Walter Trier: The Jewish Illustrator Who Depicted Germany at Its Best

You likely know Walter Trier’s illustrations—even if his name doesn't ring a bell. For many, the characters and landscapes he brought to life have been etched into memory through countless childhood readings of "Emil and the Detectives," "Lisa and Lottie," or "The Flying Classroom." This is the story of the talented illustrator who breathed life into Erich Kästner’s characters.

On the left: Walter Trier at work. On the right: The illustration on the cover of the book "Dot and Anton"

He did not have a tragic life.

“Tragic lives stimulate the writing of journalists and critics, turning an artist into someone interesting and even important.” These words, written by Israeli illustrator Dani Kerman in a tribute to Walter Trier, express a sentiment widely held in the art and media world.

And yet, decades after his death, millions of children around the world continue to enjoy his illustrations, which are reprinted time and time again—evoking nostalgia in many adults who grew up with them.

But would we even know his name today if not for one fateful meeting in 1929? Probably not.

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The cover illustration of Lisa and Lottie, an iconic image from the childhood of millions worldwide.

Walter Trier was born in elegant pre–World War I Prague to a well-educated Jewish family. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t part of the city’s Jewish elite either. His father was a skilled craftsman who did well enough to send his son—already a remarkably talented artist from a young age—to institutions that would nurture his gift. Trier first attended the Industrial School of Fine and Applied Arts in Prague, followed by the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich.

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The Trier children, 1899: Brothers Walter, George, Oscar, and Paul. Image from the Max Brod Archive, National Library of Israel

One of the Trier family’s close neighbors in Prague was Max Brod—who would later gain fame for his role in preserving Franz Kafka’s legacy. The children of the Brod and Trier families were close friends and even took vacations together until Walter left to study art in Germany.

Thanks to this connection, the National Library of Israel holds rare childhood photographs of Trier in the Max Brod Archive—playing ball and swimming in a lake.

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The Trier family with Max Brod and friends, swimming in a lake, from the Max Brod Archive, National Library of Israel

In Munich, Trier excelled in his studies, and soon his caricatures and illustrations began appearing in various art and culture magazines. At age 20, his work caught the eye of a Berlin publisher, who offered him a permanent position as a cartoonist. The young Jewish artist moved to the German capital—a city that would later reject him and his people.

Shortly after arriving in Berlin, Trier met Helen Matthews, whom he married. A year later, they had a daughter, Margaret. This child would eventually pull them toward a distant land. But for now, Trier’s life remained steady for two decades. He had a stable job, a modest degree of artistic fame, and a steady stream of published caricatures and illustrations.

His works focused on topics that intrigued early 20th-century Berliners: everyday urban life, gentle satire of the upper classes, and a patriotic German spirit that intensified with the outbreak of World War I. Even then, his style stood out—defined by rounded lines that, at first glance, appeared simple but were deeply expressive and full of character.

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Seemingly “simple” lines, yet rich in character. Emil Tischbein’s grandmother, illustration by Walter Trier.

But it was only in 1929 that Trier had the meeting that transformed him from a respected German illustrator into an artist whose drawings would become beloved worldwide—even in 21st-century Israel.

That year, a German journalist named Erich Kästner completed his first children’s book, Emil and the Detectives. The publishing house sought an illustrator.

They introduced the serious, somewhat cynical writer (he kept that side of himself out of his children’s books, but that’s another story) to an illustrator who, according to Kästner himself, spread a bit too much joy and cheer for the author’s liking.

Despite their stark differences in personality—and despite Kästner not always agreeing with Trier’s artistic interpretations of his characters—the first contract was signed, and Trier became the primary illustrator of most of Kästner’s children’s books until his own death.

Kästner’s books became instant bestsellers in Germany and worldwide—thanks primarily to their compelling characters, engaging plots, and direct, heartfelt approach to children. But Trier’s illustrations also played a key role. His charming and expressive artwork captured readers’ imaginations. His cover for Emil and the Detectives, featuring the iconic large yellow sidewalk, became one of the most recognizable book covers ever and was even immortalized on a German postage stamp.

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The German postage stamp commemorating the collaboration between Kästner and Trier, featuring the cover of Emil and the Detectives.

Trier’s illustrations became inseparable from Kästner’s books, appearing in dozens of translations worldwide. The Emil Tischbein that children across the globe came to know was the Emil that Walter Trier had drawn for the very first German edition.

But despite their phenomenal success, their partnership was cut short.

The Nazis had come to power.

The Nazi regime had no love for Kästner, the liberal humanist, nor for Trier, the Jewish illustrator. Kästner was deemed “soft” and “too liberal,” while Trier’s political cartoons left no doubt about his views on the new regime.

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Trier’s political cartoons often left little room for alternative interpretations.

Still, there was a crucial difference between them:

Kästner was German—through and through. His books were burned as early as 1933, but he remained in Germany throughout the war and after.

Trier, on the other hand, was Jewish. As such, he had no future in a country that was not even his homeland to begin with.

In 1933, when The Flying Classroom was published—shortly after the Nazis rose to power—Trier’s name was completely erased from the book’s credits and illustrations. Whether this was a marketing decision or a direct order from the Nazis, one thing was clear: Trier’s professional career in Germany was over.

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The cover illustration for The Flying Classroom, taken from the Hebrew edition, which naturally restored Trier’s credit.

In 1936, Trier took Helen and Margaret, left behind his professional reputation and all rights to his illustrations, and fled to London.

In Britain, Trier wasted no time in reestablishing himself. He offered his illustrations to various newspapers and magazines, covering a spectrum of themes—from entertainment and literature to politics.

During World War II, his work served as anti-fascist propaganda. His illustrations against the Nazi regime were even dropped as leaflets over Germany by the Royal Air Force.

At the same time, he became the regular cover illustrator for Lilliput, a magazine that initially focused on literature and entertainment but later became a men’s magazine.

Like his illustrations for Erich Kästner’s books, Trier’s magazine covers became iconic. He made sure to include, in each one, an illustration of a man and a woman with a small dog—his way of commemorating his relationship with Helen and their beloved pet.

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Trier’s covers for Lilliput—a man, a woman, and a dog.

After the war, Trier resumed his collaboration with Kästner in a remote-working arrangement that was ahead of its time, illustrating The Animals’ Conference, Lottie and Lisa, and more.

He also illustrated other books that achieved considerable success, including various editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Additionally, he published his own illustrated game books.

A rare copy of a Hebrew edition of his game book titled 8192 Quite Crazy People in One Book, offers a delightful glimpse into Trier’s playful side—one that shines through most vividly in his independent works.

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8192 Quite Crazy People in One Book, a Hebrew edition preserved in the National Library’s Rare Books Collection.

Yet, in the end, whether he embraced it or not, his illustrations for Kästner’s books are what cemented his legacy. His artistic imprint was so profound that when comic artist Isabel Kreitz published graphic novel adaptations of Kästner’s works, she made a point of declaring herself a devoted admirer of Trier, striving to ensure her illustrations remained “in the spirit” of his iconic style.

In 1947, the Trier family finally obtained British citizenship. Ironically, that same year, they decided to leave Britain and move closer to their daughter, Margaret, who had relocated to the distant Canada. Had time been on his side, Trier would no doubt have reinvented himself once again on the new continent, perhaps forging connections with Canadian or American writers. But he never got the chance. Less than four years after arriving in Canada, he died suddenly in his studio.

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The Hebrew graphic novel edition of Dot and Anton. Illustrations by Isabel Kreitz, “in the spirit” of Walter Trier.

The Strange, Dark Journey of a Book of the Zohar

An old, crumbling binding of a 16th-century book of the Zohar was nearly lost to oblivion in the National Library’s archives. A few faint pencil markings on the cover caught the eye of a librarian, revealing surprising secrets about the book it once encased. Join us on a fascinating, almost detective-like journey through the pages and bindings of this remarkable book, uncovering its perilous, winding path before it reached the National Library.

Shifi Rathaus, a conservator in the National Library's Conservation Department, working on another centuries-old book.

This book is so important, that it was a simple and obvious choice for the National Library’s permanent exhibition, where the most precious spiritual and cultural treasures in our collections are displayed. The volume is a copy of one of the first printed editions of the Zohar from 1557. The Hebrew word zohar, meaning “radiance,” reflects the profound spiritual light attributed to this ancient mystical text.

The Zohar is shrouded in mystery, with countless legends woven around it over the years. Written in an enigmatic style, it conveys deep spiritual ideas. The earliest printed editions of the Zohar gathered its scattered texts—previously preserved in numerous manuscripts—into book form, adding to their historical significance.

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The title page of the book of the Zohar from Mantua, featuring the stamp of the Jewish Community Library in Berlin. All photographs in the article (unless otherwise noted): Shifi Rathaus

This specific volume is part of one of the two first Italian editions of the Zohar printed in the 16th century. It comes from the Mantua edition, divided into three volumes. Several copies of this edition are preserved in the Library as part of the impressive Valmadonna Collection, which contains early Hebrew printed works from Italy.

What sets this particular copy apart? We’ll begin with the most obvious details, before revealing the decades-old mystery solved at the very last minute, just before the book’s secret was nearly lost forever…

The layers revealed within the pages of this volume reflect the various transformations experienced by the Jewish People over time. The copy selected for display is the section relating to the biblical Book of Exodus, containing original handwritten annotations by Italian scholars from the 16th century. Prof. Isaiah Tishby [a renowned Kabbalah scholar, recipient of the Israel Prize, and Prof. Gershom Scholem’s first student—Y.A.] attributed the handwritten notes to two rabbis from late 16th- and early 17th-century Italy: Rabbi Moses Zacuto and his student, Rabbi Benjamin Ha-Kohen. Zacuto, a descendant of Portuguese anusim (crypto-Jews), had settled in the Netherlands before relocating to Italy, where he served as the rabbi of the Mantua community.

The fact that this book passed from teacher to student adds a unique dimension to the volume, highlighting the deep respect between them. This teacher-student collaboration also distinguishes this volume from the others, which typically feature handwritten annotations by only a single scholar.

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An example of the handwritten annotations

This volume also bears traces of censorship by the Catholic Church. For example, the word “Edom,” often a veiled reference to Christianity in such texts, has been erased.

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The censor’s erasure of the word “Edom”

The Catholic Church began censoring Jewish texts in the mid-16th century, following the Protestant Reformation. This particular book was censored by Alessandro Scipione, whose name appears prominently in the book, alongside the date of the censorship, 1597. A search of international databases confirmed that Scipione was indeed a Catholic censor active in the late 16th century.

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The signature of the censor, Alessandro Scipione, 1597

Inside the front cover of the book, another clue to its unique journey was revealed: a sticker bearing the inscription, “Jewish Cultural Reconstruction.”

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The sticker on the inner cover: “Jewish Cultural Reconstruction”

This sticker indicates that the book was rescued as part of a project to recover Jewish books looted by the Nazis. These books, at one point considered lost forever, were found and brought to Israel shortly after World War II. The book’s title page also bears a stamp from the Jewish Community Library in Berlin, hinting at its prewar life.

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Like many old books, this volume was in poor condition. The binding was worn and falling apart, and stains covered its pages. Before it could be displayed, it required comprehensive treatment to protect it from further damage and ensure its preservation for future generations.

The task was entrusted to Shifi Rathaus, a conservator in the Library’s Conservation Department. What Rathaus didn’t know when she began working on the book was that its cover held yet another secret.

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One of the first questions Rathaus faced was whether to replace the book’s binding, a complex decision with significant implications. Generally, efforts are made to preserve the original binding, especially if it is authentic. However, in this case, several indications suggested that the binding was not original and had been replaced at a later stage. This conclusion was supported by the style of the binding, the handwriting on the title page that had been partially cut by a guillotine trimmer, and the red edge coloring applied to the trimmed pages, a common practice in later rebinding efforts.

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The book of the Zohar before the conservation process began. The distorted binding is clearly visible.

Moreover, the binding was in such poor condition that it could no longer perform its basic function: holding the quires (bundles of pages) together. Attempting to open the book risked its complete disintegration.

After consulting with her department head, it was decided to replace the binding. Rathaus began the painstaking process, starting with a full photographic documentation of the book’s original condition and a detailed report outlining its damage, the planned treatment, and the materials to be used.

When Rathaus removed the old binding, she uncovered a surprise—a sheet of newspaper from 1906 tucked inside, revealing that the book had been rebound by the Jewish community in Berlin around that time.

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Discovery of a newspaper page inside the inner binding, the page is from a newspaper published in Berlin in 1906.
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Stages of the conservation process

After cleaning the pages using a specialized washing process—performed only after careful assessment to ensure it would not harm the book—the pages were significantly brightened, old adhesive and amateur repairs were removed, and the sheets were dried and flattened under pressure. Tears were repaired, disconnected sections were reconstructed, and the pages were carefully folded back into quires.

Finally, the book was sewn using traditional techniques with strong, flexible linen strips and rebound in a new cover. The entire process took seven months. For Rathaus, it was the largest bookbinding project she had undertaken—over 300 pages. “The day I finished, I felt euphoric,” she said.

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The delicate sewing process. Photo by Katya Chamorovsky

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What became of the old binding? In most cases, bindings without historical significance are archived or discarded. However, while presenting the Zohar at a Library event, Rathaus decided to display the old binding alongside it to illustrate the conservation process.

One of the attendees at the lecture was librarian Daniel Lipson, who, as part of his role, oversees the “Treasures of the Diaspora” project. Through this initiative, tens of thousands of books from the Jewish cultural and intellectual world—stolen by the Nazis and brought to the National Library through extraordinary efforts—were identified and cataloged. “Sometimes, these books are all that remains of an individual, a family, or a Jewish community,” Lipson explains, emphasizing the immense importance of the project.

During the presentation, Lipson noticed something unusual. Written in pencil on the binding were the letters “JC” and the number “13083.” Lipson immediately recognized the mark—it indicated that the book had not only been held by the Nazis at one point, it had also been cataloged and stored in the Theresienstadt Ghetto.

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The pencil inscription in the corner of the binding

Lipson explained that, as far as is known today, during the bombings of Berlin in 1943, the Nazis sought a safer location to transfer stolen Jewish books they deemed valuable enough to protect. This is how the books ended up in the Theresienstadt Ghetto, which the Nazis also used as a “model ghetto” to present a facade to the world about the “good conditions” of Jews under their control. Among other facilities, the camp contained a library where professional Jewish librarians “worked.”

The books that the Nazis sought to preserve were cataloged by a group of prisoners. A booklet documenting this effort reveals that among the catalogers were Jewish librarians, historians, linguists, rabbis, and theologians. These catalogers were professionals, as evidenced by the organized index they created, which includes detailed entries for all the books they handled. The cataloging system ranged from JC 3001 (likely shorthand for “Judaica”) to JC 19225. After the war, this index was transferred to the Jewish Museum in Prague, digitized, and is now available for online searches. With a quick search, Lipson located the catalog card for the book in question, labeled as the Zohar From Mantua.

Survivors of Theresienstadt have testified that the work of cataloging and managing the library provided them with a small measure of solace and comfort during unbearable times. They also recounted that many Jews deported from Theresienstadt to extermination camps took with them one or two books on what would be their final journey to an unknown fate.

But this sacred book was spared from destruction. Printed during the early days of Hebrew printing in Italy, it endured a long and arduous journey. Generations of Jews preserved it—sometimes at great personal risk—until they were forced to catalog it for the Nazis’ library. After the war, the book was returned to the Jewish People. Now, following its conservation treatment, it will be proudly displayed in the National Library of Israel.

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The original catalog card, showing the clear notation by the catalogers at the top: JC 13083, the title: Book of Zohar, and the place of publication: “Mantua.”

***

Another fragment of the Jewish People’s tumultuous history was uncovered within this book, reminding us of the central role the written word has played in Jewish history throughout the ages. Preserving it provided strength and a sense of purpose to those who cared for it, both in the past and in the present.

When you admire the beautiful volume of the Book of Zohar from its first printed edition, now displayed in the permanent exhibition hall at the National Library, remember that behind it lies an extraordinary story, secrets that were revealed, and countless hours of meticulous work. Its old binding is now also preserved at the National Library in Jerusalem.

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The Book of Zohar after treatment by the Conservation Department

Dan Hadani, a 100-Year-Old Holocaust Survivor, Still Remembers

Dunek Zloczewski lost everything he had in the Holocaust: his daily routine, his entire family, and his faith in humanity. Along the way, he survived Auschwitz, Mengele's selections, harsh labor, and a death march. He built a new life for himself in Israel as Dan Hadani - a photographer and journalist with an important role in documenting the country's history. For decades, he repressed his memories of the Holocaust and only began telling the story of that part of his life at the age of 92.

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Left: Dunek Zloczewski during his youth in the Lodz Ghetto around 1941. Right: Dan Hadani during a visit to the National Library of Israel, 2024. Photo: David Peretz

Not long ago, Dan Hadani, a veteran journalist and photographer came to visit the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem, the new home of the enormous collection of photographs he amassed over his long career. The Dan Hadani Collection is a photographic archive that covers almost every event in the history of the State of Israel during a critical period – from the late 1960s until the year 2000. The archive was handed over to the Library in a meticulously organized state. This was his life’s work, and to maintain its relevance as well as the photos themselves, Hadani decided to transfer the archive in its entirety to the National Library, where the majority of the photos would be made accessible digitally on the NLI website.

In August 2024, Hadani celebrated his 100th birthday. He is sharp, his stories are fascinating, and he has many to tell. He’s had a successful career as a photographer and journalist, but his life story is extraordinary, even aside from that: It includes a happy childhood, as well as years spent in a ghetto, in labor camps, and in an extermination camp, before later creating a new life in Israel, where he reinvented himself more than once. Hadani is a special man. You would never know he was 100 years old from his sharp thinking and eloquence. He has a realistic outlook and doesn’t waste time on regrets or asking questions about the past.

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Dan Hadani at the National Library of Israel, 2024. Photo: David Peretz

What Might Have Been

Twice, Dan Hadani’s family found themselves en route to the Land of Israel, equipped with the necessary certificates granting entry. In 1925, when Dan was still a baby, his family was on its way to a ship bound for Mandatory Palestine. At the port, they happened to meet a good friend of his father’s who had fled there previously and returned. He told them about pogroms by Arabs against the Jews settling in the Promised Land. He made them swear they’d return to Poland and not risk their lives, and that’s exactly what they did. The second time was in 1936. Once all their belongings were finally packed up, Dan’s father Kalman contracted a serious gallbladder infection and their trip was canceled.

We asked Hadani how he felt about his family nearly saving themselves from the awful fate of European Jewry during World War II, and whether he felt sad or angry that in the end, this did not come to pass. He responded decisively, “That was our fate.”

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The only family photo Dan Hadani has with his parents and sister. The photo was taken from a copy of the certificate they were given to immigrate to Mandatory Palestine. His mother sent it to her friend already living there, and that is how it was saved and reached Hadani years after it was photographed

Dan Hadani was born just over a hundred years ago, in 1924, as Dunek Zloczewski, in Lodz, Poland. His nuclear family comprised four people – himself, his sister, and their parents. His father was a tailor and his mother a seamstress. “I grew up in a Jewish and very Zionist home. My father, Kalman, was active in the Poale Tzion party, and as a child, I often went with him to training sessions for groups that were headed to Israel,” he recalls. His mother, Lea, had come from a German-speaking family. Dan and his sister Sabina, who was three years older, knew German fluently, a fact that would save their lives on more than one occasion later on. At the center of their home was a large sewing table where both parents, experts in the craft, used to work. From them, Dan learned about the integrity, professionalism, and love that were part of the work and atmosphere in the home where he grew up. It was a home full of life, warmth and love. When he reminisces about life before the war, he pictures his mother, who used to wait for him every day as he returned from school. They used to prepare lunch together. He learned how to cook by watching what she used to do. To this day, every time Hadani cooks, he is reminded of his mother.

His father Kalman was a special man: an expert craftsman, an active Zionist, and a volunteer for the “Linat Hatzedek” organization which offered first aid to the needy, particularly during nighttime hours. The organization’s offices were housed in their local synagogue. Together, Hadani and his father collected stamps and cultivated an extensive collection that included stamps from all over Europe, including Nazi Germany. The magnificent collection was left behind in Auschwitz along with the rest of the family’s belongings that had been packed in suitcases and confiscated when they were taken from the ghetto in 1944.

The Pogroms Were Just the Beginning

When Hadani tells the story of his childhood in Poland, antisemitism is an inseparable part of it. One example took place one Saturday, during the family’s usual walk to the large public park where he used to play chess. A pogrom broke out suddenly, instigated by Polish hooligans targeting local Jews. Many of those who weren’t killed or injured by the rioters were crushed in the panic as a mass of people rushed toward the park’s exit gate. Hadani and his family weren’t targeted directly because they didn’t appear visibly Jewish, but they were nearly trampled by the fearful mob, managing to get away by the skin of their teeth.

“There was a great deal of antisemitism everywhere,” he says. “More than once, I was accused of killing Jesus, as if thousands of years hadn’t passed.” Growing up in a home that was a place for social, business, and political gatherings, he heard stories of exploitation and fraud that some Jews bragged about. He remembers one story about a tailor who was proud of how he managed to sell a suit he was eager to be rid of to a Polish man. The suit was several sizes too large for him. Every time the Pole looked in the mirror, the tailor pulled the suit in a different direction. Hadani’s parents condemned that sort of behavior, and he developed an aversion to any type of dishonesty.

The Early Days of World War II

Ten days after Poland was conquered by the German army, the Nazis reached Lodz and word spread that they would kill all Jewish men of certain ages. That day is burned into Hadani’s memory. Together with his family, he tried to flee toward Warsaw, along with hundreds of thousands of other Jews, without success. The Germans quickly took control over the masses of people trying to flee. Hadani’s family were not visibly Jewish and spoke excellent German, and so they managed to escape the abuses, but that was the first time Hadani witnessed the Nazi barbarism, which still haunts his nightmares to this day: “They undressed elderly Jews, left them with only their tzitzit and beat them in their private parts. They killed people indiscriminately on the sides of the roads,” he recalls, “In my mind I can still see one incident that took place there – a group of three Germans was standing around one Jew, and with tweezers, they removed the hears on his head one by one so that all that remained was the shape of a swastika. It was total sadism and it was there I understood – people are animals.”

For Hadani’s parents, who had great appreciation for German culture, it was extremely difficult to cope with the actions of the Germans, whom they had always seen as a cultured and civilized people. What they saw in those days broke their hearts. Hadani’s father, Kalman, was never himself again and he ultimately died of that heartbreak in 1942, as he lay starving and ill in the Lodz Ghetto.

Hadani doesn’t remember much from the family’s four long years in the Lodz Ghetto, aside from how his father wasted away and died. “We were in survival mode, every man for himself,” he says. “When I moved to Israel, they asked me why we didn’t do anything. How can you explain that you were on an island, cut off ftrom the world?! The Germans slowly got us used to the fact that this was our reality.”

He remembers suffering from hunger in the ghetto, though his family tried to discreetly grow some vegetables on their improvised patio. Food rations were meager – one slice of bread for breakfast and one for dinner. “I am sure my parents took food from their allowance and gave it to me and my sister. I have no proof of this, but I felt it.” He also cannot forget those who took their own lives by throwing themselves on the ghetto’s electric fence. Like most residents of the Lodz Ghetto, he and his sister needed to work for the German army. The only pictures he has from those years are from the factory where they worked making boots for the German soldiers.

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Dunek Zloczewski on the left, in the factory where he made boots for the German army in the Lodz Ghetto, circa 1941
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A photo taken in the boot manufacturing plant in the Lodz Ghetto, circa 1941. On the far left with the yellow patch is the night shift manager. Above him is Hadani’s sister Sabina Zloczewski, and above her is Dunek Zloczewski (today, Dan Hadani)

Dr. Mengele’s Selections

Hadani has written extensively about the nightmarish journey from the ghetto to Auschwitz, on a website that he himself set up: “I didn’t want to write a book because I think more people will read it this way,” he explains. Until that moment, throughout all their time in the ghetto, his mother and sister were never apart from him. In the utter chaos upon the train’s arrival at the platform, he was immediately separated from them. His mother was murdered that day. As far as he was able to clarify, his sister was murdered a few months later in one of the labor camps. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the whole family and miss them. I wasn’t even able to say goodbye to my mother or sister.” Unlike his family, Hadani went through several different labor camps and survived. In each camp, he says miracles, coincidences, luck, and wits helped him stay alive.

After a few weeks in Auschwitz, Dr. Mengele conducted a selection. To prevent any chance of an uprising by the prisoners, the abuse began days before. “We were naked and needed to do frog jumps for hours. Whoever wasn’t up to it received fatal blows.” They were organized into groups of five for the selection by Dr. Mengele, who tended not to speak but merely lift his finger to point at whoever needed to leave the row and join those headed for immediate extermination. When he got to Hadani, Mengele pointed in his direction. Hadani asked in fluent German, “Do you mean me?” Mengele responded, “Keep standing, dog.” The man behind Hadani, the last in the group of five, was out of luck that day and murdered in that very same selection.

Whoever passed the selection was chosen for harsh labor at the factories at the Braunschweig camp, which were converted during the war to create German tanks. The cold temperatures during the winter of 1944 were so extreme that many people’s toes froze. “People would be woken in the night by rats biting them, which they only discovered when the rats moved from the frozen flesh to the living flesh, then the person would wake up screaming. It was awful,” Hadani describes. With luck and resourcefulness, he had found pieces of an empty cement bag made out of several layers of paper, and he used these to wrap his feet and protect them from the cold and the rats.

A few days later, he was transferred to a labor camp in a neighboring town. One of the managers there, Meister Haler, under whom Hadani worked, was a member of the Nazi party. Haler was known for his barbarism and even the other Germans feared him. “I worked on the night shift, from 6 PM till 6 AM, just like that Meister, and he showed me what I needed to do, how to raise a 42 kilo hunk of iron, bring it towards the lathe at a certain angle, and bind it to its place so that the lathe would process it to the desired size. I remembered how he held the iron at a special angle and I did it exactly the way he did.”

Thanks to his quick absorption, Hadani understood what was required of him. Even though he had never before worked in a technical profession, and he only weighed around 40 kilos at the time, within a few days he managed to produce quite a good yield. Because of his fluent German, the two were able to converse, and during his long night shifts, Meister would tell him about his life and how he ended up in the Nazi party. “Once, he even brought me a slice of bread. Who ever heard of such a thing? Or even some cocoa substitute that they had in the canteen, which they called Alsace-Cacao. It was unbelievable!” Small moments like that gave him strength and hope during the hardest days.

“I rejoiced but I didn’t know why”

Hadani was transferred to harsh labor in several different camps. On the way to one of them, he was forced to join in a death march, which he survived. Towards the end of the war, he was at the Ravensbrück concentration camp as part of a group that was to be exchanged, possibly with German prisoners of war. The SS officers forced the group to walk through the forest towards another camp. “I was sure that they’d murder us there,” he says, “but no, there were cabins that belonged to the League of Nations there where they handed us parcels of food and cigarettes. Here, too, the young man’s hard-earned wisdom saved his life. “You need to remember, we’re talking about people who had been starving for months and years. To suddenly stuff yourself with that kind of food could be dangerous. I understood that. I simply knew it to be true.” The other starved camp prisoners ate ravenously and suffered severe diarrhea. Some never recovered. “I knew, for example, that I should get rid of the canned meat and keep the dry biscuits, which I ate slowly.”

When he saw the American soldiers enter the camp gates to liberate him, he was too exhausted to stand up. “I rejoiced, but I didn’t know why,” he says. After a few days regaining his strength, he gradually began to understand that he was once again a free man. Yet with that understanding, and upon his return home to Lodz, he knew that he had no one left in the world. He was on his own.

In the house where they had lived in the Lodz Ghetto, there was a small storeroom where he found the few photographs he still has of himself and his family from their time there. These were photographed in secret, practically the only tangible reminder of his life back then. From there, he ended up in the displaced persons camps. He can’t forget the rivalry he witnessed between the various groups of survivors: “If there, in the camps, people from Poale Tzion couldn’t speak with people from Beitar, and there were so many arguments and so much tension, and we were all Holocaust survivors, how could we possibly run a country?”

Although he had other options, it was clear to Hadani that he would fulfill his parents’ unwritten will, realize their Zionist dreams, and go live in Israel. He was accepted to join a maritime training course taking place in Italy, without knowing a word of Italian or any of the other people. However, Hadani passed the course with flying colors, and the day after he landed in Israel, he enlisted in the newly formed Israeli Navy. “The hardest thing was the way we – the Holocaust survivors – were treated by the tsabarim [native-born Israelis]. They treated us like idiots, asking things like ‘Why didn’t you object?’ How can you possibly explain to well-fed people what it means to suffer years of starvation?”

מחברת של דן מלימודי הימאות באיטליה
Original notebook in Hadani’s handwriting, which he kept from his maritime course in Italy

In Israel, it took him some time to adjust to his new life. “Even when I was a soldier in the army, I was hungry. After all, I didn’t have a home to go to or anyone else in the world. I would stay on the army base even during vacations when I was on leave so that at least I had something to eat and somewhere to sleep.” Hadani served in the IDF until he was honorably discharged at forty years old, at the rank of major. He then he began a new career as a newspaper photographer, establishing the IPPA press agency and even writing news articles. For someone who had never learned Hebrew in any organized manner, he felt a sense of pride and triumph over the horrible circumstances of his early life.

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Dan Hadani during his years as an officer in the Israeli Navy. From a private album

“I am among the only ones who can still speak about it”

What was going through his mind at the end of World War II, when he was only 21 years old? What did he feel when he discovered that he was left all alone in the world without a single relative, with barely any mementos from before the war? Hadani has very few photographs in his possession from his childhood and youth, barely any souvenirs of all his family relatives who perished. Perhaps that’s why he became a such a curious documentarian and cataloger over the years, organized and meticulous, keeping records of everything that happened in the young country.

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Dan Hadani at work, during a visit to Egypt during the 1977 peace talks. From the Dan Hadani Archive, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

For years, Hadani didn’t speak about what he went through during the Holocaust. “I didn’t want to reopen the wound. I occupied myself with surviving and was also embarrassed to speak about it, because of how the native Israelis treated me,” he explains. It was only once he turned 92 that he first agreed to return to Poland, and that was when the floodgates opened. Ever since, he has spoken to anyone willing to listen. He also made sure to upload his story from the Holocaust period to his website, which he built himself at the age of 99. “I understand that I need to speak about it and I am among the only ones who still can! Even if it isn’t easy for me. It takes me back to the past, and I have nightmares about it.”

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Dan Hadani at the National Library of Israel, 2024. Photograph by David Peretz

When Hadani is asked about October 7, he responds, “For me, that was a Holocaust day. One day! I woke up in the morning and listened to the radio, I heard what they were saying and immediately shut it off. I thought it couldn’t be. But then I was curious and turned it back on and remembered – this is how the Holocaust felt.”

Hadani came to tell his story as part of the Zikaron Ba’salon (“a memory in the living room”) Holocaust commemoration initiative, at the National Library, which houses his vast and monumental archive of photographs. At the Library and in its online catalog, the collection is accessible to all. “I get some satisfaction from knowing that the huge archive of photos that I worked on all my life is being kept safe at the National Library. It gives me pride to know that something will be left after me.”

Dan Hadani’s life arguably contains more than one life story, and he hopes that the country that he dreamed of and was so happy to serve and be part of will continue to be faithful to the same values that guided him throughout his life.

You can watch this special interview held with Dan Hadani in Hebrew at the National Library. Auto-generated English subtitles are available:

The Boy Whose Life Was Saved by Hannah Senesh

One of the heart-wrenching facts about Hannah Senesh, the paratrooper-poetess who died so tragically at the age of 23, is that she wasn't able carry out her mission. She received military training and was sent to Yugoslavia in an effort to save Jews from the Nazis – but she was ultimately caught at the border, imprisoned, and executed. Was her death in vain? The story of one little boy and his mother reveals something of Hannah's unique personality, as well as those she did manage to save, despite everything.

Hannah Senesh, aged 17 or 18, from the Senesh Family Archive, courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen, alongside an image of Baruch Galtstein, the boy born thanks to her. Photo courtesy of his family.

On the border between Slovakia and Hungary is a large forest, the kind that brings to mind the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, a forest so thick that when you enter it, the sun disappears, even in the middle of the day.

In 1942, this forest was infiltrated by a small group made up primarily of Jews trying to flee Nazi-occupied Slovakia, where the first train to Auschwitz had just left the station. They were attempting to escape to Hungary, which at the time was still relatively free.

This was not their first attempt; a few days earlier, they had reached the area with the aid of professional smugglers – who promptly betrayed them to soldiers stationed on the border. Most of the group were killed or caught by the Nazis, but under cover of darkness and in the chaos of the moment, some of them managed to run away to temporary safety. Now, they tried again to escape the country.

Among the fugitives were Matilda and Eliezer Galtstein, together with their two-year-old daughter Tova and Matilda’s sister Hilda. Their son Baruch, who would become one of the heroes of the amazing family story he would share with us more than eighty years later, had not yet been born.

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Right: The parents, Eliezer and Matilda, on their wedding day. Left: Tova, aged five. Photo courtesy of the family

This time they managed to make it into the forest before the shooting started, but the darkness and tangled overgrowth turned out to be a double-edged sword: The gunfire forced them to all disperse, and when they later regrouped deep inside the forest, they were horrified to learn that Tova wasn’t with any of them. What were the odds of a small girl, not even three years old, surviving in a terrifying forest, filled with monsters that were all too real?

For three days, they scoured the forest, calling their little daughter’s name, alternately shouting and whispering as they grew more and more desperate. Then, finally, they found her – frightened and exhausted but healthy and whole – waiting for them under one of the trees.

Was this miracle the end of their travails? Not really.

They arrived in Budapest with forged papers, mourning everything and everyone they’d lost and fearing what the future might bring (Matilda and Hilda’s parents had already been sent to Auschwitz and murdered there on the day they arrived). For two years, they lived in relative safety in the city, but then came the day they had feared the most: on March 19, 1944, German forces entered Hungary, bringing with them all the terror and horrors of the Holocaust.

For the sake of their own survival, Eliezer and Matilda decided to temporarily break up their small family. Tova, who was now almost five years old, was handed over to a convent which also served as an orphanage, while Eliezer and Matilda each lived in separate hiding places. Every so often they would meet at a predetermined location in one of the city’s public parks.

One day in July 1944, Matilda did not show up at their meeting place. Eliezer learned later that she’d been arrested a few days earlier. Her forged papers, combined with her broken Hungarian, marked her out as a foreigner trying to hide her own identity and therefore – a suspected spy. She was thrown in prison. Matilda was certain that her fate and that of her unborn child was sealed, but she hadn’t taken into account her new cellmate.

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[Hannah Senesh with her brother Giora (George) in Tel Aviv, shortly before leaving on the mission from which she would not return. Photo courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen, the Senesh Family Archive, the National Library of Israel]
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Writing behind the picture (above). Photo courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen, the Senesh Family Archive, the National Library of Israel

The 23-year-old young Jewish woman who welcomed her introduced herself as “Aniko, or Hannah.” She was younger than Matilda, but had spent more time in prison – she’d arrived a month and a half earlier – and had received training for dealing with such situations. She extended a hand to Matilda and quickly became her support.

The woman’s full name, as you’ve already guessed, was Hannah Senesh (Szenes). The talented writer was born in Hungary, made Aliyah to the Land of Israel and then volunteered to serve in the British Army and joined the group of volunteer-paratroopers dropped over Nazi-occupied Europe. On March 15, 1944, she parachuted into Yugoslavia together with Reuven Dafni, Yonah Rosen, and Abba Berdichev.

At first, she joined a local partisan group, but in June it was decided to move forward with her main mission, which was supposed to take place on Hungarian soil. She attempted to cross the border and was caught by Hungarian soldiers. She was then transferred to a Budapest jail, where she was charged with treason against the Hungarian motherland and tortured to reveal the identities of the other paratroopers.

She refused.

Senesh shared her burning faith in the justice of their cause with Matilda, as well as her experience in dealing with Gestapo interrogators. She listened to her, encouraged her, and gave her strength, especially after the endless rounds of torture Matilda endured. She advised her to steal and destroy her forged identification papers, so that the government would have no physical proof against her.

“In the end, it didn’t really change anything,” said Baruch, Matilda’s son, “Lemke (the Gestapo commander in charge of the prison) would always tell her ‘I don’t need this document to execute you, I will execute you, anyway.”

Did Senesh really believe that they would get a fair trial? It’s hard to know, but when Matilda revealed that she was pregnant, it was clear to Senesh that she could not wait for the final outcome of Matilda’s arrest – she needed to escape, and soon.

In Hannah Senesh’s writings, which are mostly preserved in the Senesh Family Archive at the National Library of Israel (courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen) – in poems, diaries, and letters – we see the strong relationship she shared with her mother Katherine, but also her special attitude towards motherhood in general:

If there exists in the world a token of honor and respect,
a wreath of loyalty, of love,
there is only one worthy of it:
Your good mother!
Let your heart harbor gratitude,
and let your lips sing a prayer,
Hear now the most beautiful word in the world:
Mother!

(Hannah Senesh, “Mother,” 1933)

“I would like to erect a monument to my mother—a mother who, from my childhood to this day, allowed my brother and me to set sail into the world to seek our own paths, forgoing her right to hold us back. This is not just the image of my mother; many Jewish mothers of our generation share this fate.”

(From Hannah Senesh’s diary, December 14, 1940)

When Senesh explained her escape plan to Matilda, the latter panicked. The route sounded too complex and the odds of success too low. But Senesh insisted and encouraged her to do it – if not for herself, then for the child in her womb.

Was this an escape plan meant for Senesh herself? Was young Hannah, who was far more fit than the pregnant woman living in inhuman conditions, capable of using this route herself? We’ll probably never know, but many believe that she didn’t try to flee since she was certain she would be released – which, as we know, she wasn’t.

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Farewell letter from Hannah Senesh to her mother, likely written on the day of her execution. It was found in the pocket of her dress, which was handed over to her mother. Photo courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen, the Senesh Family Archive, the National Library of Israel

Matilda followed every stage of the plan, step by step: When they came to take her for interrogation (again), she feigned falling down the stairs. She needed to be precise in her fall – not too hard, so as not to harm her baby, but hard enough to have her sent to the infirmary.

The infirmary was on the third floor of the building. It was much quieter than the rest of the prison and its windows weren’t barred. Matilda waited for the nurse to leave the room. When the coast was clear, she tied some sheets together and carefully climbed down out of the window, down to the street which was still part of war-torn Budapest but still safer than being in Gestapo custody.

Hannah Senesh was executed not long after, on November 7, 1944.

On February 13, 1945, Budapest was liberated by the Red Army. Immediately after being freed, Matilda turned to the convent where she had put the thing most dear to her – her daughter, Tova. She was told they had no such girl.

But by now, Matilda knew a thing or two about how useful windows could be. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she climbed up to the convent’s rear window and forced it open. There, she immediately identified Tova, who in turn recognized her mother. They left together, to meet Eliezer who had been switching between dozens of hiding places in the last few months.

Shortly afterward, Matilda gave birth to her son, Baruch. His body was covered in bruises, a result of the tortures suffered by her mother, but was otherwise healthy. Following his birth, the Galtstein family made Aliyah after much suffering and not a few miracles, where they could finally raise their children in peace and happiness.

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The Galtstein family, at their Ramat Gan apartment. Photo courtesy of the family

The story of the rescue of Matilda and Baruch by Hannah Senesh has accompanied the family for many decades. Senesh became a national hero in Israel after her death, but their connection was personal.

“Mother would tell of it, again and again, to anyone who would only listen,” Baruch said, adding that every year, on the Hebrew anniversary of Hannah’s execution, the 21st of Cheshvan, he would say the kadish prayer for the clever, brave, young woman who saved their lives.

A few years ago, Baruch traveled to Budapest with other relatives to explore the family’s roots in Hungary. They had their picture taken in front of the building which once served as the Gestapo headquarters, where Matilda fled through the window while carrying Baruch in her womb.

Above them was a sign placed there shortly after the war:

“Thousands suffered in this building.

In the dark days of 1944, between March 19 and December 31, they were arrested by the German Gestapo and most were sent to the death camps.

The few who remain alive remember them.

Budapest 1946.”

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The sign on the former Gestapo building in Budapest. Courtesy of the Galtstein family