The Message of the Madness

By RaBBi Daniel GlaTsTein

Rav Yechezkel Landau, known as the Noda B’Yehudah, was one of the most exceptional personalities of the 18th century (1714-1794), a descendent of Rashi, Maharal, and the Rebbe, Rav Heschel of Cracow. His talmid, the Teshuvah MeiAhavah, writes that he was the tallest man in the generation. The Teshuvah MeiAhavah writes that his thumb alone was double the length of anyone else’s thumb, and as outstanding as his physical stature was, even greater was his spiritual stature. The Chasam Sofer writes about him that he was “rabbinic leader of the generation … heart of the Jewish people … captain of the ship.”

One night after Maariv, as Rav Yechezkel was returning home, he happened to see a young Christian boy in tattered clothing, who was apparently lost in the Jewish Quarter. The boy was holding empty baskets and he was crying. Rav Yechezkel felt compassion for the child. He approached him and asked, “Can I help you? What are you doing here in the Jewish Quarter and why are you crying?”

The child broke into a torrent of tears. He told his story amid sobs.

“I am an orphan. I lost my mother, and my father is a baker and is now married to a witch of a woman. My stepmother is very cruel. Early each morning, she loads up my baskets with loaves and loaves of bread, and I have to make sure to sell all the bread. If I didn’t sell it all, when I return, this woman brutally beats me.

“The way the day began, it seemed that it was going to be a great day. A little after midday, I had already sold all the bread and had the rest of the day to rest and play. As the day was coming to an end and I was preparing to return home, I checked my pockets for the thirty coins that I had earned by my sales.”

The child again started to cry bitter tears.

“The coins were gone — they must have been stolen or lost. If I return empty-handed, she is going to beat me like a horse. I haven’t eaten all day, and now I’m just wandering around because I am afraid to go home.”

Rav Yechezkel had pity on this orphan Christian boy. He brought him into his house and fed him. When the child had eaten, Rav Yechezkel gave the child thirty coins to replace the missing money. The child returned home, relieved and overjoyed.

Many years passed, and the Rav of Prague, Rav Ye- chezkel Landau, was already very advanced in age. It was the night of Shevi’i Shel Pesach after the Yom Tov seudah, and Rav Yechezkel’s family was long asleep. In the dead of night, when only Rav Yechezkel was awake, learning in his sefarim library, he suddenly heard a pitter-patter of footsteps approaching the house, then a very soft knock on the door. The door was pushed open, and he saw a big burly man standing in the doorway. Rav Yechezkel looked at the man and called out, “Who are you? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

The man looked around and whispered, “Rabbi, you don’t recognize me, but I know you — I’m the Christian boy that you helped years ago. You fed me, you comforted me, and you even gave me money and spared me from being beaten. I have come to repay your kindness.

“You know that the Christians of Prague bitterly hate the Jews. Last night, in my father’s house, he gathered all the bakers of Prague, and at the behest of my wicked stepmother, they plotted to kill all of the Jews of Prague. They are all aware that tomorrow night, after nightfall, all of the Jews will hurry to eat bread, and they will rush to buy from the non-Jewish bakers.” The man continued, “They have all secretly agreed to put a deadly poison in all the bread, and they are eagerly awaiting killing the Jews of Prague in one night.

“If anyone finds out that I told you, they will kill me and frame the Jews for my death. So, Rabbi, I trust that you won’t let anyone know that I told you.”

With that, the man disappeared into the night.

The Rav was left shaken, with a look of death on his face. He sat for hour after hour, pondering the best course of action. It would be perilous to tell anyone what he heard, but how could he spare the Jews of Prague?

And then, like a flash of lightning, the Noda B’Yehudah was struck with a stunning idea.

The next day, the Rav ordered that on Acharon Shel Pesach, all of the shtieblach and batei midrash would be closed, and on that day, everyone should daven in the city’s main Beis HaKnesses. Shacharis would be followed by a major address from the Noda B’Yehudah.

The city of Prague was buzzing. They knew there must be some extraordinary news affecting the Jewish people if the Noda B’Yehudah had all of the shuls closed so he could deliver a derashah to all the residents of the city. Sure enough, on Acharon Shel Pesach, the main shul was filled to capacity, and the Noda B’Yehudah rose to speak.

“Rabbosai, we know that as the generations go by, to our dismay, Torah knowledge weakens, the mind declines, the hearts are clouded, and even the Torah leaders are prone to error. I am embarrassed to notify you, and it is with great trepidation that I must admit that I erred. Even though our knowledge of the calendar is proficient, nevertheless, after reexamining the way I and my Beis Din set up this year’s calendar, we made a very terrible mistake that almost caused the residents of Prague to eat chametz. Our calendar is off by one day — we began Pesach one day too early. Pesach really started a day later.

“And therefore, please know that today is not Acharon Shel Pesach, it is Shevi’i Shel Pesach, and it is strictly forbidden to eat chametz tomorrow until after nightfall.”

The city of Prague was stunned that such a mistake happened, but they all had the utmost respect and admiration for their Rav, Rav Yechezkel Landau, and they faithfully abided by the psak of their Rav.

Amazingly, that year, the Jews of Prague celebrated Pesach for nine days. The bakers of the city of Prague could not understand why none of the Jews were coming to buy bread following the eighth day of Pesach. The Noda B’Yehudah asked the police to test the bread on their dogs, and sure enough, their dogs keeled over immediately. The bakers were apprehended, and the residents of Prague were saved.

a History of Blood libels

As we prepare for Pesach, we are excited for the Yom Tov, we eagerly anticipate the Sedarim and all of the mitzvos of the night. We’ve been preparing for weeks; the Seder is the highlight of the year. And we’ll make the bracha, “She’hecheyanu v’kimanu v’higiyanu la’zman hazeh” with great kavanah, that the Ribbono Shel Olam has sustained us and kept us alive to reach another Pesach.

But throughout our history, Pesach was not always the joyous time that it is for us. In fact, throughout history, there have been many a Pesach that were prepared for and anticipated with mixed emotions. On the one hand, we always look forward to Pesach, our Festival of Freedom; however, often there was also great apprehension, terror, and panic. Not only because of incidents like that which occurred in the times of the Noda B’Yehudah, but primarily because of what we all know as the infamous blood libels in which the Jews were accused of kidnapping Christian children, killing them, and using their blood in Jewish rituals.

The first instance of accused ritual murder, or blood libel, took place in 1144, fabricated and instigated by a Jewish apostate, the monk Theobald of Cambridge in Norwich.

Two years after the first blood libel, the Second Crusade began, and blood libels became prime ammunition to fuel the devastation of Jewish communities during that period.

During the 13th century, starting in 1264, libels spread to England. In 1291, Jews were legally banned from living in England; they were not permitted to return until the times of Oliver Cromwell in the 17th century.

In the city of Prague in 1389, on Acharon Shel Pesach, thousands of Yidden were massacred because of libels.

Blood libels are not germane only to the Christian world; there were blood libels in the Arab world as well.

Rebbi Klonimus Baal HaNeis, who is buried on Har HaZeisim, in the valley near the kever of Zechariah, saved the Jews of Yerushalayim from a blood libel.

Toward the end of the Middle Ages, the blood libel spread to many countries. In Turkey, Egypt, Syria — even in Chevron — there were libels. It knew no boundaries, and soon all the Arab lands learned well from their Christian counterparts.

Belief in blood libels became one of the fundamental tenets of Christianity; they became part and parcel of the very fabric of the religion.

Blood libels have been the most common and frequently occurring Jewish tragedies. Scholars estimate that between 1880 and 1900, there were over one hundred instances of the blood libel against European Jews. Historians write definitively that there is no city in all of Russia, Poland, and Lithuania that did not suffer from these terrible accusations.

Aside from the importance of knowing about the blood libels due to their historical significance, they have had a number of halachic ramifications in regard to the Seder and the observance of its details.

We know that we have an obligation to drink the four cups of wine on the night of the Seder. The Shulchan Aruch writes, “There is a mitzvah to try to use red wine,” and the Rama adds, “unless the white wine is superior.”

The Taz, however, comments, “Nowadays, we refrain from using red wine because of blood libels.”

The Mishnah Berurah, written in the 20th century, echoes the words of the Taz: “In areas where libels are likely, we refrain from drinking red wine.”

Of course, Maggid begins with the declaration of “Ha lachma anyah,” where we call out, “Kol dichfin yeisei v’yeichol,” all who are hungry, come and eat; what a seemingly empty offer. With the doors locked and bolted, certainly no one on the outside can even hear this declaration!

The ancient custom to keep the doors open for the entire Seder would explain the sincere nature the offer is really meant to be. However, out of fear of Passover raids from Christians looking to avenge the murder of their children, this custom had to be abandoned, but we were determined to do the best that we could, so at least we open the door for a very short period after drinking the third cup of wine.

Remarkably, the sefer Heichal L’Divrei Chazal U’Pisgamehem, by Rav Shimshon Vertheimer, has the words, “Shefoch ahavascha el ha’goyim,” which was actually a nusach that many Haggados had in the Middle Ages. This sentence means “shower your love on the nations”; out of fear of blood libels, many communities would open their doors during the Seder, and to protect their lives, they would read these words from their Haggados.

We Perpetrated the Very First Blood libel

Rav Elchonon Wasserman asks a very daring and bold question: Why does Hashem make this happen? What did we do wrong? Especially since, says Rav Elchonon, we have a general rule that any lie that is not based on a kernel of truth cannot be sustained and has no kiyum. This terrible accusation of blood libels is not based on even a semblance of truth. We salt our meat to get out every vestige of blood; when we crack open an egg and find a blood spot in it, we discard the egg. The one people who are so much farther away from this type of behavior than anyone else are Klal Yisrael. And yet, this insane lie of

and harsh punishment.

Recently, I discovered that Rav Chaim Palagi had preceded Rav Elchonon in providing the reason for the tragedies of the blood libels. In his sefer Derachav L’Moshe, which he wrote as a tribute to Sir Moses Montefiore for his historic rescue of the Jewish community of Damascus in 1893, Rav Chaim Palagi chronicles many of the blood libels that have occurred throughout the ages. He then attributes the blood libels to the sin of mechiras Yosef.

And one may ask: Is it indeed true that the sin of mechiras Yosef is of such severity that every generation bears responsibility for that iniquity? We know that to be the case with the Cheit Ha’eigel, concerning which Hashem (Shemos 32:34) says, “On the day that I make My account, I shall bring their sin to account against them.” Every time the Ribbono Shel Olam metes out punishment to Klal Yisrael, there is always some element of punishment from the sin of the Eigel. But is the sin of mechiras Yosef of the same nature?

Indeed, Rav Meir Simcha of D’vinsk writes in the Meshech Chochmah that mechiras Yosef is the counterpart of the Cheit Ha’eigel. Whenever Klal Yisrael sins bein adam laMakom, Hashem visits upon them punishment from the Cheit Ha’eigel; whenever Jews sin bein adam lachaveiro, Hashem visits upon them punishment for the mechiras Yosef. The Cheit Ha’eigel and the sin of mechiras Yosef are the two progenitors of sin. That is why on Yom Kippur we conclude the main body of Shemoneh Esrei with the words, “Ki atah salchan l’Yisroel.” When did Hashem give selichah, forgiveness, to Klal Yisrael? It was at the Cheit Ha’eigel, when Hashem said (Bamidbar 14:20), “Salachti k’divra’echa” to Klal Yisrael, who had said, “Eilah Elokecha Yisroel,” when they made the Eigel (Shemos 32:4). The liturgy in Shemoneh Esrei concludes, “U’machalan l’shivtei Yeshurun.” To whom does Hashem give mechilah? It is to the shivtei Yeshurun, the Shevatim who sold Yosef.

This is the landmark chiddush of Rav Elchonon Wasserman and Rav Chaim Palagi. Blood libels are a punishment for selling Yosef.

blood libels is the most oft-repeated lie in the history of mankind. Says Rav Elchonon, this is one of the mysteries of Hashem’s providence.

Rav Elchonon continues: “It is clear, then, that since God is a Dayan Emes, a just Judge, we must say that this punishment has been meted out to the Jewish people, measure for measure, for some sin that we must have committed.”

And now Rav Elchonon says one of the most frightening comments I have ever come across, and he prefaces it by saying, “If I weren’t so unworthy to make such an assertion, I would say, that it corresponds to the sin of dipping the Kesones Pasim, the cloak, in blood.” Says Rav Elchonon, “And if I have erred, G-d forgive me.”

Rav Elchonon Wasserman states, we sold our brother Yosef, and to fool our father into thinking that Yosef was ripped apart by a wild animal, we took his Kesones Pasim and we dipped it in blood. We fooled our father. It was sheker, an absolute lie. It was the very first blood libel. We committed the very first blood libel. We invented the blood libel. Why? Because we couldn’t get along with our own brother. And therefore, says Rav Elchonon, because we fooled our father with this lie, in every generation we are punished middah k’neged middah with this terrible

Why Pesach Time?

Rav Matisyahu Salomon, the Mashgiach of Beth Medrash Govoha, asks an even more daring and courageous question. We understand that blood libels are an atonement for mechiras Yosef, but let’s think about the timing. Why does it always seem to happen around Pesach time?

And with this we come to a most powerful aspect of the Pesach Seder. In our minds, the Seder focuses on two things: (1) the shibbud, bondage, and the bitterness of Mitzrayim, which are represented by the maror, and (2) the geulah, redemption, and the cheirus, freedom, which are represented by the matzah. And yet, there is one aspect of the Egypt experience that seems to be forgotten, and that is — how did we arrive in Egypt in the first place? What was the primary cause, what was the foremost sin that caused us to go into galus? And even the most initiated and uneducated Jew knows that the most direct cause that brought us down to Mitzrayim was the sin of mechiras Yosef. We sold Yosef to Mitzrayim. Then there was a hunger in Canaan, and we needed food. The brothers regretted what they did. They went to look for Yosef. Lo and behold (Bereishis 45:3), he reveals himself: “Ani Yosef.” Yaakov and his sons move to Mitzrayim. That’s how we ended up in Mitzrayim: because we sold Yosef; because we couldn’t get along with our brother.

Now, the question is, we spend so much time at the Seder discussing our freedom from Mitzrayim, and we symbolize that by eating the matzah; we spend so much time speaking about the bondage, symbolized by the maror; so why don’t we do anything to symbolize the third aspect of the experience: how we got there in the first place?

Upon further examination, we will see that, in fact, there are a number of ways we do symbolize how we ended up in Mitzrayim.

What is the reason that we eat the karpas? The Mishnah Berurah brings down the well-known reason that karpas stands for samech parach, that 600,000 Jews were enslaved in backbreaking labor. But Rabbeinu Manoach, a Rishon and one of the commentaries on the Rambam, explains that at the Seder, you can’t just remember the freedom, you can’t just remember the bondage, you also have to remember how we got to Mitzrayim in the first place. Says Rabbeinu Manoach, “We eat karpas to remember to commemorate the multi-colored tunic that Yaakov made for Yosef, that because of it, matters transpired, and we ended up in Mitzrayim.”

But what does the word karpas have to do with Pasim? They only share two letters, the pey and the samach?

Take a look at Rashi on the words Kisones Pasim (Bereishis 37:3). Says Rashi: “What does Pasim mean? It means woolen garments, like the word karpas in Megillas Esther; so we see that the word karpas refers specifically to woolen garments like those of Yosef.”

Adds the Ben Ish Chai, the letters “kar” are derived from machar, sold, referring to mechiras Yosef, and the letters “pas” are derived from the word Pasim, a woolen garment. And we dip the karpas in saltwater to signify why we went down to Mitzrayim in the first place — because we sold Yosef and dipped his cloak in blood.

The She’eilos U’Teshuvos Maharshal, cited by the Acharonim, writes that when it comes time to eat the afikoman, you should sling it over your shoulder, walk four amos, and say: “This is how our ancestors left Mitzrayim, with their burdens slung over their shoulders.”

Asks Rav Shlomo Kluger in his Haggadah, Yerias Shlomo: Is it really significant if that is how our forefathers left Mitzrayim; do we have to replicate every last thing that they happened to do? Just because they happened to eat the korban Pesach a certain way in those days, do we have an obligation to eat the korban Pesach; i.e., the afikoman, in the exact same way?

Says Rav Kluger, take a look at the Gemara that brings a Baraisa, saying: “We are taught: Every individual would take the korban Pesach, put it in its hide, and sling it over his shoulders.”

Rav Ilish said: How would they do this? Tayaus

What does tayaus mean?

Says Rashi, “Like Arab merchants.” Why would you carry the korban Pesach like Arab merchants? Rav Shlomo Kluger says that this Gemara had always been a mystery to him. Then, says Rav Shlomo Kluger, Hashem opened my eyes, and I realized that on the night of the Seder we commemorate the freedom, we commemorate the bondage, so why don’t we do anything to commemorate how we ended up in Mitzrayim, with the sale of Yosef ? And therefore, our Chachamim remind us, remember when you sold Yosef, “They [the brothers] saw, behold! — a caravan of Yishmaelim was coming (Bereishis 37:25), “and they sold Yosef to the Yishmaelim” (ibid. v. 28) Therefore, Chazal say, when you take your afikoman, your korban Pesach, remember how you ended up in Mitzrayim in the first place — because you sold Yosef to a caravan of Yishmaelim.

Here, the night of Pesach, we don’t ignore how we ended up in Mitzrayim; rather, we make sure to remember the sinas chinam that we felt for Yosef that caused us to descend to Egypt. We carry the afikoman like a caravan of Yishmaelim, and we dip the karpas in the saltwater to remember the dipping of the Kesones Pasim

Rav Eliezer Ashkenazi in the Haggadah Maaseh Hashem notes that in the Mah Nishtanah we point out that the night of Pesach we dip twice; what is the significance of these two dippings? One to commemorate the dipping that brought us down to Mitzrayim, and one to commemorate the dipping that took us out.

The first dipping commemorates the dipping of hatred, the dipping of brothers who couldn’t get along and dipped Yosef’s tunic in blood; and one dipping represents that Bnei Yisrael finally united, and they said, enough is enough, enough of the hatred, enough of the sinas chinam, and they came together in one group, and they dipped the bundle of hyssop into the blood of the korban Pesach. The bundle of hyssop signified the unity Klal Yisrael displayed in order to be able to rectify what had brought them to Mitzrayim in the first place: the selling of Yosef.

Rav Matisyahu Salomon expresses an absolutely bone-chilling thought. Therefore, on the night of Pesach, as we dip the karpas, as we carry the afikoman on our shoulders, we remember that it was the hatred that we had for our brother that drew us into the predicament to begin with. We all know that we are in galus today and we have no Beis HaMikdash for the same reason — sinas chinam; it is the time of the year that we have to finally rectify once and for all the sin of mechiras Yosef. If we don’t take advantage of the karpas and the afikoman to awaken our thoughts to engender a love for our fellow brothers, then we reawaken that sin of mechiras Yosef. And, Rav Matisyahu continues, that is why historically the blood libels have always taken place during the time of Pesach — the time we are granted to rectify the sin of mechiras Yosef, just as in the end Yosef’s brothers came to the recognition, “kulanu bnei ish echad ” (Bereishis 42:13).

To Be Reunited

Perhaps the most well-known of all the blood libels, which became known as “The Trial of the Century,” was the case of Mendel Beilis, the defendant in the notorious 1913 blood libel in Kiev. To me, it is very eerie that one of the critical points of discussion in the trial was a Gemara that comments on the pasuk (Bamidbar 19:14), “This is the teaching regarding adam [a man] who would die in a tent.” Says the Gemara: “Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai would say … only a Jew is called ‘adam’ [a man], non-Jews are not called ‘adam.’” There was great fear that the prosecutor in the Beilis Trial would cite this Gemara as proof that Jews are virulent supremacists who think that members of other religions are subhuman and may be murdered.

Beilis’s advocate, Rabbi Maza, conferred with the illustrious Rav of Galina, Rav Meir Shapiro, who would later establish the yeshivah of Lublin. Rav Meir Shapiro advised Rabbi Maza as follows, “Tell the court to consider what would happen if an Italian man were to be arrested and tried in court. Would all the other Italians congregate and pray for his safety? Certainly not! What about if a Frenchman was on trial; would all of his countrymen pray for his safety or would they go about their business?

“The Jewish people are unique. One Jew is arrested and put on trial, and Jews worldwide are concerned for his safety. That,” says Rav Meir Shapiro, “is what the Gemara means. There are many ways in Hebrew to say person, and all those ways have a plural. For instance, ish/anashim, gever/gevarim. There is one exception. There is no plural for the word adam. That is exactly why only the Jewish people are called adam. Only the Jewish people are one entity, we are united, and only we can collectively be called an adam

“Tell the judge — tell the court,” said Rav Meir Shapiro, “that only Klal Yisrael are one entity; the nations of the world are just a collection of individuals.”

Isn’t it eerie, isn’t it ironic, that this is the lesson that emerged from the blood libels, because as we have learned, in fact, the blood libel is the reminder that perhaps we are not fulfilling our role of “atam keru’im adam,” we are not adequately displaying that we are one unified nation.

Of all the subjects of Sefer Bereishis, the story of Yosef — his descent to Egypt, his imprisonment, and his ultimate reunion with his brothers and father — occupies the most space. This is because the hatred between the Shevatim and Yosef is the most relevant subject for the Jewish people. It caused the sale of Yosef, it was the cause of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash, and it is the cause of untold suffering for the Jews throughout our history. When this sin is corrected, only then will our suffering end, and we will all rejoice together with the building of the Third Beis HaMikdash.