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Diplomatic Service
In early 1962, at the height of the Cold War and at the request of then treasury minister and
later prime minister, Levi Eshkol, Zim representatives met with the Soviet ambassador
in Israel. Board member Yosef Barpal, who “spoke a magnificent Russian, to the great
pleasure of the ambassador,” proposed a collaboration – to organize a cruise to the ports
of the Black Sea. And indeed, the cruise came to fruition in May 1963. A handful of Israelis
on board the Jerusalem, among them one of the pioneers of Hebrew shipping, Odessa-
born Captain Zeev HaYam, met in secret with the clandestine Soviet Jewish community,
despite close surveillance by the secret service; when they returned to Israel they wrote with Zim entering the major league of the industry: never-before-seen luxuries, including
great emotion about the rare visit behind the Iron Curtain. The tour would not take place
a second time, and there are those who estimate it was nothing more than a diplomatic
gesture. Some other important decisions by Zim also had a diplomatic rationale, such as
the decision to build ships in France, with whom diplomatic relations were blossoming
at the time. The government’s role in the company had different aspects, and opinions
remain divided as to its contribution to Zim’s business interests.
Zim had become a vast and complex organization with two main branches – the passenger
branch and the cargo branch. While the cargo branch was busy developing the already
quite expansive network of routes and managing the challenging commercial and
operational side of administering the large fleet, the public’s attention, and that of the
new managing partner – the government – was focused on the romantic splendor of
the luxury passenger ships.
In the early 1960s the passenger branch operated five new ships in the Mediterranean
as well as a line to America. Two of them, Israel and Zion, were mixed passenger and
cargo ships, with a capacity of 4,000 tons of cargo in addition to passengers. These
were meant to serve the American line. The two others, Theodor Herzl and Jerusalem,
sailed primarily on Mediterranean cruises. In 1961, they were joined by Moledet, a ship
designated for “popular” tourism.
Competition in the industry was fierce, and Zim’s fleet was not known for its high level of
service; it was said that only the magnanimity of the Jewish tourists, who had a soft spot
for everything Israeli, saved the situation. The management was aware of this and put
great effort into improving the level of service and hospitality. They advanced innovative
models of providing all-inclusive service to the passengers, beyond the cruise itself. For
example, in cooperation with the French railway, Zim initiated special trains between
Marseille and Paris, whose arrival and departure times at the port corresponded with
the ships’ – all for the convenience of Zim passengers. And in order to compensate for
the winter season in which the Mediterranean cruises came to a halt, the Jerusalem
was summoned to compete with the giants of the industry in the burgeoning field of
Caribbean cruises. Despite the birth pangs, the experiment went off well.
A Transatlantic Dream
Zim’s ambitions grew as the competition grew stiffer. A new-old competitor entered the
picture: Arnold Bernstein, a German-Jewish ship-owner, who in 1936 had brought the
luxurious passenger ship Tel Aviv to Palestine (on which some Zim veterans had served
at the beginning of their careers). At the beginning of the 1960s he introduced a new,
competing, Israel-America line, using a renovated ship named Atlantic. It was a fast ship
full of amenities, including air conditioning in the cabins. The people at Zim, concerned
and wanting to be equal players, would need a ship of another caliber. The special
relationship with France laid the groundwork for a solution in the form of a contract for
the building of a lavish, modern passenger ship, of the type the French shipyards were
experts in. The French and Israeli treasury ministers negotiated the terms of the contract.
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The ship building project spun Zim into a flurry of activity. Professionals were sent to
oversee the construction in the French township of Saint-Nazaire on the Atlantic coast.
Israel’s cultural and artistic elite – from poets Shlonsky and Alterman to the directors of
the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design and the Tel Aviv Museum – were recruited to advise
Zim on the national project. The manager of the passenger lines, Zvi Herman, asked
prominent architects Al Mansfeld and Dora Gad, who had designed the Israel Museum,
to design the ship’s cabins and halls. A team of renowned Israeli and international artists
was commissioned to create the murals and unique ornamentations that would adorn
the ship. The advertisement campaign leading up to the ship’s inauguration showed
televisions in the cabins – and air conditioning, of course – were all part of the package.
A five-star French-style kitchen was also in the works. But here, ironically, the enthusiastic
planners hit their first obstacle – a seemingly trivial one but which escalated quickly into a
public and political debate: an un-kosher kitchen on an Israeli ship? The religious parties
threatened to leave the coalition and topple the government, and Zim and its luxury line
got heaps of press, but not of the kind they desired.
Despite the controversy, the maiden voyage of the Shalom was a source of immense
pride. The Shalom was immediately crowned the flagship of the Israeli merchant fleet,
and earned exaggerated praise from professionals in the field. Its design was the talk of
the hour among art critics and was dubbed an important modernist milestone in its field.
But the happiness and pride were short-lived. In autumn 1964 the Shalom was involved
in a maritime disaster: a collision with a Norwegian tanker, in which 19 Norwegian sailors
were killed. Zim sincerely mourned the dead – their names appeared on the cover of
Zim’s magazine Toren on the backdrop of the Norwegian flag. The company took solace
in the heroic rescue performed by the crew: second mate of the Shalom, Gideon “Gim”
Donsky, captained the rescue boat that rescued six survivors from the water.
The Shalom continued to sail, but not without obstacles, big and small. The ship was
taking losses, which led the treasury in 1966 to send a one-man committee – Meron
Benvenisti – to investigate the matter, and he returned from the Caribbean cruise with a
sensationalist and devastating report. The report challenged the basic assumptions of
the design of the ship, pointed out faults in the network of agents, in the procurement
of service personnel, in the accommodations: “The tourists prefer to take their breakfast
in their cabins, but there is only one telephone number to call and it’s always busy; the
shops are stocked with pathetic goods; the circular bar, one of the nicest on the ship, is
located on the ship’s bow and it can’t be danced upon because of the constant motion
of the ship; the entertainment program is full of clichéd hits, and the kitchen staff throws
unwashed plates to the sea.” Within a year from the publication of the report, the Shalom
was sold to the German Hanseatic company. The public was shocked and demoralized;
Knesset member Yosef Almogi cried in the Knesset: “On the day in which the flags are
changed on her mast, an entire generation of Israeli seafarers will bow their heads.” The
shock is great, senior staff resign – but Zim is determined to move forward.
The Shalom affair was a watershed moment for Zim’s passenger lines. Its sale marked
the end of the era of passenger liners for Zim – and the opening of the next great chapter
in the history of the company.