And the Sea Is Never Full: Memoirs 1969

by Elie Wiesel

  Ueberroth saves me by calling a third time: “I’ve checked with an Orthodox rabbi. After nightfall you have the right to travel, so you can come to the stadium. With a police escort you’ll get there in time….” Elisha is jubilant. Many of his friends and classmates are invited. Suddenly his jaw drops: “Do you even know how to throw a ball?” No, I don’t; they never taught me that in Sighet. Never mind—he’ll teach me. Still, some 75,000 paying spectators will be watching me, plus all the television viewers whose number will exceed 30 or 40 million; I must not bring shame on my son. Am I a good pupil? Suffice it to say that the team that receives my first ball amid deafening roars loses the game. And the following day, for the first—and surely the last—time in my life, my picture adorns the first page of the New York Times sports section.

  At the synagogue, people are mercifully discreet. I am grateful. I am given an aliyah, the honor of reading from the Torah. Cantor Joseph Malovany chants a special blessing. Rabbi Sol Roth contents himself with wishing me mazel tov. In the face of God, we are all His creatures. Evidently the Nobel doesn’t count for much in heaven.

  With a Nobel Prize come quite a few lessons. For one, you learn who is a friend and who is not. Contrary to popular wisdom, a friend is not one who shares your suffering, but one who knows how to share your joy. I was pleasantly surprised by some and sadly disappointed by others.

  There are envious and jealous people everywhere; they are part of the human landscape. Some who praised my writings when I was poor and unknown now resent me for being “rich” and “famous.” Others were faithful to me as long as I wrote for a limited public; now it bothers them to see my name on pages other than literary. Sadly, some “admirers” turned against me after the Nobel, as though to punish me for a success some of them had actually helped me achieve. These betrayals hurt me the most. I cannot explain them.

  In my first volume of memoirs I told of I. B. Singer’s account of the offensive and heinous jealousies he endured after he was awarded the Nobel. Singer laughed as he spoke of them; it made him happy that these people were not. I also think of Camus’s years of depression after the Nobel. Olivier Todd, his biographer, describes that period with tact and honesty.* Intellectuals from the left and from the right constantly made him feel that he owed them something. As for me, I try to follow Spinoza’s advice: not to laugh or weep, but to understand. Of course, I endured instances of sheer malice I shall never understand.

  Never mind. I can take it. At this point in my life a few petty personal attacks in the press will not change anything for me.

  • • •

  During the intermediate days of Sukkoth, Marion and I fly to Moscow, invited by the Soviet authorities. Sigmund Strochlitz and Michael Melchior accompany us. The official purpose of the trip is to prepare for Soviet participation in an upcoming international Holocaust Memorial Council conference in Washington. Also, thanks to the Prize, I hope to be able to help Ida Nadel, Andrei Sakharov, Vladimir Slepak, and other dissidents.

  To the journalists welcoming us at Moscow Airport, I speak of my total solidarity with Andrei Sakharov and announce my intention of visiting him in Gorki. Yes, my main concern is for the refuseniks, but the Soviet Nobel Prize winner’s exile to me epitomizes injustice. I return to this theme two or three times a day, at every opportunity, at every meeting with officials and the foreign correspondents posted in Moscow.

  My official hosts are unhappy. They can accept my pleading on behalf of “my” Jews but not my associating Sakharov with them. “Sakharov is a scientist,” they tell me with irritation. “He was sent away from Moscow for reasons of state: He’s in possession of nuclear secrets that the government must protect. In short, this is not your business.” Stubbornly I argue: “He is your only Nobel Peace laureate. It’s normal for me to want to meet him.” They refuse my request.

  Everybody tells me that the final decision is Gorbachev’s. With her usual logic, Marion advises me to take a direct approach: “Why don’t you ask to meet him?” I stare at her; did I hear her right? “Meet him? To whom, do you think, should I submit such a request?” As always her answer is clear and simple. “Write him.” Fine—I’ll write him a letter. And then what? “Then you give it to Andrei [the young official in charge of our security]. He’ll know what to do.” It sounds so simple when Marion says it that I feel disarmed. Anyway, I have nothing to lose. On a piece of hotel stationery I write a note to the secretary-general of the Communist party. Handing it to Andrei, who has just arrived to take us to a meeting, I say: “This is for your boss.” He looks incredulous as he glances at the envelope. “Stay here. Wait for me,” he tells us, “I have to leave for a few minutes.” He returns an hour later. I ask him: “Well?” He answers only that we’re late for our appointment at the Veterans’ Ministry. I understand; he can tell me nothing.

  In the evening he whispers to me that my letter has been delivered to the Kremlin; it is being dealt with at the highest level. To Marion, I say: “You’ll see; nothing’s going to come of this.”

  The next day, while we’re having breakfast, Andrei asks me to step into the corridor: “I have the answer. It is positive.” I can’t hold back a cry of surprise. Andrei puts his finger to his lips; best to keep quiet.

  We go to the synagogue on Arkhipova Street. It’s Simhat Torah. Let’s forget our dealings with the authorities. Let’s celebrate.

  The huge synagogue is brightly lit. It is also packed. Thousands of faithful jostle one another. Tradition has it that we must celebrate to the point of ecstasy. What if one is not in the mood? Force yourself, says the Law. Simhat Torah—the celebration of Torah—is different from other festivals; it is the essence of joy. We are commanded to dance, sing, get drunk on hope and nostalgia. One pleads with one’s soul to rise to heaven, and the soul, docile and gentle, is happy to obey.

  And so am I happy. Yes, really happy. Vladimir “Volodia” Slepak, the oldest of the refuseniks, is with me. I’ve kept the promise I made to him years earlier; I’ve returned to “my” Russian Jews.

  The congregants are pushing forward and backward while they observe the procession of the Torah as it slowly makes its way around the synagogue. Clutching the scrolls to my chest, I greet people—here and there I recognize a face. One is that of an old man who, as on an earlier visit, stuffs a piece of paper into my pocket. It is hot; I have trouble breathing. I am afraid to slip, to fall. I am afraid I shall wake up far from these Jews yearning for freedom and tradition.

  This is my fourth trip to the Soviet Union. It was during the first, in 1965, that I discovered the “Jews of Silence.” They talked to me with their eyes. In them I read the history of their suffering, their solitude. Even on that Simhat Torah eve long ago, they did not seem afraid. They were the first—and let us never forget that—to reject the reign of terror; the first to defy the Kremlin; the first to openly demand their right to be different, to be free, and to remember.

  Since then things have changed. The Kremlin has had to open its gates, thanks to pressure from abroad, and thousands of Jews have emigrated to Israel. And ever since 1965, these young people who fill the streets and declare their pride in belonging to the Jewish people have modified the character and the mentality of their elders by showing them their example of defiance and hope.

  My admiration and affection for these youngsters are constantly renewed. Seventy years of Communist education and dictatorship have not stifled their Jewish identity. Without schools or cultural centers, without formal infrastructures, the kind that have long been offered to other ethnic minorities, how do they manage to safeguard their Jewish particularity, to educate their children? There are courses in Jewish history, Hebrew lessons, biblical commentaries, circles for talmudic study, religious initiation, lectures on literature. If these exist today, it is largely thanks to these people.

  They never cease to surprise me. Take Volodia Slepak. In a way he is freer than people in the free world. I ask him: “Aren’t you afraid? Afraid of prison?” He shrugs. No,
he’s no longer afraid; he knows prisons. And forced exile. And brutality. And threats. Not easy? Who says being a Jew, and particularly a Jew in the USSR, is easy?

  Nevertheless, the strength radiated by my friend Volodia is surprising. I call him the moment I arrive at the hotel. We embrace. We have been waiting for this moment a long time—seventeen years. Seventeen years of a “relationship” interrupted only by forced silences on his part. Seventeen years of anguish, and of hope. Marion and I adopt him and his wife, Masha. We take them along everywhere. Never mind that the officials and our guides don’t like it.

  A political dissident and human rights activist, Volodia was an example to a great many young Jews whom he urged to return to Judaism. Anatoly Shcharansky, who owes his Jewish involvement to him, was actually apprehended as he was leaving the Slepaks’ apartment. Slepak, too, was arrested. Despite imprisonment, five years of Siberian exile, persecution of every kind, Volodia did not give in.

  Every day I request permission to visit Sakharov. Again and again I am refused. Why? Nobody knows. Many years later, when I was introduced to Sakharov, he held my hand in his for a very long moment; he told me he knew how hard I had tried to see him.

  How have all these people—perhaps a hundred of them—succeeded in losing their “shadows” and coming together in this Moscow apartment? And who has been in touch with every one of them? I ask no questions. I am too happy to meet, at last, these refuseniks whom until this moment I have known only by name or photo: a famous professor whose visa has been refused for the past ten years and a well-known chemist whose visa has been refused for more than twelve years. We chat freely, but the same question keeps coming back: “How long are we going to live like outcasts?”

  There are some old acquaintances in the crowd. A teacher accosts me in Hebrew: “I saw you in 1966, but I didn’t dare speak to you.” A woman breaks in: “Do you remember me? In 1979….” Yes, I remember. “It was at the doctor’s house.” She smiles: “Imagine, he’s here now….” I start: “Here? Dr. Kogan is here?” Someone calls him, and he hurries over; he looks older, but I would have recognized him anywhere. “I promised you we’d meet again,” I tell him. “Promise me our next meeting will be somewhere else,” he says. I promise him. I would promise him anything.

  A shy-looking, youngish man pulls me into a corner. He wants to tell me a secret: “Look,” he says in a husky, excited voice, “a few years ago I translated your first book—in samizdat, of course—I’ve kept a copy for you…. I knew that one day we’d meet.” How do you thank a man who has risked his freedom to let others know your work? I’m still thinking this over when he hands me an envelope—and then he’s gone.

  An hour later, in another room of the same apartment, an old man, tall and thin, gives me an envelope: “I translated your first book,” he says with a smile. “In samizdat. Here’s the first copy. It’s yours.”

  They don’t know each other. Each in his own circle carried out his solitary task without knowing that someone else was doing the same thing for the same reasons. Suddenly I know how to thank them. Without a word, I take one translator by the arm and lead him to the other. After a brief moment of bewilderment, they embrace as only Russians embrace. And they burst out laughing. I feel like reciting a prayer of gratitude. Had I come to the USSR for nothing else but this laughter I would be satisfied.

  I take their names and put them on one of my lists. And I pray to heaven: Lord, You who read everything, look at these names, look at these men and protect them.

  Let’s get back to Gorbachev. During the procession with the Torah a stranger whispers in my ear: “When you see the boss—[in Yiddish] the balebos—tell him that …” How did he know that I was going to meet the balebos? Marion and I have told no one. Andrei? Impossible. He’s with us, but he is not speaking to anyone. To all the mysteries of life in the USSR, one more has been added. We return to the hotel.

  Around three o’clock I grab my raincoat and get ready to go to the American Embassy. A meeting has been scheduled there with dissidents and refuseniks. I’m already at the door when the telephone rings. A man in less-than-perfect English says he wants to see me, but he does not give his name. No doubt a dissident. “Come in two hours,” I tell him. “No,” says the anonymous caller, “I have to see you at once.” In that case, I suggest, meet me at the U.S. Embassy. “No,” he says, “I cannot go to the United States Embassy.” He’s afraid, I say to myself, afraid of being followed. He goes on: “Nor do I think you should go there.” He lowers his voice and adds: “I’ve got a message for you, a message,” he goes on, “from the man you want to meet.” A message from Mikhail Gorbachev? That changes everything. “Come at once!” I tell him. He’ll come in twenty minutes. I look at Marion: “You were right—all we had to do was write a few words to penetrate the impenetrable Kremlin.” Then I think of something: What if this is a KGB trap to punish me for having insisted so much on Sakharov’s plight?

  I call the American ambassador, sum up the situation, and ask him to send me someone to be present at the interview. He tells me I’m right to be wary, he’ll send me his number one adviser. I hope the adviser will come in time; he does. The Soviet arrives a few minutes later: squat and with a dour face, he greets us without bothering to mention his name. He’s accompanied by two men; one will be his interpreter. The other, bald with a moon face, remains silent. After the customary polite words, the mysterious emissary asks to speak to me alone. I insist on Marion’s being present. No problem. I invite the emissary and his interpreter to follow us to the other room. Without asking permission the bald man comes along. We sit down, but the emissary gets up immediately. He clears his throat and delivers a long message in Russian, and then he sits down again. The interpreter stands up: “I have a communication from Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev,” he says solemnly. “He greets you in the name of the Soviet Union and congratulates you….” There follow a series of compliments delivered in a monotone. “And therefore … he would be happy to meet with you Tuesday afternoon to discuss certain subjects that mean a great deal to us.” The interpreter sits down. There is a rather long silence. I break it in order to respond: “Tell the secretary-general how touched I am by the warmth of his message, but to my deep regret I cannot accept his invitation, since I must return to Paris on Sunday….” The emissary does not even wait for the translation; he leaps to his feet as though stung by a snake: “Impossible, impossible I tell you. You cannot! The day before yesterday you wrote your letter; we are answering it today. Admit that we have responded quickly. And you …” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He is beside himself. How can I calm him down? I say to him: “When you explain to the secretary-general why I cannot stay, he will understand: My wife and I have promised President Mitterrand to celebrate his seventieth birthday with him and his family.” He leaves shaking his head.

  I see him again the following day, at the airport. This time he is without his interpreter. He whips out a little notebook and asks me for my “wish list.” I recite the names of certain refuseniks, I stress the cultural needs of the Jewish communities, and, of course, I speak of Sakharov. He promises to see what he can do and to contact me in New York.

  He keeps his word.

  As for Gorbachev, I saw him five years later, in far more dramatic circumstances. And Mitterrand had something to do with it.

  As for the Soviet emissary, he remains mysterious to the end. Though I eventually discover his name, I never learn where he fits into the scheme of things. After Moscow we have a number of phone conversations. The latest deals with Andrei Sakharov. I tell him that if the scientist is not freed from his forced residence in Gorki, I will most certainly speak of him and his plight in my Nobel address. Interestingly, the Soviet authorities seem to fear the impact of criticism in that address. A member of the French Communist party’s Politburo contacts me to persuade me not to mention Sakharov. What is it about the Nobel Prize that worries them? Back in Moscow, Gorbachev’s emissary had made quite a few promises. I w
ant deeds. When I arrive in Oslo, one of the first calls is from him: Sakharov will be freed; he gives his word. I am not convinced. And in my acceptance speech I speak of Sakharov.

  Oslo, December 9, 1986. After the official reception at the airport we go on to the Grand Hotel. In the Nobel Suite, there are flowers, chocolates. We quickly take a shower and change our clothes. We meet our Israeli, American, and French guests, and then we are taken to the press conference.

  The room is packed with reporters. One of the first questions strikes me as bizarre: “How do you explain that the security detail assigned to you is larger than the one protecting the king of Norway?” I have no idea what the reporter is referring to; I haven’t been told as yet that the police had intercepted information about threats against me, or that the Holocaust deniers were planning a demonstration. And so it is the top official of the foreign affairs ministry, who is chairing the press conference, who answers: “That is because the king of Norway is protected by four million of his subjects.” The other questions, for the most part, have to do with the Middle East: the Palestinians’ right to self-determination, the Shamir government’s policies, the chances of peace with the Arabs. I don’t understand why these reporters are trying to trap me by insisting on a discussion of this problem. Surely they know my views on the subject. One question on Israel, even two or three, make sense. But ten? Did they ask these questions of previous laureates? For me, this is not a new phenomenon. For years, every time I find myself confronting the media, the Israel-Arab problem is waved at me. And each time the journalist in me cautions: Never lose your patience with the press.