How did Shulamit Cohen Kishik, a frum Jewish mother in Beirut, find the courage to become a modern-day undercover Esther Hamalkah?
TO Shulamit Cohen Kishik, the question is irrelevant. “How dare you ask me that?” she demanded of her curious Israeli handlers. “How could I not do what was asked of me? I would be zocheh to perform the double mitzvah of pidyon shvuyim and helping fellow Jews go to Eretz Yisrael!”
Her path to clandestine activities on behalf of the Jews of Lebanon and Syria began at a party in Lebanon, where she overheard plans to attack Jews in the Galilee. Swept without warning into the world of espionage and illegal immigration, Shulamit braved arrest and torture to give her all to the Jewish nation.
Born Shulamit Cohen in Buenos Aires, in 1919, she was the eldest daughter in a family of eight children. When the family moved to Jerusalem in 1926, Shulamit was offered a golden opportunity: admission to the exclusive Evelina de Rothschild School for girls.
In the early 1900s, most girls in impoverished Jerusalem were illiterate. They stayed home, helping their mothers with childcare and household chores. At most, they might be sent to learn sewing from a local woman, and were usually married as early as age 13. In a society where most parents could barely afford to feed their children, going to school was a rare privilege, for which girls were last in line.
But Shulamit’s mother, Allegra Harush, had graduated from the well-known Jerusalem school before World War I as an outstanding student. Annie Landau, school headmistress, remembered Allegra’s achievements and agreed to admit Shulamit and two of her sisters. Prof. Laura Schor describes the school in her book The Best School in Jerusalem: Annie Landau’s School for Girls, 1900-1960.
At Evelina, Shulamit thrived both academically and socially. She earned top grades, ranked first in her class, and led the morning davening. Later, she became a Girl Guide (the British equivalent of a Girl Scout) and a class prefect (the head monitor). She also sang in the choir and even studied ballet, at a time when extracurricular activities were highly unusual for girls.
Shulamit’s personality occasionally got her into trouble. She recalls studying for a test with her friends during recess in the school garden, overstaying the break. The prefect gave her a punishment: She had to write “I must obey orders” 1,000 times in her notebook. Undaunted, Shulamit asked the prefect to lower the number, so that she could continue studying for the test. But the prefect refused. Discipline was a primary value, and an exception would be contrary to school spirit.
Shulamit appealed to her friends, asking five girls to share the punishment by writing 200 lines each. But they refused, so she took a more creative approach. She wrote “I must obey orders” on the first line, then added 999 ditto marks below. The next morning, she handed in the completed punishment and went in to daven with her class. Shulamit’s ingenuity, coupled with a hefty measure of chutzpah, were to serve her well in her future role smuggling Jews over the border from Lebanon into Israel.
At Evelina, Shulamit also developed the courage to uphold her ideals under pressure. Responsible for organizing the English and Hebrew school libraries, Shulamit refused to make special exceptions to the rules for a teacher. She lost her job as librarian, but the teacher backed down when she realized Shulamit was upholding the very ideals of justice that the school was trying to teach.
But Shulamit’s formal education came to an end when financial difficulties forced her father to return to Buenos Aires in 1932. She was 13 years old. As a farewell gift, Headmistress Landau presented her with a gold-embossed English-Hebrew Tanach.
Though her time there was short, the Evelina school had a formative influence on Shulamit’s worldview. At 17, after three years in Buenos Aires, Shulamit returned to Jerusalem—straight to the chuppah. Her parents had arranged a shidduch with Joseph Kishik, son of a wealthy Sephardi family in Beirut, Lebanon. He was twice her age, but kibud av prevailed over any objection she might have had. Her parents and brother traveled with her to Beirut for the chasunah, then left her to adjust to life as a kallah in a new country, as a wife, daughter-in-law and eventually mother. The Kishiks lived in a spacious 11-room house with several servants in Wadi Abu Jamil, known as Wadi Yahud, the Jewish quarter of Beirut. As a new member of high society, Shulamit was expected to join the other women in endless rounds of social visits and idle chitchat, and she chafed at the role. She began to put her Evelina values to good use. In the local school, she discovered a group of Jewish students who knew French and Arabic, but not Hebrew, and proposed to teach them the language. In the highly traditional atmosphere of the Jewish quarter, this was a daring step. Shulamit’s in-laws were quick to criticize. She calmed them by showing that from the upper windows of their home, they could supervise every moment of her teaching.
Her husband paid for the printing of Hebrew textbooks she had brought back from a visit to her parents in Jerusalem. To avoid arousing the anger of the Lebanese authorities, she erased any Zionist content she could find. Her efforts achieved official recognition when the Lebanese matriculation examination eventually added Hebrew to the list of recognized languages, which had previously included only Arabic, French and English. Gradually, Shulamit gained the esteem of Beirut leaders for her work with the Talmud Torah, the Alliance School and the Jewish scouts. As an Alliance representative, she met with Prime Minister Riad al-Solh to discuss the annual awards ceremony. Her husband’s social connections, together with her leadership role in the Jewish community, put the Kishiks in the center of Beirut high society. Shulamit and her husband became regulars at elite parties hosted by government officials.
This state of affairs did not last long. Even before World War II, Shulamit and her neighbors realized that the future of Wadi Yahud was in danger. As in other Arab countries, Jews began to feel they were no longer welcome in Lebanon. Many set sail for Argentina and Brazil, and some to Italy. Only a few made their destination Palestine. In late 1947, as the British Mandate over Palestine drew to a close, Shulamit had the opportunity to change that.
Her career in Intelligence began by accident. At a party, Shulamit overheard a conversation between Lebanese agents planning to attack Jews in the Galilee. She knew she had to act, but had no idea how to get the vital intelligence to the right people. She made her own invisible ink from baking soda and wrote down the information to send to Israeli leaders. (Her invisible ink recipe is in the accompanying interview.)
From 1947 to 1961, Shulamit aided hundreds of Lebanese and Syrian Jews to make their new home in Israel.
Then came the darkest period of her life. In 1961, Shulamit was arrested. While awaiting trial, she was tortured, whipped, tied and hung upside down, but did not confess.“My father took me to visit her in prison, and I was horrified,” her daughter says. “Her teeth had been knocked out and her fingernails pulled off. Even though I was desperate to see my mother, I begged my father not to take me back there.” Shulamit was sentenced to death. Her husband succeeded in having the sentence commuted to seven years in prison.“Not for one moment did I ever lose hope,” Shulamit told crowds at the 30th anniversary of her release. “I knew all of Sefer Tehillim by heart, and I prayed all day long and into the night. My tefillot were what gave me strength. I constantly asked myself why I was there, why was I suffering? After all, I had been doing a mitzvah, bringing Jews to Eretz Yisrael. Hashem would not abandon me to rot in that hole!”
In August 1967, after the Six-Day War, Shulamit was released in a prisoner exchange agreement. Fearing the authorities would take revenge against her family, she refused to sign the release statement until she had firm proof that they would be allowed to leave Lebanon. Her captors took her to an airfield, where she witnessed her husband and children board a plane for Cyprus and then to Israel. She agreed to sign. Finally, she was flown to Israel by military plane and welcomed by military leaders and her surviving family: her mother, brothers and sisters in Jerusalem, and her husband and five children. Some of this is related in her memoir Shirat HaShulamit, co-written with Ezra Yachin in 2000.
Since her aliyah, Shulamit has lived in Jerusalem, lecturing on her experiences to high school groups and inspiring them to serve their people. She has been honored multiple times for her work: a grove was named in her honor at Canada Park; the torch lighting at the Yom Ha’atzmaut ceremony in 2007 was in her honor; she was honorary citizen of Jerusalem in 2010. Her son Yitchak Levanon followed in her footsteps, acting as Israel’s Ambassador to Egypt from 2009 until 2011, when the government there was overthrown and he was evacuated. Shulamit agreed to speak with Ami only about those missions which are allowed to be made public. Many of her assignments are still classified. When asked about the latter, she was adamantly silent—mum’s the word. Or rather, frum mum’s the word.
Ami visited Mrs. Shulamit Cohen Kishik, 96, in the Jerusalem assisted-living residence where she now lives. The shelves are lined with sifrei kodesh. Despite her nearly ten decades, Mrs. Kishik has the energy and memory of a woman half her age.
How did you first get involved in espionage?
When I was married and living in Lebanon, I had a very good friend who was the daughter of Lebanese Prime Minister Riad al-Solh. I visited my friend in her home and the prime minister asked me how I was using my time in Lebanon. I told him I was teaching Hebrew language in two Jewish schools. (I didn’t say that I was teaching Jewish youth about Eretz Yisrael, which would have been problematic in the years before the establishment of the state. I only mentioned the Hebrew teaching, which was perfectly legal.) Because I had become friendly with his daughter, my husband and I were invited to the prime minister’s annual end-of-the-year reception in December, and a chauffeured Cadillac picked us up. At the reception, I drifted away from the women’s chatting and heard something that caught my attention. Although my mother had always taught me not to listen to the conversations of others, I sensed that something important was being said.
What was that?
Everywhere I turned I heard the men talking about “the Jews,” “the Jews”—el Yahud, in Arabic. I wondered, “Why are they talking about Jews?” and said to myself, “Shula, stop whatever you are doing and listen carefully to them.”
Were they specific?
They were planning two attacks on Israel. They mentioned a name that struck terror in the hearts of Jews: Fawzi al-Qawuqji, a Lebanese colonel who had allied with the Nazis during WWII, and who was then assembling a joint Syrian and Lebanese force to attack the northern cities in the new state of Israel. He headed the Arab Liberation Army (ALA). My head started spinning, my pulse pounded, my hands and feet trembled, the world seemed to be going black in my eyes. But my ears were working overtime.
Later, al-Qawuqji would be quoted as saying, “I have come to Palestine to stay and fight until Palestine is a free and united Arab country.” His aim, he declared, using the slogan that was fast becoming the leitmotif of Arab leaders, was to “drive the Jews into the sea.”
One by one, I heard the routes they planned to use and the places where they plotted to attack and kill Jews in northern Eretz Yisrael—the Galil. They talked about the armaments that were arriving from Europe in the Beirut port, and their stocks of cannons, ammunition and rifles.
I was sick to my stomach. It reminded me of Mordechai overhearing the plotters. And I felt like Queen Esther upon hearing about Haman’s plans to kill the Jews of Shushan. Vatitchalchal hamalkah me’od—she turned white and felt faint. That’s exactly how I felt.
My agitation attracted the notice of the prime minister, who asked if I felt ill. I realized that I had reached my very own eit hazot. Like Queen Esther, Hashem had given me this opportunity to do something to save my fellow Jews.
What did you do?
The prime minister came over. I said I didn’t feel well and asked to be excused from the reception. He obliged by calling for a chauffeur to take me home.
I have to explain something here—this particular prime minister, Riad Al-Solh, was not opposed to the new state of Israel. Despite being a Sunni Muslim, he was pro-Israel and also wanted the Lebanese Jewish kehillah to be treated properly. But he had trouble controlling certain elements of his government and the Lebanese Army. He was assassinated by Syria in 1951, one reason being that he was not opposed to Israel. So under his nose at the reception, al-Qawuqji’s supporters were talking.
So you went back home, and then what?
I couldn’t sleep the whole night. Time was short and the clock was ticking. What could I do? I didn’t know anyone who could help. I went to the window, opened it, and prayed to the Almighty. “Please, You see everything from above. I want to help my people… maybe I can send a note over the border.”
You still had family in Eretz Yisrael?
Certainly. That was part of my distress. I thought of my parents, my siblings and friends having their homes demolished, their cities destroyed, being harmed. I had visited from time to time, such as for the reception in honor of King George VI’s coronation.
What did you do?
I wanted to send a warning note over the border, but I didn’t know how to do it. In the morning an idea came to me. I remembered something I’d learned in the Girl Guides in the Evelina School—how to send secret messages with disappearing ink. I asked one of my housemaids to go shopping for baking soda and a small paintbrush. When I had the ingredients, I wrote a letter in English using regular ink, with triple spacing between the lines: “My very dear cousin, I understand you underwent a dangerous operation. I am very worried about you. Please write me as soon as you can. I hope it will be successful. Your cousin, Shula.”
Then I dipped the paintbrush in disappearing ink and wrote in Hebrew, in the spaces between the get-well wishes. I began: “To those in charge…” and continued with a description of the plans I had overheard. I signed my name and address in the Jewish quarter of Lebanon, in the house adjoining the Magen Avraham synagogue.
Next, I went to my husband’s store and managed to send the note with a trusted Arab merchant who had connections with a Jew over the border in Misgav Am who was an officer in the Haganah. The Arab merchant said he could get the letter for “my sick cousin” as far as that officer in Misgav Am, and maybe somehow the letter would eventually get to Jerusalem.
Indeed, he delivered the letter to the Haganah officer who had the sense to, literally, read between the lines. Three days later a short note arrived acknowledging receipt of my “get-well” wishes and giving me my first assignment.
Can you tell us about the first assignment?
The task involved smuggling a Jewish underground fighter named Winkler from Lebanon over the border. The note they sent back to me said he had been expelled by the British and was being held aboard the ship Transylvania which would dock at a certain date and time in Beirut. “Can you get the fighter off the ship and smuggle him to Metulla?” they wrote. “We will wait there until 4 a.m. Todah rabah.”
What did I know about smuggling people? I remembered tagging along as a child with my father on a business trip. He had helped a young Jewish stowaway who had been wrongly imprisoned and was fleeing Argentina to Israel. Maaseh avot siman l’banim! At the time, my father, z”l, had explained to me that by smuggling the youth out, he was performing two important mitzvot—pidyon shvuyim, and helping Jews to make aliyah to Eretz Yisrael.
So how did you get Winkler from Beirut south over the border to Metulla?
I divided the mission into two parts. First, I arranged for Joseph’s relative, Abu Jack, to break Winkler out of the ship and bring him to the Magen Avraham synagogue next to my home.
Then I had to do my part: get him to Metulla by 4 a.m. I convinced a friend of Abu Jack to complete the task. In those days, the border was relatively porous, and conveying mail, selling contraband and smuggling humans were all possible by greasing the right palms. We got Winkler to Metulla in time.
Intelligence missions require emotional intelligence, discipline and stamina. You were a young mother of a growing family. How did you manage?
The risky missions when I myself had to cross the border required physical and emotional endurance. The first was right after the Winkler episode. I was invited by the Haganah representatives to meet with them in Israel, so that they could explain what was expected of me. This was hardly a weekend jaunt—the route was tortuous and dangerous.
With mixed feelings about leaving my family, I cooked their favorite Shabbat foods and set out early on a Friday morning. I journeyed south to the Lebanon-Israel border, and with the help of Arab contacts crawled through a hole in the barbed-wire fence at Metulla.
After a jarring truck ride, and sloshing through mud, I arrived at Kibbutz Kfar Masaryk before candlelighting. I was relieved to see the tables set with white tablecloths.
Was it a religious kibbutz?
At the time, I didn’t know there were religious and non-religious kibbutzim. I soon realized that the kibbutz was not kosher, so I ate only bread and apples. There was no synagogue there, although to their credit, the kibbutzniks did not have to do their jobs on Shabbat. I made a Shabbat bubble for myself. My meeting with the intelligence people was scheduled for Motzaei Shabbat, and when the kibbutzniks wished me “Good evening,” I made sure to reply, “Shavua tov.”
The representatives asked me to smuggle Jews over the border, infiltrate the highest echelons of the Lebanese political and military leadership, and gather intelligence. They clarified that if caught, I would be liable to the death sentence for treason. When they asked what led me to accept the position, and offered me a salary, I replied with pride and indignation, “No reward is too great for this privilege.” When they wished me good luck in my endeavors, I protested, “Can’t you pray for Hashem’s blessing, instead of mere luck?”
What prepared you for the dangerous work you undertook?
The religious upbringing I received at home and in school was a major factor. My father frequently quoted Tehillim: Karov Hashem l’chol korav, l’chol asher yikra’uhu… b’emet. He would emphasize the word “emet,” and say that if your tefillah was focused b’emet, it would be received. That encouraged me greatly.
The second factor that prepared me for these dangerous mitzvot was my education at the Evelina School, where strict discipline was emphasized along with initiative and creativity. I liked the martinet spirit, though not everyone did. For example, the headmistress would insist we line up in the morning for her inspection. If a girl so much as had unpolished shoes or a too-short hemline, she would silently crook her finger, motion to the girl to come to her, and would tell the girl to go home, remedy the situation, and return speedily.
On the other hand, we were also encouraged to open our eyes to our surroundings and take initiative to solve problems. Through the Girl Guides—similar to the American Girl Scouts—we were given tools to tackle challenges.
Were there situations where you had to improvise plans on the spot?
In one of my missions, I smuggled 90 children over the border to Israel. The Lebanese police were on my trail and infiltrated the group. I noticed them and made a split-second decision to run to a store, buy their entire stock of candles, and march the children around for a few hours, disguising the gathering as a Chanukah procession with lit candles and Chanukah singing. Eventually the police tired of their surveillance and left. I grabbed the opportunity and spirited the children away over the border. That was my “neis Chanukah.”
How did your husband react to your missions?
I had two kinds of missions. One was smuggling Syrian Jews into Israel, and he supported that and assisted me. But for fear of endangering him, I could not reveal that in addition to Jews, I was also collecting and sending classified information over the border. In public and at home, I led a double life, masquerading as a traditional Lebanese Jewish wife and mother, an elegant party hostess and member of the Beirut society elite, all the while maintaining contact with the Israeli government and organizing intelligence operations.
How did you stand firm under the constant pressure?
In times of uncertainty, I turned to Hashem for comfort. I had sichot nefesh with Him and asked for His support and assistance. The other source of encouragement was family, my husband Joseph, z”l, and my children, who despite the tumult have grown to be sturdy arzei Levanon, cedars of Lebanon.
Did the Lebanese officials become suspicious?
In the late 1950s I fell under suspicion, but before I was sent to prison, I received an important document at home. Knowing my home could be searched at any moment, and fearful that the document would serve as proof of my guilt, I stuffed the document into a pile of my newborn’s diapers on top of a chest of drawers. A group of Lebanese and Syrian intelligence officials and army officers, along with a mukhtar, surprised me, and one officer pushed his hand under the diapers.
I froze, petrified, and looked toward the sky out the window. I prayed: Hashem, You helped the Jews defeat our enemies. Now I’m the one who needs to be saved. My life is in danger—have rachmanut on me and the children! Somehow, miraculously, the officer didn’t find the document inside the diapers.
Did they leave you alone?
No. The officer ordered his soldiers to search the entire house. Again I held my breath when a soldier threw the diapers onto the floor, but the document remained hidden inside. The mukhtar, acting the gentleman, begged the officer to consider my condition as a new mother. “Ya havivi, ya eini, can’t you see that the woman is weak from the birth and from caring for the baby? At least pick up those diapers and put them back!”
I wanted to shut him up. I didn’t need his favors. But I didn’t dare open my mouth. I couldn’t believe that the document could remain hidden a third time. But again Hashem showed the extent of His mercy. The soldier collected the diapers from the floor into a messy pile and placed them on the chest of drawers. The document was still nowhere to be seen.
I started to berate the soldiers for disturbing a new mother. When they insisted that I come with them for interrogation, I said I needed to nurse the baby. They didn’t know I had just nursed him an hour earlier. They left me alone for a few minutes—just enough time to stick my hand into the pile of diapers, pull out the document, and hide it on top of the bathroom window in a place known to my trusted housekeeper. Before getting into the officer’s car, I instructed the loyal woman about taking care of the house and the baby in my absence, and quietly explained to her what to do with the document.
Was that the end of the episode?
By no means—it was only the beginning. I was taken in for interrogation. I had thought that the officers would treat me gently as a woman, and one who had just had a baby, but I quickly discovered that this was a mistake. They beat me with the blunt ends of their rifles until I almost fainted. (Shulamit’s trial, interrogation and torture are described in her book Shirat HaShulamit, co-written with Ezra Yachin.) My husband Joseph gave me much moral support during those dark years. I was sentenced to death by public hanging, but he bribed officials to commute it to imprisonment.
Because I hadn’t told Joseph about my intelligence work, the Lebanese authorities could not prosecute him. Two of our sons and a daughter had already gone to live in Israel. My husband remained in Beirut with the other two children, and continued his business affairs. But I had to bear my solitary confinement and torture alone. When I was finally released in a prisoner exchange, I was physically and emotionally broken. Joseph stood by me and encouraged me during my hospitalization in Israel. In 2009, I dedicated a Torah scroll in his memory.
What words of encouragement can you share with Ami readers?
Whenever I set out on an assignment, I would first give some tzedakah to Meir Baal Hanes. In addition, when I would make forays from Lebanon into Israel, I would make an effort to go via Tiberias where his kever is located. When I was freed and came to Israel, I undertook to lecture all over the country: high schools, kibbutzim, the army, settlements like Kochav Hashachar, where my son David lives. And before each lecture, I continue to put money into the Meir Baal Hanes box just as I did in Lebanon. We can only make our hishtadlut. The rest is up to Hashem.
Ami is indebted to Shulamit’s daughter, Carmela Assal, for arranging an interview with this remarkable woman. Bracha Mantaka contributed to this article.
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