And the Sea Is Never Full (39 page)

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 want 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.

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:

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.