And the Sea Is Never Full (40 page)

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.’”

Encounters

I
N
O
CTOBER
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 admired 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.

Jacques finds the idea of a Nobel conference excellent. We discuss it over a few lunches, a few dinners. He will create a group at the Élysée Palace to collaborate with our foundation’s small New York team.

Our first task is to make up a list of the more or less two hundred laureates. No problem there. The dominant theme will be the twenty-first
century. Next we must establish the program and settle on a date. That is where things get a little complicated.

We are at the end of 1986. We must allow six to eight months for the preliminaries, on the condition that we start work immediately. And at the Élysée things are dragging. Is it because of
la cohabitation
between the parties of the left and right in the government? That’s what’s insinuated here and there. Weeks go by; I’m beginning to feel uneasy. If the Élysée now faces other priorities, I should be told. If Mitterrand is no longer interested in the project, that’s fine, too, but someone should deign to inform me.

Now it’s 1987 and we still don’t have the green light. From a purely practical point of view, that should please me: The more we keep postponing things, the fewer laureates will come and the less expensive it will be. That would be better for our foundation, which, though financially linked to the Élysée for this project, is not rich. However, objectively, not being able to gather a large group of laureates would have a negative effect on a conference that might otherwise have considerable impact. As for the financing, Mutual of America, a prestigious insurance company whose president, Bill Flynn, is a friend, offers us very generous support.

Spring is here; Paris is alive with the joy of its lovers, but as I leave the Élysée I’m depressed. I don’t dare discuss my worries with Mitterrand; I would appear to be complaining. Rather I speak to Jacques, who counsels patience. It’s all a matter of scheduling, of calendars, but the decision will be made in a few days. By the time it is made, it is summer. The conference is to convene the third week of January 1988. The presidential election is to take place the following May but, naive as I am, I do not make the connection. Can everything be ready in time? Yes, if the Élysée machinery starts to move. How will we reach everyone? And how will we convince those who hesitate? The French embassies do their best. Joshua Lederberg helps. His wisdom and generosity are indispensable to me. President of Rockefeller University, this Nobel laureate (in biology) is adept at smoothing edges. Bishop Tutu offers his regrets, and so does Saul Bellow. Solzhenitsyn
never
leaves Vermont. Henry Kissinger hesitates: “I’m not too popular in scientific circles,” he says. He may not be wrong. There is anger because of his Southeast Asia policy in general and with respect to Cambodia in particular. At Harvard he is decried as a hawk. He’s afraid of embarrassing himself and me by being booed. I insist; he gives in. In the end he’ll be grateful to me.