My dear Giora,
Some letters are written without the intention of sending them. Letters that must be written, without asking whether they fulfill their purpose or not.
The day after tomorrow I start something new. Perhaps foolish, perhaps imaginary, perhaps dangerous; perhaps one in a hundred, perhaps one in a thousand will pay with their life; perhaps with less than life, perhaps more. Do not ask what; a time will come when you will know what it is all about.
My dear Giora, I must explain something to you, to justify myself. I have to prepare for that moment when you stand here, within the borders of the country, looking forward to the moment when we are to meet after six years and when you will ask: Where is she? – They will answer you in short: She is not here. She is gone!
With these poignant words, Hannah Senesh (Szenes) began a letter to her older brother Giora (George), from whom she had parted years earlier when she immigrated to the Land of Israel. Giora was expected to arrive in the country imminently and Senesh wanted the letter to be delivered to him when he came. Not knowing exactly when he would arrive, she was surprised to discover that she could deliver the letter to him in person, about a month before she was scheduled to leave for a parachuting course in Egypt before setting out on the mission from which she believed she would never return.
Hannah’s Mission
First, a brief reminder of Hannah’s life story. Hannah Senesh was born in Budapest to a middle-class Jewish family. Her father Bela, who was a well-known journalist, writer and playwright, died when Hannah was six years old, leaving her mother Kathrine to raise Hannah and her older brother Giora alone. She studied at a public high school (gymnasium), where she encountered antisemitism, which turned her into an ardent Zionist.
At the age of 18, she immigrated on her own to Mandatory Palestine and began attending the Nahalal Agricultural School. After completing her studies there, she moved to Kibbutz Sdot-Yam near Caesarea, where she composed her best-known poem, “A Walk to Caesarea.” When she was 13, Hannah Senesh began keeping a diary documenting the life of a Jewish girl in Hungary. Up until the point she immigrated to the Land of Israel, she wrote exclusively in Hungarian. Hannah began learning Hebrew upon her arrival in Palestine. The outbreak of World War II and the early reports regarding the fate of the Jews who remained in Europe convinced Senesh to switch to writing exclusively in Hebrew.
This private and minor step—the transition from her native language to the revivified Hebrew language, the language of the Jewish people—signified a greater change, which would later make Senesh a recognized Israeli symbol. In late 1943, she joined the Yishuv’s paratrooper training course, and in mid-March 1944 she parachuted (along with several other members of the group) into Yugoslavia. For about three months, she roamed the forests of Croatia waiting for an opportunity to cross the border to Hungary, which was her destination. In Croatia, she wrote the poem Blessed Is the Match, and gave the note on which she wrote it to her comrade, the paratrooper Reuven Dafni.
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.
On June 7, 1944, she managed to cross the border into Hungary only to be captured by the Hungarians that same day. She was transferred to a prison in Budapest, where she remained for about five months, until her execution on November 7, 1944. Her mother, Katherine, was the one who brought her writings, letters and diaries to Israel, where they are now preserved at the National Library.
Some may ask why Hannah Senesh is the most well-known member of the group of Hebrew paratroopers who risked their lives trying to save the Jews of Europe. In fact, for many, hers is the only recognizable name among these 37 heroic soldiers. An answer can be found in the introduction to the printed edition of Hannah Senesh’s collected writings. Thanks to her diaries, poems and letters, we have a clear, true and definitive testimony about her life. All the details of her life, her mission and her death add up to a singular figure, “adorned with the splendor of supreme Hebrew heroism”. Her natural gift for writing certainly helped to solidify her place in the pantheon of Jewish national heroes.
Giora, who was a year older than Hannah, had not seen her since she left Hungary. They reunited for a very short time, on the eve of Hannah’s departure for Egypt, when she let him read the farewell letter she had written for him. In her diary, Senesh added what she could not say to her brother Giora in the letter itself, nor in their meeting. This is because the mission she embarked on was secret. She wrote:
I wrote this letter before the parachuting course. When I let you read it, you could not understand what it was about.
Forgive me, Giori, that I was forced to lie to you even in the happy moments of our meeting. You were so new in our lives that I couldn’t tell you the truth. I’m sure that now you’ll understand me.”
Senesh wrote this final entry in her diary less than a month after her letter to Giora and their reunion: “This week I will go to Egypt. I am an enlisted-soldier. As for the terms of my enlistment, my feelings about it, the most recent news—and what lies ahead for me – I do not wish to write about all that. I want to believe that what I have done and will do is right. Only time will tell.
You can read Hannah Senesh’s original diaries on the National Library of Israel website. Click here for her fourth and last diary, which she wrote from 1941 until she left for the mission in early 1944.
The Senesh Family Archive at the National Library of Israel has been made accessible courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen.
Below is the complete text of the letter Hannah Senesh wrote to her brother:
Haifa, December 25, 1943:
My dear Giora,
Some letters are written without the intention of sending them. Letters that must be written, without asking whether they fulfill their purpose or not.
The day after tomorrow I start something new. Perhaps foolish, perhaps imaginary, perhaps dangerous; perhaps one in a hundred, perhaps one in a thousand will pay with their life; perhaps with less than life, perhaps more. Do not ask what; there will come a time when you will know what it was all about.
My dear Giora, I must explain something to you, to justify myself. I have to prepare for that moment when you stand here, within the borders of the country, looking forward to the moment when we will meet again after six years and when you will ask: Where is she? – They will answer you in short: She is not here. She is gone!
Will you understand? Will you believe that more than the desire for adventure, more than childish romance has brought me this far? Will you understand, feel, that I could not do otherwise, that I had to do this?
There are events, in the light of which human life loses its meaning; man becomes a worthless toy, or the demand is raised: something must be done, even at the cost of life.
I fear that the feelings burning inside me become empty sentences when they are cloaked in words. I don’t know if you will sense behind them the struggles, the doubts and after every crisis—the renewed decision.
It’s difficult for me because I’m lonely. If only I had someone I could talk to openly and simply, if only the whole burden wasn’t on me alone, if only I could talk to you… If there is someone who is able to understand me—it’s you. Although, who knows… six years—such a long time. But enough about myself—maybe too much. I want to tell you some things about the new homeland, about the new life—as I see it. I have no intention of influencing you. You will see what the land is with your own eyes. I want to describe how I see it.
From the first—I love it. I love it. I love its many landscapes, the diverse climate, the many colors of its life; I love the new and the old in it, love it, because it is ours! No, not ours yet. But for ourselves and in the depths of our being we are determined that it is ours.
Second—I cherish it. Not all of it. But I respect and cherish the people who believe in something, who are willing to fight in this day-to-day reality in the name of what is dear to them; I respect those who live their lives not only for one moment, for one lira. And here there are more of them than anywhere else.
And finally, I believe that this is the only solution for us, therefore I do not doubt for a moment its future, despite the awaiting difficulties and obstacles in our path.
And as for the kibbutz—I don’t think it is perfect. Surely, there will still be many stages of development; but there is no doubt that in the current conditions, this is the most appropriate form for the fulfillment of our ambitions, the most suitable for our ideas.
There is a need for courageous people, free of preconceived notions. People who can and want to think for themselves—who are not mechanical slaves to thoughts set in stone. And this is the most difficult part, it is easy to carve out a law for a person: live according to this. It is more difficult to live according to these carved molds. But the most difficult [is] to cut a path of life for ourselves, while being constantly self-critical. It seems to me that this is the only moral way to establish a law for a person. And only in this way is it possible to build a new life, a complete life.
Sometimes I ask myself: What will the future of the kibbutz be like when the magic of building is over, when the deliberations and struggles over creating a new life are finished, when life is peaceful, organized, planned? What will motivate the person and what content will fill their life? I have no answer. But this vision is still so far away—and we should think of things which are more current.
Don’t think I see everything as rosy. My faith stems from internal conditions, and is not the result of an existing reality. I am well aware of both internal and external difficulties. But I also see the positive sides —and as I said: this is the way and there is no other.
I didn’t write to you about what most occupies my thoughts: Mother! I can’t write about her.
Enough of this letter. I hope that it will not reach you; and if it does, then only after we meet.
And if it be otherwise—with boundless love,
Your sister
Are you in possession of a diary from 1948? We have begun collecting personal diaries written by the men and women of Israel’s founding generation, in order to preserve these accounts in the collective memory of the Jewish people. Find more information here!