All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (47 page)

But let me return to the preparations for my trip to America. I planned to be away for only a year. That was what I told Shaike Ben Porat and Poliakoff, my actor friend. “Look at it this way,” I said, “our monthly will now have an office in the United States.” I promised to send them articles about Broadway. And, I promised, when I came back, everything would resume as before: I would resume my duties as
Yedioth
correspondent and editor in chief of
Le Miroir du Théâtre
. The Lenemans assured me that they would receive me again as a lodger; I could leave with peace of mind.

The night before my departure Amos and Israel insisted I join them in a café. As usual, Israel drank a little, Amos a lot. I knew that journalists should be able to tolerate whiskey and cognac, but I wasn’t much of a drinker. That night, however, I did drink a little, and for me a little was too much. When I got home, I felt so sick I vomited. I didn’t have the strength to get undressed. Through it all, my great worry was what the housekeeper would think when she came to make up my bed the next day.

In a flash of lucidity, I told myself this was my farewell to Europe.

On the interminable El Al flight to New York I struck up a conversation with one S. L. Schneiderman, a journalist of Polish origin, who wrote for a Yiddish daily and worked part-time for the United Jewish Appeal. I asked him whether it was true that this philanthropic association organized lectures and paid the speakers. He said it was, and that he could introduce me to the right person. I phoned him from my hotel room, and he made an appointment for me with the secretary of the speakers’ bureau. I went there the same day, wondering whether Dov was right. The secretary’s secretary kept me waiting for an hour before agreeing to see me. She was in her forties, her hair was pulled back into a bun. From her piercing gaze I could see that she was used to refusing requests of all kinds.

She subjected me to a formal interrogation: age, profession, titles, personal tastes. “Schneiderman said you would like to speak in Yiddish about your experiences in the camps, is that right?” I hastened to correct her: I had no intention of dealing with that subject. “But Schneiderman said you wrote a book in Yiddish about the camps. Was that wrong?” No, it wasn’t wrong, but writing was one thing, speaking another. “I don’t get it,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re an author, aren’t you? Your work is autobiographical, isn’t it? You want to be known and to make a little money, don’t you?” Since my wretched English left me incapable of explaining the limits of language and the possibilities of silence in a hundred words or less, she coolly announced her verdict. “Look, I’m just asking you these questions to please Schneiderman, but I really don’t think you’re suitable for us.” I understood. It was her job to say no. I wasn’t a famous writer and I wasn’t even an Israeli. I had done nothing heroic or spectacular. So why should anyone want to come and listen to me and make donations to the UJA?

My trip to America had certainly begun auspiciously. Back at the hotel I called Schneiderman and told him about my lack of success. He was sorry. “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “It could be worse. I’ll find something.” But I was curious to know how much I would have made had the secretary seen me as a young Yiddish Demosthenes. Schneiderman thought for a moment and replied, “Fifty dollars a speech, maybe a little more.” It was my first setback in the States. Fifty dollars was more than a week’s pay and there was no point in asking Dov for a raise. Finances were handled by the Old Man, who would tell me the paper wasn’t rich, not yet, and that I should be patient.

I hope readers will forgive me for talking so much about material concerns, but it’s hard not to think about such things when you’re broke.

Here I can’t resist another leap ahead in time. In 1972, just after the murder of Israeli athletes by Palestinian terrorists at the Munich Olympics, the top leaders of the United Jewish Appeal asked to discuss an urgent matter with me. Having had virtually no contact with their organization, I wondered what they wanted. They came to see me in my office. Their spokesman, Irving Bernstein, was impressive, and came straight to the point: “There’s something we’ve been concerned about for quite some time. You’ve never come to speak for us. Our local groups ask for you and you seem to reject their invitations automatically. What do you have against us? Aren’t you close to the state of Israel, which needs our support? Don’t you want to help the American Jewish community, whose hospitals, nursing homes, and schools could not exist without our financial aid?” I tried to evade the question. I said I was too busy, too tired, had too many other commitments. The truth was that I had decided as a matter of principle to avoid any kind of fund-raising. I didn’t like the hard-nosed, show-biz approach to it in America.

Irving did not give up. “We are organizing our national conference,” he said, “and the Munich tragedy will occupy a central place within it. Please be our guest on Shabbat afternoon. We’ll pay double, five times, your usual honorarium. In fact, name a sum, any sum. Five thousand? Ten thousand?” As he pleaded with me, I suddenly saw myself sitting opposite the UJA secretary who specialized in rejections. I smiled. “Okay,” I told Irving. “I’ll come on Shabbat afternoon.” The UJA leaders looked at me in surprise, no doubt wondering why I had changed my mind and what fee I was going to demand. “Consider it a
gift,” I said. Of course, they couldn’t appreciate the irony of the situation. That was their loss, and my reward.

After two nights at the Alamac Hotel (which almost bankrupted me), I decided to rent a studio. Some I looked at were too expensive, others too dirty or too far from midtown. Luckily, a relative agreed to put me up while I looked for something more permanent.

Samuel Wiesel and his wife lived in uptown Manhattan. People of modest means, they both worked for a necktie company and swore by their trade union, which to them represented a kind of secular religion. Though strictly observant, they also believed in the benefits of emancipation. One Friday evening after Kiddush, Sam told me how he had come to the United States. “It’s thanks to your father that I’m here,” he explained, his voice curiously tense. “He had obtained an American visa—yes, a visa for all of you—but didn’t want to use it right away. He preferred to wait, hoping not to arrive empty-handed. But you know the old saying: Man proposes, God disposes.… The Romanian army was about to draft me, and I was in no mood to oblige. So I asked your father to ‘loan’ me his visa. He had a good heart, your father. Always ready to help anyone, especially family members. Do you understand now what I owe him?” Stooped after long years of hard work, my distant “uncle” suddenly seemed much closer.

Sam was not my only New York relative. There was another, on my mother’s side. My sister Bea in Montreal had reestablished contact with him and urged me to pay him a visit. Meanwhile, he had learned of my presence in the city from an item in a Yiddish paper and immediately called Bea, who then insisted that not to see him meant offending a family member. I promised I would drop in on “Uncle” Morris, as she called him. I have a stinging memory of this “reunion.”

To begin with, my “uncle” was rich, very rich, and to put it in the nicest possible way you could say he didn’t hide it. His personality was defined by what he possessed. Now, I have nothing against wealth, unless it is flaunted so as to humiliate those less fortunate. My “Uncle” Morris lived in a luxurious apartment in a luxurious building in a luxurious neighborhood. The two doormen, in uniforms that made them look like Swiss guards out of a Russian novel, greeted me and escorted me down the hallway. The elevator boy, also in uniform, his silver epaulets gleaming, was excruciatingly polite. He asked if I was well, whether I did not find the New York winter too arduous. Wishing me a pleasant evening, he pointed to my uncle’s door. I was admitted by
a maid, who put a finger to her lips to indicate I was not to speak loudly. Was someone sick? Was a performance under way? In any case, no noise was allowed.

Uncle Morris was visible in the living room, but was not to be disturbed. He was playing cards. There were a dozen or so guests. I whispered hello to him, and he replied without looking up from the table: “Do you play poker?” Disappointed to hear that I didn’t know how, he shrugged and said, “So what’s the point of writing in newspapers?” I failed to see the connection, but his guests, more sophisticated than I, laughed heartily. Dear Uncle Morris evidently possessed an admirable sense of humor in addition to his considerable fortune. Well, let them laugh if that’s their pleasure, but I didn’t appreciate the joke. Having decided to sulk, I sat down in a corner. The maid, more polite than her employers, offered me a drink. Whiskey? No thanks, soda would be fine. Cigarette? I had my own. Half an hour passed. Preoccupied with the game, the guests exhibited not the slightest interest in me. An hour went by, and I began to find the situation less than funny. But it was not my style to make a scene, and I didn’t want to cause Bea any embarrassment, so I sat patiently. I didn’t think they would let me wait on that elegant sofa until dawn. Sooner or later they would get tired or hungry. Finally, I went over to the table and respectfully whispered to Uncle Morris that, to my great regret, I had to go. Professional obligations required my presence at the United Nations (a lie, but it sounded good). “One more minute,” said Uncle Morris, fidgeting in his chair. “I’m winning big here, and the UN isn’t going anywhere, is it?” Twenty minutes later he cried victory, pocketed his winnings, and got up from the table. The others followed. My “uncle” then solemnly asked me to come closer and at once launched into a speech. “Look at him,” he said proudly. “You know who he is? He writes in the newspapers. Thousands of Jews read him in Israel. In France too. Even in South Africa. Anyway, that’s what they tell me, and listen, I believe it. He’s my nephew, or cousin, or something like that, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here. He’s here to tell you who he owes his career to. Go ahead, tell them. Tell them who helped you, who sent you money, who paid for your studies. Come on, what are you waiting for?”

I felt myself blushing with shame and anger. All at once I remembered that in Ambloy I had indeed received a letter from him, followed by a package. In the letter he told me how happy he was to have tracked down a member of his family and announced that he was
sending me something that would surely make me happy. The package contained a pair of phylacteries. I wrote back thanking him for his concern for my spiritual well-being and informing him that I already had tefillin. And that was the end of our correspondence.

Before Morris could finish his speech, his guests were overcome with admiration: how generous he was, what a good heart he had, dear Morris. A saint, that’s what he was. Yes, I had a saint for an uncle.

That was too much. I interrupted the saint and his guests: “Excuse me, but it’s getting late and I must go.” I invoked the UN, an emergency session, international crisis. Morris was adamant: “At least say a few words. Just to show you can do it. Words are your trade, aren’t they? What’ll it cost you to make a little speech? If only to show my friends I was right to invest all that money in your career. Come on, you owe me at least that much, don’t you?” “I’m truly sorry,” I replied, “maybe some other time. The Security Council, the Trojan war, world peace—you know what I mean.” There were mutterings: What a lack of gratitude; he can’t even say thank you.

All I wanted was to get out of there. I couldn’t take much more of this. “Come with me,” my uncle ordered. I asked where. “To my room,” he said. I broke out in a cold sweat. I was sure he was going to offer me money, which I damn well needed but could not allow myself to accept. I thought about my sister as I followed him uneasily into his bedroom. He went to his closet, opened it, and began rummaging through his shirts and suits. He must think he’s back in Sighet, I said to myself, keeps his money stuffed under his shirts. “Where is it, where is it?” Morris mumbled. “Ah, here it is!” he finally announced, triumphantly pulling out a pair of khaki pants. “Take them,” he said. “Look, they’re almost new; they’ll fit perfectly.” At that point the door opened and a woman rushed in, breathless, her face stamped by fear that her husband was about to be too generous. When she noticed the “gift,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “A superb pair of pants. Don’t be a fool, take them!” For a moment I was torn between laughter and disgust. Then I burst out laughing.

Going down in the elevator, I composed the opening of an article: “Everybody has an uncle in America. And so, alas, do I.” The other passengers must have thought I was drunk, I was laughing so hard.

On the other hand, I liked Sam, who was anything but rich. I respected his modest, austere way of life and savored his sharp sarcasm. He adored challenging and even denigrating what he loved. On Friday evenings I would share a Shabbat meal with him, and he often
took the opportunity to go over an article of mine, evidently with the sole purpose of demolishing it.

He didn’t seem to appreciate my choice of subjects or my style. “Where’d you get that from?” he would ask. I could never figure out why he was so critical. Maybe it was his way of warding off bad luck, or perhaps he was afraid I might take myself too seriously. In any event, I was glad he wasn’t my editor, otherwise I would have been looking for work. Nevertheless, I felt genuine affection for him, possibly because he remembered my parents, my house, my town. After he died, years later, I met friends of his from his synagogue. They all told me how proud he was of me.