T

he youngest of eight children, Mayer Lehmann was born in 1831 in in the town of Verden, Hanover (currently Germany), to Roeschen (Shoshanna) and Rav Oscher Lemuel Lehmann, one of the top students of Rav Yechezkel Landau, the Noda B’Yehudah of Prague.

A brilliant student with a photographic memory, young Mayer soon moved from the local yeshivah in Verden to study under the famed Rav Ezriel Hildesheimer in Halberstadt. They formed a uniquely strong bond, and forty years later, after his untimely passing, Rav Hildesheimer eulogized Rav Lehmann as his prize student whom “he loved like a son.”

After two years studying in Halberstadt, young Mayer followed in his father’s footsteps to learn in Prague. In 1852, at age 21, he earned his first semichah from Rav Shlomo Yehudah Leib Rappaport, chief rabbi of Prague, and Rav Shmuel Freund. Like his father, too, Rav Lehmann studied at the university in Prague, where he gained exposure to a wide variety of subjects — including Arabic, philosophy, history, and law — which he would soon draw upon in his career as a novelist.

But for the brilliant young scholar, one semichah and university degree were not enough. Returning to his native Germany, in 1854 Rav Lehmann earned a second semichah from Rav Michael Landsberger of Berlin in addition to a doctorate in philosophy from the University of Halle.

Already in his university days, Rav Lehmann’s passion to bring Torah to others was apparent. In both Prague and Berlin, Rav Lehmann established “Chevras Shas” societies for university students and young intellectuals, which gave them a taste — and love — for higher level Torah learning. These societies lasted for decades after his death, many until the Holocaust.

The conflict between modernity and age-old Torah values that was raging across Europe did not completely bypass young Mayer.

“He had a knack for writing, and he wanted to be a playwright,” says Marcus Lehmann, the great-great grandson of the original Marcus Lehmann, in a conversation with Mishpacha this past February. We met, together with Mr. Lehmann’s wife Sara and his mother Mrs. Ruth Lehmann, in the latter’s home in Flatbush, sitting around her dining room table piled high with Rav Lehmann’s seforim and novels, many from the early twentieth century and printed in Gothic German type.

“The story goes that young Mayer Lehmann was going to meet with a famous German playwright to work on a collaboration with him,” Mr. Lehmann continues. “This was the middle of the wintertime, very, very cold days, and they used to have fires burning in the university common areas to keep people warm.” Sitting in the student lounge of the University of Halle, 23-year-old Mayer Lehmann debated his future. To become a playwright, or to devote his life to rabbanus? “He never showed up to the meeting,” the current Marcus Lehmann relates. “He took the piece that he was working on and threw it into the fire.”

Rav Lehmann believed he was leaving the world of drama behind, but his flair with a pen — along with his personal understanding of the struggle with modernity — would perfectly augment his mission as rav in combating the Reform movement.

Here, in this synagogue, he found the link that connects the present with the past. This ancient religion, with its unusual ordinances, proscriptions and laws, that had until that moment appeared dead to him, was pulsating here with vigorous life.”

—Paul Weiland, from Between Two Worlds

B

eing the rav of an Orthodox kehillah in mid-nineteenth century Germany was no simple matter. Most German territories at the time required that all Jews in each city belong to a single, official Jewish community. Jews were required to pay membership fees to the official community, whose board used the monies to support Jewish institutions in the city. The only way to renounce Jewish community membership was to convert to Christianity.

But the Jewish community of Mainz — one of the oldest in Germany, and formerly home to Ashkenazic gedolim such as Rabbeinu Gershom and Rav Amnon — had, like many other German communities of the time, come under Reform control. When community leaders inaugurated a temple with an organ in 1853, the Orthodox Jews of Mainz decided they were ready for drastic action. As legally bound members of the official Reform-controlled community, though, what could they do?

In nearby Frankfurt, the Orthodox community had just grappled with the same problem. Unwilling to support Reform institutions, they formed their own unofficial, separatist “corporation” called Israelitische Religionsgesellschaft (Jewish Religious Society, or IRG for short) under the leadership of Rav Shamshon Raphael Hirsch.

The Orthodox kehillah in Mainz decided to follow suit. In 1854, Rav Shmuel Bondi, a renowned talmid chacham and posek, established a separatist Orthodox community in Mainz, and began searching for a dynamic young rav to lead the fledgling kehillah. It was Rav Ezriel Hildesheimer — Rav Bondi’s mechutan — who recommended 23-year-old Mayer Lehmann, his prize student, as the perfect candidate for the position. The recommendation would prove providential in other ways as well — after two years of learning b’chavrusa every day, Rav Lehmann became Rav Bondi’s son-in-law.

Though Rav Bondi was thrilled with his pick, Rav Lehmann was not quite given a royal welcome in Mainz. The government refused to confer on him the title of “rabbi.” Legally, he was only a “preacher” for the Orthodox community. And the Reform leaders’ reaction to his appointment was considerably more militant.

Within the Jewish community, Reformers waged a major campaign to undermine Rav Lehmann’s credibility, slandering him in newspapers and describing in lurid detail the supposedly fanatical lifestyle of Orthodox Jews. Later, with the help of the regional government, Reform leaders were able to forbid him from officiating at weddings and funerals, and even from leasing his own shul premises. Rav Lehmann himself could not get married in Mainz — only Reform clergy could officiate at Jewish weddings. He married Tirza Bondi in a small hamlet outside Mainz, with his father-in-law serving as mesader kiddushin.

But despite the Reformers’ best efforts, the status quo in Mainz very soon began to change. Rav Lehmann’s erudition, deep love for Torah, and keen understanding of the struggles of his time not only reinforced the Orthodox kehillah of Mainz, but began to attract Reform-oriented Jews as well. His sermons drew ever-growing crowds, and soon the narrow room he used as a makeshift shul was in dire need of expansion. Rav Lehmann himself circulated among his congregants every morning with a tzedakah box, until in 1856 they finally had the funds to open their own synagogue. Within twenty years the membership had grown so much that they again moved to a larger building. (By the 1870s, the Orthodox Jews of Mainz had secured the right to officially form their own community.)

Rav Lehmann’s influence went far beyond the confines of the shul building. In 1859, he opened a school with separate classes for boys and girls that followed Rav Hirsch’s model of Torah im derech eretz. Facing steep skepticism as to the need for an Orthodox school, Rav Lehmann, in a manner reminiscent of early American gedolim, went door-to-door convincing parents to send him their sons and daughters for a Torah education.

In business matters, too, Rav Lehmann’s influence was soon felt throughout the city. When he arrived in Mainz, the Reform movement was so entrenched that most Jewish shops were open on Shabbos. Within months of his appointment as rav, however, Jewish shops throughout the city were shuttering their doors for Shabbos and Yamim Tovim.

While Rav Lehmann’s name would come to be associated with his novels, many of his avid readers fail to realize that the author behind the gripping plots was a major talmid chacham in addition to popular writer. Rav Lehmann’s commentary on Yerushalmi Berachos, Meir Nesiv, received haskamos from some of the leading gedolim of the era, including Rav Yitzchak Elchanan Spektor, Rav Ezriel Hildesheimer, the Malbim, and the Netziv. His commentary on Pirkei Avos reveals a vast breadth of knowledge and history relating to each Tanna.

And Rav Lehmann’s commentary on the Haggadah, published posthumously by Rav Herz Ehrmann and other of Rav Lehmann’s students, showcases his keen grasp of sources and masterful storytelling style.

“It was likely the most important thing he wrote,” says Dr. Elliott Bondi, senior editor of the Rabbi Dr. Joseph Breuer Foundation and great-great nephew of Rav Lehmann. “Every German Jewish family used the Lehmann Haggadah — it’s a masterpiece.” With continual references to the beauty of traditional Judaism, Rav Lehmann’s Haggadah imbues his readers with a love for Yiddishkeit and the Jewish way of life on every page.

So how did a talmid chacham such as Rav Lehmann come to write the popular novels that are so widely renowned today? Rabbi Mayer Lehmann, a sixth-generation descendant and a rosh chaburah at the Boca Raton Kollel, remembers a speech at his brother’s bar mitzvah by Rabbi Dovid Cohen to this effect:

“Rav Lehmann was a choshuv rav. He had a peirush in the back of Yerushalmi Berachos and at the same time, it was not beneath him to take up the call of the time,” Mayer recalls. “You know, typically a rav would never write young adult books. It’s just an unfathomable concept. But it wasn’t beneath Rav Lehmann to try to do whatever he could to address the needs of the time.”

“Do not be surprised,” she said, “at how well informed I am on this subject. Since my childhood my favorite reading matter has been The Israelite, where all these matters are greatly elaborated upon, so that an ignorant girl can also form her own opinion.”

—Hilda Wolf, from Between Two Worlds

I

nterestingly enough, Rav Lehmann’s literary career began with a seeming disappointment. A few years after his appointment as rav, Rav Lehmann began writing articles for a weekly Jewish publication — only to discover that they were mysteriously not appearing in print. Refusing to be cowed by the Reformers’ underhanded tactics, in 1860, at age 29, Rav Lehmann started his own publication: Der Israelit. The weekly journal, featuring divrei Torah on the parshah and local and international Jewish news, strove to showcase the beauty of Torah values in the face of the Reform onslaught.

“Its impact was immense,” emphasizes Dr. Bondi. While in nearby Frankfurt Rav Hirsch published his monthly Jeschurun journal, a highly sophisticated, intellectual publication, Der Israelit was for more of a popular audience. In small farming villages throughout Germany, where Jews had little access to formal Jewish education (many even lacked a rav), Der Israelit was often the sole link that kept them connected to their heritage.

Mr. Lehmann mentions that about ten years ago, passing a busy intersection in Flatbush, he noticed an elderly Jew wearing a Homburg and carrying a briefcase, waiting at a bus stop. Mr. Lehmann pulled over to offer the gentleman, Mr. Buxbaum, a ride. “I told him my name,” Mr. Lehmann recounts, and “he told me that he grew up in a little village in Germany, and there were no seforim there whatsoever, except for the Marcus Lehmann books… He said that’s what kept him strong in his Yiddishkeit.”

Der Israelit, though written in German, was not confined to a German audience: It was mailed all throughout Europe and even to America. Its popularity was so widespread that even Rav Yisrael Salanter, founder of the Mussar movement, begged Rav Lehmann to publish a Hebrew version of Der Israelit for Eastern European Jewry.

Rav Lehmann himself humorously noted the widespread readership of Der Israelit in one of his novels, Vanished (1883), where his characters miss an important advertisement published in a different paper. “Why didn’t Herr Lambert have it printed in the Israelit? Good Jews all over the world read that!”

Undoubtedly, a central feature of Der Israelit’s vast popularity was the novels, which began to be serialized in the publication in 1867. With topics both historical — spanning times from the Second Temple to the Spanish Inquisition to the Chmielnicki Massacres — and modern, his gripping writing style and keen sense of the struggles of his day captivated his readership. People often stopped Rav Lehmann in the street, begging to know what would happen next in the story, recounted his great-grandson Osher Lehmann in his memoir, Faith at the Brink. “His standard response was, ‘I don’t even know myself what will happen!’ ”

The serialized novels were meant to provide far more than entertainment. By the mid-18th century, young European Jews were increasingly turning to contemporary secular literature, much of which actively encouraged the concept of universalism, and thus assimilation.

Worse, though, than the secular literature so widely read by German Jews, was the popular fiction penned by Reform leaders. In Reform-authored novels, liberal Jewish characters embodied noble traits and enjoyed happy endings, while traditional Jews — particularly rabbanim — were typically cast as backward and hypocritical. Historian Jonathan Hess, in his book Middlebrow Literature and the Making of German-Jewish Identity, cites popular 19th century Reform rabbi and writer Salomon Formstecher as one example of this trend: Formstecher’s novel “demonizes not Jews per se but only Orthodox Jews, rendering Reform Jews the virtuous heroes.”

In this atmosphere of literary perils, Rav Lehmann stepped into the breach. “He was a one-man ArtScroll,” notes Rav Lipa Geldwerth, rav of Khal Kol Torah in Flatbush. Rav Lehmann realized that by writing religious-themed novels, he would “attract the German youth who were so disaffected from Yiddishkeit.”

Rav Lehmann was not actually the first Orthodox novelist — Rav Hirsch’s daughter, Sara Hirsch Guggenheim, began serializing novels in Jeschurun in 1863. But Rav Lehmann’s wide audience and prolific pen — he wrote 25 novels and novellas in a span of 23 years — earned him the enduring acclaim of Orthodox readership. As Jonas Lehmann, Rav Lehmann’s son, writes in his biography of his father, “As a child I read these stories with glowing cheeks and a beating heart. When they were serialized in Der Israelit I could hardly wait to read the continuation of the fates of the heroes. And thousands and thousands of Jewish children had the same experience. In our youth we laughed and cried along with his heroes and heroines and made them our role models.”

What enabled Rav Lehmann’s novels to successfully combat the allure of secular fiction, and captivate audiences both in his own time and over a hundred years after his death? The magic lies in far more than his gifted pen and gripping stories. Rav Lehmann’s stories, if you study them closely, include certain recurring themes that speak to Jews living in the modern world: the Orthodox Jew as the hero; the importance of Jewish women; and finally, the struggle between tradition and modernity.

The Orthodox hero was sorely needed in 19th century literature. While Reform writers typically cast religious Jews as unattractive, money-hungry, and lacking in morals, Rav Lehmann did the opposite: Orthodox characters are handsome, noble, and highly likable. The Count of Coucy, for instance, which takes place in 12th century France, describes its main character, the Tosafist Rav Shimshon of Coucy, as a “handsome man with noble features, a high scholarly forehead, and piercing dark eyes.” After facing a number of tribulations and temptations, Rav Shimshon emerges at the end of the story not only as a famed talmid chacham, but also a wealthy count, appointed by Richard the Lionheart whom he had helped during his travels.

Among his Jewish heroes, Rav Lehmann devotes special attention to Orthodox rabbanim. Clearly seeking to counter the mockery of rabbanim that appeared in “enlightened” Jewish literature, Rav Lehmann imparts to his Jewish readers a profound esteem for their spiritual leaders. In Faith and Courage, for instance, on first introducing Rav Shabbathai Cohen, Rav Lehmann writes:

“Have you heard of Rav Shabbathai Cohen, my dear readers? No? Then you had better not admit that you have heard of Socrates and Aristotle, of Shakespeare and Dickens, and never of Shabbathai Cohen! You had better run off to the nearest Jewish teacher and ask him to tell you about the Shach, the great commentator on the Yoreh Dei’ah and Choshen Mishpat.’”

It was not only rabbanim who were marked out for special favor in Rav Lehmann’s novels. Rav Lehmann — like Rav Hirsch — was ahead of his time in his appreciation for the role of Jewish women in Jewish life. His frum female heroines have a well-rounded Jewish education, are proud of their Yiddishkeit, and are beautiful as well — thus making them attractive role models for his female readers. Hilda Wolf, for instance, in Between Two Worlds, could not only “shine as a first-class beauty in noble circles,” but was a loyal champion of her faith. She “defended the customs and laws of Orthodoxy with fiery enthusiasm… Paul was amazed at the girl’s instant replies and the truth that lay in her opinions.”

But perhaps the most compelling — and enduring — theme of Rav Lehmann’s novels was the struggle between tradition and modernity. In his post-ghetto generation, maintaining an authentic connection to Yiddishkeit was not automatic anymore. The pulls of both secular Christian society and Reform Judaism were all too real. The characters in many of his novels — from both the 19th century and earlier — faced the glitter of modern society and grappled with it. And while Rav Lehmann realistically shows some of his characters falling prey to the lures of the modern world, he always manages to show the foolhardiness of that decision, compared to the decision to maintain allegiance to authentic Judaism.

The stakes of remaining true to tradition are — realistically — high: In The Family Y Aguilar, Don Manuel struggles with giving up worldly wealth as a crypto-Jew in Spain for life as a fully observant — though less prosperous — merchant in Amsterdam. In Faith and Courage, the Shach’s daughter Esther chooses between living her life as a princess — by converting to Christianity — or remaining a common yet faithful Jewish woman:

“What would become of her if she persisted in the religion of her father? Look, there is a Jew passing the castle, a sack full of old clothes and worn-out shoes on his crooked back! — Esther had seen no other sort of Jew, since she had been at Court. Should she one day share the fate of a man like that?”

With all the possibilities of wealth, titles, and glamour for those who would abandon traditional Judaism, Rav Lehmann drives home a major point to his readers: In the modern world, there are no ghetto walls to keep Jews from assimilation. Judaism is a choice. And we should embrace it.

While this idea of actively choosing Judaism comes up innumerable times in Rav Lehmann’s novels, one of the most poignant examples is Between Two Worlds, where the hero of the book is raised as a Christian without any knowledge that he is Jewish. After learning about Judaism by chance, and seeking to convert, the tables suddenly turn: He discovers that he is already a Jew, but by converting to Christianity, he can inherit two noble titles and a tremendous fortune. “Several days ago, it was no great sacrifice for him to convert to Judaism. But now, what dazzling prospects were being offered to him…. Should he relinquish such a brilliant future?” As many of Rav Lehmann’s characters do, Henry Wertheimer grapples with the decision, making it relatable to his readership.

In the end, after agonizing over the decision — and providentially meeting a rav who helps him navigate the dilemma — Mr. Wertheimer gives everything up to remain a simple Jew. And in the end, he achieves true happiness — he leads the life of a fully observant Jew, with a devoted wife, and becomes a prosperous landowner to boot. As Rav Lehmann’s son wrote, his father’s novels always illustrated “how a life lived in accordance with Jewish religious laws makes one happy in this world” — and, of course, in the next.

With frum heroes, relatable dilemmas, and meticulously researched plots — Rav Lehmann traveled to libraries across Europe to gather information — it’s not surprising that his novels gained immense popularity over continents and decades. Today his stories are available in English, Hebrew, Yiddish, and Russian, and are continually reprinted due to their popularity.

Not only that, but Rav Lehmann’s books have come to be cherished by Torah nobility as well. Rav Chaim Kanievsky read them as a boy, and Rav Ovadiah Yosef read a chapter at each of his early shiurim; their suspenseful plots kept participants returning week after week. And when Mr. Lehmann’s sister Sarah became engaged to Rabbi Shlomo Kassai, a Vizhnitzer chassid, he recounted the reaction of Vizhnitzer Rebbe, the Yeshuos Moshe, Rav Moshe Yehoshua Hager:

“When my father called the Rebbe to tell him that I got engaged, he asked if the kallah was a grandchild of the German writer Lehmann? My father said, ‘Yes…’ and the Rebbe told him that the only books he allowed his daughters to read were the books of Rav Mayer Lehmann, because they’re purely kosher.”

Rav Lehmann died in 1890 after a long illness, at only 59. He was survived by his wife Tirza and three children: Osher (Oskar), Emma-Rosalie, and Jonas. Osher Lehmann edited Der Israelit after his father’s death. The paper eventually merged with Rav Hirsch’s Jeschurun, and the famed Jacob Rosenheim expanded it further until it was shut down by the Nazis in November 1938.

Osher Lehmann’s son Mayer (Mr. Lehmann’s grandfather) was living with his young family in Amsterdam on the eve of the Holocaust. When the doorbell rang late one night in November 1943, he knew who it was: the Gestapo. The German officer and his Dutch accomplice demanded that the family dress and come with them immediately.

“My grandmother gave the Gestapo cookies,” Mr. Lehmann describes, to buy extra time for her family to pack some belongings. (“What kind of cookies?” I ask. “They weren’t chocolate chip,” Mrs. Ruth Lehmann quips.) During those precious extra minutes, Mayer and his nine-year-old son Osher — the current Marcus Lehmann’s father — debated which seforim to bring along with them. In their hushed, hurried conversation, they decided on a pocket-size siddur — and the Lehmann Haggadah. “He took the Lehmann Haggadah with him to the camp [Bergen-Belsen], and that survived. He kept it underneath his pillow.” Mr. Lehmann recalls. “And that’s the Haggadah that he used every year at the Pesach Sedorim.”

Today, Rav Lehmann’s legacy is the inheritance of the entire Jewish people. Through his writings, he left all of us with a profound love for our heritage. As Mr. Lehmann says, “Back in the time of the Haskalah, people read these books and said, ‘one second here, these people — what weren’t they willing to give up for their Yiddishkeit? You know, where does that leave me? What am I willing to give up for my Yiddishkeit?’ ”

With gratitude to Rabbi Dr. Moshe Miller and Mrs. Shari Weiss for their help in researching this article

To Genizah?

How did readers of Der Israelit dispose of their magazines each week?

Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzenski deals with this issue in his classic halachah sefer Achiezer. A prominent rav from Hungary was concerned with how Der Israelit spelled out Hashem’s name: “G-O-T-T,” the full German designation for G-d, without any dashes.

The halachos that pertain to spelling Hashem’s name in a foreign language are not always clear-cut. While saying Hashem’s name in vain in Lashon Kodesh is considered a severe sin, many poskim are more lenient about saying the word “G-d” in another language. But when it comes to writing Hashem’s name in a foreign language, the main concern is how the paper with Hashem’s name will be treated. Rav Yehonasan Eibeschutz, for instance, in his sefer Urim V’Tumim, strongly condemns the French practice of writing “adieu” prior to signing off on letters; “adieu” in his times meant “with G-d,” and Hashem’s name thus was disrespected when these letters were thrown into the trash.

Despite this, Rav Chaim Ozer defended Der Israelit’s practice of spelling Hashem’s name in German in full.

Why was Harav Hagaon Hatzaddik, Moreinu Harav Mayer Lehmann zichrono livracha, who founded this periodical over 50 years ago, not concerned about this? At that time, periodicals were considered important, since they were less common [than nowadays], and people treated them with respect. If it is difficult for them [the editors of Der Israelit] to fix this matter and to change their editorial policy, it is possible to defend their actions with the argument that people would not disrespect an important weekly periodical such as Der Israelit, since it contains many divrei Torah and pesukim and some are even in Hebrew. However, it is proper for the periodical to publicize that people should not disrespect it, on account of those pesukim and divrei Torah, and to the extent they publicize this, they can maintain their editorial policy as it was with regard to writing Hashem’s name in German.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1058)