor on Simhat Torah, this would have been announced in the courtyard when the pledge was made. In Frankfurt, the process of auctioning of the mitzvot also began before nightfall, at least in the old synagogue. Juspe Hahn Neuerlingen referred to this custom as the “pronouncement of the mitzvot,” signaling that the public verbal acknowledgment of who had purchased which synagogue honor was intrinsic to the sale.24 The donor was recognized at the moment when he performed the designated honored ritual. There was a blessing for him and his family following the ritual, in which his ritual performance and the charity he

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would donate as a result of this honor were proclaimed aloud for all to hear. The ritual and the blessing that followed took place in the center of the synagogue on a raised platform, maximizing the visibility aforded to the donor. For honors given out on the Sabbath or festivals, when handling money was forbidden, or in cases in which the recipient of the honor could not pay at that particular moment, donation to the cofer was expected to be fulfilled at the start of the next new month, or within the next six months.25 Women also had opportunities to donate within the space of the synagogue. Gabbaot (female charity collectors) were appointed and presided over the cofers holding funds contributed by women. On Simhat Torah in Worms, women met in their synagogue and pledged money to a designated women’s cofer in exchange for honors reserved for women: [Women] go to their synagogue, and there a youth reads aloud and announces all the mitzvot of women for the year and sells them. And these include sweeping the synagogue, distributing wimpeln [swaddling cloth donated after the birth of a son, used to bind the Torah scroll] for folding, making wicks and lighting them, drawing water for the ritual washing of hands in the courtyard of the men’s and women’s synagogue. And the money from these mitzvot do not go into the hands of the gabba’e tzedakah but rather, the women retain the money for themselves and appoint two righteous women as their gabbaot, and [the gabbaot] buy wax with [this money], with which they light candles in the women’s synagogue all year long.26 Women were not granted honors during the prayer ser vice itself, which was conducted solely by men. They nevertheless conducted a ritual on Simhat Torah in which they auctioned of what may be viewed as female tasks: cleaning, folding cloths, making candles, and drawing water. Such domestic activities, which fell under the female purview in the space of the home, constituted acts of piety when done for the community in the synagogue. These responsibilities were perceived as honors, in exchange for which a woman would further distinguish herself by purchasing the right to publicly perform this act of piety. Sums collected from the auction of women’s acts of piety were paid by women, managed by women (female gabbaot rather than male gabbaim), and utilized to light candles in the women’s synagogue. Nevertheless, this female ritual was conducted with a young male as auctioneer. Not yet married, this youth of unspecified age was appointed as a sort of chaperone for the women,

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demonstrating that the men of the community still sought some control over this female ritual that was conducted in and designated for a women’s space that they could not enter, albeit with a young single male who, because of his status, may have been viewed as a more viable bridge between the male and female spheres.27 By the mid- to late eighteenth century, parnassim in other communities, such as Halberstadt and Metz, tried to ban women from collecting funds in the women’s synagogue, unless they were directly requested to do so by men.28 While it is impossible to determine whether the same was true in Worms, as the communal ordinances are only fragmentary, this development may be seen as part of the general trend to curtail the visibility of female donors in the eighteenth century.29

The Gabbay and the Synagogue As the most significant communal space, the synagogue was the primary locus for public charity. The gabbay was therefore accountable for the synagogue more broadly. He was responsible for bringing candles each week to light the synagogue and was tasked with its general upkeep and maintenance. Juspe Schammes explained that in Worms, the gabbay was in charge of all communal structures: the synagogue, the yeshiva behind the synagogue, the hospice, the bathhouse, and the communal oven. He was also responsible for the homes of the rabbi and the shamash, which were owned by the community.30 Various logbooks of gabbaim from each of the three communities confirm that this was indeed the practice.31 In Worms, the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century pinkas hekdesh refers to taxes that the gabbay oversaw and collected for the cemetery and the garden in the Judengasse.32 The gabbay also paid those who worked in the synagogue. In the eighteenth century, the gabbay used charitable funds to pay the cantor three gulden for reading the weekly Torah portion.33 In Worms and Altona, the men who read the book of Esther aloud on Purim were similarly paid by the gabbaim from the  money that was under his control.34 The Frankfurt pinkas explains that the gabbay was responsible for paying the goy shel Shabbat, the Christian who lit candles in the synagogue on the Sabbath.35 The gabbay was the one who held the keys to the buildings on the premises of the cemetery.36 A somewhat later pinkas from Hamburg indicates that the gabbay paid for repairing the sink in the synagogue and paid the rent of those communal officials whose housing was subsidized by the community.37

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The many obligations of the gabbay meant that the funds he managed were distributed to a wide range of beneficiaries. The donations that he collected were used to support the poor but also to maintain and oversee communal spaces. Sometimes these tasks overlapped; the gabbay was responsible for setting up boards for kneading the dough made to bake matzot for Passover and also oversaw the distribution of this unleavened bread to those in need.38 Other examples more clearly demonstrate that the charity collector paid for activities that, to the modern mind, would not fit squarely into the category of charity fund. In Worms, for example, the gabbay doled out alms to the poor; but in 1618, he also paid the Christian workers from nearby villages for labor and materials to repair the cemetery, after the community had returned following the 1616 expulsion.39 In 1737, the gabbay paid for straw and salt to be used by one of the guards employed by the community.40 Likely because they were responsible for communal spaces such as the cemetery, gabbaim collected burial fees from residents. The pinkas of the Worms charity collector from 1737 included income from residents who had paid burial expenses for their relatives. Adult residents paid ten gulden for burial costs.41 The gabbaim of Altona and Hamburg were likewise tasked with collecting fees from burial.42 Although these sums were collected by charity collectors, it is unlikely that they generated much surplus for support of the poor, if any. Burial was costly, as it involved digging the grave, preparing materials to tend to and transport the body, and procuring shrouds for the deceased. Taxes were often paid to local authorities as well.43 The cost of burying foreign Jews, who did not pay for these services, also fell on the kehillah. The pinkas of a shamash from Altona in the early eighteenth century notes that the Hamburg kehillah paid the burial cost of a poor guest, and the same was true in Frankfurt.44 In another instance, an itinerant poor woman who came to Wandsbek seeking refuge died. Costs associated with her burial were absorbed by the kehillah.45 Which of the three communities would absorb the cost of burying illegitimate children born to maidservants was a matter of dispute.46 If any revenue was generated from the fees collected for the burial of residents was likely applied to the costs of paying for the burial of other Jews who lacked both the means to pay for burial and local relatives who could foot the bill.

Collecting Material Goods Death aforded the gabbaim and their wives an opportunity to collect goods for the poor. When a person died in Frankfurt, his bed was sometimes taken for later

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use by the sick, likely in the communal hospice. Clothing worn at the time of death was distributed to the “worthy poor,” sometimes to the unmarried maidservants who assisted the charity collectors.47 Second- or third-hand clothing, linen, and housewares were of exceptional value in the early modern period.48 Jews, in particular, traded in second hand items. In Frankfurt, many of the communal takkanot issued in 1674 specifically regulated those who traded in clothing.49 Several crimes committed in the city underscore the connection between Jews and the secondhand clothing trade. In 1553, a Christian youth named Conrad Fulda was charged with stealing clothing; he admitted to leaving the clothing on the street in the Judengasse.50 Similarly, a maid employed by Georg Henkel von Marköbel was charged with stealing clothing from her employer and attempting to discard it in the Judengasse.51 In this culture that recycled clothing, clothes and linens “tainted” with death or illness were relegated to the poor. In Worms, it was customary to hang a towel in the doorway of the home of a deceased individual and to place a bucket of water under it. The men and women who prepared the body for burial used the water and towel to wash and dry their hands. Once the funeral was announced, the gabbay tzedakah retrieved the towel and threw it through the window into a room proximate to the women’s synagogue, after which his wife would bring it to be used in the hospice.52 An entry in the Frankfurt pinkas from 1555 relates that material goods (not necessarily from the sick or deceased) were donated on a daily basis. Donating goods seems to have been common on fast days and when one was praying for the sick. Gabbaim collected the donated items from the shamash, recorded them on a list that was locked up with the charity funds, and distributed the goods as they saw fit, particularly before the High Holidays.53 The takkanot of Frankfurt from 1674 later decreed that gabbaim were forbidden from distributing any beds or linens to the poor if the communal hospice did not have at least six made beds, twelve sets of sheets, and twelve pillowcases.54 The various items brought to the hekdesh were processed by the gabbaim and their wives through a gendered division of labor. Wives of gabbaim were charged with ensuring that all such goods would be washed and brought to the hekdesh, while the men were set as overseers. On two days of the year, before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the gabbaim opened the hekdesh and distributed whatever they deemed was needed by the poor.55 The pinkas from Frankfurt stipulated that women were prohibited from distributing any clothing or money without their husbands’ knowledge.56 In Worms, all the goods and fabrics that belonged to the charity fund and to the synagogue were stored in a chest kept in the charity collector’s home.57

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Both Juspe Schammes and the contemporary gabba’e tzedakah compiled lists of items that were owned by and used in the synagogue; unfortunately, they did not include an inventory of the linens and goods that would have been donated to or used by the poor.58 Late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century records from Altona’s hospice mandated that linen be washed regularly. On weekdays, three meals were to be meat and two dairy, which suggests that the hospice was stocked with cooking and serving utensils.59 It is not known whether the kitchenware and linens were brought to the hospice after a community member’s death, or whether these items were purchased at some point by the community; not everyone in early modern Europe owned tableware. Given the transfer of material goods that had belonged to the deceased in Frankfurt and Worms, it is not unlikely that the same was true in Altona.

Blurred Administrative Roles Handling burial fees, repairing and maintaining communal buildings, paying rents and salaries, and collecting taxes for the municipality could be construed as activities normally falling under the purview of tax collectors or other lay leaders. Yet these tasks were conducted by the gabbay tzedakah and paid for out of charitable funds, as noted above. The inverse was also true. The govim, official tax collectors of the community, frequently managed specific forms of public charity. Although Juspe Schammes of Worms explained in his custom book that special gabbaim were appointed to oversee the distribution to the poor of funds left to the community by R. Treitlin, tax records from 1687 show that this prescription was not carried out in practice; tax collectors, rather than charity collectors, handled these payments.60 In Altona, pletten (meal tickets for guests and the poor) were managed by tax collectors. They signed the vouchers and recorded the transfer of pletten in their pinkassim.61 This is likely because each head of household was required to subsidize a specific number of meals, according to his or her net worth. Therefore, tax collectors were in the best position to assess and track this form of charity. Records from the late eighteenth century in Frankfurt similarly indicate that tax collectors were involved in regulating pletten.62 The example of pletten highlights the mandatory nature of certain forms of public charity. Not only were these types of charity managed by the tax collectors; they functioned and were recorded as a tax on communal members. Payment for pletten was recorded alongside community members’ other debts and tax obligations. The number of pletten that one owed was calculated, like

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taxes, on the basis of net worth. Although this form of charity was clearly regarded as a pious act, its obligatory nature demonstrates the convergence between charity and taxation. Not only did overseers of these funds have overlapping tasks, but many forms of early modern charity were compulsory.63 Taxes were frequently used for charitable ends, and charity was often collected in an obligatory, tax-like fashion. Examples of obligatory charity abound in the sources. In Frankfurt, it was decided in 1555 that whenever a couple would marry, each side of the wedding party was to donate to the community a quarter gulden from the dowry. Anyone who inherited money was instructed to pay a quarter gulden out of each hundred gulden that he or she had inherited—an efective “tax rate” of 0.25  percent. Such payments were used to support poor students.64 While the funds were intended to support the poor, the gift was not merely customary or socially expected. Rather, every family that married of a child was assessed this amount; it is something a modern reader would typically think of as a tax, rather than a donation. In Hamburg and Altona in 1732, families making a wedding party were required to hire an individual who worked in the hekdesh to serve at the party; should they not wish to do so, they had to pay him nonetheless.65 Community members who held celebratory parties for a circumcision or a wedding were required to rent utensils from those gabbaim tasked with caring for the sick.66 As the number of poor in the triple community increased, parnassim ruled that upon the birth of a daughter, the parents were obligated to contact the gabbay tzedakah within a week after the baby’s father was called to the Torah to name the newborn, in order to arrange payment for that honor.67 In each of these cases, the occasion of a family celebration obligated the family to support a specific sector of the poor by mandating the hiring of poor laborers, renting from the gabbaim, or donating money to poor students. These various forms of mandatory donations built on the connection between honor and public charity by requiring community members to support the poor as they celebrated family occasions with public festivities.

The Synagogue and Public Shame Just as the synagogue was the locus for public honor, so was it a place in which communal officials could shame community members, as a means of enforcing social discipline. Banning men and women from sitting in their regular seats and barring men from receiving public honors in the synagogue or from

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leading ser vices were tools to publicly punish transgressors. In addition, just as communities instituted public blessings for benefactors and communal servants, so, too, did they institute public prayers that blessed all but a particular group, guilty of an infraction. In 1674 in Frankfurt, new takkanot were issued by the parnassim after the municipal authorities complained that too many Jews were approaching them to seek justice; municipal authorities wanted the community to handle these issues on its own.68 In 1679, the community added a special mi-sheberakh prayer that singled out malshinim and mosrim, those who informed against the communities: “He who has blessed our forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. Moses, Aaron, David, and Solomon, He should bless this holy community, other than the informers and those who bear false witness, and cause harm from today forward, to any Jew, whether to an individual or to a group, whether bodily or monetary harm, and those who give advice to raise conflict, each of these shall be excommunicated . . . and all the curses and maledictions in this Torah shall fall on him.”69 This prayer was to be recited twice a week for one month, and then once every month in the following months, while the cantor held the Torah scroll. The prayer was instituted in the context of forbidding individuals from calling local police to the homes of fellow Jews. In 1681, although the community leaders had relaxed the requirement not to call the police, they reinstituted the recitation of this prayer.70 These prayers were intended to shame any transgressors by excluding them from the community and to deter any new unwanted behavior.71 A mi-sheberakh blessing the congregation other than those involved in coin clipping (devaluing coins by removing some of the metal) was recited in the triple community sometime during the eighteenth century. The prayer exhorted “anyone who has knowledge either of this impurity or of anyone who has transgressed any of the specific [sins] recounted above will bear his sin shall he refrain from informing the parnas ha-hodesh serving at that time in that community.”72 This prayer was printed, and a copy was sent to the city magistrates. Along with a translation into German, the sheet is preserved today in the city archives.73 By sharing this information, the communal leadership apprised the senate of the actions that they had taken to address what must have been a broad financial concern, further highlighting the collaboration between city magistrates and Jewish communal leaders. These forms of public shaming in the synagogue at times extended to the exclusion of particular individuals from rituals of charity in the synagogue. In 1656, former parnas Moshe Wimpfen of Frankfurt went bankrupt. The community discouraged and punished this behavior; indeed, in several other cases,

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men who had fallen into bankruptcy were forbidden to get married.74 Wimpfen was ordered to pay his creditors within thirty days, under threat of excommunication, even if all that remained to be paid back was the smallest debt due only to one creditor. Wimpfen was not permitted to sit in his seat in the synagogue for ten years, during which time he was precluded from being called to the Torah on Sabbath or on festivals. He was permanently banned from being appointed a communal leader. For four years, he was not to read aloud from the Torah and was not permitted to serve as a witness. In addition to these various penalties, Wimpfen was excluded from the charity ritual of matnat yad, which took place on the major holidays each year.75 During ser vices, communal members would donate to charity, and in return, they would receive a communal blessing.76 The importance of the ritual was marked through symbols. In Worms, the community made use of a specific Torah scroll wrapped in a special cloth for the occasion.77 A special curtain was hung on the ark housing the Torah scrolls on days when this ritual took place.78 The rabbi, parnassim, and those who had been given the honorific title morenu were all singled out in the charity ritual, as were those who had been honored by being called to the Torah.79 In Altona and Hamburg, the cantor would first bless the rabbi. The rabbi would then proceed to the raised platform in the synagogue center and bless the parnassim and the rest of the community, although not individually.80 By contrast, in Wimpfen’s hometown of Frankfurt, an “important” communal figure would grasp a Bible or another book, and bless each individual community member by name; even babies were blessed in exchange for the charity given by their fathers on their behalf. This was followed by a collective communal blessing.81 Excluding Wimpfen from this ritual was thus an extremely visible and humiliating sanction. Punishing transgressors intersected with charity in another way: a fine that was paid to the charity fund. In April 1660, Seligman Kulp of Frankfurt was recorded as having mocked the parnassim before the rabbinical court. He was to atone for what he had done and was further punished by being denied any honors in the synagogue for the following six years. He was banned from eating any meals outside his home for three years and was ordered to pay twenty-five reichsthaler to charity.82 Punishments for infractions could include donations of goods, rather than money, to the charity fund. On the twelfth of the month of Av 1728, Gottschalk bar Puna was penalized in Altona for having been called to the Torah for the final maftir ‘aliyah on Shabbat Hazon, in contravention of communal norms.83 He was barred from being called to the Torah for the following six months and

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was to donate wax to the charity fund. An announcement was made in the synagogue instructing that no one be called to the Torah on this Sabbath preceding the ninth of Av, in contravention of the communal ordinance. This called attention to the error made in having granted Gottschalk this honor several days earlier, shamed him, and deterred future infractions of the communal ordinance.84 Mandating donations as a penalty for transgressions belies the notion that charity was solely a pious act. Similar to the mandatory, tax-like donations to charity, the fines that were imposed on transgressors filled the community’s coffers with much needed capital. In addition, this punishment inverted the honor that one received as a donor. While this charity was a penance for wrongdoing and may therefore have been viewed as a means to redeem the perpetrator, the charity was born of transgression rather than piety and was thus associated with shame rather than with honor. Fining a community member with a donation to charity was thus functionally similar to displacing the member from a seat in synagogue, inverting a norm to signify that something was amiss. Since such punishments were documented in the pinkas and at times announced in the synagogue, the shaming was frequently public and would therefore have served to deter others from similar actions. Several takkanot used the threat of charity as a disincentive from acting in ways that might disturb the public and economic order. In Worms, the local ne’eman, a trusted scribe, was instructed to write out contracts within eight days of a transaction having taken place, under penalty of a one-reichsthaler fine to charity. The head of household was responsible for reading the contract within three days of its issuance, under penalty of a fine of one ducat to charity.85 Similarly, the parnas ha-hodesh was charged with maintaining order among the parnassim. He was to “supervise lest the parnassim fight among themselves and that they refrain from banging on the table.” If he did not control this behavior or fine them for infractions, he himself was to be fined with a payment of one schilling to charity.86

Enforcement Often, when an individual was fined with payment to the charity fund, he or she was directed to pay the same amount to the Christian authorities. In Frankfurt in 1688, Wolf the doctor was barred from holding any elected position for six years. His specific infraction is not recorded in the pinkas. The gabbaim were not permitted to grant him any mercy from this punishment, under penalty of a fine

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of 100 reichsthaler, half to be paid to the charity fund and half to the authorities.87 Similarly, in 1628, Jacob, a young man residing in the house of Shlomo Bonn, humiliated Shlomo’s virgin daughter, likely a euphemism for some sort of sexual contact that had caused damage to her reputation. He was banned from receiving lodging in the community after the upcoming fair had ended. Anyone found granting him a place to sleep was not only to be shamed publicly but was to pay ten reichsthaler to charity and ten to the Christian authorities.88 The practice of remitting punitive fines to both the charity fund and the Christian authorities was also implemented in Altona-Hamburg. A pinkas from seventeenth-century Altona details several occasions when community members were fined for acts of violence or sexual transgressions.89 It comprises lists of fees and fines that were owed, and later paid, to the Danish crown.90 Directing an individual to pay a fine both to charity and to Christian authorities was a tool employed by community leaders to ensure payment.91 This could be far more efective method than shaming for ensuring that a payment was rendered. Should one neglect to pay a fine to Christian authorities, additional methods of enforcement, including debtors’ prison, could be applied. There does not seem to have been a list of ofending communal members and the fines they owed that was handed to the Christian authorities. Yet by recording such punishments in the pinkas, gabbaim reserved the right to report to local magistrates those who failed to pay. One example from seventeenth-century Frankfurt makes this point exceedingly clear. After a bitter feud broke out about who would be permitted to serve as a parnas, a resolution was brokered in 1628.92 It was decided that if anyone were to breach the term limits set for a parnas under the agreement, that individual would be excommunicated. In addition, he would be fined a thousand gulden: one-third to charity, one-third to the Frankfurt magistrates, and one-third to the emperor. While a community might have a difficult time extracting such a large sum from a former leader who was under threat of excommunication, the municipal and imperial authorities had far greater reach. The inclusion of the emperor, in whose courts the two camps had battled about this issue, further ensured that all parties abide by terms of the agreement.93 It is possible that the parnassim imposed financial penalties partially payable to Christian authorities as a means to discourage members of the community from pursuing justice in a magisterial forum rather than a Jewish one. In the aforementioned case of the newly bankrupted Moshe Wimpfen, the pinkas explains that no intervention from the magistrates was to sway the terms of Wimpfen’s punishment.94 As described above, Frankfurt’s magistrates complained and even fined the community for bringing too many disputes before

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them.95 By designating part of the fine as payment to the Christian authorities, Jewish communal leaders likely disincentivized transgressors from seeking justice in a non-communal forum, given that the Christian forum stood to benefit when it upheld the penalty that had been imposed. Ironically, the parnassim used the Christian authorities as leverage but wished to limit the rights of community members to do so themselves.96

Compelling Payment The need for enforcing fines stemmed from the difficulties that tax and charity collectors faced in ensuring that members of the community paid what they owed to the charity fund. In 1619 in Frankfurt, the parnassim discussed the various forms of charity and taxes that required collecting by the gabbaim and the govim, noting how arduous it proved for officials to collect funds: “Some of the collectors do not wish to fight with the heads of household and the widows, and some of [the collectors] say that they do not wish to run after someone for a small amount of money, nor do they wish to compel payment. And this is the reason they are negligent in this matter, and the money is lost, and because of this, great damage and weighty debts are caused to the community.”97 Lay leaders therefore ordered that all charity and tax collectors were absolutely required to collect every sum that was owed, large or small. They empowered the gabbaim to compel payment by any means, including excluding those who had not paid from communal honors and by announcing in the synagogue the names of those who had failed to pay. All debts were to be paid within six months of the pledge. After that date, collectors would be held personally responsible for any remaining sums. The policy went so far as to instruct that whatever amounts had not been collected would be transferred in the written records, meaning that the amount of uncollected pledges would be added to the personal debt page of the tax or charity collector.98 The policy was double-edged: the gabbaim were empowered as well as personally motivated to ensure that they collected the charity that had been promised. In Altona and Hamburg, gabbaim were similarly instructed to compel community members to pay for any synagogue honors they had received.99 Every honor not paid within six months was written in a special pinkas designated to track payments of this form of charity.100 If a year had passed without the community member paying, gabbaim were barred from selling that individual additional honors until he had paid what he already owed.101 In addition,

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over time, gabbaim were held personally responsible for ensuring that the rates of payment to ser vice providers did not exceed a reasonable amount. Gabbaim were held personally accountable for ensuring that communal costs stayed as low as possible. In 1738  in Altona, any communal official who overpaid the cantor or sexton was to be fined twenty reichsthaler, to be paid to the charity cofer.102 Since the community was under such great financial pressure at that time, maintaining lower salaries was essential to keeping down costs. Juspe Schammes listed some strategies applied in Worms to compel payment. Although he includes these in a description of tools used by collectors of the various taxes imposed on the community, it is reasonable to assume that the same was true for the charity collectors, especially given the intermingling of the tasks assumed by collectors of both types of payments. If someone refused to pay taxes, this was announced in the synagogue, as an attempt to leverage humiliation and peer pressure. If this was to no avail, they were to announce his partial excommunication and were permitted to levy a fine for each night that he remained defiant. They could restrict him from entering the synagogue as well.103 In Altona-Hamburg, a decree from 1730 barred anyone who failed to pay his communal debts, whether to taxes or to charity, from purchasing an etrog.104 In Worms and Altona-Hamburg, it was customary to forbid a couple from marrying of a child, or a widow or widower from remarrying, unless they had paid all their tax and charity obligations to the community.105 We can trace the enforcement of this policy in practice.106 A man named Lima in Worms paid all that he owed to charity prior to his son’s wedding in the spring of 1737.107 Leib Botnem of Altona was permitted to betroth his daughter to Joseph ben Moshe Hazan on the condition that all his debts were paid before the wedding ceremony took place.108 An orphaned girl in Altona, the daughter of Reuven Rothschild, was instructed to pay her debt of forty reichsthaler before marrying her fiancé, Hayyim.109 The widow Yenta from Altona was obligated to pay fifty reichsthaler before the party formally announcing the betrothal of her daughter to Juspe ben Itzik Berber.110 In Frankfurt, where the municipal authorities permitted only twelve couples to marry each year, marriage was a resource with limited supply.111 As such, the Frankfurt parnassim’s ability to control access to marriage was an even more powerful tool than was the case in other communities. Permission to marry in Frankfurt was explicitly tied to whether an individual owed any debts to other community members. In 1654, the parnassim required any debtor who was marrying of a child and who planned to bequeath any real property (such as a house or synagogue seat) to the couple to inform and receive a waiver from the creditor. The creditor was entitled to claim the property from the

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newly married couple, if necessary.112 In 1747, seven prominent creditors were owed money by Jacob May and his father-in-law, Noah Mergentheim of Frankfurt. May had been planning a wedding; that wedding was put on hold and a lien placed on his house, until the money was repaid.113 These methods of enforcement also played on shame, applying an inversion of the honor that one typically received when donating to charity, by humiliating debtors to the community. Men donated to charity after having been honored in the synagogue; but if they failed to pay, they were shamed by being banned from receiving such honors. If marriage was an occasion upon which one would be publicly celebrated by the community and honored in the synagogue, those who had not paid their debts were not permitted to wed or to marry of their children.

Trying to Balance the Budget In addition to compelling payment of debts by leveraging important ritual and life-cycle events, early modern Jewish communities sought to increase the income to their cofers when someone died without heirs. If an individual who owned a seat in the men’s or women’s synagogue died without heirs, that seat reverted to the charity fund. In Worms, seats were inherited only by sons and daughters, not by other heirs.114 The seat of someone who died without children would be sold by charity collectors to the highest bidder, with the proceeds going to charity. When the widow Yutlin died childless in Frankfurt in 1600, the vacancy was announced in the synagogue and the seat auctioned of. It was sold by the gabbaim to R. Shmuel, who purchased this seat in the women’s synagogue for 402 gulden.115 Similarly, when the widow Yacht died childless in Frankfurt in 1620, her seat was sold to two brothers, Hirtz and Leve, for 351 gulden and 27 pfennig.116 Seats in the synagogue, often owned by more than one family member and passed down as inheritance, were thus extremely valuable commodities that could generate a major windfall for the charity fund. This practice was in keeping with the fact that the synagogue was a domain maintained and controlled by the gabbay. In Worms, when individuals purchased seats from one another, the sale was recorded in the pinkas of the gabbay tzedakah, despite the fact that the proceeds went to the seller, not to the charity fund. Thus, when the rabbi’s wife, Mehrlin, died in 1674, her seat was purchased by Laizer Winheim. The charity collector recorded the sale and the location of the seat (between the seat belonging to Shi-

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mon Katz’s wife and the seat belonging to Zanvil Oppenheim’s wife) in his pinkas. He noted that the purchase of Merhlin’s seat included the right that she had acquired to stand between the seat of the wife of an unnamed parnas and the seat of Yaacov Oppenheim, which would enable the woman in question to see the Torah being raised during the ser vice.117 In early eighteenth-century Altona-Hamburg, it was decided that if, after a community member died, the individual still owed funds to the community, the kahal could sell his or her seat and use the proceeds to cover the debt.118 Ensuring that the proceeds of available synagogue seats went to the charity fund was but one of many means designed to counteract the staggering shortfall between income and expenses in early modern Jewish communities. Contemporary responsa deal with various disputes regarding taxation because, like charity, taxation was an essential source of income for the community.119 For example, questions arose as to whether one continued to owe taxes to a community after having relocated in a case when the community was dependent on that income.120 The desperate communal need for the income generated by taxes led rabbis such as Yair Hayyim Bacharach of Worms to opine more broadly about the binding nature of takkanot, the wide-ranging power granted to lay authorities to enact them, and the importance of ensuring that the community could collect what it was owed by residents and or those who came to work in a city.121 Charity was an indispensable part of the larger economic system of the kehillah because it was one of many ways for the community to pay for the ser vices it provided. As a result of the deep links between charity, taxes, and fines, public charity was multifaceted. Charity collectors and tax collectors were each responsible for what may seem to modern eyes to be an amalgam of overlapping tasks; the definition of how donations could be generated was construed broadly. Although charity was often a pious act that conferred communal honor, it could also be a recompense for a shameful infraction. Charity was levied as a tax on communal members, particularly in times of extreme need, but also served as a resource for them when they were in need of a loan. Despite the wide net cast by communal leaders seeking contributions, the deficits they faced forced them to prioritize to whom and for what purpose they could allocate funds, a choice that became increasingly difficult as the number of migrating poor and thus, the number of those in need, increased in the eighteenth century.

chapter 4

The Residential Poor

In his book Jüdische Merckwürdigkeiten, first published in 1714, the Christian Hebraist Jacob Johann Schudt described the Jewish dietary restrictions that forbade mixing meat and milk. Among the customs he noted was the use of two separate tablecloths, one for meat meals and the other for dairy: “The poor have only one tablecloth, and they use one side for meat, and the other side for dairy, and it is a big sin to eat [both meat and dairy] from the same side [of the tablecloth]. So as not to err, they mark the tablecloth in Hebrew characters, and it is customary to write basar [meat] on one end of the tablecloth for meat, or halav [dairy] for dairy. There are pious poor people who launder the tablecloth after having a meat meal before they eat a dairy meal.”1 Schudt’s description of the meager possessions of Frankfurt’s poor Jews stands in contrast to his description of what kitchenware that local, nonpoor Jews customarily had: “[The Jews] also have two saltshakers, one for meat and the other for dairy, and these are also marked [to designate as meat or dairy]. They also require separate pots, spoons, plates, and forks, as well as separate storage that allows [them] to mark everything as either meat or dairy.”2 The comparison between the possessions that one might expect to find in a standard early eighteenth-century Jewish home and those that were to be found in the home of the Jewish poor provide a vivid example of how the Jewish poor may have lived. Yet Schudt’s book does not distinguish between diferent types of poor Jews.3 While some poor Jews may have had only one tablecloth, others undoubtedly had no tablecloth at all. Identifying “the poor” is challenging, because most poor individuals did not leave written documents. This difficulty is compounded by the fact that the term ‘aniyim, poor, referred to a broad swath of the population in early modern documents. The term could be used to refer to poor beggars but could also refer to

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lower earners in the community. For example, in Altona, regulations governing women’s immersion in the communal ritual bath instructed that poor Jewish women pay half the standard fee upon immersion.4 In this context, the adjective “poor” referred to those women whose families did not earn enough income to pay taxes. The use of a single term to refer to those who could aford to pay a reduced fee for immersion and to those who begged for sustenance highlights the need for greater precision in understanding what is meant by “poor.” The most critical factor for classifying the poor into distinct categories was whether an individual was considered local or foreign. This status, more than any other marker, such as gender, age, or marital status, determined the level of support that one could expect from a Jewish community. Being identified as local was hugely beneficial to the individual. This chapter will examine the broad range of residential poor, while Chapter 5 will examine the experiences of the itinerant, transient poor.

Prioritizing the Local Poor Classical Jewish sources prioritized supporting the local poor. Various verses in Deuteronomy referred to aiding a poor person “in your gates” or “in your city” or “with you.”5 The beraita extrapolated that this should be interpreted as a directive to prioritize supporting the local poor before providing for poor individuals who hailed from a distance.6 Over time, cultural assumptions about the poor strengthened this attitude. During the Middle Ages, rabbinic writings in Ashkenaz began to focus on a different concept, that of the worthy poor, referred to in Hebrew as ‘aniyim hagunim. Figures such as R. Isaac b. Moses of Vienna (died c. 1270) wrote that charity given to unworthy poor would not be rewarded with merit in heaven.7 Rather, he posited, God would grant righteous people the opportunity to donate charity to the worthy poor.8 Similar notions about the worthiness of the poor were prevalent in premodern Christian societies, in which intellectuals as well as political authorities sought to find a model for supporting the worthy poor while excluding vagrants and unworthy individuals, the latter being increasingly viewed through the lens of deviance and crime.9 This idea continued into the early modern period, as numerous writers focused on the importance of giving charity only to the worthy poor.10 For both Jews and Christians in premodern Europe, the notions of local poor and worthy poor became somewhat intertwined. Vagrants and foreigners were

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considered suspect and likely unworthy. While being one’s neighbor did not de facto render a poor person worthy, a donor’s assessment of who fit into the category of the worthy poor certainly was facilitated by having personal knowledge of recipients and their circumstances. In his description of the charity collector’s tasks, Juspe Schammes, sexton of the Jewish community in Worms in the seventeenth century, diferentiated between the “poor of our city” and “foreign guests.” The gabbay was required to provide the “poor of our city” with all they required.11 Juspe uses the term dey mahsoram, a biblical phrase that had been interpreted as the obligation to provide each poor individual with relief commensurate with the status to which he had been accustomed.12 Therefore, if a poor person had been wealthy before an economic downturn, Jewish law required that he be provided with food, clothing, and other items commensurate with his previous economic status, rather than simply providing basic food, clothing, and shelter. Expanding on the traditional description, Juspe highlighted that the poor who were ill were to receive medical care, paid for by the community. The gabbay was charged to “watch over them carefully, whether in terms of medical care or meals, and all his [sic] needs, and to place with him a caretaker [doctor or a home attendant] if necessary.”13 This charity to the local poor was not a single payment but rather was ongoing. If the expense of supplying this degree of care proved too burdensome, the gabbaim were to consult with the parnassim to raise the requisite funds. By contrast, the money for the foreign transient poor came from the general charitable fund that the gabbay controlled and was typically a one-time payment; there was no entitlement to ongoing support. Being recognized as a member of the residential poor could thus alter one’s fate dramatically. Juspe Hahn Neuerlingen of Frankfurt prescribed a similar set of priorities in his seventeenth-century custom book: “The poor of one’s home received priority above one’s neighbors, and one’s neighbors are prioritized over residents of his city, and they are prioritized even above foreign poor who come to that city from other places.”14 Hahn Neuerlingen states that women should be prioritized above men for assistance with food, marriage, and release from captivity. These two prescriptions of how charity should be distributed were shaped by the religious tradition and cultural norms that prioritized giving to the local poor while relegating the foreign poor to secondary status. However, when one examines the demographics of early modern Jewish communities, the distinction between the local and foreign poor was not always clear. Did the local poor include only those who held hezkat kahal (official membership in the community), or did it include other unofficial yet permanent (or quasi-permanent)

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residents? An analysis of charity as distributed in practice demonstrates that communal authorities defined the category of local poor broadly, including in this category a significant number of long- and short-term residents. They nevertheless maintained some hierarchy in charitable distribution, at times privileging those residents with hezkat kahal over residents without that status. Over time, the practice of providing assistance to the local poor began to distinguish between the laboring poor and the poor who did not work. Communal authorities sought to increase the number of working poor, while weeding out the transient and vagrant (nonworking) poor from the Jewish community.

Acquiring Hezkat Kahal In premodern Jewish communities, the formal status marking an individual as an official member of a particu lar Jewish community was known as hezkat kahal. Bearers of this status were granted residential rights and the right to be buried in the communal cemetery and were guaranteed individual communal aid and protection in the case of an accusation or libel. In exchange, holders of hezkat kahal were responsible for paying communal taxes. In some communities, hezkat kahal could be purchased by a newcomer; in other locations, particularly in those in which space was limited, not only could one not purchase this status; even the right to inherit hezkat kahal was restricted.15 In Altona, a record from 1690 details that Issakhar ha-Kohen acquired hezkat kahal. His candidacy was guaranteed financially by Glicklchen, daughter of Leib Stern, who promised to reimburse the community the hefty sum of up to 500 reichsthaler should Issakhar depart from Altona prior to repaying any debts he had incurred, presumably from taxes owed and charity pledged.16 In the early eighteenth century, Ziskind Wind paid the remainder of what he owed toward his purchase of hezkat kahal.17 By contrast, in Frankfurt, space was at a premium, and at times it was exceedingly difficult to acquire official membership in that kehillah. It had been customary that when the child of a family with hezkat kahal married an individual not originally from Frankfurt, the new spouse would obtain official communal membership through the marriage. The city magistrates rescinded this policy in 1574, ruling that the newly married couple had to seek special permission from the magistrates to obtain that status, referred to in German as Stättigkeit, for the foreign-born spouse.18 Given the community’s protests about this policy, it seems that such permission was largely not granted.19 Even decades

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later, in 1613, when seven such couples applied for their marriages to be recognized and their status confirmed, their requests were turned down.20 When Jews were readmitted to Frankfurt in 1616, after the Fettmilch uprising, the privileges that the community obtained decreed that twelve couples could marry each year. In addition, six “new” families, usually comprising marriages between a girl from Frankfurt and a foreigner, could acquire Stättigkeit.21 In January 1618, Jewish community officials decided that a committee of eight men would meet to ascertain who, if anyone, would acquire this status, and then record that in the municipality.22 Later that year, when the rabbi married of his widowed daughter, the communal leaders permitted the young couple to live with him but explicitly stated that they would not be granted hezkat kahal.23 Families that had hezkat kahal but that left Frankfurt were technically to lose their status, and parents who wished to pass their status on to more than one child were sometimes required to relinquish their own standing.24 Difficulties in obtaining residential rights can be seen through the eighteenth century. In one case, a nineteen-year-old youth was visiting his parents from Amsterdam for five weeks on the occasion of his upcoming wedding that was to take place in Frankfurt.25 While his parents had Stättigkeit, this young man did not and was officially designated a foreigner. A more flexible policy of obtaining hezkat kahal was in place in Worms. City magistrates modeled their first Judenordnung (Jewish ordinance) on that of Frankfurt and thus distinguished between foreign and local Jews.26 Yet the additional restrictions limiting the acquisition of hezkat kahal that had been imposed in Frankfurt were not imposed in Worms. Newcomers to Worms could acquire hezkat kahal. Though the Jewish communal records from 1650 are fragmentary,27 the 1684 ordinances indicate that with the approval of twenty-three residents, in the presence of the rabbi, cantor, and sexton, official membership in the community could be granted to immigrants.28 Sons as well as daughters of Worms residents were able to inherit official membership in the Jewish community from their parents and were able to extend that status to their spouses. In 1656, the widow of the rabbi, Mehrlin, bequeathed all her movable property to be divided evenly between her two sons and her younger, single daughter. She made a detailed arrangement regarding the half of a house that belonged to her, presumably to ensure that her daughter would have a dowry.29 Should either of her sons adopt ‘ ironut, the Hebrew term used in Worms to denote Stättigkeit, he was to take possession of the house, and her daughter was to be paid fifty gulden. If neither son opted to formally adopt residency (which required paying taxes both to the community and to the

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municipality), her daughter was to retain possession of the house and presumably, with it, the status of hezkat kahal.30 Other examples of homes “owned” by women, whether in full or in partnership with their husbands or siblings, abound in the real-estate records from the seventeenth century.31 Communal ordinances in Worms from 1684 included a formal price structure in which parents could acquire hezkat kahal for a new in-law. It was necessary to pay a fee upon marriage for all children, whether they married someone local or foreign. The rate varied, depending on how many additional siblings had already wed and whether they had married natives of Worms or foreigners.32 In his discussion of weddings and fees, Juspe Schammes similarly noted that when a couple wed, if one partner hailed from outside Worms, an additional fee of twelve reichsthaler was levied on the couple to pay for ‘ ironut. If both spouses were from Worms, this payment was not necessary.33

Communal Membership and Social Status Distinctions between those residents who held hezkat kahal and those who did not were often expressed in the realm of ritual. In perhaps the most poignant example, in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, official members of the community who held hezkat kahal were buried in one cemetery, while those who lacked hezkat kahal were buried elsewhere.34 Similarly, in Frankfurt, residents without official status were buried in a particular area, which, although it was part of the cemetery, was considered in the eyes of residents to constitute a separate zone. Indeed, burial records from Frankfurt explicitly indicate who was buried in the main cemetery and who was buried “in the hekdesh,” the term used to denote that separate area.35 By contrast, in Worms, burial in the cemetery was not restricted to those with hezkat kahal, as can be seen upon visiting the cemetery and perusing the epitaphs that have been preserved; numerous individuals from the surrounding countryside were buried in Heiliger Sand.36 Distinctions were nevertheless made between official members of the community and other residents. When a member of the community died, the burial society was obligated to hold a quorum in the home of the deceased during the weeklong mourning period, as well as to recite kaddish there; no such obligation was in place for those without ‘ ironut.37 Other records likewise diferentiate between individuals based on their official communal status. Naftali Herz ben Uri, a mohel in Altona who compiled a record of all the circumcisions that he performed between 1729 and 1769, made

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a note in the margins of his pinkas to indicate to which community each child belonged. Not only did he designate which of the three communities the family lived in but also noted the family’s official status. He lists several babies as toshav, a resident of the kehillah lacking the formal status of hezkat kahal.38 Not surprisingly, hezkat kahal was an extremely important variable in determining what type and amount of charity an individual received. The highest degree of charitable relief was reserved for these official residents. In the 1670s in Altona, Tziper, an older woman who was ill, received monthly support from the gabbay tzedakah. The community hired and paid a non-Jewish caretaker to care for her. Payments to Tziper and to her caretaker are recorded in the pinkas of the gabbay until Tziper’s death, in 1675.39 This degree of care, particularly its ongoing nature, is a vivid reflection of the ideal of charity for the local poor as described by Juspe Schammes of Worms and was available only to individuals with hezkat kahal. Other types of support were similarly limited to those with hezkat kahal. Thus, among the yearly expenses of the gabbay of Worms for 1737 were sums provided to residents to help them pay their taxes, as well as funds provided to help them procure tzitzit (ritual fringes worn by Jewish men).40 In Altona-HamburgWandsbek, those poor who had hezkat kahal were eligible to receive a kitzbah, a stipend paid to them several times a year. Communal decrees designated the intermediate days of Passover as an occasion on which the gabbaim and other communal leaders would meet to allocate the amount that each poor individual would receive.41 The gabbaim from Altona and Wandsbek were directed to give out equal stipends to the poor.42 Although communal leaders prescribed that this care be limited to those with hezkat kahal, an examination of the records of the gabbaim indicate that the kitzbah was, at times, extended to other residents who lacked formal status. The pinkas of the gabbay tzedakah in Altona documenting the years 1674–1677 records that these stipends were given to various men and women (including widows) as well as to the cantor, the scribe, the sexton, and two melamdim (teachers of small children).43 Many communal functionaries, particularly cantors, were hired from outside the community and were not necessarily given hezkat kahal. Melamdim were also usually nonnative, and in Altona, a communal decree granted them the right to reside in the community as teachers for up to three years.44 Another type of kitzbah was distributed in Altona on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, just before Passover, and before Purim.45 The first two payments

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were drawn from the general funds available to the gabbaim, while the last payment was drawn from a specific communal donation levied before Purim, known as mahatzit ha-shekel.46 In theory, this payment was limited to residential poor who held hezkat kahal. In practice, among the men and women who received payments before Rosh Hashanah in 1675 were eight melamdim, some of whom would almost certainly have been nonnative.47 In 1684, the Altona community gave a total of 102 marks as a stipend to twenty-seven recipients, including three women and twenty-four men.48 One of the twenty-four men was a local cantor named Joseph.49 The discrepancy between the communal decree and the practice of charity was a result of the demographic realities in early modern Jewish communities, in which there were many short- and long-term residents who did not hold hezkat kahal. This group included many of the community’s laborers, such as domestic servants, teachers, guards, and individuals tasked with caring for the sick. In matters of ritual and burial, the lines between those who held hezkat kahal and those who did not were rigidly observed. Individuals without hezkat kahal were not buried in the cemeteries reserved for those who had official communal membership. In one extreme circumstance, Jews with hezkat kahal who had been interred in other burial grounds were exhumed so that their final resting place would correctly signify the social status they had possessed in life.50 Yet in the context of poor relief, these categories were relaxed. The category of the “local poor” was usually extended to include all such longer-term residents of the kehillah, not just those with hezkat kahal. Reasons for this will be explored below.

The Kehillah and Its Residents There were no official censuses for any of the three Jewish communities under examination. Nevertheless, in Worms and Frankfurt, municipal officials entered the ghetto for various reasons enumerated below. On those occasions, they recorded the names of the ghetto’s inhabitants, thereby creating a glimpse, albeit passing, into residential patterns. In Worms in 1610, municipal officials were tasked with inspecting the buildings in the Judengasse, and they listed the Jewish residents in their records. A similar examination was performed in 1629.51 Though close in time to the previous inspection, the years between marked the violent Fettmilch uprising and the consequent expulsion of Worms Jewry from 1614 to 1616; thus, there were marked changes in the population of the ghetto.52

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In 1610, there were approximately 771 inhabitants in Worms.53 Of those, many did not hold hezkat kahal. Fourteen residents were listed as foreign by the inspector, including six students, a schoolteacher who had been living in the Judengasse for two years, a father and daughter who were relatives of a family with hezkat kahal, a foster child of one of the local families, a mother and her child from Hesse, a boarder from Mainz, and one other wise unidentified man. Many of the other residents also lacked hezkat kahal, including most of the male and female domestic servants; forty-two out of a total of forty-three such servants were nonnative to Worms.54 Additional students, beyond the six mentioned above, came to study in Worms from outside the city. The last category includes eighteen Schabbes Junge (lit., Sabbath youth), a term that likely refers to the teenaged male nonnative students who came to the community to study Torah. Each student was assigned to eat Sabbath and holiday meals with a local family; thus, when queried as to who lived in each house, members of those households that hosted a student each weekend relayed the presence of that student as a member of the household to the inspector.55 A conservative estimate of the number of long-term residents in Worms in 1610 who lacked hezkat kahal is thus seventy-four, or 9.5 percent of the population. Similar data are extant for 1629, when the total number of residents was 647. Of those, 9.4 percent of the population, or sixty-one individuals, can be definitively identified as lacking hezkat kehillah, including forty-five domestic servants, five boarders, and eleven individuals listed as foreign by the inspector.56 It is highly likely that the numbers provided to the inspectors in 1610 and 1629, which do not include all the students and which do not take the status of any adult residents not explicitly referred to as foreign into account, underestimate the total of residents without hezkat kahal. Specifically, this tabulation does not account for those individuals who rented out homes in the Worms Judengasse. Some houses were owned by individual Jews, but most residential buildings officially belonged to the city, and the Jews paid high rent in exchange for residence.57 Nevertheless, Jews were permitted to sell and rent the homes, and communal ordinances stated that the parnassim could sell any uninhabited homes.58 A pinkas that records the financial transactions conducted in the community during 1655–1659 details thirteen dealings in which single rooms, portions of houses, or entire homes were rented or sold.59 This number does not include any real estate transferred through bequest or inheritance. In one example, a woman named Krinchen rented out most of the house that she owned together with her brother Jacob, who lived in Amsterdam, to a doctor named Hirtz Segal. The doctor had use of all the rooms of the house other than those already occupied

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by another resident, Lipman. They were to share the use of the cellar and the courtyard.60 Such complex dwellings and rentals belie the simplicity of tabulating a precise number of residents with hezkat kahal. In Frankfurt, municipal inspectors scrutinized the number of foreign Jews living in the ghetto in 1694, 1703, 1709, and 1713.61 They found a wide range of residents, including schoolteachers, guards, students, and cantors who lacked hezkat kahal. Numbering among those who lacked hezkat kahal were the newly married children of official residents. Though they lived with their parents, some lacked the formal status of Stättigkeit. Similarly, siblings, parents, grandchildren, other relatives, and orphans who lived in the ghetto lacked hezkat kahal and were listed as foreign by the inspectors (see Appendix). There were also boarders, especially from nearby villages, as well as nonnative individuals who had acquired their own homes. The latter hailed from Worms, Bingen, Fulda, and Heidelberg, as well as from the small towns and villages surrounding Frankfurt, and in nearby Hesse and the electoral Palatinate. At the time of the visitations, some of these individuals had lived in Frankfurt for several months, while others had resided there for several years; one family had been living in the ghetto for fifteen years.62 Refugees from Alsace, Mannheim, and Poland were also living in the ghetto. Some were family members of residents of Frankfurt who had hezkat kahal, and although they themselves lacked this formal status, they may have chosen to stay in Frankfurt for the long term. For example, in 1703, a family comprising a married couple and their three children were housing four “refugees”: their daughter, son-in-law, and two grandchildren who had fled from Mannheim.63 An entry from the pinkas from 1743 similarly indicates that some refugees made Frankfurt their home despite not having official status there. The parnassim decreed that refugees who resided in the community were expected to pay their obligations to the community before being permitted to celebrate family occasions in the synagogue. If any refugee had not paid at least two-thirds of the amount that he owed to the community, his son would not be permitted to read from the Torah in either the old or new synagogue on his bar mitzvah. Those who had paid two-thirds of their debts could ask for permission from the leadership to celebrate publicly.64 This decision was in line with general policies governing those with hezkat kahal, whose marriage celebrations were linked to the debts they owed.65 The institution of a similar principle that permitted debt-free refugees to celebrate in the synagogue suggests that these refugees were long-term refugees who were established enough to have paid back debts they had accrued.

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The presence of long-term residents who did not gain full communal rights in the kehillah paralleled contemporaneous Christian society, in which there were citizens as well as quasi-citizens known as Schutzbürger or Schutzverwandten (the term used in Hamburg). These individuals received permission of residence in exchange for promises of loyalty but did not gain full political rights of citizenship.66 This arrangement ensured a city a supply of manual and domestic laborers. In the Jewish community, long-term residents and laborers similarly did not receive the official status of hezkat kahal. A quasi-status was aforded to them in the realm of welfare, especially in the case of laborers.

Physically and Mentally Ill Certain forms of charitable relief distinguished between those who had hezkat kahal and those who did not. A higher degree of support was allotted to those with official status in the community. One such example is support for the mentally ill. In the early eighteenth century in Altona, the widow of Isaiah Heksher received a weekly stipend from the community to support her mentally ill son, who resided with her.67 Her brother-in-law provided her with an additional weekly stipend. The Hekshers were members of a prominent family in Altona, and many had served as lay leaders in the community. By contrast, a few decades later, there is a record concerning the mesharet (domestic servant) of Seligman Katzav. Deemed mentally ill, the servant was brought to the hekdesh.68 Whereas the young man from the Heksher family had a mother and an uncle who could care for him physically and financially, the mesharet did not have a local support network. While his employer paid a fee for his servant’s admission to the hekdesh, the former did not provide ongoing financial and physical support for him. The community supported both individuals, yet the type of care and the locus of care difered according to status and place of geographic origin. The hekdesh housed ill Jews without status, while those with the means to live with relatives did so. R. Yehezkel Katzenellenbogen (1667–1749), rabbi in Altona from 1712 until his death, wrote a responsum about a woman who went insane after she married. Her husband sent her to reside in a small village not far from the community. The responsum deals with the husband’s wish to divorce her without paying her marriage contract; she had become pregnant, the baby died, and he claimed that the child was not his. Her family, by contrast, claimed that one could

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argue that she was insane and not responsible for her actions; they also posited that her husband may have visited her and impregnated her.69 Katzenellenbogen, who did not permit this man to divorce his wife, does not mention the community in which the man had lived.70 This case demonstrates that in some cases, the insane might be sent to live in a smaller community. Her family’s insistence that she retain her rights suggests that they were of some means, which may have kept this woman out of the hekdesh. Care for the mentally ill and for the physically disabled difered from community to community. In Frankfurt, such care was initially provided to residents in the hekdesh, irrespective of whether the individual held hezkat kahal. From its founding in the fifteenth century, the hekdesh housed the lame, the blind, and the mentally and physically ill.71 Records from the burial society confirm that this practice continued into the seventeenth century, as they relate the story of Abraham, a mentally ill resident of Frankfurt who resided in the hekdesh for over thirty years. In 1661, he went walking on top of the ghetto walls between seven and eight o’clock in the morning; Christian artisans who saw him walking there pelted him with rocks, leading him to fall and ultimately die of his injury.72 While the burial records confirm that the mentally ill such as Abraham were housed in the hekdesh, it is impossible to ascertain with certainty whether he possessed hezkat kahal, as he was buried in a special area reserved for martyrs.73 The fact that he lived in the hekdesh and was supported by the community for three decades is highly suggestive that he was an official member of the community who was entitled to this ongoing care. Burial records mention Gavriel Plakh (d. 1653) and Bela (d. 1664), who were mentally ill.74 These two individuals, whose status in the community is unknown, died in the hekdesh, and it is likely that they had lived there as well. By the early eighteenth century, the scope of care provided in the hekdesh shifted, and aid was provided only to nonresidents. The visitation records for Frankfurt in 1709 mention one blind woman who lived with her widowed sister and her family, rather than in the hekdesh.75 The demarcation of the hekdesh as a place that treated only nonresidents led to the founding of the male confraternity, Bikkur holim, in 1738, in order to provide support to ill residents of the ghetto who held hezkat kahal. A confraternity for women followed soon after.76 Fewer details about care for the mentally ill and physically disabled are available for Worms. The aforementioned lists of residents include one poor “crippled girl” in the 1610 and two “crippled” individuals in 1629.77 These individuals did not reside in the hekdesh but lived in homes in the community. No information about the residents of the hekdesh is available.

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This space was likely used to temporarily house the foreign, rather than the local, poor.

The Laboring Poor Most of the residential poor were not infirm but rather, constituted the laboring poor. The laboring poor worked for their wages; without their labor, many would have been destitute. A major facet of poor relief in the early modern period among Catholics and Protestants was finding work for the able-bodied poor.78 This policy was practiced by contemporary Jews as well. As was mentioned, the residential poor in Altona with hezkat kahal were entitled to a stipend, or kitzbah. While earlier takkanot focused on restricting the kitzbah payments to the residential poor holding hezkat kahal (a policy that was, as we have seen, not followed in practice), by the end of the seventeenth century, the community had altered its program for poor relief considerably.79 In 1698, communal officials in Altona decreed that all individuals who received a kitzbah were required to attend to sick residents in exchange for the payment; those who refused would no longer receive the stipend. The decree also standardized the amount that was paid to the poor as twelve schillings per day, in addition to money for food.80 This enactment formalized an arrangement in which local residents would be entitled to a fixed stipend in exchange for labor that they would provide to the community through caring for the sick. This policy mirrored contemporary Christian thinking about poor relief, which similarly sought to encourage the poor to work and to support those poor who provided local labor, while discouraging and even banishing the poor who did not work. Communal officials in Frankfurt likewise encouraged the able-bodied poor to work. In 1614 in Frankfurt, parnassim granted Liberman, son of Juspe Hahn, and his wife permission to reside in a particular set of rooms in the hekdesh.81 The pinkas states that the couple did not possess hezkat kahal, nor were they to be granted it with this arrangement. The couple procured their residence in exchange for tending to the sick, even during a plague.82 Given that space was at a premium in Frankfurt’s ghetto, acquiring a place to live was extremely important, even if it was in the hekdesh, a location tarnished with the stigma of being low-status.83 The community reached a similar arrangement of ser vice in exchange for residence with Joseph bar David and his wife in 1641. In exchange for living in the hekdesh, they agreed to tend to the firstborn animals that roamed in the

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adjacent cemetery, as well as to help extinguish fires in the community.84 Guards, or Jobwächter, also typically lacked hezkat kahal. Through their employment by the community, they were able to secure a paid position and a place to live in the ghetto. The 1694 visitation records from Frankfurt include a guard and his wife who lived in the community for thirty years, despite having no Stättigkeit.85 These arrangements benefited the community in two ways. First, hiring these individuals provided the community with necessary ser vices. Second, by increasing the number of the laboring poor, the community was reducing the number of non-laboring poor dependent on alms in their midst. What distinguished the guards without hezkat kahal from the transient poor they were hired to keep out of the ghetto was their employment, which aforded them both income and a home. In some cases, guards even employed domestic servants in their homes, highlighting the dramatic impact of acquiring such a position on one’s social and financial status.86

Domestic Servants Domestic servants constituted the largest subset of the laboring poor.87 Many of the laboring poor did not originally come from the larger communities under examination; this was certainly the case with domestic servants, who often hailed from the surrounding countryside.88 Poorer relatives from other communities could seek employment of this kind in the urban communities of Frankfurt and Worms.89 Often young, these men and women typically sought to earn enough money to wed. This practice was common throughout Europe, especially during the early modern period, when the sums of dowries were extraordinarily high.90 The 1610 visitation records from Worms include twenty male youths, who likely took on some form of ser vice in the house in which they resided, and twenty-three female domestic servants.91 Later, it was far more common to hire female servants. In 1629, only ten poor male youths were listed in the visitation records, while there were thirty-seven female domestic servants, in a community that was slightly smaller than it had been in 1610.92 Many more domestic servants were employed in Frankfurt, and there, too, there were more female than male employees. Women worked as maids, caretakers of children, cooks, and wet nurses. One or two households also employed a Wartfrau, a woman who cared for a mother following the birth of a baby.93 Young men of various ages were also employed as servants. In the municipal lists, scribes and private tutors hired to teach young children were included in this

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Table 1. Employment of Domestic Servants in Frankfurt Type of Service Maids (generic) Cooks Child care Wet nurses Postpartum care Male youths Older male youths Male servants (generic) Scribes Teachers/tutors Total male Total female Total servants1

Number of servants in 1694

Number of servants in 1703

Number of servants in 1709

253 0 1 1 0 17 12 0 1 2 32 255 288

340 2 4 0 2 8 17 2 2 1 28 348 377

433 4 6 3 1 6 14 25 0 16 59 446 505

1One additional orphan was employed, gender unknown.

category.94 In 1694, there were 255 female domestic servants, including maids and women involved in child care. Twenty-nine male domestic servants were employed at that time, as were two tutors and one scribe. Out of the 413 households, 253 employed at least one servant.95 In 1703, out of 438 households, 235 employed at least one servant. The total population as measured on the day of the visitation, including individuals who claimed to be visiting for the short term, was 2,417.96 Thus, the 377 servants constituted 15.6  percent of the population. In 1709, there were 496 households and a total population of 2,836 individuals. Servants constituted 17.8 percent of the total population (see Table 1).97 Records from the late eighteenth century indicate that domestic servants were often hired seasonally, with six-month contracts that could be renewed; when their contract was up, they could hired by another family in the community.98 Employers provided female domestic servants with a set of clothing, which they could take with them. Few domestic servants were holders of hezkat kahal, as most were nonnative to the communities in which they worked. In Worms in 1629, only one domestic servant out of thirty-seven is listed as being a member of the local community. In Frankfurt in 1703, four local maids are listed.99 Yet the community nevertheless recognized these women as longer-term residents of the kehillah, and they were often awarded poor relief beyond what was given to the transient poor, and somewhat less than what was aforded to those holding hezkat kahal.

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This practice can be seen in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, where the community provided an additional stipend to female domestic servants beyond the salaries that they earned from their employers. In 1684, the parnassim enacted a policy of providing domestic servants who had served families in the community for three consecutive years with an additional stipend toward their dowry, once they were betrothed to be married. The amount of the stipend was based on official status. Foreign domestic servants were to receive twenty marks, while domestic servants who came from families with hezkat kahal received thirty marks. The community fund for supporting these stipends was not to exceed 120 marks per Jewish calendar year, so priority was given to fund those women whose weddings were scheduled earlier in the year. In practice, as was the case in Frankfurt and Worms, few domestic servants in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek possessed hezkat kahal. In the spring and summer of 1684, six servants received stipends: four received twenty marks, one received thirty marks, and one received ten marks. The woman who received ten marks was the daughter of a male domestic servant in the community. When she was awarded the stipend, the community had paid out only ninety of the 120-mark budget, so it seems that she received less than the other women because she was not technically a domestic servant. Yet her case demonstrates that charity was extended to long-term residents, for her father did number among the servants in the community. The following year, five additional stipends of twenty marks were disbursed.100 During the three years for which we have documentation of this program, nineteen domestic servants received these stipends. Of these, only one bride had hezkat kahal. Two other brides—the daughter of the aforementioned male domestic servant and the daughter of the cantor—were daughters of residents of the community who lacked hezkat kahal. The other maidservants are not referred to by name but rather as servants in the home of a particular community member. These women were likely from other locations; one woman is recorded as having come from Hesse. These stipends were predicated on the domestic servants remaining virgins, which in practice meant that they had not become pregnant during their employment.101 This requirement—placed upon female, rather than male, servants, whose sexual activities could go undetected—highlights the impact of gender on poor relief. As Elisheva Carlebach has shown with regard to maidservants from Altona in the eighteenth century, maidservants who gave birth out of wedlock were referred to as zonot, a term signifying licentiousness, intended as an aspersion on their sexual status. They were disdained by the community, while the fathers of these babies often bore no responsibility for their actions or their

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children.102 In Frankfurt, a takkanah from 1674 decreed that all women who became pregnant out of wedlock were to be exiled from the community within six months.103 The consequences of such a decree on a maidservant were potentially devastating, as the wages from her labor were what distinguished her from the transient poor. Losing her livelihood and her home cast her firmly into the category of the foreign poor as a single woman with a young baby. It was common to hire unmarried domestic servants, although in Frankfurt, one could skirt the communal ordinance that forbade hiring any woman who had been married or who had been pregnant out of wedlock if one paid a weekly fine of two reichsthaler to the community.104 Records from 1703 and 1709 indicate that there was one older maid, although her marital status is not listed. One additional female domestic servant was married; another seems to have had a child living with her and her employers, and her marital status is not listed.105

Teachers Teachers constituted another segment of the laboring poor who were often nonnative, longer-term residents who lacked hezkat kahal. One visitation record from Frankfurt divided teachers into two categories: Schulmeister, who taught groups of older students; and Praeceptors, known in Hebrew as melamdim, who were often hired by a family and taught younger children.106 Most schoolteachers in Frankfurt were “foreigners” residing in the Judengasse without hezkat kahal. At the time of the various visitations to the ghetto, the duration of the respective teachers’ stays in Frankfurt ranged from several months to several years.107 Many teachers were from Worms, and at least one was from Prague. In 1709, there were sixteen Praeceptors and six Schulmeister. The list refers to fifty-one students, some of whom were local and others foreign, but this number does not account for the younger children who would have studied at home with Praeceptors; their number is not discernible from the data, which do not diferentiate among various young children by age. Visitation records from Worms in 1610 include a foreign melamed, an older man named Daniel, who instructed twelve children per year.108 In Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, a decree limited foreign melamdim to a three-year work period, after which they were to return to their homes.109 To ensure that they remained temporary members of the community, communal authorities enacted a policy forbidding melamdim from bringing their wives to reside with them in the community.110 By designing a policy that limited their stay, communal authorities sought to ensure that these melamdim remained

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only so long as they were employed. No such policy existed in Frankfurt or Worms. Some Schulmeister in Frankfurt resided in the ghetto with their wives and their children. One teacher, originally from Worms, lived and taught in Frankfurt for four years, with his wife and eight children. While not all teachers were necessarily among the laboring poor, some clearly were members of this class. One of the Praeceptors in Frankfurt is officially recorded as having been poor, while others were classified by the municipal inspector as belonging to the same category as male domestic servants. In Altona, as we saw above, eight melamdim received kitzbah payments before Rosh Hashanah of 1675.111 Among this group of melamdim were young single men who sought to earn money so that they could marry, a group in a way parallel to female domestic servants.112 R. Elijah Loans of Worms (1555–1636) bemoaned that young men studying Torah often opted to teach small children to earn money, claiming that in earlier generations, they had been able to subsist on donations and thus devote more time to their scholarly pursuits.113 A manuscript from the mid-seventeenth century sheds light on those melamdim who were among the laboring poor. The manuscript includes letters of solicitation that were carried by poor beggars as they traveled, as well as templates for those letters.114 One letter was written on behalf of a young man who had been a melamed. He had opted for that line of work because he did not want to rely on charity “like the transient poor.”115 Subsequently, he fell ill, with boils covering his body, and was forced to stop working for a year and a half. His letters indicated that he was seeking financial support so that he could heal and return to work. Asserting that he would return to work when he was ablebodied and distinguishing himself from the transient poor were essential for persuading people to support him. His narrative confirms that young men who sought to earn a living often did so by teaching young children and that without that income, they would have fallen deeper into poverty.116 Some melamdim had assistants, known as Behelfer. While these individuals do not appear in the visitation lists from Worms and Frankfurt as a separate category, Behelfer appear frequently in sources from Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek. In 1726, a series of enactments were implemented by the Jewish community in response to demands from the local authorities to limit the number transient poor.117 As part of that program, the parnassim decreed that all Behelfer were required to acquire documentation affirming their work status from the gabba’e talmud Torah, the charity collectors tasked with providing funds for education. Those Behelfer who did not have such a tzettel (note) confirming their employment status were not to be granted a place to sleep in the community. Two

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years later, it was decreed that any Behelfer lacking the necessary paperwork affirming his employment would be considered one of the arhey parhey (transient poor), and would be forced to leave the community.118 The rigid requirement that the Behelfer document their employment status reflects the slippery slope between the categories of laboring poor and transient poor and the steps taken by the community to allow the laboring poor to remain in the community, while excluding the transient poor. The same pattern is evident among Christians in Hamburg (and elsewhere), and similar steps were taken to ensure that the laboring poor alone remained in the city. As Mary Lindemann has argued, there was an overlap between the Schutzverwandten, residents of Hamburg who were laboring poor and who had limited rights of citizenship, and the unwanted transient poor, who were seen as unworthy vagrants to be turned away from the city. In the eighteenth century, and especially after the plague of 1711–1713, authorities in Hamburg sought to develop an economic model to encourage the presence of the laboring poor while excluding the unwanted poor.119 This presented a challenge: a member of the laboring poor who became unemployed would quickly slide into the category of unwanted poor. For this reason, enforcing the rigid boundary between the categories was essential. In the case of the Behelfer, the Jewish community sought to use documentation to weed out young men who were employed from those who were not. Communal authorities used employment in the kehillah as a criterion for being permitted residence and for receiving various stipends and support from the community’s charity cofers. This policy made logical sense; it was also practically unavoidable, as many of these long-term residents lived in the same homes as did residents of the community bearing hezkat kahal. Single melamdim and domestic servants frequently resided in the homes of their employers; the former sometimes boarded with other local families.120

Living Together In Worms and Frankfurt, the limited space of the ghetto meant that most houses were shared by people of diferent statuses. In 1610, the ghetto in Worms housed 771 individuals in 95 houses; in 1629, 647 individuals resided in 102 houses.121 Most households included nonnuclear family members, such as relatives, servants, and boarders. In Frankfurt, many houses served as residence to several households who divided the space. In 1694, 413 households shared 224 houses; in 1703, 435

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households shared 213 houses, including the Spital, in which the caretakers for the sick resided; and in 1709, 501 households shared 189 houses, also including the Spital.122 As the Jewish community expanded within the fixed space of the ghetto, the number of households per house increased. By 1709, some structures were even divided into nine separate households (see Table 2). Some of these houses were shared by members of the same family. Regulations about how wide a living space had to be in order to be divided between a parent and a child had been issued in 1618, and spaces between one to two meters wide could be shared by parents and their married children. Houses that were on deeper lots could be further divided; this speaks to the population density and cramped quarters of the ghetto.123 In 1709, several of the households residing in one building were related to one another. A grandfather lived in the same building as his son, one married couple shared the building with two of their married children, and a widowed mother lived in the same building as her son, in a separate household.124 But not all families that shared these divided houses were related to one another. For example, the house known as Hinderstrauss comprised seven households. Jacob, his wife, two sons, and three daughters lived in one household. The second household included Gumbrecht and his wife, a son, a daughter, and a domestic servant. Schoule, widow of Samuel, lived in a third household with her son and a domestic servant. The fourth household comprised a diferent Samuel, who lived there with his wife and daughter. Salomon and his wife lived with their two sons and a domestic servant in the fifth household. The sixth household included Lehmann, his wife, and their domestic servant. Jacob, his wife, their three sons, and daughter lived with a domestic servant in the seventh household.125 Nothing indicates that these families were connected to one another. Table 2. Number of Households in Frankfurt per Building by Year Number of households per building Buildings with 1 household Buildings with 2 households Buildings with 3 households Buildings with 4 households Buildings with 5 households Buildings with 6 households Buildings with 7 households Buildings with 8 households Buildings with 9 households

1694

1703

1709

70 125 23 6 0 0 0 0 0

58 113 22 16 3 1 0 0 0

29 83 41 19 9 0 4 2 2

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Such crowded spaces were not reserved for the poor or those of low status. The Hinderschul house, which likely abutted one of the synagogues, comprised eight households, including that of the rabbi. The rabbi, his wife, son, two daughters, and their domestic servant lived in the same building as seven other families. These eight married couples, whose children collectively included nine girls and seven boys, resided together with seven maids and one student in one narrow building.126 The large number of domestic servants and teachers who were employed in Frankfurt primarily lived with the families whom they served.127 The intimacy of sharing such close quarters was commented on by Juspe Hahn Neuerlingen. Urging men to run their households properly, Hahn Neuerlingen detailed certain Jewish dietary restrictions that patriarchs should teach members of the household; in the very next sentence, he explained that it was incumbent upon them to ensure that female domestic servants pray twice daily and that they recite grace after meals. Heads of household were morally responsible for the servants they employed. Moreover, he instructed men and women to “suddenly come to the place where the female domestic servant is” after having gone to bed, to ensure that no sexual improprieties were taking place under their roof.128 Privacy was largely absent in these early modern dwellings. While we lack data about the living spaces of the poor in Altona, records indicate that even the transient poor sought housing with local residents; the local residential poor undoubtedly lived nearby as well.129 Other than the poor who lived in the hekdesh, residential poor lived in the same neighborhoods, streets, and even the same houses as wealthier Jews. Given that these laboring poor lived and worked side by side with members of the community holding official status, treating them as quasi-members of the kehillah by supporting them with public charity when necessary was nearly inevitable.

Maintaining Status and Ritual Performance Since daily life was filled with contact between members of diferent classes, rituals and symbols were utilized to maintain and regulate the social order. This was the reason for strictly separating the burial plots allotted to those with and without hezkat kahal. Marriage rituals similarly distinguished between the wealthy and the poor, with certain festivities officially reserved for the socioeconomic elite.130 The need to maintain hierarchy and status was all the more acute in these communities because individuals with and without hezkat

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kahal shared living quarters. Because where one lived could not be a marker of status, social hierarchies were expressed in other ways, particularly in terms of ritual. Rituals of charity were thus designed to preserve hierarchies between donors and the poor as well as among diferent types of poor. Most forms of public charity did not involve direct gifts to poor but rather took the form of mediated charity through the gabbay or, in some cases, by the goveh (tax collector).131 Donations were given through these mediating figures or through a mediating object, such as a cofer, or kuppah. The very absence of the poor as participants in moments in which donors gave charity created a community of donors from which the poor received support indirectly, but to which the poorest among them did not belong. In only three public rituals was unmediated charity given directly by residents of the community to the poor.132 These rituals included a procession to the cemetery on the eves of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, begging house-to-house on Purim, and a specific postnuptial ceremony celebrated by the wealthiest Jews. What is fascinating about these three occasions is that only certain poor individuals participated in these rituals, while other types of poor people instead received charity directly from the gabbay on the same day as the ritual was taking place. An analysis of these rituals permits us to understand how the community gave expression to the social order that its leaders wished to preserve, particularly when so many of the poor were neighbors, employees, or housemates of the donors.133 The first and major distinction that was given expression was the division between residential poor (with and without hezkat kahal) and itinerant poor, which we have seen throughout this chapter. This hierarchy was most clearly enacted in a ritual procession on the days before Rosh Hashanah and before Yom Kippur. After the conclusion of the morning ser vices, the men of the community left the synagogue and went to the cemetery, where they circled the burial grounds and prayed at the graves of specific righteous men, including local martyrs and rabbis.134 A key part of this ritual was donating directly to the itinerant poor, who had been seated at the entrance to the cemetery throughout the ritual. Depending on the local variation, donations were handed to the poor before, after, or before as well as after the circling of the cemetery.135 Only the itinerant poor were to sit around the cemetery. The local poor, by contrast, received money directly from the gabbay on these two days. Juspe Schammes explained that funds were delivered directly “to each person at his home in an honorable and modest way, in order not to embarrass him.”136 Thus, while the community sought to maintain the honor of the local poor, they did not hesitate to donate to the itinerant poor in a manner deemed potentially shaming.

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The spatial layout of the ritual firmly positioned the itinerant poor at the fringes of society. The ritual space of the cemetery was beyond the normal perimeter of the community in Frankfurt and Worms; in all communities, it was conceived of as marginal.137 Juspe further attested to the spatial aspect of the ritual in his discussion of its performance during the Thirty Years’ War. At that time, access to the cemetery in Worms was impossible, so in lieu of circulating the cemetery, the itinerant poor were seated on ledges in the external courtyard of the men’s synagogue at a predetermined hour, during which the “wealthy and middling” heads of households distributed charity to them.138 The courtyard, like the cemetery, was deliberately chosen because it was a space considered secondary to the synagogue.139 The synagogue was the main location for charitable donations via collections plate and cofer; unmediated donations to the itinerant poor, however, took place outside it. The symbolic use of space reflected the relationship between those who donated and those whose who received. As Hahn Neuerlingen of Frankfurt stated: “It is good to give charity to the poor before the walk to the cemetery, in order that one’s prayers will be received willingly on account of the charity. But the custom spread later to donate after the walk to the cemetery. And if one was to return to his home immediately with empty hands, he would be suspect of [not having donated] charity. Therefore, to be innocent in the eyes of God and Israel, one should donate to some poor before the cemetery and to others afterward.”140 Hahn Neuerlingen’s concern about external appearances expresses the communal expectation that every member of the community would donate to the poor at this time. Men who counted themselves among the donors were the ones who circled the cemetery grounds and prostrated themselves on the graves of local saints, actions that affirmed their belonging to the local community. The itinerant poor who received, on the other hand, were neither well-of nor local and were confined to the entrance of the cemetery as witnesses to the circling and supplications; they were placed within the ritual as passive recipients rather than as active participants.141

Honor and Hezkat Kahal The means through which charity was distributed on Purim constructed hierarchies among the poor. Charitable donations were an important part of the holiday, as the book of Esther mandated distributing gifts to the poor.142 In Frankfurt and Altona-Hamburg, it was customary to provide charity to the

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foreign poor on Purim. Hahn Neuerlingen noted that all foreign guests who asked for assistance were provided with help by the gabbaim.143 A 1676 takkanah from Altona and Hamburg stipulated that each head of household was to give a specified amount of charity, based on income, to the gabbaim for distribution to the foreign poor on Purim.144 The takkanah stressed that it was forbidden for these poor individuals to beg and that all funding was to be disbursed by the gabbaim. In Worms, by contrast, the ritual distribution of charity on Purim explicitly distinguished between the poor with hezkat kahal, on the one hand, and poor young men and unmarried women, on the other. Given the demographic analysis of Worms Jewry in the seventeenth century presented above, the second group comprised the students and domestic servants who were among the residential poor but who lacked hezkat kahal. The poor with hezkat kahal, referred to as ‘aniye ba‘al bayit, received funds directly from the charity collector. The gabbaim conducted formal collections on behalf of the local poor and the poor of the Holy Land on the fast of Ta‘anit Esther (the day before Purim) and distributed the relevant funds directly to the poor who had hezkat kahal on Purim day.145 A diferent custom was observed for the young, laboring poor: “All day on Purim, the poor, young men and unmarried women, excluding heads of household, who wish to go, go from house to house, and everyone distributes charity to them as his heart sees fit.”146 The custom of permitting begging house-to-house was an aberration from the practice throughout the year, when all begging was conducted by communal representatives rather than by the poor. Begging on Purim was a transgression of the norm consistent with the spirit of the holiday, as rituals of Purim were often carnivalesque, involving changes of clothing and the inversion of norms, reflecting the reversals recounted in the book of Esther and celebrated on Purim.147 Rituals of inversion often reinforced communal norms by creating a designated space in which they were to be violated safely, under controlled circumstances.148 Permitting begging on Purim defined begging as nonnormative behavior, reinforcing the role of the gabbay as mediator during the remainder of the year. This begging on Purim likely was an evolution of a medieval custom practiced in Ashkenaz, specifically in Worms. In the Middle Ages, servants and wet nurses, Jewish and Christian, collected gifts house-to-house.149 Some of these wet nurses escorted local poor children from house to house to collect gifts, a practice that transformed into giving gifts to the wet nurses themselves. In the early modern period, certain elements of this practice continued. While no mention is made of Christian servants, the Jewish laboring poor did go from house to

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house. The evolution of the ritual in early modern times explicitly distinguished between the laboring poor who begged; and poor local families with hezkat kahal, who were to refrain from begging. Juspe elucidated the distinction by explaining that the “heads of household and their wives and children who reside here” are excluded from such begging as “they do not embarrass themselves to do so.”150 Reiterating the rationale he had used to distinguish between the itinerant poor and the residential poor on the eves of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Juspe prioritized the honor of the residential poor with hezkat kahal. The methods of distributing charity among neighbors clearly demarcated between the two groups of residential poor. In the emendations to his text, Juspe noted that married men and women of the itinerant poor could also participate in door-to-door begging. By grouping the laboring poor with the reviled itinerant poor, Juspe revealed the stratifications among them, firmly situating the laboring poor as a category beneath the residential poor with hezkat kahal. While in practice, the treatment these two groups received was often similar, this ritual presented an opportunity to reassert the honor and status of those with hezkat kahal.

Wealth and Prestige The final example of a ritual in which unmediated charity was given was during a postnuptial ceremony known as the Breileft, a celebration held on the Sabbath following a wedding that had taken place on a Friday. Such weddings were common in the Middle Ages, but by the early modern period, most weddings were held on Wednesdays, so this ritual was practiced infrequently, usually only by the wealthiest echelons of society.151 The Breileft comprised two parts: a ceremony in the synagogue, centering on the groom; and a ceremony after the ser vices, involving both the bride and the groom. On Saturday morning, the rabbi and other communal officials escorted the groom into the synagogue in the middle of ser vices. The groom was seated in a prominent location in the synagogue, surrounded by his seven selected shushbinim, nonfamily members to be honored with him during services. This was the case even when the practice displaced other synagogue members from their designated, paid-for seats. During the Torah ser vice, the groom and his shushbinim were called to the Torah, and each received at least one extra blessing (mi-sheberakh). In exchange for the honor and the blessing, each of the seven honorees and the groom donated charity, as was customary.

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A special selection from the prophets and additional prayers were read in honor of the wedding.152 The Breileft was thus a series of ritual disruptions of the ordinary that were staged to accentuate the changed status of the groom: interrupting the synagogue prayers for the groom’s entrance, displacing individuals from their usual seats in the synagogue, inserting the wedding party in place of the designated honorees, and replacing the scheduled reading with a diferent text.153 These disruptions reinforced communal recognition of the rupture in the groom’s own life and the transformation in status that he underwent upon his marriage. At the conclusion of ser vices, before leaving the synagogue, the groom’s tallit (prayer shawl) was placed on him. He was then escorted to his home by the groomsmen and anyone else wishing to honor him. At his home, his bride was waiting for him. Juspe Schammes stated: “The bride is seated at the head of the table when the groom arrives from the synagogue, and the virgins surround her around the table, and then the groom takes the tallit that is under his mantle and throws it to the bride, and the virgin sitting next to the bride catches the tallit at the time it is thrown, and the groom must redeem it from her.”154 In the emendation to his text, Juspe explained that it was customary to seat a poor virgin next to the bride. This custom was designed to turn the groom into a donor. He received his tallit back in exchange for the charity he donated to the poor woman. The ransoming of the prayer shawl to benefit a poor unmarried woman was new to the early modern period. In the Middle Ages, the groom handed his tallit to the bride, who then returned it to him, with no ransom or charity involved.155 This action had two symbolic meanings. First, from the eleventh century on, men from the Rhineland wore their prayer shawl for the first time on the occasion of their wedding.156 The presentation of the tallit by the groom to the bride recognized that his change in garb and status was due to his marriage. A second interpretation was ofered by the thirteenth-century sage R. Eleazar of Worms, a noted pietist, who explained that along with his tallit, the groom was to pass his jacket and belt to his bride. By handing her these garments, the groom was signifying that his wife would be able to extract payment of her marriage contract from his property. This gesture was a ritual rendition of the words written in the marriage contract, in which the groom specified that “even the shirt from my shoulders” could be used as payment.157 Inserting a ransoming motif into the ritual had contemporary parallels in early modern Christian wedding rituals, in which a bride would often ransom her groom, sometimes from the hands of prostitutes, in a structured and playful symbol of the new monogamous relationship he was about to enter.158 The

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ransoming element in the Jewish ritual served a diferent purpose, in which the poor woman served as symbolic foil for the wealthy groom. Although she did indeed receive charity, the primary purpose of the ritual was not to benefit her. The woman’s active participation in the ritual, in contravention of the norms of mediated charitable donations, highlighted the groom’s elevated status. The poor unmarried girl who caught the tallit in lieu of the bride was diametrically opposed to the wealthy and newly married groom. In the early modern period, marriage conferred social status, legal rights, and financial independence. The presence of the unmarried poor girl thus highlighted the groom’s social and economic status. The significance of marital status is also reflected in the ritual begging on Purim, where the laboring poor who begged from house to house were referred to as unmarried. A more extreme version of this ritual was performed at the Breileft in honor of the 1701 marriage of Blumele, daughter of the noted rabbi David Oppenheim, to Mechel, son of Aaron Beer, court Jew in Frankfurt.159 Not only did the couple’s wedding ceremony feature a Breileft, but in honor of their wedding, a small pamphlet was published, with detailed instructions on how to properly celebrate a wedding according to the custom in Frankfurt.160 In this version of the ceremony, the ransoming of the tallit and the subsequent gift to a poor girl were designed to further exaggerate the diferences between the groom and the poor girl: “The Eminence, head of the rabbinical court [the rabbi] takes the tallit from the groom and throws it to the bride, and then the virgins take that tallit to throw it under the table. And under the table, a poor virgin shall be seated, and she shall receive the tallit, and then the groom must redeem the tallit from this poor girl, and he shall give her a gift that is fair in exchange for the tallit.”161 The Oppenheim-Beer Frankfurt Breileft ceremony was an even more dramatic performance of hierarchy and prestige. The tallit was thrown by the rabbi, whose own prominence was linked to that of the groom. The tallit was caught by a group of unmarried young women, who stood in contrast to the groom’s newly married state. The gendered paradigm in which males gave and women received was preserved and amplified by the participation of several men and women as players in the ritual. The second transfer, from the young women to the poor virgin seated under the table—literally removed from the feast, although part of the ritual—further distinguished the all-important and newlywed groom from the poor lowly maiden, who did not “have a seat at the table.”162 The texts do not specify whether the unmarried girl was among the residential laboring poor, or the itinerant poor. Most likely, she would have been from among the local poor without hezkat kahal, as single women did not usually travel

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to procure funds; she may have been one of the many domestic servants in Frankfurt. Although this young woman benefited financially from this charity, her honor and shame were not variables in the ritual, which utilized the poor to highlight the magnanimity and status of the wealthy. Though seldom performed, the existence of the Breileft ritual reiterates how communal members sought to express and maintain communal status, particularly in communities where the poor and the wealthy resided side by side. In practice, the community supported the residential laboring poor, out of ethical concern and practical consideration. At the same time, maintaining some degree of hierarchy between those who held hezkat kahal and those who did not was integral to poor relief and its associated rituals. Beyond that, gender and marital status created distinctions among the local poor and the manner in which they were viewed and treated. For the poor, securing work and, in some cases, the documentation proving one’s employment were essential for ensuring communal support. The significant percentage of domestic servants in the three communities under examination demonstrates the prevalence of such labor in the Jewish community. The poor itinerant Jews, who could not count themselves among the residents of the kehillah, are the subject of the next chapter.

chapter 5

The Transient Poor

In 1716, a Jew named Isaac Aaron was arrested and held in Frankfurt. He was charged with having broken into a house in a nearby village that belonged to one of Frankfurt’s citizens. He had reportedly climbed onto the door and used “thieves’ tools” to pry open locked items. When he was caught, three “thieves’ keys” were found on his person. A description of Aaron in the criminal file described him as twenty-two years old and tall. He had a “long, pale face that was blackish-yellow, squinted a little with his eyes, with light brown hair that was somewhat awful and short.” He was wearing old, ragged gray clothes with brass buttons.1 This somewhat hostile description reflects the deep mistrust of the abject poor that permeated European society. Aaron, a transient Jewish beggar, a Betteljud with no status, had turned to a life of crime. Ruben Aarons, a thirty-year-old Jew who was arrested and questioned by the Frankfurt magistracy after having been accused of theft on April 14, 1741, had a similar story. Aarons testified that he had been born in Jestat in Hesse, an hour outside Frankfurt. When asked, he confirmed that he did not have formal status or protection in any community. Lacking hezkat kahal, he traveled from place to place, likely unable to earn a living. Aarons had come to Frankfurt eight days before his arrest, and throughout that period, he had been living in a garden in the Judengasse.2 These two Jews fall into a category known as Betteljuden in German texts and arhey parhey in Hebrew and Yiddish texts. These terms referred to Jews who wandered from place to place, as they lacked official membership in any Jewish community, a phenomenon that began after the expulsions during the Black Death in the mid-fourteenth century.3 The term arhey parhey is Aramaic and is used in the Talmud to refer to travelers.4 In the early modern period, it was a term of derision. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the German term used for

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the poor who lacked hezkat kahal was Schalantjuden, a term whose origin was related to the main group of contemporary traveling poor students. The number of such Jews increased as expulsions, wars, and economic instability persisted into the seventeenth century, when the term evolved to a more generic term for Jewish beggars: Betteljuden.5 Lacking membership and thus status in any kehillah, these Jews traveled from place to place begging. Sometimes, they turned to crime. The deep mistrust with which these wandering beggars were viewed by both Jews and Christians stemmed from the shared cultural attitudes toward the unworthy poor, described in Chapter 4. On a purely practical level, there was a limit to the amount of support that a given kehillah could provide to the growing number of transient poor seeking aid. Thus, in cities more broadly, and in kehillot more specifically, a very diferent set of policies were implemented regarding the itinerant poor in comparison with the treatment of the residential poor. This chapter traces the regulation of the itinerant poor, the gap between regulation and practice, and the labeling of the transient Jewish poor by contemporary Jews and Christians.

Financial and Spatial Constraints As we saw in Chapter 4, during the early modern period, Jewish and Christian communities adopted a poor relief system to support the laboring poor. The distinction between being a member of the residential poor without hezkat kahal and a Betteljud often came down to employment. Having work provided individuals with some combination of wages, a place to live, and the potential for additional support from the kehillah in which they resided. The large number of residential poor already receiving aid, with and without hezkat kahal, made it difficult for communities to support an even greater number of transient Jews. Just how many residential poor were receiving financial support is impossible to quantify precisely. Not only did this number ebb and flow because of local circumstances such as plagues, fires, and wars, but the sources that we have present an incomplete picture. The various inspectors who came to the respective ghettos of Frankfurt and Worms and recorded the names of residents often listed certain individuals as poor. The Jewish residents who provided them with this information, however, frequently sought to obscure the actual number of poor, for, as we shall see below in greater detail, Christian authorities carefully monitored the presence of both Jewish and Christian poor. In one visitation record from Frankfurt, the number of poor Jews was clearly underreported at four,

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comprising only one student and three orphans.6 Nevertheless, it is possible to estimate a minimum and maximum of the percentage of the residential poor (with and without hezkat kahal) using extant data. The data from 1610 in Worms, while incomplete, explicitly list thirty-two individuals as poor.7 An additional four men lived in the Spital, or hekdesh; Christopher Friedrichs conjectures that there were at least two women in the women’s Spital, but since the record provides no concrete data, I have excluded them from my calculations.8 In 1629, the inspector recorded one poor woman, eight poor children, and seven poor students.9 There is no account of the number of individuals in the Spital (see Table 3). By adding the number of domestic servants to these data, we arrive at a conservative estimate of the number of residential poor. This calculation does not include residents not listed by the inspector as poor who may have received some form of public charity. It also excludes the Schabbes Junge, students who came to study in Worms, some of whom were certainly poor. Moses ben Samson Bacharach, rabbi of Worms from 1650 until his death in 1670, noted that some of these students were fed in the soup kitchen run by the community’s sexton, while others had stipends with which they hired a cook. He further bemoans that some wealthy families in Germany refused to marry their daughters to Torah scholars, as it was more important to them to find well-of mates, a critique that is suggestive regarding some students’ economic status.10 Nevertheless, the minimum of residential poor in Worms was 7.3 percent in 1610, a figure that jumped to 9.6 percent in 1629. In Frankfurt between the years 1694 and 1709, the number of domestic servants alone hovered at 15 to 18  percent.11 Additional data from Frankfurt permit us to estimate a maximum number of residential poor. The visitation record of Frankfurt from 1713 specifically indicates which families or individuals within families were poor or living of alms. The focus on poverty was likely because the visitation was conducted two years after fire had almost completely Table 3. Known Residential Poor in Worms, 1610 and 1629 Category of Poor

1610

1629

Children Students Youths (excluding students) Maids Adults (including those in Spital) Total Number of Poor Percentage of Population (best estimate)

3 4 20 23 6 56 7.3

8 7 10 36 1 62 9.6

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Figure 8. Jeremias Paul Schweyer, view of the Judengasse in Frankfurt am Main after the fire (of January 14, 1711), Frankfurt, 1796. Leo Baeck Institute, New York.

destroyed the Judengasse in 1711 (see Figure 8). Undoubtedly aware that many families required financial assistance after the ghetto had been destroyed, Christian authorities asked residents to identify who received alms. Of the 397 households listed, 112 households were either explicitly referred to as poor, or included at least one family member who received alms.12 Since these households often comprised extended families, there are many cases in which only some people in a household lived of alms, while others did not. For example, widowed mothers and sisters, orphans, stepchildren, and elderly parents sometimes received alms, while the “nuclear” family in the household did not. Poor families in the wake of the devastation of the fire reached 28 percent of all Jewish households. The visitation record excluded all residents of the hekdesh and all domestic servants. If the proportion of domestic servants remained at approximately 15 percent, the total local poor would have been 43 percent, even without considering those in the hekdesh. When another fire devastated the Judengasse in 1721, many families had not yet recovered financially. Moses Reisdarum, son-in-law of Juspe Hahn

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Neuerlingen, was among them, and related: “Now the tables have turned, and the hand of God was upon me and our community twice. In 1711, our entire community was burned down, and my house was also among them and all my property and my treasures, and almost nothing was left. And my house has not been rebuilt until today . . . and in 1721, half our community was burned, and I was left literally naked, without clothing, bereft of everything. . . . I even lacked three daily meals.”13 He notes that Isaac Scheier, a prominent community member, had subsidized the printing of Sefer yosif ometz, the custom book written by Moses’s father-in-law, Juspe Hahn Neuerlingen, that Moses subsequently published. Scheier loaned Moses the funds to cover the cost of the paper and the printing, without interest.14 The damage caused by the two fires may even have increased the number of individuals receiving alms after 1721. Though the number of local poor in Frankfurt and Worms fluctuated, a conservative interpretation of the data demonstrates that in these communities, 10  percent, 15  percent, and even 20 percent or more of the residents were poor and, of these, some were drawing funds from communal charity. This reality made it challenging for these communities to further support transient poor who came seeking relief. In Frankfurt and Worms, space was limited in the ghetto, so absorbing large numbers of migrants was physically difficult. As we saw in Chapter  4, most houses were shared by more than one nuclear family in Frankfurt. Given that the entire ghetto was 330 meters long, with a width ranging from four to six meters, it was possible to expand only by building upward or by further dividing houses.

Municipal Regulation of Foreigners Municipal authorities also tracked the presence of all foreigners, at least in theory. The formal privileges permitting Jewish residence in Frankfurt and Worms mandated that foreign Jews pay Nachtgeld, a fee for every night they stayed in the ghetto.15 In 1635 in Frankfurt, municipal authorities decreed that no foreign Jews, whether “woman or man, young or old,” could reside in the Judengasse, under the hefty penalty of 500 reichsthaler.16 Although this decree was not observed in practice, as seen by visitation records discussed in Chapter 4, the attitudes barring foreign Jews from living in Frankfurt undoubtedly shaped the community’s policies toward the itinerant poor, who were viewed with even more suspicion than were foreigners of other classes.

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The privileges in Worms, renewed and revised several times over the course of the early modern period, similarly regulated the presence of foreign Jews in the Judengasse.17 An examination of these privileges over time indicates that magistrates were increasingly interested in foreign Jews, not only in the poor. The first extant privilege, from 1524, stipulates that no foreign Jews were to be permitted in the ghetto without the magistrates’ knowledge and consent; those who were admitted were to pay Nachtgeld.18 The privileges from 1570 and 1584 required the community to provide a list of all foreign Jews who entered the ghetto to the municipal authorities each Monday. This included the Jews admitted to the hekdesh.19 By 1619, the privilege included many more regulations on foreign Jews. First, it expanded the definition of foreign Jews to include one’s adult children. In addition to requiring the payment of Nachtgeld, this privilege specified that foreign Jews were to pay the Pfortengeld (entrance fees into the city). Foreign Jews were required to pay an additional fee of one reichsthaler.20 Even in Altona and Hamburg, where there was no ghetto, local factors increasingly precluded support for the transient poor. The Jews of Altona were required to pay a poll tax, and swelling numbers of transient poor could lead to a higher tax bill. In 1682, as was mentioned above, the Danish king approached the parnassim of Altona about the poll tax of six reichsthaler that they had been paying.21 In Hamburg, as we shall see below, municipal policies restricting the migration of the poor were applied to Christians and Jews alike. Perceiving that the community had grown in size, the authorities were specifically interested in the number of poor. The parnassim were in a bind: despite an increased population, they were still without additional taxpayers to absorb the higher cost.

Gates and Checkpoints To control the influx of foreigners and migrants whom they could not absorb, early modern cities instituted entrance and exit fees, controlled their borders with checkpoints, and required travel documents.22 By doing so, civil governments attempted to limit foreign economic competition, to restrict the number of migrating foreign poor who sought to enter the cities, and to regulate their presence. While it was not the sole purpose of these checkpoints to keep out the transient poor, as travel for all had been increasingly regulated throughout western Europe since the fifteenth century, these checkpoints were an important mechanism for preventing or limiting the entry of transient poor into a city or community.23

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Upon arriving in Jewish communities in search of charitable support, the transient poor were met with gatekeepers. In early modern cities, it was common to employ someone who could easily identify unwanted individuals. The guards charged with regulating Christian beggars, known in Hamburg as Kirchen-Vögte or Arme-Vögte and in Frankfurt as Bettelvögte, hailed from the same background as the poor whom they policed.24 Consistent with this rationale, the guards who were tasked with keeping out the Jewish itinerant poor were often Jews, as they could identify foreign Jews more easily than a Christian gatekeeper who did not necessarily recognize members of the community.25 This was the practice in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek and in Frankfurt. In Worms, Juspe Schammes records that the sexton would open the lower and upper gates of the Judengasse each morning, as he woke up the inhabitants of the ghetto and called them for morning prayer by knocking on each door. On Sundays and Christian holidays, he did not open the gates but only a small opening within each of the gates.26 In addition, if one wanted even to approach the Judengasse, one had to first penetrate the city gates. The protocols of the magistrates from 1714 indicate that there were seven Christian gatekeepers in the city, each appointed for six months. They were tasked with keeping out foreigners, particularly beggars. When they needed to return to their homes, a member of their family was to replace them, lest the gate go unmanned.27 The guards enforced local policies pertaining to the itinerant poor. In a meeting between a Jewish gatekeeper in the triple community and the Hamburg senate in 1745, a Jewish communal leader informed the senate that foreign Betteljuden had been coming into the city by climbing over the “low wall” and crossing the Alster River. Other poor Jews had passed through a gate known as the Stein Thor, which provided unhindered access to the city, since no fee was required for passage. The senate’s proposed solution was to repair the small booth where the Jewish gatekeeper was normally posted, so that he could look for incoming foreign poor Jews.28 This text reveals that poor foreign Jews sought unmanned entrances to the city to enter illicitly. Aware of the state of disrepair at this particular checkpoint, the poor exploited this vulnerability to enter the city. The text also highlights the partnership between the Jewish community, the gatekeepers, and the senate. Yet the role that the Jewish community played in barring the transient poor could be ambivalent. Leaders were sometimes torn between local circumstances, which dictated excluding these Jews, and ethical considerations, which encouraged assisting them. This tension is evident in a letter from Abraham ha-Katan and Mordehai Heller of Altona, the latter of whom served as parnas ha-hodesh, lay

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leader of the community who was entrusted with tasks during that given month. Written on 7 Iyyar [April 27] 1746 in rhymed prose to Jews living in Hanover, Zelle, and Braunschweig, the letter notes that no foreigners were allowed into the triple community. The authors suggest alternate routes for travelers who were not poor to help them navigate the borders, explaining that they have no choice but to turn all travelers away, particularly if they approached via the main gate. As for the traveling poor, the writers explained that the community was unable to provide them with support or food for travel onward, as they were already spending “hundreds of schillings” on the expenses of the local poor, their wives, and children and that, moreover, they were barred from allowing the poor into town.29 These communal leaders cited both financial and legal constraints that made it impossible to allow foreign visitors, particularly the foreign poor, into the community. As is discussed at length below, by 1746 all begging was outlawed in Hamburg. The policies of the governing Christian authorities were extended to their Jewish populations, and parnassim were directed to similarly police the number of migrating poor. Gatekeepers were thus charged with keeping out the transient poor. The authors of the letter explained that this policy was driven by necessity, not choice. Moreover, at the end of the letter, they acknowledged that the tables might be turned someday. Conceding that status could easily be afected by changing circumstance, they acknowledged that barring the foreign poor was far from ideal, an unfortunate concession to reality that was unavoidable.

Checkpoints from the Perspective of the Poor The dynamic between gatekeepers and the poor could be extremely tense. A Yiddish poem published in 1708 describes the interactions between the transient poor and Jacob Fulwasser, a local guard in Frankfurt. The anonymous author, who claimed to be a mesharet from Frankfurt, wrote from the perspective of one of the traveling poor. The poem is most similar to the genre of the Yiddish historical song, lied, popu lar beginning in the seventeenth century. These texts, many of which were sung to well-known German or Jewish tunes, depicted an event from the recent past. They were not intended to commemorate the event but rather, like an early modern newspaper, sought to inform readers of a particular event.30 Written in rhymed verse, the 1708 poem is similar in appearance and form to the historical lied. Like these historical poems, it is a short poem

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printed on four sheets of octavo (pocket-size) paper; extant copies are not bound in any formal way.31 It is titled “A New Lament, Written to the Tune of Ani ha-Gever, by a Servant from Frankfurt.” Ani ha-gever is likely a reference to the third chapter of Lamentations, which begins with those words and which had a distinctive tune when read in the synagogue on the fast of Tish‘ah be-Av, the day on which Jews commemorated the destruction of the temples in Jerusalem. The chapter was relevant, as that verse reads: “I am a man who has seen affliction,” and the Hebrew term for “affliction” stems from the same root as “poverty.” We do not know who the author was, but clearly, he was intimately familiar with the experiences of the transient poor in Frankfurt. The poem relates their agony as they waited for admission to the ghetto by the gatekeeper, Jacob Fulwasser. Communal records from Frankfurt confirm that Fulwasser was a gatekeeper in Frankfurt at this time. The poem describes Fulwasser barring the poor from entering the city: When we poor guests march to Frankfurt, People do not allow us to stay at their doors. Here comes Jacob Fulwasser with his cane to hustle us away And lead us, one by one, into the guardhouse. When we enter the guardhouse, The communal charity beadles open the book, and Jacob Fulwasser accompanies them. He asks, “How long have you been here, and what is your name?”32 The poet juxtaposes the gabbaim, who provided relief to the transient poor, with the guard, who questioned them about their identity and the duration of their stay in Frankfurt. The poem noted that after the poor received food, Fulwasser made certain that the gabbaim collected any pletten that the poor had been given; as we shall see below, Jewish communities in the eighteenth century attempted to monitor the use of pletten to ensure that they would not be reused, or passed on from one poor individual to another. The process of receiving aid was highly controlled and was delivered, according to the poem’s author, “in a humiliating manner.”33 The author highlights the sufering of the poor as they waited at the gates of the ghetto. “They leave us poor guests standing in front of the place [makom] in the sun/ So that we quickly melt and burn.”34 He continues by describing the colder weather:

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But in the winter, he [Fulwasser] does much worse, treating the poor cruelly. He leaves us, large and small, to stand in front of the gate, And allows no one to approach the charity collectors until our hands and legs have frozen. We cry out in pain, “Dear God, why is it so cold for us?”35 The references to the sun, cold, and other elements recall how the migrating poor were constantly exposed to the elements. Lacking a permanent home, they were intensely afected by the cold and warm weather. Their prayer “day and night, that thunder quickly smite” Fulwasser is another example of their perception of natural phenomena.36 Thunder, which was not yet scientifically understood, was undoubtedly all the more menacing in the eyes of those who did not always have shelter from a storm.37 One recalls Ruben Aarons, the poor Jew referenced at the beginning of this chapter, who spent eight days in a garden in Frankfurt; inclement weather was devastating for those without a home. The author of the poem further describes the abject poverty of the poor, highlighting their want as they were exposed to heat and cold. “One screams, ‘I have neither cloak nor pants!’/ A second cries out, ‘Dear God, how can You watch such a wicked man treat us this way?’” While this poem, as a literary source, may be both exaggerated and satirical, it nevertheless reflects the sufering of the transient poor, their frustration with the Jewish community, and their animosity toward the gatekeeper. They loathed Fulwasser not only because it was he who allowed or denied them entrance into the Judengasse. Rather, he himself was among the laboring poor and did not have hezkat kahal.38 In their eyes, the only distinction between Fulwasser and themselves was his employment. The poet says: “God, may He be blessed, lets him [Fulwasser] reap his rewards in this world.” Fulwasser had succeeded in securing a livelihood in Frankfurt, while they had not; they prayed that in the next world, they would be rewarded, while he would sufer for eternity. Fulwasser died in 1708, the very year in which this text was published.39 I would suggest that this poem was likely published proximate to his death. Perhaps airing animosity toward Fulwasser in the wake of his death or as he lay dying was the “historical” event prompting the writing of the lied. Certainly, the author ran a risk by publishing such a poem during the lifetime of the gatekeeper; alienating him could have severe consequences. If we consider that such lieder were often sung, singing such a song would not have enamored a poor individual to the gatekeeper. While the poem was anonymous, not many poor

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individuals had the resources to publish such a poem, so Fulwasser may have been able to discern who was involved in its creation, publication, and performance. The poem includes several references to his death and the afterlife; for example, Fulwasser exclaims, “I will quarrel and fight with the poor guests/ Once I am dead, let the dog defecate [vulgar term] on my grave.”40 The poem also references Fulwasser’s share in the world to come: In the world to come, they will roast and burn the wicked man on glowing spits. God, may He be blessed, will give him his just desserts in the world to come. We hope that he will go up in evil smoke that will get blown about the world.41 Not surprisingly, the perspective of the poor, as portrayed by the author of this poem, does not account for the constraints that the kehillah faced in caring for the transient poor. Quite the opposite: the author of the Yiddish poem sharply censured the Frankfurt community, claiming that their behavior was sinful. Writing that “they also boast about their wealth/ as if they had made it on their own, not wanting to recognize God,” the author sarcastically noted: “We are gravely concerned that, heaven forbid, through their charity, their wealth will soon disappear.”42 The poet mocked the charity donated by Frankfurt’s Jews, intimating that their manner of caring for the transient poor was sinful and shameful. The author simultaneously elaborated on the humanity of the migrating poor, a device that further shamed the Jews of Frankfurt. In an attempt to keep himself anonymous, the author slyly wrote: “If you want to know who composed this poem, it was a man with two feet.”43 This phrase both obscured the author’s identity and highlighted the basic human traits shared by the itinerant poor and their more well-of brethren, which rendered the descriptions of how they were treated more disgraceful. From the poet’s perspective, God had decided individuals’ fortunes, and thus, true charity mandated better and less humiliating care. The poet stressed the moral imperative to support poor transient Jews.

Banning Begging Yet with the coming of the eighteenth century, regulations governing the presence of the foreign poor intensified in these early modern cities. By 1709 in

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Worms, municipal policy banned all beggars, Jewish and Christian, from entering the outer or inner doors to the city.44 These restrictions were eased only for children from the surrounding countryside.45 In 1724, the city diferentiated between the local poor and itinerant poor, permitting the former and their children to remain in Worms, while turning away all itinerant beggars.46 In Frankfurt, all foreign beggars were turned away from the city, and the municipality diferentiated between local beggars and the itinerant poor.47 Indeed, after the 1711 fire, the community constructed institutions to feed and lodge the foreign poor outside the walls of the Judengasse, in a garden purchased by the court Jew Samson Wertheim. The new location spatially siphoned of the transient poor from the official realm of the Jewish community, relegating them to the marginal area of the cemetery.48 Increased regulation of the itinerant poor was even more prevalent in the triple community, where extensive communal policies banning begging were enacted in tandem with the poor relief mandated by the Hamburg senate. As cities and civil authorities began to manage poor relief in lieu of the church parishes, attempts were made to support and find work for the able-bodied poor and to contain in institutions those unable to work. Hamburg faced specific economic challenges with regard to the poor, given that its leaders were interested in maintaining a supply of laborers while still restricting the flow of unwanted migrants.49 In the wake of the Great Northern War and the plague that lasted until 1713, Hamburg’s policies toward foreigners, especially toward the foreign poor, were increasingly restrictive. On May 10, 1713, the senate decreed that no foreign Betteljuden were to enter the city without paying for the proper entrance pass.50 In September, a complaint was brought before the senate that poor Jews were still to be found in places where their presence was technically forbidden. It was decided to turn to the elders of the Portuguese and Ashkenazic communities to demand that they contain the poor.51 Two announcements proclaimed in the synagogue between 1716 and 1719 highlight the ongoing attempts of the Jewish community to contain the transient poor. These announcements are not preserved among the papers of the Jewish community but can be found in the municipal archive. This strongly suggests that a copy of the announcement (and likely a German translation) was sent to the senate to inform the municipality of the steps taken by the community to address the senate’s concerns. One announcement stipulates that foreign Jews would no longer be aforded a place to sleep unless a communally appointed official who oversaw nonresidents granted permission. Such permission was granted in the form of a tzettel, a note indicating that permission to

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stay overnight had been granted. Transgressors of the policy—foreign Jews as well as residents who hosted them—were to be fined and excluded from being present at the priestly blessing recited in synagogue on festivals.52 The second announcement focused on the foreign poor, featuring a new decree enacted because of the expenses associated with the transient poor “who beg in the city, especially at this time of great expenses and less income.” The parnassim ruled that the gabba’e tzedakah must select two male appointees, who were to sit in an unspecified strategic location in Altona on Sundays and Thursdays and would be charged with preventing the traveling poor from entering the city. If one of these guards was unable to be at his post on a given day, he was to find a substitute, under penalty of a fine and being excluded from the priestly blessing on festivals.53 These communal enactments and sanctions efectively rendered the community an extension of Hamburg’s senate, as it legislated its own versions of the larger municipal ban, using religious and communal punishments as deterrents. During the 1720s, both the Hamburg senate and the Jewish community continued to regulate the poor. In July  1723, the issue of Betteljuden “running about” came up again before the Hamburg senate.54 Not surprisingly, the aforementioned attempts had not been entirely successful at controlling the transient poor, especially given how easy it was for an individual who had found temporary work to fall into unemployment. In 1725, the senate formally revised its civic plan to manage poverty, as the culmination of a slow process under which almsgiving was replaced by work as the primary means of support for the poor. Three policies formed the core of the new poor relief system: dangerous beggars were outlawed; the poor were to be given the opportunity to work; and the economy was to be expanded to create additional employment prospects.55 Jewish communal sources from 1725 indicate that the Jewish community implemented the new policy adopted by the senate in its own enactments. They instituted processes to distinguish between foreigners who merited entrance into the city, such as the laboring poor, and the arhey parhey (the unwanted, unworthy poor). In 1725, on Ta‘anit Esther, it was again announced in the synagogue that no arhey parhey would be granted the right to sleep in the city: all winter long, the community had absorbed large numbers of transient poor, which “burdened us greatly.” Immediately after Purim—two days hence—these individuals would be sent away.56 This announcement captures the tension between the demands of the senate and traditional customs of Jewish poor relief, because on Purim, every Jew was obligated to give charity. Despite the attempts of the Jewish community and of the authorities in Hamburg and Altona, the Betteljuden, like foreign poor Christians, continued

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to enter the city. Frustrated by the arhey parhey and their continued begging, in Av of the following year, 1726, the parnassim proclaimed in a synagogue announcement that “one can call for them to leave, but one [nevertheless] finds them welcomed.”57 The decree refers to the transient poor as “empty and rough people” (Judg. 9:4) and claims that they create a public disgrace, likely referring to the bad reputation that the Betteljuden had among political authorities. The decree begins by forbidding anyone to house a guest who was a beggar, under penalty of a fine of four reichsthaler, to be given to charity. Moreover, the announcement proclaimed that anyone who neglected to pay the aforementioned fee was like one who transgressed by stealing from the charity fund. The announcement provides greater detail about the ways in which Betteljuden would try to collect money from local Jews. It reenacted an older decree forbidding any foreigners from giving books to heads of household as a means to curry favor or perhaps in exchange for a place to sleep. The parnassim bemoaned that “today, it is as if [such behavior] were permissible.” They forbade all heads of household from accepting any book, large or small, in Hebrew or in another language, from any guests, under penalty of ten reichsthaler.58 The parnassim further charged that the Betteljuden engaged in “trickery” and that they went out collecting funds together with the local poor. It is indeed plausible that not every individual with hezkat kahal knew all the local poor, since the Jewish community was divided into three geographic areas, and at least some of the long-term poor residents and laboring poor would have resided in one of the other two locations of the triple community. But it was likely difficult to stop local heads of household from donating to a foreign beggar when he or she was part of a group of beggars, some of whom were begging legally. The parnassim therefore appointed two officials from among the communal leaders who would be tasked with issuing tzettlakh: notes to those members of the local poor who had been granted permission to collect house-to-house. It would henceforth be forbidden, under penalty of four reichsthaler, to provide charity to any beggar not carrying a note.59 Less than a month later, the parnassim announced a more formal version of the policy toward foreign Jews than the one they had adopted between 1716 and 1719. In addition to forbidding all foreign Jews from sleeping in the city without documentation, this decree appointed five overseers charged with registering those guests who were permitted to stay overnight in the community. These memunim, appointees, furnished the approved guests with a tzettel and recorded their names in the pinkas of the memunim.60 Anyone who housed someone without a tzettel would be fined and punished with “all the other punishments.”

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Other records indicate that anyone who had used a tzettel that had not been signed by the parnas ha-hodesh was to be fined two reichsthaler, to be paid to charity.61 Failure to pay the fine was tantamount to being mo‘el ba-hekdesh, stealing from what was holy. Abusing the new system was viewed as a type of theft from the charity fund. On the intermediate days of Sukkot in 1728, these policies were expanded and announced in the synagogue. The two relevant announcements began by explaining that the Christian political authorities were once again concerned about the poor entering the city. In response, the communal official reminded the community about the five appointees tasked with approving all foreign guests to the community. By 1728, the notes furnished to guests had been printed, attesting to the increased formalization and standardization of this new policy. The decree was expanded to include Jews from Poland who came “knocking” for support from the gabba’e talmud Torah. Perhaps these were emissaries seeking support for Jewish study in eastern Europe. It was henceforth forbidden for these emissaries to enter the community when the heder was in recess, and it was forbidden for them to remain in the community beyond the approved time without written permission.62 A few weeks later, the parnassim announced that Christian authorities had forbidden all begging, Jewish and Christian, in Hamburg. The Jewish community then decreed that even the regulated begging by local beggars was to stop, lest the authorities arrest those collecting house-to-house. This including all begging, even at times when regulated begging had been customary, such as the eve of a new Jewish month.63

Implementing the Regulations Against Begging The enactments described above were intended to halt begging in the Jewish triple community, as part of the new poor relief program advanced by Hamburg’s senate. Yet one cannot learn about reality from prescriptions alone. Luckily, it is possible to reconstruct how these communal policies afected daily life in practice, on the basis of the logbook of a shamash (sexton), one of the appointees tasked with providing tzettlakh to the poor. His pinkas includes extensive details about how communal officials managed the poor in the wake of having banned all begging. Three months after begging was banned, the communal leadership orga nized a monthly stipend for those poor who had been accustomed and

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permitted to beg house-to-house. During the months of Adar and Nissan, two monthly stipends were to be disbursed: one extra payment in Adar for Purim; and one in Nissan for Passover.64 One-third of the former regulated beggars would be supported by a fund composed of mandatory contributions from tax-paying members of the community. The rabbi of the community set the amount that each member of the community was to pay, based on the member’s tax rate. Two-thirds of the beggars were supported by the regular funds collected by the tax collectors. The decision to create a formal monthly kitzbah to support those poor individuals who had previously begged house-to-house placed additional strain on the already burdened community. Therefore, beginning in 1728, the kehillah adopted new policies aimed at increasing the amount of money collected by the tax and charity collectors. In one such example, heads of household were expected to attend the main synagogue, rather than a smaller unofficial prayer quorum, because in the synagogue, they would be required to donate to the charity fund in exchange for honors they received there. In conjunction with that policy, only established heads of household who had the financial means to make such donations would receive honors in the synagogue. Younger men, who were not financially independent, were no longer to be called to the Torah.65 By Tevet 1729, just over a year after this policy was instituted, the fine for praying in a smaller synagogue was set at ten reichsthaler.66 In an attempt to increase revenue, a tax of one reichsthaler per year was levied on all those who owned a seat in the synagogue. Only those men who had paid this tax were eligible for honors in the synagogue.67 In 1731, it was decided that all men who were called to the Torah to name a newborn daughter were obligated to donate to this fund within a week.68 These policies reflect the attempts of the community to deal with the increased expenses incurred when begging was replaced with alternate forms of poor relief. In addition to collections in the synagogue, a general tax of four reichsthaler was levied on all heads of household in 1728, with the express goal of filling charity cofers. The repeated announcements about this tax that were proclaimed in the synagogue over the following years highlight the community members’ resentment of this tax. Every few months, communal officials reminded members of the community to pay. Decrees exhorted them not to trouble the gabbaim by avoiding payment and forcing the latter to return to collect the sum at another time.69 The announcements in the synagogue urged the members of the community to leave the requisite sum with their wives or other relatives who would be at home at the time of the collection,

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suggesting that not a few men were conveniently not at home when the gabbaim came to collect this new fee. Despite the regulations against begging, exceptions were made, permitting individual Jews to collect house-to-house for clearly defined purposes. Communal authorities, including the shamash, issued tzettlakh to this efect to those individuals authorized to collect house-to-house. Thus, on the ninth of Heshvan in 1730, Hayyim Harburger and Gitel Zalbaka were given permission to collect house-to-house to secure funds for the dowry of an orphan, daughter of Isserel ben Akiva.70 Ten days later, Jacob Retner and Joseph, son-in-law of Kalman Hag, were permitted to collect for two weeks for the dowry of another orphan, Reina, daughter of Leib Cohen.71 Another collection was approved on behalf of Isaiah Heksher’s widow, mentioned in Chapter 4, who cared for her mentally ill son in her home.72 Individual Jews, men and women, were permitted to beg house-to-house on their own behalf, for specific and limited amounts of time.73 Other tzettlakh, such as the one issued on behalf of Reuven ben Pesht, authorized collections among a subset of donors. In his case, two women were appointed to collect money for him from the women of the community.74 To retain control over these exceptions to the rule, a copy of the tzettel that had been issued was recorded by the shamash in his logbook. In addition, in 1732, the triple community instituted a joint list of the local poor, including their names and the amounts they were to receive. This list was shared by the gabbaim of each community, to address the unique challenges of regulating the poor in a community with four treasuries and relationships with several political authorities, and in which all begging had been formally outlawed.75 It was decided that the lists and the accompanying tzettlakh would be valid for only four months. At the conclusion of four months, new notes were to be issued; no cross-outs were allowed on the notes carried by the poor, a step taken to prevent fraud.76 Within two months, an announcement was made that forbade individuals who had been furnished with tzettlakh from passing those notes on to other would-be collectors who had not received official permission to beg.77 Apparently, the poor were modifying and passing on these documents. Notes were now deemed valid for a period of only four weeks, rather than four months, unless the notes had been officially extended by the parnas ha-hodesh. This enactment was clearly intended to curb abuse of the system by inserting more frequent control. Even in 1741, almost a decade later, communal authorities attempted to manage the foreign poor. They set a specific amount that each individual could be given; they also placed the foreign poor under the sole control of the gabbay, declaring that no other communal official had the authority to provide funds

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to the transient poor.78 These policies highlight the ongoing strug gle that the communal leaders had in regulating begging in the community and the strategies used by the poor who sought to navigate that system, despite the threat of fines and the danger of being arrested by municipal authorities.79

Documents and Discerning Among the Poor The policies and practices in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek show that recordkeeping and documents were essential to the process of regulating begging. The notes issued to the poor as well as the pinkassim documenting the exceptions that had been made distinguished between transient vagrants and the worthy poor.80 Similar strategies were adopted in that community to distinguish the teaching assistants, Behelfer, from the transient poor.81 All teaching assistants were to have papers; other wise, they faced expulsion, “like the arhey parhey.”82 The reliance on printed forms, paperwork, and official records demonstrate the increased systematization of poor relief in the eighteenth century. Jewish transient poor throughout the Holy Roman Empire mirrored the communal practice of using documents to establish identity. To identify themselves as members of the worthy poor, rather than as members of the despised arhey parhey, whom the community would be loath to support, many individuals carried letters attesting to their worthiness. They presented these letters to gabbaim (and likely to guards) when seeking entrance into a community. Two manuscripts from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries contain actual letters as well as templates for writing such letters.83 The letters usually state that the bearer was known to the letter writer and establish the place from which the poor individual came. Some letters indicate that the poor person had hezkat kahal elsewhere, while others attest to his or her status as a short- or longterm resident in the community in which the author of the letter writer resided. This information was meant to establish that the letter bearer was not a vagabond but rather a respectable member of another community. Some letters explicitly asserted that the letter bearer was not from this class, as in the case of a man named Tzvi Hirsch, who was traveling to collect money for his daughter’s dowry. “Knowing him, I see that he is not from the aforementioned group [of transient beggars] but rather until now, has sat under his grapevine and his fig tree (1 Kings 5:5), and did business in a trustworthy manner.”84 The letter goes on to explain that Tzvi Hirsch had fallen upon hard times and needed help with his daughter’s dowry.

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These letters and templates employed a variety of strategies to show readers that the poor individual was worthy of support. One pervasive theme in these letters was the need for the letter bearer to raise money for a dowry. Menachem Friedmann has posited that this claim was utilized even when the poor individual sought support well beyond the funds necessary for a dowry.85 Indeed, since raising money for a dowry was a standard concern of the middle class, such requests served as further evidence that the poor person was not a vagrant poor but rather, a member of the local (and worthy) poor in another location.86 The style in which these letters were written was likewise essential to establishing the identity of the poor traveler. They contained descriptions rife with biblical allusions, and many sought to connect the name of the poor individual with his biblical namesake.87 Thus, a letter written on behalf of Isaac referenced the biblical Isaac and his prayers with his wife; a letter written on behalf of Joseph cited verses from Jacob’s blessing to his son Joseph.88 These stylized allusions, common in many premodern Jewish texts, established the author as erudite. With this credential, the author of the letter was thereby viewed by the reader as someone who could be trusted to attest to the worthiness of the letter bearer. In the letters and templates included in these two manuscripts, only the names of male poor are included. Women are referred to by their relationships to men and appear as nameless widows, wives, and daughters. In most cases, a male is listed as collecting on behalf of a female, even though other records, discussed below, indicate that women were among the transient poor as well. Another key element in these letters was the signature of the author. On some occasions, a poor person would carry a letter signed by a rabbi, as well as a second letter attesting that the signature was valid. One letter reads: “The signature of the aforementioned rabbi is known and recognized by me; it is a valid signature—therefore, I, too, am requesting support on behalf of the undersigned person.”89 In another example, a man named Moshe, who was collecting funds for his daughter’s dowry, lost the letter he had obtained. He then procured a new letter from a second rabbi, who attested that he had seen the first letter. The second rabbi writes: “After we had seen this elderly, wise man from a particular community, he had had a scroll, and upon it were hung the shields [emblems and signatures] of brave men, men of God, the rabbis of that community who vouched for and justified this man, who did not wish to beg house-to-house. . . . His letters were lost on the way, and he beseeched us to testify that he had had those letters.”90 The suspicion of the poor, deeply rooted in cultural norms and sustained by local policies forbidding begging, led to a perception that transient beggars were

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engaged in deceptive behavior. To combat such deception, some communities maintained records of particular rabbis’ signatures, so that they could check that a given letter was indeed signed by the rabbi in question and was not a forgery. Several examples can be found in the travel diary of R. Hayyim Yosef David Azulay (1724–1806), who traveled from Hebron to Europe as an emissary to collect funds for the Jews of the Holy Land in the eighteenth century. In various locations in the Holy Roman Empire, Azulay was rejected by local lay leaders, who claimed that the letters he had brought bore signatures that did not match the ones with which they were familiar. Azulay was especially shocked to discover that he was questioned in “the large city of Frankfurt,” where he had “been certain” that the leadership would have recognized the signatures of rabbis from Italy and Constantinople.91 Ultimately, Azulay was able to connect with the rabbi of Frankfurt, Joshua Falk, who was temporarily situated in Worms. Azulay established his credentials by discussing how Falk’s book had been received in the Jerusalem scholarly community.92

Communal Support of the Transient Poor These letters, as well as the notations in the logbook of Altona’s sexton, demonstrate that notwithstanding the regulations banning the support of the itinerant poor in all three cities, the gabbaim supported, at their own discretion, some of the transient poor who had attained entrance to the community. In Worms, where care for the transient poor was least regulated by Christian authorities, Juspe Schammes explained that ideally, the gabbaim would use the funds they controlled to give the foreign poor the support they required. If the gabbaim lacked the necessary funds, they could appoint emissaries who would go house-to-house to collect on behalf of the transient poor. Each head of household was to donate what he or she thought appropriate. The gabbay had the right to add to the amount that had been collected, should he deem it necessary. According to Juspe, the guiding principle was that the sum that had been collected was to be commensurate with the honor due to the particular poor person, based on his or her status, a position that complied with Jewish law. The standard procedure was that two young men be appointed to collect house-tohouse on behalf of the poor. Should the poor person be “important,” two rabbis were appointed to go house-to-house instead of the two young men. These rabbis retained the right to record the donations they had collected at each home, in order to encourage larger gifts.93 Juspe’s description of how public support

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was given reiterates the hierarchies that existed even within the category of the transient poor. Evidence of the actual support meted out to the transient poor in Worms comes from a slightly later period, in the logbook of the charity collector from Worms from 1736 to 1737. This pinkas includes charity distributed to both the residential and itinerant poor, and it is not always possible to distinguish between them. The itinerant poor are sometimes listed as ohne plet, meaning that they had not received meal vouchers but rather, approached the charity collector for aid. In some instances, the gabbay justified his decision to support these individuals. Among the justifications he provided were pregnancy and birth (discussed below) and illness. The term ‘ani hagun, worthy poor, is used several times, highlighting once again the significance of being cast as worthy or unworthy poor.94 Many Jews listed in the logbook received a sum for travel onward, suggesting that the community did not permit the itinerant poor to remain in Worms for a long time.95 Indeed, the Jewish community had strict policies limiting the stay of all foreigners, not only the foreign poor. The takkanot from 1650, of which only fragments remain, decreed that foreign Jews (not limited to the poor) who arrived in the kehillah of Worms on a Thursday would have to leave by Sunday. Fragments of these ordinances indicate that a note permitting sojourn in the kehillah was provided to guests for a limited time. These notes could be extended with the permission of both gabbaim, if the person was “from a good family and worthy.”96 Both communal and municipal records in Worms are nevertheless comparatively silent about Betteljuden, suggesting that while some transient poor came to the Worms kehillah, the number of these Jews was relatively small.97 It is likely that Worms was a less desirable location for the transient poor, since accessing the city was difficult and entering the ghetto all the more so. Coupled with the small size of the Jewish community, which meant a relatively small number of potential donors, Worms was not necessarily the ideal destination for a poor person seeking support. As we have seen, a much larger number of transient Jews flocked to the Hamburg area, likely to seek employment opportunities; and a greater number of transient Jews appear in Frankfurt when compared with Worms. In Frankfurt, many of the transient poor were housed temporarily in the hekdesh. A municipal edict issued by the Frankfurt magistracy in the late fifteenth century, in which Schalantjuden were instructed to keep the hekdesh clean, links the transient poor to the hekdesh from the first years of its establishment.98 The nature of the

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hekdesh as a place that housed both the ill and foreign guests renders it impossible to trace the actual number of traveling poor who resided there; this is all the more complicated given that some of the migrating poor were in the hekdesh for only a short period. Some insight into the poor of the hekdesh is provided by examining death records. Burial records from Frankfurt for 1624–1680 list 307 individuals who died in the hekdesh.99 To determine the number of foreign Jews among those who died in the hekdesh, of which the transient poor are a subgroup, I have included anyone who is referred to as having come from outside Frankfurt. I have included anyone who is referred to by category—labeled youth, virgin, man, woman, widow, or anonymous—rather than by name. All domestic servants and babies have been excluded from this calculation, as the former were likely from among the laboring residential poor, and the latter may have included local children who died young enough so as not to have received a name.100 Of the 307 individuals who died in the hekdesh, 196 (55 percent) can be identified as foreign. While the 196 foreigners may include those who were ill, not just those who were poor, there was likely a strong overlap between these groups. Wealthier guests would have sought accommodation in one of the homes of the ghetto, rather than in the stigmatized hekdesh. In any event, the number of those who died in the hekdesh is likely a small fraction of the number of living who passed through its doors.

Charity Across Religious Lines Some of the luckier migrating poor were able to board in a home in the ghetto, rather than in the hekdesh.101 Several criminal cases, discussed in detail below, indicate that Christians sometimes housed Betteljuden in Frankfurt. In one case, in which a band of Jews and Christians were accused of stealing, the Jews from Altona and Niederweisel were housed by a local Christian shoemaker, Konrad Geil.102 In another case, in the wake of a robbery, one party demanded that the city not tolerate any foreign Jews, whether housed by Jews or Christians.103 The Yiddish poem about Jacob Fulwasser similarly states that local Christians asked “that they be allowed to bring us [the transient poor] inside to warm ourselves.”104 These sources reveal that unofficial Jewish residence in Frankfurt sometimes extended beyond the ghetto walls and that charity could cross religious lines. The inverse was also true. In 1571, Margarethe, wife of Adam Recke, approached the magistrates of Frankfurt. Her husband sufered from edema, and

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the Jewish doctor, Mosche Lucerna, was willing to treat him for free. She was, however, unable to pay for the medication and requested that the magistrates double the amount of alms she received to cover those expenses.105 Lucerna likely treated additional Christian patients for free, for in a request before the magistrates in 1573, he noted that he used his home to treat the poor. He therefore requested that they lower the amount of rent that he paid. The magistrates agreed, and set the rent at ten, rather than twenty-one, gulden.106 Often charity was donated only within a particular religious community and extended across communal boundaries to encourage conversion, but evidence in Frankfurt suggests that support could cross religious lines.107

Pregnancy and Birth Faced with real people in difficult circumstances, gabbaim needed to make decisions about whom they would support. Poor birthing mothers and pregnant women seem to have been provided with support in Frankfurt, Worms, and the triple community. In 1656 in Frankfurt, the community recorded its agreement with the widowed midwife Brendlin Schif, who promised that she would “care well for poor women at the time when they crouch to give birth.” In exchange, the community agreed to pay her six reichsthaler for as long as she remained in her position and they were satisfied with her work.108 Whereas midwives were generally paid by the birthing mother, the midwife for the poor received her salary from the community. This agreement does not confine Schif’s duties to the residential poor; indeed, she likely also delivered babies of the itinerant poor in the hekdesh. Additional midwives are recorded in the communal memorial books.109 Indeed, in Altona, a midwife named Brinla delivered babies in the hekdesh. She was paid by the community at the rate of one schilling per baby.110 Additional details regarding this position are provided in several sources, recounting a negotiation between the husband of a diferent midwife in Hamburg and the lay leaders of the Hamburg kehillah. In 1738, Moses ben David approached the Hamburg parnassim, explaining that his mother had served as the midwife in the community and that in exchange for birthing the poor for free and for supplying those same poor with bread and food, his father had been exempted from communal taxes. In the wake of his mother’s death, Moses’s wife, Sara, had become the midwife in Hamburg. His letter details the many hours that Sara had spent alongside poor birthing mothers, for which she had gone unpaid.

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Claiming that Sara had delivered hundreds of babies, he requested an exemption from taxes in exchange for her work.111 The agreement reached by communal leaders and Moses can be found in the logbook of the contemporary shamash. Unlike Brinla, who was salaried, Sara and Moses received a reduction in their communal tax rate. In exchange for the work that Sara had done, the couple would be required to pay taxes at half the rate of their income for the following three years, assuming that his wife continued to deliver babies of the poor for free.112 This arrangement was to continue for as long as Sara continued her work with the poor. No description of a formal arrangement for poor women who gave birth is extant in Worms, yet at least two women were recorded on their tombstones as having delivered poor children. Brendele bat Jacob, wife of David Stern, was memorialized for her kind deeds of providing free care for women for several years—as Shifra and Pu‘ah, the biblical midwives who delivered babies in Pha raoh’s Egypt, had done.113 The identical description can be found in the epitaph of the elderly Hava bat Tuvia Shatz, who was married to Wolf Cohen.114 All birthing mothers, whether from among the residential or transient poor, were provided with care. Thus, in a policy enacted in 1691, the parnassim of Altona appointed five men to draft regulations for the hekdesh. While the content of their deliberations has not been preserved, a list of the topics that they discussed, which included birthing mothers, was preserved.115 Mothers who gave birth in the hekdesh were undoubtedly poor, as more well-of families would not have traveled at such time under normal circumstances. The records of the mohel Naftali Herz ben Uri several decades later confirm that babies were born in the hekdesh in Altona, as he performed a circumcision in 1735 for a “guest”—a term reserved for foreign Jews—in the hekdesh.116 Financial support was provided to these birthing mothers in the weeks after delivery. In Altona, the pinkas of the gabba’e tzedakah for 1674–1677 records the stipend that birthing mothers received.117 In the early eighteenth century, after begging had been outlawed, special permission was given to beg house-to-house for two postpartum mothers.118 Similarly, the records of the gabbay tzedakah in Worms for 1736–1737 include two birthing mothers, at least one of whom does not seem to have been native to Worms.119 After the wife of Yehiel Alerschweiler delivered a baby, the community paid for the cost of the midwife as well as for the new mother’s food and postnatal care for sixteen days. They also paid for her provisions to continue on her journey.120 In another case, Eberle Gerlisheim was given a lump sum to assist his birthing wife.121 In that one year, the gabbaim

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of Worms supported five additional families, some with children, in which the mother was pregnant.122

The Transient Poor and Crime Although it was at the discretion of the gabbaim to provide support to the transient poor, even in contravention of municipal policy, not all Betteljuden received the support that they sought. The many safeguards, legal and physical, to bar their presence meant that some Jews who lacked hezkat kahal did not receive any communal support. Some, like Ruben Aarons, who lived in a garden in Frankfurt for eight days, were accused of theft and crime. Some Betteljuden, like others on the margins, were undoubtedly involved in crime. A close examination of the criminal cases in Frankfurt involving Betteljuden reveals that the term Betteljud was often used in the context of a criminal court case in which a Jew was accused of being the perpetrator, even when that Jew was not technically from the socioeconomic class of Betteljuden. For example, in 1710, a resident of Frankfurt, Andreas Holtzer, purchased a silver spoon from Meyer, a Jew from Aschafenburg. Andreas claimed that he had been defrauded by Meyer and his associates—Elhanan of Aschafenburg and Jacob Trier of Frankfurt. Yiddish documentation provided to the court by the Jews involved in the matter countered that a messenger had lost the goods. While in his complaint, Holtzer referred to Meyer as a Betteljud,123 the Yiddish letter explained in passing that Meyer was Jacob’s son-in-law and that Elhanan was Meyer’s son.124 Jacob possessed hezkat kahal in Frankfurt and clearly was in business with family members who resided outside the city, which is why they were present in the city. There is no reason to suppose that Meyer was a Betteljud. By nevertheless categorizing Meyer as a Betteljud instead of as a foreigner, Holtzer played on the cultural associations that assumed the migrating poor to be deceitful, undoubtedly hoping that this would strengthen his claim. A similar phenomenon can be seen in a court case from 1716, in which a blind soldier named Hieronymo Breusch accused three Jews with whom he gambled of sneaking into his house and robbing him. One of the Jews, unnamed in the complaint, was of foreign origin. A local council that wrote on behalf of Breusch insisted that restitution be made. They demanded that the foreign Jew, whom they refer to as a Betteljud, be expelled, together with his wife and child. While it is possible that the Jew was a Betteljud, it is also possible that he was a foreign Jew who was not a beggar.125 Likely, the latter was the case, since in their

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letter, the council expanded their demand that absolutely no foreign Jews be tolerated in the city, regardless of their economic standing. In an incident from 1725–1726, a group of Jews and Christians stole from Franz Mastbach, who traded in animals. The group included Hans Voppel, a twenty-three-year-old soldier; Anna Maria, widow of another soldier; and several Jews, including fifty-year-old Hirsch Joseph from Altona and eighteenyear-old Baruch von Niederweisel. Although Anna Maria initially referred to the Jews as merchants, her later testimony refers to them as Betteljuden.126 The use of the term Betteljuden as interchangeable with foreign Jews in the above cases mandates caution regarding the number of Betteljuden in early modern Germany.127 Based on the other descriptions of these individuals in the court records, it is unlikely that these particular foreign Jews were indeed migrating poor, although they may very well have been dishonest. The strategic use of this term in arguing criminal cases highlights the deep cultural assumptions about the transient poor. The negative light in which itinerants were seen was shared by Jews as well. In one takkanah from 1674, the parnassim noted that local community members were complaining that thieves were residing in the Garküche, an eatery in which travelers ate and sometimes lodged. Community members felt that their homes were at risk, claiming that the robbers were committing crimes together with prostitutes. From that day forward, the communal leadership ruled that only travelers bearing notes permitting them to stay overnight, or those holding a note from a communal appointee, would be permitted a stay; that stay was limited to one night.128 This decree reflects the suspicion with which travelers were viewed, which led the community to legislate new policies to address those fears. Another example of contemporary suspicion of the traveling poor is mentioned in the custom book authored by Joseph Kosman of Frankfurt, published in the early eighteenth century: “Sometimes the unworthy poor go to a place where they are not known, and they dress and wrap themselves in black, similar to a rabbi’s robe, yet they don’t know what the rabbis said, and because they look and sound [like rabbis] they are honored.”129 Kosman compared these poor travelers to a donkey that stumbled across the corpse of a lion and donned the lion’s skin, using it to purport to be the king of the animals. In Kosman’s parable, the donkey was ultimately exposed because the lion’s cub, who was poor and starving, approached the fox, who helped expose the imposter and reinstate the cub in his rightful place. The moral of Kosman’s parable was that by supporting the unworthy and itinerant poor, one was stealing from the righteous poor.

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In the context of this parable, Kosman referred to two types of people as unworthy poor. First, he refers to a fraudulent collector who came to Frankfurt to collect charity on behalf of a Jewish community in the Ottoman Empire. According to Kosman, his own father had revealed the newcomer to be an imposter.130 Second, Kosman refers to “the numerous unworthy poor who reside around large communities, [who] go on a daily basis to the community for food and sustenance [spoils]131 and who do not wish to support themselves by the work of their hands and the sweat of their brow.”132 His assumption that the itinerant poor did not wish to work, and his conflation of them with a fraudulent collector who sought to collect a princely sum of eighty thousand reichsthaler from large Jewish communities, reveals his deep mistrust of the unknown transient poor. The intense disdain with which both Jews and Christians perceived vagabonds, as well as the financial, physical, and legal constraints of the three Jewish communities described here, forged poor relief policies, officially prohibiting support for migrating Jews who did not belong and who had not been lucky enough to secure employment or residence. Yet in practice, communities often extended support to at least some of the migrating poor, even if such support took the form of a small amount of money and the means to continue traveling beyond the kehillah. Deciding who would receive support and who would be denied care led to a system increasingly dependent on documents to distinguish between diferent types of poor. This trend reflects the broader societal use of records and regulations, which was in full force by the eighteenth century.133 The use of records to shape the community’s self-perception is the subject of the next chapter.

chapter 6

Constructing a Community of Donors

In 1689, French troops burned Worms to the ground, and the city was reduced to rubble. Inhabitants of the city, Christians and Jews alike, sought refuge.1 Among those displaced was the community rabbi, Yair Hayyim Bacharach. Writing from Frankfurt’s Judengasse, where he had found shelter, Bacharach considered in one of his responsa whether it was incumbent upon the dispersed Jews of Worms to continue observing the customs unique to their hometown.2 Acknowledging that several individuals despaired of ever going back to their homes while war continued to be waged in the region, he insisted that some still maintained the hope that they would return. He noted: “The Torah scrolls, the holy vessels, and all the pinkasse kahal are locked up and secure.”3 Asserting that this dispersion was therefore not irrevocable, Bacharach insisted that Worms still constituted a community despite its physical exile, and thus, its customs were to be observed even while its members lived in other locations. The safeguarding of the communal treasures, among them the community’s records, was testament to the persistence and continued existence of the community. Records have a practical function. They may be consulted to adjudicate a dispute, to testify to past events, or to clarify what may have been forgotten. As such, they are designed and organized to meet utilitarian needs, such as crossreferencing between books.4 But records and archives also bear symbolic meaning for the communities whose histories they preserve, as they did for Bacharach. For him, and for many others in the early modern period, communal identity was deeply entrenched in unique customs, in local myths and hagiographies, and also in the pinkassim of the community. As representations of the communities that they documented, pinkassim were very consciously constructed. Along with their utilitarian purposes, they were simultaneously a means for a community to memorialize itself and its members, and they reflect how community leaders

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and scribes chose to present and preserve their identity.5 This chapter explores three such records of donations, one for each of the communities, and explores the community of donors through the content and form of each of the records.

Careful and Conscious Compositions Some scholars have claimed that communal records seem hastily written and even poorly organized.6 Yet in German lands, many communal records were meticulously copied; while some records contain the hurried scrawls of scribes and communal officials, others were recopied from drafts, indexed, and crossreferenced. For example, the logbook of the mohel in seventeenth-century Altona, Naftali Herz ben Uri, has two parts.7 The first half is beautifully designed, with large, ornate letters, defined margins, and annotations. The second half comprises his drafts; it is where he initially wrote the information that he later copied into the first half of the pinkas (see Figure 9 and Figure 10). The purpose of the pinkas was not solely to preserve the data; by copying the data in an attractive manner, Naftali Herz signaled that both the form and the content were important to him. The meticulous 1737 logbook of the gabbay tzedakah from Worms, discussed above, is clearly a second, more organized, version of the book that he carried with him in which he would have jotted down the sums as he collected and doled out funds.8 In the final copy, his activities are organized by week, and each entry is perfectly aligned on the page (see Figure 4 in Chapter 2). Likewise, Frankfurt’s pinkas ne’emane kahal, which details each economic transaction over a period of years, is exquisite in its labeling of each contract in a precise and organized manner. Such records may have been copied from a kladde pinkas, a draft later copied by the official scribe.9 Style was impor tant to these communal readers and record-keepers. One pinkas from Worms, for example, contains Yiddish translations of the various privileges granted to the community by political authorities. These copies retain the styling of the headers and indicate where signatures and stamps had been placed in the original documents.10 Even a pinkas containing copies of individual wills from Altona recorded where wax seals had been placed in the original wills.11 External features also marked the various pinkassim kept by a particu lar community. The financial records of Worms were written in green-covered volumes; centuries later, the pinkas hekdesh, though lost in World War II, is still known as das Grüne Buch, the green book. Another pinkas, of a tax collector,

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still has the original binding, also green.12 Imperial documents granting Stättigkeit to Frankfurt’s Jews, all of which bear the emperor’s signature, are bound in red velvet.13 While this may have been at the demand of the emperor (and paid for at the expense of the community), the contents of the volumes are unmistakable on the outside to any reader, archivist, or viewer familiar with the form of communal documents. Furthermore, as Bacharach noted, the communities’ papers and ledgers were stored in a chest under lock and key. Communal legislation mandated that only a select few hold keys to these chests; safeguarding communal records was a clear priority in times of peace and in times of war.14

Kehillat Ah”u: Pinkas Eretz Israel Among the many pinkassim from the triple community is a pinkas Eretz Israel, a logbook detailing donations made to the Land of Israel by the Jews of AltonaHamburg-Wandsbek, mostly in the late seventeenth century.15 This pinkas exemplifies the meticulous record-keeping practiced in early modern Ashkenaz. Several rabbinic emissaries, known as shadarim, visited the triple community to collect funds for Jerusalem or Hebron in the latter half of the seventeenth century. They each kept their own pinkassim, in which they recorded pledges promised by residents of the various communities that they visited.16 In addition, local gabbaim maintained a logbook of local donations. The pinkas Eretz Israel of Kehillat Ah”u lists donors and their pledges, as well as copies of a wide range of other types of records relating to donations to the Holy Land. Among these documents is a copy of a rabbinic decision regarding how charity was to be divided between the four Jewish communities of Jerusalem, Hebron, Safed, and Tiberias.17 In addition, a rabbinic emissary, Abraham Kokni, copied a letter that he had written in his own pinkas about his collection in Hamburg into the pinkas Eretz Israel of Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek.18 Stored with the logbook in the communal archives are various receipts indicating that payment had been made as promised.19 A close look at this logbook shows that, despite its varied content, form was important. The pinkas includes several neatly copied and maintained lists, interspersed with sections filled with the scribbles of the gabbay, noting who paid which portion of a pledge and what amount was still outstanding (see Figure 11 and Figure 12).20 Although the neat lists may have had a utilitarian function— as a glimpse or overview of the pledges that had been promised—the second half of the pinkas is where the real work of the collector was conducted. It was there that he recorded who had paid, when, and how much; it was a work in progress,

Figures 9–10. Pages from a pinkas mohel, Altona. CAHJP, AHW 65a.

Figures 11–12. A formal list and a folio of informal data preserved in the Altona-Hamburg pinkas Eretz Israel. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia.

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constantly updated as people paid their pledges. Therefore, it is likely that the formal and more stylized lists of donors, many of which were copies of earlier lists and of lists maintained by the emissaries from the Holy Land, served an additional purpose. They lent prestige to donors by preserving their beneficence in communal memory. Thus both what was recorded and how it was recorded can teach us about donors in the triple community. The logbook comprises ten lists detailing pledges to the Jews of Jerusalem and Hebron that were pledged and/or paid between 1676–1691, often to diferent emissaries.21 Four identical donations recur on more than one list. These donations are counted only once in the calculations that follow; however, when the same individual made another pledge on a diferent occasion or to another recipient, those pledges are itemized separately. During this six-year period, 239 discrete pledges were made. Of those, three were communal donations: one each from Altona, Hamburg, and Wandsbek. Two additional donations were pledged by the Talmud Torah confraternity. In the entry for the confraternity’s first donation, fifteen members of the society signed in the pinkas to indicate that they pledged to the poor of Jerusalem the sum of four reichsthaler per year for three years.22 The second donation was recorded in a list compiled the following year, in which the hevrah is recorded as having pledged an additional four reichsthaler for the next two years.23 Of the 234 remaining donations, 223 were listed as having been donated by men, individually and on their own behalf. Eight donations were pledged by women, four of them widows. The remaining three donations were pledged by three men, who did so each on his own behalf and on behalf of other named family members, as follows. The wealthy parnas Joseph Stadthagen (brother-inlaw of Glikl of Hameln), who served as one of the gabba’e Eretz Israel at this time, pledged fourteen reichsthaler: eight on his own behalf; two on behalf of his wife, Elkele (Glikl’s sister); one on behalf of each of his two sons; and another two as a direct gift to the rabbi of Jerusalem, Moshe Cohen.24 Hayim ben Shlomo pledged two reichsthaler, some on his own behalf and some in the names of his sons. Asher Anshel ben Eliezer Segal pledged a minimum of two reichsthaler, one for himself and the other for his wife and son. He also placed a cofer in his house, so that if he found himself financially able to donate additional funds, he would do so.25 The gender divide reflected in these records is staggering, with 95.2 percent of individual donations listed as male and only 3.4 percent as female. The afore-

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mentioned familial donations constitute 1.3  percent of the total, and they, too, are listed under a male header. These statistics seem even more surprising when compared with what little data we have for earlier medieval gifts to the Holy Land from Ashkenaz. Records from the fourteenth-century Nürnberg Memorbuch indicate that forty-five individuals donated to the poor of the Holy Land between 1375 and 1392.26 Of those, twenty-four (53 percent) were women, and twenty-one (47 percent) were men. Yet what we see in the pinkas Eretz Israel is decidedly not a cessation in women’s participation in the donation of charity. Many sources, including tombstones, Memorbücher, letters, and letters of solicitation attest to women’s active role in charity to the Holy Land and, as we have seen in previous chapters, at home. The pinkas Eretz Israel itself clearly indicates that women were involved in charity to the Holy Land, and their involvement was not limited to the eight aforementioned donations. One page in the pinkas references a kuppah set up in Hamburg designated specifically for donations by women to widows and orphaned girls in the Holy Land.27 A thorough examination of the second half of the portion of the pinkas, where the gabbay recorded the fulfillment of the pledges (see Figure 12), reveals a diferent reality. Notwithstanding that the pledges on the formal list in the first portion of the pinkas were almost universally recorded under men’s names, sometimes fulfillment of the pledge could be undertaken by other members of the household, including women, and it was they who were referenced by the gabbay in the second half of the pinkas. Thus, we have a payment by the wife of Moshe Leib; another by a woman named Henla, who was married to one of the donors; and a third by Miriam, daughter of Itzik Polak.28 Rather than documenting a change in women’s involvement in charity, the gendered nature of the formal lists is indicative of a shift in how donations were recorded. One could argue that the formal lists were organized according to the names of heads of household for practical reasons; after all, tax records were similarly organized. Indeed, of the 239 individual pledges, 92 percent were made by heads of households, a category that included all the widows and most of the male donors. The remaining donations were made by married women and unmarried men or youths who did not have homes of their own.29 Since the pinkas functioned as a tool to allow for the collection of pledges, this interpretation seems reasonable at first glance. Yet the official list belies this simple explanation because it includes a small number of married women who were listed as independent donors despite the fact that their husbands appear independently on the list

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as well. This pattern is therefore not merely a question of simplifying bookkeeping. Broadly speaking, donations were recorded as male, obscuring women’s involvement. Although in practice, both the women and the men of a family could be involved in paying the pledge, the recognition and status aforded to the donor in the written records were almost always given to men alone. In a similar vein, the kuppah for female donors of Hamburg to the Holy Land was given a male imprimatur: “The men of Hamburg took this good deed upon themselves, [namely] to create a cofer among the righteous women, for the widows and orphaned girls of Hebron, may it be rebuilt, who have nothing on which they can depend. And I [the emissary] appointed the esteemed aluf, the honorable Shaul bar Ephraim Heksher . . . that he should pass on whatever comes to his hand.”30 Although the women were the donors, the men in the community were given the credit for establishing the fund in the official record (which was recorded by men). They were also, at least according to this entry, given nominal control over the fund through the male gabbay. The tendency to acknowledge donations as male can be seen elsewhere on these lists, as three men (among them Hayyim Hamel, the first husband of Glikl) are listed as having pledged money, with the appellation “of blessed memory” appearing after their names.31 Though they may have pledged money while still alive, at the time this particu lar list was recorded, they were no longer living. While in practice, they were not going to fulfill the pledges, it was they, not their widows, who were given credit for the donations. Glikl appears as an independent donor on a separate list, also after Hayyim’s death.32 The couple likely donated together just as they worked together; a short time after having been widowed, she was recognized as both businesswoman and donor.33 Class played a critical role in donations and how they were recorded. At least half, if not more, of the donations to the Land of Israel contributed by members of kehillat Ah”u were donated by the wealthiest strata, the alufim, ketzinim, and parnassim. On one list, every married male was a member of this class.34 While all Jews donated to the poor of the Holy Land on certain holidays, these special collections were primarily funded by the wealthy.35 This trend is all the more apparent from an examination of those women who were recognized as independent donors. The eight donations recorded under women’s names were donated by seven women whose status in the community can be identified.36 Bella bat Natan, mother of Glikl of Hameln, pledged twice; one of her gifts was the astronomical sum of 200 reichsthaler.

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Glikl, as mentioned, also pledged to donate. Her sister Elkele, wife of Joseph Stadthagen, similarly appears as an independent donor, although in a diferent pledge, she was included as part of her husband’s familial donation.37 Bella Stern, aunt of the gabbay Eretz Israel, also donated.38 So did Tziporah, wife of Itzik Polak, also a parnas.39 Miriam, wife of a parnas named Natan, was the final donor.40 Each of these women hailed from the elite of the community, as they were the mothers, wives, and in-laws of the parnassim and gabbaim, the wealthy lay leaders of the community.41 In some of these families, sons were also listed as independent donors.42 Families in which, in addition to the standard procedure of having the patriarch of the family donate, the woman or son donated separately in their own names were presumably the wealthy among the wealthy. Donating, and being recorded as a donor, was already a mark of status and piety. But having an additional donation for one’s wife or, in some cases, one’s sons would have been an even more dramatic status symbol for the family. By including more than one family member as an additional donor, a family could enhance its prestige. It is noteworthy that of the three men who were recognized as donors after their deaths, only one widow—Glikl—was later included as an independent donor. This is likely a reflection of her financial prowess and respected family connections, a marker of class and social status. These recorded lists of donations, though used to collect pledges, preserved for posterity the family status attained through the donation. Similar patterns in donations can be seen among contemporary Christians. Sandra Cavallo has shown that by 1720 in Turin, there was a rise in family-based donations. Although women, especially those of the aristocratic class, were still involved in charitable giving, their donations became less independent. Instead, they gave along with their husbands, or as part of a larger family group.43 This is precisely what we see with regard to Jewish women of the same period. Scholars such as Nicholas Terpstra and Philip Gavitt have pointed to such family gifts and to early modern inheritance patterns and have argued that in the seventeenth century, Christians sought to bolster family lineage with conspicuous gift-giving.44 A similar trend was at work in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek. Giving became familial rather than individual, and these donations were listed under the name of the patriarch in the record book. Among the wealthiest families, further honor and prestige were conferred when additional family members, including wives or sons, donated as individuals. That prestige was preserved in the formal lists maintained by the community in its pinkas. Since

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in some instances, each individual signed the book in his or her own hand, the moment of signing may have served as a public recognition of the larger and more noticeable gift. Possibly, gifts were read aloud to encourage more giving; this would have been another opportunity to enhance the visibility aforded to the donor.

Commemorating a Community: Early Modern Memorbücher Early modern Memorbücher constitute another central communal record of donations, and their style and content reflect much about the class and prestige accorded to donors.45 These memorial books were common throughout Ashkenazic communities in the early modern period, and more than 150 Memorbücher are extant today, from communities large and small.46 They comprise hundreds and, in some cases, thousands of entries of individual gifts made before or after one’s death to a communal fund or institution. Each entry in early modern Memorbücher was written in the form of a memorial prayer: May God remember the soul of Marat Glikhen bat R. Meir, together with the souls of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, on account of her donation of ten gulden to the hekdesh. As a reward for this, may her soul be enshrined for eternity in Eden with all the souls of righteous women, Amen. May God remember the soul of R. Aharon bar Moshe, together with the souls of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, on account of his donation of ten gulden to the hekdesh. As a reward for this, may his soul be enshrined for eternity in Eden with all the souls of righteous men, Amen.47 These donations, proximate to one’s death, were for the sake of one’s soul. Moreover, the names of the departed (if not their gifts) were read aloud during the synagogue ser vice. This liturgical element was seen as essential to assisting the soul of the deceased. Eighteenth-century Frankfurt author Joseph Kosman understood this act as beneficial to the dead as well as the living who memorialized them. In a theological interpretation similar to explanations ofered for donations given during rites performed at the cemetery, Kosman argues that the dead can intercede with God on behalf of the living and that the prayers of the living can be efficacious for the dead.48

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In Worms and Frankfurt, recitation of the names seems to have been the practice on almost every Sabbath, and the Memorbücher manuscripts from these communities that are still extant place the reading at just before the start of the mussaf ser vice.49 On certain commemorative Sabbath mornings, only the names of “martyrs” killed in the First Crusade or in the massacres at the time of the Black Death were read aloud.50 In Altona, a takkanah from 1685 (reenacted in 1726) mandated that one page of the Memorbuch be read aloud at almost all Sabbath ser vices.51 In other communities, such as Prague, the liturgical commemoration shifted over time; sadly, we know too little about how these names were memorialized during the services.52 The Memorbuch was likely kept in the sacred space of the synagogue.53 In Altona, it was locked in the lectern on the raised platform in the synagogue, and the gabbay tzedakah had the key.54 The oral recitation of the names of the deceased was a significant commemorative act, manifest also in the numerous copies that some communities made of the book for use in the various prayer quorums that met in the community.55 Two diferent Memorbücher have survived from Frankfurt: the main memorial book for the entire community; and the smaller memorial book used in the synagogue known as the hekdesh synagogue, which mostly includes the names of those men and women who prayed in that synagogue.56 In Worms, three versions of the Memorbuch have survived. The first is available only in a printed edition published by Abraham Berliner, based on a nowlost manuscript.57 The second is a manuscript copied in 1733–1734, created solely for use in the Rashi beyt midrash, built in the eighteenth century.58 The community hired a scribe to copy the manuscript for the prayer group in the beyt midrash, underscoring that this part of the liturgy was culturally compulsory.59 This manuscript begins with a special blessing, a mi-sheberakh, in honor of Miriam and (Judah) Leib Sinzheim, court Jews from Vienna who had sponsored the building of the beyt midrash.60 The third manuscript belonged to David Oppenheim, the famed book collector and chief rabbi of Prague. Oppenheim acquired or commissioned his own scribe to copy a diferent version of the manuscript.61 Not surprisingly, Oppenheim, who collected widely, wished to own a copy of this book, for he was a native of Worms. His desire to have and liturgically use a copy of the text is further testament to the essence of the Memorbuch as emblematic of Worms history and cultural memory.62 Aside from its liturgical function, the act of being inscribed in the Memorbuch was commemorative. In a culture that valued records, being chronicled and included in this book signified that an individual had been part of, and would be remembered as a member of, the community and its history.

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The dual significance that recording and reciting had for early modern Jews is captured in a decision to record the names of victims of the Cossack uprising in the Worms Memorbuch, one that came only after measured deliberation:63 Concerning this, every heart shall cry, and every eye shall tear . . . about the recent destruction in our days in the lands of Poland and Raysn (Ukraine). . . . The rabbi Samson b. Samuel of blessed memory . . . copied in his own hand, in a short, excellent version, the difficult events, [including] which part, and in which location, and concerning what [specific] topic, the aforementioned destruction and troubles and travails, as he found [them described] in the book Tzuk ha-‘ ittim.64 And he commanded us to memorialize them along with the martyrs of 1096, and this was done with the permission of the aforementioned holy community [Worms].65 Not only had it been customary throughout Ashkenaz to commemorate those who had perished in the First Crusade since the twelfth century, but some of those who had died were natives of Worms, where a day of fasting had long been established to commemorate their deaths.66 Whether to include a recent and nonlocal tragedy was thus a matter for both the community rabbi and parnassim to decide. The scribe of the Memorbuch first copied an excerpt from Rabbi Samson Bacharach’s copy of Tzuk ha-‘ ittim, and continued to expound: “And I, Abraham Eberle of Prague, copied these from my teacher’s hand into this memorial book, Tuesday the 13 of Kislev 5415 [1654].”67 Moreover, the scribe who copied Abraham’s manuscript into the Memorbuch for the beyt midrash similarly recounted his place in this transmission history. “And I, Judah the young, son of Isaac Jecklin Michaelstadt of Worms, recorded it in this memorial book on Erev Rosh Hodesh Av, in the year [5]493 [=1733] to the small counting.”68 The decision-making process and the history of how this nonlocal commemoration came to be recited and recorded were inscribed in the Memorbuch, attesting to the deep significance of these actions. Although the vast number of memorial books extant today date to the early modern period, with some continuing until World War II, the first such text dates back to the Middle Ages.69 The Nürnberg Memorbuch, the sole surviving medieval memorial book, comprises lists of those killed during the First Crusade and the Black Death, which were copied into almost all early modern memorial books, regardless of where they were written.70 In addition, the Nürnberg Memorbuch begins with a list of central figures from medieval Ashkenaz, including

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notable rabbis from Rabbenu Gershom (d. 1027) to Maharam Rothenburg (d. 1293), and various men and women who built communal institutions. This list became part of the Memorbücher tradition, and early modern memorial books begin with the same list of the founding figures of Ashkenaz, even when the local donations did not begin until centuries later. The centrality of this tradition to the genre across time and space highlights how later communities identified themselves as belonging to a common community of Ashkenazic Jews, dating back to the medieval Rhineland.

The Worms Memorbuch The Worms Memorbuch begins with the standard opening memorializing the key figures of Ashkenaz.71 Although this text, like other early modern memorial books, imitated the medieval Nürnberg Memorbuch in style, the genre shifted over time. The earliest entries of local residents in this memorial book are not dated (other than for well-known figures, the dating of individual entries began in the early eighteenth century). The earliest recorded donations can be dated through corresponding records from the fifteenth century.72 Three linked changes can be discerned between 1500 and 1750, all of which transformed the book from a record of discrete individual gifts to a record that reflected family donations and communal belonging.73 The first major shift in the Worms Memorbuch was the gradual standardization of donations. The medieval Nürnberg Memorbuch includes a roster of gifts donated by individual men and women at the end of their lives. Elisheva Baumgarten’s analysis of these gifts highlights the gendered patterns of life in Middle Ages; thus, more women donated textiles than did men.74 Israel Yuval has argued that this began to change in the last decades of the fourteenth century, when donations were overwhelmingly, although not exclusively, donated to the hekdesh.75 By contrast, the Memorbuch from Worms tells us little about the specific charities and causes to which men and women earmarked their donations. Out of 896 entries in the book, 864 include a donation. Almost all the remaining thirty-two entries relate to an individual whose inclusion in the book derived from ser vice to the community or from Torah scholarship.76 A mere eighteen donations out of the 865 (2.1 percent) were of tangible items rather than cash. A similar trend is also discernible among early modern Christian gifts.77 Almost all the donated items were intended for use in the synagogue. These included curtains, lighting, silver trays, a bowl for the kohanim (those of

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priestly descent) to ritually wash their hands before blessing the congregation, and wooden boards.78 In the wake of the 1689 fire, heirs of the parnas Avraham ben Shimon Wolf Oppenheim donated a silver pointer (yad) for Torah reading as well as a new lamp.79 In the early seventeenth century, David ben Moshe and Moshe bar Jacob gifted the community with sets of mishnayot.80 Several donors were recognized for their own handiwork: Itzik Gabbay was the scribe of a Torah scroll, a book of Psalms, and a copy of a special prayer used by the community.81 The parnas Itzik Wallich donated a Torah scroll to the hekdesh.82 Jukel Oppenheim had written a mahzor, having paid for the paper, ink, and binding of this High Holiday prayer book. He sold the right to use it each year, with the proceeds going to charity.83 David Oppenheim (not to be confused with the chief rabbi of Prague mentioned above) helped rebuild the synagogue and the cemetery and also built the study hall outside the synagogue.84 As was mentioned, the Sinzheims paid for the construction of the beyt midrash.85 Only thirty-one of the 864 donations (3.5 percent) were monetary payments earmarked toward a designated cause. This is because beginning in 1500, the practice of donating a sum of ten gulden to the general charity fund (hekdesh) in Worms became the standard donation meriting inclusion in the Memorbuch. While it is around 1500 that this sum first appears as a gift, the process of standardization took time. By 1650, the practice of earmarking a donation to a particular fund had largely tapered of (see Figure 13). In the mid-seventeenth century, Juspe Schammes explains that being inscribed in the Memorbuch was regulated by a fee: Every head of household who dies, male or female, must pay eleven gulden to the hekdesh, immediately after the thirty-day mourning period. Ten gulden is for the burial plot and burial expenses, and one gulden is for recording him or her in the pinkas hazkarat neshamot [Memorbuch] and to memorialize him or her for one year. And after that, they erase him from the memorial book [sefer hazkarat neshamot]. But if he is well-to-do and able, they coerce him to give another ten gulden. And this payment is paid of over the year from the day the deceased died. And immediately on the last Sabbath of the thirty-day mourning period, the sexton writes his name down in the book of eternal memory, to be recited for one year. And after he has paid the ten gulden, he remains inscribed there for eternity. And whoever does not pay of the ten gulden is erased after one year from the book of eternal memory and is not memorialized other than

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pr e 15 -15 00 00 15 –15 80 80 16 –16 00 00 16 –16 16 14 16 –16 30 29 16 –16 40 39 16 –16 50 49 16 –16 60 59 16 –16 70 69 16 –16 80 79 16 –16 90 89 17 –17 10 09 17 –17 20 19 17 –17 30 29 17 –17 40 39 –1 75 0

7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0

donations earmarked to a specific cause

donation of tangible items

Figure 13. Earmarked donations in the Worms Memorbuch, c. 1500–1750 (by decade).

during that first year. And the payment to the sexton for the inscription and all the above burden is a quarter gulden.86 The process as described by Juspe highlights the care with which names were entered into the final Memorbuch, at least in theory. First, they were inscribed into a short-term pinkas; those who paid ten gulden were then eligible to be recorded for eternity in the Memorbuch. This again shows the significance that recording and reciting had for these early modern Jews.87 In actuality, not all the individuals inscribed in the Memorbuch paid the ten gulden. While most did, a significant number of entries detail donations that were for less than ten gulden.88 Paying an additional ten gulden would not have been feasible for all community members, and as inclusion in the Memorbuch became a communal norm, some flexibility was likely shown to members of the kehillah, particularly during difficult financial times.89 Other records, belonging to the gabbaim who collected these payments, show that not infrequently, family members of the deceased would give the gabbay an object as collateral to pay for the burial and memorial costs of their loved one.90 Thus, when the widow Reitz died, her heirs gave a ring as collateral to the gabbay tzedakah in lieu of the twenty-one-gulden fee for her burial and commemoration. One of her heirs, R. Leib, paid back ten gulden in batzen, and then paid nine additional reichsthaler at a later date.91 When R. Tzadok bar Avraham died in 1587, his wife gave a silver cup as collateral for the requisite payments.92 It is striking that he is recorded as having donated the requisite ten gulden for inclusion in the Memorbuch; he is

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also remembered for having donated a lamp to the synagogue.93 While Tzadok may have arranged for the payment before his death, his wife was recorded as having provided the collateral. Similar to the pinkas Eretz Israel in the triple community, the official register recognized this gift as having been given by a male; but in practice, a woman was ultimately responsible for the payment. The second development in the Worms Memorbuch was the deliberate inclusion in the text and its margins of information about families. Beginning in the 1630s and continuing through the 1670s, numerous marginal annotations indicate that certain successive entries were relatives (see Figure 14). An entry for Shimon ben Moshe Yehuda, who died in 1632, is immediately followed by an entry for Asher Anshel, Shimon’s son.94 The marginal annotation reads av u-beno, a father and his son. Similar annotations are found for siblings, for mothers and their children, and for married couples. There are even several series of entries that include a man’s first and second wives. In one example, the entry for Edel bat Jacob ha-Kohen, David Elsass’s second wife, who died in 1666, is followed by that of Sheva bat Eliezer Lipman, his first wife, for whom there is no date of death.95 The very next entry is for Elsass’s daughter-in-law Sprintz, who died in 1736.96 Elsass is listed a few lines later; he died in 1674.97 These relationships were also entered into the margins of the text. The above grouping hints at the manner in which the text was composed. The entries preceding Elsass’s first wife are from 1636; those from Elsass’s death forward are from that same year. Likely, the scribe of the original manuscript left space, and later filled in Elsass and his second wife, as well as their daughter-in-law.98 Listing family members together required that the scribe consciously design and plan the page. The entry for Juspe Schammes, who died in 1678, is directly followed by that of his wife, Rivka Piyarkhen, who died ten years later. Following Rivka is Meir ben Yehezkiyah Yehudah, who, like Juspe, died in 1678.99 Thus a largely chronological scheme was often interrupted to account for family members, who were recorded one after the other although they died in diferent years.100 It is possible that upon death, the deceased were recorded in a draft text that was chronologically organized. Once the fee was paid, their names might have been recopied and grouped with entries of their kin. By using family units as building blocks to structure the profile of the donating community in the Memorbuch, scribes awarded honor to those families, as they were recorded together. Moreover, during an oral recitation of the names, familial relationships would have been apparent to the members of the small community of Worms. Hearing a sequential list of relatives who had donated lent a family stature, parallel to what we saw in the pinkas Eretz Israel of Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek.

Figure 14. Page from the Worms Memorbuch. Note the marginal notations, which include references to relatives. Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, Ms. Heb. 4° 656.

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It is not possible to quantify the number of entries that were arranged according to family, since not all entries include marginal annotations and the relationships between community members are far less transparent today than they were to contemporaries and descendants of the deceased. Some sequential entries are not explicitly marked as constituting family units, but it is nevertheless clear from the context that that is the case. Thus, the entry for Menahem ben Isaac Elsass is followed by one for Eliyah ben Isaac Elsass; the two were clearly brothers.101 In the case of siblings, a shared father renders the marginal notations unnecessary; it is far more difficult to track mothers and their children or married spouses.102 In some entries from the eighteenth century, women are referred to as daughters of their fathers, but at the end of the entry, they are also listed as the wives of their husbands, making the identification of married couples easier. That these entries served to express family prestige can be seen in a series of three successive entries placed in the Memorbuch in the early 1630s. The first entry was that of the rabbi, Isaac Ginsburg (d. 1632). The third entry commemorated his father, Shmuel Zanvil, who had died two years earlier. But the middle entry commemorated an earlier ancestor, Shmuel ben Jacob ha-Levi Ginsburg. Shmuel ben Jacob’s great-grandson paid ten gulden so that his forebear would be included. A scribe who copied the manuscript elaborated on this entry: “For more than sixty years, he [Shmuel ben Jacob] was a parnas and leader, and he blew the shofar here. And I will gossip and reveal a secret: my father, Shmuel, son of the katzin Shimon Ginsburg, son of his daughter’s son, is the very one who volunteered to donate on behalf of the father of his father’s mother, that he would be commemorated for eternity.”103 The scribe’s father, Shmuel Zanvil ben Shimon, commemorated in the last of the three entries, had paid for his great-grandfather to be remembered; this is why they were listed together. By the 1630s, ten gulden functioned as an “entry fee” into the Memorbuch, and it was a matter of family honor for Shmuel Zanvil to include his ancestor. It was a further matter of pride for Shmuel’s own son to reveal his father’s generosity in the margins of a family donation that included his great-great-grandfather, his father, and his brother. Because being memorialized in writing and liturgy was believed to be efficacious for the soul, a descendant’s involvement in his ancestor’s spiritual well-being was an honorable act. Having a long list of donors from one family underscored a family’s prominence. A final and related evolution in the Worms Memorbuch is the increasing tendency for the donation to have been made by one’s heirs, rather than by the person being commemorated. This trend is inherently tied to the two developments discussed above. Once donations were standardized rather than reflective

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100% 80% 60% 40% 20%

pr e15 15 00 00 15 –15 80 80 16 –16 00 00 16 –16 16 14 16 –16 30 29 16 –16 40 39 16 –16 50 49 16 –16 60 59 16 –16 70 69 16 –16 80 79 16 –16 90 89 17 –17 10 09 17 –17 20 19 17 –17 30 29 17 –17 40 39 –1 75 0

0%

donated by others

donated by self

couples

family units

Figure 15. Breakdown of donations in Worms, c. 1500–1750 (by decade).

of individual preferences, and once the Memorbuch was constructed as a family document, it was logical for one’s heirs to donate the requisite sum to commemorate their loved one. Although the Memorbuch remained a text designed to document gifts for the sake of individual souls, the commemoration shifted to include a family context, rather than solely an individual gift on one’s own behalf. The Memorbuch evolved over time, also becoming an expression of communal belonging and familial piety. A breakdown of the donations over the course of the early modern period demonstrates that until about 1600, donors donated individually on their own behalf, or, less frequently, as couples or a family unit. Seven couples donated as units prior to the period from 1500 through 1623. After that date, no couples and family units donated together. It was then that the family unit began to be marked by recording the donations of various family members in sequence, some explicitly annotated as such; and it was then that a gradual shift began, regarding the percentage of donations made by others on behalf of the deceased (see Figure 15).104 As the graph demonstrates, this general trend was interrupted in the two decades between 1690–1709. From 1690–1699, no Jews were living in Worms; this period is described by Bacharach at the beginning of this chapter. Only five individuals—three men and two women, who died between 1690 and 1698, when the community was in exile—were memorialized in the Memorbuch. All are recorded as having died elsewhere; yet they or their descendants sought their inclusion in the Memorbuch.105 This underscores the significance that being recorded and memorialized in the Memorbuch had for community members. In the first decade after the Jews’ return to Worms, the number of individuals re-

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corded as having given on their own behalf markedly increased. It is questionable whether these individuals or their heirs had even returned to the city, as the Jewish population in Worms remained at about 100, even in 1710.106 I would argue that this aberration from the general trend was due to the upheaval that the community was undergoing at this time. The fact that individuals donated for themselves may speak to their desire to participate in rebuilding the community; at the very least, it shows that they wished to retain a connection to Worms. Other than the decades surrounding the destruction of Worms, there was a clear movement toward one’s heirs donating on one’s behalf. A gendered analysis of those same data reveals that the trend of relatives donating on one’s behalf was more rapidly adopted when the deceased was female. Beginning in 1600, women’s husbands or children began to donate on their behalf. Between 1616 and 1630, more than half the women listed in the Memorbuch were included by virtue of a donation made by a family member. The same process occurred among men at a far slower rate. It was not until the first decades of the eighteenth century that a greater number of men were memorialized on account of a donation that had been made on their behalf, rather than by the man himself (see Figure 16 and Figure 17). Jewish women’s charity was thus more swiftly subsumed under family donations, parallel to what we witnessed in the pinkas Eretz Israel and parallel to contemporary Christian donations. As heirs increasingly became the donors, women were even further removed from the position of active donors. According to Jewish law, men were designated as heirs; husbands inherited from their wives, but the converse was not true. A man’s estate was given to his heirs, and 100% 80% 60% 40% 20%

pr e15 15 00 00 15 –15 80 80 16 –16 00 00 16 –16 16 14 16 –16 30 29 16 –16 40 39 16 –16 50 49 16 –16 60 59 16 –16 70 69 16 –16 80 79 16 –16 90 89 17 –17 10 09 17 –17 20 19 17 –17 30 29 17 –17 40 39 –1 75 0

0%

men donating for themselves

men for whom others donated

Figure 16. Male entries, donations by self and others, c. 1500–1750 (by decade).

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100% 80% 60% 40% 20%

pr e15 150 00 0 15 –15 80 80 16 –16 00 00 16 –16 16 14 16 –16 30 29 16 –16 40 39 16 –16 50 49 16 –16 60 59 16 –16 70 69 16 –16 80 79 16 –16 90 89 17 –17 10 09 17 –17 20 19 17 –17 30 29 17 –17 40 39 –1 75 0

0%

women donating for themselves

women for whom others donated

Figure 17. Female entries, donations by self and others, c. 1500–1750 (by decade).

his wife was to receive the amount due to her under her marriage contract. Although in practice, parents found ways to bequeath money or property to their daughters, and men often made provisions for their wives, the Memorbuch follows the general rule in which males were the heirs.107 Women who died before their spouse were largely memorialized by their husbands; widows were memorialized by their heirs. Men, on the other hand, were hardly ever memorialized by their wives. Their heirs are recorded as having paid for their inclusion in the memorial book. Only two men out of 430 were donated for by their wives, constituting less than 1  percent of the donations honoring men; by contrast, 210 women out of 425 were memorialized on account of a donation made by their husbands, constituting 47 percent of the donations given to honor women. Although women were commemorated, as were men, the record removed women from the position of active donors and incorporated them as members of family units. Devising a standard fee for inclusion in the Memorbuch, listing family members together, and moving toward donations given by heirs created a system in which paying for one’s relative to be memorialized was essentially part of the probate process. It was expected that certain people be included in the Memorbuch, and their heirs were responsible for paying for the recordation. As this trend became more ingrained, the nature of entries in the Memorbuch began to shift. Entries were expanded to include positive attributes of the individual, rather than the standard prayer cited above. Individuals were recognized for their scholarship, for the charity and righteous acts they had done during their lives, and for coming to synagogue in the morning and evening. Dates of death were also in-

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cluded as part of the description. Along with these lengthy lists of good deeds was almost always a record that the individual’s family had donated to the charity fund, a membership fee of sorts for inclusion in the Memorbuch. Whereas before the sixteenth century, the Memorbuch functioned primarily as a written and oral reminder of pro anima charity that individuals chose to give before their death, by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the genre had evolved, also becoming a record of community members, often grouped by kin. While it is unclear whether these lengthy descriptions were read aloud, or whether only the names of the deceased were pronounced in synagogue, one might consider the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Memorbuch to be an epitaph or burial plot on a page, with family members remembered in neighboring entries, alongside one another.

The Frankfurt Memorbuch: Heirs and Probate The Frankfurt Memorbuch hews even more starkly to the patterns found in Worms.108 The text’s history requires a diferent statistical analysis. The Frankfurt Memorbuch, like that of Worms, begins with the requisite list of Ashkenazic heroes and heroines. The first entries from among Frankfurt’s own population are from 1628; dates are given from that point onward. The volume comprises more than 500 folios, weighs twenty-eight pounds, and includes entries from the early seventeenth century until the death of Baron Wilhelm von Rothschild in 1901 (see Figure 18). However, the Memorbuch that is extant today was not the earliest manuscript. The original memorial book was destroyed in the 1711 fire that devastated the Judengasse. Eliezer (Lezer) Oppenheim, the gabbay tzedakah at that time, paid personally to rewrite the Memorbuch. A Hebrew poem highlighting his generosity explicated the methods used to reconstruct the burned document. “He took out the pinkas of the burial society . . . in which those who had departed [this world] over the past hundred years were recorded, and he commanded to copy [the names] of the holy souls, righteous men and women in the land, and to commemorate them at all times. And what was not written down cannot be copied or memorialized, for they are lost [to us].”109 Though it is not mentioned in the poem, Lezer’s wife, Fromet, died in childbirth that year, and the desire to memorialize her likely motivated him to donate a new Memorbuch.110 The decision to re-create a burned document rather than simply starting anew speaks volumes about the communal perception of its profound responsibility for preserving the names of the deceased in writing and in prayer.111

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Figure 18. The Frankfurt Memorbuch. Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, Ms. Heb. 4° 1092.

Yet as the poem suggests, data were lost along the way. Records of the burial society were written in a diferent format from the Memorbuch, which is reflected in the re-created Memorbuch entries before 1711. Thus, several entries for women are missing names. They are referred to simply as wives and daughters of known individuals, and a blank space was left where their first name should have been (see Figure 19). This is because the burial records referred to them without their first names. Their inclusion in the Memorbuch, notwithstanding the fact that their names could not be read aloud in the synagogue, shows once again that the inscription itself, not just the liturgical recitation, was significant to the community. Burial society records also lacked most of the data about donations. Less than 10 percent of the entries before 1648 include any data whatsoever about the charity accompanying the recordation. From 1648 on, there are records for each individual. Perhaps Lezer Oppenheim had these copied from a pinkas; as the gabbay tzedakah, he would have had access to the records, should they have survived the fire.112 Therefore, I have divided the donations into pre- and post-1648.

Figure 19. Page from the Frankfurt Memorbuch. Note how some of the female entries are missing first names. Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, Ms. Heb. 4° 1092.

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Before 1648, there are 496 entries, only forty-eight of which contain data about a donation. Of those, 58.6  percent of the men donated on their own behalf, and 41.4 percent of the men were included because their wife or heirs had donated on their behalf. By contrast, 79 percent of the women were included by virtue of their husband or heirs donating for them, and 21  percent donated on their own. Although these data are incomplete, they correspond to the patterns in Worms, where, during the seventeenth century, a trend of having one’s heirs donate on one’s behalf became increasingly common. This trend was more rapidly adopted when it came to memorializing women. From 1648 to 1750, not one woman donated on her own behalf; and only one man out of 1,038 did so. The practice in Frankfurt had clearly moved toward a system whereby one’s heirs donated for him or her. A similar practice can be seen in the smaller memorial book that was used in the hekdesh synagogue. Out of 267 total entries, 221 were based on a donation.113 A total of 212 donations, or 95.6 percent, were made by a family member on behalf of the deceased.114 In both the main communal Memorbuch and in the memorial book used in the hekdesh synagogue, the standard rate was twenty-one gulden for inclusion; this was probably parallel to the ten-gulden burial fee and eleven-gulden inscription fee (one for the first year and ten for eternity) that was described by Juspe Schammes for Worms. In both memorial books from Frankfurt, some entries record the donation as having been ke-tikkun ha-kahal, commensurate with what was customary in the community.115 The communal norm was for one’s heirs to donate on his or her behalf after death. Several entries indicate that the sum came from the individual’s will or estate.116 Thus, Aaron ben Hirz Zunz died on 27 Tishrei 5504 [October 1743]. His wife, Gutel, died a few days later in childbirth. The guardians of their estates paid the required sum for entry in the Memorbuch.117 A court case from 1782 underscores the connection between inheritance and inscription in the Memorbuch. When resolving a dispute between Fagel Burch and her son-in-law Lipman Rofe, the court enforced a compromise based on Lipman’s proposal. Lipman was awarded a portion of the house, which had been granted to him as part of his wife’s dowry, and acquired much of the movable property in the house. However, Lipman was tasked by the court with erecting a gravestone for his father-in-law. He was also to reimburse his mother-in-law for the costs she had incurred for memorial lights, the reading of psalms, and the inscription in the Memorbuch.118 The Memorbuch inscription was one element of the negotiations over the probate process. Although there are no explicit references to family members being grouped together in the Frankfurt Memorbuch, some family members were listed

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sequentially. Because this Memorbuch contains dated entries, it is easy to see that it is not entirely chronological. Thus, Hindele Metz, who died in 1743, was listed along with her husband, son, and daughter-in-law. Aaron Metz, her husband, died in 1738; her son Jukel died in 1719, and her daughter-in-law Mindel died in 1763.119 All four entries are recorded in the same hand, and for each entry, a generic term of “their heirs” paid the requisite sum. One set of heirs likely paid to memorialize their ancestors all at once in the 1760s, as the estate was settled, or as they had the money to do so.120

Inclusion in the Frankfurt Memorbuch Circumstances surrounding the re-creation of the Frankfurt memorial book in 1711 permit us to probe more deeply into who was eligible for inclusion. When Lezer Oppenheim commissioned a new copy of the book, he asked that the names be copied from burial records. Although the poem at the start of the reconstructed Memorbuch bemoans the fact that not all the names were still extant, a comparison of the Memorbuch with the burial records demonstrates that many names were deliberately not copied into the new memorial book.121 The burial records from Frankfurt through 1680 were published by Simon Unna in the early twentieth century.122 A comparison of the names listed by the burial society over this period, which recorded every burial, with the names in the Memorbuch for those same years demonstrates how many individuals were deliberately omitted from the text. Analyzing the patterns permits us to understand more about how the Memorbuch functioned, as it reveals the standards for inclusion employed when the Memorbuch was reconstructed from these burial records in 1711. For the period in question, 3,545 burials were performed in Frankfurt; however, only 1,022 names are recorded in the Memorbuch. Seventeen individuals appear only in the Memorbuch and not in the burial records, suggesting that they had been buried elsewhere.123 Thus, 2,540 individuals were buried in Frankfurt but received no mention in the memorial book. The largest category of those who were not included in the Memorbuch were children. The burial society recorded burying 1,510 babies and young children in these years. They were not included in the Memorbuch, nor were their names preserved by the burial society. An additional 499 older children, boys and girls, were omitted from the text. Strikingly, anyone who was single, regardless of age, was omitted from the Memorbuch. Older men who had not married were still given the appellation bahur (youth),

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and older women that of betulah (virgin), regardless of whether they were teenagers or elderly. Not one was included in the Memorbuch; 526 individuals, a number that includes older children, were omitted.124 Individuals who lacked hezkat kahal were almost never included in the Memorbuch, whether married or single. The burial society lists 455 individuals whom I have been able to definitively identify as coming from another location.125 This number includes nine domestic servants, who were excluded because of their geographic origin as well as their marital status. A final exclusion was made in the case of two related suicides. It is also possible to analyze later entries in the Memorbuch thanks to the painstaking work of Shlomo Ettlinger, a twentieth-century lawyer and genealogist who typed up the names of every man and woman who died in Frankfurt from medieval to modern times.126 A comparison of the Memorbuch with Ettlinger’s data, which integrate tombstones, records of the burial society, and the memorial book itself, reveals similar patterns. While it is impossible to precisely identify each individual who died between 1711 and 1750, 749 out of more than 1,850 individuals cata loged by Ettlinger as having died in Frankfurt in that period do not appear in the Memorbuch. Of those, 329 were single, a number that includes sixty-five children and ten domestic servants.127 Sixty-six individuals can be definitively identified as having lacked hezkat kahal, although the actual number was likely far higher; for example, thirty-five additional individuals, whom I have not included in my calculations, held a job that was typical of foreigners who sought to acquire the status of the laboring poor.128 The metrics that the community applied to determine who would be included in the Memorbuch directly correspond to the categories employed to classify diferent types of poor.129 First among these was whether someone was an official member of the community. Even prominent Jews who were not official community members were excluded from the Memorbuch. For example, R. Hirsch Fränkel of Hanau was rabbi of the rural Jews in Schwabach; although he died in Frankfurt in 1735, he was not included in the Memorbuch.130 Hindhe, daughter of the Berlin court Jew Jost Liebmann, was also not inscribed in the Memorbuch, despite having died in the community in 1713.131 The Memorbuch was a written record of the community, and only those with hezkat kahal were admitted. Marital status was another significant factor determining inclusion. It was upon a man’s marriage that he was permitted financial independence and communal honors.132 Those who never married were excluded from the official community record, no matter their age or what family they were from. Hayyim Fürth, who was referred to with the honorific title haver (conferred on adult men

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of stature), was also referred to as a bahur; he was unmarried but clearly no longer a young adult.133 Despite the communal recognition he had attained, he was excluded from the memorial book. Unmarried women were never included in the official Memorbuch. In Jewish and in many Christian communities, they were deemed to be low status.134 It was not that unmarried men and women were not memorialized; indeed, even the tombstones of those who had died in their youth recalled their good deeds.135 Rather, the Memorbuch was not the place to memorialize these individuals, as it was a record documenting a particular segment of the community, and not everyone had the right to be included among its leaves.

Inclusion in Other Memorbücher Although we do not have a copy of the Memorbuch from Altona, the takkanot regulating its use suggest that its contents were similar: “[With regard] to memorializing the dead, it is incumbent upon the community leadership to make a new pinkas in which to inscribe all the souls and memorialize them for good. It will be written by a scribe, all the men and their wives who had hezkat kehillah in Altona from the day it was founded onward.”136 As was the case in Frankfurt, only married community members were to be inscribed. Because we do not have a copy of the Memorbuch, we cannot be certain that these principles were followed in practice. The takkanot from Altona permitted the communal leadership, in conjunction with the rabbi, to omit the name of anyone “who committed an improper act.”137 Yet it is difficult to know whether this was implemented. In Frankfurt, several community members were involved in scandals but were nevertheless recorded for posterity as honorable members of the kehillah.138 This reinforces the notion that the Memorbuch was a consciously crafted document, intended to confer prestige, and that family members could, after one’s death, erase even notorious disgraces for posterity. The meticulous effort that went into crafting the official Memorbuch in Frankfurt is elucidated through a comparison with the memorial book used in Frankfurt’s hekdesh synagogue.139 Standards for inclusion in the latter text were more relaxed than those used to determine who might be inserted into the formal community tome. In the smaller subcommunity of the hekdesh synagogue, a handful of unmarried men and women, referred to as bahur, na‘ar (youth), and betulah, appear.140 These individuals are all excluded from the official communal Memorbuch; nevertheless, they were remembered in the synagogues in which

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they and their families prayed. Yet in the case of three youths who were listed, family members who outlived them did not donate on their behalf; the entries record each of the young men as having donated some amount to charity while still living. While the smaller community within the synagogue permitted memorializing certain young men and women, probably those of a higher class, it does not seem to have been customary to donate on their behalf.141 Similarly, in the smaller circle of this synagogue, women were occasionally recorded as having donated on behalf of a deceased relative. For example, a mother donated on behalf of her son; a wife donated on behalf of her husband; and a daughter donated on behalf of her mother.142 While the dominant trend was to use the generic term “heirs,” it was within the synagogue book rather than in the official communal record that female donations were noted in a context other than the larger familial one. The historical circumstances surrounding Frankfurt’s Memorbuch and its reconstruction are unique, so it is difficult to be certain whether the same principles of inclusion and exclusion were at work in Worms. Some patterns are the same. For example, the charity logbook refers to four individuals who died on the same day in 1636. Of those, only one woman, the widowed Treinlin bat Eliezer Sussman, was included in the Memorbuch. The other three, two children and a “virgin,” were not included.143 Juspe Schammes indicated that it was customary not to include unmarried men or women in the Memorbuch: “If the deceased is single, whether a bahur or betulah, one pays the costs of burial, no more than twenty-one batzen, and one does not inscribe their name in the Memorbuch at all.”144 In practice, there seems to have been flexibility in Worms when it came to including in the Memorbuch young unmarried men of a certain social standing. Three unmarried men (listed as bahur) were nevertheless included in the Memorbuch. One, Abraham ben Aaron Stern, was likely young; his father donated on his behalf upon his death in 1744.145 The two others were donated for by their brothers, so it is difficult to ascertain at what age each died. Each of the latter two deceased men was son of a powerful parnas. Hirsh, who died in 1736, was the son of Itzik Blin; Eliezer, who died that same year, was the son of Shimon Wolf Oppenheim.146 Given that no other men appear as ha-bahur, it is likely that whereas single men were technically excluded, exceptions were made for these men, who came from the highest class. No unmarried women appear in the Memorbuch. The requirement that one hold hezkat kahal may have been more relaxed in Worms, where, unlike in Frankfurt, it was easier to acquire that status.147 Indeed, thirty-two individuals were included in the Worms Memorbuch on account of

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their ser vice to the community in some capacity, whether as rabbis, sextons, can­ tors, and even melamdim. Since it is unlikely that all these individuals acquired hezkat kahal, it seems that the community in Worms permitted those whom it saw as connected to the kehillah to be inscribed in the Memorbuch. Several entries suggest that those who were “entitled” to be inscribed in the memorial book were recorded even if they could not pay. For example, the el­ derly Shimon ben Jacob ha­Kohen Kallstadt was inscribed in the book without any donation; he was simply described as pleasant.148 The elderly Shlomo ben Shimon was entered into the book without him or his heirs making any pay­ ment; a communal leader, Shimon Wolf Wertheim, donated on his behalf. It is unclear whether Shlomo and Shimon had any familial relationship; none is recorded.149 Several individuals inscribed in the Worms Memorbuch did not reside in Worms, although they were among its primary donors, and some held hezkat kahal there. Thus, David Oppenheim, chief rabbi of Prague, and his wife, Gnendel, were each listed in the two versions of the Memorbuch in use at the time of Oppen­ heim’s death in 1736.150 Oppenheim’s family retained property in Worms and hezkat kahal in the community.151 Shinkhen bat Judah ha­Levi had moved to Jerusalem, yet had established a charitable fund in Worms; she, too, was memorial­ ized, as were R. Treitlin and R. Shlomo, who had set up charitable funds in three cities.152 Miriam and Leib (Judah) Sinzheim, who sponsored the building of the beyt midrash, lived in Vienna; they were included individually and in the misheberakh with which the Memorbuch manuscript for that prayer group began. The inclusion of those who were connected to the community, whether legally or finan­ cially, marks the Memorbuch as a record of how the kehillah saw itself. This paral­ lels early modern church necrologies, which often included individuals who had contributed to a community, regardless of their whereabouts, and sometimes, in the wake of the Protestant Reformation, regardless of their current confessional affiliation. For example, the reformer Martin Bucer was included in the church necrology of Saint Thomas in Strasbourg, where he had served as parish priest, not­ withstanding that it was a Catholic book prescribing rites in which he did not believe.153 Similarly, the Worms Memorbuch included those individuals who had contributed to communal institutions, rendering them part of the kahal. The differences between Frankfurt and Worms track the policies that de­ termined membership in each kehillah. As we have seen, the former’s policies for inclusion were more restrictive, both in life and death. The latter’s more relaxed policies widened its circle, including in the Memorbuch. Viewing the Memorbuch as a portable cemetery is an apt metaphor. Similar to the burial grounds, in which

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the placement of a grave could reflect the status that the deceased held in life, these texts reflected the values of the community by excluding some, including others, and grouping those who were included in meaningful patterns.154

Records and Community The Memorbücher and the pinkas Eretz Israel document the donating communities as their scribes and leaders chose to portray them. Official memorial books were consciously designed to document the community and its history on a large scale. Yet even relatively minor records like the pinkas Eretz Israel, which served a highly utilitarian function, played a similar role, preserving the contributions of the community’s wealthiest members. The three texts analyzed in this chapter difer from one another; some belong to diferent genres, and each reflects the particularities of the kehillah in which it was written. Nevertheless, each was composed deliberately, and the decisions about whom to include and how they were written down, as well as who was omitted or obscured from the official records, reveal much about how the leaders of the community perceived their respective kehillot. Hezkat kahal and marital status were often used to determine who was included; gender, kin, and class often determined how an individual and his or her contribution were recognized. Over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, familial prestige was often secured by recording family members’ contributions. The impact that this had on record-keeping was to obscure the contributions, and sometimes the remembrance, of many women and most never-married individuals, other than those who, by virtue of their class, were awarded special mention.

epilogue

Charity Across Borders

In July 1581, the charity collectors of Worms pledged to transfer three gulden and fifteen batzen to Elimelekh ben Joseph Sagi Nahor, an emissary from the Holy Land who was visiting Germany. This sum was taken from the fund for mahatzit ha-shekel, monies collected for the poor on Purim, and was to be transferred to Sagi Nahor by Moses Luria, a communal leader from Worms. At that time, Luria was apparently in Frankfurt, where the emissary had been staying. Yet following some inquiries, this purported emissary from Safed was revealed to be an imposter. The gabbaim of Worms corresponded with the communal authorities in Frankfurt after the latter notified them of the fraud. Since Luria had not yet transferred the sum to the charlatan, the Worms gabbaim instructed the parnassim of Frankfurt to distribute the money to poor girls in their own community who were in need of a dowry.1 Although much of this book examines the development of public charity in three distinct local contexts, Jewish public charity also had a transregional dimension. This book began with the tale of a refugee from Wilno who sold communal artifacts to the Frankfurt Jewish community. We have already seen, moreover, that individual transient poor attempted to enter various communities to seek alms and that male and female youths from smaller Jewish communities sought employment in larger ones. Yet this phenomenon also existed on a collective level, as Jewish communities sought financial support from one another across boundaries. Records from Altona detail the visits of various representatives from Berlin, Krakow, Turkheim, Wilhelmsdorf, and other locations who sought assistance, including funding for the construction of synagogues in their home communities.2 In Altona-Hamburg, messengers sometimes appealed to both the Ashkenazic and the Portuguese communities for aid.3 On one occa-

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sion, representatives from the Sephardic community in Jerusalem approached the Ashkenazic community in Altona-Hamburg for donations; they likely approached the Portuguese community as well, because the emissary traveled from Hamburg to London, home to another Portuguese community.4 Transregional aspects of Jewish charity were often supervised and managed by Jewish communal leaders who were in contact with one another, sharing ideas and information, as the Frankfurt magistrates did with those of Worms when Sagi Nahor fraudulently posed as a rabbinic emissary in the sixteenth century. These intercommunal connections between leaders persisted into the eighteenth century and beyond. On a small slip of paper dated 1746, Hamburg’s parnassim recorded that emissaries from Neuwied had come to Hamburg asking for help constructing a synagogue. Hamburg’s parnassim debated whether these emissaries were trustworthy, and ultimately decided that the request was legitimate because the emissaries carried with them pinkassim in which Frankfurt’s communal authorities had agreed to support their cause. Frankfurt was just over 100 kilometers from Neuwied, while Hamburg was over 400 kilometers away. The judgment of Frankfurt’s communal authorities—documented, as always, in a record book—was essential to the decision rendered in Hamburg.5 These appeals sometimes went beyond the official community collective and directly solicited a select group of individual community members for donations, as exemplified by a small six-page Yiddish pamphlet printed between 1650 and 1655, likely in Frankfurt.6 Brought to the empire by Shmuel ha-Levi, it comprised a solicitation from women in Jerusalem who sought monetary aid from women in Germany and Poland.7 The pamphlet described an impoverished Jerusalem in which holy books had been sold to pay taxes. According to the authors, these larger financial woes had left women and orphans in dire straits. The women claimed that it was nearly impossible to gather funds for a dowry, even for women of illustrious pedigree, such as the descendants of Isaac Luria. Appealing to their European sisters, they pleaded that the women set up a kuppah for the widows and orphaned girls of Jerusalem. They asked that female gabbaot be appointed to run this fund, instructing that these funds “should not be mingled with the charity funds designated for the men of Jerusalem, which they customarily receive every year, for this is our portion to mitigate our shame and humiliation.”8 Like all forms of transregional giving, this letter leveraged tangible and perceived connections between donors and recipients in order to raise funds across distances.9 The obligation that Jews in Europe and elsewhere felt toward Jews of the Holy Land stemmed from a sense of connection to a sacred space, history,

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and religion. Therefore, many solicitations seeking alms for Jews from the Holy Land stressed the land’s hallowed topography. The women’s letter, like many other contemporary solicitations, included a list of graves of holy men and women, as well as a prayer that could be recited at the Western Wall.10 In addition, by writing their letter in Yiddish, the spoken language of Ashkenazic Jews in various diasporas, the women were unmistakably signaling that they belonged to the same larger community as their potential donors.11 Indicating a common place of origin was also meant to motivate the women of Europe to give. When signing their names, several of these Ashkenazic women from Jerusalem listed the place from which they had emigrated, including Prague, Lublin, Brody, and Buda.12 This was by no means the only occasion on which the shared ethnic and geographic roots of the two Ashkenazic communities were highlighted to induce donations.13 Indeed, during the seventeenth century, rabbis issued a special ruling permitting Ashkenazim from Europe to direct their donations to the Holy Land solely to the Ashkenazic community, as opposed to the Sephardic one.14 When Ashkenazim across borders used their shared (if broadly defined) place of origin as a tie encouraging donation, they were mirroring on a transregional scale that which was normative on the local level: giving to those from one’s own community. Ethnic lines determined who would receive support when there were more poor needing care than funds available. If it was a priority to donate to local worthy poor, the next priority was to donate to an extended ethnic group. One might imagine a series of expanding concentric circles in which charity was donated to worthy and needy recipients who had connections to and claims on the donors. Charity was similarly organized according to ethnic affiliation in other communities in early modern Europe. Just as the Jews from Germany and Poland preferred to donate to Ashkenazim in the Holy Land, so too did Portuguese Jews tend to give more support to their kin, both conversos who had returned to Judaism, and those who remained Christian.15 The same was true among certain Christian communities. Sixteenth-century Emden, for example, was home to both French- and Dutch-speaking Reformed refugees, and poor relief was organized along ethnic and linguistic lines. Since the Dutch-speaking refugees spoke a dialect similar to that of the local Reformed population, they were able to join the existing congregations. They nevertheless established a separate poor relief fund for foreign Dutch poor, as foreigners were not to be supported by local charitable institutions.16 The French-speaking Reformed, who were linguistically other, maintained a separate congregation and a separate poor relief

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system.17 In another example, the Greek confraternity in sixteenth-century Ancona supported all Greek refugees in the city who were in need.18 The women also leveraged more abstract forms of identity, such as gender, to highlight the bonds between the two communities of women: Women, worthy womenfolk who do the will of the Lord with love, esteemed daughters who are praiseworthy for piety and modesty, as well as good family; whose hands do many mitzvot and acts of charity; who take great care in the three precepts that they were commanded to observe, niddah [menstrual purity], hallah [removing a portion when baking bread], and candle lighting [on Sabbath eve], as well as other commandments that they have inherited from their great matriarchs, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah . . . great women with willing hearts who are to be found in the holy dispersion of Germany [Ashkenaz] and Poland and throughout the world . . . all those who are wise enough to search the book of God on their own.19 References to the matriarchs, to the women’s commandments, and to modesty as a virtue are clear indications of the use of gender to connect author and reader. The women of Jerusalem further requested that the women of Europe collect funds on specific days that were traditionally linked to women, including the new moon. Moreover, the text refers to life-cycle events. Wishing the potential donors well, the authors wrote that “their eyes should see nothing evil, they should not become widows or lose children, may they have only joy and great happiness and peace and health.”20 The women of Jerusalem also highlight life-cycle events as opportunities for donation: “And all those who are pregnant and those who are close to giving birth, when they scream in pain as they sit on the birthing stool, when they cry out to God, they should remember us, the widows and orphan girls of Jerusalem, so that God will let you merit to see the weddings of your children. . . . At that time, she should separate from her money and her goods and the things she holds most dear as a donation to God, for the widows and orphan girls of Jerusalem.”21 The women of Jerusalem wanted funding for dowries; they asked for donations during childbirth; they also promised that as a reward, women would witness the marriage of their children. These moments and worries, common to women regardless of where they lived, were meant to underscore why European women should donate to the women of Jerusalem.

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The women of Jerusalem further encouraged the European women to give by promising something in return: “Every eve of a new moon, we women, young and old, orphans and poor virgins, . . . we will go to the tomb of the matriarchs and patriarchs [lit., the double cave, me‘arat ha-makhpelah], where our matriarchs lie . . . and will pray with copious tears that God should fulfill all your wishes, and if you wish to forward your names to us, particularly those of the pious collectors of the alms, we will remember and mention them in our prayers.”22 The women’s petition thus ofers to exchange one devotional act (charity) in exchange for another: prayer. As with the public charity discussed throughout this book, it was understood that by supporting the poor, the donors were acquiring something for themselves—in this instance, being mentioned in prayers on a monthly basis at one of the holiest Jewish sites. Gender-based giving continued well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when more than 160 women’s benevolent associations operated in German lands.23 The parallels between the women’s letter and what we have seen in this book speak to a set of shared cultural norms, including the notion that charity could be rewarded with prayer. Similarly, the Ashkenazic women from the Holy Land saw being unmarried as a mark of indignity and marriage as a mark of honor— in some sense, echoing the letters brought by itinerant beggars asking for help procuring a dowry.24 These shared cultural frames further linked the ethnic communities of Ashkenazim living in diferent regions. While the letter from the women of Jerusalem made conscious literary use of the bonds connecting the two communities, the establishment of a special collection created concrete associations between Jews living in diferent regions. A designated fund comprising women’s donations for the widows and orphans in Hebron, much like the one requested by the women of Jerusalem, was established in Altona-Hamburg in the 1680s.25 In the pinkas Eretz Israel written by men, the women’s cofer in Altona was placed under communal and male oversight. This letter, by contrast, in which women appointed their own emissary and sought female oversight over the collection, may provide an alternate view that is suggestive of how women viewed their own charitable activities. Although the formal records, including pinkassim and Memorbücher, over time obscured women’s independent gifts, women may have perceived their rituals of charity, whether through collections or in the synagogue, through a diferent lens, akin to the separate female sphere in which the women of Jerusalem aspired to collect funds.26 Emissaries from the Holy Land such as Shmuel ha-Levi, who regularly visited European cities to collect funds that had been accruing in the designated

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cofer, served as another connection between the two communities. Increasingly formal networks were established to transfer the money collected in western Europe to Jews of the Holy Land. Frankfurt, Metz, Prague, Vienna, Venice, Livorno, Amsterdam, Lviv, and Wilno were centers for forwarding money east during this period, and the Jews of Constantinople took on a coordinating role by the eighteenth century.27 During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, some of the powerful court Jews took a central role in collecting and transferring charity to the Holy Land. A number of them, including Samson Wertheim and his in-law David Oppenheim, were even granted official titles such as “Prince of the Land of Israel,” acknowledging and rewarding their involvement in this endeavor.28 The network’s success was built on the trust between these court Jews and their contacts.29 After the formal status of the kehillah was disbanded in the wake of emancipation, voluntary associations and the work of prominent philanthropists became the primary vehicle for caring for Jewish poor.30 Therefore, the formal and informal networks that had been established earlier and that connected Jewish communities to one another were essential to the philanthropic activities of the nineteenth century. Yet from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, Jewish public charity was firmly centered within the Jewish community, and many of the transregional gifts were likewise controlled by parnassim and gabbaim. Communal control of public charity placed men in charge; women, while active, were not always independently recognized, and their activities were frequently supervised and curtailed.31 In the nineteenth century, by contrast, when charity was no longer controlled by the community but was instead managed by benevolent associations and philanthropists, charity came to be viewed as a more feminine activity on both sides of the Atlantic.32 The extent of the informal and formal transregional systems of financial support across the Jewish world seems to have been somewhat distinctive. Although other diasporic communities built charitable networks across regions, these did not compare in scope with Jewish charity networks.33 For example, there were attempts to fundraise broadly among Protestants on behalf of Huguenot refugees after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.34 In another example, a chain of Misericórdia, institutions granting poor relief, was established across the Portuguese empire.35 Transregional Jewish charitable networks, by contrast, comprised a vast number of communities that gave to and consulted with one another regarding gifts, large and small. They recognized one another’s documentation and issued receipts to one another, as exemplified in the funds collected in Altona in the 1740s, transferred to the Jews of Safed via a

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gabbay stationed in Frankfurt (see Figure  5  in Chapter  2).36 These contacts intensified between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries and constitute a Jewish experience common to diferent geographic regions.37 Jewish public charity was thus a phenomenon with transregional, regional, and local dimensions. Although the wide charitable networks established by the eighteenth century linked Jewish communities in Europe, the Middle East, and the Americas, the practice of charity took on distinctive regional features. Jewish charity in the Ottoman Empire was influenced by contemporary Muslim Ottoman forms of charity such as the waqf; the diferent perceptions of the female poor held by European and Ottoman Jews constitute another excellent example of the role that regional social norms played in the development of poor relief.38 In addition, while public charity in Ashkenazic communities in eastern and western Europe had far more in common with each other than they did with the Jewish system of poor relief in the Ottoman Empire, distinctions can nevertheless be made between east and west. For example, in the German communities surveyed here, each official maintained separate ledgers and records that were cross-referenced and audited. The same seems to have been true in other large urban communities in the west.39 In late eighteenth-century Fürth, for example, communal takkanot refer to several types of pinkassim; every type of communal official was directed to keep such a logbook.40 By contrast, data on public charity in larger eastern European Jewish communities were frequently recorded in the larger pinkas kahal, the main communal logbook.41 The use of records and the creation of a paper trail was one of the main tools for regulating poor relief adopted by the Jewish communities examined in this book. Receipts, audits, ledgers, and balance sheets were utilized to guarantee that pledges were paid. Slips of paper, signed solicitation letters, records of rabbinic signatures, and logbooks of officials were used to safeguard against fraud and to ensure that the correct and worthy poor received what they were due. Additional formal communal records recognized donors for their generosity by awarding them with prestige. This culture of recording every thing is a feature of public charity in early modern Jewish communities in western Ashkenaz and continued well into the nineteenth century. Inscribed on the initial few folios of the Worms Memorbuch kept in the Rashi beyt midrash, for example, was a gift of silver for the Torah scroll from Abraham Stern, donated in 1824. The entry records the donation as well as Stern’s exhortation that the item was not to be removed from that synagogue. “And my signature,” he wrote, “will testify as if it were one hundred valid witnesses.” An additional witness signed to validate Stern’s signature.42

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Writing something down in the permanent communal record constituted a solemn act in German Jewish communities. This too was part of a broader phenomenon of record-keeping, reflecting the growing sense that documents were authoritative in early modern Europe.43 Choosing not to record was also a matter of significance. Thus, Leib Segal of Frankfurt was memorialized as a modest man, so much so that he had forbidden his family from recording any praise of him in the Memorbuch in his synagogue.44 Similarly, Fromet, daughter of Tevele Schif, was remembered as having done so many good deeds that they could not be reduced to paper.45 The particular cultural significance of records in Ashkenazic communities is attested to in a printed solicitation seeking funds for the Jews of Tiberias, brought by an emissary named Masoud Bonan to “Ashkenaz” in 1748–1749.46 Two other contemporaneous handwritten solicitations that Bonan brought to the Jews of Pisa and the Jews of Sanguinetto respectively are also extant.47 The two letters to Italian Jews are almost identical to one another. Each stresses the dire need in Tiberias as well as the imperative to donate due to the sacred nature of the Holy Land; the letter to Pisa uses a few additional honorifics to refer to local rabbis. The letter to Germany difers in both content and form and includes reasons that donors should contribute.48 First, the letter stresses that both Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews in Tiberias were in need, highlighting once again the ethnic motivations to give. Moreover, the letter explicitly refers to the practice of individual men and women signing their pledges in a pinkas. Pointing to entries in a pinkas as a means for individuals to express piety and prestige was intended to encourage men and women to donate. Although pinkassim were certainly maintained in Italy, neither letter soliciting funds from Italian Jewish communities refers to the practice of recording pledges in a pinkas. Moreover, while the two Italian letters were handwritten, the letter to Ashkenaz was a printed broadsheet.49 Such a document would be displayed in a public space, such as a synagogue or courtyard, and thus such references might encourage an individual to donate. The decision to refer to the pinkas as an impetus to encourage Ashkenazic donors to give, yet to omit the reference when pursuing Italian contributions, suggests that Jews of the Holy Land were well aware of local nuances in how charity was collected, managed, and, most importantly, perceived. Their choice to refer to the culture of the pinkas reflects the symbolic importance that records had for German Jews, as well as their tendency to view signatures in a pinkas as binding and, in this case, honorable.50 Jewish public charity in Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek, Frankfurt, and Worms shared additional features. These communities employed similar mechanisms for

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appointing officials and had common expectations of what a charity collector’s job entailed. Institutions such as the hekdesh developed similarly, albeit at different paces. Communal leaders adopted comparable policies, regulating synagogue practice and public behavior to increase what was collected in the charity cofers. They also utilized similar social criteria to assess one’s standing. Being a married resident with hezkat kahal assured one of belonging to the community, and economic class conferred further prestige. The laboring poor fared better than those without legal status or employment. The not-insignificant percentage of Jews who remained single were eligible for financial support if need be, but were more often than not excluded from communal honors and records in life and after death. Gender, marital status, economic status and geographic origin (and to a lesser degree, age) were categories used to demarcate status and forge bonds in contemporary Christian communities as well. Both Catholic and Protestant communities emphasized marital status as fundamental to economic and civic responsibilities. Gift giving became a vehicle for familial prestige, and women’s gifts were subsumed into larger family gifts. Christian single women were seen as belonging to the bottom rung of society. The itinerant poor were seen as unworthy, and institutions were established to provide employment for and house the “worthy” poor who were fit for labor. These parallels among Jews and Christians strongly suggest that the specific character of public charity in early modern Germany was very much a reflection of regional cultural influences. Yet a close examination of Jewish public charity reveals that particular, localized circumstances likewise afected the need for and distribution of support in each of the three communities. Geographic location deeply afected the number and type of the poor. The ports of Altona and Hamburg attracted many laborers in the eighteenth century. The fair in Frankfurt brought trade and travelers to the city. The smaller city of Worms did not have comparable migration; yet its location on the border with France led to its besiegement several times during this period, resulting in an uptick in local poverty. Spaces within the community also shaped some of the rites of giving. In the enclosed space of the Judengassen in Frankfurt and Worms, prosperous and indigent neighbors shared houses on one small street. Rituals demarcating the wealthy and the poor therefore took on special significance in Worms and Frankfurt, as they drew class distinctions between neighbors. Moreover, local policies, both Jews and Christian, shaped communal demographics and systems of poor relief. Worms, for example, had a far more flexible policy of granting newcomers hezkat kahal, for as a smaller community in a

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smaller city, its magistrates did not regulate the Jewish population as intensely as the magistrates of Frankfurt did. In Frankfurt, where the city closely monitored and regulated the presence of foreign Jews, it was far more difficult to extend aid to the itinerant poor. In Altona-Hamburg, the Jewish community had to comply with a newly emerging civic plan for poor relief, designed to deal with the flocks of migrants immigrating to Hamburg in search of work. The concrete policies enacted by Hamburg’s senate shaped guidelines for poor relief, taxation, and synagogue rituals in the Ashkenazic community. Indeed, many aspects of Jewish public charity parallel Christian developments for the simple reason that Jews were complying with magisterial policies enacted to regulate both the Jewish and the Christian poor. Christian magistrates delegated the execution of their policies to Jewish communal leaders. The manner in which these policies were implemented in the Jewish community was likely shaped by the experiences of Jewish communal leaders from other locales, who may already have had experience applying new laws about begging to their kehillot. Policies of poor relief adopted by the Jewish community were thus shaped by regional as well as local factors. The support that they provided reached local and transregional recipients. In early modern Europe, new ideas about caring for the poor emerged, beginning in the sixteenth century with the Protestant Reformation and continuing into the eighteenth century, when policies regulating the poor through labor and banning begging were advanced and efected in large cities. New structures, institutions, and bureaucracies were designed to regulate the swelling number of poor in Christian and Jewish communities alike. Central elements common to public poor relief in Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish communities included distinguishing among the poor, prioritizing care, and employing and caring for those who were worthy. Documentation—whether in the form of receipts, audits, records of pledges, or identification of the poor—became an essential tool for building and navigating the new systems of poor relief in each community. Raising funds to accomplish these goals required significant financial investment. In Christian communities, this was often handled by the state. In Jewish communities, charity was handled by communal leaders, who were in dialogue with one another and with the political authorities. The ethical enterprise of caring for the poor was balanced throughout this period with very practical concerns that forced communities to select which poor would receive what degree of aid. Because public charity was an expression of communal leaders’ priorities, it gives us insight into the values and hierarchies that shaped daily life in Jewish

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communities. The metrics of gender, marital status, class, and geographic origin were used to determine who was to receive support; these categories were also employed in determining how donors would be recognized both in communal ceremonies and registers. This is because public charity granted aid to the poor and simultaneously conferred heavenly merit and earthly prestige on the donors through both public ritual and written record.

appendix

Foreign Jews in Frankfurt’s Judengasse, 1694

Note: The archival record lists the foreigners in the order that the inspector visited the houses on the street. I have instead opted to organize the list according to the category of the foreigner, in order to provide insight into the diferent types of foreigners that were in the Judengasse. Please note that some houses included more than one foreign individual or family. The duration of their stay is as reported at the time of the visit.

Number of People

2 2 2

2 2 2 2

2

2 2

2

2 3

6

Category

Couple Couple Couple

Couple Couple Couple Couple

Couple

Couple Couple

Couple

Couple Couple

Family

Married couple + 4 children; he is Oppenheim’s scribe

Couple from Palatinate Employ a maid

Couple from Hesse

Couple from Bochenheim who are sick Couple from Worms

Couple from Rumpelum

Couple from Heidelberg Guard and his wife

Couple from Hesse

Couple from Mainz Couple from Heidelberg Guard and his wife

Details

Table A.1. List of Foreign Jews in Frankfurt’s Judengasse on February 22, 1694

1 year Long-term residents without Stättigkeit

6 weeks

1.5 years

1 year 6 weeks Long-term residents without Stättigkeit 2 years 15 years 3 years 30 years (long-term residents without Stättigkeit) 2 years

Duration of Stay (if known)

Yes

Yes

Explicitly Referred to as Poor

Grüne Trauben

Schwarze Schild Gülden Eul Gülden Einhorn Gülden Einhorn Sperber Glock

Feigenbaum Rastenbaum Rastenbaum Spitze Demant

Enge Thür Güldenstetz Tannenbaum

House Name

Number of People

6

12

4

5 4

3 3

3 3 3

4

4 4 3 4 3 4 3

3

Category

Family

Family

Family

Family Family

Family Family

Family Family Family

Family

Family Family Family Family Family Family Family

Family

Table A.1. (Continued)

5 months 2 years 2 years 2 years 6 months 1 year 3 years 2 years 2 years

Married couple from Worms + 2 children Married couple from Worms + 2 children Married schoolteacher from Worms + 1 child Married couple from Heidelberg + 2 children Married schoolteacher from Worms + 1 child Married cantor from Worms + 2 children Married schoolteacher from Worms + 1 child

Married schoolteacher from Homburg + 1 child

3 years Long-term residents without Stättigkeit 3 years 4 months 3 years

4 years 2 years

4 years

4 years

1 year

Married couple from Wiessenlock + 2 children

Married couple from Worms + 1 child Married couple + 1 child from Assler Married couple from Worms + 1 child

Married couple from Worms + 3 children Married house trader from Palatinate (Wachenheim) + 2 children Married couple + 18-year-old son Married guard + 15-year-old son who is a Spielman

2 married couples from Worms + 4 children (total from both families) 2 married schoolteachers from Worms + 8 children (total from both families) Married couple from Mannheim + 2 children

Details

Duration of Stay (if known)

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Explicitly Referred to as Poor

Vorder Schül Gülden Helm Rindskopf Güldenkopf Gülden Schlachtel Gülden Schlachtel Haas Wetterhaan Wildemann Rothe Hirsch Hindin Grüne Wald Gülden Schwerdt Weisse Ross

Vorder Strauss Hep Hinter Schül

Rothe Trauben Rothe Schild

House Name

4

2 1 1

1

1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1

Family

Family Man Man

Man

Man Man Man

Man

Man Man Woman

Woman Woman

Category

Number of People

Table A.1. (Continued)

Married woman from Worms, whose husband works elsewhere

Old man from Emden Old man from Vienna Woman from Palatinate

Teacher

Man from Bingen Man from Worms; water carrier Jew named Joseph Cassel

Man from Worms

Married couple + 2 children from Heusenstamm; he sells etrogim Woman and her son Single man living in home of a widow Man from Worms

Details

1 year 14 years 2 years; plans to stay another half-year 6 weeks 4 years

1 year

1.5 years 3 years Long-term resident without Stättigkeit

3 years

1 year 6 years 3 years

2 years

Duration of Stay (if known)

Yes Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Explicitly Referred to as Poor

Weisse Hirsch Gülden Huth

Sperber Enge Thür Schwarze Rapp Spitze Demant Gülden Adler Gülden Pfau No house listed. Lives with the Jew Löw. Schwarze Rapp Hinterstrauss Drach Güldenschaf

Hinterhelm

House Name

Married daughter and son-in-law from Heidelberg, residing with her parents Son, 19, from Amsterdam, visiting for his wedding

1

2

Woman

Relatives of Frankfurt Jews Relatives of Frankfurt Jews Relatives of Frankfurt Jews Student Student Student Teacher Youth Youth TOTAL

Student from Worms Student from Würzburg Student from Halberstadt Teacher from Poland Poor youth residing with teacher from Poland Youth from Hanau

Widow from Mainz

Source: Based on ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1–2

1 1 1 1 1 1 143 foreigners

1

Widower residing with his daughter; he is sick

1

Woman

Widow from Deutz

1

Category

Details

Number of People

Table A.1. (Continued)

6 weeks 1 year 1 year 5 weeks 5 weeks 1 year

6 weeks

Long-term resident without Stättigkeit 12 weeks

Many years

15 years

Duration of Stay (if known)

31 explicitly referred to as poor

Yes

Explicitly Referred to as Poor

Fröliche Mann Gülden Apfel Gülden Arch Weisse Becher Rothe Apfel Rothe Apfel Rindfuss

Weisse Leiter

Gülden Hirsch Gülden Hirsch Elefant

House Name

notes

The following abbreviations are used in the notes: AJS Association for Jewish Studies CAHJP Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People CJH Center for Jewish History ISG Institut für Stadtgeschichte (Frankfurt am Main) JTSA Jewish Theological Seminary of America LBI Leo Baeck Institute NLI JER National Library of Israel (Jerusalem)

introduction 1. Most Jews did not return to Wilno until 1661. See Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors, 290– 91, 304. 2. Lazer also brought with him another curtain for the ark, embroidered in gold, valued at forty-five reichsthaler, as well six silver and golden bells for the Torah scroll, valued at fifty-two reichsthaler. All these items were sold to the Frankfurt community for use on festivals. 3. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 270. 4. Ibid. 5. On the connection between kin and gift giving, see Ben-Amos, The Culture of Giving. 6. Mauss, The Gift; Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France; Algazi, Groebner, and Jussen, Negotiating the Gift; Silber, “Bourdieu’s Gift to Gift Theory.” 7. As is discussed in Chap. 1, this belief dates back to the Second Temple period. For examples of early modern wills that included instructions for such charitable acts, see the will of David Oppenheim, in Oppenheim, She’elot u-teshuvot nishal David, 3:197–98. See also the many examples of wills brought before the rabbinical court in eighteenth-century Frankfurt, in which such practices were documented. For two examples, see Fram, A Window on Their World, nos. 119, 140. 8. On performance and gift giving, see Silber, “Le don comme ‘jeu profond.’ ” 9. Zimmer, “The Custom of Matnat Yad.” 10. NLI JER, MS 4° 656, fol. 2r. 11. This is discussed in greater detail in Chap. 3. 12. See the recent work of Maren Ehlers, who has used poverty as a lens for understanding the reciprocal relationships between the government and diferent social strata in Japan from the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries. Ehlers, Give and Take, 32. 13. G. Anderson, Charity, 8–11.

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14. See Davis, “Poor Relief, Humanism, and Heresy,” in Society and Culture in Early Modern France, 17–64; Pullan, Poverty and Charity; Cavallo, Charity and Power in Early Modern Italy. 15. Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World, 220. 16. For similar approaches to the entanglement of Jewish and Christian communities in premodern Europe, see Baumgarten, Karras, and Mesler, eds., Entangled Histories; D. Kaplan, “Entangled Negotiations.” 17. Weber, Economy and Society, 587–90. 18. For a summary of later scholarship, see Safley, The Reformation of Charity, 1–4. See also Grell, “The Protestant Imperative of Christian Care.” 19. Brian Pullan sees this as a Catholic approach of a “lesser evil for a greater good.” He contrasts this with the “sterner” approach of Protestants toward charity and its institutions. See Pullan, “Catholics, Protestants, and the Poor in Early Modern Europe,” 451–52. 20. For example, nuns who were in theory to be enclosed remained active in Catholic charities. See Diefendorf, From Penitence to Charity; Dinan, Women and Charity in Early Modern France. 21. On discipline, see Foucault, Discipline and Punish. 22. R. Jütte, Poverty and Deviance, 106–7. 23. Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World, 240. 24. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers. 25. R. Jütte, Poverty and Deviance, 1–2. In Emden, for example, Protestant institutions in the sixteenth century perpetuated elements of Catholic relief from the pre-Reformation period. Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, 272–75. 26. Mollat, The Poor in the Middle Ages, 9. 27. Rubin, Charity and Community in Medieval Cambridge; Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers; Wandel, Always Among Us; Safley, Charity and Economy in Early Modern Augsburg; Farmer, Surviving Poverty in Medieval Paris; Brown, “Remembering the Poor and the Aesthetic of Society”; Singer, Charities in Islamic Society. 28. de Swaan, In Care of the State, 27–30. 29. On the local nature of poor reform, see Wandel, Always Among Us, 12–14. 30. See Chrisman, “Urban Poor in the Sixteenth Century,” 59–67. 31. Lynch, Individuals, Families and Communities in Europe, 1200–1800, 103.

chapter 1 1. Schudt, Jüdische Merckwürdigkeiten, 2:429. 2. Similar arguments have been extended for understanding the ghetto in early modern Italy. See Bonfil, Jewish Life in Early Modern Italy, 212. See also Stefanie Siegmund’s work on Florence, which demonstrates that the ghetto led to increased communal control and fewer opportunities for women. Siegmund, The Medici State, 246–73. 3. For late eighteenth-century Metz, see Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice. 4. Gotzmann, “At Home in Many Worlds?,” 413–36. 5. On the fair during the Middle Ages, see Rothmann, Die Frankfurter Messen in Mittelalter. 6. Kracauer, Geschichte der Juden in Frankfurt am Main (1150–1824), 1:7–10. 7. On the medieval Jewish neighborhood, see ibid., 1:4. 8. Backhaus, “Die Einrichtung eines Ghettos für die Frank furter Juden.”

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175

9. See Raspe, “Die Lebensbedingungen des Ghettos in der jüdischen Brauchtumsliteratur der Frühen Neuzeit.” 10. Backhaus, “The Population Explosion in the Frankfurt Judengasse.” The third gate was constructed after the fire in 1711. 11. Nicholas Terpstra has linked isolating minority populations to the Reformation period. See Terpstra, Religious Refugees, 133–83. 12. For a detailed timeline of the Reformation in Frankfurt, see Hock, “Reformation in der Reichsstadt.” 13. Ibid., 11. 14. Soliday, A Community in Conflict, 34–37. 15. Backhaus, “The Population Explosion in the Frankfurt Judengasse.” See the map on p. 35, which indicated the places from which Jews migrated to Frankfurt. 16. Ibid., 32. 17. Treue, “Jewish and Christian Elites in Frankfurt.” 18. The 1616 Stättigkeit was based earlier versions, such as a set of privileges issued in 1614. See ISG, Juden Akten 2, 3. 19. See ISG Juden Akten 977. 20. Soliday, Community in Conflict, 37, 3–4. 21. For a recent overview of early modern Jews in Frankfurt, see Litt (with Rahel Blum), “The Situation of Frankfurt’s Jewish Community Around 1700 (1675–1711).” 22. See the examples in Liberles, Jews Welcome Coffee; Fram and Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Martyrdom Without Persecution.” 23. Kracauer, Geschichte der Juden in Frankfurt, 332–35. 24. For a list of quorums in the late eighteenth century, see Fram, A Window on Their World, appendix 5. For earlier references to such synagogues, see below. See Chap. 6 for a discussion of the Memorbuch maintained in the hekdesh synagogue. 25. See Fram, A Window on Their World, 30–34. 26. See Kasper-Marienberg and D. Kaplan, “Nourishing a Community.” 27. ISG, Juden Akten 974, 49. 28. Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Women at the Viennese Imperial Supreme Court.” 29. Kasper-Marienberg, “vor Euer Kayserlichen Mayestät Justiz-Thron.” Die Frankfurter jüdische Gemeinde am Reichshofrat. 30. On Jews and wine in the Rhineland, see Soloveitchik, Principles and Pressures. For an example of wine in Worms see Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 1171. 31. On the mikveh, see Fuchs, “Die Mikwen von Speyer und Worms.” 32. Azulay, Sefer ma‘agal tov, 24. See also Nils Roemer, Germany City, Jewish Memory, 52–53. 33. Raspe, “Between Judengasse and the City”; see also U. Reuter, “The Urban Map.” 34. On the establishment of the ghetto, see F. Reuter, Warmaisa, 91–94. 35. Mahlerwein, “Die Reichsstadt Worms,” 325. 36. Konersmann, “Kirchenregiment, Reformatorische Bewegung und Konfessionsbildung in der Bischofs - und Reichsstadt Worms.” 37. For a brief overview of the Worms Reichstag, see Cameron, The European Reformation, 105–8. 38. Konersmann, “Kirchenregiment,” 290. 39. Friedrichs, “Politics or Pogrom?” 40. See the discussion in Chap. 3. 41. Mahlerwein, “Die Reichsstadt Worms,” 325.

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n ot es to pages 15– 20

42. On the policies that led to the growth in population during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see U. Reuter, “Zwischen Reichsstadt, Bischof, Kurpfalz und Kaiser,” 124–27. 43. The impact of the war on Jewish charity is discussed in Chap. 2. 44. On Worms during the Thirty Years’ War, see Mahlerwein, “Die Reichsstadt Worms,” 294–99. 45. Ibid., 301–3. See Chap. 6 for the impact that this war had upon Jewish charity. 46. Ibid., 302. 47. Ibid., 326. 48. F. Reuter, “Warmaisa.” 49. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024. 50. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2034. 51. On the historical discussion of using non-Jewish ovens, see Strauss, “Pat ‘akum in Medieval France and Germany.” 52. D. Kaplan, “Crossing Borders,” 324–29. 53. Grzymisch-Bruchsal, “Wormser Rabbinat und die Juden im Fürstbistum Speyer”; Lewinsky, “Ein Brief der pfälzischen Gemeinde-vorsteher an David Oppenheim.” 54. Whaley, Religious Toleration and Social Change in Hamburg, 10. 55. For an overview of Jewish life in early modern Amsterdam, see Y. Kaplan, “The Jewish Presence in Early Modern Amsterdam.” 56. Braden, “Luthertum und Handelsinteressen”; Studemund-Halévy, “Die Hamburger Sefarden.” 57. Braden, “Luthertum und Handelsinteressen.” 58. The Danish king ruled over the region of Schleswig-Holstein-Glückstadt, of which Altona was a part. See the map on page x. 59. Whaley, Religious Toleration, 36. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid., 76–95. 62. For details, see ibid., 93–95. 63. Ibid., 36–49; Braden, Hamburger Judenpolitik im Zeitalter lutherischer Orthodoxie. 64. Glikl of Hameln, who resided in the community, describes an expulsion of the Altona Jews who lived in Hamburg from the latter city. See Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 48–55. 65. For an overview of the workings of the triple community, see Rohrbacher, “Die Drei Gemeinden Altona, Hamburg, Wandsbek.” 66. On cemeteries in this community, see Zürn, Die altonaer jüdische Gemeinde. 67. On ritual baths, see D. Kaplan, “To Immerse Their Wives.” 68. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 522-1, Jüdische Gemeinde, Nr. 93b. On this document, see https://dx.doi.org /10.23691/jgo:source-29.en.v1. 69. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf, vol. 4c. See also Whaley, Religious Toleration, 99–103. 70. The lists are published in Grunwald, Hamburgs deutsche Juden bis zur Auflösung der Dreigemeinde, 191–94. 71. D. Horowitz, Fractures and Fissures in Jewish Communal Autonomy in Hamburg, 1710–1782. 72. See discussion in Chap. 3. 73. Matut, “What Happened in Hamburg.” Matut explains that although Max Weinreich believed that this song was based on a true story, no archival evidence corroborates the account. See 322–23.

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74. Under Jewish law, a divorce can be granted only by the husband, and not the wife. 75. Treue, “Jewish and Christian Elites,” 62–69. 76. For examples of takkanot from a variety of Jewish communities, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten. 77. On medieval education, see Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages. For the early modern period, see Weizman, Jewish Education in Early Modern Ashkenaz, 13–34. 78. D. Kaplan, “To Immerse Their Wives,” 262–63. 79. CAHJP, AHW 27. 80. See Chap. 3 for an in-depth discussion of these social sanctions and their relationship to Jewish charity. 81. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 270. 82. Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation. 83. The first set of bylaws are from Krakow in 1595. The earliest comprehensive bylaws from western European communities were issued in the mid-seventeenth century. 84. On sumptuary laws, see Hughes, “Sumptuary Law and Social Relations in Renaissance Italy.” 85. See Chap. 3. 86. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 461. 87. The communal strife discussed above may also have played a role. 88. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 460. This study hall was established as part of a bequest. 89. Indeed, this policy proved inefective. Again in the late eighteenth century, both the men and the women of the community were ordered to pray in one of the two official synagogues. Those who continued to pray in smaller synagogues were assessed with fines to cover the deficit that arose because of their absence in what was the main locus for collecting public charity. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 488. This entry has been published in Fram, A Window on Their World, 557–63. 90. This development is discussed in detail in Chap. 5. 91. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 146. 92. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 149. 93. Fram, A Window on Their World; Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice; Zimmer, “Hanhagah vemanhigut be-kehillot Germaniah.” 94. For examples, see Dubnow, Nationalism and History, 84–85; Baron, The Jewish Community, 1:208; Ja. Katz, Tradition and Crisis. 95. For parallel developments, see Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record. 96. For an overview, see Litt, Pinkas, Kahal, and the Mediene. 97. See Chap. 6 for a discussion of the copies of privileges. 98. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:47. 99. Pinkassim often contain cross-references to pages within a particu lar pinkas or to other pinkassim. In addition, litigants who appeared before the rabbinical court in Frankfurt sometimes brought their personal pinkas as evidence of whether a transaction had transpired. See, e.g., Fram, A Window on Their World, 299. 100. See CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339; D/Fr3/32. See also Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:58. 101. For the ramifications of this arrangement, see Carlebach, “Fallen Women and Fatherless Children.” 102. Because Wandsbek was smaller, it was often governed by the Altona officials. 103. See Head, Archival Knowledge Culture in Europe; Corens, Peters, and Walsham, The Social History of the Archive.

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104. Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change; Ong, Orality and Literacy. The drive to record did not come cheaply, as paper could be expensive and sometimes difficult to acquire in seventeenth-century Europe. See Evenden and Freeman, Religion and the Book in Early Modern England, 10–12.

chapter 2 Note to chapter title: Safley, The Reformation of Charity, 1. 1. Eliezer ben Nathan, Sefer even ha-‘ezer, 176, col. 4. See the detailed discussion by Galinsky, “Public Charity in Medieval Germany,” 82–83. Ra’avan does not note the founding dates of the community. On the medieval community of Frankfurt, see Schnur, Die Juden in Frankfurt am Main und in der Wetterau im Mittelalter. 2. The settlement of Frankfurt was not continuous, as in 1241 there was a violent attack against the Jews. The hospice was established after Jews resettled in Frankfurt, in the period of the second community. On the hospice, see Ettlinger, Ele toldot (burial records of the Jewish community of Frankfurt am Main), 1241–1824, CJH, LBI AR 5241. 3. On benevolent societies in Europe, see Terpstra, Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion in Renaissance Bologna. 4. On the Middle Ages, see Galinsky, “Public Charity in Medieval Germany,” 83–84. 5. See, e.g., Lev. 19:9–10; Lev. 23:22; Deut. 24:19–22; Deut. 26:12–15. For a legal perspective (mishpat ‘ ivri) on the evolution of social justice and welfare in Jewish sources from the Bible through the rabbinic period, see Benjamin Porat, Justice for the Poor: The Principles of Welfare Regulations from Biblical Law to Rabbinic Literature. 6. Satlow, “Fruit and the Fruit of Fruit.” 7. G. Anderson, Charity. 8. Satlow, “Fruit and the Fruit of Fruit.” 9. Gray, Charity in Rabbinic Judaism: Atonement, Rewards, and Righteousness, 45–47. 10. See Mishnah Pe’ah 8:7; Tosefta Pe’ah 4:9–10. On charity in the rabbinic period, see Gardener, The Origins of Organized Charity in Rabbinic Judaism. 11. Wilfand, Poverty, Charity and the Image of the Poor in Rabbinic Texts from the Land of Israel. 12. M. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt. 13. Rainer Barzen has argued that charity was essential to the formation and organization of medieval communities. Following Judah Galinsky, my argument is that in actual practice, such charity did not usually take the form of organized public institutions, and certainly not to the extent one sees in the early modern period. See Barzen, “The Meaning of Tzedakah for Jewish SelfOrganization”; Galinsky, “Public Charity in Medieval Germany,” 81–84. 14. Isaac of Corbeil, Sefer ‘amude golah ha-nikra sefer mitzvot katan, no. 248. See Galinsky, “Public Charity in Medieval Germany,” 80, esp. n. 3. 15. On the development of this practice from a pious behav ior to an expected communal norm, see Galinsky, “Custom, Ordinance, or Commandment?,” 219–22. 16. I have cited Galinsky’s translation, in ibid., 220. The original responsum was first published by Emmanuel, “Responsa of German Sages on the Laws of Charity,” 19. The text cited here is text no. 4. 17. On the medieval period, see Shoham-Steiner, On the Margins of a Minority. Examples from the early modern period are discussed at greater length in Chap. 4.

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18. Zimmer, “The Custom of Matnat Yad.” For an in-depth analysis of three renditions of such gifts, see Galinsky, “Tzedakah u-tefillah be-veyt ha-knesset ha-Ashkenazi.” Rainer Barzen has demonstrated that the obligation for an individual to donate in order to commemorate the dead on festivals extended to those Jews in smaller settlements who prayed in the synagogues in larger communities during the holidays. See Barzen, “The Meaning of Tzedakah,” 13. 19. Baumgarten, Practicing Piety in Medieval Ashkenaz, 121. 20. Galinsky, “Custom, Ordinance, or Commandment?,” 228f. 21. Galinsky, “Public Charity in Medieval Germany,” 88. 22. For an extensive analysis of medieval charity recorded in the Memorbuch, see Baumgarten, Practicing Piety, 103–37. For an overview of the text, see Barzen, “Das Nürnberger Memorbuch.” 23. Stanford, Commemorating the Dead in Late Medieval Strasbourg. 24. In the Christian necrologies, for example, the names of the deceased are arranged by date of death, with instructions for the masses to be recited on those days. No such directions were included in the Jewish text. As Baumgarten has argued, small distinctions in clothing or timing were often used to create distinctions between the Jewish minority and the Christian majority in medieval Europe. See discussions of fasting and clothing in Baumgarten, Practicing Piety, 52, 189. 25. For three meanings of the term hekdesh in Christian Spain, see Galinsky, “U-litiferet gadol she-yizkeru shemo.” 26. Galinsky, “Jewish Charitable Bequests and the Hekdesh Trust in Thirteenth-Century Spain.” 27. Ibid. 28. Galinsky, “U-litiferet gadol.” 29. Yuval, “Terumot me-Nirenberg le-Yerushalayim.” 30. Barzen, “The Meaning of Tzedakah.” 31. Galinsky, “Custom, Ordinance, or Commandment?,” 215–22. 32. Ibid., 227. 33. Battenberg, Judenverordnungen in Hessen-Darmstadt; Teller, “Telling the Diference.” 34. Yuval, “Hospices and Their Guests in Jewish Medieval Germany.” 35. Toch, “The Formation of a Diaspora.” 36. D. Kaplan, Beyond Expulsion. 37. Their quests for status and aid, the degree of the latter informed by the former, is discussed at length in Chaps. 4 and 5. On the expulsions and the poor, see Guggenheim, “Von den Schalantjuden zu den Betteljuden”; idem, “Meeting on the Road.” 38. Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World. 39. See Schammes, Minhagim de k” k Warmaisa 2, no. 271. Frankfurt’s Jews fared better during the war. See Israel, “European Jewry During the Thirty Years’ War,” 12. 40. See below, Chap. 6. 41. Their presence is reported by Glikl of Hameln, and is discussed below in the context of the hekdesh in Altona. 42. Matut, “What Happened in Hamburg,” 329–30. Additional details are provided in Chap. 1. 43. Safley, Reformation of Charity, 1. 44. Hock, “Reformation in der Reichsstadt.” 45. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers. On the impact of that model in other locations, see Fehler, “Refashioning Poor Relief in Early Modern Emden.” 46. See Chap. 5. 47. See Chap. 5 for more details. 48. Listed in the takkanot from 1686 in CAHJP, D/Wo 3/45.

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49. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 199. 50. For a broad picture of poor relief in Frankfurt, see Stahl, “Die Tradition jüdischer Wohlfahrtspflege in Frankfurt am Main vom 15. bis 19. Jahrhundert.” The word gabbay is used to denote various financial tasks in the Frankfurt pinkas. For example, in 1661, the term was adopted to refer to eight of the twelve parnassim. These gabbaim were not in charge of the charity fund. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 279 51. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 193. 52. See Chap. 5 for a discussion of the larger number of poor that migrated to Frankfurt, as compared with Worms. 53. CAHJP, AHW 10, nos. 55, 140. 54. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinde, 152, no. 104. 55. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 320, subsec. 9. For a printed edition, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 59, no. 9. 56. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 55. It is noteworthy that the rates were diferent. Perhaps the bar to serve as a gabbay in Altona was higher, as a greater number of Jews were residents of Altona than were residents of Hamburg. 57. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 139. 58. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 108. 59. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 199. 60. For some of the calculations in the pinkasse gabbaim or govim where among the entries is a reimbursement to the collector, see CAHJP, AHW 36ab; CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662; CAHJP, D/ Wo 3/661. 61. I have not found mention of a similar party in the triple community. 62. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 199. 63. Ibid. 64. See Treue, “Jewish and Christian Elites in Frankfurt,” 62–69. See also Rosman, “The Authority of the Council of the Four Lands Outside Poland-Lithuania.” 65. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 151. 66. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 154. 67. The activities of the charity collectors’ wives are discussed in Chap. 3. 68. At the meeting before Rosh Hashanah, the gabbay also collected money for use of the communal etrog and lulav, ritual fruits used on the festival of Sukkot. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 69. When collection was done in the cemetery, it was following a ritual in which members of the community circled the cemetery’s perimeter. For a full discussion of this ritual, see Chap. 4. 70. According to Juspe, the cofers were opened on the eves of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur; on Hanukkah, at the start of the new term of the gabbay; on the eve of Rosh Hodesh Tammuz; and on the fast preceding Purim, Ta‘anit Esther. See Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. The pinkas from 1737 does not reflect this custom; there, the cofer was opened less frequently. 71. In Worms, it was customary to give one-third of what had been collected in the communal cofers outside the synagogue to the poor of the Holy Land. See Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 285. 72. On Purim and gifts to the poor of the Holy Land, see Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, no. 1089. Antonius Margaritha claimed that charity for the Land of Israel was connected to the custom of matnat yad, which was practiced on the festivals of Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot. See Zimmer, “The Custom of Matnat Yad.” Individual pro anima gifts to the poor of the Holy Land can seen in Memorbücher. For example, Leve Oppenheim, a seventeenth-century resident of

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Worms, bequeathed fifty reichsthaler to the poor of the Holy Land. When the rabbi Isaac b. Meshulam Eliezer Sussman (Berlin) died, his heirs donated fifty gulden to the poor of the Holy Land. Berliner, Sefer hazkarat neshamot, 13, 18; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 36. On Berlin, see Zimmer, introduction to Schammes, Minhagim 1:51–52. Berlin is an example of a rabbi native to Worms who appears in the Memorbuch despite having moved elsewhere. On this point, and on heirs donating for their ancestors, see Chap. 6. 73. Brilling, “Die frühesten Beziehungen der Juden Hamburgs zu Palästina,” 19–22. 74. Lehmann, Emissaries from the Holy Land. See also Chap. 6. 75. See CAHJP, AHW 31 I a–b. 76. Friedmann, “Letters of Recommendation for Jewish Mendicants.” On this practice in the Mediterranean, see Hughes, “From Brideprice to Dowry in Mediterranean Europe.” 77. CAHJP, AHW 15, nos. 145, 150. 78. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 77. In 1698, the parnassim decreed that individual collections could be taken up on behalf of poor brides. 79. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 70r. 80. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 10. 81. See the Worms Memorbuch. Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 34; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 46. The diferences between these editions are discussed in Chap. 6. 82. For one of many examples, see Fram, A Window on Their World, 456–58. In this particular case, Ber Kann of Frankfurt bequeathed a sum to be invested by the community, the revenues from which could be raffled of to needy brides. Brides from his own family were to be given priority. 83. Fifteen such funds were established between 1717 and 1845. See Meidinger, Frankfurt’s gemeinnützige Anstalten. 84. This is recorded in the Worms Memorbuch, which is discussed at length in Chap. 6. Berliner, Sefer hazkarat neshamot, 7; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 16. 85. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 287. On the practice of managing this fund in the eighteenth century, see Chap. 3. 86. Berliner, Sefer hazkarat neshamot, 9; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 22. Eric Zimmer notes that we lack information about which of the three communities to which they donated served as the residence for Treitlin and Shlomo, respectively. See Zimmer’s annotations to Schammes, Minhagim no. 287. The inclusion of nonresidents in early modern Memorbücher is discussed in Chap. 6. 87. The first reference to these gabbaim, who were known as the gabba’e kuppah, is from 1619. In 1661, the community replaced them with three individuals called gabba’e Talmud Torah. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, nos. 108, 288. 88. Liberles, “On the Threshold of Modernity,” 47–49. In some cases, private individuals helped bankroll education of the poor. See, for example, Judah bar Joseph, who is remembered in the memorial book from his synagogue as having maintained melamdim for poor students. NLI JER, Ms. 4° 1465, fol. 24v. 89. CAHJP, AHW 58. In late eighteenth-century Frankfurt, measures were taken to compel community members who had failed to pay the necessary amount to pay the financial equivalent. In this case, travelers were hosted in a communal eatery. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 455. See also Kasper-Marienberg and D. Kaplan, “Nourishing a Community.” This decision was undertaken in the larger context of communal regulations regarding tax evasion and imprecise evaluation of residents’ assets. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, nos. 450–51. 90. The same was true in Metz and its environs. See the cases brought before the rabbinical court in Metz, which assessed heirs with pletten commensurate with the inheritance they had received and their tax bracket. Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice 2, nos. 71, 148.

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91. Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 280–81. 92. Ibid., 578–79. 93. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 145. 94. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 45. 95. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 145. 96. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 20v. See the discussion in Chap. 5. 97. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662. 98. Marcus, Communal Sick-Care in the German Ghetto. 99. Backhaus, “Die Einrichtung eines Ghettos,” 67. 100. Barzen, “The Meaning of Tzedakah,” 15. 101. A more comprehensive analysis of the poor who visited the hekdesh is found in Chap. 5. 102. Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 76–77. 103. CAHJP, AHW 25. 104. Assis, “Welfare and Mutual Aid in the Spanish Jewish Communities”; Ruderman, “The Founding of a ‘Gemilut Hasadim’ Society in Ferrara in 1515”; E. Horowitz, “Jewish Confraternal Piety in Sixteenth-Century Ferrara.” 105. Greenblatt, To Tell Their Children, 34–36. 106. M. Baader, “When Judaism Turned Bourgeois,” 114. 107. Baader, Gender, Judaism, and Bourgeois Culture in Germany, 1800–1870. 108. Backhaus, “Im Heckhuß Lahmen, Blinden und Hungerleider,” 49. 109. David Gans refers to Rabbi Akiva, who was active in Frankfurt beginning in 1550, as having founded kuppot, but other sources do not mention confraternities apart from the burial societies. See Horovitz, Frankfurter Rabbinen, 26–27. It may be that the kuppot refer to the formal collections for the poor and for poor students, which were also known as kuppot. As noted above, we have references for the latter in the community’s pinkas starting in the early seventeenth century. 110. Hanauer, Festschrift zur Einweihung des neuen Krankenhauses der israelitischen Gemeinde zu Frankfurt am Main, 20–21. 111. Sulzbach, “Ein alter Frank furter Wohltätigkeitsverein.” 112. E. Horowitz, “ ‘Hakhnasat kallah’ be-getto Venetziah.” 113. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 249. 114. Ibid. See also appendix 3, which comprises liturgy composed by Juspe Schammes for the society. For the pinkas, see CAHJP, HM2/5182; A. Unna, Pinkas ha-takkanot ve-harishumim shel ha-hevrah kaddisha de-gemilut hasadim Warmaisa. 115. On the beaker, see Mann and R. Cohen, From Court Jews to the Rothschilds, 121–22. 116. On Oppenheim and his connections to Worms, see Teplitsky, Prince of the Press. 117. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 262. 118. For examples of societies that met in local homes, see Hamburger and Zimmer’s annotations to Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 262, n. 2. 119. See Hamburger and Zimmer’s annotations to Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 287, n. 7. 120. The takkanot from 1698 mention such a society. See CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 77. See also Hirsch, Jüdisches Vereinsleben in Hamburg bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. 121. Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 426–27. She refers offhandedly to a study group in the context of a man who usually studied with his hevrah after work but who failed to return home; he was, in fact, murdered. 122. Hirsch, Jüdisches Vereinsleben, 28. 123. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 109. 124. Hirsch, Jüdisches Vereinsleben.

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125. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 199. 126. CAHJP, D/Wo3/662. 127. On the practice of organizing and recopying records, see Chap. 6. 128. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 6. Only fragments of pinkassim documenting charitable giving have survived from Frankfurt. One of these, from 1650, runs from the Jewish holiday of Tu be-Shevat for one year. It uses a weekly chart to detail what donations were made but does not total the income and expenses and may have been used for a diferent purpose. Its fragmentary nature does not permit deeper analysis. See CAHJP, HM2/4148. 129. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 130. CAHJP, AHW 37. 131. Lists of those who had purchased mitzvot were copied by Rosenthal. See Das Grüne Buch, e.g., on fol. 86b. These can be found throughout the text. 132. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 133. Ibid., 1, no. 186. 134. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 1, 14. 135. A more complete collection of receipts is in Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl. VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1d 1. 136. CAHJP, AHW 58a, fols. 80–81. 137. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 9. A parallel practice can be found with regard to judges, who were not to be paid unless they had a note with a seal from one of the communal officials. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 178. For auditing procedures in eighteenth-century Fürth, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 182–83, nos. 135–37. 138. Berkovitz, “Jewish Philanthropy in Early Modern and Modern Europe.” 139. Bernfeld, Poverty and Welfare Among the Portuguese Jews in Early Modern Amsterdam.

chapter 3 1. Das Grüne Buch. Despite the fact that it is no longer extant and is known to us only through the notes and transcription made by Berthold Rosenthal, it has retained its name. For more on the color, see Chap. 6. 2. See Likhovski, Tax Law and Social Norms in Mandatory Palestine and Israel, 101–7. 3. On early modern notaries, see Nussdorfer, Brokers of Public Trust. 4. CAHJP, AHW 35. 5. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/551. 6. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 162. 7. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, nos. 200 and 201, for information from 1633 and 1648. 8. On the various payments demanded of Frankfurt’s Jews, not all of which were paid, see Israel, “Central European Jewry During the Thirty Years’ War,” 12. 9. The example of Worms indicates that the Thirty Years’ War was not always a positive turning point in Jewish history, as Jonathan Israel has argued. See Israel, European Jewry in the Age of Mercantilism, 1550–1750, 72–100. 10. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 283. 11. For details about additional taxes and record-keeping during and after the Thirty Years’ War, see D. Kaplan, “Crossing Boundaries,” 338, 344. 12. CAHJP, AHW 14, no. 64. Glikl mentions this tax as well. See Turniansky, Zikhroynes, 59. 13. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fols. 1, 26, 52, 78.

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14. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 79. 15. See Chap. 2. 16. Das Grüne Buch, fol. 89b. 17. The practice of loaning from the charity fund can be found in medieval responsa as well. See the responsum of Maharam Rothenburg in which a widow was unaware that her husband had borrowed funds from the charity collector. See Agus, Responsa of the Tosaphists, 57. 18. Das Grüne Buch, fol. 36b. 19. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fols. 31, 81, 91. This is discussed in greater detail in Chap. 6. 20. Das Grüne Buch, fol. 93. 21. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 17. 22. Schammes, Minhagim 1, nos. 17, 18, 20, 186; 2, nos. 231, 234, 236, 247, 248. 23. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 186. The recording of these honors is discussed below, as is the sale of similar honors in Altona. 24. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, nos. 1060–61. 25. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 18. 26. Ibid., no. 186. 27. Men did not generally enter the women’s portion of the synagogue. There are two noteworthy exceptions. First, a man would bring a male baby from the women’s section to the men’s section for a circumcision. Second, on the Shabbat following Purim, the young men would enter the women’s section in a carnivalesque ritual of inversion. On this ritual, see von Bernuth, How the Wise Men Got to Chelm, 54–55. 28. In Halberstadt in 1741, it was decreed that a woman needed written permission to collect money in the women’s section. In Metz in 1769, it was decided that women could donate only to the main (male) cofer, so as not to reduce the amount that was collected there. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 112, no. 16; 394, no. 123. 29. This is discussed at length in Chap. 6. 30. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 31. This was also the case in eighteenth-century Berlin. See Meisl, Protokollbuch der jüdischen Gemeinden Berlin, 1723–1854, 24. 32. Das Grüne Buch, fol. 79b. On the garden, see U. Reuter, “The Urban Map.” 33. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 80. 34. Ibid.; CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 35. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 9. For more on this practice, see Ja. Katz, The “Shabbes Goy.” 36. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 21. 37. CAHJP, AHW 52. This record is from a slightly later period. Example of rent paid by a goveh can be found in CAHJP, AHW 35. 38. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 286. 39. Das Grüne Buch, fols. 83b–84. 40. CAHJP, D/Wo3/662, fol. 98. 41. CAHJP, D/Wo3/662. On the costs of burial, see Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 248, and Chap. 6. 42. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 43. Carlebach, “Fallen Women,” 304. In Worms, a special tax was paid to the von Dalberg family, local nobles who had the rights to the gate through which the body was taken. See Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 248. 44. For Altona, see, CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 2v. For Frankfurt, see Unna, Gendenkbuch, 266 no. 13. There are multiple other examples.

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45. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 52v. 46. Carlebach, “Fallen Women,” 303–4. 47. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 193. 48. Smail, Legal Plunder, 41–45. 49. Various takkanot regulated their activities in and out of the community. See NLI JER, Ms. 4° 662, no. 320, par. 55, 56, 61, 62 for some examples from 1674. 50. ISG, RP 13, fol. 12v; BMB 117, fols. 186v, 189v. 51. ISG, Strafenbuch, fol. 2r. 52. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 248. 53. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 6. 54. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 320, par. 40. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 66, no. 40. 55. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 6. 56. Ibid. 57. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 58. Ibid.; for one of many examples, see Das Grüne Buch, fol. 259. 59. CAHJP, AHW 25. 60. On the practice of governing of the fund from R. Treitlin, see Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 287. For the actual management, see the pinkas govim in CAHJP, D/Wo 3/661, fol. 23. It is possible that this shifted over time, as we have other examples in which the tax collectors fulfilled the duties of an additional collector who was to oversee a particu lar fund. See D. Kaplan, “Crossing Borders,” 328–29. 61. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 22r. See also AHW 85a, no. 469. See AHW 58a for an example of an eighteenth-century pinkas detailing pletten. 62. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 455. This entry is from 1795. 63. For mandatory collections instituted during the Middle Ages, see Galinsky, “Public Charity,” 83–84. There are also examples of charity funds being redirected toward tax payments. See Yuval, Hakhamim be-doram, 118–19. 64. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 6. The pinkas specifies that this mandatory charity could be counted toward the tithe (ma‘aser) that individuals were required to donate. On this topic, see Galinsky, “Custom, Ordinance, or Commandment?,” 213–17. 65. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fols. 34v, 53r. 66. Ibid., fol. 65. 67. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 323. 68. NLI JER Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 302, no. 97. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 80–81, no. 97. 69. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 322. The animosity felt by Ashkenazic Jews toward informants has been studied by Carlebach, “Between History and Myth.” 70. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 323. 71. This tool was used to curb unwanted behavior in various communities. In Krakow, a similar prayer was instituted that blessed women who refrained from singing when a bride and groom entered their chamber for the first time. See Chovav, Maidens Love Thee, 128. 72. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl. VII Lit. Hf nr. 5, vol. 1d 1 (39). 73. In Worms, the Memorbuch from the Rashi beyt midrash includes prayers blessing those who came to synagogue early, refrained from speaking during the reading of the Torah, and stayed until the end of ser vices. See NLI JER, Ms. 4° 656, fols. 1–2. 74. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 236. There is a long history of shaming debtors. See Lange, Excommunication for Debt in Late Medieval France. In early modern Augsburg, men who went

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bankrupt were shamed by being forced to sit among the women at wedding festivities. See Roper, “ ‘Going to Church and Street,’ ” 82. 75. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 237. 76. Zimmer, “The Custom of Matnat Yad.” 77. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 58. 78. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 79. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 58. 80. Graupe, Der Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:10. 81. Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, no. 227. 82. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 283. For a case in Metz in which a penalty was to be paid to the charity fund if a settlement were not followed, see Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice, no. 254. In addition, anyone who sued another Jew in a non-Jewish court on matters other than merchant law was, according to the takkanot issued in Metz in 1769, punished with a slew of exclusions, including a fine to charity. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 377, no.  68. As Berkovitz has shown, in practice, not only were non-Jewish courts used, but they are referred to by the rabbinic court. See Protocols of Justice. 83. Shabbat Hazon is the Sabbath before Tish‘ah be-Av, the fast day commemorating the destruction of the temples in Jerusalem. Communal takkanot mandated that the haftarah that week be read only by a communal leader or someone who had acquired high standing, such as one who held the honorific morenu. In 1724, the policy was updated, and only someone above age forty, who had received the honorific of morenu or haver, or a communal leader, could read the haftarah. Gottschalk clearly did not fall into this category. See Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 1:10. 84. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 10. 85. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 98, nos. 79–80. In Frankfurt, the punishment for not writing out a contact within a fourteen-day period after the transaction had been agreed upon was excommunication. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 54, published in Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 68, no. 54. 86. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 93, no. 50. 87. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 144. 88. Ibid., no. 146. 89. See CAHJP, AHW 15, fols. 16, 50, 54. This pinkas was likely intended as a record of such fines, among other content. We lack comparable data from Worms because of the nature of the sources that have survived. There is no reason to assume that the practice was diferent, as these types of punishments were common across Jewish communities. For fines of material goods such as wax in the Hague and other Dutch communities, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 268, nos. 486, 487, 488; for monetary fines assessed to the charity fund in those same communities, see 329, no. 21; 342, no. 46 (which discusses monetary payments). 90. See CAHJP, AHW 15, fols. 32, 39. 91. This practice was also common in Berlin. See Meisl, Protokollbuch, 14. 92. See Treue, “Jewish and Christian Elites in Frankfurt.” 93. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 141. 94. Ibid., no. 237. 95. Ibid., no. 322. 96. Despite their wishes, Jews often frequented municipal and imperial courts. For an example from eighteenth-century Frankfurt, see Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Women at the Viennese

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Imperial Supreme Court.” The same was true in other localities. See examples from Metz in Jo. Katz, “To Judge and to Be Judged”; Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice, 16–22. 97. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 108. 98. Ibid. 99. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 138. 100. CAHJP, AHW 37. 101. Ibid. 102. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 324. 103. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 283. 104. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinde, 2, 67. 105. This is mentioned in the Worms takkanot from 1684 as well as by Schammes. See Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 97, no. 71; Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 283. For Altona-Hamburg, see the implementation of the policy below. Comparable policies were adopted in Halberstadt. See CAHJP, Halberstadt/KG e3/8, fol. 7b, also transcribed in Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 121, no. 17. 106. In an eighteenth-century court case from Metz, the sum that one party owed to the communal charity fund was to be paid as part of the overall settlement reached between the two parties, suggesting that the community used extensive means to ensure that debts owed to the kehillah were paid. See Berkovitz, Protocols of Justice, no. 194. 107. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 49. 108. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 66r. 109. Ibid., fol. 63v. 110. Ibid., fol. 65v. 111. This condition was imposed on the Jewish community upon their return to the city in 1616. See ISG, Juden Akten 2, par. 109. 112. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 254. 113. Ibid., no. 401. According to Ettlinger, May had been married in 1735, and it is unclear whose wedding he would have been planning, since his only son died unmarried in 1754. See Ettlinger, Ele toldot, 25.IX.1768. It is possible that Ettlinger is incorrect and that the wedding is May’s own. See also the footnotes to Segal’s edition to the pinkas, n. 401. On this family of court Jews, see Schnee, Die Hoffinanz und der moderne Staat, 4, 182. 114. This was regardless of whether the seat was in the men’s or women’s section of the synagogue. Should a daughter inherit her father’s seat, it was assumed that her husband would use it; the same was assumed for a son inheriting his mother’s seat. See Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 115. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 73. 116. Ibid., no. 76. 117. Kaufmann, “Sefer ha-milu’im hosafot ve-tikkunim le-sefer hazkarat neshamot Warmaisa,” 11. Purchases of the seats in Frankfurt were recorded in the pinkas kahal. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, nos. 64, 65, 66. In Altona, a separate pinkas about synagogue seating was maintained. See CAHJP, AHW 27. 118. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 23r. 119. On taxes, see Hildesheimer, “Taxes and Their Payment in German Jewry.” 120. Bacharach, Havot Yair, nos. 81, 157. See also no. 41, regarding taxing a community member who had previously been exempted from the tax payment in question. 121. Ibid., no. 81. See Berkovitz, Rites and Passages.

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chapter 4 1. Schudt, Jüdische Merckwürdigkeiten, 2:364. 2. Ibid. 3. On the distinctions among diferent types of poor in other societies, see Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, 47–49; Singer, Constructing Ottoman Beneficence; M. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt; Farmer, Surviving Poverty in Medieval Paris. 4. CAHJP AHW 14, no. 50. See also D. Kaplan, “To Immerse Their Wives.” 5. Deut. 15:8. 6. BT Baba metzi‘a 71a. 7. The idea that donating charity was linked to a trea sury in heaven dates back to the Second Temple period. See G. Anderson, Charity. 8. Isaac b. Moses, Sefer or zaru‘a, hilkhot tzedakah, s.v. 1, 8, 9. His teachings in this regard followed those of the medieval German pietists (haside Ashkenaz). 9. R. Jütte, Poverty and Deviance. 10. E. Horowitz, “Ve-yehiyu ‘aniyim (hagunim) bene beytekha.” 11. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 12. See Deut. 15:8; BT Ketubbot 67a. 13. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 14. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 309. 15. On Poland, see Siemiaticki, “Hezkat ha-yishuv in Poland.” 16. CAHJP, AHW 14, no. 147. 17. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 16r. 18. ISG, Juden Akten 435, no. 7. 19. ISG, Juden Akten 435, no. 18; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 31. 20. ISG, BMB 182, fol. 328v. See also RP 71, fol. 99v. 21. ISG, Juden Akten 2, nos. 105–9. 22. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 87a. 23. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 102. In another case, the rabbi Hertz Segal had promised his daughter and, presumably, her fiancé, son of the rabbi of Friedberg, hezkat kahal. Although this was contrary to communal policy, the communal authorities made an exception and gave the couple this status, provided that they would be registered in the home of a diferent relative, that any children born to the couple would not receive this status, and that no other daughters of the rabbi would be furnished with membership in the Frankfurt kehillah. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 47. 24. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, nos. 100–101. 25. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1. 26. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2017/2 contains a copy of the Frankfurt Judenordnung as well as versions of the Worms regulations. Specific policies are discussed below. 27. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 47, no. 86. The ordinance begins, “When a head of household wishes to acquire hezkat ‘ ironut from the kahal,” and frustratingly, ends there. 28. Ibid., 94, no. 57. 29. As is explained below, most houses were rented out by Jews and owned by the municipality, but Jews were permitted to sell and bequeath those rights to one another. 30. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339, fol. 6r.

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31. Women, both married and widowed, sold and rented rooms in their homes in the seventeenth century. See several examples in the pinkas recording kinyane sudar (1655–1659), CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339. 32. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 59, nos. 58–63. 33. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 227. 34. Zürn, Die Altonaer jüdische Gemeinde. 35. S. Unna, Gedenkbuch der Frankfurter Juden. 36. This can also be seen in the Memorbuch, which is discussed at length in Chap. 6. 37. A. Unna, Pinkas ha-takkanot ve-harishumim, 33, 91. These respective ordinances, from 1720 and 1731, also privileged members of the burial society and their wives. 38. CAHJP, AHW 65a; see, e.g., fols. 4a; 6. Several folios from his manuscript are reproduced in Figs. 9–10. 39. CAHJP, AHW 36a. 40. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 22. 41. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 143. Also published in Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinde, 2:90. 42. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 140. 43. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 44. CAHJP, AHW 10, no. 151. 45. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 46. On the evolution of the custom of mahatzit ha-shekel in Ashkenaz, see Zimmer and Hamburger’s annotations in Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 256, n. 15. 47. CAHJP, AHW 36 ab. 48. Three of those names were subsequently crossed out; perhaps these individuals were ultimately deemed ineligible for the stipend by the gabbaim. 49. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 139. 50. This took place after the plague in Hamburg in 1713, when Jews from Hamburg were buried in the Dammtor cemetery, as access to the Koenigshofen cemetery in Altona was barred. See Zürn, Der Altonaer Gemeinde, 85–86. 51. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 11; 1 B 2024 16. 52. On the Fettmilch uprising, see Friedrichs, “Politics or Pogrom?.” 53. On the 1610 document, see Friedrichs, “Jewish Household Structure in an Early Modern Town.” Friedrichs estimates that there were at least 759 inhabitants. My own calculation, based on the same document, is more than 770 inhabitants. 54. The family whose daughter worked locally as domestic servant also had another daughter, who traveled out of the community to work. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 11. 55. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no.  286. Friedrichs incorrectly conflates these youths with Schabbes goyim, Christians serving in Jewish homes. It is unreasonable to assume that there would be eighteen such youths in a community of fewer than 800 individuals. A similar practice of hosting nonnative students for meals was adopted in Frankfurt. See Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 317. 56. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 16. 57. U. Reuter, “Urban Map,” 11–12. 58. Lowenstein, “Wormser Gemeindeordnungen,” V, no. 6: 66. 59. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339. 60. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339, fol. 2r. 61. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1; 2; 3; 5; 8; CAHJP, D/Fr5/28.

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62. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1–2. 63. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5, house no. 179. 64. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 395. 65. See Chap. 2. 66. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers, 60–73. 67. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 7v. 68. CAHJP, AHW 39a. 69. Katzenellenbogen, She’elot u-teshuvot knesset Yehezkel, no. 78. 70. Since he corresponded with rabbis throughout Europe, it is not necessarily the case that the family was from Kehillat Ah”u. 71. Backhaus, “Im Heckhuß”; see also Ettlinger, Ele toldot, pt. A, IV. 72. Records of Abraham are in S. Unna, Gedenkbuch, 22; and Ettlinger, Ele toldot, for the year 1661. 73. Those killed by Christians were referred to by this term. See Fram and Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Martyrdom Without Persecution”; see 277n46 with regard to the cemetery. 74. S. Unna, Gedenkbuch, 19, 47. 75. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8. 76. J. Unna, “Die israelitische Männer- und Frauen- Krankenkasse (‘Kippestub’) in Frankfurt am Main”; Backhaus, “Im Heckhuß.” 77. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 16. 78. R. Jütte, Poverty and Deviance. 79. CAHJP, AHW 36 ab. 80. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 383. 81. This is not the Juspe Hahn who authored Sefer yosif ometz. 82. During an epidemic, the ill were often cared for in the courtyard just outside the hekdesh. See Ettlinger, Ele toldot, pt. A, IV. 83. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 83a. 84. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 82. On the custom of maintaining a firstborn ox in the cemetery, see Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 246. See also R. Cohen, Jewish Icons, 55–57. 85. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1–2. 86. See, e.g., ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8, house no. 72. 87. On Jewish domestic ser vice, see Shimshi-Licht, “Meshartim u-meshartot yehudiyim beGermaniah be-reshit ha-‘et ha-hadashah.” Not all domestics were necessarily poor. 88. Richarz, “Mägde, Migration und Mutterschaft.” 89. Carlebach, “Fallen Women”; Brunelle, “Contractual Kin”; Cooper and Donald, “Households and ‘Hidden’ Kin in Early-Nineteenth-Century England.” 90. Hughes, “From Brideprice to Dowry”; M. Wiesner, Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe, 110–11. 91. The male youths served in twenty-three homes, but three of the youths split their work between two homes. See Friedrichs, “Jewish Household Structure.” 92. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 16. 93. On this position and the diferent terms used to refer to it, see Carlebach, “Community, Authority, and Jewish Midwives,” 12–15. 94. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1; 2; 3; 5; 8. The category of child care includes women listed as Kindmagd and as Kindfrau. A Kindfrau was typically older than thirty, and a Kindmagd was younger. See Steidele, Abhandlung von der Geburtshülfe, 194f. Male servants are listed with reference to age groups as well. The youngest were referred to as Junge; slightly older teens were called Knecht. The

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generic term, Diener, possibly referring to older servants, was also used. Teachers are discussed at length below. 95. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1–2. I provide the number of households rather than the total population because this list omits the female children who were unmarried as well as male children under the age of ten. 96. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5. It was in the interest of foreigners to claim to the Christian authorities who were inspecting the ghetto looking for foreign Jews that they would be leaving shortly, whether or not they actually planned to do so. 97. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8. 98. For a court case dealing with domestic servant’s contracts, see Fram, A Window on Their World, 253–57. 99. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 16; ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5. 100. The yearlong period was calculated from the date of the takkanah, and thus the calendar reset in the month of Sivan. 101. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 145. 102. Carlebach, “Fallen Women,” 298–301. 103. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 64. 104. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 320, par. 46. 105. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5; 8. 106. ISG, Juden Akten 17; 5, 8. 107. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1; 2; 3; 5; 8. 108. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 11. 109. CAHJP, AHW 10, par. 150. 110. CAHJP, AHW 10, par. 151. This had ramifications for families, as melamdim occasionally abandoned their families, leaving their wives chained to marriages. See Shashar, “ ‘Agunot ugevarim ne‘elamim ba-merhav ha-ashkenazi.” 111. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 112. The two categories are listed together as hired help in ISG, Juden Akten 17. 113. Loans, Mikhlol yofi, commentary on Eccles. 11:1. 114. Friedmann, “Letters.” 115. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3678. 116. Not all melamdim came from the lower classes. See Weizman, Education in Early Modern Ashkenaz. 117. This is discussed at length in Chap. 5. 118. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 139. 119. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers, 51–73. 120. See the example of Glikl, who employed a melamed in her home at the time her first husband died. Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 366–69. 121. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 11; 1 B 2024 16. 122. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1; 2; 3; 5; 8. Although the raw numbers suggest that the number of buildings decreased between 1694 and 1709, the reality was more complex. While several houses disappear from later records without explanation, it is possible to trace the development of most of the houses in the ghetto. Certain houses fell into disrepair and were in fact abandoned or left uninhabited; empty houses are not included in this calculation. Some houses, such as Vogelgesang, had been joined with neighboring houses by 1709, thus the later record lists one structure while the earlier records list several diferent structures. A more complete analysis of these inspections in tandem with the Judenbaubuch would allow for a more detailed account of the relationship

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between construction and residential patterns in the ghetto. Regardless, the increased density in the ghetto and the lack of privacy is discernable in the greater number of houses in which multiple households shared living space. 123. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 662, no. 100. Measurements are given in schuh. One schuch measures 25–43 centimeters. A house that was 5 schuh, namely, between 1.25 and 2.15 meters wide, could be divided. 124. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8, house nos. 21, 54, 72, 78. 125. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8, house no. 41. 126. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8, house no. 68. 127. There is a record of one male servant from 1709 who lived in his own household. See ISG, Juden Akten 17, 8, house no. 59. Two maids listed as native to Frankfurt in 1703 also seemed to have resided with their families. See ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5, house no. 144. 128. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 161–64. 129. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 37. 130. Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, 112. 131. On their overlapping roles, see Chap. 2. 132. The following discussion is based only on sources from Worms and Frankfurt, since no corresponding book of customs is available for the triple community. All other sources strongly suggest that the same hierarchies were extant in that community as well. 133. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, 25. 134. Shoham-Steiner, “For a Prayer in That Place Would Be Most Welcome”; Raspe, “Sacred Space, Local History and Diasporic Identity.” Women were often excluded from official processions. See Hindle, “Beating the Bounds of the Parish.” 135. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 234; see also 1, no. 152. In Frankfurt, the cemetery was circled on both days. See Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, no. 956. 136. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 143. 137. On the marginal location of the cemetery, see Raspe, “Die Lebensbedingungen.” On housing mentally ill Jews proximate to the cemetery, see Lewin, Geschichte des israelitische KrankenVerpflegungs-Anstalt und Beerdigungs-Gesellschaft zu Breslau, 1726–1926. 138. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 134; see also 2, no. 284. 139. Marriage ceremonies of virgins took place in the synagogue, while marriages of widows were relegated to the courtyard. Moellin, Sefer Maharil, no. 466. 140. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, no. 956. 141. For a discussion of the temporal aspects of this ritual, see D. Kaplan, “ ’The Poor of Your City Come First.” 142. Esther 9:22. 143. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, no. 1087. 144. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:150. 145. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 217. 146. Ibid., no. 219. 147. Esther 9:1. On reversal, Purim, and even examples of cross-dressing, see E. Horowitz, “And It Was Reversed.” 148. Davis, Society and Culture in Early Modern Europe. 149. Baumgarten, Mothers and Children, 130–32. 150. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 219. 151. D. Kaplan, “Rituals of Marriage and Communal Prestige.” 152. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 236; Hollender, “Honoring Every Bridegroom.”

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153. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, no. 519; Bacharach, Mekkor Hayyim, hilkhot berakhot no. 51, 5. 154. Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 236. 155. Eleazer ben Judah, Sefer ha-Rokeah, no. 355; Meir ben Barukh, Sefer minhagim de-ve Maharam, 84; Seligman of Bingen, Shu”t Maharaz Binga, chap. 108, no. 54. 156. See the commentary of the Rokeah on Deut. 22:12 in Eleazar ben Judah, Perush haRokeah ‘al ha-Torah, and the similar notion expressed by his teacher, Judah ben Samuel, Ta‘amei masoret ha-mikra le-rabi Judah Hasid, on the same verse. Also see the discussion of the tallit and the growing sacrality of marriage in E. Cohen and E. Horowitz, “In Search of the Sacred”; Zimmer, “At What Occasion Was a Tallit During Prayer Initiated.” 157. Eleazer ben Judah, Sefer ha-Rokeah, no. 355. 158. Roper, “Going to Church and Street.” 159. On David Oppenheim, see Teplitsky, Prince of the Press. 160. Seder ve-hanhagah shel nisuin ha-hatunah breileft. 161. Ibid., no. 11. 162. For a discussion of parallel Christian practices, see D. Kaplan, “Rituals of Marriage.”

chapter 5 1. ISG, Criminalia 2894. 2. ISG, Criminalia, 5233. 3. Guggenheim, “Meeting on the Road”; Shoham-Steiner, “Poverty and Disability.” 4. See, e.g., BT Ketubbot 64b. 5. Glanz, Geschichte des niederen jüdischen Volkes in Deutschland; Guggenheim, “Von den Schalantjuden.” 6. ISG, Juden Akten 17, 5. 7. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 11. 8. Friedrichs bases his claim on the use of the plural form to describe the women’s Spital. See Friedrichs, “Jewish Household Structure.” I have elected for a more conservative approach that assumes that the form was used as an adjective rather than as affirmation of the presence of two women. Given that the number of men in the hekdesh was listed, while no number was provided for women in the hekdesh, I believe that this is a more prudent approach. 9. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2024 16. 10. Moses ben Samson Bacharach, Shemen ha-ma’or, commentary on Yitro, 155 as cited by his son Yair Hayyim Bacharach, Havot Yair, no. 124. 11. See Chap. 4; based on ISG, Juden Akten 17, 1; 2; 3; 5; 8. 12. CAHJP, D/Fr5/28. 13. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 10. He also received support for dowering his daughters. See Chap. 2. 14. Hahn Neuerlingen, Sefer yosif ometz, 10. 15. In Frankfurt, this was included in the privilege, or Stättigkeit documents. See ISG, Juden Akten 2. See also Kasper-Holtkotte, Die jüdische Gemeinde von Frankfurt/Main in der Frühen Neuzeit, 27–29. 16. ISG, Juden Akten 527. 17. See the example in Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2017/2. The dossier preserving the Judenordnungen in Worms contains a copy of the 1470 Frankfurt Stättigkeit privilege, suggesting that the

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magistrates of Worms consulted with those of Frankfurt when drafting their Jewish policy. See Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2017/1. 18. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2017/2. 19. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2017/4; 1 B 2017/5a. 20. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 2018/12. 21. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 62. See also the discussion in Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 59. 22. D. Jütte, “Entering a City”; D. Kaplan, “Crossing Borders,” 316–49. 23. Groebner, Who Are You?; Betteridge, Borders and Travellers in Early Modern Europe. 24. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers, 85; Boes, “Unwanted Travellers,” 99. 25. The Jewish communities of Friedberg and Berlin were also responsible for their own gates. The parnassim had the key to the gates in Friedberg and were responsible for opening and closing them. See Litt, Protokollbuch und Statuten der jüdischen Gemeinde Friedberg, 192, par. 211. The Jewish community of Prussia was to station two guards at the gates of Berlin. See Bodian, “The Jewish Entrepreneurs in Berlin,” 174–75. 26. Schammes, Minhagim 1, nos. 1–2. 27. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 540, fol. 17. 28. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Lb Nr. 18, vol. 1l, nr. 5. 29. CAHJP, AHW 33, no 6. 30. Turniansky, “Yiddish Song as Historical Source Material.” 31. Turniansky, “The Events in Frankfurt am Main (1612–1616) in ‘Megillas Vints’ and in an Unknown Yiddish ‘Historical Song.’ ” 32. Eyn neue klag lied. I thank Shaul Seidler-Feller for his help with this translation. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. Although this seems to indicate that Fulwasser was still alive, I would argue that the date of the text and the context in which historical poems were written suggest that he had already died. Perhaps this is a description of how they felt about him. 37. Garrioch, “Sounds of the City.” 38. Ettlinger, Ele toldot, for the year 1708. 39. Ibid. 40. Eyn neue klag lied. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid. 44. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 509, fol. 309. 45. It is difficult, if not impossible, to see whether a parallel practice of supporting the local rural poor was adopted in the Jewish community. The pinkas of the charity collector of Worms from 1737 includes individuals with names that correspond to neighboring towns, as well as to youth, pointing to a similar trend among the Jewish poor. Yet some of the poor bearing names of nearby towns may very well have been among the residential poor, since the surnames of many families, including the wealthy Oppenheim family, were taken from the names of surrounding towns and villages. This is one of the challenges in determining who was among the local poor and who was itinerant in this particu lar logbook. See CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662. There is ample documentation of the deep connections between the Jews in Worms and those in surrounding areas. See Chap. 1. 46. Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 551, fols. 65–66.

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47. Boes, “Unwanted Travellers,” 108–10. 48. ISG, Juden Akten 628. See Kasper-Marienberg and D. Kaplan, “Nourishing a Community.” 49. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers, 28–32. 50. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1b Fasc. 4, fol. 51. 51. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1b Fasc. 4, fol. 68. 52. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1b Fasc. 5, unpaginated (Lit.G). 53. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1b Fasc. 5, unpaginated (Lit.D). 54. Staatarchiv Hamburg, 111-1 Cl VII Lit. Hf Nr. 5, vol. 1 b Fasc. 6, unpaginated. 55. Lindemann, Patriots and Paupers, 83. 56. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 38. 57. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 88. 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid. 60. An extant copy of the pinkas memunim for 1766–1803 can be seen at CAHJP, HM 8785. 61. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 10. 62. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 138. 63. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 141. Around Purim, a reminder that all begging had been prohibited was again announced in the synagogue, as many transient Jews had apparently returned to the city, likely in search of support at this time of year, when such aid was traditional. See CAHJP AHW 85a, no. 156. 64. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 3. 65. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 146. See the discussion in Chap. 3. 66. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 206. 67. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 149. 68. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 322. 69. CAHJP, AHW 85a, nos. 172, 234, 236, 352, and unnumbered announcements on fols. 98, 109, 114. 70. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 74r. 71. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 75v. 72. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 76. 73. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fols. 25, 26, 31, 75, 76, 77. 74. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 76r. 75. CAHJP AHW 85a, no. 387. 76. CAHJP AHW 85a, no. 387. 77. By this date, the notes were being administered by the parnas ha-hodesh, the lay leader who had been selected for extra administrative duties on a monthly basis. 78. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 65. 79. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 390. 80. Groebner, Who Are You?, 181. 81. See the discussion in Chap. 4. 82. CAHJP, AHW 85a, no. 139. 83. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3678; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3310. See the discussion of these two manuscripts in Friedmann, “Letters.” 84. NLI JER, Ms. 8° 3678, fol. 4. 85. Friedmann, “Letters.” 86. Hughes, “From Brideprice”; E. Horowitz, “Hakhnasat kallah’ be-getto Venetziah.”

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87. In this manuscript, no women are listed by name. Rather, the males are named, and the females, often depicted as passive, are referred to by their relationship to various males. Thus, there are wives, widows, daughters, and orphans, all unnamed. 88. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3310, fols. 17v, 20v. 89. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3310, fols. 37v–38r. 90. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 3310, fol. 24v. 91. Azulay, Sefer ma‘agal tov, 22. 92. Ibid., 23. See also Dweck, “A Jew from the East Meets Books from the West.” 93. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 284. 94. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662. These terms appear throughout the pinkas; see, e.g., fols. 76, 94. 95. See CAHJP, D/Wo 3/ 662, fol. 86 for one example. This was also the practice in Amsterdam. See Y. Kaplan, “Pelitim yehudim”; Bernfeld, Poverty and Welfare. 96. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 44. 97. In contrast with the other two communities examined in this book, there are no references to arhey parhey in the takkanot, and only one reference to Betteljuden appears in the municipal regulations. The latter reference addresses both Jewish and Christian foreign beggars and bans their presence in identical terms. See Stadtarchiv Worms, 1 B 551, fols. 65, 66. 98. ISG, Juden Akten 966. 99. S. Unna, Gedenkbuch der Frankfurter Juden. 100. The pinkas of the gabba’e tzedakah in Altona records the fees associated with the death and burial of small children born to families with hezkat kahal. See CAHJP, AHW 37; see also the discussion of Memorbücher in Chap. 6. 101. ISG, Juden Akten 17. 102. ISG, Criminalia 3472. 103. ISG, Criminalia 2876. 104. Eyn neue klag lied. 105. ISG, RP 29, fol. 71v; BMB 135, fol. 138. 106. ISG RP 31, fol. 92r. For additional information about the doctor, see ISG, Juden Akten 435 (10). 107. On charity as reinforcing boundaries between communities, see Terpstra, Religious Refugees, 233–35. On conversion and the poor, see Guggenheim, “Meeting on the Road,” 126–35. 108. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 662, no. 261. 109. See, for example, the memorial book of the Frankfurt hekdesh synagogue discussed in Chap. 6. NLI JER, Ms. 8° 1465, fol. 25v. 110. CAHJP AHW 33a, 6b. 111. Ibid. 112. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 56. This arrangement was contingent on Moses paying and outstanding obligations to the community. 113. See Exod. 1:14–16. Brendele died in 1722. Digitale Edition—Jüdischer Friedhof Worms, wrm-269, http://www.steinheim-institut.de/cgi-bin/epidat?id​= ​wrm-269. 114. Digitale Edition—Jüdischer Friedhof Worms, wrm-347, http://www.steinheim-institut .de/cgi-bin/epidat?id​= ​wrm-347. 115. CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 227. 116. CAHJP, AHW 65a, fol. 4. 117. CAHJP, AHW 36ab. 118. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fols. 39v, 42v.

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119. These two women are not included in the community Memorbuch. As discussed in Chap. 6, inclusion in the Memorbuch was typically reserved for individuals with hezkat kahal. 120. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 22. 121. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 14. 122. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fols. 26, 54, 56, 62, 84. 123. ISG, Criminalia 2601, fol. 4r. 124. ISG, Criminalia 2601, unpaginated document that corresponds to document no. 15. The submission of Hebrew or Yiddish documents to a municipal or imperial court is not unique. 125. ISG, Criminalia 2876. 126. ISG, Criminalia 3472. 127. Richarz, “Jewish Social Mobility in Germany During the Time of Emancipation, 1790– 1871”; Guggenheim, “Social Stratification”; Backhaus, “Im Heckhuß”; Penslar, Shylock’s Children, 19. 128. NLI JER, Ms. 4° 662, no. 320, par. 79. See also Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 75. A criminal case from 1624 reports an altercation that led to one brawler’s death in the inn, further linking crime to foreign guests. The guests in this case seem to have been visiting for the fair and were likely not poor. See ISG, Criminalia 907. 129. Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, 16. 130. Ibid., 17. 131. The phrase is a play on words based on the blessing recited after consuming grains. Kosman uses the term mihya ve-kalkala, spelling the latter word with a kuf rather than a kaf. The different spelling rendered sustenance into spoil. 132. Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, 17. 133. On cameralism and the myriad regulation endemic to the eighteenth century, see Raef, “The Well- Ordered Police State and the Development of Modernity in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Europe.”

chapter 6 1. For details on the war in Worms, see Mahlerwein, “Die Reichsstadt Worms,” 299–302. 2. Bacharach remarks on his displacement to Frankfurt in the introduction to his responsa, which he published in Frankfurt in 1699. See Bacharach, Havot Yair. He discusses this in the context of whether one was obligated to observe pious practices that one’s father had previously adopted. See ibid., no. 153. 3. Ibid., no. 153. 4. See Chap. 1. 5. On the relationship between archives and communal memory, see Bastian, Owning Memory. 6. Teller, “The Eastern European Pinkas Kahal.” 7. CAHJP, AHW 65a. 8. CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662. 9. CAHJP, D/Fr3/32. See also CAHJP, AHW 54 for kladde pinkas of a tax collector, 1767–1806. 10. CAHJP, D/Wo3/455. 11. CAHJP, AHW 16. 12. Das Grüne Buch; see also CAHJP, D/Wo 3/663 (pinkas of the tax collector).

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13. See, for example, ISG, Juden Akten 2, 3, 4. 14. See the discussion in Chap. 1, which references the communal ordinances regulating access to the pinkassim. 15. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia. 16. See Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel. For a late eighteenth-century pinkas of a shadar, see JTSA, Ms. 3890. 17. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia. The decision is written on a small slip of paper pasted into the pinkas. On the debates over how to divide the funds, see Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 311–13; Lehmann, Emissaries from the Holy Land, 169–92. 18. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 11. On Kokni, see Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 474f. 19. For another example, see CAHJP, AHW 1025. See the discussion of receipts in Chap. 2. 20. Some of these are slips of paper preserved among the leaves of the pinkas. These may have been carried by the gabbay or copied from the pinkas of the rabbinic emissary. See CAHJP, AHW 31 I; AHW 31 Ia; AHW 31 II. 21. Most of the donations begin in 1685, but one slip in the pinkas records four donations that pledged an annual gift. These pledges were initially made in 1676. While the latest pledges were made in 1691, some donors promised to donate for the rest of their lives; other pledged to donate through 1699. 22. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fols. 2r–3v. 23. It is explicitly referred to as an additional donation in the text. 24. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 2r. 25. Ibid., fol. 2v. 26. Yuval, “Terumot me-Nirenberg le-Yerushalayim.” The Nürnberg Memorbuch is discussed at length below. 27. See CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 11. This text is quoted at length below. 28. Ibid., fols. 12 and 12r. It was not unusual for gabbaim to precisely record who had brought them a particu lar sum. As we saw in Chap. 2, precision and accuracy were central to the recordkeeping process. In this pinkas Eretz Israel, the gabbay specifies that he received payment for a pledge from the community (listed as the synagogue) and that this payment was brought to him by Hirz, a servant of R. Eberle (see fol. 15v). 29. The same term, bahur, is used for both. On fol. 14r, a minor named Shimon b. Menahem is listed among the donors. I have excluded one orphan who is listed as such as a head of household from this calculation, since the finances of orphaned minors were normally run by guardians. However, he—not his guardians—is listed as the donor. In the tax records, orphans would have been listed as the orphans of a particu lar father, rather than by their names. For the tax records, see CAHJP, AHW 48, 1 and 2. 30. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 11. 31. See the slip of paper in CAHJP, AHW 31 I, labeled as 6. It is reasonable to assume that this undated slip was recorded shortly after their deaths. The list may have been copied from an earlier record, which had recorded the male donors while they were still alive, and the scribe of the new list added “of blessed memory.” The pledges were recorded as male; only wives and heirs could have fulfilled them. 32. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 4r. She is referred to as the widow Glikl. It is likely that this list of pledges was compiled after the small slip of paper. 33. According to Glikl, when Hayyim died, he left no will because he said that Glikl knew all of his afairs. See Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 368.

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34. It is not possible to provide a precise statistic because certain lists omit these formal appellations, even as other sources attest to the status of the donor. The example provided is CAHJP, AHW 17a, fols. 4v–5r. 35. See Chap. 2. 36. Bella, who was Glikl’s mother and Joseph Stadthagen’s mother-in-law, made two separate donations. One donation is listed on more than one list; I have calculated it only once. The annual donation of the widow Esther was also recorded on more than one list. 37. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fols. 2r, 4v, 5r; CAHJP, AHW 31 I, no. 5. 38. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 1v. The only gabbay referred to by name was Stadthagen, but I cannot confirm that he was the only gabbay. 39. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 10v. It was his daughter Miriam who was recorded as having brought payment to the gabbay for a donation pledged under her father’s name. Itzik’s status is known to us from Miriam’s tombstone, where she is referred to as the daughter of the parnas umanhig. See http://www.steinheim-institut.de/cgi-bin/epidat?id​=​hha-1241&lang​= ​en. Glikl also mentions Itzik Polak, as she consulted with a melamed whom he employed with regard to her son’s education. See Turniansky, Glikl: Zikhroynes, 418. 40. AHW 31 Ia, fol. 11r. 41. See Chap. 2 for a discussion of the economic status of the gabbay. 42. Stadthagen’s sons, as well as the sons of other parnassim, are listed as having donated independently. 43. Cavallo, Charity and Power in Early Modern Italy, 167–75. 44. Terpstra, Cultures of Charity, 247–49; Gavitt, Gender, Honor, and Charity in Late Renaissance Florence, 67–92. 45. Unfortunately, we do not have the Memorbuch from Altona-Hamburg, although it is referred to in takkanot. I can therefore provide a detailed analysis only of Memorbücher from Worms and Frankfurt but refer to the parallels in Altona through references in the takkanot. 46. For a few examples of Memorbücher of communities of varying sizes, see Weinberg, “Das Memorbuch”; Weiland, “In Memoriam—Das Alzeyer Memorbuch”; Leveen, “A Hebrew Memorbuch of the Jewish Community of Bonn”; Stern, “Memorbuch ha-yashan de-k”k Vina lifney hagerush”; Weisemann, “Gott möge Gedenken der Seele”; C. Wiesner, “Das Hanauer Memorbuch.” 47. Cited from the Worms Memorbuch, MS Opp. 716, fol. 14. 48. Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, no. 33. On the cemetery rite, see Chap. 4. 49. See Kosman, Noheg ka-tzon Yosef, no. 33. Similarly, one entry in the Memorbuch used in the hekdesh synagogue in Frankfurt explains that the husband of a woman who had died in childbirth paid for her to be remembered weekly. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 31r. For Worms, see MS Opp. 716; and NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656. There, on the Sabbath prior to a new Jewish month, when the date of the new month was decreed in the synagogue, there was typically no recitation of names. See the next note for the exception that was made to commemorate the martyrs of the First Crusade. See Schammes, Minhagim 1, no, 98. 50. On the 23 of Iyyar, the Jews of Worms fasted to commemorate those killed in Worms during the First Crusade. Among the additional liturgy for the day was the recitation of the names of those killed in Worms. On the following Sabbath, the names of those martyred in Worms and elsewhere were recited, despite the fact that it was the Sabbath before a new Jewish month. See Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 98. On the Sabbath before the fast of Tish‘ah be-Av, the names of all those martyred in various uprisings were read aloud; the names of the Worms residents who perished during the First Crusade were not included. See Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 120.

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51. It was to be read aloud on every Shabbat on which Av ha-rahamim, a prayer before mussaf that also memorialized Jewish martyrs, was recited. See Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:13. 52. Greenblatt, To Tell Their Children, 36–46. 53. The loss of the Frankfurt Memorbuch in a fire that burned the synagogue down strongly suggests that the Memorbuch had been kept there. In addition, the numerous copies of memorial books from the same community, intended for use in diferent quorums, indicate that each copy may have been stored in that quorum’s meeting space. These topics are elaborated on below. 54. Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2:13. 55. There are several diferent extant Memorbücher from Metz as well. On the Metz Memorbuch, see Schwarzfuchs, “Un Obituaire Israelite”; Bouvat-Martin, Tables du Memorbuch de Metz (1720–1849). 56. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 1092; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465. The Memorbuch from the hekdesh also included communal rabbis and martyrs who did not necessarily pray in that quorum but who may have been included because of their prestige. See, for example, fols. 17r, 22r. In one example, the cantor from the old synagogue, who clearly did not pray in the hekdesh synagogue each day, was nevertheless included in the book. See fol. 44v. 57. Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot.” 58. Roemer, German City, Jewish Memory, 48–49. 59. The scribe was Sinai Loans. See NLI JER, Ms. 4° 656, fol. 4. On Loans, see Lowenstein, “Zur Geschichte der Juden in Worms.” 60. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 3. 61. Ms. Opp. 716. His manuscript difers from the other two and comprises a diferent set of prayers, including those from Rosh Hashanah; it is referred to on the title page as a mahzor, the prayer book used on the High Holidays. The title page of the manuscript is Oppenheim’s personal one, suggesting that he may have commissioned a copy. The manuscript does not contain any names of those who died after 1620 (see below). 62. I would estimate that Oppenheim acquired his copy in 1686, when he acquired eighty volumes for forty gulden from Shmuel Zanvil, the community scribe and son-in-law of Juspe Schammes. See Marx, “The History of David Oppenheimer’s Library,” 242. Lucia Raspe has noted that among the books Oppenheimer purchased was the autograph copy of Juspe’s Minhagim; see Raspe, “On the Fate of Two Minhagim Manuscripts from Worms,” 112. 63. On preserving the memory of 1648, see Fram, “Creating a Tale of Martyrdom in Tulczyn.” 64. Tzuk ha-‘ ittim was written by Meir ben Shmuel in 1650 and described the uprising. 65. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 656, fol. 65v. 66. See Schammes, Minhagim 1, no. 98. 67. NLI JER, Ms. Heb 4° 656, fol. 65v. 68. Ibid. 69. See the Memorbuch of Halberstadt, which goes from the early modern period through the twentieth century. CAHJP, D/Ha11/296. 70. On the Nürnberg Memorbuch, see Salfeld, Das Martyrologium des Nürnberger Memorbuches; Barzen, “Das Nürnberger Memorbuch”; Baumgarten, Practicing Piety, 116–28. 71. In the manuscript housed in the NLI, there are two copies of the lists of notables from medieval Ashkenaz. The first several folios of the manuscript include these names as well as those of local rabbis. Their names appear again on fol. 8, followed by the local dead. 72. I have used several sources to date the entries in the Worms Memorbuch. First, I compared all three versions because, in some instances, one manuscript contains a date for the deceased

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when the other manuscripts do not. Second, I used the work of David Kaufmann, who published data from the pinkas hekdesh of Worms before it was lost during World War II, which listed the dates of death for many of the individuals recorded in the Memorbuch. See Kaufmann, “Sefer hamilu’im.”. Finally, I compared the data from the Memorbuch with those epitaphs from tombstones that have been cata loged. For a database of the tombstones, see http://www. steinheim -institut .de/cgi-bin/epidat?id​= ​w rm&lang​= ​de. This work confirmed that David Oppenheim’s manuscript does not include anyone who died after 1620. By using these various sources, I successfully dated the majority of the entries through 1750. 73. My analysis of the Memorbuch is based on a comparison of all three versions, including the diferences between them, some of which are discussed in the text and notes below. The years I cover are for deaths between 1500 and 1750. 74. Baumgarten, Practicing Piety, 116–28. 75. Yuval, “Terumot.” Given that in Worms, the term hekdesh referred to the general charity fund, it is theoretically possible that the term hekdesh in the Nürnberg Memorbuch referred to the charity fund rather than to the hospice. However, it is plausible that at this juncture, the term hekdesh did refer the hospice, as this would have been a new institution that needed support. See Yuval, “Hospices and Their Guests.” Baumgarten noted that gifts to the cemetery were prevalent just after it had been established; a similar trend in supporting a new institution is likely at play here. See Baumgarten, Practicing Piety, 121. 76. In Worms, communal ser vice was at times enough to warrant inclusion in the text, and an additional donation as was not necessary. Many individuals were recognized for ser vice before 1500 (13 out of the 32) and between 1630–1639 (7 out of the 32). 77. Some who donated tangible items paid the standardized fee described below as well. On Christian gifts, see Ben-Amos, Cultures of Giving, 352–64. 78. It is not clear what the purpose of the boards was, as this entry is incomplete. Wooden boards were used by the community to knead the dough for matzot, and wooden planks were also used to tend to and carry bodies of the dead. 79. This donation was made in 1692. Avraham died in Heidelberg and was buried in Mannheim. The requisite sum of ten gulden, discussed below, was also paid on his behalf. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 22; and NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fol. 38. 80. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 9, 11; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fols. 18r, 22v. 81. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 9; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fol. 18r. The prayer was shir ha-yihud. In the manuscript, details for this donation are provided in the margin of the main entry. 82. Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 12; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fol. 24r. 83. Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 17; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fol. 31r. For additional documentation of the mahzor, see the entry in the pinkas hekdesh preserved in Das Grüne Buch, fol. 89b. 84. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 16; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fol. 30v. 85. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 40, 42; NLI, MS Heb. 4° 656, fols. 54r–55v. They were recognized for additional gifts: Miriam for having donated a Torah scroll and other vessels for the synagogue, as well as for founding confraternities; and Leib for supporting students and for his shtadlanut (advocacy) on behalf of the Jews. In cases in which individuals gave a tangible gift, it was not uncommon to recognize them for more than one donation (including, in later years, the standard fee of ten gulden). 86. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 248. 87. An official scribe also inputted the names of the deceased into the Memorbuch in AltonaHamburg. See Graupe, Die Statuten der drei Gemeinde, 2:13.

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88. Some entries in the Memorbuch were erased, but it is impossible to know whether they were crossed out because of failure to pay. Indeed, the 1733–1734 manuscript from the NLI includes several entries that the scribe himself crossed out; he seems to have copied the names and the cross-outs from an earlier version, rather than omitting those names that had been crossed out. See fols. 22v–23r. 89. The rate for inclusion did not change over time, despite the high inflation during the Thirty Years’ War. 90. Earlier examples can be found in Das Grüne Buch, see for example, fol. 45v. For a later example, see the eighteenth-century pinkas hekdesh, CAHJP, D/Wo 3/662, fol. 61. The same seems to have been the practice in Altona-Hamburg. Records from the early eighteenth century include several references to collateral being given in exchange for burial costs. See CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 3v. For a reference to a payment for inclusion in the Memorbuch, see fol. 53v. For a similar practice in Fürth, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 180, no. 125. 91. Kaufmann, Sefer ha-milu’ im, 7. 92. Ibid. 93. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 7; NLI, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 14v. Additional examples of collateral appear throughout Kaufmann’s work. 94. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 12; NLI JER Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 25r. 95. See Berliner’s ed., 13–14; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 27rv. For other examples, see fols. 29v, 31v, 54r. 96. In the Memorbuch, Sprintz is listed as the daughter of Eliezer Miller. In Kaufmann’s version, she is listed as the daughter of Feivush Oppenheim and as the niece of the gabbay; see Kaufmann, Sefer ha-milu’ im, 13. 97. See Berliner’s ed., 13–14; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 27v. For Elsass’s date of death, see Kaufmann, Sefer ha-milu’ im, 13. 98. See below for similar examples from the Frankfurt Memorbuch. 99. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 28–29; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 51v. 100. Not all the Memorbuch is arranged chronologically. Several sections jump back and forth between the early seventeenth and late eighteenth century. In addition, the Oppenheim manuscript has numerous diferences in order from the Berliner and NLI texts. It is not always clear what led to those diferences, since dating earlier entries is more challenging. 101. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 28; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 49v. 102. There are some references to individual women as wives or mothers of other community members. See, fol. 18v, where Tamar the daughter of Abraham is listed as the mother of Itzik Gabbay. 103. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 12. This annotation, made by a scribe of a manuscript that is no longer extant, was copied into the manuscript used in the Rashi beyt midrash by Sinai Loans. 104. For the most part, I have succeeded in dividing the donations into decades from 1600 on. It is not possible to distinguish donations given prior to 1600 by decade. Because there are more data available for donations given between 1580–1600, I have opted to create a category of 1500– 1580 and of 1580–1600. I have divided the 150 years under examination into decades, with three exceptions. Because of the Fettmilch uprising between 1614 and 1616, which resulted in an expulsion from Worms, I have divided the period as 1600–1614 and as 1616–1629. In addition, in the wake of the 1689 fire, Jews did not reside in Worms during 1689–1699. As will be discussed below, there were nevertheless five donations given in that ten-year period. Since those donations are idiosyncratic, I have opted to divide the period as follows: 1680–1689 and 1690–1709.

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105. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 21, 26, 12; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fols. 25v, 38r, 47r. As the page numbers indicate, these five men and women are not all grouped together. Two entries were placed near those of family members. Three individuals are listed on the same page; perhaps they were listed in chronological order, suggesting that the Memorbuch was being used even as most of the community lived outside the city. Of the five individuals listed, one died in Vienna, one in Heidelberg, one in Breisach, one in Pressburg, and one in Gernsheim. This gives us a small window into the range of places, near and far, to which those who left Worms, but still felt connected to it, migrated. This lends additional context to Bacharach’s responsum at the beginning of this chapter. 106. Mahlerwein, “Die Reichsstadt Worms,” 326. 107. On inheritance for daughters, see Berkovitz, Protocols, 151–54. For examples in which a man raised the amount of his wife’s ketubbah, which would have allotted her additional funds upon his death, see CAHJP, D/Wo 3/339. 108. On the Frankfurt Memorbuch, see Roth, “In Commemoration of the Frankfurt Jewish Community on the Occasion of the Acquisition of the Frankfurt Memorbuch”; Koren-Loeb, “Das Memorbuch zu Frankfurt am Main.” 109. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 1092, fol. 1. The Memorbuch had likely been kept in the synagogue, which burned in the fire. See Roth, “In Commemoration,” 11. Records of the burial society must have been kept elsewhere. 110. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 1092, fol. 112. 111. The fact that Oppenheim did not utilize the Memorbuch from the hekdesh synagogue reiterates that the latter manuscript was inclusive only of a select number of Frankfurt residents. While that text begins in 1691, and even includes one death from 1639 (see NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 20r), most of the entries date from 1710 forward. 112. I would argue that the pinkassim, which were locked in a box, were more secure than the Memorbuch, which was stored in the synagogue for liturgical use. 113. Forty-four donations did not list any gift. Of those, twelve were for rabbis, judges on the rabbinical court, or scribes; one was for the wife of one of the judges; two were buried outside Frankfurt; and two were for a martyr. 114. Six men donated for themselves, as did three women. This trend is discussed below. 115. See, for example, entries for Gavriel ben Moshe Hirschhorn on fol. 220, and of Telkhin bat Hirz Wald on fol. 224. See also NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 21r. 116. See, for example, entries for Moshe Oppenheim on fol. 202, and of the widow Bela bat Isaac Stievel on fol. 203. 117. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 1092, fol. 276. 118. Fram, A Window on Their World, 303–11; the reference to the Memorbuch is on p. 311. 119. NLI JER, MS Heb. 1092, fol. 413. 120. The same trend can be found in the memorial book from the hekdesh synagogue. See, for example, NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 34v, for the family of Moses Amsterdam. 121. NLI JER, MS Heb. 1092, fol. 1. 122. S. Unna, Gedenkbuch der Frankfurter Juden. 123. The Memorbuch does contain several references to individuals who were buried in other communities; see, for example, Mendelen Koulpe-Wetzlar, who died in 1750 in Amsterdam. 124. Because the same appellations were used to refer to single men and women and to youths, it is impossible to diferentiate between them. 125. This number includes individuals who are explicitly mentioned as having come from elsewhere; domestic servants, unless they are referred to as natives of Frankfurt; melamdim; and

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communal workers who were among the laboring poor. See the discussion in Chap. 4. I did not use any surnames that are place-based (such as Hamburg or Amsterdam) as an indication of status, since these names do not necessarily indicate that the individual was a foreigner; rather, one of his forebears may have come from that city. 126. See Ettlinger, Ele toldot. Each individual had his or her own page, and Ettlinger created indices for cross-referencing as well. 127. Ettlinger did not include babies in his work. He does include somewhat older children, whose names would have been preserved by the burial society or on tombstones. 128. See Chap. 4. 129. See Chaps. 4 and 5. 130. Ettlinger, Ele toldot, entry for Raw Hers Fränkel, around 1735. 131. Ibid., entry for Hindhe Oppenheim (17.I.1713). 132. See Chap. 2. See also regulations about marriage and economic independence in the Frankfurt pinkas, NLI JER, 4° 662, nos. 14 and 236 [14]. See Berkovitz, “Social and Religious Controls in Pre-Revolutionary France,” 15–16, for comparable data from Metz. 133. Ettlinger, Ele toldot, entry for Hayyim Fürth (24.V.1725). Ettlinger posits that he may have attained the honorific title at a young age, before an untimely passing, but this is an unlikely interpretation. 134. Siegmund, The Medici State and the Ghetto of Florence, 339–42; Froide, “Marital Status as a Category of Diference”; M. Wiesner, “Having Her Own Smoke.” 135. See, for example, the tombstone of Esther bat Zalman Bensheim, who died in her youth. Among other attributes, she was remembered for her prayers. It is noteworthy that her single status is bemoaned. See http://www.steinheim-institut.de/cgi-bin/epidat?id​= ​wrm-321&lang​= ​en. 136. Graupe, Der Statuten der drei Gemeinden, 2: 13. 137. Ibid. 138. Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Women at the Viennese Imperial Supreme Court,” 190; Fram and Kasper-Marienberg, “Jewish Martyrdom Without Persecution,” 290–301. 139. This synagogue is one of several referred to in the 1783 enactment fining those who had prayed in a quorum other than the old and new synagogues. See Chap. 1. The memorial book covers 1691–1852. 140. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fols. 32v, 41r, 56r. 141. One “virgin” was the daughter of a parnas. See NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 56r. 142. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fols. 39r, 41r, 58v. 143. Kaufmann, Sefer ha-milu’ im, 13. 144. Schammes, Minhagim 2, no. 248. 145. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 40; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 55v. I have not been able to further identify his family, as there are no relevant tombstones in the database. He is mentioned by Kaufmann, Sefer ha-milu’ im, 24, without any additional identifying information. 146. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 38; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 53v. 147. See Chap. 4. 148. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 28; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 51r. 149. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 41; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 56. 150. See Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 24–25; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fols. 40v, 41v. 151. Teplitsky, Prince of the Press. 152. For Shinkhen, see Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 26; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 47r; for R. Treitlin, Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 7; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol.

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14r; for R. Shlomo, Berliner, “Sefer hazkarat neshamot,” 9; NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 19v. R. Treitlin was one of the first entries to include a marginal addition—in this case, his Yiddish name, by which he was called. It seems that marginal explanations were initially used for the elite of the society; as mentioned above, the practice of delineating familial relationships and other data became increasingly common. 153. Stanford, Commemorating the Dead, 224–25. 154. On the cemetery, see Chap. 4.

epilogue 1. Das Grüne Buch, fol. 47; Kaufmann, R. Jaïr Chajjim Bacharach (1638–1702), 16. See also Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 248. 2. For examples, see CAHJP, AHW 15, nos. 51, 223, 230; AHW 17a, fols. 7, 8, 9, 20, 28. 3. See CAHJP, AHW 15, no. 50, for an example of an emissary from Hebron approaching both communities in 1683. 4. CAHJP, AHW 17a, fol. 19r. 5. CAHJP, AHW 33, 4b. 6. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953. The text was published by Yaari, “Shene kuntresim meEretz Yisrael.” 7. On the emissary see Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 276–77, 320. 8. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953, fol. 1v. The English translation I am using is by Elisheva Carlebach, from materials from a course we taught together on women and gender. I thank her for permitting me to use the translation. 9. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities. 10. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953, fols. 3v, 6r–v. 11. On the importance of Yiddish as a bridge between diferent communities in Ashkenazic diasporas, see Berger, “Keri’ah diasporit shel te’ure masah le-Eretz Israel.” 12. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953, fol. 5v. 13. See also the discussion below of the letters brought by the emissary Masoud Bonan. 14. See Yom Tov Tzahalon, Shu”t Maharita”tz, no. 160. See also Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Yisrael, 312–13. Only the Ashkenazim were permitted to earmark their contributions to their own ethnic group. See Kaufmann, “Issur la-‘asot perud be-hakehillah.” See also Ben-Naeh, “Ve-khi lo aheihem anahnu?” 15. Y. Kaplan, “Pelitim yehudim”; Bernfeld, Poverty and Welfare, 149. 16. Fehler, “Coping with Poverty,” 123. 17. Fehler, “Creating Boundaries in Emden, Germany.” 18. Fattori, “The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna dei Greci in Ancona.” 19. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953, fol. 1v. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid. A prayer for the pregnant and birthing women was included in the text on fols. 4v–5v. 22. Bodleian Library, Ms. Opp. 4° 953, fol. 1v. 23. Baader, Gender, Judaism, and Bourgeois Culture, 161. 24. See Chap. 5. 25. CAHJP, AHW 31 Ia, fol. 11. See Chap. 6. 26. On women and the sacred sphere, see Sered, Women as Ritual Expert; idem, Priestess, Mother, Sacred Sister.

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27. See Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Yisrael, 65–67, 313–31. The importance of Frankfurt is attested by Hagiz, Sefat emet, 26. See also description of Jacob Emden, who was highly critical of the way that money was transferred in his father’s lifetime. Emden, Megillat sefer, 14–16. On the importance of Constantinople in the eighteenth century, see Lehmann, Emissaries from the Holy Land, 1, 4. On the role of Metz in the eighteenth century, see the letters published by Kaufmann, in “Lekorot ‘adat Ashkenazim be-Yerushalayim.” 28. Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 336–37. On the Wertheim family, see Kaufmann, “Le-korot ‘adat Ashkenazim be-Yerushalayim.” On Oppenheim, see Benayahu, “The Exchange of Letters Between the Ashkenazic Community of Jerusalem and Rabbi David Oppenheim”; Teplitsky, “A ‘Prince of the Land of Israel’ in Prague.” 29. On the importance of trust in networks between merchants, see Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers. 30. See Ben-Ghedalia, “Empowerment: Tzedakah, Philanthropy and Inner-Jewish Shtadlanut.” See also the philanthropic activities of Moses Montefiore, whose work spanned various continents. Green, Moses Montefiore. 31. On women’s exclusion from the public sphere in early modern Germany, see D. Kaplan, “Because Our Wives Trade and Do Business with Our Goods.” 32. Baader, Gender, Judaism and Bourgeois Life, 182–83; Goldberg, “Sacrifices upon the Altar of Charity.” On the link between women’s leadership and communal control, see also Siegmund, The Medici State and the Ghetto of Florence, 284–89. 33. On a comparison of diasporic charity networks, see Muchnik, “Charité et communauté diasporique dans l’Europe des XVIe–XVIIIe siècles.” 34. Stanwood, “Between Eden and Empire.” 35. Pinto, “Between Givers and the Poor.” 36. CAHJP, AHW 31a Ib, 2a. On the emissary, see Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 435, 438. 37. Rosman, “Jewish History Across Borders.” 38. Ben-Naeh, “Poverty, Paupers and Poor Relief in Ottoman Jewish Society.” On the influence of the waqf, see 179; on attitudes toward women, 159. 39. More research must be done to determine whether this was also true for smaller communities, particularly in the countryside. 40. For refences to several types of pinkassim, see Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten, 164, no. 190; 178, no. 119; 180, no. 126; 181, no. 127; 197, no. 193; 208, no. 444. 41. See the earliest of the four extant pinkassim from Poznań (Posen) (CAHJP, PL-Po-1a Poland), as well as the pinkas of Dubno (NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 349), each of which includes financial data of the sort that would not have been included in a western pinkas. Additional research must be done to determine the geographic trends in documentation. Further diferences between the pinkassim of smaller and larger communities must also be taken into account. 42. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 4° 656, fol. 7r. 43. On the growing importance of documents and their authentication by notaries in the sixteenth century, see Nussdorfer, Brokers of Public Trust. 44. NLI JER, Ms. Heb. 8° 1465, fol. 16v. 45. Ibid., fol. 36v. 46. CAHJP, P 101. 47. For Pisa, see Oxford Ms. Heb. 64, fol. 6. The second letter is reprinted as an illustration in Ben-Zvi, Eretz Israel ve- yishuvehah be-yeme ha-shilton ha- Ottmani, 311, and is written in Hebrew to the Jews of “Sanvenito.” Based on other references in early modern documents, I believe that this refers to Sanguinetto. For a reference to Sanguinetto, spelled almost exactly the

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same way as in Bonan’s letter, see, Boksenboim, Letters of Jews in Italy, 310. Leone Modena also refers to Sanguinetto; see Modena, Sefer hayye Yehudah, 79. 48. Ashkenaz refers to Germany here, as Bonan traveled to Italy, and from there to Holland, England, and Germany. See Yaari, Sheluhe Eretz Israel, 508. 49. See Petegree, Broadsheets. 50. See also the 1770 takkanot from Fürth, in which deputy officials in the community maintained a small pinkas documenting residents’ payment of a particu lar tax. The signatures were considered binding and were deemed valid receipts. Litt, Jüdische Gemeindestatuten 194, no. 180.

glossary of foreign terms

‘aliyah: honor of being called to the Torah during synagogue ser vices aluf (pl., alufim): honorific term for some of the elite men of the Jewish community ‘ani (pl., ‘aniyim): the poor ‘ani hagun (pl., ‘aniyim hagunim): the worthy poor arhey parhey: transient poor (derogatory term) bahur (pl., bahurim): lit., youth; term used for an unmarried man Behelfer: teaching assistants Betteljuden: transient poor betulah (pl., betulot): lit., virgin; term used for an unmarried woman bikkur holim: visiting (and caring for) the sick Breileft: postnuptial celebration Eretz Israel: Land of Israel etrog: citron used ritually on the holiday of Sukkot gabba’e Eretz Israel: charity collectors responsible for the funds collected for the Jews of the Holy Land gabbaot: female charity collectors gabbay (pl., gabbaim): male charity collector Garküche: eatery, used also to feed and lodge travelers goveh (pl., govim): tax collector haver: honorific title bestowed on older men by the community hever ‘ ir: medieval charity collector hazan: cantor hazkarat neshamot: recitation of names commemorating the dead heder: classroom hekdesh: term used for a variety of diferent charity funds and institutions; can refer to a private fund (in medieval Spain), a hospice (in medieval and early modern Ashkenaz), and/or to the general charity fund (in early modern Worms) hevrah (pl., hevrot): confraternity hevrah kaddisha: burial society hezkat kahal: status of official membership in the Jewish community ‘ironut: Hebrew term used for official communal membership (also vis-à-vis the municipality) in Worms and Frankfurt Judengasse (pl., Judengassen): Jewish street; the early modern ghetto in Frankfurt and Worms kahal: leadership of the Jewish community kahale stübe: official community room where meetings took place and documents were stored

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katzin (pl., ketzinim): honorific term for some of the elite (often wealthy) men of the Jewish community kehillah (pl., kehillot): Jewish community Kehillat Ah”u: acronym used for the triple community of Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek kitzbah: stipend paid to the poor kladde pinkas: logbook containing a first draft that is copied later kuppah (pl., kuppot): cofer or collection lulav: palm branch used ritually on holiday of Sukkot mahzor: prayer book used on holidays matnat yad: ritual of charity performed in synagogue on Jewish holidays melamed (pl., melamdim): teacher of small children (usually boys) Memorbuch (pl., Memorbücher): communal memorial book memunim: appointees; in this context, appointed to assist the charity collectors with relief for the poor mesharet (pl., meshartim): male domestic servant mesharetet (pl., meshartot): female domestic servant minhag: custom mi-sheberakh: honorific blessing for an individual proclaimed in synagogue during Torah reading, often in exchange for a donation mitzvot: lit., commandments; often used to refer to honors purchased in the synagogue mohel: ritual circumciser morenu: honorific title bestowed on learned men by the community mussaf: additional prayer in the synagogue on Sabbaths and holidays na‘ar (pl., ne‘arim): youth ne’eman kahal (pl., ne’emane kahal): trustworthy communal member who often functioned as scribe, notary, or witness to economic transactions orhim: guests, a term used to refer to foreigners parnas (pl., parnassim): lay leaders of the Jewish community parnas ha-hodesh: lay leader tasked with a primary role on a monthly basis pinkas (pl., pinkassim): ledgers and logbooks maintained by the community pinkas kahal: main logbook recording communal decisions plet (pl., pletten): vouchers for meals and/or lodging given to the poor Purim: carnivalesque holiday celebrating events from the book of Esther Rosh Hashanah: Jewish new year Rosh Hodesh: the first of the month in the Jewish calendar; new moon Schabbes Junge: young men who would board with a family over the Sabbath Schalantjuden: derogatory term for the itinerant poor Shabbat Hazon: Sabbath before Tish‘ah be-Av (see below) shadar: acronym for shaliah de-rabbanan, a rabbinic emissary collecting money for the Jews of the Holy Land shamash: sexton shtadlanut: advocacy; the advocate or liaison is a shtadlan Simhat Torah: festival marking both the culmination and the new cycle of the yearly Torah reading in the synagogue Spital: hospital used to house the poor and/or sick Stättigkeit: German term used for official communal membership (also vis-à-vis the municipality) in Frankfurt

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211

Sukkot: Feast of the Tabernacles Ta‘anit Esther: fast day preceding the holiday of Purim takkanah (pl., takkanot): communal decrees or enactments tamhuy: soup kitchen Tish‘ah be-Av: fast day commemorating the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem tzedakah: charity tzettel (pl., tzettlakh): note, slip of paper Yom Kippur: Day of Atonement

bibliography

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Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People AHW 10 AHW 14 AHW 15 AHW 16 AHW 17a AHW 25 AHW 27 AHW 31 I AHW 31 I a AHW 31 II AHW 33a AHW 35 AHW 36ab AHW 37 AHW 39a AHW 48, 1; 2 AHW 52 AHW 54 AHW 58a AHW 65a AHW 85a AHW 1025 D/Fr 3/32 D/Fr 5/28 D/Halberstadt/KG e3/8

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D/Ha 11/296 D/Wo 3/45 D/Wo 3/339 D/Wo 3/455 D/Wo 3/551 D/Wo 3/661 D/Wo 3/662 D/Wo 3/663 HM 8785 HM2/4148 HM2/5182 P 101 PL-Po-1a Poland

Institut für Stadtgeschichte (Frankfurt am Main) BMB 117 BMB 135 BMB 182 Criminalia 907 Criminalia 2601 Criminalia 2876 Criminalia 2894 Criminalia 3472 Criminalia 5233 Juden Akten 2 Juden Akten 3 Juden Akten 4 Juden Akten 17 Juden Akten 49 Juden Akten 435 Juden Akten 527 Juden Akten 628 Juden Akten 966 Juden Akten 974 Juden Akten 977 RP 13 RP 29 RP 31 RP 71 Strafenbuch

Jewish Theological Seminary of America JTSA Ms. 3890

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Index

administrators, 6, 21, 37, 39, 45, 48, 52. See also charity collectors; gabba’e Eretz Israel; gabba’e talmud Torah; parnassim; scribe; sexton; tax collectors age, 7, 54–55, 69, 81–82, 84, 150–54, 164, 190n94 Alsace, 30, 77 Altona: population, 19 Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek: cemetery, 19, 49, 73, 137n50; population, 18–19, 20, 21; synagogue, 23; treasuries, 25 Amsterdam, 72, 76, 161, 171, 196n95, 203n123 Anabaptists, 15 animals, 30, 80, 121 arhey parhey. See Betteljuden Bacharach, Moses Samuel ben Samson, 98, 136 Bacharach, Yair Hayyim, 32, 67, 123, 125, 143 bakery, 17 bankruptcy, 60–61, 63, 185n74 bathhouse, 55 beds, 57 Beer, Aaron, 94 begging, 5, 22, 23, 33, 68–69, 85, 89, 91–92, 102–3, 106–15, 165 Behelfer, 85–86, 113 Berlin, 151, 156, 184n31, 186n91, 194n25 Betteljuden, 96–97, 102, 107–10, 113, 116–17, 120–22 Bingen, 77, 170 birth, 21, 81, 116, 118–20, 146. See also pregnancy Black Death, 31–32, 96, 135–36 Bonan, Masoud, 163 Braunschweig, 103 Breileft, 92–95 Brody, 158 Buda, 158

budget, 5, 47, 66–67, 83 burial society, 40, 73, 79 burial, 8, 13, 40–41, 52, 56, 58, 75, 88, 117, 138, 149, 196n100. See also cemetery; death Cairo, 29 Calvinists, 12, 19 candles, 40, 52, 54, 55 cantor, 49, 55, 72, 74, 77, 154, 200n56 captives (ransoming), 70 Catholics, 4–5, 12, 19, 25, 32, 80, 154, 164–65, 174n19, 174n20 cemetery, 11, 14, 15, 19–20, 21, 30, 49, 55, 56, 71, 73, 81, 89–90, 138, 154. See also burial; death charity: across religious lines, 117–18; ancient forms, 28, 69; biblical, 28, 69–70, 90; institutionalization in early modern period, 3–4, 27–47, 165; medieval, 27, 29–32, 39, 69, 91; and theology, 5, 7, 28 charity collectors, 21, 25, 27–30, 34–37, 38, 42–44, 48, 51, 52, 53–59, 64–65, 66, 67, 70, 74, 75, 89, 91, 104, 108, 111–12, 113, 115–16, 118–20, 125, 135, 139, 147–48, 156, 161–62; and compelling payment, 64–66, 181n89; wives’ roles, 57. See also gabba’e Eretz Israel; gabba’e talmud Torah; gabbaot; pinkassim charity for brides, 37–38, 41, 83, 92–95, 112, 113–14, 156–57 charity for Holy Land, 37, 91, 115, 125–34, 156–61, 180n71, 180n72. See also gabba’e Eretz Israel; pinkassim class, 4, 7, 35–36, 92–95, 132–33, 155, 166, 191n116, 204n152 clothing, 57 collateral, 52, 139–40, 202n90 Cologne, 50 communal archive, 9, 25, 125. See also communal records; pinkassim

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communal honors. See honors in synagogue communal ordinances. See takkanot communal oven, 55 communal records, 24–26. See also communal archive; pinkassim confraternities, 8, 27, 33, 40–42, 130, 182n109. See also burial society Constantinople, 115, 161, 206n27 Copenhagen, 20 correspondence (intercommunal), 5, 23 Cossack uprising, 33, 136 courts, 9, 12, 13–14, 19, 20, 23, 24, 25, 38, 61, 63, 120–22, 149, 183n137 crime, 69, 96–97, 117, 120–22 death, 5, 56–58, 66. See also burial; cemetery debt: communal, 49; individual, 5, 49, 52, 65, 67, 77. See also bankruptcy Denmark (crown), 19–20, 63, 101 domestic servants, 7, 19, 37, 50, 56, 76, 78, 81–84, 85, 86, 88, 91, 95, 98–99, 103–6, 117, 151, 190n94 dowry. See charity for brides draft, 42, 124, 126–29 Eleazar of Worms, 93 Eliezer ben Nathan (Ra’avan), 27 Elijah Loans of Worms, 85 Emden, 39, 158, 170, 206n27 Emden, Jacob, 20, 206n27 emissary, 14, 27, 37, 125–26, 132, 156, 157, 160 enclosure, 5 etrog, 52, 65, 170, 180n68 Ettlinger, Shlomo, 151 excommunication, 60, 63, 65, 186n85. See also social discipline expenses (communal), 43, 49–51 expulsion, 12, 32, 75, 96–97, 113, 176n64, 179n37 Eybeschutz, Jonathan, 20 family donations, 3, 7, 130–31, 133, 137, 140–46, 149–50, 164 Fettmilch uprising, 12, 15, 72, 75 Fines, 6, 22, 24, 48, 49, 61, 62–64, 109, 110, 111 firefighters, 49, 81 First Crusade, 135–36, 199n50 foreign Jews, 76, 80, 84–85, 100–103, 108–10, 112, 115–16, 120–22, 151, 167–71, 194n45. See also Betteljuden; transient poor

Frankfurt am Main: cemetery, 11, 37, 81, 90, 107; communal strife, 21, 36, 63; fair, 11, 12, 33, 52, 63, 164; fires, 13, 32–33, 38, 98–100, 107, 146, 200n53; magistrates, 11–13, 33–34, 63, 65, 71, 96, 100, 107, 116, 165, 193n17; medieval period, 6, 9, 11, 27, 29; population, 12–13, 21; synagogue, 22 Friedberg, 38, 188n23, 194n25 Fulda, 77 Fulwasser, Jacob, 103–6, 117 gabba’e Eretz Israel, 130, 132–33. See also charity to the Holy Land; pinkassim gabba’e talmud Torah, 39, 85, 110, 181n87. See also confraternities gabbaim. See charity collectors gabbaot, 54, 157, 159 Garküche, 9, 121, 181n89, 197n128 gates, 101–7 gender, 3, 7, 68, 92–95, 130–34, 137, 144–46, 149, 154, 159, 160, 162, 164–65. See also women Gershom ben Judah (Rabbenu Gershom), 137 ghetto. See Judengasse Glikl of Hameln, 39–41, 130–33, 176n64, 182n121, 183n12, 191n120 govim. See tax collector guards, 7, 49, 56, 75, 77, 81, 101–6, 108, 113. See also gates Hahn Neuerlingen, Juspe, 38, 53, 70, 88, 90, 91, 99–100, 180n72 Halberstadt, 55, 171, 184n28, 187n105, 200n69 Hamburg: expulsion of Jews, 19; population, 18, 21; port, 18, 33, 164; senate, 19, 20, 23, 33–34, 85–86, 102, 103, 107–13, 165 Hanover, 103 Hanukkah, 34, 35–36, 42, 51, 180n70 Hayyim Yosef David Azulay, 14, 115 Hebron, 37, 115, 125–26, 132, 160, 205n3 Heidelberg, 50, 77, 167–71, 201n79, 203n105 hekdesh (burial area in Frankfurt cemetery), 73 hekdesh (general charity fund in Worms), 34, 134, 138 hekdesh (hospice). See hospice hekdesh (individual bequests in Spain), 31 hekdesh synagogue (Frankfurt), 135, 149, 152–53, 199n49 Hesse, 76, 77, 96, 168 hever ‘ ir, 27 hevrot. See confraternities

I n d ex hezkat kahal, 70, 71–75, 76, 77, 80, 81, 83, 88–89, 90–92, 96–100, 105, 113, 120, 151, 153–54, 155, 164–65, 188n 23. See also ‘ ironut; Stättigkeit Holy Land. See charity to Holy Land; Hebron; Jerusalem; gabba’e Eretz Israel; pinkassim; Safed; Tiberias homes, 7, 11, 15, 17, 19, 20, 41, 55, 60, 68, 72, 76–77, 79, 86–88, 97–100, 117, 149, 164, 167–71, 191n122 honor, 90–95 honors in synagogue, 6, 21, 22–23, 44, 48, 51–55, 67, 92–95, 111. See also shame hospice, 13, 27, 31–32, 33, 39–40, 49, 55, 57, 58, 59, 78–79, 80, 87, 98, 101, 116–17, 119, 137–38, 164 hospital. See hospice houses. See homes housewares, 57–58, 68 illness, 49, 51, 53, 57, 70, 74, 75, 78–80, 85, 86, 97, 107, 116, 117, 118; visiting the sick, 40–41 immigrants, 18 ‘ ironut, 72, 73. See also hezkat kahal; Stättigkeit Isaac ben Moses of Vienna, 69 Italy, 24, 32, 40, 115, 133, 163. See also Sanguinetto; Venice itinerant poor. See transient poor Jerusalem, 37, 125–26, 154, 157–61 Judengasse, 6, 9–11, 20, 32, 38, 39, 55, 57, 75, 84, 96, 101, 104–5, 107, 117, 123, 164, 167–71 Juspe Schammes, 36, 42, 44, 50–51, 55, 58, 65, 70, 73, 74, 89, 93, 101, 115, 138–39, 140, 149, 153 Kahale stübe, 25, 35 Katzenellenbogen, Yehezkel, 78–79 kitzbah, 74, 80, 85, 111 Kokni, Avraham, 125 Kosman, Joseph, 121–22, 134 Krakow, 156, 177n83 kuppah, 28, 29, 36–37, 89, 131–32, 157, 160 laborers, 7, 71, 75, 78, 80–81, 86–87, 91–92, 97, 107, 109, 116, 151, 164 lied, 103–6 linen, 40, 57–58, 68 Livorno, 161 liturgy, 2, 30–31, 60–61, 108, 135–36, 140, 147, 185n71, 185n73. See also mi-sheberakh loans, 48, 52–53, 67, 184n17

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logbook. See pinkassim Lublin, 158 Lutherans, 11–12, 15, 18, 19, 47. See also Protestants Lviv, 38, 161 Mainz, 76, 168, 171 Mannheim, 77, 169, 201n79 marital status, 3, 7, 68, 92–95, 151–52, 155, 164–65. See also single men and women marriage, 13, 14, 49, 53, 59, 61, 65–66, 71–72, 73, 77, 78, 88, 92–95, 185n71 material donations, 1–2, 30–31, 56–57, 137–39, 201n85. See also candles; ritual items for synagogue; wax matnat yad, 2–3, 61, 180n72 matzot, 56, 201n76 May, Jacob, 66 Meir ben Barukh (Maharam Rothenburg), 14, 137, 184n17 melamdim. See teachers Memorbuch, 55, 131, 134–55, 162, 163. See also Nürnberg Memorbuch Mennonites, 19 mentally disabled, 7, 30, 49, 78–80, 112 Metz, 39, 55, 161, 181n90, 184n28, 186n82, 187n106, 200n55, 206n27 mi-sheberakh, 60, 92, 135, 154, 185n73 mohel, 73–74, 119. See also pinkassim Naftali Herz ben Uri, 73–74, 119, 124–27 ne’emane kahal, 21, 124 Netherlands, 12, 186n89. See also Amsterdam Nine Years’ War, 17, 32, 123, 138, 143–44, 203n105. See also Worms: devastation in 1689 Nürnberg Memorbuch, 30, 131, 136–37 Oppenheim, David (ben Joshua of Worms), 15, 52, 138 Oppenheim, David (rabbi of Prague), 41, 94, 135, 154, 161, 200n61, 200n62 Oppenheim, Gnendel, 154 orphans, 7, 65, 77, 98–99, 112, 131–32, 157, 159–60 Ottenson, 19 Palatinate, 17, 77, 168–70 parnassim, 21, 22, 23, 24, 34, 35, 51, 53, 59, 60, 61, 65, 70, 83, 102–3, 109–10, 112, 118–19, 121, 130, 132–33, 136, 138, 142, 153, 156, 157, 161, 180n50

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Passover, 56, 74, 111. See also matzot philanthropy, 8, 161 physically disabled, 7, 49, 78–80 pinkassim, 24–26, 55, 62, 63, 123–25, 139, 157, 162–63, 177n99, 207n50; of burial society, 41, 146–47, 150–51, 177n99; of charity collector, 25, 42–45, 48, 49, 51–52, 55, 56, 58, 64, 74, 119, 124, 153, 183n128; of gabba’e Eretz Israel, 124–34, 140, 144, 155, 160, 163; pinkas kahal, 24, 57, 77, 123, 162; pinkas memunim, 109, 195n60; pinkas mohel, 124–27; of sexton, 56, 110–13, 115, 118; of tax collector, 25, 46–47, 49, 51, 124–25 Pisa, 163 plague. See illness pletten, 39, 58–59, 104, 110, 116 Poland, 32, 40, 77, 110, 136, 171 Portuguese Jewish community in Hamburg, 18, 19, 37, 41, 107, 156–57, 158 Prague, 40, 84, 135, 136, 158, 161 pregnancy, 7, 78, 83, 116, 118–20, 159. See also birth premarital sex, 21–22, 83–84, 88 private charity, 8, 23, 28, 29–31, 38, 181n88. See also wills pro anima gifts, 30–31, 134–37, 142–43, 146, 180n72 Protestant Reformation, 11–12, 15, 33, 154, 159–60, 161, 164–65 Protestants, 4–5, 11, 12, 15, 32, 33, 80, 154, 161, 164–65, 174n19. See also Anabaptists; Calvinists; Lutherans, Mennonites Purim, 74–75, 89, 90–92, 108, 111, 156, 195n63 rabbi, 1, 17, 19, 24, 32, 49, 52–53, 55, 61, 66, 72, 88, 92, 94, 98, 114–15, 121, 130–31, 136, 142, 152, 154, 180n72, 188n23 receipts, 44–45, 162, 165 record-keeping, 6, 7, 9, 27, 42–47, 50, 58, 123–55, 162–65. See also communal archive; pinkassim; scribe refugees, 1–2, 5, 12, 32, 33, 40, 49, 77, 123, 156, 159, 161 residential poor, 7, 51, 68–95 ritual bath, 14, 19–20, 21, 69 ritual items for synagogue 1–2, 30, 54, 58, 61, 137–40, 156 Rosh Hashanah, 36, 57, 74–75, 85, 89–90, 92, 180n70, 200n61 Rothschild, Wilhelm von (Baron), 146

Safed, 27, 125, 156, 161 Sanguinetto, 163 Schalantjuden. See Betteljuden Schudt, Johann Jacob, 68 scribe, 21, 49, 174, 81–82, 24, 136, 140, 142, 155, 200n59 second hand clothing, 57 sexton, 21, 25, 36, 45, 53, 56, 72, 74, 98, 112, 138, 154. See also Juspe Schammes shame, 59–62, 67, 89, 92. See also social discipline Shlomo bar Moshe (of Worms) 38, 154, 181n86 Simhat Torah, 44, 53, 54 single men and women, 7, 55, 72, 81–84, 85–86, 91–95, 150–54, 164, 170, 203n124, 204n135. See also marital status Sinzheim, Leib and Miriam, 135, 138, 154, 201n85 social discipline, 21–22, 48, 59–62, 108–10. See also excommunication Spain, 30, 41 Speyer, 50 Stättigkeit, 12–13, 71–72, 77, 125, 193n17. See also hezkat kahal; ‘ ironut students, 7, 29, 38–39, 59, 76, 77, 82, 91, 98, 182n109, 201n85 sumptuary laws, 22 synagogue, 11, 13, 14, 15, 21, 22, 23, 29, 30, 36, 37, 38, 41, 51, 53–54, 57–62, 66, 77, 88, 92–93, 135, 138, 156, 157, 163, 177n89; announcements in, 1, 51, 107, 109–12; seats in, 21–22, 23, 48, 62, 65, 66–67, 92–93, 187n114; upkeep, 48, 55–56. See also hekdesh synagogue; honors in synagogue; ritual items in synagogue; women Ta‘anit Esther, 36, 84, 91, 108, 180n70 takkanot, 20, 21, 22, 24, 33–34, 35, 41, 49, 57, 60, 62, 67, 72, 73, 74, 76, 80, 84, 85–86, 111, 116, 121, 135, 152, 163, 186n83 tamhuy, 28, 29 tax collectors, 21, 25, 35, 39, 44–45, 48, 49, 51, 58–59, 64, 67, 89, 111. See also pinkassim taxes, 16, 20, 23, 29, 32, 48, 49, 50–51, 55, 56, 62, 65, 67, 72, 74, 101, 111, 118 teachers, 7, 49, 74–76, 77, 81–82, 84–86, 88, 154 Thirty Years’ War, 15, 17, 32, 50–51, 90 Tiberias, 125, 163 Tish‘ah be-Av, 62, 104, 186n83, 199n50

I n d ex transient poor, 7, 32, 51, 56, 60, 70, 71, 85–86, 89–90, 94, 96–122, 156, 160. See also Betteljuden transregional charity, 8, 156–66 Treitlin (Judah ben Samuel), 38–39, 58, 154, 181n86, 185n60, 204n152 tzettel, 74, 85, 107, 109–10, 112, 116, 121 Ukraine, 168 Venice, 161 Vienna, 14, 135, 154, 161, 170, 203n105 Wandsbek: population, 19. See also Altona-Hamburg-Wandsbek waqf, 31, 162 wax, 52, 54, 62 welfare state, 4 Wertheim, Samson, 41, 107, 161 wet nurses, 81–82, 91 widows, 20, 64, 65, 66, 72, 74, 99, 112, 114, 117, 121, 130–32, 139–40, 153, 157, 159–60 wills, 2, 25, 38, 149, 173n7, 198n33 Wilno, 1–2, 140, 156, 161

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women, 7, 70–73, 76, 78, 81–82, 111–12, 114, 130–134, 140, 142, 144–49, 152, 157–61, 196n87; and confraternities, 40–41; curtailing visibility as donors, 3, 55, 130–34, 144–46, 161; and synagogue, 14, 36, 51, 54, 184n27, 184n28. See also birth; charity for brides; gabbaot; gender; marriage; pregnancy; single men and women; wet nurses; widows Worms: cemetery, 14–16, 55–56, 73; devastation in 1689, 17, 32–33, 123–24, 138, 202n104; expulsion of Jews, 15, 75; Judengasse, 14–15; magistrates, 17, 33–34, 101, 107, 164–65, 193n17; medieval period, 6, 14; population, 15, 17; and von Dalberg, 17, 184n43 worthy poor, 5, 33, 57, 69–70, 113–14, 116, 121–22, 158, 165 yeshiva, 13, 23, 36, 55 Yiddish, 20, 33, 96, 103, 117, 120, 124, 157–58 Yom Kippur, 57, 89–90, 92, 180n70 Zelle, 103

acknowledgments

I began this project over a decade ago, when I was given the privilege of research­ ing Jewish communal records held in the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People as a fellow of the Yad Hanadiv/Beracha Foundation. There, reading the pages of various pinkassim, I saw how central charity was in early modern Jewish communities, and the idea for this book was born. Over the years, I benefited from the support of various institutions and colleagues, and it is my pleasure to thank them now. I was lucky to receive additional support for my research from a summer sti­ pend granted by the National Endowment for the Humanities, from the Hadassah­Brandeis Institute, and from the Israel Science Foundation (grant 1409/15). One of the many benefits of the support from the ISF was funding for my students to work as research assistants. A special thanks to Elisheva Friedlander, Yifat Mor­Rozenson, and Tirtza Rimel. Shaul Seidler­Feller was invaluable in helping me with Yiddish sources. I thank them for sharing their reflections and enthusiasm with me. I moved from one academic home to another as I wrote this book, and I am grateful to my colleagues at Yeshiva University and at Bar­Ilan University for their encouragement. I am grateful to the Israel and Golda Koschitzky Depart­ ment of Jewish History at Bar Ilan for supporting the publication of this book. For the last phase of writing, I was a fellow at the Israel Institute for Advanced Studies in Jerusalem, where I was blessed to have the time, space, and quiet to complete the manuscript. The final stage was also supported by the Israel Sci­ ence Foundation (grant 1802/18). I am extremely thankful to have worked in very accommodating archives, with wonderful and knowledgeable archivists. The Central Archives for the His­ tory of the Jewish People in Jerusalem became a second home to me over the course of this research. I am grateful to its archivists and staff, including Hadas­ sah Assouline, Tami Siesel, and Eli ben Yosef, who always took interest in my

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work and welcomed me each day. In particular, Dr. Yochai Ben­Ghedalia and Inka Arroyo Antezana shared their expertise and erudition, pointing me to new and vital sources. Dr. Roman Fischer at the Institut für Stadtgeschichte in Frankfurt has been a constant source of information about the city and the treasures its archives hold. In Worms, Dr. Gerold Boennen and Margit Rinkel­ Olbrisch were exceedingly gracious and immeasurably helpful. I also thank the librarians and archivists in the Staatsarchiv Hamburg and in the National Library of Israel. In particu lar, Dr. Alexander Gordin, Yael Okun, and Yisrael Dubitsky supported my work with various manuscripts in the NLI collection and the Institute of Hebrew Microfilmed Manuscripts. Many friends and colleagues have shared insights and encouragement with me over the years, and my work has benefited tremendously from their wisdom and counsel. Thanks to Gershon Bacon, Miriam Bodian, Kimmy Caplan, Shm­ uel Feiner, Kit French, Ethan Katz, David Malkiel, Evelyne Oliel­Grausz, Lucia Raspe, Ursula Reuter, Claudia Rosenzweig, Moshe Rosman, Pinchas Roth, Thomas Max Safley, Effie Shoham­Steiner, Magda Teter, Francesca Trivellato, Chava Turniansky, and Claudia Ulbrich. Joshua Teplitsky shared various sources in the Oppenheim collection with me, and I have learned much from our dis­ cussions and from his comments. Over the years, Stefan Litt has been extremely generous in sharing sources and insights with me, and I have benefited from his knowledge and expertise. Elliott Horowitz, of blessed memory, spent many hours discussing early modern charity with me, and I am saddened that he will not see this book in its final published form. Elisheva Baumgarten has been a constant source of encouragement, and I have learned much from our many conversations about medieval versus early modern charity and daily life. Judah Galinsky has generously shared his deep knowledge of rabbinic sources about charity with me. I thank each of them for their wisdom and for their respective comments on sec­ tions of this book. Ted Fram has encouraged my research on Frankfurt and pinkassim for the past decade; both he and Verena Kasper­Marienberg graciously read portions of this manuscript, and their input helped me fine­tune my argu­ ment. The feedback that I received from Jay Berkovitz and Nicholas Tersptra pushed me to write the best possible version of this book, and I am extremely grateful for their time and insights. Elisheva Carlebach has supported this proj­ ect from its very inception, and I have gained so much from our work together in the archives. My thanks go to Lily Palladino and especially to Jerry Singer­ man at the University of Pennsylvania Press for ushering this manuscript toward publication. All errors are, of course, my own.

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My family has been extremely supportive of my work. A heartfelt thanks to my children, Avishai, Noam, Elitzur, and Merav, for their technical assistance; their interest in charity, manuscripts, and maps; and their love. This book could never have been written without the support, encouragement, advice, and time that I received from my husband, Donny. Thank you for making this book a reality. This book is dedicated to my parents, who showed me the importance of both charity and community.