And the Sea Is Never Full (41 page)

Time is running out. The Élysée team is overwhelmed by technical and logistical problems. Everyone had forgotten that Americans must obtain French visas. Instructions go out to all passport-control stations: Nobel laureates are to enter without a visa.

But where can they all be lodged? Kissinger will stay in the U.S. Embassy. Special arrangements are made for Willy Brandt. The others will stay at the Méridien and Bristol hotels. Special buses with motorcycle escorts will shuttle back and forth between the hotels and the Élysée and Marigny Palaces, where the regular sessions are to be held and meals are to be taken.

We spend hours fine-tuning the program, the composition of the various commissions. Who will preside? How and according to what criteria will one laureate rather than another be accorded certain privileges? The solution: We shall invite the presidents of the various Nobel committees to direct the debates. On the French side, François Gros of the Collège de France, and Hélène Ahrweiler, the rector and chancellor of the Universities of Paris, agree to perform the same duties. François Mitterrand and I decide that I shall chair the plenary sessions. It may seem funny—it did to me—but as far as protocol is concerned, I represent, in the same way as the president of the French Republic, an “inviting power.” Yes, I know—the word “power” fits me as a tuxedo might a kangaroo. But then I’m not responsible for protocol.

Meanwhile, as cosponsor of the conference, I feel responsible for everything else. And “everything else” is immense. For example, one problem, a serious one: Should Prime Minister Jacques Chirac, head of the opposition, be invited? I am in favor of it. We must not offend him by leaving him off the program. I suggest we ask him to participate in the opening session. After all, he’s also mayor of Paris. A high Élysée official vetoes the idea. I insist: Let Chirac extend greetings at a plenary session. Veto. Why not ask him to offer a toast at one of the dinners? Veto. The problem is political, I’m told. I wouldn’t have guessed. I keep arguing: If Chirac is not invited, surely we’ll be accused of politicizing the conference. Nothing doing.

With hindsight I realize, of course, that even though conceived outside any political considerations, by me anyway, the conference proved extremely useful to Mitterrand in the May election.

As for Chirac, I refuse to admit defeat. Without consulting anyone I go to see him at Matignon, his official realm. I tell him that, as
co-chair of this conference, I would be honored by his presence at its inaugural session. He is as charming and as friendly as when I met him in 1987 at the Paris Town Hall. The man who years later will become president of the republic tells me he appreciates my gesture but prefers to abstain.

One essential question remains unanswered: How many of our invitations will be accepted? Ten? Twenty? We hope it will be fifty. We are astounded when we learn that seventy-nine writers, scientists, and statesmen have accepted. Still, there are some refusals that sadden us. Lech Walesa would like to come but is not allowed a visa; General Jaruzelski has turned him down. Our response is immediate: Since our colleague is being prevented from joining us in Paris, we shall go to see him in his own country.

To go to Poland we shall need a plane. We have an urgent meeting at Jacques Attali’s office: Would the government let us have a so-called
Glam
, government airplane? Not likely; we’re in a period of
cohabitation
. Should we charter a commercial plane? Jacques knows the president of Air Inter, but Air Inter’s planes are not permitted to leave French airspace. So we have to fall back on Air France. But who will cover expenses? It will have to be our foundation. Jacques takes charge of the visas; he has already discussed the matter with the Polish ambassador. Everything is arranged. A collective visa will allow us to make the Paris-Cracow-Paris trip. It is now Thursday, and departure is scheduled for Sunday. Around three in the afternoon Attali calls. He is beside himself: The Polish ambassador has just informed him that the collective visa has been refused. Why? Evidently Jaruzelski is not enchanted by the interest shown Walesa by the Nobel laureates. We don’t want to give up the trip. So we decide to play the American card: Ronald Lauder, a Republican, former United States ambassador to Austria, calls the vice president of the United States, George Bush, and tells him of our predicament. Bush asks that I call his chief of staff. I call and in a few sentences inform him of the situation. “Stop worrying. Everything will be taken care of,” the chief of staff assures me. I insist that it’s urgent. “Come now, calm down. When we do something, we do it quickly.” The vice president has indeed acted swiftly. He has summoned the Polish ambassador in Washington to come to his office on Friday morning. I don’t know what he said to him, but that same day, around 4 p.m. (10 a.m. in Washington), Attali informs me that the Polish ambassador in Paris is
desperately trying to reach me. He wishes to tell me the good news in person. The visa problem has been settled. The visas will be issued on the spot. The White House has been more efficient than the Élysée.

Walesa is waiting for us at the Cracow airport, surrounded by his close advisers: Bronislav Geremek, Tadeusz Mazowiecki, and the priest Henryk Jankowski. Under the watchful eyes of Jaruzelski’s secret service, we tell them of our admiration and it feels good to see them reassured, happy.

Particularly moving is the meeting between Walesa and Egil Aarvik, who says to him: “Do you know, Mr. Walesa, that we are still holding your check?” “I know,” Walesa answers, “I don’t think about it. What would I do with that money here?” Suddenly he has an idea: “Give it to Elie, he’ll know how to use it.” Aarvik asks me: “Would you accept his check?” Out of the question.

We make a pilgrimage to Birkenau and Auschwitz, to recite the Kaddish and to open symbolically the Paris conference: One cannot reflect on the future without casting a glance backward on the waning century for which Auschwitz will remain a monument. Walesa does not hide his emotion, and I’m surprised to learn that this is his first visit here. In my brief speech I speak directly to him: “We shall be the emissaries of
Solidarnosc
[Solidarity] throughout the world, I promise you. But promise us to be our representative here to protect the memory of the Jewish victims as well as their cemeteries, both visible and invisible.” He promises. I shall be bitterly disappointed, years later, when he makes certain remarks with anti-Semitic overtones in order to win an election. Another disappointment: In his second autobiographical book he quotes my speech but forgets to mention my request—and his promise. A third: At the time of the fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, he delivers a solemn speech without ever mentioning that Jews were assassinated and annihilated there.

Bernie Fischman, a director of our foundation, observes
Yahrzeit
for one of his parents on that day. He recites the Kaddish at the old synagogue that bears the name of Rabbi Moshe Isserlis. Again it is the first time that Walesa, a fervent Catholic, sets foot in a Jewish place of worship.

I didn’t know it then—I discover it only in the early nineties—but facing the ruins of the gas chambers and crematoria where, among all the others, the Hungarian Jews were exterminated, a dozen crosses were erected. Some of them were glued to stars of David.

How can this sacrilege be explained? Who dared put these Christian symbols on the invisible tombs of the most pious among our Jews? We are told that some young Poles planted them there as a token of reconciliation. Though the intentions may have been honorable, the result is no less offensive.

I am appalled by the insensitivity of the Catholic Church of Poland, and the indifference of European and American Jewish leaders. There is no place for religious symbols, Jewish or Christian, in Birkenau. Its ruins are the strongest symbols of what was perpetrated and destroyed in that camp.

We return to Paris, and the conference opens the next day, in the Great Salon of the Élysée Palace. For me the date is significant: January 18, the day of the evacuation of Auschwitz.

Transmitted live by France’s premier television station, TF1, the opening session is impressive. No one has ever seen so many laureates from so many countries in one place, discussing problems concerning the future of mankind. What has motivated them to come from so far away, surely disrupting their overloaded schedules? I ask the question of my friend Joshua Lederberg. Wisely, he answers: “At this point, what else can we hope to obtain? A Nobel Prize? We already have one. Now we must give something back.”

The mood is solemn, as this extraordinary gathering of extraordinary minds listens to the president of the republic bidding them welcome:

Of all the conferences I had participated in up to that moment, this was the most spectacular—and the most stimulating. It taught me a lot: about peace and justice; the challenge of intelligence, and the challenge to knowledge; the duties and limits of science; the Third World and the rich countries; biological research and genetic temptations. How rewarding it was to watch these great minds meet, become friends, and combine their talents and determination to move history in positive and constructive directions. To see them, involved in general discussion, disagreeing, laughing, listening to Slava Rostropovitch, and visiting the newly opened Musée d’Orsay.

I observe Betty Williams, an Irish laureate, as she accosts Henry Kissinger and tells him in a loud voice, for everyone to hear, how much she once hated him. “Yes, Dr. Kissinger, there was a time when I not only hated you, I cursed you; I told everyone how evil I thought your policy was in Cambodia and in Vietnam…. Well, I’ve just heard you speak. And I beg your forgiveness.”

Kissinger is dumbfounded. He blushes. It is one of the very few times I’ve seen him too embarrassed to respond with humor. She kisses him on both cheeks. Suddenly shy, he just stands there, speechless.

In the end, Kissinger thanks me for having insisted that he take part in the conference. I knew how he feared hostile reactions from the pacifist scientists. As a matter of fact, I had shared his apprehensions. But I had faith in his ability to meet the challenge. And he did. Rather than reading his prepared speech on geopolitical problems, he had improvised a short personal address, a sort of credo: “I am not speaking to you as a former secretary of state, nor in my capacity of political science theoretician; I am speaking to you as a Jew who lost twenty-six members of his family in Auschwitz….”

I like playing the role of matchmaker of souls.

Our conference is going well. There is perfect harmony: People wish to learn, to understand, to venture beyond familiar territory. Surely that is why the scientists choose to participate in debates on
culture, and, conversely, the humanists listen to scientific debates. The eternal, timeless questions lead to courteous but dramatic exchanges between optimists and pessimists, pragmatists and utopians. Perhaps all of them are right. If one contemplates the road traveled, one may be proud; and if one looks at the road yet to be traveled, one may well be anguished. All the speeches are remarkable; some are dazzling. We experience some powerful moments.

While we convene in Paris, in the Holy Land the Intifada is taking on devastating dimensions. Did I make a mistake by not placing more emphasis on these events in my opening speech? Should I have launched a firmer appeal to reason? Only three speakers allude—discreetly—to the violent clashes between Israeli soldiers and Palestinian adolescents. Privately, I am asked: “What do you think? What should be done?” I suggest setting up our own commission to visit the area. The arrival of ten Nobel Prize winners would not pass unnoticed. And while I am at it, I propose—still privately—the creation of an association of laureates who, in periods of crisis, would send ad hoc commissions to areas of conflict to bring assistance or, at least, to bear witness. The majority agrees, but a minority is wary of the political power such an association might acquire. In the absence of unanimity and means, it is wiser not to initiate anything.

But during the twice-daily press conferences and television broadcasts we are being asked more questions about the Intifada than about our debates. I have rarely felt so uneasy. How can one tolerate armed soldiers hunting down youngsters, even if they are not only capable but determined to wound and kill? On the other hand, how can one defend the provocative acts of the Intifada fighters determined to shed Jewish blood on the West Bank?

Despite Yitzhak Rabin’s prediction that it won’t last, the bloodshed continues. How many victims, on one side or the other, will fall before Israelis and Palestinians decide to meet around a table rather than on the battlefield? But that’s another story. Let us return to the conference about to close.

The closing ceremony is telecast live. At the Élysée the mood is solemn and festive. The trumpets and drums of the Republican Guard resound. The laureates love it. In each of them a child continues to dream. As for me, I admit I’m satisfied. It is true that nothing concrete has been decided, but the encounter itself was a positive act. In my report I summarize the essential gains of our labors: