All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (39 page)

I returned from India even more Jewish than before.

A free ticket from El Al enabled me to visit Montreal. Bea seemed happy enough; she was now working at the Israeli consulate. Here, unlike in occupied Germany, we were often alone. I desperately wanted to ask her a question that had haunted me for years: What was
it like before the selection, those final moments, that last walk with Mother and Tsipouka? But I didn’t dare. It was the same with Hilda. I didn’t dare.

While in Canada and the United States, I wrote a series of articles on the life of the
yordim
, a pejorative term for Israeli emigrants, people who had decided to leave the country—in other words, “to descend.” In 1953 and 1954 you could meet them everywhere, particularly in Paris, Montreal, and New York. They had abandoned their recovered homeland mainly for economic reasons. The “American dream” had its devotees in Israel, as elsewhere: Get ahead, make money, show “them” what you can do. Nobody, especially not a non-Israeli, had a right to judge or even to criticize them.

The time has come to tell you about Joseph Givon. I am sure you don’t recognize the name. He was the man who supposedly gave Stalin strategic planetary advice, who was both the confidant of Mao Zedong and the mediator between Ho Chi Minh and Pierre Mendès-France and between General de Gaulle and the Algerians.

The story begins in Israel in 1953. I had planned on staying a month. I would finish my articles on India and get better acquainted with the
Yedioth
editorial team and the country itself. I stayed at a hotel, since chaos reigned in the Old Man’s apartment, where the family was preparing for my friends Dov and Leah’s wedding. The Savoy is near the beach. I would rise at dawn and take long walks along the seashore. I loved those moments of peace.

And so, for ten busy days, I would spend mornings in the editorial office and evenings with the Old Man’s son Noah, Dov, or Dr. Rosenblum. I met dozens of writers, journalists, and artists. Dr. Shimshon Yunitchman, a veteran of the Revisionist movement whom I had met in Paris, told me that my articles on India had been well received at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It was my first compliment from an important personality, and it felt good. I was invited to the theater, concerts, and receptions and introduced to members of the Knesset. The Old Man insisted I accompany him on his travels through the country. In Jerusalem he introduced me to a Lubavitch Hasid who was a doctor and who taught me “the” melody of the movement’s founder, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady. I was also introduced to the Old Man’s younger daughter. He was scheming … but Rachel was even more bashful than I. Besides, how do you flirt with a pious girl?

On the morning of the eleventh day I got an urgent phone call from Dov. Prague, he said, was about to release an Israeli citizen, a man called Furmand, who had been with Mordechai Oren, an important Israeli left-wing leader, in the Pancracz prison.
Maariv
was sending its best reporter to Paris to interview Furmand, and Dov wanted me to catch the first plane out. It would be a scoop.

The magic word—most journalists would give their right arm, or at least their left, for a good scoop. It was the way to get noticed and earn a bonus, or, if you worked for
Yedioth
, get warm congratulations. O God of Moses—first reporter and editorialist of our turbulent history—give us this day our daily scoop, or at least a weekly one should you be too busy.

I washed, dressed, gulped down some coffee, jumped into the car the paper had sent for me, and headed for the airport without even stopping to say goodbye to the Old Man. Our Lod correspondent was waiting to shepherd me through the passport and customs controls. Within five minutes I was in the air, seated—where else?—beside my rival from
Maariv
. Innocently, I asked him why he was going to Paris. “Personal reasons,” he replied. “Visiting a sick aunt.”

“And you?” he asked after a brief silence. I looked at him. “My uncle the doctor,” I explained, “is taking care of your aunt.” We burst out laughing.

As it turned out, our respective employers were equally satisfied, for we both interviewed the former prisoner that very afternoon. (In the interests of historical accuracy, I must admit that my colleague beat me by one hour.) His information about the situation in Prague was sensational. Oren was linked to the Slansky trial. In fact, everything beyond the Iron Curtain was linked to everything else. Prague was Moscow, Moscow was Stalin, and Stalin was mad. The left in Israel (which no longer had diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union or any of its satellites) was in utter disarray, unable to comprehend the fierce anti-Semitism of Stalin and the Stalinists. So when Oren was indicted for espionage and subversion, the newspapers waged a merciless battle for any scrap of information about his trial, confession, and sentence. But Prague was an inaccessible fortress into which no one could venture. The sole person for whom that city would open its secret doors was the great, the all-powerful Joseph Givon.

But who was Givon? Was he a kind of journalistic Shushani, a world-class adventurer, or an ingenious spinner of tales? Don’t ask. If you don’t already know, you never will. He was, in any event, a great
character, a remarkable, bizarre personality. Like myself, the Israeli poet Haim Guri and the mayor of Beersheba, Izso Rager, will swear that never in their life did they encounter anyone like Joseph Givon.

I first met him at a reception at the Israeli embassy. He was still young, a man with the light blue eyes of a startled child. He moved his left leg and right arm with apparent difficulty. He wore an elegant blue suit with a golden Palmach insignia on the lapel. When I first saw him he was deep in conversation with an actress from the Israeli National Theater. I couldn’t help but overhear bits and pieces. The actress wanted to know who had given him his decoration. His murmured response: “Yitzhak, General Yitzhak Sadeh in person.” The former commander of the Palmach himself? “Yes. I was a colonel and he was my superior officer. The decoration was bestowed on me at a special session of the General Staff.” The actress, her cheeks flushed, asked what it was for. “Excuse me, but I regret … I’m not allowed … Surely you understand.” She understood, and so did I: He must have been a member of the security services. He strolled through the embassy as if in familiar territory; he knew the ambassador, the military attaché, all the advisers and secretaries, and everyone seemed to know him. Intrigued, I asked an attaché who he was. “I have no idea,” was the reply, “but maybe I’m not supposed to know.” So my guess was right. Surely he was a heroic wounded veteran who worked for the services.

A group of people were exchanging the latest news about Oren. I strained to listen. You never know. Someone might unwittingly offer a little scoop. Suddenly I heard our hero say, “But I did warn him. I told him they were going to arrest him.” Told whom? someone asked. “Mordechai Oren,” he replied nonchalantly. I jumped. Did he know Oren? “Know him? Of course I know him. We were in East Berlin together. And Prague too. I have friends there, you know, friends in high places. And one of them advised me to let Mordechai know they were watching him. That he should leave as soon as possible. ‘Mordechai,’ I begged him, ‘think of yourself, your family. Get the first plane for Paris, Vienna, Bangkok, wherever. You’re in danger. Can’t you feel it?’ The idiot refused to listen. But I have to admit I was no less idiotic than he was. In the end they arrested me too.”

By now I was uneasy, annoyed that he had said all this out loud. There were colleagues of mine in the room, and they might well join us. That was all I needed. I wasn’t sure what to do, but for once I had
the guts to act on an idea. I whispered to Joseph Givon that I had a confidential message from the beautiful actress he had just charmed. We withdrew to a corner, and I introduced myself. “I read
Yedioth”
he said with a faint smile. He then introduced himself in turn. “You have the advantage,” I told him. “I don’t know what
you
do.” Ignoring my comment, he said: “So what’s the confidential message?” I lowered my voice: “She says you should trust me.”

“That’s all?”

“No. She also says you should tell me about your experiences in Prague.”

“That’s it?”

“No, she also says you shouldn’t tell anyone but me.”

He uttered a strange, almost silent laugh. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a poor liar?” he said. “But all right, let’s go.” I felt like dancing for joy. “Okay,” he said once we were out in the street, “since it’s the wish of a beautiful woman, and an actress to boot, I’ll tell you a thing or two.” We looked for a quiet café. As we walked, he talked about life in Prague. He had known the Czech Communist leaders Rudolf Slansky and Artur London. In fact, he was on intimate terms with both of them. Before anyone else he had known that they would be arrested, indicted, and tried. “Since they were Jewish, I thought it would be a good idea to tell Moshe.” Moshe who? “Moshe Sharett, of course,” he said. “The minister of foreign affairs.” Did he know him too? “We’ve done a few things together,” he confided. “Next you’ll tell me you know David Ben-Gurion,” I needled him. “He’s the first person I see whenever I come to Israel. He made me promise that, and I’ve always kept my word.”

We sat over black coffee and I showered him with questions, which he answered in the self-assured voice of a man who knows whereof he speaks. I felt like a child in a toy store, but I wasn’t sure what to believe. “Malenkov sent a military aircraft for you? Why?” Was Givon an adviser to the Kremlin, an interlocutor of Marshal Zhukov? Why was Mao Zedong so insistent on seeing him? Was he really Slansky’s intimate confidant? When had he seen him last? My head was spinning, but Givon remained serene, and cautious. Before answering a question, he would look from side to side as if to make sure no one else was listening. You could never be too careful. Certain “services” would pay dearly for his whispered confidences, but I was receiving them free of charge. Every one of his revelations was worth
a thousand times the value of my newspaper, and he was offering them to me gratis. No doubt there is a God who watches over poor and timid journalists.

Everything he told me had the ring of truth, yet I knew I might be dealing with a fabulist, a compulsive liar. Was I supposed to believe that Malenkov, Ho Chi Minh, Stalin, and Ben-Gurion were intimates of this gentleman who looked more like a vagabond striving vainly for elegance? He must have noticed my skepticism, for at one point he casually reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a pack of photographs. All at once my incredulity vanished. Here were Givon and Stalin, Givon and Mao, Givon surrounded by Soviet generals. Wait a minute, I said to myself. Don’t fall for it. How could he have negotiated the fate of humanity with the great men of this world without anyone ever knowing it? The photographs were probably fakes, however astonishingly well done. When I examined them carefully I had to admit (amateur though I was) that they seemed genuine. But I still thought the man might be manipulating me. Did he really know Rudolf Slansky? Had he really had words with his accusers and judges, really met Oren before and after his arrest? Yes. Indeed, he could describe the prison, and he told me behind-the-scenes stories about this case which the whole world had been talking about for months. I decided Givon was an invaluable source, a gold mine. I wondered whether I should make him an offer of some kind. I could wire Dov for money, but would he believe me? I was afraid to look ridiculous. Suddenly Givon stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said casually, “but I must go now. I have an urgent appointment with Sartre.”