And the Sea Is Never Full (44 page)

After an initial surge of irritation, I am getting used to Barbie’s absence. He will not be able to silence his victims. Too bad that no one has thought of installing a camera in his cell so that he would have to face up to the images, so that he would see and be seen. Of course it wouldn’t be the same; I too would prefer to see him in a glass booth facing his victims. Never mind. Just as in the past he failed to make his prisoners talk, so he will not manage to render them mute. Though he may refuse to listen, the world will hear them.

“What is expected of me at the trial?” I ask.

Bernard-Henri Lévy has been following the sessions since the very first day, has experienced all their vagaries. He answers that what is expected of me is a text or a message to remember. “Remembrance and justice?” He responds instantly: “Yes, that is it, that’s it without a doubt.”

I set to work. Conscious of the significance of the moment, I propose to say in a concise text what, throughout my life, I have tried to convey in my writings: my apprehensions about language, my doubts with regard to the efficacy of education and culture, the anguish involved in confronting the extraordinarily heavy duties that memory imposes on the survivor.

Meanwhile I’m traveling more than ever. There seem to be more and more conferences. Michel Barthélémy of France-Inter calls me in Los Angeles and Hiroshima. He is asking for a sort of meditation on this uncertain era, in which the past keeps coming back to haunt the present. And where the silence of the dead rejoins the murmur of the survivors.

I leave Tokyo and return to Paris via Oslo. A telephone conversation with Jakubowicz. I am astounded to learn that all my work has been for naught: The law prohibits a witness from reading his deposition. But the lawyer is authorized to read it. I give it to Marc Kravetz, who publishes it in
Libération
.

Lyon, June 2. I visit Cardinal Decourtray: fraternal as always. I visit Chief Rabbi Klinger, who is warm and helpful. There is a meeting with Jakubowicz, and one with Beate and Serge Klarsfeld, the tireless Nazi hunters. I visit the memorial. There are photos of children and old men, emaciated bodies, eyes open to the horror.

The courtroom is packed, as it is every day. There are well-known faces and unfamiliar ones. An obscure anxiety comes over me, as it does every time I’m forced to speak of those times. What am I going to say? How can I say it? A prayer goes round and round in my head, the prayer of the
hazzan
, the cantor, who, prior to the
Musaf
service during the High Holidays, declares his apprehension before the task ahead: “See to it, Lord, that my tongue does not falter.”

The witnesses are called. We withdraw to an adjacent room. Chief Justice Cerdini publicly notes the defendant’s absence. He dispatches court officers to his cell to invite him to attend the hearing. Twenty minutes go by. The officers return with their usual report: the defendant refuses.

As I stand before the court, I am gripped by an emotion that takes me by surprise. I put on my
kipa
to take the oath. I shall articulate those things that, until now, have remained buried within me. I speak of my grandmother; how I admired her silent, radiating sweetness and good nature. She could go for days and nights without opening her mouth. And what if I spoke of her mute litanies before this court? Or of the merry laughter of my little sister whose image never leaves me? And what if I revealed, just once, what I feel every time I recall my mother, every time I see her again, as she moves toward the nocturnal crossroads lit up by gigantic, somber, so somber flames?

That is the dilemma for the witness: What face should be illuminated, what name should be mentioned, what destiny should be included as one shares one’s memories? Should I speak of the rabbi who let himself be buried alive rather than violate the Shabbat? Or of the ghetto children who at the risk of their lives slipped back and forth through the holes in the walls to bring bread and potatoes to their starving families? Should I recall the youngsters who, against all odds, defended the burning Warsaw Ghetto to save Jewish honor? Or the Greek Jews who chose to die rather than accept assignment to the Birkenau
Sonderkommando?
Or the countless victims who moved, trancelike, to their mass graves in Babi-Yar and Ponar? They seemed to have little regret leaving a world corrupted by hatred and cowardice.

I shall not repeat here what I said in ten minutes during my deposition. All I remember is trying to stress the incommunicable aspect of our experience, and rejecting the despicable questions of the defense attorney, who did his best to dishonor the United States, France, and Israel by comparing them all to Nazi Germany. I also remember that I refused to look at him—the Talmud forbids looking at the face of an ungodly person—addressing my answers to the chief justice instead. I recall the reactions in the courtroom and how warmly the survivors, Barbie’s victims, looked at me. And then, perhaps most important, there were all these young people who seemed to want to catch every word, every sigh, every murmur in the courtroom. Sunshine flooded the city that afternoon, and I remember the packed, noisy railway station; I recall everything except what I may have said to the court. But I remember my tone, that of the thirteen-year-old who, in his remote little town during his bar mitzvah, trembled with fear as he recited the customary prophetic words, the
Haftorah
.

You see, that is how it is, and I can do nothing about it; everything carries me back to my childhood, and to the children of yesterday, and to all the Jewish children of Europe whose existence, in the eyes of Barbie and his accomplices, seemed incompatible with theirs.

The Gulf War

A
UGUST 1990
. Iraq invades Kuwait. The mad Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein is capable of anything. President Bush and his European and Soviet allies are anxiously monitoring the situation.

The first American soldiers land in the Saudi desert. The U.N. Security Council adopts resolutions demanding the Iraqi army’s immediate evacuation of Kuwait. Saddam couldn’t care less. For the killer of Baghdad, the chapter is closed.

According to Henry Kissinger, there will be no military intervention; Bush will not make a move. Kissinger knows Washington better than anyone else. Amr Moussa, the Egyptian ambassador to the U.N., disagrees: The war
will
take place, it must. Saddam must be defeated, not only to help Kuwait, but to protect the entire Arab region. If Saddam succeeds, he will emerge as a latter-day Salah el Din, the uncontested leader of Islam.

As yet Saddam has done nothing against the Jewish state, but everybody knows he is capable of the worst. He counts on the world’s indifference. If he could gas thousands of Kurds with impunity in 1988, what will prevent him from doing the same to the Israelis?

Fully expecting war, Sigmund Strochlitz and I board an El Al flight to Tel Aviv. It is the evening of January 12, 1991. As we enter the terminal at Ben-Gurion Airport we see droves of people preparing to leave the country. Is it the fear of gas? Israelis are used to danger. In 1956, 1967, and 1973, they rushed back from wherever they were—Europe, the United States, Asia—to rejoin their combat units.

I see Prime Minister Shamir and tell him how traumatic the threat of Scuds is for people haunted by the word “gas.” “Have faith,” he responds. “Our army can deal with it.” The next day I meet with his defense minister, Moshe Arens, who tells me the same thing, though
he adds with a straight face: “Of course if a Scud happens to fall on your head, it won’t be pleasant.”

Arens arranges for me to visit the military zone. A liaison officer drives us “somewhere.” We are received by an air force colonel who takes us on a tour of his base. I chat with his colleagues and subordinates. If Israel decides to respond, these are the men—officers, pilots, and technicians—who will be doing the job. They exude confidence. In their presence even I feel invincible.

I board a parked
F-16
. I am afraid to move. What would happen if, by accident, I were to push the wrong button? “Better you don’t know,” says one of the officers. Later, in his Jeep, the colonel details some of his responsibilities. “What if there were an alert right now?” I ask. “How long would it take you to reach your command and give the appropriate orders?” He calmly glances at his watch: “Ninety seconds,” he says.

We lunch with his staff. Suddenly I hear a loud exchange outside the mess hall. Someone wants to enter, and the M.P. on guard refuses to let him in. This hall is reserved for high-ranking officers. “But,” says a voice, “I don’t want to eat. I’ve come to see my uncle.” It’s my beloved sister Bea’s son, Steve, a doctor in the legendary Golani Division. I had called him as soon as I landed, but he explained he couldn’t meet me; he was on duty.

We embrace. This kind of miraculous encounter can happen only in Israel. “I saw the television crew,” says Steve. “They told me it was for ‘some writer.’ I thought it might be you.” I would have been disappointed if I had had to leave Israel without seeing him.

It has been said of every war, but for Israel the Gulf War is in fact different from the others. Imposed by a cruel and cynical enemy, it seems to take place unilaterally. Israel appears not to be participating, at least not actively or directly. Because the Americans and their allies attack Baghdad, Iraq is now bombing Israel. It is an aggression that is insane, criminal, absurd, but, coming from Saddam Hussein, it surprises no one. We witness a new and incomprehensible phenomenon: The missiles are falling and the Israeli armed forces are not responding. Is it a policy of restraint rather than strength? Let us say, a policy of strength that expresses itself with restraint. For the first time in its history Israel leaves its defense to others. And the people do not protest. The ideological conflicts of yesterday are forgotten; this is not the time to engage in fighting among brothers. With this policy of
restraint Israel earns the respect of many nations. Strange: In 1967 Israel was admired because it fought; now people praise it for not fighting. But how long will this current of sympathy last?

I marvel at the friendly and generous behavior of the civilian population during alerts. People are courteous, warm. Nobody is pushing, nobody is losing his temper. There are no tears, no hysteria. One hides one’s fears as best one can. One tells funny stories, evokes memories. Radio programs of patriotic and sentimental songs from the time of the Second Aliyah are interrupted by the coded warning “snake viper,” to announce an alert. Israelis seem grateful to visitors who choose to be with them. A taxi driver refuses to be paid. At the restaurant we are offered free drinks.

At night one is afraid to fall asleep, afraid to be awakened by the sirens, and afraid of having to head for the sealed rooms; afraid to have to use the gas masks. I don’t even know how to use mine; never mind.

My cousin Eli Hollander invites me to his house for dinner. “We’ll wait for the Scuds together,” he says. A funny thought. An image returns: Our last Sukkoth together, in 1943, in the little town of Khust, in the Czech part of the Carpathians.

I accept my cousin’s invitation, but at the last moment I am forced to cancel. That evening I listen to the news. A missile attack has just been launched. Later, I call Marion to reassure her. Then I call Eli to make sure he is all right; no answer. Nor do I reach him the next day. A month later, I hear from him. He thanks God that I canceled our appointment: “Had you come, we would have stayed home. Since you didn’t, we spent the night at our children’s house. Our house was completely demolished by a Scud.”

Miraculously the Scuds caused no fatalities. Even more miraculous, thus far, they have not contained gas. Still, the threat of chemical warfare remains everyone’s obsession. “And to think it was German engineers who supplied the gas to Saddam Hussein,” whispers an old woman. Someone else notes that Germany sold the gas to Iraq and the masks to Israel.

The old question of Israelis versus Diaspora Jews surfaces again. A
Davar
editorialist lectures foreign Jews who did not experience the missile attacks, practically labeling them bad Jews. Let them stay home, he concludes. Similar odious attacks are published under other bylines. Why didn’t the Diaspora Jews come? And those who did, why didn’t they stay longer? And those who stayed longer, why aren’t they settling in Israel? What are they waiting for to break with the
gilded lives they lead in exile? Rarely have I sensed, in the Israeli press, such hatred toward the Diaspora.

I am reminded of an incident that occurred during the Lebanon war. A journalist asks to see me. I receive him at the Hilton in Tel Aviv. His demeanor is unappealing, self-important; what he has to say makes him even more repugnant. Is he trying to provoke me? He gives me a description of what is happening in Lebanon, where the war is in its second week: Israeli soldiers, he tells me, are behaving “like SS.” Incensed by this analogy, I get up. He continues: “And it’s your fault.” Seeing my amazement, he corrects himself: “Of course, I am not speaking of you personally; I am referring to Diaspora Jews, especially Jewish intellectuals. If you were here, our soldiers would not be committing these atrocities….”