The Goldziher Library: A Scholarly Treasure Revealed

A monumental collection containing books, manuscripts, papers and letters belonging to Ignaz Goldziher, the esteemed Hungarian-Jewish scholar of Islam, has now been fully cataloged - a century after its arrival at the National Library of Israel.

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Ignaz Goldziher, the esteemed Hungarian-Jewish scholar of Islam, photographed in his youth. The Abraham Schwadron Portrait Collection at the National Library of Israel

During the Sukkot holidays in 1924—just a little more than a century ago—Jerusalem’s elite gathered at the Midrash Abarbanel Library, as the National Library of Israel was then known, for an uncommon celebration. Local Jewish, Muslim, and Christian notables, foreign diplomats, Zionist leaders, and British Mandate officials met to mark the opening of the Goldziher library to the public. As the name suggests, the library contained the personal research collection of the late leading European scholar of Arabic and Islam, Ignaz Goldziher. Purchased by the Zionist movement from Goldziher’s family after the Jewish-Hungarian scholar’s death in 1921, the 6,000 volumes had been shipped from Budapest to Jerusalem months before. Now, the collection was finally on display in a four-room annex, rented just for that purpose, adjoining the existing library building in the city center.

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A section of the Goldziher Library, photographed shortly after its arrival at the Midrash Abarbanel Library, as the NLl was once known, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Chaim Weizmann, president of the World Zionist Organization, Judah Magnes, soon to be appointed chancellor of the Hebrew University, and others addressed the assembled notables emphasizing how in the Goldziher library “scholars from all the races and religions of the Land of Israel would meet in a collective effort.” Goldziher’s few thousand books served as the foundation for the more than half a million volumes that make up the Islam and Middle East Collection of the National Library of Israel today.

That Jerusalem celebration capped years of intense effort. Zionist leaders in London had fought hard to buy Goldziher’s library when it was put up for sale, beating out competing bids from leading universities in Europe, America, and even as far away as Japan. Goldziher was one of the founders of the European academic study of Islam, renowned within his own lifetime, and his works are still considered essential to this day. As a world-famous Hungarian scholar, securing the permit to remove Goldziher’s books from the country required the intervention of the British embassy in Budapest, and only a last-minute transfer of funds convinced the scholar’s widow, Laura, to finally allow the books to leave.

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“The Jewish ladies of Rhodesia paid part of the cost of the Golziher-Library” – A plaque in the Hebrew University’s Wolfson building, one of the former homes of the NLI, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

This successful acquisition was a major coup for the growing Jerusalem library, as well as for the Hebrew University, which opened a year later in 1925. Over the course of decades, Goldziher had slowly built up his collection of Arabic, Persian, and Turkish books and manuscripts, as well as scholarly publications on Islam. This process began with an extended study and book-buying tour through the Middle East in 1873. Alongside essential works on the Qur’an, hadith, and Islamic law, literature, theology, and mysticism, Goldziher’s library also contained numerous titles on Jews and Judaism—observant throughout his life, he had served for many years as secretary of the Budapest Jewish community—philosophy, travel literature, Classics, and other topics. No private collection in Europe, and only a handful of university or public libraries, could rival the breadth and importance of Goldziher’s collection.

Goldziher made annotations, mostly in German and Arabic, in the margins of many of his books, and these notes only increased the collection’s value. It was hoped that access to his marginal corrections and private musings would be almost as instructive as having the great scholar himself at hand.

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Ignaz Goldziher, pictured with his two sons, circa the 1890s. The Abraham Schwadron Portrait Collection at the National Library of Israel

Alongside his library, Goldziher also preserved in his home in Budapest a voluminous archive of correspondence. Over the course of decades, he had exchanged letters, on topics scholarly and profane, with European students of Arabic and Islam, Muslim thinkers and theologians, Jewish scholars and writers, and other admirers. All told, Goldziher received and preserved more than 13,500 letters from 1,650 individuals in eleven languages. According to his wishes, this epistolary archive was bequeathed to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest. Now digitally available through a dedicated website, Goldziher’s letters are an invaluable primary source for understanding not only his own life but a whole period in the history of Hungarian Jewry and in the European engagement with and study of the Muslim world.

Even though Goldziher’s correspondence and other archival materials were meant to remain in Budapest, in 1924, when the librarians in Jerusalem opened the shipping crates and began to catalog Goldziher’s books, they discovered a surprise. Letters, notes, and memoranda were found in many volumes. While some were clearly meant to serve as additional space for commentary and reflection on an author’s argument—a kind of extension of a book’s margins—others had apparently been stuck between the pages and forgotten.

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The Goldziher Library photographed at the NLI’s former home in the Hebrew University’s Wolfson building, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Dutifully, the librarians, chief among them David Hartwig Baneth, the Berlin-born Arabist and future director of the National Library, removed the letters and other papers from the volumes, placing them in envelopes on which were written the books’ new call numbers. These envelopes bear the Library’s name, but not in Hebrew. Instead, they are stamped with the German title Jüdische Nationalbibliothek – a sign of the institution’s European identity at the time. These envelopes, as well as offprints of articles and other documents that did not fit inside them, were then set aside to be dealt with later.

However, as is sometimes the case in the history of libraries, this “later” turned out to be not next week, next month, nor even next year, but almost a century. It was only this year, 2024, that the Goldziher archive at the National Library of Israel was finally catalogued.

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Goldziher’s notes and emendations in Arabic and German on a manuscript of Abu Hatim al-Sijistani’s News of the Aged (Akhbar al-mu’ammarin), copied in Cairo in 1892, Ms. Ar. 2. Photograph by Ardon Bar Hama. From the collections of the National Library of Israel, Project “Warraq”.

After first having been reviewed by Sabine Schmidtke of the Princeton Institute for Advanced Studies—and with the Institute’s financial support—Goldziher’s archive was cataloged by Kinga Dévényi of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Dévényi spent two intensive weeks in the NLI’s Special Collections Reading Hall deciphering Hungarian asides and Arabic notations. The former curator of the Goldziher collection in Budapest, she is also the co-editor, along with Hans-Jürgen Becker, Sebastian Günther, and Schmidtke, of the recent book Building Bridges: Ignaz Goldziher and His Correspondents (Brill, 2024).

The fruits of her labors include a brief Hebrew-language summary of Mamonides’ epochal philosophical treatise The Guide for the Perplexed, written when Goldziher was only seventeen; notes for a planned article on Abu Mahdhura al-Jumahi (d. 678), an early convert to Islam and companion of the Prophet Muhammad who was responsible for calling the faithful to prayer in Mecca; an invitation to attend a public lecture by the American-Jewish Orientalist Richard Gottheil in Cairo on February 24, 1905, and more. Notably, among the printed items, she identified several reviews of Goldziher’s publications, a reflection of his well-known practice of collecting critiques of his work.

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Ignaz Goldziher, the Abraham Schwadron Portrait Collection at the National Library of Israel

In cataloging the Goldziher archival material, Dévényi applied the expertise developed during her previous work with the Hungarian Academy of Sciences collection. The archive contains a diverse array of both handwritten and printed materials. The often-brittle papers, frequently consisting of loose pages, had inevitably become mixed up over the past hundred years. Therefore, her initial task was to carefully sort the material, determining which pieces belonged together. She then separated the handwritten materials from the printed ones and tried to group the documents thematically. Given the special significance of the items, she cataloged each piece individually, ensuring careful attention to detail. She took measurements and counted the folios where relevant, especially for manuscripts and other unique documents.

After the Goldziher papers in Jerusalem are scanned, we hope that they can be digitally reunited with the much larger archive in Budapest, allowing scholars and students to benefit from new perspectives on Goldziher’s life and work.

Why Did Hitler Want a Jewish Delegation at the 1936 Nazi Olympics?

The 1936 Olympics in Berlin were an international event which Hitler used as an awesome spectacle. He wanted to show off Aryan Germany rising from the ashes, with its crowds giving the Nazi salute and shouting "sieg heil". Yet still, Jewish athletes participated in competitions, and a delegation was even invited from Mandatory Palestine, which would be allowed to march under the Jewish flag. How did the Nazis attempt to legitimize the 1936 Olympics? What did the Germans really want? And how was the Nazi invitation received back home in the Land of Israel?

Hitler arriving at the opening of the Berlin Olympics, 1936. German Federal Archive

Two flags wave in the gentle breeze blowing over the heads of the masses occupying the streets of Berlin. The crowds are happy and excited to be witnessing the upcoming events. Does the combination of symbols hovering above even bother them in the least? Are any of them terrified to see the famous five Olympic rings hanging alongside the Nazi swastika?

Berlin, 1936.

Almost five years earlier, the German capital had been chosen to host the Olympic games of 1936. The decision was a sort of peace offering by the European countries to their defeated, proud neighbor, humbled at their hands during the First World War. The year was 1931, and although the Nazi party had already gained substantial power in Germany, few saw what was coming.

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The streets of Berlin adorned for the Olympic games, 1936. Press photo Gmbh

By 1936, everything looked very different. Germany was now under Nazi control, and Nazi racial doctrine was no longer just a terrifying theoretical premise but governmental policy. Concentration camps were established, racial laws passed, signs reading “No Jews and Dogs” were hung in store windows. Jewish blood was made forfeit and Jews were excluded from the public sphere as a whole – this of course included all official sports teams, organizations and arenas.

According to the Nuremberg Laws passed a year earlier, a Jew could not be a German citizen, which naturally meant that they could not represent Germany in any sort of tournament.

The more rumors spread about Hitler’s Germany, the louder the calls became, especially in the United States, to move the Olympics to another country or at least to boycott this round of games.

For a brief moment, Hitler agreed: He at first thought hosting the Olympics was a bad idea, one which did not align with the fascist ideology he created. How could Germany allow impure races on its soil? How could Nazi Germany afford to allow competitions where Aryan athletes, with their blond hair and blue eyes, might find themselves defeated by “subhuman” Blacks, Jews, or homosexuals?

But Minister of Propaganda Josef Goebbels, the man who would embrace anything so long as it served the Nazi interest, convinced Hitler to change his mind. The Olympics could be a golden opportunity to prove to the western world that Germany was a state that could be trusted, an enlightened state which was being smeared with lies and falsehoods. A state which the free countries of the world could happily let control the enormous “living spaces” of Eastern Europe in place of the hated communists.

The Germans hit the ground running. They planned and erected the most glorious Olympic village yet seen in the history of the modern Olympic games, renovating and building installations for the various competitions at an unprecedented level, with the crown jewel being the main Olympic Stadium which contained 110,000 seats.

Alongside these efforts, they worked hard to convince the world, and especially the United States, not to boycott the coming event. The American delegation was the largest and most important in the world; if it boycotted the Olympics or worse – decided on an alternate tournament – all the German efforts would be in vain.

The Nazi propaganda machine, which was already well-oiled and becoming ever more sophisticated, began working on a plan which included three main elements: “cleaning” the city of Berlin from inconvenient signs of repression, choosing a German representative with Jewish blood to take part in the games, and most blatantly of all – inviting an Olympic delegation from the Land of Israel to take part in the competition alongside the other countries of the world.

The man invited to see this “clean” and “renewed” Berlin for himself was the President of the American Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage. Brundage was not a particularly hard nut to crack for the Nazis, as he was one of the greatest opponents of the American boycott effort, and did not hesitate to state that Jewish complaints were intentionally exaggerated and that the boycott effort was an attempt to undermine the global Olympic spirit.

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An ad for the Berlin Olympics. Courtesy of the University of Illinois

Although their audience was a captive one, the Nazis still left nothing to chance. There would be little opportunity for journalists to stumble upon stories that might damage the Nazi cause. All signs prohibiting Jews from public places were removed. The Nazi daily Der Stürmer was suddenly unavailable at newsstands. The Hitler Youth were ordered not to sing their racist songs for the duration of the games. Homosexual bars and clubs which had been shut down were allowed to reopen, and the police were instructed not to harm Jews, gypsies, or homosexuals in public places.

None of this was the result of any real soul-searching or permanent change of policy, of course. Outside of Berlin, where the world wasn’t watching, things continued very much as usual. Dachau and other concentration camps continued to brutally enslave Jews, gypsies and others who “polluted” the pure Aryan realm, subjecting them to torture and murder. But the city of Berlin, in a chilling prelude to a similar façade that would be created in the ghetto of Theresienstadt – took on a mantle of tolerance and equality for a few very brief moments.

Brundage returned to America and declared that the Jews were in an entirely tolerable state in Germany and all the calls for boycotts were needless.

This was the signal for the next stages of Goebbels’ plan.

Helene Mayer was Hitler’s Jewish fig leaf. At first, Hitler threatened to cancel the Olympics if any Jew represented Germany, but then the German Olympic Committee presented the talented fencer, who was half-Jewish and a bona fide star athlete. At the 1928 Olympics, she had won the gold medal, and though she did not win any medals at the 1932 Olympics, she was still greatly admired.

The most important detail in her favor? She wasn’t “really” Jewish; only her father was. Her mother was Aryan and she herself lived a life free of any sign of Jewishness, including public declarations disavowing any Jewish identity. The cherry on top was her appearance: She looked like the perfect Aryan – blonde, tall, and green eyed. She was the epitome of what an ideal German woman should look like under the Nazi regime.

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Helene Mayer gives the Nazi salute on the podium at the Berlin Olympics

Hitler approved her as the representative, and even allowed the existence of a “training camp” for Jewish athletes – none of whom were actually allowed to represent the country.

After the public areas of Berlin were sufficiently cleansed and the German delegation had its impressive fig leaf athlete, the time came for the third phase of the plan.

To round out the picture, Goebbels needed to bring a truly Jewish delegation to the Olympics to show off to the world.

The Palestine National Olympic Committee was formed in 1933, the year the Nazis rose to power. Its rules stated that it “represent[ed] the Jewish National Home”. A year later, it was recognized by the International Olympic Committee, and by 1935 it was accepted as a partner with full rights.

Many questions loomed over this achievement: How could a body not even representing a sovereign and independent state be allowed to join this prestigious club, and why now? Did the Nazi regime, so desperate to show off its hosting of a majority Jewish delegation, competing under the Jewish flag, have anything to do with it?

Either way, an official request that the Palestine National Olympic Committee participate in the Berlin Olympics was placed on the desk of Frederick Kisch, chairman of the committee.

The request was sent through diplomatic channels – Dr. Theodor Lewald, President of the Organizing Committee in Berlin, sent the request to Dr. Heinrich Wolf, Nazi Germany’s General Consul in Jerusalem. It may sound very strange today, but until 1939, a Nazi consulate operated in Jerusalem, located downtown in the Hotel Fast. Wolf himself was no enthusiastic Nazi, to say the least, and he refused at first to raise the Nazi flag at the consulate. He was however ultimately forced to fall in line.

When Wolf received the invitation, he was very blunt with Lewald: There was no chance Jews would be allowed to participate in the Berlin Olympics, “and I don’t think there’s any need to explain the motives to you,” he said in his letter.

In the meantime, Hebrew language papers in the Land of Israel and around the world began to report on these negotiations, and a public outcry emerged. Serious complaints were made against Kisch for not summarily rejecting the request.

Only after the publication of the Nuremberg Laws the following year did Kisch officially refuse in the name of the Olympic Committee, with an unconvincing explanation put forward – that the athletes were not yet ready to compete in the Olympics.

Kisch felt a complete and blunt rejection of the proposal would jeopardize the safety of German Jews, but Jews both at home and abroad were not impressed.

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Col. Kisch Playing Politics” – The contemporary Hebrew press was highly critical of Olympic Committee chairman Kisch and his communications with the Nazi regime concerning the Berlin Olympics. Article in Hazit Ha’am, 1934. From the Historical Jewish Press Collection, the National Library of Israel

On August 1, 1936, the Berlin Olympic games officially began. Tens of thousands of onlookers screamed “sieg heil!” in unison when Hitler made his entrance Olympic Stadium. Spyridon Louis, the Greek marathon runner who won a gold medal at the Athens Olympics, the first modern Olympic tournament, presented the Fuehrer with an olive branch. Members of the Austrian delegation and other European delegations gave the Nazi salute when they passed by him. The members of the American delegation settled for removing their hats as an honorific gesture which they would later claim was “minimal.”

The power of Nazi Germany was now fully on display, before the eyes of the entire world.

When Helene Mayer went onto the podium after winning the silver medal – next to two other Jewish fencers who won gold and bronze – she wore the official delegation uniform bearing the swastika symbol, and gave the Nazi salute.

The Americans, in a very controversial last-minute decision, removed two Jews from their delegation, Maty Glickman and Sam Stoller, and replaced them with two other runners. Jesse Owens, the indisputable star of the Olympics, would later remark, “Hitler didn’t snub me—it was [Roosevelt] who snubbed me. The president didn’t even send me a telegram.” 

But other Jews represented other countries and won a slew of medals, to the dismay of the Nazis.

After the conclusion of the Olympics, the Nazi machine went back into full gear. Berlin was once again carpeted with anti-Jewish signs. But the prohibition on Jews in public areas or insulting caricatures would soon become the least of German Jewry’s problems. This would shortly afterwards be true for European Jewry as a whole.

The next two Olympics did not take place, in 1940 and 1944, as the world was busy trying to stop that same Germany which had so graciously hosted their delegations in 1936. In the first Olympics following the war in 1948, Germany was not allowed to participate, and the Jews of the Land of Israel were busy with more existential problems.

More than 70 Jewish athletes representing 20 other countries did take part, though. Among these was French Jewish swimmer Alfred Nakache, who had been liberated from Auschwitz just three years earlier. His wife and daughter were both murdered there.

It was only in 1952, in Helsinki, that the blue and white flag was finally flown at the head of a delegation of athletes representing the independent State of Israel.

From “Bourekas Films” to the Israel Prize: Menahem Golan’s Israeli Hollywood Story

It's been a decade since the passing of legendary film producer Menahem Golan. His remarkable career began with films poking fun at Israel's unique social fabric, but he would go on to work with the likes of Chuck Norris, Sylvester Stallone and Meryl Streep.

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Lee Marvin (left), Chuck Norris (center) and Menahem Golan (right) on the set of "The Delta Force", 1985, photo by IPPA staff, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

In 2005–06, Menahem Golan, a film mogul in Israel and later in the United States, sat down for a series of lengthy interviews.

“Once he started talking about cinema, his eyes lit up,” said Shmulik Duvdevani, a film professor who with a student conducted the interviews at Golan’s office in Tel Aviv and home in Jaffa.

The conversations totaled 15 hours and are part of a project, the Israeli Cinema Testimonial Database, documenting the early decades of the country’s film industry.

“You can call him the father of popular Israeli cinema, films meant for mass audiences: comedies, melodrama, action,” said Duvdevani, who teaches at Tel Aviv University and Jerusalem’s Sam Spiegel Film and Television School. “He helped to build the Israeli film industry.”

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Menahem Golan directing the classic Israeli film Kazablan, 1973, photo by IPPA staff, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

Golan began his career in Israeli theater, but discovered his calling as a movie director and producer in the 1960s and ‘70s in a genre known as “bourekas films” that depicted Ashkenazi and Sephardi characters engaged in ethnicity-based misunderstandings and conflict.

Few Israelis made any styles of movies then, and little appreciation — let alone funds — existed for high production values. Sound quality was so poor that subtitles were sometimes a necessity. Shots that belonged on the cutting-room floor remained in the film.

But the genre was “an important stage” in Israeli cinema’s development, said Rami Kimche, a professor at Ariel University and author of a 2023 English-language book, Israeli Bourekas Film: Their Origins and Legacy.

And while Golan, the son of immigrant parents from Poland, might not have intended to break social barriers with films portraying Mizrachi Jews, he recognized them as part of his ticket-buying audience.

“He was a businessman, a theater man, a producer. He was important because he was the first,” Kimche said.

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Yehoram Gaon and other actors in character on the set of Kazablan, 1973, photo by IPPA staff, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

Kazablan, a 1973 bourekas musical Golan directed based on a play and a previous film, was “a major, major production, definitely was groundbreaking and was the peak of his work,” said Isaac Zablocki, director of the New York-based Israel Film Center. Golan directed three other bourekas films: Fortuna, Aliza Mizrachi and Katz V’Carasso.

Golan’s best-known movie in the genre was one he produced: Sallah Shabati, starring Chaim Topol and directed by Ephraim Kishon. It garnered Israel’s first nomination for an Academy Award, in 1964, in the foreign-film category.

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A Hebrew promotional poster for the film Sallah Shabati, produced by Menahem Golan, from the Avraham Deshe (Pashanel) Archive which is made accessible courtesy of the family and as part of a collaborative initiative between the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, the National Library of Israel and the University of Haifa.

Three other Golan works earned foreign-film Oscar nominations: I Love You Rosa (1972), The House on Chelouche Street (1973) and Operation Thunderbolt (1977), which told of the previous year’s rescue by the Israel Defense Forces of hostages held in Entebbe, Uganda.

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Menahem Golan (left) directs Yehoram Gaon, who again starred in one of his films, this time as Yoni Netanyahu in Operation Thunderbolt, based on the IDF’s daring hostage rescue mission in Entebbe, Uganda, 1976. Photo by Danny Gotfried, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

In 1979, Golan moved to Hollywood, where he and his cousin, Yoram Globus, bought a studio, Cannon Films, and set out to make blockbusters on the world’s largest stage.

Their lead actors included Robert Mitchum, Sean Connery, Rock Hudson, Katharine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall, Faye Dunaway, Martin Sheen, Roger Moore, Rod Steiger, Donald Sutherland, Shelley Winters, Maximilian Schell, Jon Voight, Walter Matthau, Alan Bates, Isabella Rosselini, Sally Field, Michael Caine, Kim Basinger, Ellen Burstyn and a young Meryl Streep. Tough guys Charles Bronson and Chuck Norris performed in multiple Cannon films — and Sylvester Stallone and Jean-Claude Van Damme also starred. So did two global figures: opera singer Placido Domingo and ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov.

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A promotional poster for Over the Top, starring Sylvester Stallone and directed by Menahem Golan, courtesy of The Cannon Group, Inc.

Noted directors signed on, too: Lina Wertmuller, Robert Altman, John Frackenheimer, John Cassavetes and Roman Polanski.

Ruth Golan remembers buying a beautiful, long dress to attend a screening of her father’s 1984 film, Ordeal by Innocence. Not just any screening, but one held at a London theater, in the presence of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip. Golan was seated beside the queen. He was instructed not to wear a wristwatch, lest it inadvertently tangle on the monarch’s dress, his daughter said.

As girls, Ruth and her two sisters hung around Golan’s movie sets. She met actress Gila Almagor — and Michal Bat-Adam, who played the title role in I Love You Rosa and with whom she’s remained friends. Later on, she met Stallone, Voight and some of the other American stars working for her father.

While Cannon didn’t release critically acclaimed films, many turned profits. The studio certainly was a sequel factory: Lemon Popsicle and its six sequels, four sequels to Death Wish, four Ninja films, Delta Force and two sequels, Emmanuelle VII, Superman IV, Missing in Action 3, Exterminator 2, Breakin’ 2, Missing in Action 2 and Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2.

“Sometimes there was money; sometimes, not. Sometimes we had a home; sometimes, not. It wasn’t stable, but it was wonderful — up to a point,” Ruth Golan said.

Golan, said Zablocki, made films on the cheap, what once were called B movies. As an example, Zablocki cited the “low production quality” of Superman IV, which included scenes of Superman flying that looked “so much more fake than” in the previous three films.

But Golan thought big. He even built a studio in Neve Ilan, west of Jerusalem, intending to draw international directors to make films in Israel. His own The Delta Force, starring Norris, was filmed at the studio, but not its two sequels.

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Menahem Golan (center) holds court with Chuck Norris (left) and Lee Marvin (right) on the set of The Delta Force, 1985, photo by IPPA staff, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

“He was interested in making a Hollywood in Israel,” Duvdevani said.

The international film studio at Neve Ilan didn’t last, but a stronger Israeli film industry eventually emerged. “It feels like an important building block,” Zablocki said.

Israel itself was a sequel in Golan’s life. He returned to the country for good in the 1990s and was awarded the 1999 Israel Prize, given for lifetime achievement. Golan died in Jaffa 10 years ago this month. The National Library of Israel has an extensive photograph collection documenting Golan’s career.

“He was a loving father, but also was busy with his career,” Ruth Golan said. “He loved what he did.”

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Menahem Golan on the set of Kazablan, 1973, photo by IPPA staff, the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection at the National Library of Israel

Writer-editor Hillel Kuttler can be reached at [email protected].

On Plants and Prejudice: Rachel Yanait and Aaron Aaronsohn

Ideological differences and raised eyebrows couldn’t get in the way of the personal and professional relationship between Aaron Aaronsohn and Rachel Yanait. While he was busy spying for the Nili underground network right in front of her, she focused on researching nature and became close with Aaron's sister and fellow spy Sarah. Her life was saved thanks to Avshalom Feinberg's coldness towards her, and she later became the wife of Israel’s second President.

Aaron Aaronsohn and Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi. These photographs are part of the Archive Network Israel project and are made available thanks to the collaborative efforts of Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, and the National Library of Israel.

In such a turbulent period as we are in the midst of now, it can be interesting to go back in time and observe a surprising personal and professional relationship that spanned an ideological divide during another tumultuous period in our history. This story took place about 110 years ago, when two people with serious ideological differences managed to connect with each other thanks to their shared love of nature.

He was a world-renowned agronomist who was involved in spying for the British against the Ottoman Empire, which was just about to lose its control over the Land of Israel.

She was a young agronomist, a member of HaShomer, a Jewish defense organization, and an activist in the Poale Zion party, who later became the wife of the second President of the State of Israel.

Driving along Israel’s coastal road today, you can see where this story unfolded. Near Atlit, just south of Haifa, you can spot the row of Washingtonia palm trees that led to the agricultural research station where this friendship was forged.

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Aaron Aaronsohn’s agricultural experimental farm in Atlit. This photograph is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made available thanks to the collaborative efforts of Yad Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage, and the National Library of Israel.

This is the story of Aaron Aaronsohn and Rachel Yanait. Their worldviews were radically different, but their shared love of nature and Israel connected them.

This was the period of the First World War. Aaron Aaronsohn, who lived in the little town of Zikhron Ya’akov, was already known around the globe for his discovery in 1906 of wild emmer, believed to be “the mother of wheat”. It was this discovery that led him to establish an agricultural experimentation station in Atlit, with funding from American donors. The station employed Jewish and Arab workers alike, triggering a charged ideological controversy within Zionist circles around what was known then as Kibbush HaAvoda – “the conquest of labor”: Should Arab laborers be hired to work on Zionist farms and factories? Or should the Zionist enterprise rely on Jewish labor only?

And if that wasn’t enough, at that same time, Aaron’s brother Alexander was establishing an organization by the name of HaGidonim, which was in competition with HaShomer. Aaron’s right-hand man in managing the station, the young Avshalom Feinberg, also belonged to HaGidonim.

And then there was Rachel Yanait, who was born in the Russian Empire as Golda Lishansky and adopted a Hebrew name. She was a member of HaShomer and the Poale Zion political party, which were dedicated advocates of Jewish labor. Later in life, she would play a critical role in helping Jews, especially women, immigrate to the Land of Israel from the Arab world.

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Rachel Yanait in 1908, this item is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel.

There is no doubt that Yanait and Aaronsohn belonged to opposing camps, separated by a tense and passionate political divide. Was it possible to bridge this gap?

“I’d even go to a remote monastery”

Yanait traveled to Nancy, France to study agronomy. When she returned, she wanted to continue her professional specialization. She quickly discovered that the best place for her to develop her expertise was Aaronsohn’s agricultural experimentation station in Atlit.

But could anyone conceive of Yanait going to work with Aaronsohn, the well-known agronomist from the opposite political camp?

Yanait traveled to Jerusalem to meet with Aaronsohn. She got there just as he was writing a letter to Djemal Pasha, the Ottoman Governor of the region, concerning locusts that were rampant in the land in those days. He handed her the letter. She read it and, to her astonishment, the document revealed that Aaronsohn was a proud nationalist Jew and an experienced farmer. From that moment on, she saw him in a new light, different from everything she had heard about him in her circles, where he was considered “a hater of the working man” and a boycotter of Jewish laborers. As for what Aaronsohn thought about Yanait, we’ll get to that soon.

Because of his reputation, the idea that Yanait would work for Aaronsohn was met with strong opposition from the majority of the Poale Zion movement. “Is it possible that a member of the merkaz [the party’s central committee] would go and work for…the hater of the laborer?” wrote one of the party members. On the other hand, people from HaShomer were quite open to the idea. But Yanait was determined and could not be swayed by what the party thought. She responded: “If the experimentation station were in a remote monastery, I would go there as well to study the nature of the soil and of the crops we cultivate.”  The objections of her fellow party members had no effect. Yanait remained steadfast, convinced that the path she was headed on was the right one.

Yanait arrived in Zikhron Ya’akov and asked Aaronsohn if she could work as an unpaid intern in the laboratory and library, and for one day a week in the nursery and vegetable garden in the experimentation station in Atlit.

At first, Aaronsohn responded coldly, but when he remembered their previous conversation in Jerusalem, he softened and evenexpressed surprise: “Not many people come to me, not to the laboratory or the library. As far as I’m concerned, you can come to Atlit as well.”

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Rachel Yanait in 1915, this item is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel.

Yanait visited Aaronsohn’s laboratory and library in Zikhron Ya’akov and was impressed by what she saw. She excitedly described the treasures she discovered there:

“…I look and read from the covers, and I catch my breath at the sight of this rare treasure – books about nature and agriculture in the Land of Israel, in foreign languages and in Hebrew. A devoted and experienced hand selected and collected every book dedicated to knowledge of the natural environment of our land – the living and the inanimate, archeological and historical studies, from everything written about our land, whether written impressions from the field or research papers. Among the books are ancient folios, in illustrated leather-bound volumes that bring to mind my grandfather’s Gemara books and inspire awe and respect. From the adjacent wing comes the gentle scent of the rich herbarium. Here is the rare collection that the agronomist Aaronsohn collected from the wild herbs of the land as well as the collection of wild plants from lands of similar climate to our own…”

That very night, Yanait wrote to her friends in HaShomer: “In Zikhron, I’ve found study materials to my heart’s content. I will stay here as long as I can, and I will not be removed except for urgent matters of HaShomer. All I want is to learn and teach nature and agriculture, and this is the place to do it.”

From a Professional Relationship to True Friendship

At first, the relationship was quite formal, but their shared love of nature, landscapes, and the flora of the Land of Israel brought them closer.

Aaronsohn’s assistants accompanied Yanait on field excursions and taught her to work with plants. Not long after, Aaronsohn opened his library and home to her and even introduced her to his family.

Yanait informed her friends that she was going to stay there as long as possible, not only to learn but also because tending to the plants gave her peace of mind. The longer they worked together, the closer they got despite their arguments. Aaronsohn let her read an article he wrote about forestation in Israel, and Yanait shared with him her dream of seeing forestation of the land’s mountainous regions.

She also showed him a paper she wrote during her agricultural studies, and Aaronsohn told her, “…If you seek knowledge, put down the books, walk the length and breadth of the land, observe nature…”

One of their biggest debates was over the subject of Jewish labor. Yanait wrote the following about this: “Apparently, he never considered the question of what the future of our land will be if labor remains in foreign hands. I was sorry for this because Aaronsohn was an outstanding man of nature.”

For his part, Aaronsohn revealed how disappointed and insulted he was that hardly anyone from the local Jewish community acknowledged his achievements. “’Out there in the world, I am recognized,’ and he gritted his teeth, ‘and only here, in my land -,’ and here, he stopped speaking and his hands trembled in anger.”

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Aaron Aaronsohn, this item is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel.

Their arguments continued, but they also continued to grow closer. The debates didn’t take away from their appreciation for one another. To the contrary, time and again Yanait was made aware of his positive opinion of her. Aaronsohn held no grudges over political differences, and Yanait enjoyed her time in Atlit. “Ever since I began my agricultural studies, I never had an agricultural experience like I had in Atlit.”

Many people from her own political camp in Zikhron didn’t approve of Yanait working at the experimentation station. She regretted that, and sadly stated: “What a great blessing it could have been for all of us, had we known how to forge direct ties with him, and what harm this feud between his people and ours has caused us all.”

Rachel Yanait agonized over the idea of sitting in a library and enjoying her time in the experimentation station while her friends in HaShomer faced various trials and tribulations. And yet, she kept returning to the station and immersing herself in the wonderful world of nature.

Rachel became friends with Aaron’s sister Sarah Aaronsohn, who had just returned home in 1915 after her failed marriage to a Jewish merchant who lived in Turkey. Aaron thought the two young women might realize they had a lot in common, and so he introduced them.

And that was further proof for Yanait that Aaronsohn thought well of her.

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Sarah Aaronsohn, 1910-1912, this item is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israe

Indeed, the two forged a great friendship, so great in fact that Rachel was invited on the siblings’ tours of the Carmel region. Rachel offered an amusing description of their search for particular plant specimens during one of these trips: “A few days passed, and Sarah came to the laboratory. She found me bent over the microscope and asked if I wanted to come with her on a tour of the mountain range on horseback…” Rachel rented a horse and joined. “…Suddenly, Aaronsohn commented that among the rocks he noticed a rare and special plant. He suggested I try – if I was indeed so passionate about plants – to find it without his help…” Rachel wandered about, pointing at various specimens, and Aaronsohn merely shook his head, angry that she couldn’t find what he had easily spotted. She was offended but continued searching until her eyes suddenly grew wide: “The queen of the wild plants was there right before my eyes – the rare wild orchid appeared in all its glory! I forgot the affront and exhaustion and took it in both hands as if I was holding a great deal of treasure, and Aaronsohn laughed.”

Sarah came back again to speak with her, sharing details about her terrible time in Constantinople with her husband, about her childhood and about her dear friend Avshalom Feinberg. It was as if Sarah had been seeking someone she could pour her heart out to. Rachel learned that Avshalom was the star of every field trip and party, and that there wasn’t a spot on the mountain range he was unfamiliar with. “And his eyes,” Sarah added, “shine brighter than every precious stone – that’s Avshalom!”

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Sarah Aaronsohn and Avshalom Feinberg in Damascus in 1916, this item is part of the Archive Network Israel project and is made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel.

Rachel thought to herself that Sarah was the same way. “Full of passion to do something even if there was nothing in return, no glory, and no boasting! And above all – Sarah is a country girl, a daughter of Zikhron Ya’akov, this is her home and her birthplace, she will never be taken away from this place ever again.”

A Final Conversation With Sarah and a Tragic Farewell

As is well documented, Avshalom, Aaron, and Sarah were the leaders of the Nili underground organization that spied on behalf of the British during World War I. The tragic developments that were to come heavily impacted the close relationships among this circle.

The rift began on the day that Avshalom Feinberg was released from prison, after the Ottomans caught and imprisoned him for a short period. He soon returned to the station in Atlit.

Rachel wouldn’t see Sarah again, except for one last time when Sarah came to visit her. Rachel would not forget their final conversation for the rest of her life. Sarah was surprised to see a book by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov on Rachel’s desk, which she had borrowed from Aaron’s library and hadn’t yet managed to read. Rachel told Sarah a legend about Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, and then Sarah asked her, “What do Hasidic legends have to do with nature research?” Rachel responded that “Rabbi Nachman, like the other great Hasidim, must have loved nature and understood the secrets of creation, and as far as I’m concerned, there is a connection between Hasidism and the nature of our land.” Afterwards, they spoke about suggesting to the newly formed Hebrew Language Committee that the title geveret (“missus”), which neither of them liked, be replaced with a more suitable title like adona for a married woman and adonit for an unmarried girl (feminine versions of the masculine Hebrew term for “master”). That was the last time they spoke.

Rachel worked at the experimentation station while the Aaronsohns were relaying reports to the British, as part of their work with Nili. She often came upon espionage material, but unlike the majority of the local Jewish community at the time, she apparently didn’t object to the idea of spying on the Ottomans, and in any case she truly loved working at the station and the people she met there.

Despite how much she enjoyed it, her work there came to a bitter end as soon as Aaron left for Europe, on his way to meet with the British. Aaron was replaced by his right-hand man and Sarah’s close friend Avshalom Feinberg. Despite his close friendship with Sarah, he managed the station with a firm hand and kicked Rachel out.

Rachel wrote about how he treated her: “The man who Sarah often described as chivalrous and benevolent seemed hostile and narrow-minded. It was clear that all he wanted was for me to disappear.”

Rachel left in distress and never set foot in Atlit again. It was only once the spy ring was discovered that Rachel understood the reasons for Feinberg’s behavior, but at the time, she felt badly hurt.

In January 1917, Avshalom was killed in the desert on his way to make contact with British forces and his body was only found decades later, following the Six-Day War. In October 1917, the Ottomans uncovered Nili. They arrested Sarah and subjected her to cruel torture. She eventually took her own life so as not to betray her friends.

After the spy ring was revealed and the station in Atlit was looted, Rachel’s sister thanked Avshalom, noting that his harsh treatment of Rachel had probably saved her life. In 1918, towards the end of the war, Rachel married Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, who was later elected the second President of the State of Israel.

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Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi later in life, photo: Nadav Mann, Bitmuna. From the Edgar Hirschbein collection. Collection source: Tamar Levy. The Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

After the war, Rachel met Aaron at a meeting of the Zionist Commission, attended by Chaim Weizmann. Aaron turned to both Rachel and Weizmann at the same time and laughed, “I have never met as innocent a farmer as you. You were strange to the people of Atlit. Nothing mattered to you other than the plants and the field experiments. You didn’t understand a thing, you didn’t pay attention to anything other than the plants and fossils.”

He told Weizmann how he used to write Nili codes on the doorframe right in front of her and she’d buy his excuse that these markings were for meteorological purposes. Rachel admitted that nothing had interested her other than the plants in the station.

It’s interesting to imagine how their personal and professional friendship might have developed had Aaron Aaronsohn not died in 1919 in a mysterious plane crash on his way to the Paris Peace Conference.

The quotes in this article and a significant portion of the information were taken from Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi’s book Coming Home (published in Hebrew originally as Anu Olim – “We Ascend”), Massadah, 1963.