Today, it’s hard to imagine a Jewish bookshelf without Rashi. His commentary on the Chumash is printed on virtually every page of every Mikraot Gedolot edition of the Torah. In yeshivot around the world, Rashi is the first encounter many students have with classical rabbinic literature. From the moment a child opens his first Chumash in cheder, he is already navigating the insights of Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki of Troyes. For the young student and the seasoned scholar alike, Rashi is inseparable from the Torah itself.
But it wasn’t always this way.
Before the age of print, Torah texts were scarce, fragile, and painstakingly copied by hand. Even the most foundational works, such as Rashi’s commentary, circulated in manuscript form, with versions differing from scribe to scribe, from land to land. There was no “standard edition,” and no two copies were exactly alike. Some contained omissions, others bore marginal corrections, and some preserved readings that would later be smoothed out by generations of printers. Today, we take for granted the uniformity of our sefarim – but for centuries, textual variation was the norm.
This week, I was privileged to acquire a remarkable and rare manuscript: a Yemenite recension of Rashi’s commentary on the Torah, preserving an early and lesser-known version of the text, copied and studied long before the widespread standardization of the printed editions. It is, quite literally, a relic of a different world – a window into a stage of Jewish textual history that has largely vanished.
Rabbi Shlomo ben Yitzchak (1040–1105), universally known by the acronym Rashi, was born in Troyes, northern France, and studied in the great yeshivot of the Rhineland in Germany before returning home to develop what would become the most influential Torah commentary in Jewish history. His explanations on the Torah, the Nevi’im and Ketuvim, and vast swaths of the Talmud were not just brilliant – they were transformative. They made the texts accessible. They anchored them in the mesorah. And they gave the Jewish people the tools to pass Torah from one generation to the next.
Rashi’s commentary was so foundational that it was chosen as the very first Hebrew book to be printed with a date: Reggio di Calabria, 1475 – a copy that is considered one of the crown jewels of early Hebrew printing. And even during the short incunabula period (roughly 1475–1500), Rashi’s Torah commentary was printed at least eight times. Each edition helped solidify his place not just as a commentator, but as a pillar of the Jewish bookshelf.
Yet before the age of print, Rashi’s commentary was already being copied and circulated, especially in Ashkenaz. What is less well-known, however, is that Rashi’s commentary also made its way to Yemen – across deserts, oceans, and cultural divides.
By the 15th century – possibly even earlier – Rashi’s words had reached the Jewish communities of Yemen. These isolated communities, known for their fierce devotion to halacha and precise transmission of texts, eagerly embraced Rashi’s commentary. It was not simply studied – it was woven into the fabric of communal life. On Shabbat afternoons, in synagogues throughout Yemen, Rashi’s words were read aloud alongside the weekly Torah portion. His commentary wasn’t a luxury; it was part of the rhythm of Jewish life.
Over time, as printed editions became available, most Yemenite copies began to conform to the versions printed in Europe. The earlier, more fluid versions were gradually displaced by standardized texts. But every once in a while, a manuscript surfaces that preserves a more archaic, pre-print recension – the kind that allows us to see how Rashi’s words evolved across centuries. That is exactly what makes the manuscript I acquired this week so remarkable.
The manuscript – covering the portion of Rashi on the Torah – originates from Yemen and preserves a text that is noticeably distinct from the common printed versions. It contains unique variants, alternate wordings, and occasional glosses that illuminate an older stratum of the commentary. This is not just a physical artifact – it is a textual witness, preserving a stage in the development of Rashi’s commentary before it was filtered through the lenses of generations of printers and proofreaders.
What makes this manuscript even more significant is its provenance. It once belonged to David Solomon Sassoon, the famed collector whose private library was among the largest and most important collections of Hebrew manuscripts in the world. Sassoon was deeply invested in preserving the literary treasures of the Jewish East. Like many of his Yemenite acquisitions, he obtained this particular manuscript from Elias Abraham Saadia Solomon Halfon of Aden, a scholar and dealer who would later settle in New York under the name Elias Abraham Morris. According to Sassoon’s records, the transaction occurred sometime between March and July of 1929.
In our world of uniformity and mass production, it’s easy to forget how dynamic and diverse our tradition once was. This manuscript reminds us that even the most familiar texts – like Rashi – once existed in multiple forms. Every variant, every omission, every scribe’s choice carries the imprint of a living tradition that spanned continents and generations.
For collectors, scholars, and lovers of sefarim, manuscripts like this are more than rare artifacts – they are living links to the Torah journeys of our ancestors. And for me, as someone privileged to rescue and preserve such treasures, each acquisition is a reminder that the story of Torah transmission is still being written.
