When did countries begin maintaining birth and death registries, and how does the lack of earlier data limit genealogical research?

Yochai Ben-Ghedalia

Shortly after a child is born, usually even before he’s named, the hospital reports his date of birth and parentage to the relevant government ministry or department. Many countries immediately assign the infant an identity number, although he’ll be issued an ID card only at age sixteen. 

Births, deaths, marriages, and other census data are the most basic building blocks of information for governments the world over. Yet anyone exploring his roots soon discovers to his chagrin that no such records existed prior to the mid-18th century. 

 

Irrelevant Information

Premodern authorities had no need to document arrivals in or departures from this world. Jewish law does mark the point at which a youngster becomes obligated to observe the commandments, but that shift used to be determined by physical maturity rather than age. (See “Bar Mitzvas Come of Age,” Segula 68.) Even today, some folks don’t know their date of birth, not because their traditional society functioned without a calendar, but because birthdays were unimportant. 

Prior to modern government bureaucracies, many Jewish families jotted down their children’s birth dates on the inside covers of prayer books. Likewise, a mohel often kept a record of the infants he circumcised, and such lists have been preserved for centuries. Yet these were private initiatives. Community archives tracked debts and internal taxes but not births – and sometimes not even deaths.

Yet family members wanted to remember the date of their relatives’ passing in order to say Kaddish and otherwise commemorate these events. As a result, many synagogues in central Europe kept memorial books known as memurbuecher. Families made charitable donations to ensure that loved ones’ names were announced in synagogue on the anniversary of their deaths. But no record covered the entire community. 

Weddings were better documented, due to the legal and halakhic aspects of marital status – and because each new household had to pay communal dues. But none of these records, individual or communal, ever reached the authorities. 

Jews lived mostly in autonomous enclaves, each of which was taxed as a whole by the government and kept its own records. Communities preserved information only of possible future relevance. For example, if a girl’s hymen was accidentally damaged, the date of the incident was noted, thereby protecting her from subsequent suspicions of premarital promiscuity. Yet her date of birth wasn’t recorded. 

 

Big Brother 

Then came modern bureaucracies, which held individuals accountable rather than their guilds or communities. Thus, in the first census of Polish Jewry, held in the 18th century shortly after the dissolution of the Council of Four Lands (which had represented this population to the authorities), Jews reported directly to those doing the counting.

The three empires that subsequently split the territories of the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth among them also conducted censuses. Russian author Boris Akunin’s novella Before the World Ends (2006) describes a case of a Christian sect’s resistance to the tsarist head count of 1897.

But as we learn from an earlier Russian masterpiece, Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls (1842), the long intervals between censuses resulted in major lacunae in data collection. To close these gaps, countries began methodically tracking births and deaths as well as marriages and divorces, (although some nations took longer than others to establish such procedures).

Religious groups served as government proxies, providing information on changes in their constituents’ personal status. Consequently, in the 18th century, Jewish communities started entering births, marriages, and deaths in notebooks carefully preserved in congregational archives. Thousands of such volumes have been entrusted to the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People.

Most of these books were official ledgers provided by government offices, with columns for each entrant’s name, place and date of birth, parents’ names, and perhaps a few other details, such as the father’s profession. Christian congregations used the same notebooks, which therefore included a place to record dates of baptism. Jews generally crossed out the title of that column, inserting circumcision dates instead.

The authorities issued birth, death, and marriage certificates on the basis of these binders. Population data were adjusted accordingly by matching up information from various registries, tracing one’s life cycle. Genealogists still employ similar methods. For example, once a great-grandmother’s birth record has been found, together with her parents’ names, the next step is to locate that couple in a marriage registry. That will reveal the names of their parents, moving the search yet another generation back. 

Like most ledgers, these records were updated periodically. Marginal notes sometimes indicate, for instance, that so and so emigrated and thus no longer counted as a resident for tax or other purposes. Similarly, certain German communities recorded name changes made by the Nazis, who insisted on adding “Israel” and “Sarah” to all Jewish men and women, respectively.

From traditionally Jewish to markedly Italian. The birth record of Arpakhshad Jacob also lists his Italian name, Archimede Giacomo Benporad (Ben Porath). Jewish birth registry, Sienna, 1866 | Sienna Community Archive, Italy (CAHJP)

German birth registry showing the entry for Loeb, son of Hirsch and Rebecca Strauss. A marginal note adds that this Jew emigrated to the United States. There, he changed his name to Levi and began manufacturing reinforced pants for gold prospectors, dubbing these garments Levi’s jeans | From the archives of the Jewish community of Buttenheim, Bavaria (CAHJP)

Jews filled out the same birth registration ledgers as Christians but erased inappropriate headings and left the columns pertaining to baptism blank. Birth registry from the Portuguese community of Hamburg and Altona, 1825–27 | Photo: CAHJP

 

 

Learning from Lists

Birth registries are a goldmine not only for genealogy, but for tracing social and cultural history. For instance, the names given to children over the generations have often changed from traditional Jewish – not necessarily Hebrew – to fashionably gentile, reflecting the influence of surrounding languages and cultures.

Over time, responsibility for population records shifted from the religious community to the government – generally its interior ministry or the equivalent. Under the British Mandate, it was the health ministry that recorded births and deaths in Palestine and Transjordan as part of a remit to compile disease and mortality statistics, especially among children. Marriage registration, however, remained under the jurisdiction of the religious groups.

In the 21st century, even the most extreme guardians of privacy concede the government’s right to monitor births and deaths. As opposed to the personal data assiduously collected and exploited by social media, records of these milestones are taken for granted by most of us.

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The Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People rescues, restores, and preserves historical documents concerning the Jewish people from communities worldwide, from the Middle Ages to the present

Archive website

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On February 5, 1840, Father Thomas, a Capuchin monk living in Damascus, disappeared along with his servant. Local Christians, with the active support of the French consul, accused the Jewish community of his abduction and ritual murder. Several Jewish leaders were imprisoned and tortured for months. Those who survived were convicted of the crime. European newspapers reported this resurrected medieval blood libel extensively, and the tale was widely believed, or at least considered plausible.

Horrified to discover that their supposedly enlightened European neighbors took the malicious accusations seriously, French and British Jews sent a joint delegation eastward, led by British philanthropist Sir Moses Montefiore and French lawyer Adolphe Crémieux.

In Alexandria, the delegates appealed to Muhammad Ali, pasha of Egypt, for a fair trial. The pasha had conquered Greater Syria by rebelling against the Ottoman sultan Mahmud II, and was facing attack from the European empires that sought to wrest the Levant from his grasp. Given this political pressure, combined with Montefiore and Crémieux’s painstaking efforts, Ali pardoned the condemned, albeit without acquitting them. Montefiore and Crémieux returned to Europe triumphant and were feted by its Jewish communities.

Thoroughly documented, the Damascus Affair has resonated powerfully in Jewish historiography. One example is Prof. Jonathan Frankel’s masterful The Damascus Affair: “Ritual Murder,” Politics, and the Jews in 1840. Some even consider the episode a turning point in Jewish history, deeming it the beginning of global Jewish solidarity.

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From One Woman to Another

Translations of the interrogations and of correspondence between European consuls have preserved the suspects’ testimonies and statements made by their families, but between the interrogator, the translator, and the torture chamber, the true voices of the accused can barely be heard. A letter recently discovered in the Central Archives in Jerusalem shifts our perspective to the prisoners’ wives, giving us a rare glimpse of their experiences and role in the Damascus Affair.

Sources tend to dwell in graphic detail on the unbearable tortures endured by the prisoners, but their wives suffered as well. One such victim was Oro (or Ora, as the interrogation protocols refer to her), whose husband, Moses Abulafia, scion of a famed rabbinic dynasty, confessed to the accusations, converted to Islam, and became a key witness for the prosecution. Oro was beaten during her husband’s questioning and forced to watch his torture. Joseph Lañado’s wife, who became his widow as a result of the brutal interrogation, claimed that the French consul attempted to extort sexual favors from her as a condition for helping her husband, and similar reports involve the daughter of another of the accused, David Harari. Other women were made to testify before various interrogation committees, where they displayed incredible courage and will.

After the affair was resolved, the women involved wished to thank their European benefactors. The letter below was composed by the wives of the thirteen surviving prisoners. Written in Judeo-Arabic, using Oriental-style Hebrew letters, it is addressed to Lady Judith Montefiore, who had accompanied her husband on his mission of mercy.

The writers praised their saviors in lavish terms, proclaiming that:

The light of our eyes, the crown of our heads, the great, noble, and honorable lords Saadat El Señor de Rochelle [Rothschild] and the honorable El Señor de Montefiore” will never be forgotten.

… that day, that blessed Sunday, 8 Elul, the light shone forth, thanks to the honorable concern expressed by our great lord and master, your cousin the señor, the exalted, distinguished Señor Moses Montefiore, … [culminating in] the joyful tidings of [our husbands’] release from prison to their homes.

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Order of Signatures

The order of signatures reflects friction within the Damascus Jewish community, which had also sparked mutual accusations during the trial. The signatures of the Farhi family, the wealthiest Jewish clan in Damascus, head the list. The women of the rival merchant family of Harari signed at the end. Between these signatures come those of the rabbis’ wives and the middle-class women – including “Oro, Madam Moses Abu el Afia,” the wife of the apostate. Last on this list is Mazal Tov, wife of Chief Rabbi Jacob Antebi.

The date described in the letter as the day “the light shone forth” – when the imprisoned husbands were released and the accused who had gone into hiding and been condemned in absentia could finally reappear – corresponds with that appearing in the foreign consuls’ reports. The letter was written on “the fifteenth day of the month of mercy” (the Hebrew month of Elul), approximately one week after the prisoners were released. A letter penned by the French consul to his superior at the Beirut consulate makes bitter mention of the Jews’ celebrations, including a party held around that date in the Austrian consul’s garden, attended by the released prisoners and their wives, among others. Perhaps this was the forum at which the women decided to compose a letter of gratitude to the wife of their savior – from one woman to another.

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Thanks to Dotan Arad for his translation
from Judeo-Arabic

The Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (http://cahjp.huji.ac.il) rescues, restores, and preserves historical documents concerning the Jewish people from communities worldwide, from the
Middle Ages to the present

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One might suppose that a local rabbinate’s archives, with their records of marriages, deaths, and divorce, are not the most sensational section of any community vaults. Yet they are often a rich source of genealogical material, especially in communities where the civil authorities outsourced such registration to the rabbinate. These archives can also shed much light on community life as well as halakhic precedent.

One such document is a certificate confirming that the holder is single. This form is required whenever one member of an engaged couple is from out of town and has to prove his or her marital status. When such a certificate attests to the single status of a couple, something fishy must be going on. A file containing a hundred such documents must be very fishy indeed. In fact, the story behind this file is both poignant and of national significance.

The file belonged to Abraham Leib Silberman, chief rabbi of Safed under the British Mandate. Silberman’s records include certificates issued by rabbis in eastern Europe during the 1930s, of which the following is typical:

3 Tevet 5699 [December 25, 1938]

Certification
I hereby certify that no wedding ceremony between Mr. ___ and ___ was performed under my auspices, that the records in their documents (on the travel permit) stating that they are married to one another are only for the well known reason and for official purposes, and that on the date recorded on their documents, August 17, 1937, I did nothing that would prevent their marrying anyone else in accordance with Jewish law….
In witness whereof, I affix my signature on the date noted above:
Haim Zalman Tzvi b. Rabbi Menahem Mendel Šerelis
Rabbi of the above locality

Issued by the rabbi of Aizpute, Latvia, the certificate states that the couple in question – whose names have been omitted here to protect their privacy – has entered into a fictitious marriage “for the well known reason.” This obscure language concealed a web of deception spun to allow young Jews to immigrate to Palestine. The British White Papers severely restricted entry into Palestine, so enormous efforts were made to maximize the few valid permits obtained. Unmarried individuals fortunate enough to receive them entered into fictitious marriages, so each permit ensured the entry of two Jews into Palestine rather than one. Bachelors visiting from Palestine did much the same, while some even traveled to Europe for this purpose.

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Keeping Up Appearances

All these weddings included no halakhic ceremony whatsoever. Attached to many marriage certificates are letters from witnesses and from the officiating rabbi, indicating that the civil procedure was undertaken with no intention of entering into a formal halakhic marriage. One writ even includes a statement of husband and wife’s intent:

We the undersigned acknowledge…that we have no intention of genuinely marrying, and that the bond between us and the civil marriage we have entered into is solely for appearances, in order that we may enter Palestine together. After our aliya and arrival in Palestine, we will sever all ties between us and be as strangers….

Other certificates come with additional evidence of their fictitiousness. The He-halutz Ha-mizrahi movement gave a woman guidelines listing the basic information she had to remember regarding her “husband,” in addition to his name: his place and year of birth, and, of course, the name of her supposed mother-in-law.

Despite all the precautions, there were halakhic complications. Though civil marriages have no validity in Jewish law, some authorities insisted that these unions be terminated by a get and would therefore attach a signed writ of divorce to each marriage certificate. The women divorced thereby were then ineligible to marry a Kohen. The Chief Rabbinate in Palestine stiffened its requirements in turn, demanding rabbinical confirmation of certain individuals’ unmarried status. The resulting overseas correspondence with various European rabbinates also appears in the files of the Tel Aviv Rabbinate.

The marriage scam posed another problem for the rabbis involved: as religious functionaries providing marriage licenses on behalf of the authorities, they were not allowed to submit false information. Some rabbis therefore used ambiguous language, as in the following letter from Rabbi Icek Szuster of Sokółka, Poland:

I hereby certify that Mr. ___, born in Sokółka, after divorcing his wife, Mrs. ___, under a lawful writ of [civil] divorce, shall be allowed to marry the sister of his aforementioned wife with no concern and doubt whatsoever.

As Jewish law forbids marriage to the sister of one’s ex-wife, Rabbi Szuster was hinting that the marriage he was recording had no validity in Jewish law.

It would seem that marriages of this sort were fairly common. My wife’s grandmother, Rebbetzin Esther Wagner, told me that her father, Rabbi Shraga Feivel Willig, the last chief rabbi of Buczacz, Galicia, would arrange a fictitious marriage for any bachelor who had obtained an immigration certificate. Some couples actually hit it off and remained married, avoiding the bureaucracy involved in an additional ceremony.

These rabbinic archives, then, not only reveal a little-known way of circumventing British immigration restrictions, they add invaluably to our knowledge of East European Jewry. Often these certificates provide the only record that a given rabbi served in one shtetl or another. Many of these rabbis perished in the Holocaust, while the couples they linked lived on in Israel, together or apart.

The Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (http://sites.huji.ac.il/archives) rescues, restores, and preserves historical documents concerning the Jewish people from communities worldwide, from the Middle Ages to the present

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