And the Sea Is Never Full (26 page)
Read And the Sea Is Never Full Online
Authors: Elie Wiesel
House Speaker “Tip” O’Neill has come to swear us in. Members of Congress, Jewish leaders, rabbis, priests, scholars, and journalists are in the audience. Discreetly, Marion reviews the text of a talk I am about to give. She knows it well for having edited it. Sigmund Strochlitz smiles, visibly moved. Benjamin Meed, a Warsaw survivor, doesn’t bother to hide his tears. “This is the crowning moment of my life,” he tells me, “the most joyous.” This is his favorite expression. He will repeat it at every stage of this undertaking. I try to conceal my feelings. As always, I fear disappointment.
Today we are soaring. At last the American government, on the highest level, is showing interest in our past. At last our past is free to emerge from the depths to which it has been consigned. But I am ill at ease; though an agenda has been prepared for me, this is the first time I am chairing a session of this magnitude. And not surprisingly, at this
moment, as always, I see myself back in Sighet. How far away it seems, this little town where a Jewish boy begged God to teach him to pray better, study better.
My friend Justice Arthur Goldberg had given me some good advice on how to preside. To me, my opening remarks to the members of the commission are like the preface to a book. Some excerpts:
It is with a deep sense of duty, privilege, and humility that I agreed to serve as chairman of this uniquely distinguished group of civic, religious, and political leaders.
Some of you, I know, are worthier than I, and most of you are surely more experienced in this kind of endeavor. With your help and cooperation, I hope we shall fulfill our task.
The problems facing us may seem insurmountable. We are supposed to remember, and to move others to remember. But how does one remember, individually and collectively, an event that was intended to erase memory?
By its scope and immeasurable magnitude, its sheer weight of numbers, by its mystery and silence, the Holocaust defies anything the human being can conceive of or aspire to.
All the documents, all the testimony, all the eyewitness accounts, all the history books notwithstanding, we know that we have not yet begun to tell the tale.
How does one reconcile—this is another question that we shall have to face—the purely Jewish aspects of the tragedy with its inevitable universal connotations? True, all Jews were victims; but not all victims were Jewish.
How are they to be remembered? Specifically? Collectively? Individually? Personally? Through monuments? Education? Special liturgy? Ceremonies of remembrance?
We lack a reference point. We don’t know what to do because of the uniqueness of the event. We cannot even go back into history and learn that this is what people used to do to commemorate such events, because there was no such event.
Also, whatever our purposes will be—and I hope they will be lofty and daring—we must remember at least this:
that we must think boldly. Let the scope and magnitude of our endeavor not frighten us.
Whatever we do, let it strike the imagination of people everywhere, of all faiths, of all creeds, of all nationalities, of all nations, and perhaps of all centuries.
Let people know that our generation—probably the last that still has something to remember—does indeed remember.
… We around this table represent a noble quest for memory and justice. We are all committed to truth. And though we come from different horizons, we shall respect one another’s beliefs.
The Holocaust was possible because the enemy—the enemy of the Jewish people and of mankind, and it is always the same enemy—succeeded in dividing, in separating, in splitting the human society: nation against nation, Christian against Jew, young against old.
… Forgive me for introducing into this session a note of melancholy. While we are grateful to President Carter and his advisers for being so deeply concerned with the Holocaust now, I cannot but wonder what would have happened had the president of the United States then, and his advisers then, demonstrated the same concern.
If a presidential commission had been appointed in 1942 or 1943 to prevent the Holocaust, how many victims—Jews and non-Jews—would have been saved?
Well, they were forgotten while they were alive. They are dead now. Let us at least remember them and include their memory in our own….
It all began one summer day in 1978, at the Sharon Hotel in Herzliyya. The head of the Israeli opposition, Shimon Peres, is in my room telling me about his new book, when the phone rings. It is Stu Eizenstat, President Carter’s youthful adviser for internal affairs. He wants to know why I have not returned his calls. I laugh: For several days the concierge has been handing me messages asking me to call the White House. I honestly thought it was a prank. “Is that you, Professor?” He goes on to tell me that the president wants me to chair the “commission charged with proposing the manner in which to erect a
monument to the memory of Holocaust victims.” I remember my journalist’s reaction, immediate but unvoiced: “The name is too long.” What I did say was: “Please thank the president for the honor he wishes to bestow on me, but …” The White House official cannot imagine that there could be a “but.”
I tell him that I don’t think this position is for me; I’m not a political person; I have no desire to become one; all I want is time to write and study. Eizenstat’s last words: “Please reconsider.” He calls back the next day. When I tell him I haven’t changed my mind, he informs me that the president wishes to see me. This I cannot refuse. The appointment is set for the following week.
An hour later I receive urgent calls from Yitz Greenberg—my former colleague at City College—and Sigmund Strochlitz. Both are aware of my conversation with the White House. Each, separately, tells me the genesis of the president’s invitation. The president had invited a thousand rabbis to the Rose Garden as a gesture of conciliation—his relations with Begin were tense, and he wanted to appease Jewish public opinion. The idea of the monument had come from Eizenstat.
It is impossible not to see the public relations game involved. I tell my friends: “This confirms my doubts: We must never use the Holocaust for political purposes.” Still, they beg me to accept. Sigmund tries to win me over by sentiment, Yitz by logic. I stand fast: My time is limited; I need it for my writing and my students. “But this is a unique opportunity to work on the highest level to ensure remembrance,” says Yitz. “It would be a pity to let it slip by or to allow some opportunist to take advantage of it.” Sigmund: “If you refuse, some politician or other will be nominated. Who knows what he’ll do with our memories.” To settle the discussion I suggest we wait for my meeting with President Carter. I’ll make the decision afterward. Marion’s view: “I know how much this means to you, but if you accept, turn this project into a living memorial, not just a monument.”
At the appointed hour I present myself at the White House gate. I’m always afraid of policemen, but these are polite, smiling; diplomats in uniform. Ed Sanders, the president’s adviser for Jewish affairs, is waiting for me. “Will it bother you if I’m present?” On the contrary, I’m pleased. This way, if I say something foolish he can intervene. He says, “I’ll leave you alone with him toward the end. In case you have confidential matters to discuss.”
I am nervous, but the president’s smile reassures me and instantly restores my confidence. We sit down opposite each other. Sanders takes a chair slightly off to the side. The president tells me he’s read some of my writings and quotes some short passages from memory. The skeptic in me whispers that an aide must have prepared some appropriate quotations. I thank the president, who proceeds to quote another sentence from another work of mine. And, with his famous smile, he adds: “I have something for you. I asked my CIA director, Stan Turner, to go through our archives for material on the places where you were held prisoner. This is what he found.” He holds out to me a file stuffed with photos, and we look at them together. (Later I will offer copies of them to the Yad Vashem museum in Jerusalem.) Taken by an American bomber flying over Auschwitz in 1944, they show the camp in broad daylight. I learn later that the navigator forgot to stop the camera that was filming the dropping of the bombs.
“I remember that day,” I say to the president. “American planes had been bombing the factories surrounding the camp. Germans were holing up in their shelters. As for us, the inmates, we were praying for the Americans to reserve some bombs for our barbed-wire fences, our watchtowers, our barracks. Since we were going to die, let it be for something.”
Bent over the photos, the president follows my finger, which moves from Auschwitz to Birkenau, from block to block. “Here is the ramp, the chimneys.” He listens to my commentary with an intensity that touches me. I ask: “Were these photos available to the president in 1944?” “Yes, they were.” “Then President Roosevelt couldn’t help but know what was going on in Auschwitz?” “That is correct.” “And nevertheless he did nothing. Why? Why did he refuse to bomb the railways leading to Birkenau?” The president seems uneasy, lost in thought. He doesn’t answer. When he looks at me, his smile is gone. He asks: “What can be done now?” I remain silent; does he expect an answer? He already knows the answer, for he continues: “We must fight oblivion. Isn’t that the purpose of all your work?”
Which brings us back to the question: Am I going to accept the nomination? I say yes, but… but what? “I’m against the idea of a monument.” I tell him that Jewish tradition is opposed to monuments. After all, when Jews left a country, they had to leave all they had built. What do I propose in its place? I suggest a teaching project, a national Day of Remembrance, preferably in Congress—in the form of a
solemn joint session of Senate and House—or perhaps at the White House, with the president’s participation. The president gives his consent. Will he come to the first ceremony? Yes, he will.
I have one more request. I would like his permission to take a fact-finding mission to Eastern Europe to revisit the sites: Treblinka, Auschwitz, Babi-Yar. “Why not,” says the president, “that is only normal.” I glance toward Sanders: He’s in tears. As I leave, I say to the president: “If this project succeeds, Jewish history will never forget you.”
The president’s willingness to place his administration in the service of memory touched me. For I am painfully aware of the real, constant threat of forgetting. The Talmud says of Moses that by night he forgot what he had learned during the day. Elsewhere our sages insist on the fact that sometimes the Torah was forgotten. We do not even remember God’s own ineffable Name. How then can we hope that our own experiences will be preserved?
I leave the Oval Office with a title. From now on, by the grace and authority of the president, I may speak on his behalf, having assumed responsibility for what, in my own head, I have already named the “President’s Commission on the Holocaust.” Yitz Greenberg will be its director. He chooses as his assistant Michael Berenbaum, a young rabbi from Wesleyan University whose doctoral thesis deals with my writings. Marian Craig, a former White House employee, a young woman as lovely as she is efficient, will be the soul and the professional organizer of the team. I call Marion: “I hope you like Washington…. We’ll be coming here often.”
All at once I’m besieged by requests, congratulations, suggestions, insinuations; suddenly I am surrounded by people who seem to have only one purpose in life—to become members of the commission. Senators, members of the House, business tycoons all telephone to intercede on behalf of their donors or protégés. This one was at Mauthausen, that one makes speeches about Majdanek. There is no end to the pressures. I never thought that this project would generate so much interest. My problem is that I don’t know how to say no. Luckily the White House people know how, but their criteria are not always mine. Theirs are mostly political. Mine are simple: I would like to gather as many survivors as possible. Sigmund, who has become my right hand, advises me. As does Yitz, of course. So they, too, become targets of pressure. Mark Talisman, a former associate of Congressman Charles Vanik, and Hyman Bookbinder, of the American
Jewish Committee, know best who is most important in the capital; they help us with the recruiting. We choose Bayard Rustin, human rights activist and organizer of the Martin Luther King, Jr., march on Washington; Theodore Hesburgh, president of Notre Dame University; former Supreme Court Justice and Ambassador to the U.N. Arthur Goldberg; and also historians, theologians, philosophers, and teachers who have devoted years to studying, exploring, and interpreting the Holocaust. Among the survivors, Yossel Rosensaft is sadly missing. But his widow, Hadassah, joins my team. Some survivors are rejected by the White House. I protest in vain. So I create a board of advisers and make them members.
There is much work to do. Arthur gives me the benefit of his experience. Having presided over many commissions, he knows how to survive them. He knows when to be tolerant and when to be inflexible, when to encourage and when to call firmly and tactfully to order. Arthur is one of this country’s most respected men. The fact that he is a member of my commission surrounds us with a protective zone.
I had first met him with Yitzhak Rabin, who had just been appointed Israel’s ambassador to the United States. Arthur had told me about his war years, and how as an officer of the OSS he had occasion to converse with Arthur Zygelbojm, the Jewish Socialist leader, member of the Polish Parliament in exile in London. He described to me how Zygelbojm, in tears, pleaded the cause of Jews in occupied Poland. He was convinced that if only America knew what was happening, it would force the Germans to halt the massacres. Goldberg felt that it was his obligation to tell him the truth. Soon after, Zygelbojm killed himself. Surely this was one reason why Goldberg, after the war, became a fierce defender of Jewish memory and human rights.
The inaugural session begins with a solemn ceremony. After the traditional minute of silence, I invite every member of the commission to introduce himself or herself. Each expresses his or her gratitude to the American people and its leaders for this initiative. My friend Senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson from Washington State comes by to demonstrate his support. He thanks President Carter for choosing me to lead this commission. Senators and representatives of both parties are enthusiastic. Sigmund speaks of Bendin and Rabbi Gottschalk of Berlin. There is a special dimension to their speeches, which seem to be drawn from the most secret zone of their being. Some are sentimental, others matter-of-fact. All are solemn.