Features
The privileged, yet not unscathed, life of Baron Maurice de Hirsch
The Baron: Maurice de Hirsch and the Jewish Nineteenth Century
by Matthias B. Lehmann
Stanford University Press, 400 pp., $49
Reviewed by IRENA KARSHENBAUM
In reading Matthias B. Lehmann’s The Baron: Maurice de Hirsch and the Jewish Nineteenth Century what becomes painfully obvious is that despite owning chateaus and estates across Europe and being a member of the aristocracy, this elevated status still did not protect Baron Maurice de Hirsch, the wealthiest Jewish person of his time, from antisemitism.
How to find a solution to this eternal hatred haunted Hirsch his entire life and influenced not only how he envisioned the lives of his future grandchildren, but guided his philanthropic projects that changed the fates of millions of people.
It is a rare feat to acquire great wealth within a single generation. Hirsch was no exception.
Born Moritz von Hirsch — later to be known as Maurice de Hirsch — in 1831 in Munich, Bavaria, to Joseph and Caroline (née Wertheimer) von Hirsch, Lehmann describes how the young Hirsch grew up a member of “the noble class, with its privileges and rights,” yet was still the subject of the contradictory Jewish edict of 1813, which opened most occupations to Jews and granted them freedom of worship, but also imposed numerous restrictions, “designed to control and limit the overall number of Jews tolerated within the kingdom [of Bavaria]. Jewish immigration was banned, and the so-called Judenmatrikel established quotas for the permissible size of each Jewish community, limiting permission to marry and designed to keep the number of Jews static or reduce it.”
Yet despite this antisemitic decree, in 1818, Hirsch’s grandfather, Jacob Hirsch, managed to obtain the status of nobility from the King of Bavaria and the upwardly mobile family was allowed to be called “von Hirsch auf Gereuth,” after an estate the senior patriarch had purchased a few years earlier.
The Hirschs, however, were mere “cattle merchants” (albeit conducting business with the King of Bavaria) in comparison to the wealth and status of his mother’s family, the Wertheimers, who were descendants of Samson Wertheimer, the banker to Emperor Charles VI.
The Hirsch family had to wait another half a century, until 1869, when Joseph was awarded the hereditary title of baron for “contributions to the welfare of the Bavarian state,” following his establishing a field hospital during the Prussian-Austrian War of 1866. (The family’s philanthropic contributions were not limited to this singular charitable act, but this recognition speaks to Joseph having finally “played his cards right,” which secured “a place for himself and his descendants as members of the European aristocracy.”)
At age thirteen, Hirsch was moved to Brussels where, in 1855, he succeeded in doing what his father had done a generation earlier — he married up. His bride, Clara Bischoffsheim, was the daughter of Jonathan Raphaël Bischoffsheim, the partner of Bischoffsheim & Goldschmidt, one of Europe’s leading banks, which would one day become France’s BNP Paribas. Clara had worked as her father’s secretary, training that would serve her well to act as her husband’s “chief secretary” for their expanding business interests and philanthropic work.
Hirsch’s arrival in Brussels was of perfect timing, not only for his matrimonial aspirations, but it also coincided with the birth of the railway age when Belgium opened its first international railway line, linking Antwerp to Cologne.
At this time, Hirsch developed a passion for railroads. He formed an odd partnership with a known antisemite, André Langrand-Dumonceau, who advocated for “the building of an international Catholic financial empire to compete with… Jewish- (and Protestant-) dominated high finance.” The partnership eventually dissolved, Langrand-Dumonceau’s financial Ponzi scheme collapsed and the stake that he had owned in the Ottoman railway concession ended up in Hirsch’s hands thanks to the pursuit of an Ottoman public works minister, an Armenian named Davud Pasha, with whom he signed an agreement, in April of 1869, to link Constantinople and Salonika with central European railways.
The business deal became, as Lehmann writes, “The defining moment in Hirsch’s life as a businessman, and which was the main source of one of the largest fortunes in Europe of the late nineteenth century.”
Almost twenty years later, in the summer of 1888, after successfully maneuvering the corrupt Ottoman political and commercial landscape, the first train on the railroad that Hirsch had built, left Vienna for Constantinople. Yet even this remarkable achievement of linking Europe with the Ottoman Empire ignited antisemitic vitriol.
Lehmann writes, “The idea of building a Vienna-Constantinople-Salonika railroad link had sparked imperialist dreams in the Habsburg capital. When fantasies of colonial riches failed to materialize as the completion of the railway connections was repeatedly delayed, a narrative… became increasingly personalized, focusing on Baron Hirsch in the guise of the “Parisian financier” and “the Jew.” Rather than the bursting of a speculative bubble in Vienna in 1873 or the effect of the Russo-Ottoman War of 1877-1878, not to mention the machinations of the Great Powers of Europe or the political chaos in Constantinople in the mid-1870s, a story emerged in which it was Baron Hirsch, single-handedly, who betrayed the dream of Austria’s Oriental empire.”
Hirsch understood that antisemitism was impossible to defeat. In giving an interview, in January of 1889, to the New York Herald, titled “The Jews Must Disappear: A Hebrew Millionaire Spends Enormous Sums to Assimilate Them with Christians” he explained his solution, “The Jewish question can only be solved by the disappearance of the Jewish race, which will inevitably be accomplished by the amalgamation of Christians and Jews.”
In terms of his own descendants, when his son, Lucien, was in his twenties, Hirsch stated that, “He must marry an Englishwoman,” especially since, “younger members of the families of Rothschild and Montefiore” were assimilating through marriage.
Immersed in an antisemitic milieux, it is important to also consider that neither Hirsch, his wife, or their son even contemplated conversion unlike many members of the Jewish nobility of western Europe like, Benjamin Disraeli, the 19th-century British prime minister who converted to Christianity. Assimilation was for the next generation through the planned raising of their future grandchildren as Christians.
With the sudden passing of his only son at age 30, Hirsch — whose loyalties were still deeply intertwined with his co-religionists — shifted his energies to helping the Jews of the Russian Empire who were facing escalating antisemitism.
In 1891, Hirsch incorporated the Jewish Colonization Association (JCA) in London with initial capital of 2 million pounds sterling (the 2023 equivalent of about $2 billion) of his own funds “to assist… the emigration of Jews from any parts of Europe or Asia… where they may be subjected to any special laws,” and to help them, “establish colonies in various parts of North and South American… for agricultural [purposes].”
With his recent experience conducting business with the corrupt Ottomans, he objected, ““On principal,” to purchasing land for colonization purposes anywhere in the Ottoman Empire, where the authorities were bound to subject the colonists to endless “chicaneries and difficulties,” and, ““religious memories and ancient traditions” were a feeble ground on which to build a large-scale colonization enterprise.”
Hirsch rejected Theodor Herzl’s “fantastical plan, of creating a “Jewish state”” in Palestine. (Herzl himself went on to contemplate Hirsch’s efforts in an 1896 article for London’s Jewish Chronicle titled, “Shall we choose Argentine or Palestine?”)
By the fall of 1891, Hirsch decided that the focus of JCA’s work would be the evacuation of 3.25 million Russian Jews, primarily to Argentina, which he estimated would take about twenty-five years to complete. By 1896, the year of Hirsch’s passing, 6,757 colonists were living on 910 farms in Argentina.
In Canada, the majority of JCA’s work did not begin until after Hirsch’s passing and it is believed that most Jewish farming communities received at least some funding from the association. A number of the prairie settlements — Hirsch and Sonnenfeld in Saskatchewan, and Narcisse in Manitoba — were named after leading JCA figures.
Lehmann’s thoroughly researched biography and view into the Jewish nineteenth century rings eerily true for Jews today.
Irena Karshenbaum writes in Calgary.
irenakarshenbaum.com
Features
New autobiography by Holocaust survivor Hedy Bohm – who went on to testify in trials of two Nazi war criminals
Book Review by Julie Kirsh, Former Sun Media News Research Director
My parents were Hungarian Jewish Holocaust survivors who arrived in Toronto in 1951 without family or friends. In the late 50s my mother met Hedy Bohm outside of our downtown apartment and quickly connected with her. Both women had suffered the loss of all family in the Shoah. Over the years our families’ custom became sharing our dining table with the Bohm family for the Jewish high holidays. The tradition continues today with the second generation.
Hedy was born in 1928 in the city of Oradea in Romania. She was a pampered only child, adored by her father and very much attached to her mother. Although Hedy was an adolescent, she was kept from hearing about the rising anti-semitism around her in her hometown. She was protected and sheltered like any child. Memoirs from other adolescents like Elie Wiesel, aged 15 in Auschwitz, Samuel Pisar, liberated at 16, and Rabbi Israel Meir Lau, who was found in Buchenwald by American soldiers at age 8, made me wonder about the resilience and strength of children who survived like Hedy.
Hedy was only 16 years old when she walked through the gates of hell, Auschwitz-Birkenau. Hedy’s poignant retelling of this pivotal moment in her young life was the sudden separation from her father and moments later from her mother. Somehow Hedy’s mother got ahead of her upon their arrival at Auschwitz. Hedy called out to her. Her mother turned and they looked at each other. A Nazi guard prevented Hedy from joining her mother. Hedy has always been tormented by this moment of separation. Did her mother know that she was walking to her death?
Hedy writes that she was focused on survival in the camps. She concentrated on eating whatever food was given and keeping clean by washing daily in icy, cold water before the roll call. When she contracted diarrhea, she remembered her mother’s homemade remedy of gnawing on charred wood. Her naivete and innocence were overcome with a strong inner determination to stay alive so that she could see her mother again.
Hedy recounts the terrible hunger that everyone endured. One day, spotting some carrots in a warehouse, Hedy was appointed by her aunt to run and grab what she could. Luckily she evaded the armed guard who would have shot her on the spot.
On April 14, 1945, Hedy’s day of liberation, she learned the terrible fate of her mother. The return home for the survivors was a further tragedy when they realized the loss of family and community.
In her memoir, Hedy describes meeting Imre, an older boy from her town whom she eventually married. Their flight from Romania to Budapest to Pier 21 in Halifax to Toronto is documented in harrowing detail.
Hedy recounts how in Toronto no one wanted to know the stories of the survivors. This was a world before Eichmann’s trial in Israel in 1961 and the TV series, The Holocaust, in 1978. The floodgates for information from the survivors opened late in their lives.
In Toronto, after many failed enterprises, Imre and Hedy stumbled onto the shoe selling business. In 1959, they leased a small shoe store close to Honest Ed’s in downtown Toronto. Surprisingly, the business according to Hedy, became very profitable. Many years later, after Imre’s sudden death due to a heart attack, Hedy continued to manage their shoe business while taking care of her daughter, Vicky and son, Ronnie.
In 1996, Hedy was introduced to Rabbi Jordan Pearlson. Their love match made Hedy feel that she had been given a wonderful gift, late in life, which she welcomed.
Jordan died in 2008. Hedy endured and carried on with yoga and tai chi both as a teacher and devoted practitioner.
A new purpose in life opened up for Hedy when she was invited to be a speaker for the Holocaust Education Centre (now the Toronto Holocaust Museum). She spoke to mostly non-Jewish students whom she visited at their schools outside of Toronto.
Visiting Auschwitz with the March of the Living for the first time in 2010, Hedy faced her fears about returning to the place that held the horrors. She was fortunate to meet Jordana Lebowitz, a student from Toronto who developed a multimedia presentation called ShadowLight. Hedy’s contribution to teaching others about the Holocaust by sharing her experience, is immeasurable.
In 2014, Hedy was asked to be a witness at the trial of Oskar Groning , “the accountant of Auschwitz”, in Germany. In 2016, she appeared as a witness for the trial of the Nazi guard, Reinhold Hanning. He was sentenced to a mere five years in prison and Groning died before he could start his jail sentence. In having the courage to participate in these war criminal trials, Hedy spoke for her parents and all the innocents who could not speak for themselves.
Hedy’s talks to students always include an admonishment to be kind, to trust in themselves and work for the greater good. She rose above her own fears of sharing her story by speaking publicly.
Hedy’s story of survival and perseverance will remain a beacon to future generations, ensuring that hope and good will endure even in the worst of times.
Reflection
by Hedy Bohm
Published in 2026 by The Azrieli Foundation
To order a copy of the book go to https://memoirs.azrielifoundation.org/titles/reflection/
Features
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Features
Why People in Israel Can Get Emotionally Attached to AI—and How to Keep It Healthy
Let’s start with the uncomfortable truth that’s also kind of relieving: getting emotionally attached to a Joi.com AI isn’t “weird.” It’s human. Our brains are attachment machines. Give us a voice that feels warm, consistent, and attentive—especially one that shows up on demand—and our nervous system goes, “Oh. Safety. Connection.” Even if the rational part of you knows it’s software, the emotional part responds to the experience.
Now, if we’re talking about Jewish people in Israel specifically, it’s worth saying this carefully: there isn’t one “Jewish Israeli psychology.” People differ wildly by age, religiosity, community, language, politics, relationship status, and life history. But there are some real-life conditions common in Israel—high tech adoption, a fast-paced social environment, chronic background stress for many, and strong cultural emphasis on connection—that can make AI companionship feel especially appealing for some individuals. Not because of religion or ethnicity as a trait, but because of context and pressure.
So if you’ve noticed yourself—or someone you know—getting attached to an AI companion, the goal isn’t to panic or label it as unhealthy by default. The goal is to understand why it feels good and make sure it stays supportive rather than consuming.
Why attachment happens so fast (the psychology in plain language)
Attachment isn’t just about romance. It’s about regulation. When you feel seen, your body calms down. When you feel ignored, your body gets edgy. AI companions can offer something that’s rare in real life: consistent responsiveness. No scheduling. No misunderstandings (most of the time). No “I’m too tired to talk.” Just a steady stream of attention.
From an attachment perspective, that steadiness can act like a soft emotional “hug.” For someone with anxious attachment, it can feel like relief: finally, a connection that doesn’t disappear. For someone with avoidant tendencies, it can feel safe because it’s intimacy without the risk of being overwhelmed by a real person’s needs. For someone simply lonely or stressed, it can feel like a quiet exhale.
And unlike human relationships, AI won’t judge your worst timing. You can message at 2:00 a.m., when your thoughts are loud and the apartment is silent, and you’ll still get an answer that sounds caring. That alone is powerful.
Why it can feel especially relevant in Israel (for some people)
Israel is a small country with a big emotional load for many people—again, not universally, but often enough that it shapes daily life. A lot of people live with a background hum of stress, whether it’s personal, economic, or tied to the broader environment. When life feels intense, the appeal of a stable, gentle interaction grows. Not because you’re fragile—because you’re tired.
Add a few more very normal realities:
High tech comfort is cultural. Israel has a strong tech culture. People are used to tools that solve problems quickly. If you’re already comfortable with digital solutions, trying an AI companion doesn’t feel like a strange leap.
Time is tight. Between work, family responsibilities, reserve duty for some, long commutes, or simply the pace of urban life, many people don’t have the energy for long, messy social processes. AI can feel like connection without the logistics.
Social circles can be both close and complicated. Israeli society can be community-oriented, which is beautiful—until it’s also intense. In tight-knit circles, dating and relationships sometimes come with social pressure, opinions, and “everyone knows everyone.” A private AI chat can feel like a relief: no gossip, no explanations, no performance.
Language and identity complexity. Many Jewish Israelis move between languages and cultures (Hebrew, Russian, English, French, Amharic, Arabic for some). AI chat can become a low-stakes space to express yourself in the language you feel most “you” in—without feeling judged for accent, vocabulary, or code-switching.
None of this means “Israelis are more likely” in any absolute sense. It means there are situational reasons why AI companionship can feel particularly soothing or convenient for some people living there.
The good side: when AI attachment is healthy
Emotional attachment isn’t automatically a problem. Sometimes it’s simply a sign that something is working: you feel supported. You feel calmer. You’re expressing yourself more. You’re practicing communication instead of shutting down. You’re less likely to make impulsive choices from loneliness.
Healthy use often looks like:
You feel better after chatting, not worse.
You can still enjoy your real life—friends, work, hobbies, family.
You don’t hide it in shame; you just treat it like a tool or pastime.
You use the AI to practice skills you bring into real relationships: clarity, boundaries, confidence, emotional regulation.
In that version, AI companionship is closer to journaling with feedback, or a comforting ritual—like a cup of tea at the end of the day, not a replacement for dinner.
Where it can slip into unhealthy territory (quietly)
The danger isn’t “having feelings.” The danger is outsourcing your emotional world to something that will never truly share responsibility.
Warning signs usually look like:
You cancel plans with humans because the AI feels easier.
You feel anxious when you’re not chatting, like you’re missing something.
You start needing the AI to reassure you constantly.
Your standards for human relationships collapse (“Humans are too complicated, AI is enough”).
You feel a “crash” after chatting—more lonely, more restless, more disconnected.
The biggest red flag is when the AI becomes your only reliable source of comfort. That’s not because AI is evil. It’s because any single source of emotional regulation—human or non-human—can become a dependency.
How to keep it healthy (without killing the fun)
Here’s the approach that works best: don’t ban it, contain it.
Give it a role.
Decide what the AI is for in your life: playful flirting, stress relief, practicing communication, roleplay, bedtime decompression. A defined role prevents the relationship from becoming vague and all-consuming.
Set a “time container.”
Not as punishment—just as hygiene. For example: 20 minutes at night, or during commute time, or only on certain days. Ending while you still feel good is the secret. Don’t chat until you feel hollow.
Keep one human anchor active.
A friend you text, a weekly family dinner, a class, a gym routine, a community event—something that keeps your real social muscles moving. In Israel, community can be a huge protective factor when it’s supportive. Use it.
Use consent and boundary language even with AI.
It sounds odd, but it trains your brain in healthy dynamics:
“Slow down. Keep it playful, not intense.”
“No jealousy talk. I don’t like that vibe.”
“Tonight I want comfort, not advice.”
If you can do that with an AI, you’ll be better at doing it with humans.
Watch the “replacement” impulse.
If you catch yourself thinking, “I don’t need anyone else,” pause and ask: is that empowerment—or is it avoidance? Sometimes it’s a protective story your brain tells when it’s tired of disappointment.
Check in with your body after.
Not your thoughts—your body. Calm? Lighter? More grounded? Good sign. Agitated? Empty? Restless? Time to adjust.
And if you’re noticing that AI use is feeding anxiety, sleep problems, isolation, or obsessive thinking, it may help to talk to a mental health professional—especially someone who understands attachment patterns. That’s not a dramatic step. It’s basic self-care.
People in Israel—Jewish Israelis included—can get attached to AI for the same reason people everywhere do: it offers consistent attention in an inconsistent world. Add the local realities of stress, pace, and social complexity, and it can feel even more comforting for some individuals. The healthiest path isn’t to judge yourself for it. It’s to use it intentionally, keep your human life active, and treat the AI as a supportive tool—not the center of your emotional universe.