All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (52 page)

Despite our contrasting views, our relations always remained friendly. After one of her speeches to the UN General Assembly, she had been the guest of honor at a reception in my apartment at the Master Hotel. Now, some four years later, she was prime minister. Once again she came to a reception in her honor at my new home. Knowing that she felt uncomfortable with intellectuals, before escorting her from the Waldorf to my home, I spent an hour describing all of the writers and professors who awaited her. “What can I possibly say to them?” she asked. “I never even set foot in a university.” I reassured her. “Don’t worry, Golda, they all love you.” But she was skeptical. “What am I, compared to all those professors?” she said. This modesty was uncharacteristic. “Golda,” I finally told her, “there are tens of thousands of professors in American universities. But there is only one Golda.” Finally, here was an argument she found convincing.

Seated like a queen mother among our guests, she talked about President Nixon, expressing great affection for him. When a professor of political science asked how she could possibly defend his Vietnam policy, she brought all her eloquence to bear in defending her friend in the White House. The humorist Herbert Tarr tried to break the tension by raising his hand. “I have a question,” he said. “Mrs. Meir, will you marry me?” Her answer was barely audible amid the outbreak of laughter: “Would
you
be embarrassed if I said yes …?”

My thoughts turned to Golda on September 13, 1993, when, oscillating between hope and fear, I attended the White House signing ceremony for the agreement between Israel and the PLO. “There is no such thing as a Palestinian people,” she had confidently asserted. Twenty years after the Yom Kippur war, fifteen years after Golda Meir’s death, the whole world recognized with Yitzhak Rabin and Bill Clinton that a Palestinian people does exist and that it has the right to fulfill its destiny.

Rabban Gamliel, son of Rabbi Yehuda the Prince, said: “Be careful in your relations with those in power; they draw you close or allow you to approach them only when they need you. They are your friends when your friendship is useful to them and affords them pleasure, but they forget you when you are in trouble.” I have thought of this often. Is it wise for a writer to come too close to power? Is it prudent to be a
friend to princes? Naturally, it depends on the writer, on what he values. And what is power? I would later discuss the question with François Mitterrand, and also with my master Saul Lieberman.

In the Jewish tradition there are three powers, or forms of power: those of the king, the prophet, and the priest. In ancient times their election was inspired by God, but none survived the Temple’s destruction. Today every leader believes himself king, every member of the clergy takes himself to be the high priest, and “prophets” indulge too much in politics.

During the time Sighet was under Hungarian rule, schoolchildren had to do compulsory service in the Leventes, a kind of scout movement under the supervision of the army and the Ministry of Education. We had to perform various tasks, such as digging trenches at army bases, helping firefighters, or clearing snowbound streets. One day—it was a Friday—I was assigned to head a team. Exempted from the task of wielding a shovel, I was supposed to oversee, command, and shout—very loudly. I took my role seriously, rushing from group to group berating laggards: Hurry up, the snow has to be cleared by nightfall, before Shabbat! Suddenly I found myself face to face with the grandson of the Borsher Rebbe. He was a close friend of mine. We often studied together, and prayed at the same times. He stared at me with an expression not so much of disapproval as of sadness and surprise. Was I going to harangue him too, make him feel my power, my authority? When my eyes met his, I was overcome by remorse. I began to stammer excuses, at which point our commander appeared on the scene. Realizing that I was not cut out for this job, he shook me and screamed, “Next time, you fool, you’ll sweat blood like everyone else.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friend smiling. I would later see men of all ages who, in extreme situations, brutally exercised their power over their fellow inmates. Sometimes I ask myself whether I would have been like them had I been appointed a kapo or
Vorarbeiter
. To this day I feel that no one has the right to judge or draw comparisons. Ultimately, the only power to which man should aspire is that which he exercises over himself.

Over the years I have observed many politicians, who often have disappointed me. Ambition brings them to center stage, where they posture as social reformer or revolutionary ideologue. For too many of them it is theater. They act the part, and the journalist who reports (or even amplifies) their words becomes one of the players, bringing them a broader audience. In the end I came to dislike the game. I feared contamination
by the easy cynicism and cheap promises of the holders of power. Besides which, I don’t like acting—except when professionals do it. To strive to seem like what one is not, is to insult the Creator Himself, telling Him He made a mistake. To get ahead the priests of power are prepared to disguise themselves as clown or pope. As Saul Lieberman put it: “They would gladly suffer countless humiliations for a sprig of honor.” I knew it was not I but the representative of
Yedioth Ahronoth
that Israeli politicians and Jewish dignitaries tried to win over. I was important only inasmuch as I reflected my paper’s collective judgment. In some sense, I didn’t even exist.

It was in the early 1960s that an old dream, as mad as it was vain, reemerged: to start a Jewish magazine. Michel Salomon, editor in chief of
l’Arche
, and Shuka Tadmor, U.S. correspondent for the Israeli daily
Lamerhav
, were ready to dream along with me.

I had met them at more or less the same time, Shuka in a UN press room, Michel in Stockholm, Pilley at another conference of the World Jewish Congress. Aware of my financial difficulties, Teddy had persuaded me to join his team of interpreters again. Michel was in Stockholm on assignment.

A digression. It was also in Stockholm that I did a series of interviews with a Finnish physiotherapist I met through a Jewish leader, Dr. Hillel Storch. The man’s name, Felix Kersten, was familiar to me. I had read somewhere that Heinrich Himmler had been among his patients. Himmler, it seems, suffered from terrible stomach trouble, and Kersten treated him often, sometimes daily. What did the SS Reichsführer talk about as his healer massaged his pain-racked body? According to Kersten, everything, including the Jews. And their extermination? Rarely. But let me quote from our conversation:

“Did Himmler confide in you, Mr. Kersten?”

“Yes.”

“Did he sleep during massages?”

“Sometimes.”

“So it would have been possible for you to press a little harder on his neck, for instance?”

“Yes, that possibility was open to me. Although … the hallway and nearby offices were full of SS men.”

“But you could have killed him.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you spare his life? Because you were afraid to lose yours?”

“No, it wasn’t that. I told myself I could have some influence over him. And in fact, I did save human lives. Toward the end of the war I was the one who persuaded him to evacuate the last camp prisoners instead of killing them. I was the one who set up the meeting between Himmler and Dr. Michael Mazur, the delegate of the World Jewish Congress.”

Kersten was a strange man. I felt uncomfortable in his presence, perhaps because he was the only man I knew who had maintained close relations with Himmler. What did he leave unsaid?

Let me go back to my publishing dreams: the weekly magazine that would be the salvation of its founders, if not of all humanity, which, surprisingly, seemed not to care at all.

The project was quite clear in our own minds. A Jewish weekly patterned on
Time
, appearing in three languages: English, French, and Spanish—in full color, if you please. We would solicit the most prestigious bylines: Walter Lippmann for politics, Leonard Bernstein for music, Saul Bellow for literature. We would have vast political and cultural influence. We would discover young talent, encourage original ideas and social initiatives. Jewish life would never be the same. All we needed was the modest sum of one hundred thousand dollars to launch it. I tried to interest the president of the World Jewish Congress, Nahum Goldmann, who advised me to visit the superrich Samuel Bronfman in Montreal. We also decided to try our luck with Philip Klutznick, former president of B’nai B’rith. He advised us to go see Nahum Goldmann.

Then one day Shuka called me with good news: He had found our dream patron. His first name was Oscar, and he was rich and ready. He was prepared to meet with us whenever we wanted. Michel caught the first plane from Paris, and the three of us spent a long night preparing for the decisive meeting. Shuka explained that he had met his superrich friend in London in the 1950s. He was a Jewish immigrant from Czechoslovakia, a Zionist activist, a happy financier, and an unhappy intellectual, because he couldn’t seem to get published. He was the ideal candidate. We would help him and vice versa.

Oscar lived in Westchester in a town about an hour’s drive from Manhattan. We took my old Chevrolet. It didn’t look like much, and Michel made no secret of his apprehension: Oscar wouldn’t take us seriously;
we couldn’t go off to discuss a deal of global import in “that crate.” I reassured him: As soon as we got the first hundred thousand, we would buy a respectable vehicle. During the ride up, we had a long discussion about what brand, what year, and what color car we wanted, and whether it should have air-conditioning. However, before we reached these important decisions, we had arrived at Oscar’s estate, complete with pool and rose garden.

Our angel—a frail old man with a shock of silver hair and an air of distinction about him—greeted us with the courtesy and respect due future press barons. We went into the paneled library with a fireplace, a chess set on a small table. The room conveyed an aura of success and serenity.

Coffee or tea? The very English Oscar had tea. His trio of visitors preferred coffee. The cups were small, but the coffee was great.

As is God. For Oscar, heaven bless him, was His messenger—messenger of hope, herald of happiness, guardian angel. He was tempted by our project. In fact, he was downright enthusiastic. He had long dreamed of creating a Jewish magazine. Why hadn’t we come to see him twenty years ago? But it wasn’t too late. God Himself must have brought us to him. Money? That was his business; he would handle it. Our task was to prepare the magazine, to assemble a team, select columnists and critics. We had only just met, and already we soared together to the summit of supreme illusion. “You do your job, I’ll do mine,” Oscar said. “Draw up a budget, and I’ll take care of the financing.” We tried, timidly, to clarify a delicate point: what did he expect in return? Praise from the magazine? The opportunity to express himself in it? No, he said. He wanted absolutely nothing. He was doing this for pleasure, out of belief in our mission.

Having downed my fifth cup of coffee and expressed our gratitude to our host, I asked practical questions: What next? When would we meet again? We decided unanimously to get together once a month.

“We forgot the most important thing,” Michel remarked, phlegmatic as usual, once we were back in the old Chevy. The most important thing? “Yes, money” That annoyed me. “How can you say that? He asked for a budget, didn’t he? Didn’t he say he would take care of everything?” Michel smiled. “And in the meantime who’s going to pay my plane fares?” He was silent for a moment. “And what about the car? Who’s going to pay for the car we have to buy so as not to lose face
before this Jewish Rockefeller who could give the real Rockefeller journalism lessons?”

Michel took out a loan to cover his trips and I borrowed money for the car, a used Oldsmobile. We had no magazine yet, but we were already in debt.

Thirty years later I cannot believe how stupid we were—I most of all. Had I forgotten Joseph Givon? How could we be sure Oscar was trustworthy? Did we really think such a project was feasible? How could three unknown, penniless journalists—an Israeli, a Frenchman, and a newly naturalized American—think they were capable of launching a weekly in English, a language none of us was fluent in? But Oscar had an answer for everything, so we dismissed all pessimistic thoughts.

A period of intense activity began. Shuka was to be responsible for the Israeli pages, Michel for the cultural columns, and I for the section on Jewish life. We would sign the editorials on a rotating basis. We proposed to Oscar that he be the fourth editorialist. He deserved that much, didn’t he? When we submitted an annual budget of $250,000 to our patron, he was severely critical, finding it too modest. There was no point in even discussing anything less than a million dollars. Where would we get such a sum? He was annoyed by our prudence. Did we dare doubt his word? If he could find a quarter of a million, he could surely come up with four times that amount.

A year after our first meeting we solemnly presented Oscar with a dummy issue. Theoretically, we could now open offices, hire secretaries, and develop an advertising policy. All we needed was a bank account. “Indeed,” Oscar said, approving our analysis, “it’s feasible.” He sank into thought for a moment and then declared: “A million dollars, right?” Right. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it to you in four installments. Is that all right?” That was all right. “But …” Suddenly I was on guard. Buts make me nervous. “… you must come to London. I’ll be there next week. At the Dorchester. I’ll give you the first check then.” It was somewhat inconvenient, but we took out our appointment books and agreed on a date. I already envisioned us running a vast press empire. Michel, Shuka, and I returned to Manhattan to celebrate. Shuka’s wife, Levitta, gently mocked our excessive optimism, but we mocked her no less excessive pessimism.

Michel flew back to Paris. Shuka and I, more broke than ever, decided to economize by sending Michel to London alone. There was
no reason all three of us had to be present just to pick up a check. On the designated day Michel flew to London, took a cab to the Dorchester, and asked the receptionist to tell Oscar he was there. The clerk informed Michel that the gentleman was not at the hotel. When Michel asked when he would be back, the clerk replied that he had never checked in. Michel hurried to a phone to tell us. Shuka and I were at a loss. Perhaps Oscar was ill. Shuka called Westchester and got no answer. In the meantime, Michel phoned other luxury hotels, in vain. Our patron was not registered or expected at any of them. I then suggested that Shuka drive the Oldsmobile up to Westchester. Maybe Oscar had had a heart attack. But Shuka found him not only in good health but calm and serene. “You were supposed to be in London,” Shuka protested. Oscar didn’t even apologize. On the contrary, he chided Shuka for being so naïve. “You really thought I was going to give you a million dollars?” Why had he engaged in this terribly cruel hoax? Well, all alone in his big Westchester estate, he had been bored. And he had found us amusing.