In the vibrant Jewish community of Venice during the mid-16th century, two Hebrew printing presses were locked in fierce competition: the Justinian Press, led by Marco Justinian; and its archrival, the Bragadin Press, owned by Alvise Bragadin. Both printers set their sights on the monumental task of publishing the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, igniting a rivalry that would have profound consequences not only for the future of Jewish scholarship but also for Jewish-Christian relations in the region. This week, I had the opportunity to acquire a volume of the Justinian edition, an exciting find for me, in light of the historical importance of this edition.
The battle between these two Venetian presses became so intense that complaints reached the revered Rabbi Moshe Isserles (the Rema) in Krakow. In his famous responsum (Shut Siman 10), the Rema did not hesitate to criticize Bragadin’s edition, highlighting the numerous errors that plagued it. The foreword to Justinian’s edition, in turn, spared no words in its attack on Bragadin, boldly asserting that the flaws in the rival edition were so numerous they could fill more than twenty pages.
Justinian’s rivalry with Bragadin escalated not only through theological disputes but also through accusations of intellectual theft. In 1551, Rabbi Meir Katzenellenbogen (the Maharam of Padova) had approached Justinian to publish his commentary on the Mishneh Torah. When Justinian declined, Rabbi Meir turned to Bragadin, who eagerly agreed to print the work. The success of this edition fueled Justinian’s desire for revenge, leading him to produce a nearly identical edition. To make matters worse, Justinian’s press was accused of intellectual theft, charged with the unauthorized reproduction of glosses by Rabbi Meir that had originally appeared in the Bragadin edition. This act of plagiarism reverberated throughout the Jewish world, further intensifying the already fraught rivalry between the two men.
Legend has it that this bitter rivalry did not go unnoticed by the local Christian community. Sensing an opportunity to fuel the flames of discord, some Christians claimed that both editions contained anti-Christian sentiments. These allegations were brought to the attention of Pope Julius III, who, ever sensitive to the Catholic Church’s image, ordered an official investigation. It wasn’t long before the special commission concluded that Justinian’s Talmud contained inflammatory content against Christianity. The Pope, in response, issued a decree to burn all copies of the Talmud and other Jewish books.
The result was catastrophic. On Rosh Hashanah of 1554, the Talmud and other Jewish texts were set aflame in a public display of religious zealotry. This was only the beginning. The papal decree led to the closure of several Hebrew printing presses across Italy, including those in Venice, and a ban on Hebrew printing that would last for a decade. This devastating blow to Jewish literature and scholarship was felt not only in Italy but throughout Europe.
The Talmud burnings of 1554 marked a turning point in Jewish-Christian relations, but they also had a lasting effect on Jewish intellectual life. The loss of countless invaluable manuscripts and the imposition of draconian censorship policies would cast a long shadow over Jewish publishing for centuries to come.
This episode in Jewish history is not just a tale of rivalry and intellectual theft – it is a story of how religious and political forces could shape the fate of Jewish culture in ways that were, at times, devastating. The Mishneh Torah controversy in Venice serves as a reminder of the fragility of Jewish scholarship in the face of external pressures and the lengths to which individuals and institutions would go to protect their intellectual and religious territory, which can have everlasting influence.
