Addressing an overflow crowd at New York’s  Museum of Jewish Heritage in 2011, Prudence Steiner, then chair of the JWA board, told the following story about how she and I first met: 

Fifteen years ago, Gail Reimer, whom I’d never met, came to see me to talk about the Jewish Women’s Archive. I’d been thinking, “Who needs another archive when the Radcliffe Institute’s Schlesinger Library is right down the street?” As I was taking Gail’s coat, she said, “Of course you need to know that this will be a virtual archive—open at all hours, all days of the week, from wherever you and a computer may be.” My mind, like a compass needle, swung around 180 degrees, and it’s still pointing toward the Jewish Women’s Archive.

Her story captured her initial skepticism, her enthusiastic response once I shared my vision of an archive for the twenty-first century, and her unwavering commitment to JWA from that moment on. 

I remember that meeting a bit differently.

I can’t imagine that I launched into a description of JWA the moment I walked through the door, nor can I recall any meeting with Prudence that didn’t begin with the offer of tea and cookies, or some other nourishment. After ushering me in, she climbed onto an elevated chair and explained that recent hip surgery required her to sit that way. This, however, was no ordinary chair—it had belonged to Walter Jackson Bate, the renowned Harvard professor whose lecture course on the Age of Johnson often drew over 400 students. 

As it happened, I had been one of those students back in the 1970s. Soon Prudence and I were deep in conversation about the professor, Samuel Johnson, and how the chair had come into her possession. Eventually Prudence suggested we focus on the purpose of my visit. As I described my plan for a radically new kind of archive, I couldn’t help noticing her growing excitement as she began shifting about in her chair, at one point almost falling off it. 

I left that meeting fairly certain that JWA had just made a new friend.  

True to her name, Prudence proceeded prudently, seeking reactions to JWA’s plans from a few trusted family members and friends—or so I thought. I later realized her true purpose was to spark interest in JWA among “her crowd.” 

Born into a world of wealth, power, and philanthropy, Prudence grew up in one of New York City’s more affluent neighborhoods. When not traveling abroad, her family spent summers on their estate overlooking the Ashokan Reservoir in Olivebridge, New York. Her father—an investment banker and company president before turning to public affairs—gave generously to Jewish and secular causes. In an essay she wrote in 2000 for Mayan’s journal Journey, Prudence recalled a letter he sent her when she turned twenty-one: “You are about to inherit a little money from your grandfathers and eventually you’ll inherit some more. You will want to buy a car, or some nice clothes, or to travel, and these are all good things to do. But with the money comes responsibility to others, and I want you to remember that.”  

Generosity and philanthropy were family traditions—parts of her inheritance that she took very seriously. 

Prudence entered Radcliffe College in 1954. In her final week of college, she met her future husband, Daniel Steiner. The couple began their married life in New York City, where Prudence earned a master’s degree in special education from CUNY and taught reading to children with learning differences. By 1970 they had returned to Harvard, where Daniel built the University’s Office of the General Counsel and Prudence earned her PhD in American literature while raising their two children. 

Prudence’s connection to Radcliffe and Harvard endured throughout her life. She taught courses, founded the Expository Writing Program at the Harvard Extension School, served as book review editor for the Harvard Review, sat on the Dean’s Advisory Council of the Radcliffe Institute, and volunteered with the Harvard University Native American Program. She was especially devoted to Harvard-Radcliffe Hillel, with which she had been involved since her first days at Radcliffe, when her cousin (a grandson of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan) brought her there for High Holiday services. Though she had grown up in a home with little Jewish observance, she was drawn to what she found at Hillel, and it remained her Jewish home. 

After our first meeting, Prudence turned to her close friend, Harvard Hillel Rabbi Ben Zion Gold, to “check me out.” Once he gave his imprimatur, she was all in. She joined JWA’s founding board, made a major gift, and became an energetic ambassador—introducing me to countless people in her orbit whom she believed could help JWA. As she wrote, “I am eager to find true north, or face Jerusalem, or do whatever it takes to put JWA on the map.” 

Prudence was one of JWA’s most dedicated and generous supporters, and one of its most active and communicative board members. I cherish the letters, notes, emails, and even cartoons she sent me before, during, and after she retired from the board.  

Drawn to the idea of “something that was instantly and universally accessible to amateurs, professionals, cranks, serious people, and everybody in between,” as she put it in an oral history conducted by fellow board member Penina Glazer, Prudence loved being part of something new—something “in the making.” She described that feeling in her 2000 essay in Journey: 

For forty years, I, like my parents, gave to…well-established organizations that had proved their worth, and with which, for the most part, I had little personal connection. But recently I had the privilege of joining with others who were developing a brand new enterprise, the Jewish Women’s Archive. I was invited to join the Board…and I began to feel the pleasure of helping something important take its first steps. 

Far from being the “fuddy-duddy” or “old lady from Cambridge” she sometimes called herself with good humor, Prudence embraced the new and experimental with gusto. She became deeply involved with JWA—copy-editing and writing for its newsletter Re://collections and hosting meals, consultations, meetings, and receptions at her homes in Cambridge and Martha’s Vineyard, as well as at the Schlesinger Library, Harvard Hillel, and the New England Conservatory of Music. She chaired various committees and task forces and, from 2010 to 2012, served as chair of the JWA board. 

Prudence took copious notes at meetings, wrote countless thoughtful memos outlining JWA’s challenges and opportunities, annotated nearly every document I sent her, and saw one of her primary board responsibilities as listening carefully and asking tough, thoughtful questions. My responses often led to a whole new set of questions, and my thinking always grew clearer through these exchanges. 

Prudence also wrote many letters on JWA’s behalf. Some introduced people to JWA; others shared news, sought feedback, requested support, or expressed gratitude. After dining at New York’s Second Avenue Deli and noticing photos of Molly Picon on the walls, she wrote to the management, complimenting the food and suggesting they hang JWA’s poster of Molly “over the door that joins the back (south) dining room to the main part of the restaurant.” She enclosed the poster, noting, “I noticed that there’s nothing there, and this might be a good size for that empty space.” 

Her letters and emails always conveyed respect for their recipients and often sparkled with literary references—from the Bible to Shakespeare to Melville—or playful nods to the Jewish calendar, with remarks about soggy sukkahs or matzah crumbs. One memorable fundraising letter began: “Thanksgiving feasts are over, Chanukkah feasts are yet to come, and there's less and less sunlight. But all is not dark or barren…. I'm enclosing the most recent newsletter from the Jewish Women's Archive, which is, to continue the metaphor, full of sustenance and light.” 

I came to rely on Prudence’s skills as a meticulous reader and kind but incisive editor. A letter I sent her for review might return with a note: “You can take the old lady out of the classroom, but you can’t keep her quiet. I return the excellent letter with a few editorial changes. I hope they won’t irritate.” 

One recurring irritation for Prudence was what she saw as JWA’s overemphasis on notable women. “How about the rest of us,” she asked, “who do the laundry, cope with the matzah crumbs, make box lunches for our school-age children (or grandchildren), pay the bills, drive voters to the polls, etc.? We too are the stuff of society.”  What had attracted her to the Jewish Women’s Archive was its commitment to inclusivity, to uncovering the “neglected history of ‘ordinary’ women like my aunt Rita the WAC, my cousin Miriam who worked for Hadassah, my mother who worked during World War II for the Russian war relief, my grandmothers…” I imagine that ellipsis ending with a quiet, almost silent, “and me.” 

Prudence concluded her 2000 essay underscoring her devotion to her family as well as her dedication to JWA’s mission: 

Perhaps my father would question my contributing to an untried, unorthodox enterprise that does so much for me; but he might also be pleased to think that his daughter, remembering his example, is helping future generations to know who they are and what they can do. I will not be a historian, a social or political scientist; it’s enough to be a grandmother of four grandchildren who will carry on the traditions that link three centuries. And it’s enough to help support the work of scholars and activists who will weave those traditions into the fabric of history.” 

Prudence’s dedication to the Jewish Women’s Archive was both intellectual and personal. JWA’s mission appealed to her as a scholar, a Jew, and a woman. Through her questions, leadership, connections, and the many donations she made over the years she helped shape JWA’s growth. Her wonderfully generous legacy gift ensures its continued growth. Prudence also hoped that her own story—as daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, friend, scholar, editor, translator, donor, lay leader, and volunteer—would matter here, too. It has, it does, and it will.