The phone call to the hotel in Basel was almost impulsive. “Is room 117 available tomorrow?”
A few seconds of silence on the line, and then a short answer: “Yes.”
This conversation took place on the eve of Israel’s Independence Day a few years ago, when I was on a journalistic assignment in Zurich.
It concerns Room 117 at the Les Trois Rois Hotel in Basel. On its balcony, one of the most iconic photographs in Jewish history was taken. Theodor Herzl leans on the railing, gazing into the distance, as if seeing something no one around him could yet imagine.
Les Trois Rois is a luxury hotel; its guests have included Napoleon, Queen Elizabeth, Picasso, and other figures. Only then did the meaning of the name “The Three Kings” begin to make sense to me, and why it was precisely this hotel that was chosen to host Herzl. In a place like this, I thought, one slips quietly into the current of history and becomes, if only for a moment, part of its long memory.
When we celebrate Independence Day this week, it is easy to forget that the idea of the Jewish State was not born in the desert or in the Middle East, but in Basel, on the cool banks of the Rhine River, in the summer of 1897, during the First Zionist Congress.
That gathering was called “the parliament of the Jewish people.” The man who organized and presided over it was Theodor Herzl. In the global Jewish newspapers that week, he was crowned with the title, “King of the Jews.”
A feeling that never quite fades
SO, AFTER AN hour’s train ride from Zurich to Basel, I found myself standing in front of Les Trois Rois hotel. The moment you step inside, you feel that someone before you leaves behind a thought that never quite fades.
I checked into room 117. The door closed behind me, and the silence changed. Its dark wooden furniture was heavy, in just the right way. Champagne-colored curtains softened the light. Small lamps cast a gentle warmth.
The window opens onto the balcony. The Rhine River flows slowly, like an older man who knows the way and has no need to rush. On the wall hangs a wooden relief of Herzl. Beside it, a heavy wooden desk.
I sat down at the desk, leaned forward, and rested my elbows on it. My heart raced with excitement. On this desk Herzl wrote the sentence: “In Basel, I founded the Jewish State.”
To be precise, he wrote: “If I were to sum up the Basel Congress in a word, which I shall guard against pronouncing publicly, it would be this: In Basel, I founded the Jewish State. If I were to say this aloud today, I would be met with laughter. Perhaps in five years, certainly in 50, everyone will acknowledge it.” Herzl did not write this to the world. He wrote to himself, and yet the world listened.
It seems that a prophetic spirit rested upon him, for exactly 50 years later, the State of Israel received the UN’s approval. And on this very day, I am in his room, my heart refusing to settle. There are no words to describe the force of the heartbeat.
I laid down on his bed. The mattress is firm. I tried to fall asleep, but my mind refused. Thoughts ran around like children after eating too much sugar, or like journalists who sense a scoop.
Toward morning, I stepped out onto the balcony. The air was cool, clean, almost sharp. The metalwork of the railing today is the same as that in the iconic picture of Herzl. I stood exactly where the famous photograph had been taken. Behind me, a room. In front of me, a river. And between them, more than a hundred years, suddenly feeling remarkably short.
I wrapped myself in a tallit and put on tefillin and davened “Hallel.” There are moments when prayer is not a request, but a response. “The mountains danced like rams” suddenly sounded less like a metaphor and more like a description. I see the Jura mountains, and the Alps beyond them do not move, of course, but something in consciousness does.
I wanted a photograph. I called the butler from the corridor and asked him to take my picture, like in the iconic Herzl picture. The same pose, the same railing, the same serious expression, trying to look as if it thinks great thoughts.
I leaned on it.
But something didn’t feel right. I stood upright, and the railing reached exactly to my elbows. In the photograph, Herzl appears slightly bent. I try to bend like him, but the railing is too high. It felt like trying to wear someone else’s suit.
I examined the railing. It looked original. I asked the butler whether anything had changed over the years. He smiled and said, “No.”
And then it hit me, with almost insulting simplicity. Herzl was simply taller than I am. He was “head and shoulders above” not only metaphorically, but physically.
Suddenly, the entire moment became human. Not vision, not history, not Zionism, but height. If he had to bend where I stand upright, it means he started from a higher point – about 10 cm. of difference, enough to change a photographic angle, and perhaps also a way of seeing the world.
There is something amusing in that realization. The man who dreamed big was simply physically big as well. And that is almost comforting. It brings him down from the height of legend to eye level.
FROM THE hotel, I walked toward the Congress Hall along the same street where Herzl’s carriage once rolled forward. I tried to picture the moment as it must have been then. The sidewalks at the entry crowded with Jews in dark coats and hats, all waiting.
In my imagination, the street is no longer silent. I hear the rumble of wheels against the stones, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the murmur of a restless crowd shouting in Yiddish, “Lebe der kenig,” “Long live the king!”.
When Herzl’s carriage began to move, the Jews ran after it. As I walked the same path, it felt as if those voices had never completely faded.
The Zionist Congress was held at the Stadtcasino. The name “casino” is misleading. There are no roulettes, no cards. But if you think about it, the gambling made here in 1897 is far more daring than any game. Some 208 delegates from 16 countries, along with hundreds of spectators and journalists, gathered here to discuss an idea that sounded almost imaginary at the time – to establish a state for the Jewish people.
I entered the hall. On the wall to the left of the entrance hung a plaque marking the historic occasion. It is impressive, but not overly grand. Perhaps because great ideas do not require excessive decoration.
Outside, the Barfusser Square was alive, with its stalls, flowers, and people in a hurry. In one corner, the Tinguely Fountain sprayed water, with metal figures that seem as if they stepped out of a slightly mad dream.
I continued wandering through the Old Town. Basel is a pleasant city to walk around. The stone streets made every step audible, as if I were part of the soundtrack. Houses in soft colors, open windows, fountains at many corners.
I also visited the nearby Jewish Museum – not large, but precise, with its Torah scrolls, parochet curtains, and letters. Among the exhibits, there are documents from the Congress, pages on which history is written before it knows it is history.
The Great Synagogue still stands a few minutes away. It’s an impressive structure, with rows of light-colored stone and touches of red. Herzl visited here on the Sabbath before the Congress. I tried to imagine him walking in, perhaps not entirely certain where all this was heading. Sometimes, even those who lead historic movements still wonder if they might be exaggerating.
The Old City gates, especially Spalentor, are a reminder that the city was once surrounded by walls. Today, the walls are gone, but the sense of boundary remains. Only now it is not geographical, but historical.
A short walk away stands the red Town Hall, almost dramatic in its color. Its outer walls are decorated with many paintings. One of them is of Moses holding the Tablets of the Covenant.
The market square in front of it is filled with the smells of spices, flowers, and fresh bread. Life here continues, like the Rhine. It does not stop for a single moment of history but flows on.
When I left Basel, I understood something small but persistent. We tend to think of historical figures as statues. Frozen, perfect, distant. But sometimes all it takes to bring them back to life is one railing at the wrong height.
And perhaps that is the real lesson of that Independence Day night. History is not only grand ideas, but also small details. The height of a man. The angle of an elbow. A hotel room with the scent of old wood. And among all these… a dream.
The writer is the editor of the blog jewishtraveler.co.il.