by Shimon Peres
Funds and scientists in place, what remained was the work of formalizing the partnership with France. We had signed an initial agreement laying out our intentions in broad terms, but there were still details requiring discussion. In the summer of 1957, I flew to Paris to begin making arrangements.
When I arrived, Bourgès-Maunoury was the newly minted prime minister. Guy Mollet’s government had fallen in June. For Israel, there was serendipity in the timing. Though Mollet had always been a generous and reliable partner, I had developed an especially close friendship with Bourgès-Maunoury. His sense of humor could be grim and cynical, but in truth he was as hopeful an optimist as I, and he consistently looked upon Israel with an instinctive sense of obligation. His support for the Jewish state resided somewhere deep in his soul, and I felt there was nothing of him I could not ask.
Together we worked through other agreements, which outlined the ways our two nations would cooperate. Bourgès-Maunoury was supportive, but Pineau, who by then had become foreign minister, had raised concerns about the proposed wording. I was sure that, in normal circumstances, Pineau and I could find common ground and common language—that his concerns could be relieved quite easily through compromise. But just as we were processing the substance of Pineau’s objections, Bourgès-Maurnoury’s government, just formed, began to crumble. For Israel, this was nothing short of a crisis. We needed to secure support from both men before they no longer had the power to provide it.
I was in Israel when I learned the French parliament was preparing a vote of no confidence in Bourgès-Maunoury, and set off for Paris at once. By the time I arrived, it was clear the government would fall the following night. I had just one day—to persuade Pineau to agree to the proposed arrangement, to secure the necessary two signatures, to end the crisis, and to save the program. I was suddenly a witness to and participant in one of the greatest dramas of my life.
I started with Pineau. When I arrived at his office, it was clear he had been expecting me. He greeted me kindly but wasted no time informing me that his position was final, and that he was firmly opposed to the agreement as worded. His concerns were largely based in a fear that the agreement would become public. I pleaded with him to give me a final chance to persuade him. Out of respect for our long-standing friendship, he obliged.
I responded as thoroughly as I could. I spoke from the heart about the genuine anguish I felt for my state. I wanted to be sure he understood the power he held in his hands, and the consequence of his decision, one way or the other. This was not a moment that would be forgotten; it was one upon which history would hinge.
Finally, he spoke.
“I accept your arguments, Shimon,” he declared to my utter surprise. “You’ve convinced me.”
It was an unexpected and energizing victory, but with time running short, I knew that Pineau’s acquiescence was insufficient to secure the deal on its own. I pressed for urgency.
“What is your consent worth after the government falls? Perhaps you could call Bourgès-Maunoury. He needs to hear it from you.”
Pineau agreed, but he was unable to reach Bourgès-Maunoury. We learned he was in session, presiding over his final cabinet meeting. With Bourgès-Maunoury behind closed doors, there was no way I could get to him before the government fell.
I refused to accept this. “Give me your consent in writing, then, and I’ll bring it to Bourgès-Maunoury straightaway!”
Pineau obliged, though he seemed convinced the exercise was futile. I thanked him for his extraordinary effort and friendship, then raced for the door.
I arrived at parliament out of breath and undeterred. I didn’t know how I’d get to Bourgès-Maunoury, but I hoped an answer would reveal itself. And indeed, as I headed up the stairs of the French parliament, the answer was heading down them: it was an aide to Bourgès-Maunoury, one I had come to know well over the years. He recognized me and greeted me in French. I explained the situation in all its stressful detail, then scribbled a note to Bourgès-Maunoury quickly on a leaf of paper.
“Please deliver this to the prime minister,” I asked him. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.” The aide agreed. He took the note and disappeared into the chamber while I stood anxiously awaiting a response.
A few minutes later, a voice called to me from down the hallway. “Bonjour, Shimon!” It was Bourgès-Maunoury, embattled but stoic. He explained that after reading my note, he took the unprecedented step of temporarily adjourning the meeting.
“Only for a true friend,” he whispered.
I showed him the letter from Pineau and explained why the stakes were so high. I needed him to return to his meeting and get his cabinet to approve the deal before the end of the session. And I needed him to sign the authorization before his government fell. Bourgès-Maunoury promised his assistance. He would return to the meeting and get swift approval, then temporarily adjourn the meeting once again—giving him just enough time to affix his signature to the final agreement.
“Go wait for me in my office,” he suggested. “I’ll come find you.”
And so I waited. For hours I waited. But Bourgès-Maunoury never came. He had been unable to find a way to excuse himself. The opposition had made their move on the vote of no confidence, and there was little that Bourgès-Maunoury could do to create a delay. Late into the night, the government fell. The document remained unsigned.
The next morning, I returned to Bourgès-Maunoury’s office, as dejected and exhausted as he was. He was now the former prime minister. I didn’t know what to say.
“I understand from you that my socialist friend has consented to the agreement.”
I nodded.
“Wonderful,” he said. “This should take care of it then.”
He took a piece of stationery from a desk that was no longer his and drafted a letter to the chairman of the French Atomic Energy Commission. The French government had approved the deal, he confirmed, and the chairman should fully cooperate in its execution. He signed it as France’s prime minister. At the top of the page, he wrote the previous day’s date.
I asked no questions. I said nothing at all. What was there to say? Bourgès-Maunoury could see the relief in my eyes. He could feel the depth of my appreciation. In that moment, what he had done for Israel—what he had done for me—was the most generous display of friendship I had ever known. The following month, the French established a $10 million line of credit for Israel. At last, it was time to break ground.
•••
On July 17, 1958, my second son, Nechemia “Chemi” Jacob, was born, marking a wonderful year for Sonia and me as we completed our family. It gave us both such fullness in our hearts.
But my work behind the scenes of government was taking some toll. In such a complex political system, it was a challenge to earn recognition or to defend my ideas and actions. As a civil servant, I was prohibited from speaking publicly, even about things that were not classified, and so I spent many days listening to critics ridicule me without being able to respond. Though it was personally hard, I admit, it was something true leadership demanded—and I was willing to oblige.
And yet, in the late 1950s, I realized that what was lost in my silence was more than unnecessary personal vindication; it was that my essential arguments about values and motives, about a willingness to dream and the power of imagination, remained unarticulated. I had a worldview, an operating principle, one that I felt was essential to the future of the state. And though I would always remain quiet about the things that could not be said, I believed it was time to speak boldly on all of those that could. I started to consider running for the Knesset. In order to do so, I would need to resign from the ministry and reestablish my residency at Alumot. Then I would submit my candidacy to the Mapai nominating committee, which Ben-Gurion largely controlled. In the spring of 1958, I approached the Old Man with the idea, apprehensive at how he might react. To my relief, he was quite understanding. He seemed to like the idea of amplifying my voice. But he worrie
d about my leaving.
I didn’t want to leave, either. Instead, I suggested that after winning the seat, Ben-Gurion could appoint me deputy defense minister, and from that perch I could run the ministry just as I had as director general. It would be a continuation of my role, and a heavier workload, but as an elected representative, I would regain my voice. Ben-Gurion agreed that it was a good plan and gave me his blessing for the race.
In the meantime, on a plateau named Dimona in the north of the Negev, we began the tedious effort of constructing a nuclear research facility. Pratt and I commissioned the country’s top architects to ensure that its form was as powerful as its function. And we put as much care into the building of the complex as we did into the building of the reactor itself.
The progress was promising. But just as I was beginning my campaign for the Knesset, another political earthquake rocked Paris. Once again, the entire program was at risk.
In the summer of 1959, General Charles de Gaulle was elected prime minister of France. His choice for foreign minister was a man named Maurice Couve de Murville, a career diplomat who was no friend of Israel. Upon learning of our nuclear partnership, Couve de Murville set out immediately to end it. After recalling the French ambassador from Tel Aviv, Couve de Murville informed Golda Meir, who was then foreign minister, that he intended to abrogate France’s nuclear agreements with Israel. He expected the work to stop immediately. He was adamant, and from Golda’s perspective, immovable.
I asked Ben-Gurion to send me to Paris. I intended to speak to Couve de Murville—but what to say, I did not know. I had no reason to doubt Golda’s report. Perhaps Couve de Murville could be persuaded, though she certainly didn’t think so. Neither, it seemed, did he. I boarded the plane depressed and frustrated, believing I’d surely return to Israel in failure. I had long believed that the best way to convince a country to work with us was not to explain how it would help Israel, but how it would help them. I needed to convince Couve de Murville that it was better for him—and for France—to keep the agreements in place. All through the journey I practiced my arguments and rehearsed possible responses, trying to concoct a way to persuade him.
When I arrived at his office, Couve de Murville welcomed me with a colorless smile, formed not in friendship, but in courtesy. He wasted no time explaining his objections and assuring me that the nuclear arrangement was finished.
“What you are proposing is to renege on France’s obligations,” I told him. “You are intending to breach agreements that your predecessors crafted with the force of law. And we will both be worse for it.”
“How so?”
“Without these agreements in place, Israel will be left with worse than nothing. No reactor. No research facility. And no way to get back the wasted money and effort. And for France it is a problem, too,” I explained. “The agreements include a commitment not to reveal the details of our work together to the Arab world. It could lead to a boycott of French companies.”
At this, he interrupted. “We have no intention of violating that part of the agreement. France won’t divulge anything.”
“Yes, but you see,” I replied, “you cannot breach your obligations to us in one part of the agreement and yet expect us to fulfill our obligations to you in the others.”
It was subtle, but effective. Couve de Murville found himself contemplating a scenario he hadn’t imagined. How costly would it be if the Arab world turned on France?
“What are you proposing?” he asked, in a newly cautious tone.
“France can end the agreement from this moment on, but you have no right to abrogate any of the decisions retroactively,” I insisted. “We already have signed contracts between Israeli and French companies to build Dimona, with your government’s explicit approval. You have no right to renege on these commitments.”
“You have a point,” he finally conceded. “We will do it as you say.”
•••
On November 3, 1959, at the age of thirty-six, I was elected to public office for the first time in my life. And, as intended, my work continued. By the summer of 1960, the Dimona project had moved forward apace. France was upholding its end of the agreement, and the French and Israeli workforce had broken ground on the barren plateau.
That September, I was in West Africa on orders from Ben-Gurion, as part of an effort to build stronger ties between Israel and the broader continent. I was there to attend the swearing in of the first president of the Republic of Senegal, a man who had known the inside of a Nazi concentration camp, having been taken prisoner while fighting for the French. But the trip was cut short. I received an urgent cable, ordering my immediate return to Israel. There was no indication of what the emergency entailed.
When I arrived at the airport in Tel Aviv, Isser Harel, the Mossad chief, was waiting with Golda Meir in a helicopter nearby. We barely spoke on the ride to Sde Boker, where Ben-Gurion was awaiting Harel’s report.
“Explain the situation,” Ben-Gurion demanded as we gathered in his sparse and humble “hut.” Harel relayed two pieces of intelligence. First, Mossad had learned that the Soviets had recently flown over Dimona and photographed the construction site. Second, they received word that the Soviet foreign minister had made an unexpected visit to Washington. In his estimation, these two facts were linked—and damning. He was concerned that the Soviet government would claim that our work in Dimona was nefarious, that their foreign minister had likely demanded U.S. intervention while in Washington. Israel, it seemed, was about to be confronted by the world’s only two superpowers.
“What is your recommendation?” Ben-Gurion asked of the group. Harel believed that Golda—or even better, Ben-Gurion himself—should fly to Washington at once and give assurances to the White House. Golda agreed, believing the situation to be dire, perhaps insurmountably so. I listened intently and sympathized with their concerns, but when Ben-Gurion asked me my opinion, I had to be honest.
“So what if a Soviet aircraft has overflown the Negev? What has it photographed? Just holes in the ground,” I explained. We were still in the first stage of the project, an extensive excavation followed by the laying of concrete foundation. “What can be proved from that?” I asked. “After all, every building needs foundations.”
As for the Soviet foreign minister, it struck me that there were a lot of possible reasons for his sudden trip to the United States, and we lacked any evidence to suggest that we were it. Besides, I argued, we weren’t considering the entire chessboard. If Ben-Gurion flew to Washington and revealed the work we had undertaken, it would destroy our relations with the French.
I believed that in all likelihood, Harel’s analysis was correct. But I argued that it would be a grave mistake for Israel to act prematurely. If he was right, it meant a confrontation was imminent, and I saw no reason why we needed to offer our assurances before it. Why not wait for the outcome, and offer the same assurances after the fact?
Ben-Gurion agreed with my proposal, infuriating Golda and Harel. I could understand why. They had wanted to save Israel at the last moment from what they saw as a calamity of my sole creation—and here I stood between them and Ben-Gurion, having blocked their final effort. Now there was little for them to do but wait for a possible altercation, hoping against their better instincts that they had been wrong.
On December 18, 1960, we put my theory to the test. Days earlier, newspapers around the world had published sensational reports about an unnamed small nation that was developing nuclear arms. A London newspaper soon named Israel as the state in question. On December 18 the chairman of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission made the same case on American television. The story spread to newspapers around the world, along with spy plane photographs of the construction site.
Five days after the London newspaper first broke the story, Ben-Gurion chose to make a public announcement in the Knesset. It had become untenable to deny the existence of the program. An announcement from the Old Man was the most effective way to begin calming apprehe
nsions.
“The reports in the media are false,” he declared. “The research reactor we are now building in the Negev is being constructed under the direction of Israeli experts, and is designed only for peaceful purposes.” This declaration calmed public tensions, but there was still more work to do in private. Ben-Gurion traveled to Washington for a lengthy discussion with President John F. Kennedy in the spring of 1961. He gave assurances once again that we possessed neither nuclear weapons nor evil intent, and returned to Israel confident that crisis had been averted. The work we’d begun in Dimona would continue to move forward.
Nearly two years after Ben-Gurion’s visit to Washington, I found myself standing where he had: in the middle of the Oval Office, across the desk from the president of the United States. I had traveled to Washington to conclude a deal for the purchase of antiaircraft missiles from the U.S. government. The sale represented a sea change in the relationship between the United States and Israel, and in America’s willingness to support us militarily. And it had been one of the key things that Ben-Gurion raised in his meeting with President Kennedy in 1961.
Kennedy’s Near East advisor, Mike Feldman, had invited me to the White House, along with our ambassador, Avraham “Abe” Harman. When I’d arrived, I was told—quite unexpectedly—that President Kennedy wanted to speak to me. He knew I was in charge of Israel’s nuclear program and, according to Feldman, he had a number of questions.
