Last week I was privileged to acquire an exceptionally scarce and momentous imprint: the 1557 Cremona edition of the Haggadah with the commentary of Don Yitzchak Abrabanel, titled Zevach Pesach.
This is no ordinary Haggadah. Printed by the Christian typographer Vincenzo Conti, this edition embodies both the splendor and the tragedy of Hebrew printing in 16th-century Italy. Conti, a singular figure in the annals of Jewish bibliographic history, was the non-Jewish artisan behind over forty Hebrew works issued in Cremona between 1556 and 1566 – among them, the monumental 1559 edition of the Zohar, which remains one of the crown jewels of early Kabbalistic print.
But the story of this Haggadah is inextricably linked to one of the darker episodes in Jewish intellectual history. Not long after its appearance, Cremona became the site of the infamous Church-sponsored conflagration of Hebrew books, most notably the public burning of the Talmud. This violent campaign of censorship spelled the end of Conti’s press; his Hebrew typefaces, equipment, and painstaking labors were reduced to ash, and with them, the brief golden age of Cremonese Hebrew printing came to an abrupt and tragic end.
Conti’s foray into Hebrew printing was neither accidental nor peripheral. Having trained under Jewish printers in Venice prior to 1553, and working alongside figures such as Francesco Marcolini, Conti came to Cremona with both technical skill and cultural sensitivity. In 1554, he formally petitioned the Jewish community there for support – an appeal they answered, as documented in the preface to Provisiones Navigii. By 1556, he had already co-published the first printed edition of R. Jacob ben Asher’s Sefer Minhagim in Sabbioneta, and shortly thereafter, issued a new edition of R. Isaac of Corbeil’s Amude Gola – a printing distinguished by a particularly moving colophon.
There, the redactor writes:
“A lion from on high, the hacham R. Samuel Boehm, obtained the funds to print this holy work in trustworthy type, from beginning to end, and removed from it all those leaves, bad and unclean shells, so that one should not be punished, Heaven forbid.”
This passage is more than flowery praise – it is a glimpse into the high standards and spiritual stakes surrounding the production of sacred texts in that era. Indeed, Conti’s Amudei Gola edition boasts a sophisticated editorial method claiming comparison with no fewer than seven manuscripts – a remarkable feat of textual fidelity for its time.
Conti’s early printings employed elegant rabbinic cursive typefaces, carefully cast anew rather than recycled from other presses. These fonts, tragically lost in the devastating fire of 1559, were replaced by stately square-letter typography that marks a visual and chronological line between Conti’s early and later productions.
Initially licensed to print only Latin works in Cremona, Conti’s expansion into Hebrew printing was both bold and brilliant. Yet ultimately, it was also his undoing. The same ecclesiastical authorities who had turned a blind eye to his Hebrew endeavors suddenly reversed course under the rising tide of the Inquisition. Conti fled Cremona and resumed printing in Riva di Trento, but the magic of his Cremonese period had ended.
Thus, this 1557 Zevach Pesach Haggadah is not merely a rare bibliophilic gem – it is a poignant survivor of a lost world. It bears witness to the paradoxes of Renaissance Italy, where Hebrew books could flourish under Christian printers – until the fires of intolerance reduced them to embers.
For the collector, this edition is priceless. For the historian, it is invaluable. And for the Jewish soul, it stands as a solemn reminder that even amidst persecution and upheaval, the sacred word endured – in type, on parchment, and in the hearts of its people.
