About an hour before the first meeting of Israel’s inaugural government on February 14, 1949, David Ben-Gurion entered the Yeshurun Synagogue in Jerusalem. He went after promising a prominent religious Zionist rabbi that he would do so.
It was the first time the Jewish state’s secular founding father had been in a synagogue in the Land of Israel during prayers. He’d already lived in the Land for some forty years.
This uncharacteristic and incongruous event was perhaps a portent of things to come in Israel’s strange, and – in some ways – trendsetting first national government.
Voting for something else
The elections for Israel’s First Knesset in 1949 boasted the country’s highest ever voter turnout (some 87% of eligible voters).
Yet the roughly 440,000 people who voted were not voting for the Knesset at all!
They were voting for the “Constituent Assembly”, a body intended to create a constitution for the young Jewish state, not necessarily govern it.
Two days after their first meeting, a proposal led by David Ben-Gurion was passed and the “Constituent Assembly” became known as the “Knesset”.
To this day, Israel does not have a constitution.
The secular, socialist, ultra-Orthodox, religious Zionist, Sephardic-Oriental, liberal, Arab coalition
The two biggest winners in the election, Ben-Gurion’s Mapai Party and Meir Yaari’s Mapam Party, were both left-wing and secular, yet Ben-Gurion refused to include Mapam in his coalition, preferring the inclusion of four smaller parties presenting a rather diverse and seemingly bizarre group of Haredim, Religious Zionists, Sephardic Jews, liberal secularists and Arabs…
Ben-Gurion, though, of course had his reasons for choosing these partners. It was important to him that parties representing divergent constituencies – especially more established and traditional communities – also be part of the country’s first government, in order to provide it with broader legitimacy and support, rather than simply rely upon mainstream secular Zionists.
The largest party in the coalition besides Mapai was the United Religious Front, comprised of four religious parties spanning the gamut from the historically anti-Zionist (and later non-Zionist) Haredi Agudat Yisrael and Poalei Agudat Yisrael parties to the fervently religious Zionist Mizrachi and Hapoel Hamizrachi parties.
The United Religious Front won 16 seats and to this day is the broadest religious party to run in a Knesset (or in this case, Constituent Assembly) election.
The party known as “Sephardim and Oriental Communities” also joined Ben-Gurion, with the goal of promoting the interests of its eponymous constituency in the new state. The Progressive Party joined, as well. Though not socialist like Mapai, it was also largely representative of secular Ashkenazic Jews.
The smallest party in the coalition, with two seats, was the Democratic List of Nazareth, led by two Arabs from the Galilean city: Seif el-Din el-Zoubi, who had fought in the Haganah, and Amin-Salim Jarjora, a respected educator and jurist. The Democratic List of Nazareth was aligned with Mapai, part of Ben-Gurion’s efforts to show that Jews and Arabs could coexist in the new State of Israel.
“Living in a movie”
A popular Hebrew expression meaning “to live in a movie” is often used to describe an improbable, unrealistic or unbelievable person, event or situation.
If the circumstances around the establishment of the “First Knesset” or its composition were not enough to employ this expression, then the setting of its meetings certainly could be, because the first Israeli government met in a movie theater.
Yes, a movie theater…. and one named the “Magic Cinema” no less.
When it opened in 1945, the Kesem (“Magic” in Hebrew) Cinema in Tel Aviv was the city’s most luxurious, boasting more than 1,100 upholstered seats and screening the international blockbusters of its day.
The structure’s life as a cinema, however, was short-lived.
With the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, Kesem was repurposed to serve as headquarters for the Israeli Navy.
In 1949, it became the Parliament building, as the Knesset met there for most of its inaugural year. While it may seem strange for a national legislative body to meet in a movie theater, given the dearth of large assembly halls and the fact that Kesem was relatively new, spacious and centrally located, it actually made a lot of sense for the “Magic Cinema” to host the First Knesset.
In addition to on-going Knesset meetings, Kesem was also the site of a bizarre, nearly successful attempt to assassinate David Ben-Gurion by a deranged kibbutznik shepherd who simply walked into the cinema building with an automatic weapon and a suitcase of pamphlets he had printed outlining his plans to bring world peace.
Israel’s first government didn’t last much longer after that – ending rather abruptly (and absurdly) when Ben-Gurion resigned on October 15, 1950.
The reason?
He wanted to name a new Minister of Commerce and Industry, and according to the rules at the time, appointment of a new minister required that the entire government resign…
That rule was soon fixed, but the next few governments led by Ben-Gurion didn’t last long either. He resigned again in early 1951, yet again in 1952 and once more the following year.
The importance of establishing an initial functional government – no matter how short-lived – cannot be understated. Ben-Gurion and his diverse political allies deserve significant credit for that.
In many respects, that rather strange first government also set the stage for the country’s political landscape to “live in a movie” ever since.
Jerusalem During the War of Independence—Now in Color!
The blockade of Jerusalem began during the first few days of the War of Independence, spreading from the Old City's Jewish Quarter to the rest of Jerusalem. These color photos from 1948 show us what life was like in the city that was cut off from the rest of the country…
Going down to fetch water from the reservoirs during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
It was the early days of Israel’s War of Independence, and Jerusalem was under blockade. The city had been placed under siege many times before. First came the Assyrians, then the Babylonians, followed by the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Muslims, the Crusaders, the Ottomans, and that’s not even a complete list . Yet, this time, things were a bit different. For example, Jerusalem by this time had finally grown beyond the walls of the Old City. Another difference was the existence of the camera.
At first, it was just the Old City’s Jewish Quarter that was cut off from the rest of the city, but very soon, the Arab forces realized that all of Jewish Jerusalem was entirely dependent on the road to Tel Aviv and the coastal plain remaining open – this was the only route for bringing in critical food and supplies. In fact, a November 30th, 1947 attack on a bus traveling from Netanya to Jerusalem is often seen as the opening shot that set off the War of Independence. Later, the situation grew more severe when Jordan’s British-trained Arab Legion force took command of the campaign, following Israel’s declaration of statehood in May 1948. In late May, following a siege of several months, the Jewish Quarter in the Old City finally surrendered to the Jordanian forces, while the blockade of the road leading to Jerusalem remained in place. The convoys that struggled to reach the city (and also the nearby Etzion Bloc), the Israeli military operations which aimed to lift the blockade, the Battle of the Castel and the construction of the alternative “Burma Road” route to the coast—all these remain symbols of the War of Independence to this day.
As fate would have it, a man by the name of Moshe (Marlin) Levin was living in the city during the blockade period of 1947/48. Levin, born and raised in the United States, arrived in Mandatory Palestine with his wife in 1947. He quickly got a job as an assistant editor at the Palestine Post (which eventually became the Jerusalem Post), and later became the newspaper’s Jerusalem correspondent. During the War of Independence, he covered the war for the United Press news agency. Later, he founded and managed the offices of Time-Life Magazine in Israel, and worked there until he retired in the 1990s.
While the battles raged for control of the city and its access roads, Jerusalem’s Jewish residents—numbering nearly one hundred thousand at the time—got on with their daily lives. At least they attempted to keep up some semblance of routine. After all, they had to continue making a living. Levin’s camera gives us an extraordinary glimpse into those moments—and in color!
A Red Cross flag flies over the Terra Sancta building in Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
Most of Levin’s photos from the siege are personal ones: in them, you can see his wife Batya (Betty), and their friends Gershon and Ethel Agron, going about their daily activities during the war. Gershon Agron was the editor-in-chief of the Palestine Post where Levin worked, and later the mayor of Jerusalem. Even someone like Agron had to find ways to make ends meet during the blockade.
Gershon and Ethel Agron during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
For example, in one of the photos, Betty Levin is seen walking with the couple’s housekeeper to fetch water in jugs and buckets—the regular water supply was cut off and people had to ration clean water. Another picture shows the three women carrying home a large water tank, one of many photos in the collection which feature Jerusalem’s residents carrying water in jugs. Water tanks were also installed on roofs in order to collect and store rainwater.
Going down to fetch water from the reservoirs during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelBetty Levin, Ethel Agron and the Agron’s housekeeper carry a jug of water during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelMoshe Marlin Levin carrying a jug of water during the blockade of Jerusalem. The Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelTanks for storing water on Jerusalem’s roofs during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
During the blockade, water shortages were a serious problem, and one picture shows Betty Levin exchanging half a loaf of bread with a monk in return for water. Food was also scarce, and in another photo, Levin holds up a bag of food rations she received. And what were the cooking conditions like during this time? Moshe Levin photographed his wife preparing food on an improvised stove in their backyard.
Half a loaf of bread in exchange for water. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelBetty Levin and a monk. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelBetty Levin cooking on an improvised stove during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelBetty Levin receiving a food rations package during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
The food allotment was not always enough: Moshe Levin also documented people scavenging for food in trashcans, or a beggar sitting on a street corner asking for help from passers-by.
A man searches for food scraps in a trashcan during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelA resident of the Nahlaot neighborhood during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelA beggar during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
And in the midst of all this, daily life continued. Moshe Levin also documented the mundane, whether it was during a period of ceasefire or at other times. He photographed children playing in the street, his wife walking down Jaffa Street, and even nuns walking with parasols on King George Street. Despite everything, life went on.
Children playing during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelChildren on Ben Yehuda Street during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelBetty Levin walking on Jaffa Street during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of IsraelNuns walking on King George Street in Jerusalem during the blockade of Jerusalem. Photo: Moshe Marlin Levin, from the Meitar Collection, the National Library of Israel
All the photos in the article are from the archive of Moshe (Marlin) Levin, part of the Meitar Collection at the National Library of Israel. Moshe Levin’s archive has recently been cataloged, and many more photos are available for viewing on the National Library of Israel website.
It is December 5, 1935, when a young woman from Berlin arrives in Mandatory Palestine.
Equipped with an alert mind, a fair amount of ambition and astonishing energy, she has decided to turn her back on her homeland and build a new life in the ‘Land of the Fathers’. It seems she takes great pleasure in what she finds: in a letter written shortly after her arrival to her friend Eva, who was then exiled in Amsterdam, the young woman effusively describes the purifying and uplifting effect the country has upon her, drawing on the arsenal of Zionist metaphors and images:
“There are also wonderful people here, the country embraces and nurtures them; for many of them it was a complete rebirth, I myself have gone through it in a very intense way. And then: all these young people, suntanned and strong, and a rhythm of work, freedom and hope that is inspiring and quite intoxicating.”
The author of the letter is the German-Jewish musicologist Edith Gerson-Kiwi, remembered today as a pioneer of Israeli musicology; one who made lasting contributions to the field, and connected Israel to the wider world.
Letter from Edith Gerson-Kiwi to Eva Newman, 1936. From the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Estate at the European Center for Jewish Music. Click to enlarge
It was written on September 29, 1936, and is just one of over 6,000 letters being catalogued as part of a research project at the European Center for Jewish Music (ECJM) in Hanover, Germany. They are part of the extensive Gerson-Kiwi Estate, the bulk of which is housed by the ECJM. A smaller number of documents can be found in Israel, including the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Archive at the National Library of in Jerusalem.
It is the earliest known letter written by the young woman after her arrival in Palestine, and reflects that fateful turning point in her story: referring to the life she left behind, while at the same time mapping out the horizons of her future.
From Berlin to Jerusalem
Edith Gerson-Kiwi was born in Berlin in 1908 into an assimilated Jewish family and enjoyed a typical bourgeois upbringing. As a young girl, she attended a humanist Gymnasium (selective high school), and her evident musical talent was nurtured by piano and composition studies at the Sternʼsche Konservatorium, a renowned music academy. After gaining her university entrance qualification, she reads musicology, minoring in philosophy and literary history, at the universities of Freiburg, Heidelberg and Leipzig.
At home in Berlin at the grand piano, 1927. From the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Estate at the European Center for Jewish Music
One searches in vain for a Zionist socialization in this biography. The ‘push factor’ driving this young woman to the Orient is not the idealistic longing for the ‘new Jew’, but rather the increasing anti-Semitic pressure in Germany. The first thing to fall victim to this is her relationship with her non-Jewish fiancé and fellow student Fritz Dietrich (1905–1945): while her parents, after initial hesitation, agree to the match, his parents do not accept her because of her Jewish identity.
The year 1933 finally brings the decisive turning point: while defending her dissertation in Heidelberg on January 30, the day of the transfer of power to Hitler, she hears soldiers and students clashing in the street.
The young musicologist no longer sees a future in Germany.
She goes to Bologna to study paleography and library science. Meanwhile, Fritz Dietrich gains clarity about his future aspirations, deciding in favor of an academic career in Germany and thus against a relationship with a Jewish woman.
A single encounter is all that is needed to prompt Gerson-Kiwi to take a big step: she meets a group of young Zionists from Palestine in the university cafeteria in Bologna and makes a spur-of-the-moment decision to immigrate there.
Many, if not most, Jewish immigrants from Germany who relocated to the Land of Israel after 1933 did not feel at home or even uplifted upon arrival, given that they came as refugees rather than idealists.
While the Land of Israel represented a place of yearning and a Jewish home for the Eastern European Jews, for assimilated German Jews it was an exile.
Yet, Edith Gerson-Kiwi’s encounter with her old-new homeland is thoroughly positive, all the more so since “everything in my personal life suddenly became good once more”: newly arrived in the country, she meets Kurt Gerson, an engineer and architect from Hamburg.
Four months later, they get married.
Just married: Edith Gerson-Kiwi and Kurt Gerson, 1936. From the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Estate at the European Center for Jewish Music
“A Prussian island in an Oriental sea”
“We live in a new garden suburb of Jerusalem that is populated by many German immigrants. […] We have a charming attic apartment on top of a brand-new complex of houses – and a large terrace as well, from where there is an extensive view over the hill country of Judea with its fantastic colors [and] scenery.”
The garden city is Rehavia, Jerusalem’s noble villa district, designed on the model of Berlin’s Grunewald, to which chroniclers such as S.Y. Agnon and Amos Oz have created a literary monument. Built in the 1920s according to plans by German-Jewish architect Richard Kauffmann, this oasis, which was then on the outskirts of the city (though long since swallowed up by the city center), soon became the preferred place of residence for educated people and intellectuals of the German cultural world: professors and staff of the still-young Hebrew University, writers and journalists, doctors, pharmacists and lawyers, cultural workers and civil servants.
Quite a few of them had made their way from Berlin to Jerusalem, where this “Prussian island in the Oriental sea” became their home. Here they cultivated the German way of life and culture to which they were so strongly connected, yet which now had come to an end in Germany itself.
Edith on the terrace of her apartment in Rehavia, 1936. From the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Estate at the European Center for Jewish Music
New paths to a new future
Many Germans succumbed to the feeling of foreignness. Unable to heed the demand for integration, they retreat into their inner circles. Gerson-Kiwi, by contrast, opens herself up to the wealth of new impressions, is inspired by the Zionist spirit of optimism and enchanted by the “completely different atmosphere” of Jerusalem: this “age-old capital of the world” with its “Jews from all over the world, Persian, Bukharic, Yemeni, Moroccan, Samaritans, and others, representatives of all peoples, races, and religions”.
After years of professional and personal hardship and disappointment, she discovers in the Land of Israel new forms and ways of being Jewish.
Shortly after her arrival in Palestine, she meets Robert Lachmann (1892–1939), who also arrived in 1935, and joins him as his assistant. Lachmann, of the Berlin School of Comparative Musicology, has been tasked with the establishment of a phonogram archive for Oriental music in Jerusalem, and introduces Gerson-Kiwi to Middle Eastern musical cultures.
Robert Lachmann with his secretary in Jerusalem, ca. 1936. From the National Library of Israel collection
At the same time, she rediscovers Judaism: the writings of Gershom Scholem bring her, an assimilated Jewish woman of Berlin’s educated bourgeoisie (Bildungsbürgertum), closer to a Judaism in its deeper, mystical form that transcends enlightened, rational thinking, “in a time when I was rather in controversy with the principles of our Jewish religion” (letter to Chanah Milner, June 20, 1972).
She finds and appreciates this mystical form of faith and thought adopted by her new neighbors, the Oriental Jews.
Tirelessly, she devotes herself to documenting, researching and popularizing their “melodic treasure trove” that is in danger of being lost in the modern melting pot that is the Land of Israel. In addition, other musical cultures of the Middle East attract her interest – those of Arabs, Druze, and Oriental Christians. She will make around 10,000 sound recordings during her lifetime, documenting the Land’s polyphonic soundscape.
Edith Gerson-Kiwi, Renaissance woman, becomes a connoisseur of Oriental music.
Invitation for Edith Gerson-Kiwi to come to the residence of Shams Pahlavi, the Shah’s sister, during the International Folk Musik Council conference, held in Tehran on April 6-12, 1961. From the Edith Gerson-Kiwi Estate at the European Center for Jewish Music
Conflicting reality
Rehavia is also characterized by a climate of tolerance towards the Arab population of Palestine, resulting from the German-Jewish immigrants’ own minority experience and the values of liberalism and universalism that Central European Jewry acquired with the emancipation. It is no coincidence that “Brit Shalom” was founded in Rehavia: a short-lived peace alliance (1925–1933), which adopted a moderate position in the Jewish-Arab conflict, respected the Arabs and their territorial claims, and advocated a binational state solution.
Photo of Gershom Scholem, one of many Rehavia-dwelling German-Jewish intellectuals active in the Brit Shalom organization. From the National Library of Israel collection
Edith Gerson-Kiwi shows solidarity with the Arabs throughout her life. As an “old pioneering champion of Jewish-Arab friendship, of peace, and, above all, of intellectual awakening” (letter to Hellmut Federhofer, June 29, 1973), she not only maintains memberships in institutions striving for dialogue and understanding, but also supports Arab musicians and music researchers, committing herself to the dissemination of Arab music through research and teaching.
Already proficient in several European languages, Gerson-Kiwi also learned the Arabic language and script.
And yet, from the very beginning, there was also a downside and a complexity to this new life in the Land of Israel and among its different communities. This complexity is revealed quite starkly as Gerson-Kiwi’s description of the advantages of her living situation in Rehavia transition into acknowledgement of a bitter reality:
“We live here in a quiet and secluded environment; that’s ideal for us, and it’s also a consequence of the unrest. It’s precisely here in and around Jerusalem that the contrasts are particularly stark, because everyone lives cheek by jowl. Almost every night there are gunshots in our area; during the day there are only a few streets in the Jewish ‘center’ where you can move freely, and for more than five months now a curfew has kept everyone at home from 6.30 in the evening. Overall, this is a severe shock and the first big challenge to be faced. But we all believe that we will meet this challenge, because we know what we are fighting for and how much blood has already been shed in this cause.”
The mass influx of Jews, especially after 1933, had triggered the Arab Revolt (April 1936–1939), with insurgents demanding that the British Mandate government stop Jewish immigration, prohibit the transfer of Arab land to the Jews, and establish a national government.
Over the decades, numerous letters written by Gerson-Kiwi tell of how attacks and wars overshadow and restrict her life and work. “It is indeed a bad fate of ours, always to be after or before a war”, she lamented in a 1970 letter to Grace Spofford, a colleague in New York.
Not all the hopes of the early years were fulfilled.
The visions of a better social order and peaceful coexistence with the Arab neighbors turned out to be illusions. Political tensions, economic shortages and inner-Jewish conflicts, Arab uprisings and wars dominated everyday life.
While the 1956/57 Suez Crisis and the 1967 Six-Day War may have brought new, fascinating and promising worlds to light for musical orientalists like Gerson-Kiwi, later catastrophes such as the Yom Kippur War (1973), the Lebanon War (1982) and finally the Intifada (from 1987 onwards) created only horror, helplessness and resignation.
In a 1989 letter to an unknown correspondent, she wrote:
“We still live here in western Rehavia in our peaceful surroundings, but the gates of hell have suddenly been opened, and the killing is taking on new and ever worse forms every day. […] No peace treaty will restore things to how they were…”
In addition, she increasingly realized that her life’s work – the collecting, preserving and spreading of the endangered Jewish Oriental traditions – had become a thing of the past, that it could not withstand the dawning future. “A radical fault line has formed between the generations,” she lamented in a 1976 letter.
Edith Gerson-Kiwi died in Jerusalem in 1992. Fifty years after her immigration, her episteme – born of the never-ending tension between exile and Europe – already belonged to a bygone age, yet many of the themes and sentiments described in her earliest letter endure until this day.
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This article has been published as part of Gesher L’Europa, the National Library of Israel’s initiative to connect with people, institutions and communities across Europe and beyond, through storytelling, knowledge sharing and community engagement.
The Story of the Daring Pilot Zahara Levitov
Zahara Levitov was a Palmach fighter and among the first women to fly planes in the newly established IDF, but her service was cut short by a tragic crash
It was a dark night. The force descended the slope and approached their objective. They had already caught a glimpse of the operation’s target, the A’Ziv (Achziv) Bridge —but just as they spotted it, they too were detected and immediately fired upon. An incoming bullet apparently set off the explosives they were carrying to blow up the target. The result was dire: 14 Palmach fighters were killed.
About forty people, including a female soldier named Zahara Levitov, took part in the failed strike. It was just one of eleven similar actions carried out on what became known as the “Night of the Bridges”, an operation by the Haganah’s elite Palmach force which targeted strategic bridges and transportation routes used by the British Mandate authorities. Zahara sustained an eye injury in the explosion, but she managed to reach the nearby Kibbutz Matzuva. There, disguised as one of the children, she hid from the British forces in the children’s dormitory. The caregiver at the scene told the police they could not see her because she had a dangerous illness. The ruse worked, and although her injury was substantial, the British did not arrest her.
Zahara Levitov, courtesy of the Palmach Archive
Zahara was not even 19 years old when she took part in the daring “Night of the Bridges” operation. She was born in Tel Aviv in 1927, the youngest of three siblings. She spent her early childhood in Kibbutz Kiryat Anavim, before returning with her family to Tel Aviv at the age of nine. While studying at the New High School in Tel Aviv, Zahara joined the Haganah and began her underground activities.
In the second year of Zahara’s service in the Palmach, she became a squad commander, teaching trainees at Ein Harod. There she also fell in love with Shmuel (Shmulik) Kaufman. Their romance became the basis of Devorah Omer’s best-selling book Until Death Do Us Part (Leʹehov Ad Mavet). The book is based, among other things, on the many letters they wrote to each other, which showed the young couple’s flair for writing. Shmulik, who was considered gifted, had planned to travel to the United States with Zahara in 1947. He was to study economics and she would study medicine.
Zahara and Shmulik, courtesy of the Palmach Archive
Shmulik’s Palmach commanders tried to persuade him to stay in Israel due to the tense security situation, but in the end, after meeting with Yigal Alon, the head of the Palmach, Shmulik obtained his release permit. He asked Zahara to leave for Jerusalem right away, but she insisted they stay at the kibbutz for a few more days and organize a farewell party. Two days later, Shmulik was asked to help in grenade training at a neighboring kibbutz. A defective grenade exploded and Shmulik, not yet twenty, was killed, along with two other trainees.
After several months, the broken-hearted Zahara traveled to the United States to begin medical school. She excelled in her studies and received a letter of recommendation that allowed her to transfer to Columbia University in New York. All the while, she continued writing letters to her beloved Shmulik, who was no longer among the living.
Zahara Levitov (at left). Courtesy of the Palmach Archive
The news from Israel, and in particular the news about the fall of the Convoy of 35 during the War of Independence, many of whose members were friends and acquaintances, shocked Zahara. She left her studies and signed up for a pilot’s course that was being organized in California—she was one of only two women in the course. She completed it with distinction and returned to Israel as a licensed pilot. Her squadron was stationed at Tel Aviv’s Sde Dov airfield and she was soon appointed deputy commander. She embarked on long solo flights to keep in touch with isolated settlements whose only access was by air. She even set out on her first leave vacation by plane. Zahara flew to Jerusalem to meet with Shmulik’s father in order to prepare a memorial book about her beloved. She was scheduled to fly back to Tel Aviv on August 3rd, 1948, with pilot Emanuel Rothstein, but a malfunction caused the plane to crash in Jerusalem’s Valley of the Cross, killing both pilots. Zahara was just twenty years old.
Zahara in the cockpit. Courtesy of the Palmach Archive
At the time, the sisters Ruth and Reuma Schwartz (who would go on to marry Moshe Dayan and Ezer Weizman, respectively) were at their parents’ house in the Rehavia neighborhood, situated on the slopes of the valley. Ruth saw the plane crash from the kitchen window and she hurried with Reuma to the scene. In an interview with the newspaper Israel Hayom, she told about what she saw: “We arrived at the site and what I saw I will never forget. It was terrible. The two bodies were intact and lying next to the broken plane. Zahara was so beautiful. I do not remember him, but she—her black hair fell around her face. She had on a red shirt and a green skirt and she was lying there—whole, but still. What could we do? We opened the back doors of the car and loaded the bodies into the car with the feet sticking out and made our way up to the road. An ambulance took them from there.”
Zahara next to an IDF plane. Courtesy of the Palmach Archive
The tragic story of the young Zahara and Shmulik has been immortalized in a number of Hebrew books and plays. In the early years of the State of Israel, her story was a source of inspiration, and many girls were named after her. Zahara’s mother used to send a sweater to mothers who had named their daughter Zahara after her own. Over the years, the Israeli Air Force has also contributed to her commemoration as an iconic figure in Israeli history. Today, after many years of women not being able to serve as Air Force pilots in Israel, this possibility is now open to them once again.
