Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Repair and Restoration of MST Scrolls - An Essay

Repairs and Restoration
an essay by Philippa Bernard and David Brand, first published in “The Czech Memorial Scrolls Centre:  A Historical Account”, MST 1988
When I asked David Brand how it was that he became a sofer (scribe), he told me that he was born a sofer. The ancient and honourable profession was frequently passed down by fathers who instructed their sons in the intricate and scholarly traditions which govern the writing, restoration and conservation of the Law of Moses as inscribed in the Sefer Torah – the Book of the Law.
Little has changed since the days of Ezra, to whom is attributed the distinction of being the first of the scribes. In biblical times the scribes were not only the writers of the Hebrew code and its accompanying traditions, but were learned men who also interpreted the law, pronounced on religious questions and, together with the Pharisees, led their people in their endeavour to understand and fulfil the word of God. Today a sofer is honoured as he has always been, but most of his work is confined to the repair and maintenance of existing Scrolls of the Law. The Sefer Torah comprises the five books of Moses, the Pentateuch:  Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. To write out the whole Torah takes a sofer about eighteen months and the cost amounts to some thousands of pounds; so whenever possible existing scrolls are made usable for synagogue services according to ancient custom and with meticulous attention to the rules governing the work of the sofer. On the relatively few occasions when a new scroll is received by a community it is welcomed with great rejoicing; and where old traditions survive there is dancing in the streets through which it is borne to its new home. The last lines of a new Sefer Torah are traditionally left blank by the scribe so that members of the community for whom it is destined can perform the mitzvah (good deed) of writing in a word or two of the remaining text.
When the 1,564 Czech scrolls arrived in London in February, 1964, it was clear that most of them would require much attention before they could be made available for synagogue use. A few months later David Brand called at Kent House in Knightsbridge, where Westminster Synagogue had had its home for a few years, and asked if any work was available for an experienced scribe:  little did he expect to find enough work to occupy him for more than twenty years! The Brand family have made their home at various times in Israel, Paris and New York as well as in London, for the scribe’s profession is in its nature somewhat nomadic. Where scrolls need repair, there must the wandering sofer rest, to move on again when the work is completed. Seldom can a scribe have found so large a task as that which confronted Mr. Brand.
Sefer Torah which is in perfect order, and meets all the requirements ordained by custom for use in prayer, is deemed to be kasher, “fit”, a word also applied to permitted food; both circumstances relate to the pursuit of holiness according to ancient ritual. A kasher scroll is one that contains not a single error, and meets the other traditional requirements:  that the ink should be black and clear, the writing meticulous and elegant, and all the rules relating to the dimensions and style of the calligraphy carefully observed.
The scroll itself is of parchment made from the skin of a sheep. To form a scroll each piece of parchment is joined at the side edges with gut; this is made from cow sinews, soaked in water and joined together in long lengths. The animals from which the skin is to be used for the making of gut are set aside for this purpose only; the skins for parchment are also strictly reserved and the processing is never confused with any other.
The writing itself forms pages, or columns, and each piece of parchment between the sewn joins must carry not less than two and not more than six columns. The space between columns must be the width of two fingers, and the margins on both sides are even. To align the ends of the lines letters may be extended in width but not otherwise enlarged; the column width is that taken up by three times the longest word in the Hebrew text:  l’mishpachotechem (to your family). The effect of these conventions is that whilst the overall size of a Torah scroll varies in accordance with the size of the lettering and the top and bottom margins, the proportions remain always the same.
Each column comprises 42 lines of script, representing, it is said, the 42 stops on the journey of the Israelites to Mount Sinai. The breaks in the writing indicate the verses into which the text is divided; some are open breaks leaving the line uncompleted; others are breaks within the line. In the narration of the five books of the Torah, ten special letters are to be written larger than the rest. One is bet, the first letter of the very first word of the Hebrew bible:  B’reshit – In the beginning. Six letters are written smaller than the rest and six must appear at the beginning of a column. At the very end of the scroll the last line must always be a full line.
No marks of any kind may be made on the parchment other than the written text, so in order to set out the page neatly and to preserve straight lines and correct spacing, a small wheel of regular spokes is used; this is run over the sheet to define the line spaces and each point marked by the spoke is linked by a faint line ruled with a sharp knife; a pencil may not be used.
The equipment used by the scribe is also of great ritual importance. Each scribe either makes his own or purchases what he needs, usually from Israel. The ink, which must be very clear and black if it is to last for hundreds of years, is made from tree galls which are boiled and mixed with gum arabic and a preservative. The pen is a quill of sufficient strength and width usually from the feather of a goose. It is soaked for some hours in water to make it sufficiently malleable to be cut and shaped. The point must be sharp enough for the finest script with the side of the tip slanted and smoothed for broader strokes. The pen inevitably becomes blunt as it is used, and after several sharpenings it must be discarded and another made.
Other tools used by the scribe are readily available. He needs a fine awl to pierce the parchment for stitching, a strong steel needle to take the gut thread, and most important of all a very sharp knife. Errors of transcription, damage to the parchment or smudging of the lettering must all be rectified according to the strictest and most meticulous rules.
The ordering of the work of the sofer is aimed at achieving as nearly perfect a result as possible. The purity of the parchment must be visible round every letter, with none touching the text. No stain or mark may appear anywhere, and corrections must be made in such a way as to be almost undetectable. The name of God is treated with the greatest reverence; it must always be written in one attempt, with no interruption “though the king himself should come into the room”. If any mistake is made in the writing of the divine name, the whole part must be cut out and rewritten. This is done by removing that section of parchment which offends, and replacing it with another. The edges of both the new piece and the body of the work are chamfered down to match each other and the new piece glued in. A similar technique is used to replace any other damaged portion, and the final result is almost invisible to the naked eye. The glue used in this process is also made by the scribe. He boils small pieces of cow skin until they dissolve into a clear liquid which hardens when cold. Water is added and it is then warmed gently over a candle flame to be used and re-used whenever needed.
Whilst the strictest rules apply to the correction of errors made in the course of writing a scroll, an area of script which has been damaged or stained later is regarded more leniently. It too must be immaculately repaired, but it is sufficient for the surface to be gently scraped away, dusted with powdered chalk and rewritten. Repairs must cover whole letters or preferably words; individual letters must not be interrupted for repair.
Styles of calligraphy differ somewhat between Sephardi (Spanish and Portuguese) and Ashkenazi (German) communities. At least one of the scrolls from Czechoslovakia was written in the Sephardic style, though most of the communities of Bohemia and Moravia were of German origin.
The scrolls themselves varied greatly in size; some were neat and small with tiny script of immaculate elegance, others were so heavy that they could hardly be lifted; these were possibly of Russian origin, says Mr. Brand, where “the men are big and strong”.
When the scrolls were first examined at Kent House, it was realised that much work outside the scope of a scribe would be needed; the wooden rollers round which the parchment is wound, and the binders which secure the wound scroll, also needed close attention. The wooden rollers are known as Etz Chaim (tree of life). Many were severely damaged in the destruction of the Czech synagogues, and some were much worn by constant use. Vestiges of painted decoration, gleams of metal adornment, traces of Hebrew inscriptions were faintly decipherable. A skilled craftsman was needed to put into usable order the scrolls that Mr. Brand had repaired. For many years the scrolls committee was fortunate in having the services of Mr. Frank Jones; he was no less a craftsman than Mr. Brand in his field. Under his care strong wooden racks were built to support the scrolls as they were examined, carefully numbered to correspond with the available information about their origin. Wood was burnished, metal polished and the rollers rendered strong and firm to carry their traditional burden. Sadly Mr. Jones died before he could complete his task, but his place was taken by a young cabinet-maker from Brighton, who also felt privileged to work on the project.
The binders wrapped around the scrolls were of great variety;  silk, cotton, velvet, wool – all had to be examined, washed and pressed. They proved to be of such interest that a researcher from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem came to London to investigate the collection.
The Czech scrolls and their appurtenances have been repaired and restored with devoted care, employing both traditional and modern skills in a spirit of reverence and pride.
abridged for the MST website in August 2014
NB In 1988 Philippa Bernard shared with us Sofer Brand’s vision of sofrut – the work of a scribe. There is some division in the Jewish community regarding whether or not women are permitted to write a Torah scroll for ritual use. While women are free from the obligation of writing a Torah, this does not necessarily mean that they are forbidden to write one. The Memorial Scrolls Trust is proud to work with a traditionally-trained soferet (female scribe) as part of our scribal team.

Monday, 28 July 2014

Summer Closing at the MST Museum


A beautiful and rare colour photograph of Sofer David Brand working on the MST Scrolls!

Now I have your attention, please note that unless you have already arranged a personal tour of the museum, we shall be closed 1-15th August. We shall respond to all voice and e-mail as soon as we return on Monday 18th August.

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

Book Review: Ark of Memory by Magda Veselska


We've just received a printed copy of Benjamin Frommer's review in Judaica Bohemiae XLVIII-2 of Magda Veselska's book Archa pameti/Ark of Memory - The Jewish Museum in Prague's Journey through the Turbulent 20th Century, published in Prague in 2012. You may have have to subscribe to read it all online, or you could come into the MST office and read the version on our desk! The review is very positive, as it should be.

In order to support our ongoing project to share the current perspective on the myth of the 'Museum to the Extinct Jewish Race', here are some relevant quotes from Frommer's review:

"The amazing collection of Jewish religious and social artifacts (sic), unparalleled in the world thanks to their great extent and coherence, the guides explain, survived the war only thanks to the Nazis' perverted desire to create a 'Museum to the Extinct Jewish Race'. According to that story, the perpetrators of genocide allegedly sought to commemorate those whom they had erased from the earth. That illogical aim, to memorialize precisely what the Nazis sought to eliminate, illustrates the contradiction at the heart of this well known and, as Magda Veselska convincingly demonstrates, fundamentally untrue story ... Veselska demonstrates to the contrary that the Jewish Museum was and remains a remarkably successful project of the Jews of Prague themselves, who sought before, during and after the war to protect a legacy that was threatened with destruction."

"Veselska's deconstruction of the 'Extinct Race' myth begins with a thorough investigation of the Museum's origins. Ironically, the Czech Jews who first imagined and then founded the Museum, did actually seek to memorialize something on the verge of erasure:  the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The founders saw the so-called Asanace, the fin-de-siecle urban renewal of the Josefov quarter, which included the razing of three synagogues, as an opportunity to document a Jewish way of life that was quickly disappearing through assimilation."

"Contrary to popular belief, the author illustrates that the directors and employees of the Jewish Museum, and not the German occupiers, were the driving force behind the survival and astronomic expansion of the Museum's collection. True, German antisemitic policies of expropriation, forced emigration, and ultimately genocide provided the tragic opportunity. But it was the Museum staff itself that worked tirelessly to gather the materials left behind by Jews who departed first for abroad and later for concentration camps and ghettos. The staff, and not the leading Nazis in the so-called Central Office for Jewish Emigration (Zentralstelle), developed the concept behind wartime exhibits."

"The chiefs of the Zentralstelle, Hans Guenther and Karl Rahm, demonstrated the greatest interest in the Museum. Contrary to the theory of a Nazi-planned museum, however, the two men neither communicated their views on the Museum to their leaders back in Berlin, nor did they seek to micromanage the staff's activities. Guenther did call for an exhibit on "interesting things" from pre-emancipated Jewish life in the ghetto, but he left it to the employees to determine the content."

"Having undermined the myth of the 'Museum of the Extinct Race', Veselska then sets out to discover where this so widely spread falsehood originated. She shows that the concept was nowhere to be found in the writings of the few museum staff members who survived the war. Instead, H G Adler ... and ... Egon Erwin Kisch first expressed the idea that there was coherent German plan (sic). But Veselska concludes that Vilem Benda, Director of the Jewish Museum in the more open 1960s, may have been responsible for spread of the idea of a 'museum of a liquidated race' in an effort to draw international attention to its collections."


Thursday, 5 June 2014

Finchley Reform Synagogue's MST Slideshow!





Finchley Reform Synagogue, holders of MST #286 from Uhrineves, have just shared with us this lovely slideshow. It shows much of the work that they have done, and encourages us all to emulate them in the future!

Tuesday, 3 June 2014

A Visit to Prague


Our Chair, Evelyn Friedlander, visited the Czech Republic last week. She met with our friends at the Jewish Museum in Prague, and was able to visit several synagogues and other Jewish sites, including some outside the city.

This is the ark in the High Synagogue in Prague. The beautiful parochet (ark curtain) is a modern design that uses pieces of old tallitot (prayer shawls). This is another example of a second life for a Jewish ritual object that might otherwise have been discarded.


Tuesday, 20 May 2014

Czech Out Our Next Event!


Get your tickets now by telephoning Jonathan Zecharia at Westminster Synagogue (0207 584 3953) or e-mailing him via education@westminstersynagogue.org. There's a lot of interest in this talk so do make sure you reserve your seat as soon as possible!

Friday, 2 May 2014

Faces in the Void at Kent House


Faces in the Void was presented last night at Kent House by Jane Liddell-King and Marion Davies. Despite the terrible weather, several guests were moved by the poetry and photographs recalling the Jews of Pardubice. Here are the presenters with MST chair Evelyn Friedlander at the end of an excellent evening.

Monday, 31 March 2014

Rabbi Ezra Spicehandler z"l


News has just reached us at the Memorial Scrolls Trust of the death last week at age 92 of Rabbi Ezra Spicehandler. Through his friendship with the Friedlander family, he and his beloved wife Shirley were frequent visitors to Kent House, and he often led services for Westminster Synagogue.

Jonathan Sarna writes:

"... emeritus professor of Hebrew Literature at HUC-JIR. The son of Abraham Spicehandler, one-time editor of Hadoar, Ezra Spicehandler was ordained and received his Ph.D. at HUC-JIR. Early in his career, he spent time studying Judeo-Persian in Iran, purchasing important manuscripts for HUC-JIR. For 14 years (1966-1980) he served as Dean of the Jerusalem School of HUC-JIR, which he helped to place on a firm footing. He then returned to Cincinnati, where he taught for the remainder of his career. In 1982, he was elected president of the Labor Zionist Alliance. Prof. Spicehandler wrote, edited and translated numerous books, most famously THE MODERN HEBREW POEM ITSELF (1st ed, 1965) with Stanley Burnshaw and Ted Carmi. He was also a recognized expert on H. N. Bialik. Spicehandler taught generations of students at HUC-JIR and was greatly respected for his wide-ranging knowledge and wisdom."

Our thoughts are with his family at this time. May he rest in peace.

Friday, 14 March 2014

Chag Purim Sameach!


One of our MST friends shared this photograph and we just had to pay it forward. Wishing joy to all our friends, and their family and friends.

Happy Purim
Chag Sameach

tsurt sllorcs liaromem 

Monday, 10 March 2014

Tribute to Jiri Fiedler in the New York Times

Just received a link for Helen Epstein's tribute to Jiri Fiedler in the New York Times yesterday. In case you cannot read the link, here is a cut-and-pasted version for you to read:






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“EACH piece of reportage has many authors and it is only thanks to long-established custom that we sign the text with a single name,” wrote the literary journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski.  “They arrange contacts, lend us their homes, or quite simply change our lives.”
Jiri Fiedler changed mine. He opened the door to my family history, as he did for hundreds of people who had been cut off from their family pasts by war, dispossession, totalitarianism and emigration. Working mostly alone, unpaid and anonymous for decades under Communism, and later as a researcher at the Jewish Museum in Prague, he documented the history of Jews in the Czech lands and was a prolific and often unacknowledged contributor to reports, books, articles and museum exhibits.
Last week, not long after I received one of his cheerily eccentric emails with attachments about malapropisms in Czech and English, I discovered that he and his wife, Dagmar, had been brutally murdered in their apartment on or about Jan. 31. The news came via an email from someone I’d met on the reportorial road in the Bohemian-Moravian Highlands.


Photo

Jiri FiedlerCreditJewish Museum in Prague

Though Jiri and Dagmar Fiedler lived in a panelak, one of the enormous blocks of apartments on the outskirts of Prague, with hundreds of residents around them, their bodies weren’t discovered until two weeks after the murder. At 79 and 75, they were regarded as “old people with a cat,” according to a tabloid story that reported the murder but did not give their names. In that story, the current president of the Czech Republic, Milos Zeman, who once lived in the building, was quoted as saying, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t do it.” That was all the press coverage I could find.
Murders are still rare in Prague, and the police declared a news blackout while they conducted their investigation. Dagmar and Jiri’s three children, and his brother, sent a discreet notice of death to family friends and colleagues. Most of the people who knew him and his work remained unaware of his death. Jiri had always been reticent, like many in his generation who had grown up under Nazism and spent their adulthood under Communist rule. He was naturally a loner, “individualistic and a little bit mysterious,” according to Arno Parik, one of his colleagues at the Jewish Museum.
I first met Jiri by mail — snail mail — in 1990, a year after the Velvet Revolution, the nonviolent transition from Communist to democratic rule in what was then Czechoslovakia. I was writing a book about three generations of women in my Central European Jewish family and had sent out inquiries to historians of all kinds, to the Jewish Museum in Prague, the Museum of the Diaspora in Tel Aviv, and the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People in Jerusalem and to many other places. One day, I received a letter from Prague.
“Because I myself am engaged in researching the history of the now-extinct Jewish community,” my unknown correspondent began, “I know you have written to the director of the Regional Museum in Jihlava, to the National Library and to the Central Archive. I put some things together in my mind and that is why I allow myself to disturb you with this letter.”
I remember wondering whether this self-deprecating formulation was a Czech convention or a particular personality trait.
“I have at home relatively rich files covering the now-extinct Jewish communities of Bohemia and Moravia. They are mostly documents concerning synagogues, cemeteries and houses, but sometimes you can find in them the names of their owners. Maybe on your next visit you could go to the State Central Archive. I don’t have the time to do it myself. But if you need me, I will be happy to advise you.”
So began our friendship. We met in 1991 at the children’s publishing house where he had worked as a translator and editor for most of his professional life. He was then 56, an elfin man with a pronounced stutter who seemed as modest as the tiny vase of dandelions on his desk. Collecting Judaica was his longtime hobby, he hastened to tell me. It had nothing to do with the rest of his life. He had scrutinized his family tree many times searching for a Jewish ancestor to explain it and found none. “Some people smoke,” he said. “Some people strangle little girls in parks. I bicycle around the country documenting dead Jews.”
I smiled politely. It was not the kind of politically correct remark I’d hear in Cambridge, Mass., where I then lived. Perhaps, given his long and solitary preoccupation with dead Jews, I thought he was pleased to be talking with a live one.
But after that first remark, Jiri Fiedler turned out to be quite shy. I made out that he had been born in the old Moravian city of Olomouc in 1935, that he was 10 when the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia ended, that he had witnessed the retreat of German soldiers and seen concentration camp survivors, who were given temporary housing at his school.
At 15, he came across and grew interested in an old Yiddish newspaper. By himself, working slowly and patiently, he deciphered the Hebrew characters as though they were hieroglyphics and taught himself to read Yiddish. He dated his interest in local history to about the same time. Mistopis, as local history is called in Czech, was one of the few intellectual pursuits that could be safely enjoyed under Communism. He began to ride his bicycle down back roads near his home, photographing and sketching old churches and other ruined buildings, and making lists of historical landmarks.
After completing his doctorate in linguistics, Jiri took a job as a copy editor and by the late 1960s was working for Albatros, a famous publisher of children’s literature in Prague. He translated from Polish and Serbo-Croatian and proofread hundreds of books, but regarded that as his day job.
His passion was mistopis. By the 1970s, his interest widened to include old Jewish cemeteries and synagogues as well as churches. “Those cemeteries,” he told me, “called out to be photographed.” He also began to do rubbings of the inscriptions. The tombstones were so overgrown that he began to carry gardening tools on his bicycle.
A former schoolmate of his worked at the Jewish Museum in Prague, and during the Communist years, Jiri repeatedly tried to gain access to its archive. But the Jewish Museum was closely watched by the secret police during the Communist period and access to state archives was tightly controlled. Academics researching Jews in Renaissance Prague were able to do their work, but applications by individuals researching more recent history were closely tracked and reported.
He continued to amass his maps, postcards, index cards of data on the dead and his photographs alone.
It became an addiction he could not give up. He had deeds and tax records of former Jewish houses and streets; town maps with Jewish houses marked in red (including my father’s hometown and the house my great-grandfather had built); files of correspondence with dozens of local archivists. He knew the locals everywhere he went and by the 1980s had become an international consultant to anyone researching Czech Jews. His Judaica collection filled the shelves and cabinets of one whole room of his four-room apartment and included some 70,000 photographs.
In 1996, after the Jewish Museum was reorganized on post-Communist lines, Jiri was invited to join the staff. He published his one book, “Jewish Sights of Bohemia and Moravia,” and continued to work on the “Encyclopedia of Jewish Settlements in the Czech Republic” a 30-year project that now contains 1,670 entries in electronic form.
He had no Wikipedia page. No one in Prague could locate a résumé or interview or short bio.
Jiri was allergic to personal P.R. Once, when I asked him to raise his hand and be acknowledged at a reception at the American ambassador’s home in Prague, he quipped that I was creating a “cult of personality” around him. In our age of way too much information, Jiri left barely a footprint online.
But just as he had been one of the authors of my reportage, I want to be one of his. Several of the people in Prague who knew him sent me their impressions of him, but none had any firm facts to provide. A neighbor describes an elderly couple who kept to themselves and consulted her only when they had some problem with their cat. Various colleagues have learned that the apartment was not forced open. Nothing seemed to have been stolen. The police have no suspect and no motive.
An announcement posted on the website of the Jewish Museum of Prague is carefully worded. “The circumstances of his death have not yet been fully clarified,” it reads in part. “On account of his work, he earned the animosity of the secret police and aroused the suspicion of others.” And, “At a time when the Jewish cultural heritage of Bohemia and Moravia was treated with utter contempt, he produced a trove of work that can be drawn on by future generations of researchers in the area of Jewish topography.”
Jiri was a man who managed to hold on to his humanity under two of the most brutal periods of totalitarianism in the 20th century. He did so unobtrusively, with grace and a good measure of mischief. His memory is a blessing and an inspiration.
Correction: March 9, 2014 
An earlier version of a photo caption with this article misspelled the first name of the researcher.  He is Jiri Fiedler, not Jili.