Micro-Yizkor and Hasidic Memory: A Post-Holocaust Letter from the Margins

Abstract

This paper examines a previously unknown anonymous Hebrew letter inserted into a postwar edition of Shem HaGedolim, found in the library of the Jewish University in Budapest. The letter, composed in Győr in 1947, consists almost entirely of passages copied from Tiferet Chayim, a hagiographic genealogy of the Sanz Hasidic dynasty. Although derivative in content, the letter’s form and placement suggest it was not meant for transmission but instead served as a private act of mourning and historiographical preservation. By situating the letter within the broader context of post-Holocaust Jewish and Hasidic memory practices, including yizkor books, rabbinic memoirs, and grassroots commemorative writing, this study proposes that the document constitutes a “micro-yizkor”: a bibliographic ritual that aimed to re-inscribe lost tzaddikim into sacred memory. Drawing on theories of trauma, religious coping, and bereavement psychology, particularly the Two-Track Model of Bereavement, the paper examines the letter as both a therapeutic and historiographical gesture. The author’s meticulous copying, selective omissions, and personalized touches (such as modified honorifics and emotive phrases) reflect an attempt to maintain spiritual continuity in the wake of communal devastation. Engaging scholarship by Michal Shaul, Lior Becker, Gershon Greenberg, and others, the analysis demonstrates how citation, far from being a passive act, functions here as an instrument of resistance, memory, and redemptive reconstruction. The existence of such a document can also be examined through the lens of Maurice Rickards’ insights, particularly his characterization of the “compulsive note” as a salient form of ephemera, materials often inserted between the pages of books, which pose unique challenges for interpreting the time capsule their authors sought to construct. Ultimately, the paper argues that this modest and anonymous document offers a rare window into postwar Ultra-orthodox religious subjectivity. It challenges prevailing assumptions about Hasidic silence after the Holocaust and demonstarates how even derivative texts can serve as potent sites of historical testimony, spiritual resilience, and bibliographic mourning. The letter thus sheds light on a neglected form of Hasidic historiography, one authored not by professional historians, but by the broken-hearted, writing in the margins of sacred books.

1. Introduction

This article offers a close examination of a recently uncovered anonymous letter, found in the library of the Jewish University in Budapest (Or-Zse). The letter had been folded into a copy of Shem HaGedolim by Rabbi Chayim Yosef David Azulay (HIDA), a foundational work in the chronography and bibliography of rabbinic literature (Azulay 1876; Rubinstein 1968). Its placement within this particular volume appears deliberate, as suggested by its content. The letter recounts the lives of several tzaddikim (righteous leaders) of the Sanz dynasty (Biale et al. 2018, pp. 379–83; Matlak 2001), with primary emphasis on Rabbi Chaim Halberstam (Brown 2004). It serves as a supplement to Shem HaGedolim, which primarily records the rabbinic positions and yahrzeit dates of the dynasty’s tzaddikim (Fishbane 2022; Green 2016), along with brief character portraits (Sagiv 2014, pp. 13–19).

The author’s Hebrew is notably unpolished, as evidenced by some spelling mistakes, occasional transcription errors, and cumbersome syntax. Although the letter contains almost no original language, being, by the author’s own admission, almost entirely drawn from Tiferet Chayim by Rabbi Chananya Yom Tov Lipa Braun (Braun 1941), a hagiography dedicated to Rabbi Chayim Halberstam and his family, it nonetheless reflects a creative editorial effort. The resulting “collage” of Braun’s text demonstrates a familiarity with the Sanz dynasty, but also a sophisticated sensitivity to rhetorical form, particularly in the deployment of honorifics.

Tiferet Chayim is one among many works composed to recount, in detail, the lives and deeds of Hasidic tzaddikim. The Hasidic movement, which originated in eighteenth-century Podolia, later expanded into regions that are now part of Ukraine and Poland, and eventually flourished throughout Central and Eastern Europe until the outbreak of the Second World War. It emphasized inward religious devotion, strong communal bonds, and a more accessible mode of Jewish practice, particularly in contrast to its non-Hasidic counterparts in Eastern Europe (Wodziński 2018). Some works devoted to Hasidic figures are explicitly hagiographic in tone, while others adopt a more restrained narrative style. Tiferet Chayim blends factual elements, such as historical birth and death dates, with hagiographic storytelling, miracle accounts, and extensive praise of its protagonists.

The fact that the letter reproduces Tiferet Chayim almost verbatim lends particular significance to the author’s omissions and to the manner in which he arranges and positions the figures of the Sanz dynasty. These editorial choices, as I will show, reveal the author’s intentions in composing the letter.

It is important to note, however, that there is no indication the letter was meant to be mailed. Rather, it appears to function as a personal record by a Holocaust survivor who sought to document his memories and connection to the Sanz dynasty (as he himself states), using an unusual method: extensive copying from another source. In the next section of this article, I will provide a full transcription and translation of the letter, decode its abbreviations, and annotate its sources in Tiferet Chayim, including both the content the author omitted and the material he chose to add.

2. The Document: An Anonymous Letter (Figure 1) Inside Shem HaGedolim (Translation to English in Appendix A)

יום ג’ לסדר בא אל פרעה תש"ז 1 לפ"ק פה ראאב 2 יצ"ו [=יבנה ציון ועריה]

גמרתי בלבי שאחר שיש לי בקיעות (!) קצת ממשפחת הגה"ק [=הגאון הקדוש] מצאנז ע"כ [=על כן] אתחיל לדבר קצת ממשפחתו הק’[דושה] ואחר כך אני כותב כ<??> כמו שבא בידי.

מרן הגה"ק זי"ע [=זכרו יגן עלינו] ר’ חיים בן ר’3 אריה לייבוש ה"ש [=הלברשטאם] שהיה דומ"ץ [=דיין ומורה צדק] בק"ק [=בקהילת קודש] פרעמישלע ונפטר ט"ו תמוז תקצ"א4 (Braun 1941, fol. 8b) אביו היה ר’5 שמחה מבראד בן הג’[און] ר’ משה האלבערשטאטד אב"ד [=אב בית דין] סאטנוב שהי’[ה] גדול בדורו6 נפטר זקן ושבע ימים ד’ מרחשון תר"ח7 לפ"ק [=לפרק קטן] שהי’ בן הג’ ר’ צבי הירש אב"ד דק"ק האלבערשטאדט שחב"ס [=שחיבר ספר] כוס ישועות על מס’[כת] בבא קמא ושבועות ושו"ת [=ושאלות ותשובות], עטרת צבי דרשות נלקח ד’ תשרי תק"ח.8 שהיה בן הג’ ר’ נפתלי הירץ אשכנזי אב"ד קאוולי טיקטין דעסוי לבוב הנקרא ר’9 הירץ שהיה גאון הגאונים איש אלקים וקדוש מאד ראש וועד דד’ ארצות תורה וגדולה במקום אחד נלקח ח"י מרחשוון תע"ב10 והיה בן הג’ ר’ ישראל אשכנזי פ"מ [=פוסק ומשיב] בלובלין בן הג’ ר’ זאב וולפ’ הילדאסהיים11 בן הרב ר’ דוד זצ"ל [=זכר צדיק לברכה].(Braun 1941, fol. 8b) חתן הגה’[ק]12 ר’ ברוך טעם.13 הוא [נ]פטר ו’ תמוז תקפ"ח.14 כל זה לקטתי מספר תפארת חיים דף ח’. כן ראיתי אבל אין הבנתי.15

אמו של רבנו מרת16 מרים חי’ בת הרב ר’ דוד מטארניגראד בן הג’ ר’ ישראל משולם זלמן אב"ד קויניטץ שנפטר י"ד חשוון תקל"ו.17 בן הגה"ק18 רבנו חכם צבי זי"ע אב"ד אמסטרדאם שנפטר ר"ח [=ראש חודש] אייר תע"ח.19 (Braun 1941, fol. 1a) רבנו נולד לאמו מ’20 מרים 21בעיר טארנאגראד בשנת תקנ"ג בהיות בן עשר שנים הי’[ה] אצל החוזה זי"ע [=זכרו יגן עלינו] מלובלין22 והי’ תלמיד מורה"ק [=מורנו הקדוש] ר’ נפתלי ראפשיצער ולחתנו 23ר’ אשר ישעי’[ה] ונסע להגה"ק [=להגאון הקדוש] ר’ צבי מזידיטשוב בעל עטרת צבי ונסע כ"פ [=כמה פעמים] להגה"ק ר’24 ישראל מרוזין זצ"ל25 ר’26 צבי הכהן מרימנוב ולר’27 שלום רוקח מבעלז זי"ע. (Braun 1941, fol. 8b) בסאנז ישב רבנו מ"ו שנים על סכא (!) הרבנות וח"ס [=וחבר ספרי] דברי חיים עה"ת [=על התורה] ומועדים ועל ד’[לת] ח’[לקי] שו"ע [=שלחן ערוך] ב"ח [=ב’ חלקים] ד"ח [=ד’ חלקים] על הל’[כות] גיטן (!) מקוואות ועל ההגדה של פסח ונלקח מאתנו לדאבון כל נפש מישראל28 כ"ה ניסן תרל"ו.29 ומ’כ’ [=ומנוחתו כבוד] בק"ק סאנז זי"ע ועכי"א [=ועל כל ישראל אמן]

(Braun 1941, fol. 1b and onward) בנו הבכור של רבנו הגה"ק30 ר’ יחזקל שרגא אב"ד שינאווא בעל דברי יחזקל עה"ת נפטר ו’ טבת תרנ"ט31 בן פ"ט לימי חייו והי’ חתן הגה"ק בעל שו"ת אריה דבי עלעי שנפטר י"ז טבת תר"י.32 שהיה חתן 33הגה"ק בעל ישמח משה שנפטר כ"ח תמוז תר"א.34	א
(Braun 1941, fol. 2a) בנו הב’[כור] של ר’[בנו] ב’[על] ד"י [=דברי יחזקאל] 35ר’ נפתלי ה"ש ונזכר הרבה בתשובת ד"ח ולמד ביחד עם דוד הגה"ק בעל עמק שאלה וחב"ס אילה שלוחה ונפטר באבי ימיו כ"א כסליו תרכ"ד36 והי’ חתן הק’37 ר’ יעק(!) ישראל מטשענקאס בן הרה"ק ר’ מרדכי מטשערנאבול זי"ע.38	א
(Braun 1941, fols. 7b–8a) ר’ משה ה"ש אב"ד שיניאוו אלפי ישראל הלכו לאורו והי’ בעל פועל ישועות גדולות39 י"ב חשוון תר"פ.40 בן פ’ לימי חייו.41	ב
(Braun 1941, fol. 8b) מרן הגה"ק ר’ שלום ה"ש42 אב"ד סטראפקוב 43הי’ בעל הוה"ק [=צ"ל רוח הקודש] אמתי קדוש וטהור44 נפטר בקשאוי א’ שבועות ת"ש.45 בן פ"ד לימי חייו. ומיתר בניו אין לי ידוע.	ג
46 ר’47 ברוך 48 אב"ד רודניק וגארליטץ א’ אדר שנה פ’[שוטה] תרס"ו49 בן פ’ לימי חייו והי’ חתן 50בעל ייטב לב נפטר ו’ אלול תרמ"ג.51	ב
52 בניו היה ר’ משה ה"ש אב"ד בארטפעלד53 כ’ תשרי תר<…>54 הי’ חתן הגה"ק ר’ אהרן אב"ד סאנז שהי’ דודי55.	א
56 ר’57 צבי ה"ש אב"ד רודניק בן הגה"ק ר’ ברוך ה"ש ט"ז אב תרע"ב58 59	ב

זי"ע ועכ"י אמן

Figure 1. The anonymous letter.

Figure 1. The anonymous letter.

3. Editorial Practice and Collage: Analyzing the Letter’s Construction

A close examination of the letter reveals that the author’s professed expertise is less impressive than it initially appears. In practice, the author’s knowledge is confined to the contents of (Braun 1941); his strict adherence to the source results in the omission of information that appears elsewhere in the same text. For example, the letter does not mention five of Rabbi Chaim Halberstam’s sons who are listed in (Braun 1941, fol. 1b), immediately following the entries for Rabbis Yechezkel and Baruch on the same page. Furthermore, toward the end of the letter, Rabbi Aharon Halberstam, Rabbi Chaim’s fourth son and his successor as the rabbi of Sanz, is referenced only briefly, and solely in his capacity as the father-in-law of Rabbi Moshe Halberstam, son of Rabbi Baruch.

Similarly, among the sons of Rabbi Yechezkel of Shinova, the author includes only the three eldest (excluding the daughters), omitting the two younger sons: Rabbi Aryeh Leibish (not mentioned in (Braun 1941)) and Rabbi Simcha Yissachar Ber (mentioned only in the addendum to (Braun 1941, fol. 11a)). Again, this reflects the exact portion of the text from which he drew. Of Rabbi Baruch’s sons, the letter mentions only Rabbi Moshe, who predeceased his father, and Rabbi Zvi, who served as rabbi of Rudnik and was the father of Rabbi Yekutiel Yehuda of Sanz-Klausenburg. These are, once more, the figures listed in the excerpt cited from Braun (1941).

Another of Rabbi Chaim’s grandsons, Rabbi Shlomo Halberstam of Bobov, the son of Rabbi Meir Nathan, is included in (Braun 1941, fol. 6b), but is omitted from the letter entirely.

My earlier observation regarding the author’s omission of certain honorifics, despite his otherwise close adherence to (Braun 1941), should not necessarily be interpreted as a sign of disrespect toward the spiritual leaders in question. Rather, it likely reflects an attempt at brevity. This conclusion is supported by the fact that the author consistently included the essential elements of honorific titles for all the sages he cites, with the sole exception of Rabbi Chaim of Sanz. For him, the author adds an especially emotive phrase upon his passing: “He was taken from us, to the sorrow of every Jewish soul.” This pattern suggests that his editorial approach was intended to conserve space, in keeping with the apparent goal of fitting the entire list onto a single page. The absence of any erasures, aside from the first three words of the letter, further indicates that this was likely a fair copy. It therefore seems probable that an earlier draft or preparatory notes existed.

It is also noteworthy that among Rabbi Chaim’s third-generation descendants, only one is given the full honorific “HaGaon HaKadosh” (the holy sage), namely Rabbi Shalom Halberstam of Stropkov, who is also described with an unusually generous set of accolades. Nevertheless, some material relating to Rabbi Shalom that appears in Braun (1941) is absent from the letter. Moreover, only the sons of Rabbi Yechezkel Shraga receive elaboration, while the descendants of Rabbi Baruch are mentioned only briefly. These editorial decisions suggest that the author may have had a personal or geographical connection to the Stropkov Hasidic community, perhaps residing in the vicinity of Kaschau (Košice), where Rabbi Shalom spent his later years.

Finally, despite the author’s stated familiarity with the Sanz dynasty, the repetition of Rabbi Chaim’s birth information in two consecutive lines, along with the inconsistent citation of his mother’s name, points to unpolished copying rather than fluent recall from personal knowledge. This raises a broader question: What was the purpose of this self-produced document, which selectively summarizes Braun (1941) and inserts it into a copy of (Azulay 1876)?

It appears that the author sought to preserve his memories and impressions of the Sanz Hasidic tradition, to which he presumably belonged and with which he felt a deep connection, by committing them to writing and thereby creating a permanent record. The inclusion of yahrzeit dates and rabbinic appointments serves to symbolically “revive” the departed and affirm their enduring presence, despite the devastating losses sustained by the Sanz Hasidic community during and after the war. Although the anonymous letter draws extensively from Braun 1941, this approach aligns with the compositional strategies described by Amir and Horowitz (2008), who observe that many yizkor books weave together earlier texts, sacred narrative conventions, and personal recollections as part of a collective effort to salvage memory (Amir and Horowitz 2008, p. 42; see also below). The letter thus occupies a liminal space between hagiographic transmission and postwar literary innovation.

As Lior Becker has demonstrated, the production of yizkor books was not confined to formal landsmanshaft organizations. A substantial portion were compiled by individuals or ad hoc groups motivated by personal or familial responsibility (Becker 2022, p. 6). The anonymous insertion into Azulay (1876) is consistent with this informal and emotionally motivated mode of historiography. It bears greater resemblance to the kind of individual or quasi-private initiative that Becker identifies, rather than to institutional memory-making.

While the interpretive readings offered in this study aim to illuminate the deeper significance of the anonymous letter, it is important to acknowledge the inherent risk of over-interpretation. The absence of explicit authorial commentary or stated intent leaves the reader in a speculative position. Any attempt to reconstruct the author’s psychological, theological, or historiographical motivations must therefore remain tentative. Nonetheless, as with other post-Holocaust artifacts that blur the boundaries among testimony, ritual, and historiography, the letter’s formal features: its structure, omissions, and physical placement within another book, invite analysis that goes beyond the surface of its content. The challenge, then, is to balance close hermeneutic attention with appropriate methodological caution.

Alongside the necessary caution in interpretation, particular attention should be given to the opening line of the letter, which contains the only instance of deletion and therefore represents the sole visible moment of hesitation on the part of the author. While the letter initially begins with the phrase “I said that after I…,” the author crosses it out and replaces it with a far more emphatic declaration that suggests an internal dialogue: “I resolved in my heart.” This is not a capricious correction or idle scribble, but a deliberate and meaningful revision by a writer intent on preserving his knowledge for future generations.

Maurice Rickards, in his discussion of the "compulsive note," defines this category as “handwritten jottings and messages produced under pressure of emotion or circumstance, often without much hope of their being read, except perhaps by a stranger in the remote future” (Rickards 2000, p. 104). He further suggests that such documents may, in certain cases, function as time capsules designed to safeguard endangered knowledge for posterity. For a Jewish perspective on this debate and its archival implications, see also Díaz-Mas (2010).

Although it is true that handwritten notes and fragments were frequently inserted into books, a practice familiar to anyone accustomed to browsing the shelves of old libraries, this does not diminish their historical significance. On the contrary, such texts often serve as rich sources for reconstructing the cultural and emotional landscapes in which they were produced. They should be recognized as performative gestures by authors who lacked access to formal means of publication and who turned to the written word as a vehicle for articulating their solitary and frequently muted voices.

To grasp the significance of the author’s approach, it is essential to consider the psychological functions of documentation and preservation, particularly through literary means of this kind, in the aftermath of a catastrophe of national, theological, and personal magnitude such as the Holocaust. Although the letter introduces no new factual information, its careful transcription (yet with some language deficiencies) and deliberate placement suggest that the author regarded the very act of copying as a form of bearing witness, an effort to bind historiographic fidelity to psychological recovery. This impulse is especially salient for Hasidic individuals who saw themselves as spiritually and emotionally bound to a specific dynastic lineage.

4. Hasidic Memorial Writing After the Holocaust

The anonymous letter examined in this paper should be understood not only as a personal act of preservation and mourning, but also as part of a broader cultural effort to document devastation and reestablish continuity in the aftermath of the Holocaust. In this sense, it participates in a wider phenomenon of postwar Jewish historiographical activity that emerged from the ruins of European Jewry.

These efforts assumed a variety of forms, including communal yizkor books, institutional memorial volumes, personal diaries, fragmentary notes, and individualized records such as the letter under discussion.

As noted above, one of the most prominent modes of post-Holocaust Jewish historiography was the yizkor book, a commemorative genre typically produced by survivors of destroyed Eastern European communities (Amir and Horowitz 2008). Written primarily in Hebrew and Yiddish, these books sought to reconstruct the intellectual, religious, and social life of the prewar shtetl, often through idealized portrayals and selective remembrance. While yizkor books were generally collective undertakings, the impulse that animated them, namely, the desire to resist oblivion through acts of memory, resonates profoundly with the motivations of the anonymous author in this case.

As Michal Shaul has shown, Holocaust memory within Ultraorthodox society was not limited to rabbinic proclamations or hagiographic texts. It also emerged from grassroots initiatives, including the efforts of individual survivors who wove grief, reverence, and spiritual restoration into the fabric of everyday religious life (Shaul 2020, pp. 1–5). The anonymous letter discussed here reflects precisely such a non-institutional act of memory. It is not a theological interpretation of catastrophe, but rather a private attempt to reconstruct a shattered world through the evocation of sacred names and texts.

Unlike yizkor books, which typically combine communal memoirs, photographs, and historical essays, the letter operates on a smaller and more personal scale. Yet it shares the same underlying goal: a redemptive recovery of the world of the forebears. Just as many yizkor books include lists of rabbis, scholars, and martyrs, this letter organizes its commemorative purpose around a dynastic rabbinic genealogy.

The letter can be situated within the broader landscape of post-Holocaust Hasidic historiographical responses, as mapped by Greenberg (2013). In his typology, Greenberg identifies a dominant current of faith-activist thought among Hasidic leaders such as Rabbi Yitzḥak Menaḥem Danziger of Aleksander and Rabbi Ben Zion Halberstam of Bobov. These figures did not interpret the Holocaust as a rupture in divine history but rather as a metahistorical trial within a redemptive dialectic of darkness and light (Halberstam 1955). In this theological framework, the inner point of faith (nekudah penimit) remains intact despite external devastation. It is capable of sustaining the self and advancing cosmic redemption through acts of trust, Torah observance, and sacred memory.

The anonymous letter embodies this impulse. It is not merely an expression of mourning, but a performative act of historiographical continuity that revives the names of departed tzaddikim by returning them to the living chain of bibliographic tradition. In this sense, the act of citation functions similarly to the activist historical renewal described by Greenberg. It enacts a redemptive form of historiography grounded not in narrative coherence, but in the spiritual power of names and texts to reassert divine presence in the aftermath of destruction.

A close analysis of the letter’s content, along with the very fact of its existence, requires us first to address a fundamental question raised by the presence of such an addition within an existing work. This type of textual intervention is not unique to Jewish or Hebrew literature. It has numerous historical precedents across cultures, where individuals inserted personal notes or supplements into established compositions. These additions served a variety of purposes, including personal commentary, interpretive elaboration, correction of perceived omissions or printing errors, or polemical engagement with the original text. As such, the existence of a supplementary document is not inherently significant.

While some scholars have expressed reservations about the historical value of ephemera (Garner 2021), the letter at hand is clearly exceptional in both form and intent. It is carefully dated and located, and it reflects deliberate authorial purpose. This is not a discarded fragment or casual marginalia, but a document intentionally placed where it was found. Its context, content, and construction differentiate it from the incidental detritus that often accumulates within old books.

The letter at the center of this study displays several defining characteristics that demand closer attention. First is its temporal and geographic framing. The author opens with a formal tone, clearly intending the letter to stand as a coherent and situated text rather than a marginal note. The location (Győr, Hungary) and the date (less than two years after the end of the war) serve as critical interpretive anchors for understanding its function. Second is the nature of the composition. As discussed above, this is not a random assemblage of quotations from another work, a phenomenon familiar to anyone versed in manuscript culture or historical libraries. The author did not merely copy material; he edited it with discernment. The editorial interventions are both systematic and purposeful, including the selective omission of superlatives from certain figures, the pointed vilification of one figure, Rabbi Chaim of Sanz, and the elevation of specific branches of the dynasty while omitting others. Furthermore, the author’s explicit statement that he intended to document his personal knowledge of the Sanz lineage reinforces the memorial character of the text. It serves as a written monument to a dynastic legacy that held deep personal meaning for him.

For these reasons, the letter cannot reasonably be regarded as a writing exercise, despite the presence of spelling inconsistencies that suggest a less-than-fluent command of Hebrew. First, the document lacks features typical of pedagogical practice, such as extensive corrections or repeated phrasing. Second, its formal opening, clear temporal and spatial markers, and explicit documentary intent all indicate a text composed with deliberation and seriousness. Third, despite linguistic imperfections, the author demonstrates a high level of editorial competence, evident in the text’s structure, selectivity, and rhetorical balance. Taken together, these features underscore the document’s significance. It is not a draft or a training exercise. It is a complete and purposeful work of memorialization.

5. Psychological and Spiritual Coping Through Citation

Analyzing the author’s statements introduces a critical and compelling question. Given that the letter presents no new information beyond what is found in Braun 1941, and that there is no indication it was intended for publication or for transmission to another party, we must ask: why did the author choose to compose it at all? In other words, our focus shifts from the mechanics of creation to the purpose behind it. The placement of the letter within a copy of Azulay (1876) strongly suggests that the author sought to enshrine the memory of the Sanz dynasty within the bibliographic and chronological legacy of the Jewish people. This intent likely reflects a deep fear, less than two years after the Holocaust, that the legacy of this revered dynasty might be lost, particularly in a city like Győr, where the remnants of the Jewish community were barely holding together.

Beyond simple documentation, however, the letter reveals a deeper personal mechanism by which the author coped with profound existential distress. It should be read as a small-scale expression of Hasidic metahistorical faith-activism. It reflects a belief that memory, when transmitted through sacred texts, can serve as a spiritual resource capable of countering historical rupture.

Among the various psychological models developed to understand grief, the Two-Track Model of Bereavement is especially relevant in this context, particularly in its bibliotherapeutic implications (Rubin et al. 2012). This model proposes that the bereaved engage in two distinct but interrelated processes: one that involves adaptive functioning in the external world, and another that maintains an internal relationship with the deceased (Rubin 1981; Rubin et al. 2009). Earlier models, by contrast, suggested that preserving such bonds might hinder recovery (Stroebe et al. 1992; Freud 1957; Bowlby 1973–1998), viewing prolonged connection as a potential obstacle to psychological integration.

The Two-Track Model offers a more nuanced view, asserting that strengthening the relationship with the deceased can support recovery by providing continuity, emotional structure, and a sense of meaning (Field 2008). As Lloyd Siegel has observed, Hasidic survivors frequently developed coping mechanisms grounded in mystical language, symbolic thinking, and private inner worlds (Siegel 1980, p. 17). The anonymous letter may be seen in this light, not as an academic historiographic project, but as a bibliographic gesture of healing. Its mimetic form, genealogical structure, and restoration of rabbinic names within sacred memory all reflect the symbolic integration Siegel associates with Hasidic psychological resilience after the Holocaust.

Siegel’s interpretation of Holocaust memory as a tension between hypermnestic obsession and dissociative amnesia (Siegel 1980, p. 21) closely aligns with the Two-Track Model described above. The letter mediates this polarity through selective remembrance: it names the tzaddikim but avoids dwelling on their deaths. It preserves memory through redemptive citation while maintaining emotional balance.

Documenting and preserving the memory of the deceased becomes, in this framework, a way of sustaining the bond between mourner and loved one. Such acts are perceived not merely as expressions of grief but as affirmations of emotional commitment. They honor the values, teachings, and legacies of the departed, offering a sense of continuity and projecting those values into the present. In doing so, the deceased remain not simply as memories of the past but as active presences within the mourner’s present life.

This mode of documentation thus serves a significant therapeutic function. It fills the cultural and spiritual void left by loss, whether in the heart of the individual or in the collective consciousness of a nation (Holland et al. 2006; Kissane 2014; Naimeyer 2017; Naimeyer et al. 2014). In this case, the creative and bibliographic response of the anonymous author appears to reflect exactly such a mechanism. His familiarity with the Sanz dynasty provided a framework for coping, and the act of writing reinforced a sense of continuity and meaning (Bowman 2021).

Empirical studies further support this view. Actions that document and preserve the legacies of the deceased have been shown to benefit mourners, not only by helping them process grief, but also by positively influencing their mental and physical well-being (McDuffie et al. 2021; Schiff et al. 2020; Witztum et al. 2016). When mourning is accompanied by active remembrance, through written commemoration, preservation, and interpretive engagement, the process becomes more accessible and constructive. In this case, the author’s renewed sense of purpose, centered on preserving the memory of the Sanz dynasty, its yahrzeit dates, and the virtues of its members, becomes a source of strength. Even if he did not fully grasp or convey every detail, the act itself was meaningful and transformative (Lattanzi and Hale 1985; Mathew 2023).

As Krysinska and Corveleyn have shown, deeply religious Holocaust survivors often turned to religious acts not only as ways of processing grief but as efforts to sustain continuity with a sacred order (Krysinska and Corveleyn 2013, pp. 70–75). The insertion of rabbinic names into a volume such as Azulay (1876) can be understood as an instance of collaborative religious coping, in the sense articulated by Kenneth Pargament (Pargament 1997). It represents an attempt to participate in divine history by restoring coherence through textual continuity.

Given this reading of the letter, its intended recipient was most likely the author himself. Just as Azulay (1876) preserves the timeless lineage of Torah scholarship, the author sought to accomplish a dual task: to inscribe the memory of the Sanz dynasty into the eternal historical record of the Jewish people and, at the same time, to cope with the devastating rupture that had befallen his community.

If, as Siegel has proposed, dreams served Holocaust survivors as sites for spiritual encounter and imaginative survival (Siegel 1980, p. 19), then the insertion of this letter may be seen as a literary dream. It constructs a textual space in which the tzaddikim return to the register of the living, in a gesture that is both therapeutic and metaphysical.

In contrast to the earlier scholarly consensus that Ultraorthodox Holocaust survivors largely remained silent or passive, Michal Shaul has demonstrated that many survivors wrote extensively, producing responsa, memoirs, prefaces to religious texts, and articles in Yiddish and Hebrew periodicals (Shaul 2020, pp. 35–39). The anonymous letter should thus not be viewed as an isolated curiosity, but as part of a dispersed, often anonymous, yet vibrant stream of post-Holocaust Ultraorthodox historiography.

6. The Letter as “Micro-Yizkor”: Memory, Mourning, and Bibliographic Ritual

As Amir and Horowitz observe, yizkor books reflect an age-old Jewish tradition of commemorating destroyed communities through print (Amir and Horowitz 2008, p. 40). Although the anonymous letter lacks the scale, collaborative structure, and editorial apparatus characteristic of formal yizkor projects, its placement within Azulay 1876, its detailed recording of rabbinic lineage, and its postwar context align it with this commemorative tradition. It may therefore be understood as a “micro-yizkor,” preserving memory not through communal authorship but through bibliographic embedding.

Becker has noted that many yizkor books function as symbolic gravestones, a point emphasized by the recurring metaphor of the book as a matzevah, or memorial stone (Becker 2022, p. 15). The anonymous author’s decision to insert his tribute into Azulay 1876 may thus be seen as a symbolic act of reburial, placing his lost spiritual leaders within a bibliographic cemetery. In doing so, he preserved their memory through the medium most accessible to him: citation.

The act of excerpting and rewriting entries from Braun 1941 corresponds to what Shaul describes as a “literary cenotaph,” a form of commemorative writing found among many Ultraorthodox survivors who lacked graves for their loved ones and communities (Shaul 2020, p. 3). Within this framework, the names included in the letter are both sacred and testimonial. Their inscription restores the rabbinic dead to bibliographic visibility and affirms the spiritual continuity of a lost world.

Just as many survivors clung to ritual objects as sources of protection and continuity, the writer of this letter clings to textual citation. This is not citation in the academic sense, but rather as an act of devotional transmission. In this regard, the quoted material takes on the character of a “textual amulet,” reinfusing the sacred past into a devastated present (Krysinska and Corveleyn 2013, p. 76).

Although the letter is largely composed of passages drawn from another author, it nonetheless bears significance and expressive value. The author’s subtle modifications, such as the omission or reduction of honorifics, may represent efforts to personalize the inherited text. These small editorial choices allow us to view the letter not merely as an act of copying, but as an original expression shaped by private memory and intention (Wodziński et al. 2024).

The anonymous author reveals an unmistakable inner compulsion to write, a compulsion that he acknowledges explicitly in the letter’s opening. This impulse recalls what Elizabeth Campbell has termed “the epistolary urge”, the deep psychological drive to write as a response to solitude, vulnerability, and the threat of oblivion (Campbell 1995). Faced with anguish and existential uncertainty, writing becomes a therapeutic act. It preserves that which stands on the brink of disappearance, and affirms the writer’s presence and agency, even when that communication unfolds in silence and without a guaranteed recipient.

7. Conclusions: Resistance Through Remembrance

A range of initiatives emerged in the aftermath of the Holocaust with the aim of documenting, preserving, and attempting to reconstruct the cultural and religious heritage of destroyed Jewish communities. Some of these were official, communal undertakings, while others were deeply personal responses: individual attempts to contend with the historical traumas that haunted survivors’ daily lives. In this paper, I have sought to illuminate one such perspective, previously unexamined: an anonymous letter that records the rabbinic lineage of the Sanz Hasidic dynasty in the shadow of the Holocaust. On what may appear to be a modest and seemingly insignificant scrap of paper, the author has offered a time capsule, an artifact that preserves a cultural and historical legacy he revered and sought desperately to maintain.

Becker has shown that many yizkor volumes took decades to produce, were frequently edited anonymously or under pseudonyms, and often blended archival fragments with liturgical language (Becker 2022, pp. 13–16). These qualities resonate strongly with both the content and the structure of the anonymous letter examined here, suggesting that this kind of hybrid memorial text is not an anomaly but a legitimate expression of post-Holocaust Jewish historiography.

The letter’s physical placement, its date and geographic setting, and its character as a carefully edited collage of material drawn from Braun (1941), emerge as critical elements in understanding the human experience embedded within it. While the content is entirely derivative, the document’s significance lies far beyond its informational value. In line with the scholarly field of ephemera studies, I have identified its essential features, historical context, and contribution as a modest yet meaningful act of memorialization.

The letter offers a rare glimpse into the inner world of a Holocaust survivor, a grieving individual who longs for the restoration of a nearly obliterated dynasty, and who achieves through this written act a modest form of redemption. In contrast to theological responses such as that of Simḥah Elberg, who described Treblinka as the final akedah, this anonymous writer locates healing and continuity in bibliographic ritual. The insertion of sacred names into Azulay 1876 is not a gesture of despair but one of textual resurrection (Greenberg 2013). Though its emotional motivation is clear, the act is not purely personal. Its specific focus on the Sanz lineage underscores the dynasty’s central role in shaping the identity of Central European Hasidic Jews (Stampfer 2013; Wodziński 2018), revealing how the memory of the shtetl was embedded not only in place but in personhood.

Although the letter lacks formal ritual structure, its placement within a sacred book represents an act of Hasidic perseverance. It expresses a refusal, to let names be forgotten, to allow the memory of revered tzaddikim to be severed from the chain of tradition. In this sense, historiography is not simply a scholarly practice but a spiritual imperative (Krysinska and Corveleyn 2013).