Libyan Jewry: A Personal Perspective – How Rabbi Mordechai Ha-Cohen of Tripoli Documented His Community

In recent months, the archive of Rabbi Mordechai Ben Yehuda Ha-Cohen of Tripoli has been cataloged and made accessible at the National Library of Israel. He was a scholar, halakhic jurist, and significant chronicler of Libyan Jewry in the early 20th century. Professor Harvey E. Goldberg, a researcher of Libyan Jewry who edited Mordechai Ha-Cohen’s book, "Higgid Mordechai", shares the story of an exceptional rabbi and Renaissance man.

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The rabbinical court in Benghazi. Mordechai Ha-Cohen is the second from the left. Photo: Rimoldi-Benghazi, from the Italian translation of "Higgid Mordechai" (Rome 1930).

Mordechai Ha-Cohen, who received his formal education at a Talmud Torah religious school in Tripoli, eventually became the most important historian and documentarian of Libyan Jewry in the early 20th century. He was born in Tripoli in 1856 to a family of Italian origin, and was still very young when his father passed away. His natural curiosity drove him to educate himself and acquire books associated with the Haskalah, the Jewish Enlightenment, to continuously expand his knowledge. He knew Italian from home.

As a young adult, Ha-Cohen began to teach in a Talmud Torah school. To supplement his income, he repaired watches and worked as an itinerant merchant in the city of Tripoli and the surrounding villages. After getting married, he diligently studied rabbinic rulings in Hebrew and Judeo-Arabic and eventually was accepted as a halakhic jurist.

In the early 20th century, Ha-Cohen began compiling Higgid Mordechai, his comprehensive book on the history of Libya and its Jews, including their institutions and customs. The book covers a wide range of topics and relied on diverse sources. Some of it draws on the unpublished manuscripts of Abraham Khalfon (1741-1819) in Judeo-Arabic, while other parts are influenced by the writings of Abraham Hayyim Adadi, who served as the presiding judge of the rabbinical court in Tripoli for nearly 30 years during the 19th century. Ha-Cohen’s insights about the first half of the century came from his interviews with elders of his time and from his own research and observations.

A special section of the book is dedicated to the Jews living near the small market towns scattered throughout the rural communities of Tripolitania, with whom Ha-Cohen interacted as a traveling merchant. Another section describes the Jewish community in Benghazi, where he served as a dayan (a judge in a rabbinical court) from 1919 until the end of his life. It also includes a description of the Italian occupation of Tripoli in the fall of 1911.

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The Italian army’s invasion of Tripoli, 1911. Source: Garyounis University

In 1906, Ha-Cohen met Nahum Slouschz, a researcher of Eastern Jewish communities, who had been sent from Paris to Tripoli on behalf of the Alliance Israélite Universelle. During their meeting, Ha-Cohen presented the latter with a manuscript of his work, which he had not yet completed but had finished more than half of it. Slouschz was impressed by Ha-Cohen’s abilities and knowledge and invited him to join his travels outside Tripoli as a guide and translator, and to document them. Ha-Cohen accepted the offer, and together they embarked on two journeys: one eastward to Benghazi and the other deeper into the country, heading south and west.

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Nahum Slouschz, photograph by Benno Rothernberg. The Benno Rothenberg Archive, the Meitar Collection at the National Library of Israel

In September 1906, Slouschz left Libya after spending about two months there. He and Ha-Cohen corresponded until February 1910. As agreed, Ha-Cohen sent Slouschz his travel journal and, at his request, shared excerpts from the manuscript of his book. Slouschz incorporated these into his publications over the next 30 years but downplayed Ha-Cohen’s contributions.

After Slouschz left Tripoli, Ha-Cohen resumed working on his book. By that time, he was sending articles to HaYehudi in London, and as tensions increased around Italian interests in Libya, he also began submitting articles to Ha-Herut. His correspondence included accounts of military developments during the Italian occupation, which began in September 1911. The situation in Tripoli stabilized relatively quickly, and Ha-Cohen decided to finalize his work with four sections (chapters) reporting on the occupation of Tripoli and Benghazi (the resistance against Italy in the countryside continued for many years).

Over time, Ha-Cohen’s book, Higgid Mordechai, was published. The Italian Colonial Office, which governed Libya, undertook to translate the section of the book focusing on institutions and customs. Martino Mario Moreno, an Italian linguist and scholar of Eastern studies,  translated it in collaboration with Ha-Cohen.

Martino Mario Moreno
Martino Mario Moreno

In 1915, Ha-Cohen signed a contract with Moreno to work on the translation, although they were likely in contact before this. The publication of this book in collaboration with Moreno seems to be the only time Mordechai had the opportunity to follow the publishing process, from when a manuscript was completed (and reviewed) till it was brought to the printing press. In 1924, the work was published in Benghazi and included notes by Ha-Cohen and by the translator-editor, Martino Mario Moreno.

During World War II, Ha-Cohen’s family got to know the historian Professor Ephraim Elimelech Urbach, who arrived in Libya while serving as a British Army chaplain. He attended to the needs of British soldiers, particularly Jewish ones, including those who volunteered from Mandatory Palestine – the Land of Israel.

The family entrusted the manuscript to Urbach, who then submitted it to the National Library in Jerusalem. A few members of the Ha-Cohen family came to Israel during the great Aliyah (immigration to Israel) including Libyan Jewry, bringing with them a collection of his personal documents. Later, these were also donated to the NLI, and approval for the manuscript to be held by the Library permanently was issued in 1967. The manuscript of Higgid Mordechai is written in Solitreo—a traditional Sephardi version of Hebrew cursive script.

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The introduction in the original manuscript of Higgid Mordechai. The National Library of Israel

Initially, the work attracted the attention of only a few scholars, among them Haim Zeev Hirschberg. It wasn’t until 1979 that the book was published as a volume by the Ben-Zvi Institute, edited by myself based on anthropological research among Jews from Libya.

During his time in Tripoli, Ha-Cohen witnessed rapid technological advancement—accessible water services and sewage systems, regular mail from abroad, and telegraph services. At the same time, he and the wider Jewish community were gradually exposed to both Jewish and broader culture from overseas. His book consciously reflects the literature and language of the Eastern European Hebrew Enlightenment, which is evident in the choice of topics it covers. He praised the values of the Enlightenment while simultaneously defending traditional Jewish positions. Ha-Cohen saw himself as a partner in the effort to revive the Hebrew language and even suggested turning to Arabic as a source for renewing words in a once-dormant language. This perspective also influenced his approach to research. His pan-Jewish outlook was expressed in letters written in Hebrew that he sent to newspapers abroad. There are more than 80 documented articles of his from 1897 to 1914, mostly for the newspapers Ha-Herut and Ha-Yehudi (published in London), in which he reported on what was happening in Libya as well as various other issues.

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Report by Mordechai Ha-Cohen on the situation in Libya. Ha-Herut newspaper, November 1, 1909. The Historical Jewish Press Collection at the National Library of Israel

Copies of other articles written by Rabbi Mordechai Ha-Cohen can be found in his archive at the National Library of Israel.

Ha-Cohen aspired to belong to an international circle of scholars and felt he was fulfilling this ambition through his connection with Nahum Slouschz. His passion for uncovering the treasures and history of his land was well known; visitors and tourists from various countries were referred to him, and he provided them with information. However, within his own community, his commitment to science wasn’t always appreciated and some felt his writings expressed criticism of Jewish life. In response, he expressed faith in those who valued the unbiased search for knowledge, whoever they were and wherever they could be found. He strove for accuracy in his historical writing—concerning dates, for example—and in describing the Jewish communities of his time, he sought the most up-to-date demographic information possible. He didn’t hesitate to indicate whenever there was any uncertainty involved. When matters were unclear to him, he presented only the facts he knew without drawing conclusions.

An example of this can be seen in a photograph of a page from his correspondence notebook, in which Rabbi Mordechai recorded the number of Jews by communities: א(A) = Jewish communities in Libya; ב(B) = Jewish communities in the world: some categorized by country (for example, “Persia”), and some by city (for example, “Aleppo”); ג(C) = Jewish communities in the Land of Israel.

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The archive consists of three components: copies of letters, legal materials, and writings including excerpts from unfinished essays.

The letters—most of which Ha-Cohen sent rather than received—are written in Hebrew, with some in Judeo-Arabic, and they don’t represent all of his correspondence. The documents in the collection are mostly written in Solitreo, with some written in what is known as Rashi script. At the center of the collection of letters is a notebook with 60 pages, mainly consisting of copies of letters; some weren’t created by Ha-Cohen but preserved by him. There are also a few documents beyond the notebook.

Ha-Cohen had extensive correspondence with five individuals. One was Rabbi Hezekiah Shabtai, who served as the Hakham Bashi, or Ottoman Chief Rabbi, in Tripoli from 1904 to 1908. Shabtai drafted a letter of approval for Mordechai’s book, and after Shabtai moved to Aleppo in Syria, the two exchanged information about their respective cities and communities.

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Rabbi Hezekiah Shabtai

The second most frequent correspondent was Nahum Slouschz, and the third was Martino Mario Moreno, who translated Ha-Cohen’s book into Italian. Ha-Cohen also corresponded with two Italian rabbis: Shmuel Tzvi Margaliot, who visited Tripoli in the early years following the Italian occupation, and Eliyahu Shmuel Hartom, who served as the Chief Rabbi in Tripoli from 1920 to 1923. With the latter, Ha-Cohen discussed halakhic issues in his capacity as a judge in the rabbinical court in Benghazi.

Other letters from Ha-Cohen were addressed to a wide range of recipients, reflecting his broad perspective. His active interest is evident in the variety of topics he covered and in his writings preserved in the archive. Two of these are manuscripts written in small notebooks:  Netzach Yisrael and Rabbeinu Gershom Meor HaGolah. They were both composed in Benghazi around 1925 but differ in purpose.

The first, which is 22 pages long, addresses “the political and religious progression of the ancient Israelite people since it became a nation.” It is written in Hebrew, using Rashi script, and Ha-Cohen appears to have written it to contribute to education in general, perhaps hoping it would reach readers outside Libya.

The target audience of the second manuscript was the local Jewish community. The background is incomplete, but in 1922, a judge in the Jewish rabbinical court in the city organized the Chevra Kadisha (community volunteers who prepare bodies for Jewish burial) under the name “Rabbeinu Gershom Society.” An annual feast was held in honor of Rabbeinu Gershom, marking the Chevra Kadisha’s contribution to the community. Ha-Cohen took it upon himself to educate the Jews of Benghazi about the historical significance of Rabbeinu Gershom. This work is written in Rashi script, but the language is Judeo-Arabic.

Rabbi Mordechai Ha-Cohen passed away in 1929. He was a man of many talents, but aside from the publication of Higgid Mordechai, many of his initiatives didn’t come to fruition.

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The opening page of Netzach Yisrael, in Hebrew. The Mordechai Ha-Cohen Archive, the National Library of Israel. This collection has been cataloged and made accessible thanks to the kind donation of the Samis Foundation, Seattle, Washington.
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Introduction to Rabbeinu Gershom Meor HaGolah, in Judeo-Arabic. The Mordechai Ha-Cohen Archive, the National Library of Israel. This collection has been cataloged and made accessible thanks to the kind donation of the Samis Foundation, Seattle, Washington.

The archive of Rabbi Mordechai Ben Yehuda Ha-Cohen of Tripoli has been cataloged and made accessible at the National Library of Israel, thanks to the kind donation of the Samis Foundation, Seattle, Washington, dedicated to the memory of Samuel Israel. Special thanks to Noa Reichmann for her assistance in registering the archive and making it accessible.

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How Curious George Escaped the Nazis and Brought Joy to the World

One of the sweetest and most beloved characters in children’s literature was created in the minds of a Jewish refugee couple. Who were Margret and Hans Rey? How did their talent allow them to escape Nazi Europe by the skin of their teeth, and what other character beloved by generations of young boys and girls did they create? This is the story of the author and illustrator whose innocent and optimistic children’s books continue to brighten our lives to this day.

Hans and Margret Rey. Photo from the de Grummond Collection for Children’s Literature, the McCain Library and Archives, University of Southern Mississippi, and the character they created as he appeared in "Curious Honi Rides a Bicycle", one of many Hebrew translations, Modan Publishing, 1983

What would you take with you if you had to flee your home and country on a bicycle?

Hans and Margret Rey were forced to ask that question of themselves in June 1940, making a fateful choice which would affect their lives dramatically.

But to fully understand that decision, we have to go back a few years, specifically to Brazil 1925, on whose shores arrived a young Jewish man named Hans Augusto Reyersbach. Hans’ source of income in this new county came from selling bathtubs and sinks, but Brazil also allowed him to combine his three great loves – boats, painting, and animals, and he spent what free time he had sailing up the Amazon River and drawing the many monkeys he saw along the way.

Ten years later, after Hitler rose to power, a family friend arrived in Rio De Janeiro from Hamburg, Margarete Elisabeth Waldstein. She convinced him to get out of sales, after which they opened up an advertising agency, with Hans in charge of illustration and design and Margarete doing the copywriting. Their partnership quickly turned into a romance, which blossomed into a marriage. They replaced the name Reyersbach, which Brazilians had difficulty pronouncing, with Rey. Margarete became Margret. Hans stayed Hans.

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Hans and Margret Rey. Photo from the de Grummond Collection for Children’s Literature, the McCain Library and Archives, University of Southern Mississippi

A year after their marriage, these Brazilian citizens decided to return to Europe. They settled down in Paris and began to write and illustrate children’s books. Their first book told the story of a giraffe and a family of monkeys (known in English as Cecily G. and the Nine Monkeys and in French as Rafi et les neuf singes). One of the monkeys in the story, a mischievous little fellow named Fifi, was so captivating that they decided to write a new book centered on him.

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From Cecily G. and the Nine Monkeys. Translated into Hebrew as Tzila G. and the Nine Monkeys

Hans and Margret had just moved again to a small French village to get away from the noise of the city and enjoy the peace and quiet of the beautiful countryside. It was here that they planned to write their new book, but this was not to be. These were the early days of World War II, and while the war was still relatively far away, an atmosphere of fear and suspicion permeated the small village.

The couple’s German accent led neighbors to call the police on them. The locals suspected they were German spies. An officer was sent to their home, who began to interrogate them. Only when he entered Hans’ study, and saw the drawings of the little monkey spread out across his work table, was he convinced that these were children’s authors and not spies. After this incident, the couple decided to return to Paris, where Hans began to draw the adventures of Fifi.

But their stay in Paris did not last long, either. In May 1940, the city was filled with thousands of refugees and a sense of real danger hung over the residents – certainly its Jewish ones, including Hans and Margret. Within the chaos and tumult, they managed to renew their Brazilian passports and withdraw some money from the bank.

By June 10, the Nazis were approaching the city, and Hans and Margret knew they had to escape quickly. They didn’t have a car, the trains were shut down, and it wasn’t even possible to find a functional bicycle in the stores. So, Hans spent a huge amount of money on some spare parts from which he was able to assemble two makeshift bicycles. They were forced to leave most of their belongings behind, taking with them a few clothes, some food, an umbrella, a pipe, and manuscripts at various stages of writing and illustration, including the manuscript describing the adventures of Fifi.

They set out early in the morning, pedaling among millions of other bicycle riders, pedestrians, trucks and other vehicles, all of whom were fleeing south. In the coming days, they rode dozens of kilometers on their improvised bikes, over long days which started before dawn and ended in darkness. The couple would sleep in random barns they found along the way. On June 14, they reached their first destination: the train station at Orleans. That same day, Nazi soldiers marched through Paris and raised the Nazi flag over the Eiffel Tower.

The Reys continued on their journey – another bike ride, another train – with the aim of reaching Portugal and then the United States. On the next, desperately packed train, a stern police officer began moving among the passengers, looking for stowaways or any other people who could conceivably be taken off the overcrowded train. When he reached the Reys, he asked to see their documents as well as the suspicious pile of papers they carried with them. It was the manuscript of Fifi’s adventures. The officer’s appearance softened as he examined the written content and illustrations, and he let them stay on the train. Once again, the little illustrated monkey was a better character witness for them than any official document. On October 14, 1940, four months after they began their flight, the Reys stood on the deck of a ship which brought them to the gates of New York. In a year, the manuscript would be published, and the monkey would become a hero, known to children across the United States. Along the way, Fifi changed his name to Curious George, at the publisher’s request.

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From the Curious George, the first book in the series

Curious George is Abducted and Ends Up in the Zoo

As we all know, George is a small (and very, very curious) monkey who lives in the home of the Man with the Yellow Hat. Not many know of or remember the story of how they first met – an encounter which begins with the Man in the Yellow Hat taking George from Africa, and ends with George arriving at the big city zoo. It is only in the second book that George is taken to the man’s home, where his new owner tries unsuccessfully to keep him out of trouble.

Following the first book, six new books describing the adventures of the adorable monkey were published between 1947 and 1966. Although the seven books were all collaborative projects, with Hans responsible for the drawings and Margret writing the story, their publisher advised them that the children’s literature market was swamped with female authors, and that the book might sell better if Hans’ name was on it. A few years later, Margret would regret this arrangement and her name would be added to the books.

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Curious George, the first book in the series, published by Houghton Mifflin

What’s in a Name? Trouble With the King of England

The book’s American success led to an effort to distribute it in England, as well. The only problem was that this was during the reign of King George IV. Publishing a book featuring a monkey bearing the king’s name could be seen as an insult to the British Monarchy. Moreover, at the time, “curious” was slang for homosexuality. The times being what they were, it was clear that the monkey’s name would have to be changed yet again, and the books published in Britain gave him the name Zozo (one of the other monkeys in the book Cecily G. and the Nine Monkeys). Other countries also decided to change George’s name, not due to any political considerations but simply to make it more appropriate to local culture. Thus did George become Coco in Germany, Vili in Finland, and Joji in Japan.

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Hans Rey reading his book to children. Photo: Elsa Dorfman

Curious George Makes Aliyah

In the early 1980s, Israeli children also got to meet Curious George. First they encountered him in the series of children’s cartoons aired on the Martziper children’s television program and then in the series of books bearing his name, which were published by Modan and translated by Puah Herschlag (six of the seven books were translated into Hebrew; the story of George learning the alphabet was not translated). As was common in that era of Israeli culture, it was decided that George would be given a proper Hebrew name – “Curious Honi”, after “Honi the Circle-Drawer” from the era of the Jewish sages.

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Curious Honi Wins a Medal (Hebrew), Modan, 1983


The illustrations in the Hebrew edition were Hans’ original work, but where they included English text, it was replaced with Hebrew, such as one drawing showing a newspaper boy handing out copies of Haaretz.

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Curious Honi Rides a Bicycle (Hebrew), Modan, 1983

In 2005, Keter Publishing released a book including a number of Curious George’s stories and drawings. It included the first story, here called “Curious Gur” (pup), as well as a translation of the Cecily G. story and another story which had only come to light around that time, a decade after Margret Rey’s death.

Among the manuscripts they took with them upon fleeing Paris, in addition to the work that would become the story of Curious George, was a story about a penguin who decided to travel the world. This story remained in their desk drawer and was only discovered after Margret’s death. Whiteblack the Penguin Travels the World was soon published in the United States and was also included in the Hebrew story collection.

Curious George’s Little Brother

Curious George was not the only illustrated hero created by the Reys. In 1944, they wrote and drew another famous book, which few tied to the creators of the beloved monkey. The book is called Pretzel in English and Beigele in Hebrew. It tells the story of Duke, a dachshund who falls in love with a female dog named Greta (or Zehuva in Hebrew). This book credited Margret Rey as the author, and this was also the moment when it was decided to add her name to the Curious George books. Two years later, a sequel called Pretzel and the Puppies came out which would eventually, in 2022, lead to a TV series inspired by the book.

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Beigele (a Hebrew translation of Pretzel), Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1975
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The sequel to PretzelPretzel and the Puppies, Harper and Brothers, 1946

Hans passed away on August 26, 1977. Margret died on December 21, 1996. Hans experienced the success of the books and enjoyed it, but Margret was the one who got to see George become a household name, leading to a movie, a TV series, and a whole range of popular merchandise.

Even after Margret died, books continued to come out, telling of George’s new adventures. Hans and Margret had their names on the cover, but these were stories based on the original books which were created by a series of different authors and illustrators. We do admit that one of our favorite stories can be found in one of these later books, which Margret wrote after Hans’ passing: Curious George Visits the Library.

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Curious George Visits the Library (Hebrew)

One thing never changed in any of the incarnations or portrayals of Curious George: his being a captivating and good-hearted character, who out of curiosity and never malice always ends up in trouble, but who also always manages to get out of it, and even help others around him.

Every child – even every adult! – needs a person like that in their life, someone who can show them that mistakes are a part of life, and that you always have an opportunity to make things better.

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].