by Elie Wiesel
In accordance with custom, the chairman of the Nobel committee, Egil Aarvik, accompanies me to the Royal Palace for a private audience with King Olav V. Well-informed on international current events, the old monarch reminisces about the war years, which he spent in Great Britain and the United States. He is loved by his people for his wisdom and courage, and I find his simplicity, his humanity, moving. And I am confounded by the warmth he shows me. At one point, smiling shyly, he says: “In my position I don’t have the right to suggest candidates to the Nobel committee; otherwise I would personally have proposed you.” Of course he will attend the ceremony, surrounded by his family, members of the government, Parliament, and the diplomatic corps.
Outside, though I was to learn of this only later, Holocaust “deniers” from France and other European countries are distributing pamphlets attacking Jewish memory. For them it’s the ideal occasion to disseminate their “thesis”: There never was a Holocaust; it is nothing but a myth invented by the Jews in order to collect money. The street demonstration explains the worries of the police and the tight security.
The ceremony is incredibly impressive, and I know that it will leave a profound mark on me. It also is a time when the eyes of the whole world are on you.
As I enter the brightly lit, crowded Aula—the great hall of Oslo University—and walk through the tense and silent crowd, I think of all those who are not present. The emotion that overcomes me is so powerful that I have difficulty moving forward. I feel choked, and there is a heavy weight on my chest. I glimpse smiling, familiar faces as I take my seat next to Elisha, who is sitting beside his mother.
The Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra is playing Grieg, but I barely hear the music. Next comes Aarvik, who speaks in Norwegian. I don’t understand a word, but he has the audience in the palm of his hand. He seems moved and happy. Later, much later, he tells us: “Last August, when the decision was made in your favor, I felt like singing. Then, in the train that took me home that night, it seemed to me the very trees were singing.”
An English translation of his speech has been distributed to foreign visitors along with a biographical sketch of me, a literary analysis, quotations from my novels and essays, a philosophical and ethical interpretation of my writings. He speaks of my role as “a witness for truth and justice” and “a messenger to mankind whose message is not one of hate and revenge, but of brotherhood and atonement…. In him we see a man who has gone from utter humiliation to become one of our most important spiritual leaders and guides.”
Here are some more excerpts from his speech:
… His aim is not to gain the world’s sympathy for the victims or the survivors. His aim is to awaken our conscience because our indifference to evil makes us partners in the crime….
… Naturally, it was his own people’s fate which formed the starting point for his work. Through the years, however, his message has attained a universal character, standing as a communication from one human being to humankind. Its involvement is limitless and encompasses all who suffer, wherever they might be….
… his vision is not characterized by a passive obsession with a tragic history; rather it is a reconstructed belief in God, humanity and the future.
… I doubt whether any other individual, through the use of such quiet speech, has achieved more or been more widely heard. The words he uses are simple, and the voice that speaks them is gentle. It is a voice of peace. But its power is intense.
… It is in recognition of this particular human spirit’s victory over the powers of death and degradation, and to support the struggle of good against evil in the world, that the Norwegian Nobel Committee today presents the Nobel Peace Prize to Elie Wiesel. We do this on behalf of millions—from all peoples and all races….
As Aarvik speaks, I read the translation. I listen and read at the same time, but the words hover in the air; they do not come to rest inside me. Is he really talking about me? About my life, my destiny? Once again I see myself in my parents’ house; I see my father and mother, and my two sisters who are gone, and all I can think of is how much I wish they could have known my son; I so long to tell them that I go on loving them, that I have remained faithful to them. Aarvik is talking, and I am far away, on the other side, with Elisha, with Marion, strolling through the town of my childhood, where my Masters, my friends, my dreams are waiting for me.
Suddenly I sit up. Aarvik is no longer speaking in Norwegian; he is addressing me in English. He says: “When your father was dying you were at his side; it was the darkest day of your life. This day, for you and for ourselves, is a glorious day; I would like your son to stand next to you as the greatest prize that mankind is able to grant is bestowed on you….” And because he has made this unexpected connection, because in a few simple words he has created a link between my father and my son, I feel overwhelmed with sadness.
Elisha steps up to the podium, and I follow him. I don’t hear the applause; I hear nothing, and then all I hear are the invisible tears flowing into my soul, I hear the prayers my dead parents are chanting on high, I hear the call of my little sister Tsipouka whose suffering should have extinguished the sun for all eternity.
I am standing alone. Aarvik has sat down. Elisha, too. And the public, too. I am expected to deliver my speech. It is ready—I have it in front of me, a few typed pages. But I cannot read them; I try—and fail. Later, Danielle Mitterrand will tell me that she was afraid for me. Perhaps she thought I would never again be able to open my mouth. I look at my wife, my sister, my son. And then, behind my son, as though to protect him, I see my father. That’s why it is so difficult, almost impossible, for me to speak. Out of respect I never said a word in his presence without asking his permission.
But before I ask his permission, I must ask his forgiveness. For Aarvik was mistaken. I see myself once again with my father on the last day of his life, the last night. I was near him as he agonized, but not at the hour of his death. I speak of it in Night. He called me. My father called me, gently, weakly. I heard him moaning. I heard him calling. His cries tore me apart; they tear me apart still. In spite of the danger I should have gone to him, run to him. I should have said to him: I’m here, Father. Your son will never leave you. I should have told him something, anything. But we were forbidden to speak. I would have been beaten, beaten to death. I would have been killed. I was afraid then. And I am afraid now.
How much time has passed since I approached the podium? Forty-one years? Forty-one centuries. And then … I shake myself and wake facing a king and a kingdom that wish me well.
Back at the hotel we lunch with Aarvik and his family. Then I spend several hours calling refuseniks in the Soviet Union. I want them to know that they are in our thoughts, that their courage has been spoken of and celebrated today. Rabbi Melchior does not leave my side; he knows these phone numbers by heart. It’s not easy; the calls must go through the switchboard. Some of the people are not at home. Never mind, we shall call back; twenty times, if necessary.
In the evening there is the traditional torchlight parade in honor of the laureate. It is a dazzling, breathtaking spectacle, an unforgettable sight: young people and old, from every corner of the country, students and workers, teachers and pupils, representatives of political parties and of humanitarian associations sweeping down like a flaming stream from very far away until they pass under my window. Cries in every language and shouts of “Shalom, Shalom!” rise up to me. Thank you, thank you a thousand times. Behind me a reporter says: “Since Schweitzer, there hasn’t been anything like it.”
The last of the flame-bearers are passing before us. We still have a little time before dressing for the official dinner. Aarvik says: “Mother Teresa turned down this dinner. She asked us to give her the price of the dinner for her charitable works.” The idea is admirable, but the Norwegians would rather not see it repeated too often; tradition must be continued. Still, “my” dinner has caused them problems since it has to be kosher. New dishes, new silverware. The sumptuous
menu is personally supervised by Rabbi Melchior, the wines specially imported from Israel and France. Too excited and exhausted, I hardly touch them: My mind is elsewhere; I am not hungry. But the dinner, I am told, is a success. The novelist Gieske Anderson, vice chairman of the Nobel committee, gives a brilliant, inspired speech. Leo (Sjua) Eitinger, sensitive, forceful, speaks from the survivor’s point of view. In my improvised remarks I stress the importance of gratitude as a human and social virtue. The dinner goes on far into the night. The guests are reluctant to leave. They do not want the day to end. Some of them accompany us to our room, just to talk. Each evokes an incident in his or her life in which I was involved. Amusing remarks, memories of all kinds of occasions, make up a biography spoken in many voices. We part before dawn.
Just a few hours later we meet again in the same Aula where, following tradition, I am to give the “Nobel Address.” This time it is another committee member, Professor Francis Sejersted, who presides over the ceremony. His speech is a model of academic excellence. In spare prose it develops the theme of peace as the supreme ethical imperative and explores and compares ancient and modern ideas on violence and its remedies. I startle everyone as I begin my speech by singing the prayer Ani Maamin—I believe in the coming of the Messiah. If anyone in Sighet had asked me which announcement would come first, that I won the Nobel Prize or that the Messiah is finally on his way, I certainly would have bet on the coming of the Messiah. I invite those who know the melody to join in with me. It was the song of the martyrs in the ghettos, and this is my way of paying homage to them. Another first: No laureate before me has ever sung on this formal occasion.
We go on to Stockholm and its glitter, and a dinner with community leaders. Also present is Gunnel Vallquist of the Nobel Academy; her translation of Proust, I am told, is a masterpiece that equals the original. I converse with Lars Gyllenstein, another academician, who listens to me gravely and speaks carefully. I deliver an address in the cathedral: I make the point that in times gone by, a Jew like myself was usually invited to church only in order to come out a convert.
In Copenhagen, Chief Rabbi Bent Melchior, Michael’s father, embarrasses me by opening the evening at the city’s largest hall by pronouncing the blessing one recites upon meeting a sage. Then Liv Ullmann introduces me to the audience. Since sharing the 1980 International Rescue Committee trip to the Cambodian border we have taken part—sometimes together—in many human rights struggles. Among her many accomplishments is her ambassadorship for UNICEF, helping disadvantaged children. Like the beloved Audrey Hepburn, she has done much for them.
Upon our arrival in Israel, we are welcomed by our friend Yossi Ciechanover and a group of officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A young radio reporter pushes her microphone in front of my face: “What do you think of the criticism your prize has aroused in Israel?” I answer her: “And what do you think would happen if, first of all, you said ‘shalom’ or good evening? Is politeness out of fashion in Israeli journalism schools these days?” And so I learn that Israel is the only non-Arab country where, along with the praise, there were negative articles on the Nobel committee’s decision—not many, but enough to make me sad. A journalist from the extreme right scolds me for not living in Israel; one from the extreme left is angry because I have not sufficiently espoused the Palestinian cause. Once again I am told that by choosing to live in the Diaspora, I have sinned against Israel.
To be sure, most of the articles are favorable. But everybody knows that in Israel no consensus or unanimity exists, not even in the sacred books. So when Dov Judkowski, the editor in chief of Yedioth Ahronoth, asks the reporter Shaike Ben Porat to do three interviews with me covering all aspects of my life, a remark of Saul Lieberman’s comes to mind: “A man must choose between inspiring pity or envy.”
Mostly I encounter affection and friendship. I am covered with medals and parchments and feted like a conqueror. Rabbis and professors come to congratulate me. Anatoly Shcharansky comes to see me. Ever pragmatic, his first question is: “How are you adapting to your new status?” I must confess I was a little disappointed. A few words of thanks for what I had done to obtain his freedom, in all modesty, would have made me happy. Many former Soviet citizens come. A woman brings me a box of chocolates; she knows I helped her father leave Russia. Another offers me a mezuza her husband has brought from Lithuania.
The government treats me as a VIP. Marion and I are guests of honor at a dinner given by President Chaim Herzog and at a luncheon with Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir. And there is yet another lunch, this one tendered by Shimon Peres, Minister of Foreign Affairs. The mood is friendly, the speeches warm, even with traces of pride.
Rabbi Menashe Klein, my friend since Buna, Buchenwald, and Ambloy, announces the creation of a Beit Hamidrash, a house of study and prayer, that will bear my father’s name. Rabbis, Hasidic Masters, deputies, and school directors, as well as the mayor of Jerusalem, Teddy Kollek, are among the guests. This house of study and prayer means more to me than any laurels I could receive, for my parents’ dream had been for me to become a rosh yeshiva (head of a yeshiva).
Reb Menashe recounts: “In the camp, one Yom Kippur, an SS man came into our block. After beating some inmates he shouted triumphantly: ‘Jews, so where is your God now?’ At that time we were too terrified to answer. But here is our answer now, and we give it to him in Jerusalem: ‘God of Israel, our God is God. And He is where His people is.’”
* Albert Camus: Une Vie (Paris: Gallimard), 1996.
Encounters
IN OCTOBER 1986, back from Moscow, I mention to François Mitterrand that all the reporters ask how I intend to spend the Nobel Prize money. Rather than posing questions about my political, philosophical, or religious views, most of them seem preoccupied by my financial situation and future.
Mitterrand smiles roguishly. “Is that so? Well, tell me—what do you intend to do with the money?” I shrug and answer: “Oh, I don’t know…. Marion and I have spoken about it—we’re thinking of starting a foundation.” “Oh, really, a foundation? And what will it do?” “I don’t know yet. I think we may organize conferences, special colloquia on burning issues….” As I speak a mad—impractical—idea goes through my head: “What I’d really like to do is organize a conference bringing together all the Nobel Prize laureates, from all disciplines. It has not been done before. For the first time, Nobel Prize winners from the world over would join together in large numbers to discuss mankind’s fears and hopes for the coming century.”
I tell him about my adventures in the USSR. Thanks to the Nobel, I have been able to help several refuseniks get exit visas, and to assist several other dissidents. I also hope to have been instrumental in breaking down official attitudes toward Sakharov, still in exile in Gorki. Imagine, I said, ten or twenty laureates combining their efforts and mobilizing their networks of friends for humanitarian causes.
Mitterrand is interested. He urges me to research the project, to look into the details. I am only too happy to comply. I know what is involved in conferences, and I like them. For me the word “dialogue” is one of the most inspired. For that matter, at Culture Minister Jack Lang’s suggestion, the French president and I had by then already decided on a joint project: to write a book of dialogues. In a dialogue, the other loses his otherness. I also like the word “colloquium.” As long as people talk and listen to one another, everything remains possible.
And so it happens that I tell the president: “If you like this idea, let us do it together.” In other words, my foundation (to-be) would participate in its financing.
Mitterrand agrees, and that is how I become a “partner” of the French Republic. Procedures and technical details are to be worked out with Jacques Attali. No problem there—we understand each other and work together perfectly. We had met during a conference at the Sorbonne organized by Lang in 1982. Possibly mistaking me for a fellow member of the Socialist party, he said tu to me immediately. I was flattered. I knew his work, and I ad
mired the brilliance of his ambitious intelligence. Also, he is interested in things Jewish—mysticism, the Talmud; he wants to learn. And then, in many areas—economics, international politics, the philosophy of science—he knows much more than I. We see each other every time Mitterrand receives me simply because, in order to reach the presidential office, I must go through his. That office is important to him. One day, he told me half-seriously that he wouldn’t have accepted the post of special adviser if he couldn’t have had that particular office. There are those who resent his arrogance, his obvious taste for power. It’s said that he treats his subordinates badly. But people say so many things about so many people. My relations with him are excellent, professionally and personally. There is mutual confidence. We exchange manuscripts, seek each other’s advice. I write a review of his book on Sigmund Warburg for a Paris daily. In short, there is a friendship. I visit his home, he visits mine. Because he usually answered my calls immediately, once, when I could not reach him after several calls, I wrote him an angry letter. Before sending it, on Marion’s always-wise counsel, I telephoned his office once more, then his home. And I found out that he had had an accident and was in the hospital. To redeem myself in my own eyes for having been unjustly angry with him, I dedicated my novel Le crépuscule au loin (Twilight) to him.
