The name Melgrando belongs to the onomastic repertoire of Jewish families of the Italian peninsula, where it is attested by the foundational work of Samuele Schaerf, I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia, published in Florence in 1925 [Schaerf, 1925]. This work remains, a century after its publication, one of the essential reference instruments for the study of Italian Jewish surnames: Schaerf catalogues therein, classifying and commenting upon them, the names borne by the communities of the peninsula, from the ancient Roman nuclei to the Sephardic and Levantine families settled in the free ports of the modern era. The presence of Melgrando in this catalogue is sufficient to inscribe the lineage within the long history of Italian Judaism, without in itself unfolding its precise chronology or geography.
Any reconstruction of such a lineage encounters a methodological difficulty that the historian must acknowledge from the outset. Italian Judaism is not a homogeneous whole: it layers successive strata — the Nazione Italiana of the indigenous Jews, heirs to the Roman diaspora; the Nazione Tedesca of the Ashkenazim who came from across the Alps; the Nazione Levantina and the Nazione Ponentina of the Mediterranean and Portuguese Sephardim. As Robert Bonfil has shown, Jewish life in Renaissance Italy is organized around a permanent tension between integration into urban societies and the preservation of a distinct identity — a tension that structures both communal institutions and naming practices [Bonfil, 1994]. It is within this horizon that a surname such as Melgrando must be situated, whose very form invites inquiry.
This Great Book therefore proposes less to assert than to delineate: to distinguish what is established by the reference catalogue, what is probable in light of the known structures of Italian Jewish onomastics, and what belongs to avowed editorial conjecture. Where documentation is lacking, the present work will say so plainly, faithful to the principle that Jewish Memory, in the formulation of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, is to be confused neither with chronicle nor with oblivion, but constitutes a labor of transmission ever begun anew [Yerushalmi, 1984].
The only firm documentary attestation we possess for the name Melgrando is its mention in I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia by Samuele Schaerf [Schaerf, 1925]. It is therefore fitting to begin with this work, which forms the foundation of any investigation.
Published in Florence in 1925, this repertory responded to a scholarly need born of the growing curiosity, at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century, for the history of Jewish communities on the peninsula. Schaerf undertook to compile a reasoned nomenclature of surnames, indicating for many of them their probable origin — toponymic, when the name derives from a city or region; occupational; biblical or Hebrew; or descriptive. The inclusion of a name in this catalogue means that it was borne, at the time of writing or within the documentary Memory the author was able to consult, by at least one Italian Jewish family. It is precisely this status that belongs to Melgrando: an attested name, identified as Jewish and Italian, and preserved as such in the reference instrument of the discipline.
It is important, however, to measure the scope and limits of this attestation. The catalogue establishes the existence and the affiliation of the name; it does not, by itself, furnish a genealogy, nor a single communal localization, nor a chronology. Schaerf's method, dependent on the sources of his time, favors inventory over monographic inquiry. Thus the name Melgrando reaches us as a reliable landmark — it exists, it is Jewish, it is Italian — but as an isolated landmark, which the historian must illuminate through the broader context of onomastics and the History of communities.
This caution aligns with a wider requirement of the discipline. The study of manuscripts and material sources of Italian Judaism, as illustrated by Giulia Tamani's work on the decorated Hebrew manuscripts of the peninsula, reminds us that each trace — colophon, copyist's signature, owner's note — can reveal the presence of a family where official records are absent [Tamani, 2010]. It is through the accumulation of such evidence, and not through a single source, that the History of a lineage is constructed. For Melgrando, Schaerf's attestation remains for the present the primary and most solid point of anchorage.
The very form of the patronym Melgrando invites an etymological reading which, while not documented for this particular family, fits within well-known patterns of Italian Jewish onomastics. One must proceed here with the rigor of an acknowledged hypothesis, rather than assertion.
The Italian word for the pomegranate — the fruit — is melagrana, derived from the Latin malum granatum, "seeded apple." The dialectal and archaic variants of this term — melgrano, milgrana, mengrano, melagrano for the tree — are numerous across the dialects of the peninsula. The formal proximity between Melgrando and this lexical family is striking, and it is plausible, as an editorial conjecture, that the patronym derives from a name for the pomegranate, whether as a descriptive nickname, a sign- or house-name, or as the transposition of a motif. Such a hypothesis would require, to become probable, confirmation by sources we have not been able to gather; it is offered here as a lead, not as a conclusion.
What lends this reading its cultural plausibility is the eminent place of the pomegranate in Jewish imagination. The fruit is among the seven species for which the Land of Israel is praised; its seeds, whose symbolic number tradition fixes at six hundred and thirteen, are associated with the count of the Torah's commandments; it adorns the hem of the high priest's robe and crowns, in the form of rimmonim, the staves of the Torah scrolls. This symbolic density nourishes an entire tradition of thought on fertility and fullness that contemporary thinkers have continued to explore — whether through Léon Askénazi's reading of tradition [Askénazi, 1999] or Armand Abécassis's meditation on the passage "from the desert to desire" as a founding dynamic of Jewish consciousness [Abécassis, 1987].
Yet between the symbolism of a fruit and the name of a family, the connection is never mechanical. Italian Jewish patronyms derive as readily from place names as from trades, Hebrew first names, or nicknames, and the resemblance of a name to a common word can be misleading. Medieval Jewish philosophy, as reconstructed by Colette Sirat from manuscript and printed texts, teaches precisely this hermeneutical vigilance: not to confuse form with meaning, nor analogy with proof [Sirat, 1983]. The pomegranate hypothesis thus remains appealing and coherent, but conjectural — offered to the verification of future generations.
If the name Melgrando is Italian, one must still imagine the milieus in which such a family might have lived. In the absence of any certain localization, the history of communities makes it possible to sketch the probable frameworks of a Jewish existence on the peninsula, from the late Middle Ages to the early modern period.
The Jews of Italy were distributed across numerous centers, sometimes minuscule, often mobile in response to banishments and privileges: Rome, the oldest and most continuous; the cities of the Center and North — Florence, Ferrara, Mantua, Venice, Padua — where the Renaissance witnessed an intense flowering of intellectual and economic life; the Mezzogiorno and Sicily, whose communities were annihilated by the expulsions of 1492 and the following years under Aragonese rule. Robert Bonfil has described the manner in which these communities endlessly negotiated their status, between the protection of princes, the pressure of Christian preaching, and the vitality of their own institutions [Bonfil, 1994]. A family such as Melgrando would necessarily have moved within this web of jurisdictions and precarious protections.
From the sixteenth century onward, a new pole transformed this geography: Livorno. Under the Livornine regime, the Medici offered the Jews — and particularly the Sephardim and marranos returning to Judaism — exceptional guarantees, making the Tuscan port one of the major centers of Mediterranean Judaism. Lionel Lévy has retraced the history of this "Portuguese Jewish Nation" and of the Livornese community, a crossroads linking Amsterdam, Tunis, and the entire Mediterranean basin [Lévy, 1999] [Lévy, 1996]. Whether the name Melgrando is of indigenous Italian origin or whether it passed through these mercantile networks, it belongs to a space where mobility was the rule and where a patronym could travel from one shore of the sea to the other.
This geographical plasticity extends toward North Africa, where the Livornese networks spread their influence durably. The families known as Grana — that is, "Livornese" — established in Tunis, and further west as well, lineages whose names retained their Italian trace. The historiography of the communities of the Maghreb, whether in the works on Tlemcen [Botbol, 2000] or the rabbinical archives of Sidi Bel Abbès [Archives de Sidi Bel Abbès], documents this presence of a Judaism of Italian descent on Algerian soil. Without asserting that
The history of a lineage such as Melgrando involves two orders of knowledge that never quite overlap: Memory, transmitted through family and communal tradition, and the archive, established by the document. Jewish thought has made the articulation of these two a central object of reflection.
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, in Zakhor, showed that Judaism had long cultivated memory — zakhor, "remember" — without thereby producing historiography in the modern sense: liturgical, ritual, and family transmission took precedence over critical chronicle [Yerushalmi, 1984]. This distinction illuminates the situation of the name Melgrando. For such a family, there doubtless existed a living memory — narratives of origin, attachment to a city, domestic traditions — of which the archive preserves only scattered fragments, here reduced to a single line in Schaerf's catalogue. The historian thus finds himself before a name rich in potential Memory but poor in archives, and it is the honesty of the method not to fill this void with invention.
Contemporary thinkers have extended this inquiry. Maurice-Ruben Hayoun, in his synthesis on Jewish philosophy, recalls how Jewish thought has constituted itself as an uninterrupted dialogue between generations, in which the transmitted name carries an identity charge that exceeds mere administrative identification [Hayoun, 2023]. Isaiah Berlin, for his part, reflected on the modern Jewish condition as the experience of a complex belonging, divided between fidelity to a heritage and insertion into diverse societies [Berlin, 1973]. A patronyme italien comme Melgrando condenses this duality: rooted in a language and a land — Italy —, it testifies at the same time to the universality of a diasporic condition.
This is why the present chapter belongs to the realm of intersection: Memory presupposes a lineage that the archive as yet confirms only through a single witness. Between the two, the work chooses the path of prudent transmission, recording what has been received without transforming it into documentary certainty.
Considered over the long term, the name Melgrando illustrates the great laws of Italian Jewish onomastics: the late and uneven fixing of patronyms, their sensitivity to graphic variants, and their dispersal through successive migrations.
Jewish family names stabilized only at varying dates depending on region and status. In pre-emancipation Italy, the use of a hereditary name could coexist with designations by the father's first name or by place of origin. Schaerf, in compiling these names at the beginning of the twentieth century, was recording a late state of a long-fluid reality [Schaerf, 1925]. One must therefore conceive of Melgrando not as an immutable entity but as a form likely to have known variants — orthographic variations linked to dialects, notaries, and languages of transit. Research on manuscripts, where copyists sometimes signed under fluctuating spellings, confirms this formal instability of names before the age of standardized registers [Tamani, 2010].
Dispersal, moreover, is consubstantial with Italian Jewish history. The expulsions from the South, the concentration in the ghettos of the Center and North after the mid-sixteenth century, and then the attraction of the free port of Livorno, continuously redistributed families. Lionel Lévy has described how the Livornese community constituted a crucible in which lineages of diverse origins mingled, exchanged, and set sail again toward Amsterdam or North Africa [Lévy, 1996] [Lévy, 1999]. In this movement, a name might remain in Italy while spreading elsewhere, so that the presence of a patronym in one place never exhausts its full area of diffusion.
Finally, the permanence of a name through these vicissitudes bears witness to a fidelity. To preserve one's patronym, from generation to generation, through ghettos, exiles, and emancipations, is to maintain a thread of continuity that Jewish thought holds in the highest regard. Robert Bonfil has emphasized how, under the harshest constraints, the Italian communities were able to preserve the structures of their identity [Bonfil, 1994]; the simple fact that a name like Melgrando has reached us partakes of this tenacity of transmission.
At the conclusion of this inquiry, the name Melgrando presents itself as a punctual certainty surrounded by a vast field of probabilities. The certainty lies in its attestation: it appears in I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia by Samuele Schaerf, a reference instrument that identifies it as the surname of an Italian Jewish family [Schaerf, 1925]. Around this landmark, the work has advanced honest hypotheses — the possible origin in the lexical family of the pomegranate, rich in symbolic resonances; the probable geographies of a Jewish life in the peninsula and its Mediterranean extensions; the laws of variation and dispersion that govern Italian Jewish onomastics.
This manner of proceeding, distinguishing the established from the probable and the conjectured, is not a weakness but a fidelity. As Yerushalmi teaches, Jewish Memory is not the sum of verified facts but the patient work of their transmission, which accepts its lacunae [Yerushalmi, 1984]. The present Great Book does not claim to have reconstructed a lineage that no source delivered to it; it has sought, more modestly and more surely, to restore to a name its horizon of intelligibility — to inscribe it within the History of communities [Bonfil, 1994], within the networks of Livourne and the Mediterranean [Lévy, 1999], and within the long meditation of Jewish thought on the name, Memory, and the diasporic condition [Hayoun, 2023] [Berlin, 1973].
Should future research, nourished by notarial archives, communal registers, or manuscript colophons, come to refine, correct, or enrich these pages: such is the vocation of a Great Book, which never closes Memory but opens it to the next generation.
