In Memory: Ezra P. Gorodesky, Peerless Friend for Six Decades

"If God gave me the power to build a collection with little money, who am I to sell it?"

"It’s kind of a chutzpah not to donate something the Library doesn’t have." (Photo: Aviad Stollman)

Ezra Gorodesky, who passed away on January 10, 2021, was a peerless and devoted friend of the National Library for some six decades. In 2017, I was privileged to have the opportunity to interview Ezra and hear about his life’s journey and life’s work, in his words. The following article is based on that interview.

May his memory and his legacy be a blessing.

—

It was hard not to be charmed by Ezra Gorodesky, the understated star of multiple video clips and newspaper articles. Into his 90s, he remained spry with a sly sense of humor.

“I have a very rare disease” – he would announce dramatically and pause – “it’s collecting. And I thought if I’d give my collection to the Library it would be a cure and I wouldn’t need to collect anymore. But interestingly, the next day I bought a book. So I guess there’s just no cure.”

Ezra during one of his regular visits to the National Library (Photo: Aviad Stollman)

Ezra began collecting as a 10-year-old boy in Philadelphia, starting with miniature books and then branching out to ABC and Alef-Bet primers, synagogue dedication booklets, and unusual prayers, including ones composed for Napoleon and Montefiore. In later years he developed sizeable collections of tea tins, books, and paraphernalia, and buttons. The latter collection is now housed at the Shenkar College of Engineering, Design, and Art.

Ezra was a Zionist from an even younger age. When he was two years old he fell in love with picture books of the Land of Israel. The first exhibits of his collections – haggadot and miniature books – were put on display at the Philadelphia Free Library in 1957.

In 1960, Ezra came to Israel for a first visit and stayed, settling in Jerusalem and renouncing his American citizenship. The National Library of Israel’s current home on the Givat Ram campus was completed later that year, and Ezra has been a dedicated friend of the Library through the many years since.

The Jewish National and University Library (now the National Library of Israel), ca. 1960. From the National Library of Israel archives

Until the closures caused by the pandemic, Ezra would come to the Library at least every couple of weeks “just to look at the Ardon Windows.” He personally knew all of the Library directors and often declared the need for the creation of an official national library, when today’s National Library of Israel was known as the “Jewish National and University Library”, and had a significantly less extensive mandate than it does today:

I’ve always said things; sometimes they come true, sometimes they don’t. This one came true. Every nation has a national collection and a national library. We lost many books because there was no national depository. Things were sold to bookstores. Researchers and collectors took books.

Ezra was especially known for a very unusual science he developed to perfection – the purchasing of old books and the taking apart of their bindings to reveal manuscript fragments within. In 16^th-18^th century Europe, paper and parchment from existing books (including countless Jewish books confiscated by the Church) were often used for the binding of new ones, creating a hidden trove or, some might say, a genizah of Hebrew-Jewish texts.

Through this method, Ezra discovered and brought to life over 200 fragments that otherwise would never have been known to the world, some extremely rare and extremely valuable.

The cover of “Revealed Treasures: From the Ezra P. Gorodesky Collection in the J.N.U.L.” featuring an image of Ezra inspecting a book binding

In the late 1980s Ezra decided that his collection of manuscript fragments, along with unique Jewish publications and ephemera, needed a permanent home where it would be accessible to the public. Nobody yet knew the treasures it contained:

When I decided to give my collection to the National Library I came in and spoke to the director. He said, ‘Maybe you just want to keep your collection.’ So I went to Rafi Veiser and Rivka Pleser in the Manuscripts and Archives Department. They said, ‘Bring in 30 pieces, and we’ll pick out what we want to keep.’ The next week I brought in 50 pieces, and they took them all. This went on week after week. Of well over 900 pieces I brought to the Library, they turned down two. Also, they told me in advance, ‘Just know, there will not be an exhibition or a catalogue.’

Some 30 years later, Ezra’s collection has been the focus of three NLI exhibitions and a catalogue, “Revealed Treasures from the Ezra P. Gorodesky Collection in the J.N.U.L.,” published in 1989. The 2012 International Jewish Curators Conference at the National Library featured a dinner honoring Ezra for his contributions.

Ezra at the International Jewish Curators Conference (Photo: Hanan Cohen)

Over the years, Ezra donated other treasures, including a collection of 1,300 family photographs and an antique original printing press from 1860s England, which has long been on permanent display in the National Library lobby. Years earlier, in 1966, he entrusted the personal archives of his dear friend, Rebecca Affachiner, to the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (CAHJP), which is now part of the National Library of Israel. One of Ezra’s prized possessions was the handmade Israeli flag Affachiner flew on May 14, 1948, which earned her the title of “Israel’s Betsy Ross”. The flag was donated to Ben-Gurion University of the Negev a few years ago.

Many of the pieces Ezra collected and donated to the Library were worth considerable sums of money, but he never asked for even a shekel for any of it. When people expressed amazement at his generosity to the Library he replied:

If God gave me the power to build a collection with little money, who am I to sell it? It’s kind of a chutzpah not to donate something the Library doesn’t have. I’m not a hero, I’m a Gorodesky. I was raised to do the right thing… I think it’s an honor that the Library was big enough to take a little nobody’s collection and build it up.

Celebrating Silvester, AKA the Secular New Year, in Israel

You can’t keep a good excuse for a party down. From the time the British introduced the Gregorian calendar, Israelis have celebrated New Year’s Eve.

Rachel Neiman | 30.12.20

History of Israel posters

Street posters from the 1960s to 1980s advertising “Silvester” New Year’s Eve parties that featured popular entertainers. The National Library of Israel collections

Nonetheless, the Gregorian calendar was adopted for civil use with the British conquest of the Ottoman Empire, on March 1, 1917, and the beginning of the year reset to January 1 in 1918.

In the first decade of the British Mandate, the local Orthodox Christian population marked the new year according to the Julian calendar in mid-January, Muslims celebrated the new year in summer, and the Jewish population honored Rosh Hashana in early fall.

Establishments like Haifa’s Café Vienna promised dancing till dawn on New Year’s Eve. The National Library of Israel collections

British Army soldiers stationed in the region had their big blow-outs at Christmas (see “Biscuits, bully beef and beer”), but by the mid-1920s, with British officialdom firmly in place, New Year’s Eve celebrations were organized. In 1927, several wives of British bureaucrats based in Jerusalem are recorded as having held a dinner party followed by a ball on New Year’s Eve.

Owen M. Tweedy, Public Information Officer for the British Government in Jerusalem, at a New Year’s Eve party in 1941 with his staff and the Turkish Consul General and family. Photo from the Matson Photograph Collection/American Colony Photo Service, US Library of Congress

The Jewish population of pre-state Israel in the 1930s didn’t celebrate the Gregorian New Year, and instead embraced Hanukkah as its winter celebration.

Advertisements for New Year’s Eve celebrations, even if they were held at the Jewish-owned Mugrabi Theater in Tel Aviv, were targeted to English and Arabic speakers. The Jewish population announced its mid-December Hanukkah balls in Hebrew.

Posters from Hanukkah and New Year’s balls in pre-state Israel. The National Library of Israel collections

This article was originally published on the Israel21c website, read the rest of it here.

Hannah Senesh’s Last Note

“Dear mother, I don’t know what to tell you. I will only say this: A thousand thanks and more, and forgive me, if you can…"

Amit Naor | 30.11.20

Hannah Senesh Hannah Szenes Hebrew Poetry Israeli Culture

From the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

Anyone who even casually follows the course of Hannah Senesh’s life quickly discovers her biography’s common thread: Hannah Senesh (often spelled Szenes) never stopped writing. Even before she learned to write herself, she composed poems and stories. When she was a teenager, she was accepted to the literary council of her prestigious school (though she was forced her to give up her place due to antisemitism). From the moment she arrived in Mandatory Palestine, she wrote—first in Hungarian and then, very quickly, in Hebrew as well. She even continued writing when she returned to European soil, after embarking on the parachute mission from which she never returned.

In fact, Senesh continued writing until her final moments. She even wrote a poem while being held in her prison cell. The Senesh Family Archive at the National Library of Israel, however, preserves the very last lines she wrote in her lifetime. Following her execution, a tiny, brief note was found in her dress, written in Hungarian. It was addressed to her mother Katherine, as Hannah, who never stopped writing her whole life, finally chose to emphasize the value of silence:

Dear mother, I don’t know what to tell you. I will only say this: A thousand thanks and more, and forgive me, if you can. After all, you will understand, better than anyone else, that words are not necessary now. With great love, your daughter.

This note is now part of Senesh Family Archive at the National Library of Israel.

The last note written by Hannah Senesh. It was found in her dress following her execution. The Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

This was not the only note or letter that Hannah wrote while in Europe. Senesh left Palestine in January 1944. In March, she was flown to Italy, and shortly afterwards parachuted into Yugoslavia, into the heart of enemy territory. She wandered among the local partisan forces for about three months, waiting for an opportunity to continue her mission and infiltrate the country of her birth, Hungary. At the beginning of June 1944, the mission commanders thought the time had come—but Senesh was captured the same day, shortly after crossing the border. Charged with espionage, she spent the final five months of her life, until her execution, in prison.

Hannah Senesh at the Nahalal Agricultural School for Girls, the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

Over the years, stories have surfaced about what she managed to write during her months with the partisans and even during her imprisonment. One of these is the story of “Blessed Is the Match”, one of Senesh’s best-known poems. Senesh passed the note on which she wrote the four-line poem to her comrade Reuven Dafni, just before crossing into Hungary. Dafni recounted how she asked him to take the note in case she didn’t return from the mission, and how he threw it away, saying there was no chance she would not return. Fortunately, he went back to retrieve it. How exactly it made its way to Israel we do not know, but this is one of her last poems. The original note in Senesh’s handwriting is held at Kibbutz Lohamei Hageta’ot.

The original handwritten Hebrew manuscript of “Blessed is the Match” (*Ashrei HaGafrur*), by Hannah Senesh

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.

Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honor’s sake.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

In November 2020, the Senesh family decided to deposit the Hannah Senesh Collection in the National Library of Israel. The collection includes several more notes and letters that Senesh wrote after leaving the country for her dangerous mission. Among these are two notes Senesh sent to her mother Katherine and her brother Giora (George) on March 13^th, 1944, two days before her jump. The two small notes were written in pencil in Hungarian. Senesh wrote to her mother, who was still in Budapest at the time:

My dear mother, in a few days I will be so close to you, yet at once also far away. Please forgive me and try to understand me. A million hugs. Anna.

She wrote the date at the bottom. On the back she wrote in Hebrew “To mother” and signed with her codename, Hagar.

The note Hannah Senesh wrote to her mother Katherine, mere days before her parachute jump, the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

These notes, along with other letters sent by Senesh during her time in Europe, form a sort of path by which we can trace the events of her final days, during her dangerous mission in Europe. Brief regards, a plea for forgiveness, even poems – Hannah Senesh wrote all of these during the last months of her life, until the very last moment.

The materials above are part of the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

The Emotional Reunion With Hannah Senesh’s Notebook

In the 1950s, Katherine Senesh donated four pages containing poems handwritten by her paratrooper daughter to the National Library. Now, with the deposit of the full Hannah Senesh Collection, these pages will be reunited with the notebook from which they originally came

Amit Naor | 30.11.20

Hannah Senesh Hannah Szenes Hebrew Poetry Israeli Culture Newspapers

Hannah Senesh, with the first poem in her notebook in the background, from the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

In the early 1950s, Katherine Senesh, the mother of the famous paratrooper and poet Hannah Senesh (often spelled Szenes), entrusted a number of documents from her daughter’s estate to the National Library of Israel. Among these were some of her letters: a few she sent to her mother while attending the agricultural school in Nahalal, a letter she sent to her brother while she was with the partisans in the Balkans, and a letter she sent to her friend. There was also a collection of typed poems she had written in Hungarian, as well as four handwritten poems in Hebrew.

The four handwritten poems can be viewed on the National Library website, here. All were written during 1941 in various places linked to Senesh’s life in pre-state Israel: Nahalal, Kibbutz Sdot Yam, of which she was a founding member, and Ginosar. With their donation to the National Library, they joined the Schwadron Collection, which collects portraits and autograph samples of many personalities.

The upper corners of the handwritten pages are numbered, and the pages look as though they have been torn from a notebook, which they were. Now, we can finally tell the complete story of these pages.

The handwritten text of Hannah Senesh’s Hebrew poem *Lamut?* (“To Die?”), donated to the National Library by her mother. From the Schwadron Autograph Collection at the National Library of Israel

Hannah Senesh was born into a home where writing was an integral part of family life, and she herself began writing at a very young age. She wrote first in her mother tongue, Hungarian. After arriving in Mandatory Palestine, she began to learn Hebrew and very quickly mastered writing in that language as well. She wrote constantly and kept a diary for years. As is well known, she wrote her poems in secret, with all of them being published posthumously.

Just before embarking on the parachute mission from which she did not return, Senesh copied her poems neatly into a notebook with numbered pages. She titled the notebook Lelo Safa (“Without Language”) though most of the poems were in Hebrew, and signed it with her underground codename, Hagar. She gave this notebook to her close friend and classmate at the Nahalal Agricultural School for Girls, Miriam Yitzhak. On the first page, she added a dedication: “To Miriam Yitzhak, my first and dearest reader and critic, in true friendship, Hannah.”

“To Miriam Yitzhak, my first and dearest reader and critic, in true friendship, Hannah.” Hannah Senesh’s handwritten Hebrew dedication to her friend, Miriam Yitzhak, from the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

When Katherine Senesh arrived in Israel and began collecting poems and letters for the commemoration of her daughter, she asked Miriam, who had kept the treasured notebook, to send her some poems in Hannah’s handwriting. In a letter Katherine wrote to Abraham Schwadron, she mentioned Miriam’s qualms about tearing pages from the notebook: “This time I am sending the poems I promised, the ones that Hannah’s friend, after much hesitation, was willing to tear from the notebook.” This was how the pages reached the archives of the National Library of Israel. Now, decades later, the torn pages have finally been reunited with the complete notebook.

After Miriam Yitzhak’s death, the notebook passed into the possession of Eitan Senesh, Hannah’s nephew, who for years managed, cataloged and maintained the Hannah Senesh collection. In November 2020, when the family decided to deposit the entire Hannah Senesh Collection with the National Library, Eitan confessed that he asked himself many times what had happened to those missing pages – numbered 7, 8, 11 and 12 in Hannah’s handwriting. Eitan did not know that his grandmother, Katherine, had already handed them over to the National Library seventy years earlier, into Abraham Schwadron’s trustworthy hands. Now, the lost pages are finally reunited with the original notebook, from where they were torn. Along with the notebook, dozens of other items from Senesh’s estate were deposited with the Library, among them her typewriter, camera, certificates, documents from Hungary, letters and photographs.

Two poems from Hannah Senesh’s handwritten notebook. The missing pages are noticeable, as the page on the right is numbered “10”, and the one on the left is numbered “13”. Pages 11 and 12 are among those that were torn out in the 1950s and donated to the National Library. From the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen

With this donation, the National Library’s Archives Department now faces a professional dilemma, whether to physically reattach the torn pages to Hannah Senesh’s original notebook, or leave them as separate items in the Abraham Schwadron Autograph Collection. Matan Barzilai, who heads the Archives Department, hesitated but finally made an unconventional decision: “Although there is no doubt that the pages were torn [from the notebook], and that it is our job to reflect the work as it was originally, in this case I am inclined to leave things as they are. Hannah Senesh’s story did not end in 1944. The archive also reflects the commemoration process and the creation of the legacy surrounding her figure. Katherine’s frank deliberation, her communications with Schwadron and the tearing of the poems [from the notebook], for example—all offer an authentic glimpse of the culture of remembrance in the first years of the state, of Katherine’s involvement in her daughter’s commemoration, and the attitude of librarians in those days regarding the preservation of the original work. Therefore, despite the dilemma, I think we will keep the pages out of the notebook, and leave them were they have been for the past seventy years.”

The materials above are part of the Senesh Family Archive, with thanks to Ori and Mirit Eisen