by Elie Wiesel
Friday evening, the immense dining room is divided in two. In a corner a few tables have been reserved for those who observe the Jewish dietary laws.
The next day, in a small drawing room, I witness the strangest, most exotic Shabbat service of my life: In addition to prayers and the Torah reading, we are treated to a ballet in which beautiful young girls perform dances that, no doubt, have a religious basis. As I am accustomed to a different style of prayer, I feel somewhat excluded.
All afternoon I am solicited by delegates who are lobbying for one thing or another. Each asks me to include in my presentation the particular project he or she has come to defend, “in the name of what is dear to us”: Russian Jewry, support for Israel, child care, Jewish education in high schools, retirement homes, cultural associations…. They are funny, all these emissaries, militants, or bureaucrats, working for just causes and for odd ones. To them I appear as intercessor, mediator, defense attorney—in other words, a man of influence. I am not so sure, but how am I to explain this to them? Oh well; they will come to realize it eventually.
The evening begins with the pious chanting of the Havdalah, the prayer celebrating the separation in time of the profane and the sacred, and the end of Shabbat. Then comes the hour when dinner is served. There is the din of three thousand people crowded into the hall. People say hello, call to each other, leave their seats to greet acquaintances; the waiters do their work with difficulty. All the former federation presidents are seated at the dais. I sit to the right of the current president, Max Fisher, a superwealthy industrialist from Detroit who is close to both Presidents Nixon and Ford.
Suddenly I hear feverish whispering behind my back. Polite, I try not to listen. Delegates approach Fisher, evidently trying to persuade him of something. I have no idea what it’s about, but I begin to get worried. I sense a crisis looming. Intrigued, I question my neighbor to the right. Oh, it’s nothing, he answers. Whereupon a group of young people come over to our table. “We are students,” they tell me. “We come to ask you not to be annoyed with us: We are leaving the hall to protest, not against you, but against the leaders of this organization. We are observant and after the meal we wanted to recite together the Birkat Hamazon [the customary grace after dinner]. They wouldn’t let us.”
I turn to Fisher: “Is this true?”
“Yes,” he says, unperturbed.
“But why?”
“Because the prayer is not listed in the program.”
For a moment I am speechless. Then I try to explain to him that he should be pleased rather than annoyed: After all, what were these young people asking for? The power to control the council’s budget? No. They were requesting permission to sing a prayer that would last no more than three to five minutes. The gentleman remains unmoved: “I’ve made a decision; I’ve announced it to my colleagues; I cannot retract it without losing face.”
I persist. I point out to him that if this becomes public, as it inevitably will, he might look ridiculous to the entire Jewish community. However, I do understand his predicament. So here is what I propose: Let him announce that the guest of honor wishes to recite the traditional prayer; it would be discourteous to refuse. Max acquiesces. The incident is closed. The crisis is averted.
After dinner he invites me to have a drink with him, alone. “I owe you something,” he says. “What would you like?” This is my chance to act as intercessor. I repeat the delegates’ requests: more spirituality for this kind of gathering; more deference for the observant; priority for Jewish education, for Jewish memory; an initial budget of $100,000 to found a council for Soviet Jewry…. Max takes notes. All my requests are granted. Years later we will confront each other during the Bitburg affair. Still, in Kansas City, it is thanks to a simple prayer rescued in extremis that the most important Jewish organization in America became more Jewish.
We spend the winter of 1972 in Miami. Marion is pregnant and travels less. I don’t have a choice. Long-standing commitments force me to shuttle between Florida, New York, and other places.
It is during this time that I become embroiled in a political incident as pointless as it is absurd, and one I still regret today. It created a furor in Israel. I find myself, quite unintentionally, in an adversarial situation with Abba Eban, minister of foreign affairs in Golda Meir’s government.
There was a time when we had a cordial professional relationship. I admired his learning, his talents. As a young ambassador to Washington and the U.N. he elicited respect and admiration from his colleagues. A brilliant speaker and intellectual, Eban could be convincing even when he himself was not convinced.
The story is told that in the mid-fifties Ben-Gurion asked him to defend Israel’s position in a delicate affair. And even though Eban disagreed with that position, he defended it so well that Ben-Gurion told him: “In truth, I myself had doubts, but then I read your arguments, and you convinced me.”
Unquestionably, he was a great diplomat who represented his government with superb skill and ability. He brought honor to the state and to the people of Israel. I was attracted by his sharp wit; I appreciated his Jewish and classical erudition; I admired his televised appearances, his lucid analyses of international affairs, and the elegant way he had of eluding delicate questions. He was somebody I would have liked to know better, more intimately.
But then, the incident occurred. In fact, the word “incident” is inadequate. “Political scandal” would be more precise.
Its genesis was as follows: Having just returned from a lecture tour in the Midwest, I am spending a day in our Manhattan apartment catching up on a week’s mail when the telephone rings. The Israeli consul general—in New York—is on the line. “This concerns Minister Eban,” he informs me. “Are you aware of what is happening to him?” No, I’m not; I have been out of town. Could he enlighten me? He can and does. During a broadcast with the famous television interviewer David Frost, Eban was said to have answered the question, What do you think about the Nazi criminals who are still at large? by saying that after the Eichmann trial, the problem no longer interested him, or something like that. Allegedly he had repeated this several times. “You can imagine the uproar in Israel,” says the consul. “Menachem Begin and the entire opposition condemn his insensitivity and are calling for his resignation. Golda is furious. A censure motion has been introduced in the Knesset. Eban claims that only a statement from you can calm the storm.”
My answer to the consul is that, not having seen the telecast, I am hardly in a position to intervene. He understands and transmits my reply to Eban. One hour later he calls back: Eban has suggested that I read the transcript of the interview; perhaps then I could testify on his behalf. I accept, though I make the point that there is a critical difference between the spoken word on-screen and that presented on the written page. The consul insists that I read the transcript. I do. I study it, and I am appalled. Eban is, after all, hardly a novice in such matters, yet he had shown unbelievably poor judgment. I call the consul and express my regret at not being able to help his boss. “But,” I add, “it is inconceivable that a man like Eban, or, for that matter, any Jew, could show such insensitivity to Jewish memory and to those who remain faithful to it.” In other words, I cannot believe this is what he meant; surely, for once, he had misspoken. I suggest that the program be telecast in Israel. Let the public judge.
A few days later I happen to be visiting Jack Mombaz, the Israeli consul general in Toronto, where I have come to lecture, when Marion telephones to tell me that once again the consul in New York is trying urgently to reach me. In the presence of his colleague in Canada, I return his call. He assumes an official tone: “I have been charged by my minister to communicate the following message to you.” And he proceeds to read a statement that Eban plans to make public within the hour. It is a most flattering statement about me, thanking me for having come to his aid. As I listen, I feel the blood rushing to my face. I resent being manipulated. How am I to react? Protest? Expose the lie? My anger an
d agitation render me speechless. The consul asks, “Can you hear me? Are you there?” I don’t answer. He repeats his questions; I remain silent. Only after a long pause am I able to speak again. “You of all people know the truth; I never said anything that could be interpreted as a defense.” He denies nothing. My indignation does not surprise him, but he adds: “Try to understand him; he is fighting for his political survival.” He is right. Eban’s statement, resting on my “defense,” saves him from being censured by the Knesset. Golda Meir’s government, if by a remarkably small majority, remains in power.
I could publish a correction, if only for the record. But I don’t. First of all, Eban could have been acting in good faith: How could I be sure that his consul, out of loyalty, had not distorted my comments? And why hurt a man who has been pleading our people’s cause for so many years and with such distinction? He deserves special consideration. One does not condemn a man who, under desperate circumstances, resorts to the kind of behavior that he himself would normally find reprehensible. One does not condemn a man for a single misstep. After all, Eban occupies a place of honor in the diplomatic history of the Jewish state. To the friends calling me from Israel who are surprised if not shocked by my “defense” of Eban, I reply: Reasons of the heart are sometimes as important as the raison d’état. One does not push down a drowning man. Let’s turn the page.
The Israeli ambassador in Washington, General Yitzhak Rabin, is not close to Eban; that is well known. Still, he approves of my conduct. As does Gideon Rafael, Israel’s former ambassador to the U.N., appointed by Eban to serve as director general of his ministry. While in the United States on an official visit, Golda, too, congratulates me: “You know that I don’t like the guy, but Begin and his clique treated him savagely; you did well to defend him.” There being limits to my tolerance, I give her a summary of what actually happened. I did not defend Eban and deserve no congratulations. She does not seem surprised: “You did well anyway.”
This conversation takes place during a reception given in her honor by her diplomatic representatives in New York. Suddenly I glimpse Eban. He must have seen me in conversation with Golda. He does not come over. A little later he walks up to me. He shakes my hand with uncharacteristic warmth. He, too, thanks me. He adds a few comments on the scandalous accusations hurled against him by the opposition. He appreciates my support. What could I say? I say nothing.
A week or two after this reception, I read in Yedioth a long interview with Eban on his foreign policy. He speaks of this and that and suddenly tells of having met me in New York, where, he says, I expressed my indignation at the way he had been treated. Stunned, I reread the article. I fail to understand why, if the incident is closed, he is reopening it. And why does he put words in my mouth? His political career is no longer in jeopardy, the government is no longer in danger. Why this new provocation?
My friend Eliyahu Amiqam, a journalist, is visiting New York. I show him the interview, which disturbs him as much as it does me. He asks me for an interview to clarify the matter. Detesting polemics, I hesitate. The counterattacks that provoke more counterattacks are not my style; and then, despite everything, I still have great admiration for Israel’s spokesman. Eliyahu understands my arguments but restates his own: Truth must be reestablished. In the end, I accept his reasoning. The interview is published, triggering a whirlwind of declarations, commentaries, explanations. The affair is once again at center stage. Once again there is a tempest in the Knesset. A new censure motion is introduced by the opposition. The uproar is reminiscent of the notorious political quarrels between fanaticized blocs and groups. The government is in danger of toppling. Golda herself intervenes. In her address she speaks of her affection for me and of the friendship that binds us, but she defends her minister. Naturally she prevails. Her coalition represents a solid majority, and Eban is rehabilitated. Next, his entourage aims its heaviest artillery at me. The attacks come from unexpected quarters. I am punished for past errors and forgotten slights—letters I failed to answer, books I neglected to praise, phone calls I did not return. The gloves are off. I had no idea that so many people in Israel were waiting to take potshots at me.
With hindsight, I think that I may well have been unfair to Eban: How could anyone be sure that one of his subordinates did not embellish my comment to gain favor with him? And in the absence of an immediate correction on my part, Eban could have interpreted my silence as acquiescence.
We become reconciled in 1985. His letter of support, at the time of Bitburg, heals many wounds.
Marion and I have seen him often since, with his wife, Suzy, at the home of mutual friends. At this point, Eban is no longer minister. Why did his former political allies shunt him aside? Why did they betray him? After all, they had made certain promises to him.
Eban loses no time. He quickly turns to television. His programs on Jewish history are popular. His books sell well. He is never short of projects. I like listening to him as he tells of the war years in London and Cairo. His memories, touched with irony, his encounters with the great protagonists of late-twentieth-century American history, are fascinating.
Since his arrival in the United States he has had occasion to encounter outstanding people in all strata of American society. He has met Truman, Eisenhower, JFK, senators, writers, scholars. It was he who conveyed David Ben-Gurion’s invitation to Albert Einstein to come live in Jerusalem, where he would surely have been elected president of the State of Israel. The legendary Princeton scholar wisely refused. His reason? He did not know Hebrew.
Eban does know Hebrew, as well as Arabic and French. As analyst and spokesman of Israel’s policy, he has had no equal.
Meyer Weisgal was another man who had no equal in his realm—a colorful character charged with energy and bubbling over with imagination. It was impossible not to like him. His white mane reminded one of Ben-Gurion; in fact he was close to Chaim Weizmann, the legendary British scientist who became head of the World Zionist movement and eventually president of Israel. Weisgal was Weizmann’s right hand, and the prestigious Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot was built through his efforts. His clever and witty repartee helped him obtain unheard-of sums from the rich, sums no one else could extract from them.
Meyer considered Weizmann his god, his “secular Rebbe,” his guru, and his savior. Possessive in the extreme, he disliked anyone who did not fully appreciate “the boss.” As for those who claimed to revere Weizmann, Meyer was infallible in his ability to detect insincerity.
It was said that he was less admiring of Chaim’s wife, Vera. He found her too mannered, too aristocratic. He said she was a snob who deigned to speak only to God, and even to Him only when she felt like talking to someone. Referring to a woman who had recently lost her famous husband, he said: “As a wife, she was not so terrific, but as a widow, she is unsurpassed….”
His autobiography is a small masterpiece. I praised it in the New York Times. Later, when he was desperately ill, Meyer recovered his will to live when I persuaded him to write a second volume of memoirs. “Will you help me?” he asked. Of course I was ready to help him. Twice a week I went to see him with a little tape recorder. He spoke; I asked questions; he answered, rummaging in his memory for anecdotes, stories of his youth and the years spent at Weizmann’s side. Unfortunately, much of what he had to say he had already published. Even so I became enthusiastic as we recorded certain unpublished details. I don’t regret those weeks, those months I devoted to him. On the contrary, I remember them with a sense of fulfillment.
I am working on The Oath, a novel about a Jew and his community accused of ritual murder at the beginning of the twentieth century. The days and months rush by. And the dreams and the memories. Does memory become richer, or does it shrink as man leaves his early experiences farther and farther behind? What makes it surge back? How does one follow its upheavals? And how does one assimilate the traces it leaves behind?
I am fascinated by everything that touches on memory, its mystical
force. Memory desires to encompass everything, but it merely illuminates fragments. Why this recollection rather than another? And what happens to all that I have already forgotten? And then: What is the relationship between individual memory and collective memory? Which enriches the other, and at what cost?
Memory is a key element in my work and my quest, but in truth I am painfully aware of how little I know of its nature. It is to me what poetry was to Aristotle: More than history, it contains Truth. To me it is indispensable. To write. To teach and share. Without it what would I be? Without it life has no meaning.
June 6, 1972: Elisha’s birth. A dawn unlike any other. It will mark my existence forever. This little fellow in the arms of his mother will illuminate our life. I look at him and look at him. And as I look at him I feel the presence of others also seeking to protect him.
Eight days later: the Brith Milah. “Let’s sing, I order you to sing!” shouts the old Hassid of Ger. It’s not every day that one attends a circumcision. The ceremony takes place under the sign of Abraham and, as such, is meaningful enough for the prophet Elijah himself to attend as guest of honor. It is on “his” chair that the eight-day-old infant is circumcised.
The men and women present come from different worlds. The former secretary of the Warsaw community, Dr. Hillel Seidman; the violinist Isaac Stern; the editor Jim Silberman; and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. Assimilated intellectuals and militant Zionists. And, of course, special emissaries from the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who, from his residence in Brooklyn, writes me that his heart and soul are overflowing with joy. Saul Lieberman calls from Jerusalem to tell us just how much he participates in our celebration: I have never heard him so excited.
The mother is in an adjacent room: Tradition, with the intention of protecting her, ordains that she not be present when her son gives his blood to enter into the Covenant. A messenger shuttles back and forth to keep her informed.
