though, did not induce Zunz to extend his encyclopedic survey into the Greco-Roman period. The terrain of the medieval Jewish world was less well known, more fluid, and perhaps even more relevant for his day. Moreover, many of the Jewish sources of the earlier period were in Greek and would have jeopardized the compact Hebrew framework that defined his periodization. It is also not improbable that he regarded a field monopolized by the Greeks and Romans as more hermetically sealed than one dominated by Christianity and Islam.
Yet the exclusion from the neohumanistic conception of antiquity did not dampen Zunz’s admiration of Greek culture. Under the aegis of Wolf and Boeckh, he too came to venerate it as the summit of human achievement. In 1841 toward the end of a massive pioneering survey of Jewish contributions to the general field of geographic literature from the Hebrew Bible to his own century, he suddenly waxed eloquent on the impact of the Greek legacy on Jewish history: “By virtue of this journey through the ages [i.e., his survey], we have seen science arise among Jews, when freedom and culture infuse their settlements[,] and sink once again, when they are gone. Three times did the Hellenic spirit, which brings nations to maturity, intersect with the Jews.”62 And each time—first unmediated in the Greco-Roman world, then mediated through Islam, and finally directly again in the Renaissance—the critical thought of that ancient civilization revitalized the forces of Jewish creativity.63 Zunz, indeed, made the confrontation with classical learning the benchmark of his periodization of Jewish history, and from the last quarter of the eighteenth century, according to him, a critical mind-set had again begun to fructify Jewish thought. Thus Zunz as an independent scholar managed to smuggle in through the back door what he had not dared to venture as a student through the front door. What he omitted from his 1818 manifesto he embedded in his later trajectory of Jewish history, making the study of the Jews in antiquity eventually an indispensable part of the emerging and expanding field of Judaica.
CHAPTER 2
A Messianic Moment
As an intellectually gifted young Jew caught in the cross-currents of a conflicted Prussian state and society, Leopold Zunz faced a future of uncertainties. If Samuel Ehrenberg had salvaged his youth, Adelheid Bermann, his wife to be, would soon become the critical enabler during his storm-tossed career. As he playfully reported to Ehrenberg in January 1822, “I have known my bride since May 1819; her consent [to be engaged] I got in May 1821 and the wedding will probably be in May 1822. Aren’t you impressed with my love of chronological order?”1
The courtship suggests a romantic relationship unencumbered by outside interference, that would culminate in a fifty-two-year childless marriage embedded in deep love and mutual respect. Though Zunz’s scholarship was beyond her, Adelheid appreciated its significance and supported it wholeheartedly. For years she hosted a Saturday evening salon in their modest apartment that gave Leopold a setting in which to fascinate friends and newcomers, scholars and literary figures, Jews and Christians.2 During the week, after a long day apart (for Zunz often from 5 A.M. to 7:30 P.M.), they would spend the evening in intimate conversation, sharing their political, literary, and philosophical interests, often reading passages and whole books to each other, with Leopold usually in the role of instructor. As the years wore on, he taught her chess and even geometry. They were averse to taking solitary trips for any length of time and when they did, their long letters written at the end of a day or over several shared unflinchingly their experiences, thoughts, and yearnings. Adelheid was an eager, adept, and expressive correspondent, and her postscripts to many of Leopold’s letters to mutual friends served to broaden and deepen the relationship between the families. Above all, the correspondence that emanated from the Zunz household abounds in their affection and solicitousness for each other. And when Adelheid died an excruciatingly painful death in 1874, Zunz’s steely resolve in the face of adversity, which owed so much to her unbroken faith in him, gave way to bitter self-pity.3
By the time that Leopold met Adelheid, he was nearing the completion of his doctoral dissertation on Shem Tov Ibn Falaquera, a thirteenth-century Spanish Jewish philosopher. On December 21, 1820, he submitted his handwritten Latin copy to the philosophy faculty in Halle, which awarded him his doctorate on January 2, 1821, though surprisingly the signature of Heinrich Friedrich Wilhelm Gesenius, its rising authority on biblical grammar and lexicography, was not on it. It would be Gesenius, in a career at Halle that spanned thirty-two years, who would make the university the favorite destination of Jewish students in Oriental studies in the first half of the nineteenth century.4
In his forty-five-page work, Zunz methodically delineated Ibn Falaquera’s persona, ideas, and context. Earlier he had already announced at the end of his Etwas his intention to publish the Hebrew text along with a Latin translation of Ibn Falaquera’s Sefer Ha-Ma’alot (The Book of Degrees), a discourse on Jewish ethics grounded in theology. Zunz’s motive in this instance went beyond rescuing a valuable relic of Jewish thought from the dustbin of history: “Nicer hopes [than purely academic] have helped to sweeten our arduous labor: The hope to awaken a desire for thorough and fruitful research on the foremost works of the Jewish people, while always bearing in mind a sense of the whole, and the hope that bringing to light the best of rabbinic literature might banish the prejudice in which it is generally held.”5 What is noteworthy in this apologetic gambit is that Zunz’s choice came to rest on a sample from the Sephardic orbit, which aligned him squarely with the increasingly pervasive preference of disgruntled Ashkenasic intellectuals for an authentic Jewish model of living in two worlds.6 To his credit, he would soon refocus his scholarship onto the legacy of Ashkenaz (Germany). His high scholarly standards, however, would deter him from ever publishing Ibn Falaquera on the basis of but a single faulty manuscript.7
The acquisition of a doctorate by a Jew in Restoration Prussia did not pave the way to employment and career advancement. By August 1822, King Frederick William III, citing popular unrest, reversed the article of the liberal 1812 emancipation edict that declared Jews eligible for academic appointments and communal offices. The decision effectively closed off Prussia’s extensive public sector to Jews.8 And it was precisely that barrier that prompted Ehrenberg to counsel Zunz already in his first semester to pursue a course of study that would lead to a job: “Though I am happy that you have a chance to immerse yourself in studies that you love, I am deeply concerned, given the present tenor of Jewish-Christian relations, that it will be of little benefit to you to spend your best years on them. I confess that I wish for your sake that you would take up a Brotwissenschaft [a course of study that would put some bread on your table].”9
Nearly two years later, Ehrenberg returned more insistently to what must have been a delicate subject: “You are not wrong to study what you love, but shouldn’t you give some thought to your future? You know on the basis of personal experience that a Jew must learn a Brotwissenschaft, because he can’t become a teacher at a university. I very much want to hear your opinion regarding this life (as opposed to the study of antiquity).”10 Zunz shot back in earnest jest: “For a Brotwissenschaft, a Jew can take up only medicine, and since I’m unwilling to do that, I must believe that young philologians will not be any worse off than young ravens.”11
The dilemma was not Zunz’s alone. Despite obstacles and the prevailing atmosphere, Jews gravitated quickly to Prussia’s universities in the age of their ascendancy. When Berlin opened in 1810, Jews quite possibly represented some 7 percent of its matriculated students, a number which by 1834 had probably risen to several hundred.12 The law faculty in Berlin did not even award doctorates to Jews because they could not exercise the authority invested in the degree, and though Eduard Gans, Zunz’s friend and compatriot, had started there, he secured his law degree from Heidelberg in 1819.13 The first Jew in Berlin to earn his doctorate from its philosophy faculty was Moritz Ludwig Frankenheim, also from Wolfenbüttel, though it was only after his conversion in 1827 that he was appointed as an associate professor of physics in
