And the Sea Is Never Full (23 page)

At the Reichstag in Berlin during a Kristallnacht commemoration, I choose to tell Germans of the Hitler generation that their past unfolded under the sign of malediction. I tell young Germans not to despair of us, whereas they have every reason to despair of their elders.

I emphasize that I do not believe in collective guilt. The children of killers are children, not killers. We must never blame them for what their elders did. But we can hold them responsible for what they do with the memory of their elders’ crimes.

An official pilgrimage to Sighet. At the entrance to the cemetery, before the local population, I deliberately speak Yiddish. Chief Rabbi Moses Rosen translates: “How could a human community such as yours show such inhumanity to my people? What happened to our friends? Where were they hiding? What happened to Sighet’s human heart?”

In Warsaw, on Tisha b’Av eve, in the last synagogue to remain open, some ten men mournfully intone Jeremiah’s Lamentations:
“Ei’ha yashva badad….”
Oh how lonely and solitary she was, the city where, long ago, our people dwelled….

As I reread the text, something troubles me: The Old City of David does not fill me with sadness. Today Jerusalem is neither desolate nor abandoned. In fact, it is vibrant and exuberant. Its sons are strong, its daughters radiant. But then, what city does Jeremiah’s text bring to mind? Suddenly it is clear: The city is Warsaw, the Jewish Warsaw of long ago.

Washington. A few steps from the White House, where Mikhail Gorbachev will be received the next day by President Reagan for the first time. Two hundred thousand demonstrators shout their solidarity with Soviet Jewry. I am exhilarated. Finally my friends and I have succeeded in awakening our people, in jolting them out of their lethargy. Anatoly Shcharansky, Masha and Vladimir Slepak, and many other refuseniks march with us. Did my article in the
New York Times
help? I hope so. On the Op-Ed page of that paper I had issued an appeal for a march for human rights in the eighties to succeed the march for civil rights of the sixties. This appeal generated considerable response. People wrote offering financial and material help; organizations and activists became involved. American Jewry experienced a groundswell of solidarity. And as I march, I cannot help but wonder: Had there been similar demonstrations in the forties, how many European Jews could have been saved?

Kielce, July 7, 1996. It is the fiftieth anniversary of the pogrom that had outraged the world. Forty-two Jews had been assassinated by a mob in broad daylight. The title of my address: “How Could They?” I give vent to my pain and anger about the past but also about the crosses erected more recently in Birkenau. They thought they were justified by also installing a few Stars of David.

My words arouse violent controversy in the Polish press and in Catholic circles. Simon Wiesenthal takes advantage of this tension and, in his usual spiteful manner, criticizes me in Adam Michnic’s daily
Gazeta Wyborska
. I do not respond.

There are conferences against hunger, fanaticism, and hatred. A speech on cancer and Alzheimer’s disease during a symposium organized by Professor Claude Jasmin at UNESCO. Remarks made at the opening of the Auschwitz exhibition at the U.N. A talk on ethics at CIA headquarters (in order to stay off its payroll, I decline my honorarium, which is contrary to CIA “rules”). A lecture on Job in front of—yes!—six thousand priests, nuns, and professors of Catholic theology.
Professor Irving Abrahamson of Chicago devotes ten years of his life to gathering a large number of these speeches and publishes them under the title
Against Silence
.

I speak and speak. There is always a text in front of me, but I prefer to improvise, which of course is fraught with risk; it is easy to err and often impossible to correct. Once uttered, words go their own way; it is impossible to take them back. And so sometimes all that remains after a speech is a sense of remorse. What I have said no longer belongs to me.

Most of my speeches are not transcribed—only those with biblical, talmudic, or Hasidic themes; they are my favorites. I devote weeks, months of research to them. The lectures I have given at the Centre Rachi and the Centre Universitaire d’Études Juives at the Sorbonne in Paris, at the 92nd Street “Y” in Manhattan, and at Boston University are eventually published.

On the other hand, speeches delivered on “occasions” are the ones I give reluctantly. It is impossible to deal meaningfully with any subject in the course of a dinner. And then there is the problem that words, no sooner uttered, tend to age and fade. The orally transmitted thought meanders and dissipates. Sometimes I think the best speeches are those I never gave.

Besides, I still suffer from stage fright, an accursed companion who never lets go. I remember in Sighet, one Shabbat afternoon, I had chosen to explain a text from
The Ethics of Our Fathers
to a group of fellow students. I suffered pangs of hell. Butterflies in my stomach. The expression is apt. As I ascended the podium, my body was seized by a trembling that threatened to paralyze my brain.

I am never sure of myself. Will I be able to communicate, to stimulate, to hold the listener’s attention, to logically articulate my ideas? And what if I forget the necessary quotation or the critical point? Once the last sentence has been uttered, I ache to escape.

I no longer have the strength or the desire to travel. There was a time when I liked being on the road; I was ready to give up everything to go somewhere, anywhere, by any means. No longer.

A journey I did not undertake: December 31, 1991. Bernard Kouchner, a founder of Doctors Without Borders and deputy health minister of France, and now U.N. civil administrator of Kosovo, asks me to join him on a mission to Dubrovnik, which is being bombed by the Serbs. I hesitate. The Belgrade Jewish community is fiercely
opposed, fearing the consequences. And then, how is one to ignore the anti-Semitic book written by the Croatian president Franjo Tudjman? As it happens, my body decides for me: I come down with a virus, running a high fever.

Now, as I consider invitations to speak, I think of the words of Rabbi Israel of Rizhin: “Sometimes we speak before a crowd so that one individual will understand, and, sometimes, for the sake of one individual, we remain silent.”

Of Madmen and Visionaries

I
HAVE NOT AS YET SPOKEN
of my madmen: Like my father in Sighet, I seem to attract them. Aren’t we all a little mad, each of us in his own way? Mad to wish to live and to refuse to live, mad to believe in the future and also to negate it, mad to think that we have eluded death and the dead?

The ones that pursue me belong to a different species. Not all are Jewish. There are among them Christians, Buddhists, agnostics; former musicians and future geniuses; authors of works not yet written and as-yet-unrevealed saviors. In truth I don’t really dislike meeting with them. I would even say that their imagination enriches mine. However, the problem is that one does not choose them, and some of them are burdensome and difficult to shake. Each has something “urgent” to communicate to you, a solution to offer. You speak to them for an hour, and they will come back ten times. And don’t try to avoid them; they will find the trail that leads to you. Don’t bother to hide; they will outsmart you.

A man calls me and insults me: Every obscenity in the English language pours out. “But who are you?” I ask. His name is Marx, “like Karl.” “Do I know you, dear Mr. Marx?” Yes. No. Another avalanche of insults and curses follows. I hang up. He calls back. I hang up again. The next day it starts all over. When I’m away he leaves messages: “Mr. Marx called.” How to get rid of him? The police claim to be helpless. Never mind. As a matter of fact, he stops calling. Three days and three nights of respite. But on the fourth day, he is back: “Aha, you thought you could escape?” And he spills out his dose of horrors. Oddly, he appears to be informed of all my activities; he “knows” with whom I dined the night before, what play I’ve seen. One afternoon I have a visitor, a woman friend from Paris. The telephone rings. It is
he: “I don’t know her,” says Mr. Marx. “Who is she?” I feel as though I’m going mad myself.

A few months later I leave for Europe. When I return, no more Mr. Marx. No letter, no message. A great relief. Could he have disappeared for good?

Of course he reappears. But I have learned my lesson. I shout: “Mr. Marx, whatever happened to you? Were you sick? I was worried about you. What can I do to help you?” Taken aback, he chokes with annoyance. Then he unleashes on me a last stream of obscenities and goes on to look for more vulnerable, more nervous victims, before returning, perhaps, to his insane asylum.

A “romantic” persecution: A young waitress from New Jersey gravely informs me that I am her husband. She knows it, even if I don’t. She knows that I married her, evidently in another life. Hence her solemn warning: If she sees me with another woman, she’ll make me pay dearly. She has connections, she tells me, in the most influential circles. In other words, I would be well advised to be careful, to behave like a faithful husband. Otherwise … Once again the police refuse to intervene. “Let her kill you first and we’ll be right there to arrest her,” is what I am told by a police officer with a macabre sense of humor.

This “romance” goes on for months. Day after day I receive interminable letters. She tells me what she does with her free time, her dreams, and even her infidelities with famous actors, infamous billionaires, mafiosi….

You never know with crazies of her kind. And you don’t play with the Mafia. So I return to the police station, and there is the same police officer. I confess my fears and ask his advice. A psychologist in his spare time, he shrugs his shoulders: “Good grief,” says he “why don’t you ‘divorce’ her?” Fortunately the waitress has a father who is aware of her illness and makes sure she returns to her psychiatrist.

And then there is the doctor who calls me from Canada: He must come to speak to me at once; it is urgent. Very urgent. A matter of life and death. Who and what is this about? It’s about the whole world. Could he be more specific? I try to make him talk. In vain. “Not on the telephone,” he says, “it’s too risky.” The slightest leak could make the project fail. “You understand, don’t you? All this is confidential. Top
secret.” Suspicious, I lower my voice: “Are you sure it’s me that …?” He gets angry: “I know what I’m doing.” I ask him to call me back that afternoon: time enough to cancel a few appointments. And, of course, to call Canadian friends, have them check if this fellow really is a doctor. Yes, he is. His name is in the directory. All right, let him come.

That particular Sunday it snows. The airports are paralyzed, the train stations deserted, the streets empty. I’m optimistic: He won’t come. But here he is. The doorman calls to announce him. Curious, I welcome him. He hands me his calling card. Impressive titles. I invite him to sit down; I offer him coffee; he refuses. “Time is short; you must accompany me,” he says resolutely. Where to? Canada? “To Nepal,” he replies unblinking. I ask him to please say that again. “Yes, to Nepal. I have prepared everything; it is all arranged. Look.” He hands me an airline ticket for that very evening and a sum of money. I stammer like an idiot: “But today is Sunday. What am I going to do in Nepal on a Sunday?” He does not flinch: “We’ll arrive tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday.” I continue my inane interrogation: “And what would you have me do in Nepal on a Monday?” His answer is instantaneous: “Meditate.” I don’t understand: He must be mad, but he doesn’t look it. I ask him: “Meditate? On what?” He replies: “The world is in danger. To save it we must go to Nepal. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but once we are there we’ll know.” I insist: “Why there? Why not here?” He says: “It’s not the same. There we will be heard.” “By whom?” I ask. “I don’t know. There we will know.”

I observe him carefully. He looks normal, sincere, and gentle. How can I send him away without offending him? “I have no visa,” I say, trying to look sorry. Never mind, he says, a visa is waiting for us at our destination. He has answers to everything, this Canadian savior. I come back to the weather: There is no car to take us to the airport, and, anyway, no planes are taking off. I show him, through the window, the empty and icy avenue. He is stubborn: If the weather is bad, then it’s because of me, because of my skepticism. As soon as I accept his invitation, the sun will shine over New York. The weather will be perfect and we will leave. How does he know? He knows because in Nepal the weather is very beautiful. Where does he get this knowledge of world weather? “Easy,” he says. “I close my eyes and I see.” “See what?” I ask. “Nepal.” Now I’ve got him. “But then, since you can see Nepal by closing your eyes, why must we go there?” His answer is simple: “I can, but you can’t.”

In the end, I show him my calendar: “I have important engagements this week. I cannot possibly cancel them.” At that he goes into a cold fury: “The world is lost, or almost, and all you can think of is your cursed calendar.” To calm him I suggest that he leave for Nepal before me to prepare everything; I shall come later.