On Saying Their Names—Remembering Pittsburgh

By W. David Myers

I arrived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania via El Paso, Texas and Prague, in the Czech Republic. 

On October 27, 2018, I was in Prague on a research trip when the shooting at the Tree of Life Congregation occurred. News was sparse, in large part because mass shootings in the United States are so common that international news organizations now present them as part of the daily news.  11 people were murdered, and others injured, during Sabbath prayer services that morning.  When I returned to the United States from Europe that November, the midterm elections had occurred, and the Pittsburgh tragedy had already faded from the news and the nation’s awareness. Then, in August 2019, a gunman walked into a Walmart in my hometown of El Paso and opened fire with another assault rifle, specifically targeting Mexicans and Latinos, killing 23 and wounding 23 others. The frantic day of phone calls and texts focused attention narrowly on my community (very Latino), my family (half Latino), my childhood friends (mostly Latino). One month later, in El Paso, I was able to visit and to walk the wall of tributes that sprang up spontaneously, and it was there that I saw this message from the Jewish Community Center—of Pittsburgh.  

“The JCC of Greater Pittsburgh Stands with El Paso, Texas.” Photo: W. David Myers

Suddenly it became clear to me that communities seemingly separated by geography, culture, and ethnicity were in fact closely connected not only by tragedy and compassion, but also alas by hate. Pittsburgh, far from El Paso, now seemed very near indeed, and from there it was only a small journey to Charleston, South Carolina, and the church shootings of June 17, 2015, in which 9 members of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church were gunned down during a bible study.

Three different cities, three different cultures, even three different religious traditions – same fate, similar cause. The United States has stopped listening to the “better angels of our nature” and is drifting back toward a history of violence based on racial and religious hatred fueled by conspiracy theories about children abducted and then murdered for obscure cultish practices.  In this regard, the Pittsburgh attack is particularly instructive. The murderer is an acknowledged white supremacist whose extreme anti-Semitic convictions led him to target the Jewish community specifically. It’s also striking that an explicit motive for his attack was the HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) support for refugees from Central America. He expressed concern about the “migrant caravans” supposedly hurtling northward in an assault on the American border before the midterm elections. El Paso, Texas, one must recall, was and is a major destination for immigrants and more recently refugees. The Jewish community of Pittsburgh came under attack in part for its compassionate response to the very people who would be attacked 1800 miles away and 9 months later. As history shows, any conspiracy theory or hysteria over immigration in the United States will inevitably touch the Jewish community. As William Faulkner famously noted, “The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.” This brings me back to Prague. On the day before  the Pittsburgh attack, I was wandering through the amazing Jewish Museum spread throughout the Jewish Quarter, ending up at the old Jewish Cemetery. Of course it was a melancholy and profoundly moving experience—a graveyard, after all, and one of the few Jewish cemeteries in Central Europe to survive the Nazis. Looking about me, I thought of the vibrant but nonetheless embattled community these graves represented. Their existence—and survival—in a turbulent and often-hateful environment are testimony that for this community, these lives mattered and still matter, not just generally, but in their particularity as Jewish lives. My visit to the Pinkas Synagogue – the second oldest surviving synagogue in Prague—only strengthened this sense, because inscribed on its walls are the names of 77,297 Moravian and Bohemian Jews killed in the Holocaust. “Say their names” is no empty slogan but an affirmation of existence and humanity.

The Pinkas Synagogue, Prague. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

That, for me, is one of the takeaways from the Pittsburgh tragedy, and from those other tragedies that have intersected with it. In the United States today, a central cultural and political debate focuses on whose lives matter. For some, the easy fallback is the claim that all lives matter. On the other hand, in Prague the destruction of the cemetery would have meant erasing not just individual lives, but the life of the Jewish community. Only by preserving the particular was it possible to recognize that Jewish lives counted, that they matter. This is why we must say their names. The same is true for Latinos in my hometown, and for Black Americans in Charleston and elsewhere who have to fight for the simple recognition that Black Lives Matter.  Only when we finally accept this can we move on to some more universal affirmation. 


W. David Myers is Professor of History at Fordham University. He is the author of “Poor, Sinning Folk”: Confession and the Making of Consciences in Counter-Reformation Germany (1996) and Death and a Maiden: Infanticide and the Tragical History of Grethe Schmidt (2012). He is currently the reviews editor of Renaissance Quarterly. Professor Myers is completing a new book, “American Torture and the Experience of the West.”

Jewish theatre in Buenos Aires (1930-1950) and its connections with the New York Yiddish theatre

by Paula Ansaldo, University of Buenos Aires

During the twentieth century, the city of Buenos Aires was one of the main centers of Jewish culture and theatre. The great Yiddish theatre began to flourish in the 1930s when Buenos Aires was established as a Jewish theater city of international relevance. During the interwar period, a large population of Yiddish-speaking Jews settled in Buenos Aires, escaping from European hard living conditions and anti-Semitism. As a result, a rich Yiddish cultural life began to grow, and the city became an attractive destination for intellectuals and artists.

At the same time, by the 1930s, the audiences of the Yiddish theatre in the US were already declining, so the actors and actresses decided to go touring to other countries where the Jewish communities were still eager to see theatre in Yiddish, as it was the case of Argentina. The southern hemisphere had an extra advantage: it benefited from the season’s opposition. This allowed that during the summer break the actors could go to work in Argentina, without the need to completely leaving their own companies. That way, they were able to do two winter seasons: one in the US and another one in South America, one based in New York, and the other one based in Buenos Aires, from where they also traveled to other Argentinean cities, such as Rosario, Córdoba, and Santa Fe, and to the Jewish colonies, as Moisesville and Basabilbaso. They also tour other Latin American cities, such as Montevideo, Santiago de Chile, Sao Paulo, and Rio de Janeiro. This way, many American Yiddish theatre directors and actors, came to Argentina and their work had a profound impact on Buenos Aires’ theatre scene.

Molly Picon at Teatro Excelsior

Between 1930 and 1950, the golden age of Jewish theatre in Buenos Aires, four theatres presented plays in Yiddish regularly: the Soleil and the Excelsior (in the Abasto), the Mitre (in Villa Crespo), and the Ombú (which is where the AMIA is today). In addition to the theatres, some cafes also presented Yiddish vaudeville numbers, such as the Cristal and the Internacional, creating a wide Yiddish theatre scene. The shows were held from Tuesday to Sunday, even with two or three performances on the same day during weekends. The season normally lasted from April to November. And the theatres had always a full house.

The Commercial Theatre in Buenos Aires was organized by a star system. The impresarios brought stars from abroad to lead their companies and completed the cast with local actors and actresses. Thanks to this guest star system, many renowned artists arrived in Argentina and were considered outstanding visits even outside the Jewish theatre community. This happened especially in the case of the actors Jacob Ben-Ami, Maurice Schwartz, and Joseph Buloff, whose repertoire and acting style were completely different from the type of plays (like operettas, melodramas, and light comedies) that prevailed in the theatres of the period, Jewish and non-Jewish also. Anyone who looks into Argentinean newspapers will probably be surprised by the way the theatre reviewers wrote about these Jewish actors. In most cases, the critics didn’t even mention that they were performing in Yiddish. Instead, they focused on their acting skills and abilities, and referred to them as figures of universal theatre, regardless of the language they were using on stage. Many sources show that the critics and actors of the non-Jewish theatre went to see Yiddish plays and were admires of these Jewish actors. The actress Silvia Parodi, for example, says about Ben Ami:

Ben Ami has the gift of making himself understood without the need for language. (…) even without understanding a letter of the text, it’s enough to contemplate his face to feel all the passions and feelings reflected. Silence, attitudes, gestures, say so much that there is no need for more to understand him and admire him.

Review of Ben Ami’s performance at Teatro Soleil
Joseph Bulloff at Teatro Soleil

Therefore, the Jewish theatre was seen by the Argentinean community as a significant phenomenon, especially when the actors brought repertoire that was unknown in the Buenos Aires theatre scene. This was the case of Joseph Buloff’s Death of a Salesman/Toyt fun a seylsman, which premiered in Buenos Aires in 1949 in Soleil Theatre. This was the first time that the Argentinean public saw an Arthur Miller’s play. The show was such a success among Jewish and non-Jewish audiences that in 1950, the prominent actor Narciso Ibañez Menta premiered a Spanish version of the play. This is an emblematic case that shows how the Yiddish Theatre operated as a modernizing force that deeply influenced the theatre scene of Buenos Aires. Its itinerancy enabled, through the use of Yiddish language, the arrival of radical theatrical ideas, modern aesthetics and new repertoires that had not yet been translated to Spanish and neither developed in Buenos Aires’ theatres. 

For these reasons, my time researching at the Dorot Jewish Divison at the NYPL help me to gain a better understanding of the transnational Yiddish theatre network and the connections established between Argentinean and American Yiddish theatre. NYPL materials regarding Joseph Buloff and Ben-Ami allowed me to improve my understanding of their artistic conceptions and how their artistic background, acting style, and repertoire influenced and shaped the Jewish theatre of Buenos Aires.


Paula Ansaldo is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Buenos Aires. In the fall of 2019 she was a Fordham-NYPL Fellow in Jewish Studies. On October 3, 2019 she delivered her talk about ” “A history of the Jewish Theater in Buenos Aires: from the star system to the Idisher Folks Teater (1930-1960),” which can be viewed below.

October 3rd, 6PM Fordham University at Lincoln Center
Paula Ansaldo, “A history of the Jewish Theater in Buenos Aires: from the star system to the Idisher Folks Teater (1930-1960)”

A Maḥzor from Venice 1599/1600

By Michael Pappano FCRH’22

The Maḥzor: ke-minhag k.k. Ashkenazim in Fordham’s collection was published in Venice in 1599/1600 (5360) at the prominent printing business in the Venetian Republic of the era, the Bragadina. This Maḥzor, a Jewish prayer book used on the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, was intended for the Ashkenazi Jewish community. The copy in Fordham’s collection measures approximately 6.19 inches x 8 inches x 2.25 inches, and contains approximately 500 pages. It is missing the title page, and the first pages are hand-written.

Maḥzor ke-minhag ḳ.ḳ. Ashkenazim (Venice, 1599/1600), Spec Coll Judaica 1600 1. The first page here starts with a seliḥah אל ארך אפים אתה ובעל הרחמים

The Maḥzor’s cover is made of cloth-covered board and the binding is made from small twine wrapped tightly together, which we can see because the cover is torn off the spine of the book. The individual threads of the binding can be seen when viewing the front and back covers of the book.

The condition of the book, its binding, missing pages, and handwritten restorations signify that the book was heavily used and must have been passed down to many generations, as attested by multiple signatures on the book’s inside covers, in Hebrew and Italian.

Inside cover of The Maḥzor from Venice, Fordham, Spec Coll 1600 1

For a book so old and so heavily used, it is no surprise that many of the pages have blemishes on them. There is water damage on many of the pages and there is a very large number of tears, folded corners, and creases on most all of the pages. Some of the pages also have holes, likely caused by worms.                                     

This book contains both printed pages and handwritten pages. The manuscript pages are written in a handwriting strikingly similar to the font used by the print shop, demonstrating that printed pages were copied in manuscript to replace missing pages.

Maḥzor (Venice 1599/1600), Spec Coll 1600 1. The page on the left is printed, the page on the right is handwritten to resemble the printed page.

Some printed pages have two columns with detailed page borders and intricate borders around titles. 

The Maḥzor was published by a family-owned print shop that eventually became known as “Stamperia Bragadina,”[i] founded by Alvise Bragadin (c.1500 – 1575) in Venice. A Christian, he eventually began printing Hebrew books when offered the chance. After the press was first established and managed by Alvise, his descendants would take over the family business and would keep it successful into the 18th century. [ii] The first book that Bragadin printed in Hebrew was, according to most scholars, Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah in 1550.[iii] This was a very popular book that was published in many editions. The Bragadin family business held a monopoly in the printing business of Hebrew texts for some time in Venice. As a result, the books they published reached many people and places in Europe, North Africa, and the Fertile Crescent. The monopoly ended when a new printing house, Stamperia Vendramina, was established in 1630 by Giovanni Vendramin.[iv]

The presented here Maḥzor was printed by a named printer, Zuan di Gara, better known as Giovanni di Gara, who operated his own printing press but also cooperated closely with the Bragadina, as this Maḥzor attests.

Publishing Competition and Feud in Venice

Marco Antonio Giustiniani, another Venetian publisher, was an ambitious printer. He came before Alvise Bragadin, who began to compete with Giustiniani, and put him out of business. Giustiniani printed many different types of books, including a famous edition of the Talmud, different editions of the Pentateuch with commentaries, works on Jewish law, and more. The feud between him and Bragadin arose over the printing of, Maimonides’ Mishne Torah. Rabbi Katzenellenbogen wrote commentaries in this edition and Giustiniani refused to print. Angered, Katzenellenbogen brought the task to the printshop of Alvise Bragadin who at this point hadn’t yet been publishing Hebrew books.[v] Bragadin accepted the task, and thus began his role as a printer of Hebrew books. Annoyed, Giustiniani printed the book as well, and began to sell it for less than his rival.[vi] In response, Rabbi Katzenellenbogen, who had paid for the printing, went to his distant cousin and leading authority among Ashkenazim in Europe, Rabbi Moses Isserles, seeking to protect his investment in his commentaries. Giustinian’s book was banned as Rabbi Moses Isserles found him guilty under Jewish laws for unfair competition. Angered by the verdict, Giustinian took the issue to Pope Julius III for a trial, urging the pope to examine Katzenellenbogen’s commentaries for heresy. The end result was, that in 1553, Julius III issued a bull ordering the burning of the Talmud and other halakhic works.[vii] This all occurred at a time when Hebrew publications were becoming increasingly questioned and accused of containing blasphemous context.

Historical Context: Burning of the Talmud

The Venetian Republic, in October of 1553, ordered all publications of the Talmud to be burned.[viii] Catholics, those behind the Inquisition, claimed that the Talmud was full of blasphemous assertions regarding God, Mary, and Jesus. Burning the Talmud, a Hebrew publication, affected the printers of Hebrew texts. As a result, the prominent printers Giustinian and Bragadin lost money. Six years later in 1559, the Esecutori ruled that Hebrew books could only be published if they were censored. The printed text would undergo expurgation, and if anyone were to hold unexpurgated books, they would be subject to punishment, such as imprisonment. The Talmud was not allowed to be printed again until 1564.[ix] In 1571, Jews were not even allowed to work at a print shop. The Hebrew presses were now controlled by Christian owners and typesetters. This caused problems as more mistakes were made, complicating the whole process. Jews were then hired to correct and curate the texts if it was permitted by the Catholics in power.[x]

Bragadin Family in Year of Publishing

In 1599/1600 the Bragadin printshop, where the Maḥzor was published, was managed by Giovanni Bragadin, the son of Alvise who took over the press after Alivse had died. He was the head of the Stamperia Bragadina, from 1579 to 1614. Giovanni Bragadin had a standing professional relationship with Aser Parenzo, a prominent editor of the time in Venice. Working with the company for a long time, his loyalty and good-standing relationship with the Bragadin’s was evident.[xi]Giovanni Bragadin’s main competitor at this time was Giovanni Di Gara, though the two frequently collaborated. Di Gara was a prominent Venetian printer that enriched the cultural aspects of Venice with the influence of his press. Between 1565 and 1608, his press issued eight editions of the complete Jewish Bible. Although competitors, both Bragadin and Di Gara published a Torah, Perush ha-Torah meha-ḥakham ha-shalem Don Yitsḥak Abrabanel z[ekher] ts[adik] le-[verakhah]. The colophon of the Torah states that the present work was printed “in the house of the skilled craftsman Zuani di Gara.” Also in this text can be seen 4 crowns; the three represent Stamperia Bragadina, and the added fourth marks the collaboration with Di Gara.[xii]


This essay was written in fall of 2018, during Michael Pappano’s first semester at Fordham, within a course on modern Jewish history (HIST 1851) taught by Professor Magda Teter. Their essays, some of which will be featured here, were published in a volume “You Can Judge Books by Their Covers Jewish History through Used Books.” Fordham’s Judaica collection prides itself in collecting books that were used and popular, often quite quotidian and ordinary, for they reflect a broader Jewish culture that might not be visible through expensive extraordinary items.


[i] Squarcini, F. & P. Capelli. 2016-2017. TRACING THE HEBREW BOOK COLLECTION OF THE VENICE GHETTO. 315. Ca’ Foscari University of Venice.

[ii] “Alvise Bragadin and Stamparia Bragadina,” WUSTL Digital Gateway Image Collections & Exhibitions, accessed September 30, 2018, http://omeka.wustl.edu/omeka/items/show/8387.

[iii] Maimonides, Moses. 1550. [Mishneh Torah … Helek Rishon. Ṿenetsiʼah: nidpas … Aloṿizi Bragadin. See also, Kellner, Menachem. “On the Status of the Astronomy and Physics in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah and Guide of the Perplexed: a Chapter in the History of Science.” The British Journal for the History of Science 24, no. 4 (1991): 453–63. doi:10.1017/S0007087400027643

[iv]“Alvise Bragadin and Stamparia Bragadina,” WUSTL Digital Gateway Image Collections & Exhibitions, accessed September 30, 2018, http://omeka.wustl.edu/omeka/items/show/8387. Yeshaʻyah ben Eliʻezer Ḥayim. 1633. Derekh yashar: ṿe-hu perush kamah maʻaśim yafim, meshalim u-feshaṭim mi-kamah pesuḳim.

[v] Squarcini, F. & P. Capelli. 2016-2017. TRACING THE HEBREW BOOK COLLECTION

OF THE VENICE GHETTO. 315. Ca’ Foscari University of Venice.

[vi] Neil Weinstock Netanel, and David Nimmer. 2016. “Maharam of Padua versus Giustiniani: Rival Editions of Maimonides’s Mishneh Torah”.

[vii] Squarcini, F & P. Capelli. 2016-2017. TRACING THE HEBREW BOOK COLLECTION

[viii] Kenneth R. Stow, “The Burning of the Talmud in 1553  in the Light of Sixteenth Century Catholic Attitudes toward the Talmud.” Bibliotheque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 34 (1972): 435-459.

[ix] Grendler, P. F. (1978). “The Destruction of Hebrew Books in Venice, 1568.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 45: 103-130.

[x] Squarcini, F&P. Capelli. 2016-2017. TRACING THE HEBREW BOOK COLLECTION

[xi] Squarcini, F&P. Capelli. 2016-2017. TRACING THE HEBREW BOOK COLLECTION

[xii] Abravanel, Isaac, Zuani di Gara, Asher Prikhtsu, Zuan Bragadin, Henry Cohen, and Mollie Cohen. 1579. Perush ha-Torah meha-ḥakham ha-shalem Don Yitsḥak Abrabanel z[ekher] ts[adik] le-[verakhah]. Be-Vinitsiah: [Printed by Asher Prikhtsu for Zuan Bragadin].

Antisemitism in Christian America:Then and Now

by Nina Valbousquet

The Voice of Human Rights, a monthly published by The Committee of Catholics for Human Rights. September 1939.

In a picket line of right-wing demonstrators in New York City, a man held a protest sign “We Christians need more father Coughlin”. The picture struck me when I discovered it on the frontpage of The Voice for Human Rights of September 1939, while consulting the journal at the Dorot Jewish Division of the New York Public Library. The frontpage offers a snapshot of two contrasting realities of Christian America and antisemitism. On one side, the picture encapsulates the activism of Charles Coughlin’s pro-fascist militant Christian Front, which in 1938-1939 unleashed an unprecedented level of street and political anti-Jewish hatred in the United States. On the other side, the cover title of the Voice, “Catholics Expose ‘Christian Front’”, demonstrates resistance to antisemitism and to the instrumentalization of Christian values by right-wing hatemongers. 

Antisemitism was a divisive topic among American Catholics at the end of the 1930s. Anti-Jewish vitriol seduced some sectors of American Catholicism while outraging others. In the second half of the 1930s, the repercussions of the Great Depression, the political backlashes of the New Deal, and the worsening of the international situation fostered tensions and resentment toward religious and ethnic minorities and immigrants. The propagation of antisemitic myths about both the “Jewish bank” and “Judeo-Communism” reached a new level of mass diffusion. The rise of domestic anti-Jewish agitations included a “tide of Catholic antisemitism” (Father Gregory Feige) empowered by the inflammatory propaganda of Father Coughlin. Christian antisemites accused “international Jews” of taking part in communist and anticlerical movements in Spain, Mexico, the Soviet Union and France, and blamed American Jews for being complicit with their anti-Christian coreligionists. Jewish refugees in America were labelled communists, radicals, and atheists, all plotting to destroy a Christian White America from within. Coughlin, the “Radio Priest”, capitalized on nativist prejudices and stirred up populist fears against Jewish refugees. 

Social Justice, Father Coughlin’s weekly based in Detroit.

In spring 2019, thanks to the support of the NYPL-Fordham fellowship in Jewish studies, I was able to examine more closely this historical subject and conduct research at the Dorot division on primary sources pertaining not only to Christian antisemitism in New York City, but also to Jewish-Catholic collaborations in the fight against bigotry. Alongside rare copies of The Voice and the American Jewish Committee Oral History Collection, I looked at Social Justice, Coughlin’s weekly based in Detroit. Social Justice’s use of religion and Christianity remained a political expediency to serve a right-wing and nativist agenda. Among other “fake news,” Coughlin published in his weekly the notorious antisemitic forgery The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, from July to November 1938. An article of December 5, 1938 blamed “Judeo-Communism” for the persecutions of Jews in Germany: “German Jews are today suffering persecution because for 15 years after the Great War Germany was prostrated by Communism, headed by Jews under direction of Moscow.” Thus, Social Justice made the diffusion of anti-Jewish sentiments in American seem understandable and legitimate: “Anti-Semitism is spreading in America because the people sense a closely interwoven relationship between Communism and Jewry. […] It is the duty of American Christians to aid their Jewish fellow-citizens in shaking off Communism before it is too late.” The distinction between communist and religious Jews, and between foreign and American Jews was actually a subterfuge to demonize all Jews while claiming that the publication was not antisemitic. Coughlin’s fallacious arguments drew on typical mechanisms of antisemitism such as conflation, generalization, collective guilt, and conspiracy theories.

A cartoon in Commonweal, published on November 18, 1938 in the aftermath of Kristallnacht

An examination of Commonweal, a Catholic weekly of liberal stamp based in NYC, which I was able to consult at Fordham Walsh library, provides a completely different picture. On November 18, 1938, a few days after Kristallnacht, Commonweal published a cartoon and several articles making a plea for European Jewish refugees and asking for the end of the strict immigration quotas that had been implemented in the United States since 1924. Although the cartoon includes stereotypical physical features, its logic of analogy reminds me of current images that have been circulating on social media portraying the Holy Family as refugees from the Middle-East. 

These few examples demonstrate that it is especially timely to further investigate the historical shapes of antisemitism in the United States and to consider both its religious and secular components. While a NYPL-Fordham fellow, I also taught a seminar on antisemitism at Rose Hill campus. Even though at the beginning of the semester not all students were aware of some common antisemitic tropes, they grew increasingly equipped to critically decipher the construction of stereotypes, prejudices, and hate-speech. While most of them knew already about the history of Nazism, they seemed more astonished to discover the roots of a domestic history of antisemitism. Particularly helpful in this regard was the in-class discussion of the Pittsburg shooting and of Jaclyn Granick and Britt Tevis’ article (The Washington Post, October 28, 2018). Learning about the history of anti-refugee sentiments and of the Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society, students were able to grasp better the intersectionality of prejudices and discriminations in the United States and to revise assumptions of American exceptionalism. One of my takeaways from this intense and stimulating semester is surely that much remains to be taught and researched about the entanglement between antisemitism, nativism, and populism in American history. 

Nina Valbousquet was a Fordham-NYPL Fellow in Jewish Studies in spring 2019. While at Fordham she also taught a values seminar on antisemitism.


Nina Valbousque: “Un-American” and “Un-Christian”? Global Antisemitism and Jewish-Catholic Relations in the United States 1936-1945, March 28, 2019, Fordham University.