There are stories in which the truth is concealed by the mists of time. Stories like mine, in which entire chapters have been swallowed up in a limbo of emptiness suspended in the mists of time. The only certainty is that I have lived through my works, my word, my thought and my faith.
My name is Judah Minz, Talmudist, scholar of great renown. My name, Minz, comes from the German city of Mainz, also known as Magonza, where I was born in 1405. My family, a lineage of scholars and bankers, bore this name with pride.
At that time the Jewish community of Mainz was involved in many prosperous economic activities, including trade, money lending and handicrafts. They thus contributed to the economic development of the city, playing a key role in the flourishing trade networks along the Rhine River. Synagogues and communal institutions flourished, supporting the spiritual needs of the community. Jewish scholars and rabbis were active in religious teachings and contributed to the wider Jewish intellectual tradition.
However, all of a sudden, the 15th century brought with it a season of hatred and intolerance, ushering in a very difficult period for the Jews of Mainz and other European cities. The century saw numerous expulsions and persecutions, driven by anti-Jewish sentiments and religious tensions. In 1462 Mainz suffered a significant expulsion of Jews, which led to the forced departure of many families of the Jewish community. Including our own.
Forced to leave our ancestral home, we wandered around Europe, looking south, until we found refuge in the bustling city of Padua, a city nestled between the picturesque Brenta, Brentella and Bacchilion rivers. A place where the echoes of Jewish traditions were deep-rooted and resonated through time. Upon my arrival I soon became the beacon of the Jewish community of Padua. It was an honour that I carried forward with humility and dedication. I founded the local rabbinical academy, known as Yeshiva, and for forty-seven years I was its headmaster.
The walls of Yeshiva resounded with the enthusiastic minds of young students, attracted by the wealth of knowledge we offered. Many of these students became respected rabbis, spreading wisdom and teachings throughout Europe. Our academy became a beacon of light, illuminating the path of those seeking wisdom and understanding.
During my time in Padua, I had correspondence with esteemed rabbis of the time. One of these correspondences was with Eliahu Mizrakhi, the revered rabbi of Turkey. In one of his replies, he wrote of me: “I reflected deeply on the words of our master Judah and found in him a profound wisdom. His wisdom surpasses even his fame”. Such words humbled and reinforced the importance of the knowledge I impart.
Beyond the world of Talmudic studies, my thirst for knowledge extended to other topics, to the point of generating stories shrouded in certain mysteries, one of which is related to the chair of the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Padua. I will not tell you what really happened, because... a story is more fascinating if it is covered by a little veil of mystery, don't you think? The story is related by Marco Samuele Ghirondi, a local rabbi, who said he discovered my portrait adorned with a laudatory dedication at the Faculty of Philosophy in Venice. It is possible that Ghirondi, in his admiration, confused me with the brilliant philosopher Elia Del Medigo.
There was indeed a quarrel between Del Medigo and myself, but the reasons for it have been lost in time and wander in the limbo of forgotten memories. The general dispute, however, revolved around a dilemma related to whether the community should uphold or abandon an ancient synagogical tradition. While Del Medigo took a more open-minded approach, I, true to the rigid traditions of my German origin, was firmly opposed to any deviation. Such clashes of opinion were, then as now, inevitable, but blessed. For it is only through them that our faith and traditions are tested, perfected and ultimately strengthened to face adversity. Adversities that for the Jewish community do not lurk amidst the conflicts between ideas, but come each time from a dark elsewhere that dwells in the hearts of men afflicted by the germ of hatred. So it always happens...
And so it also happened to us, all of us, as citizens of Padua when our city was attacked by Venice. It was not only blood that flowed through the alleys like a raging river. Hate and death were followed by the blind beast of chaos, which led to the almost total destruction of our precious library, which among many texts also held my manuscripts. Many of which were lost forever. It was a great loss for our community, as the written words preserved the legacy of our teachings.
At the end of the war, when the Venetian soldiers raised the flag of Maximilian of Austria, we Jews witnessed further atrocities. All our houses and possessions were plundered without any mercy. Without any shame. Without any humanity.
We resisted with all our might, committed to the survival of our people, our faith and our ideas.
But in the world of the living, everything has an end... and I too, like the pages of my texts, ceased to exist in the material world one autumn day, 27 September 1508. My existence, however, was perpetuated not only through the written and oral word, but also through my offspring, who were also destined to write history. A history that, unlike mine, was illuminated by grace and the power of faith.
My son, Avraham Minz, succeeded me as head of the Rabbinical Academy in Padua. Years later, he came across a collection of sixteen responsa written by me. Flooded with emotion, he ensured their preservation, offering future generations a glimpse of the wisdom I had imparted.
In 1553, these preserved responsa, together with Abraham's main work and the responsa of Meir Katzenellenbogen, husband of my niece Anna, were published in Venice. This literary treasure became an invaluable historical source, shedding light on the challenges faced by our community during my time. My decisions were always oriented towards the strict traditions of German Jewish heritage, providing a stable compass for our community.
Among my many rulings, one of the most famous was the one that allowed men to disguise themselves as women during the joyous holiday of Purim. Such indulgences bring joy to our community, uniting us in celebration and strengthening the bonds of faith.
Unfortunately, the Jewish cemetery in Padua also suffered greatly during the war. Graves, including mine, were destroyed, leaving us unable to identify the final resting place of my mortal remains. Yet there is a glimmer of hope as local tradition suggests that my remains were among those moved to the present Via Sorio Cemetery in 1955.
I, Judah Mintz, held the torch of wisdom in a time of great upheaval and uncertainty. Despite the challenges faced by our community, I have dedicated my life to enriching the legacy of our Jewish heritage.
Through my teachings in Yeshiva, my correspondence with esteemed rabbis, and even the philosophical controversies I encountered, I helped shape the Jewish community of Padua in the 15th century.