The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (24 page)

During my two-year stint at the Foreign Press Bureau I discovered that the journalist whom Prime Minister Golda Meir admired and liked the most
–
loved even
–
was Oriana Fallaci.

Oriana Fallaci was all the rage in her native Italy. She had a reputation for brilliant and often controversial writing, as well as for being a fearless war correspondent. Her firsthand account of the Vietnam War
–
Nothing, and So Be It
–
was an international bestseller. Fallaci’s talent for powerful and hard-hitting political interviews was world renowned, and it was said that she was the one journalist to whom virtually no prominent leader could ever afford to say no.

Her interviewing technique was unique. Unlike Buddy Bailey and his ilk, she would spend weeks researching her subjects in obsessive detail. Any attempt to patronize her, or to humor her with false conviviality, or to seek to justify an injustice of any sort could put a match to her Roman fury
–
as when she ripped off her chador in the middle of an interview with Ayatollah Khomeini when he said Muslim women must never uncover their faces, or when Fidel Castro huddled up to her a trifle too close and she told him he stank of body odor, or when she threw the microphone of her tape recorder in the face of the boxer, Muhammad Ali, when he belched into hers.

A mistress of theatrics, Oriana Fallaci could display irreverence one moment, and charming sweetness the next. She could tease out deeper meanings from answers to seemingly superficial questions. Even the toughest interviewees could be disarmed by her feigned innocence, by the impression she gave that all she asked was merely for her own enlightenment. Henry Kissinger wrote in his memoirs that his 1972 interview with her “was the single most disastrous conversation I have ever had with any member of the press.” In it, Kissinger was seduced into acknowledging that the Vietnam War was “a useless war” and to absurdly admitting that he often thought of himself as “the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding alone ahead on his horse.”

When I met Oriana Fallaci in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel preparatory to her interview with Prime Minister Golda Meir, I had to fight an impulse to stare. Fallaci was a sinewy lady, hardly more than five foot tall, forty-odd years old, with a very Italian face full of chutzpah and mettle that demanded attention: a wealth of auburn hair, high cheek bones, and stubborn eyes. The moment I told her that the prime minister wanted to know what she wanted to talk to her about I got a taste of her tongue:

“Mrs. Meir shall know what I shall talk to her about when I talk to her. And if she has a problem with that, I shall pack my bags and go home right now.”

When I reported back to Mrs. Meir she smiled a mischievous sort of a smile, and then, tellingly, on the appointed day, welcomed Oriana Fallaci into the comfort of her lounge at home, rather than to her office. Golda chose to wear a stylish black dress as any hostess might, and the first thing she did was to thank her visitor for the beautiful bouquet of roses, just delivered. She excused herself to go into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, and pouring, she insisted her guest try her cheesecake, as any mother would, and remarked upon how youthful and chic the journalist looked despite the rigors of her job. Golda then delved into an appreciation of Fallaci’s recently published Vietnam War book, comparing that war with her own against terrorism.

An hour and a quarter later, a captivated Ms. Fallaci found that instead of the fighting bout she had expected to conduct, she had been engaged in a genial female chat, and an equally charmed prime minister said she would love to continue it sometime soon, and instructed me to arrange a date.

At the door Oriana Fallaci embraced Golda Meir, and entering my car, effused, “What am I to do with a woman like that? How am I to be objective? She reminds me so much of my mother
–
that same gray curly hair, her tired and wrinkled face, that sweet and energetic look. I think I have fallen in love with her.” Then, exhaling a Gloria Swanson sigh, she heaved, “I need a drink. Take me back to the hotel. I have to think!”

By the time the second meeting took place, three days later, the journalist had retrieved her warrior professionalism fully, and she pummeled the prime minister with hard-hitting political questions which Golda parried with the tough, singular passion of a Deborah facing down a Sisera. But then, halfway through, Fallaci switched from fortissimo to pianissimo, from Valkyrie to Princess Charming, and gently asked some very personal questions, beginning with “Are you religious, Mrs. Meir?”

The prime minister answered with a dismissive wave of the hand, and said in a manner that left no room for doubt, “Me, religious? Never!! My family was traditional, but not religious. Only my grandfather was religious, but those were the days when we lived in Russia. In America we observed the festivals, but went to temple very seldom. I only went for the High Holy Days to accompany my mother. You see, to me being Jewish means, and has always meant, being proud to be part of a people that has maintained its distinct identity for more than two thousand years, with all the pain and torment inflicted on it.”

Abruptly, her voice trailed away and she leaned deeply into her armchair, looking past Fallaci with a remote stare as if recapturing a second thought, an image so vivid she could clearly see it in her mind’s eye. Quietly, almost reverentially, she said, “The one time I’ve ever really prayed was in a synagogue in Moscow. It was shortly after the establishment of the State and I was Israel’s ambassador there. If I’d stayed in Russia I might have become religious
–
maybe. Who knows?”

“Why?”

“Because in communist Russia, the synagogue was the one place Jews could meet Jews. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur they came in their thousands. I stayed in the synagogue from morning till night. And I, who am an emotional person, really prayed. In fact, I’m the most sensitive creature you’ll ever meet. It is no accident many accuse me of conducting public affairs with my heart instead of my head. Well, what if I do? I don’t see anything wrong in that. I’ve always felt sorry for people who are afraid of their feelings, and who hide their emotions and can’t cry wholeheartedly. Those who don’t know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either.”

“And what about peace
–
when will there be peace?”

The prime minister shrugged her shoulders. “I fear war with the Arabs will go on for years because of the indifference with which their leaders send their people off to die.”

“And what about Jerusalem? Will you ever agree to the redivision of Jerusalem?”

“Israel will never give up Jerusalem. I won’t even agree to discuss it.”

“And the Golan Heights
–
will Israel ever agree to give up the Golan Heights?”

“No, Israel will never come down from the Golan Heights.”

“And Sinai
–
will you be willing to withdraw from the Sinai in return for peace with Egypt?”

“Yes, Israel will be ready to withdraw from much of the Sinai Peninsula in exchange for peace. But we won’t take the risk of waking up one morning with the Sinai full of Egyptian troops again, as happened on the eve of the Six-Day War.”

“And Arafat’s
PLO
–
are they a partner for peace?”

“Never, never, never will I talk to that terrorist Yasser Arafat.”

“And the Palestinian refugees
–
will you ever agree to their return?”

“No. What hope can the Arab refugees have so long as the Arab countries exploit them as a weapon against us by deliberately keeping them confined in squalid camps?”

And thus they went at it, the premier and the journalist, tit for tat until, again, Fallaci switched roles and sweet-talked Golda into letting down her guard so willingly that she began to reveal things about herself she had never revealed so fully to anybody before:

“Is this the Israel you dreamed of when you came here as a pioneer so long ago?” asked the interviewer.

Golda lit a cigarette, and blowing smoke through her nostrils, sighed, “No, this is not the Israel I dreamed of. I naively thought that in a Jewish State there would not be all the evils that afflict other societies
–
theft, murder, prostitution. It’s something that breaks my heart. On the other hand”
–
her voice became resonant, even buoyant
–
“speaking as a Jewish socialist, Israel is more than I could ever have dreamed of, because the realization of Zionism is part of my socialism. Justice for the Jewish people has been the purpose of my life. Forty or fifty years ago I had no hopes that we Jews would ever have a sovereign state to call our own. Now that we have one, it doesn’t seem to me right to worry too much about its defects. We have a soil on which to put our feet, and that’s already a lot.

“And as for my socialism, to be honest there’s a big difference between socialist ideology and socialism in practice. All socialist parties that have risen to power soon stoop to compromise. The dream I had, the dream of a just world united in socialism, has long gone to the devil. You can have all the dreams you like, but when you’re dreaming you’re not awake. And when you wake up you realize your dream has very little in common with reality.”

The two women were now leaning closer to one another, speaking almost secretly, as if I was not there, and Golda, clearly under Fallaci’s spell, began confessing such private feminine intimacies I felt my cheeks heat up:

“It was hard, hard, hard!” she lamented, recalling her motherly neglect of her children when they were very young and they most needed her. “When you’re at your job you’re thinking all the time of the children you’ve left at home, and when you’re at home you’re thinking of the work you should be doing at your job. It breaks one’s heart to pieces. My children, Sarah and Menachem, suffered so much on my account. I left them alone so often. I was never with them when I should have been. And when I had to stay home because of a headache or something like that, they were so happy. They would jump up and down, and laugh and sing, ‘Mamma’s staying home. Mama’s got a headache. Mama’s staying home.’ ”

Meekly, she went on:

“If your husband is not a social animal like yourself, and feels uncomfortable with an active wife like myself, a wife for whom it’s not enough to be a wife, there’s bound to be friction. And the friction may even break up the marriage, as it did mine. So, yes”
–
she paused to extract a handkerchief from her handbag and blow her nose
–
“I’ve paid for being what I am. I’ve paid a lot.”

Fallaci bent closer, and whispered. “That sense of guilt toward your children, did you also feel it toward your husband?”

Golda sat bolt upright, and with a wag of a finger, admonished, “Oriana, I never, ever talk about my husband. Change the subject.”

“But did you?” The Italian’s eyes were compelling, magnetic, her voice mesmeric.

The prime minister studied her fingernails in pensive silence, and said in a thawed tone, “Well, all right, for you I’ll try.”

Dabbing an eye with her handkerchief, she said morosely, “My husband, Morris, was an extraordinarily nice person
–
educated, kind, good. Everything about him was good. I met him when I was fifteen. We got married soon afterwards. From him I learned all the beautiful things, like music and poetry. But I was too different from him. He was only interested in his family, his home, his music, his books. For me, domestic bliss wasn’t enough. I wasn’t born to be satisfied with music and poetry. He wanted me to stay at home and forget politics. Instead, I was always out, always in politics. I had to be doing what I was doing. I couldn’t help myself.”

She took a breather to light another cigarette, and following the trail of the smoke with a dismal eye, flared, “Yes, of course I have a sense of guilt toward him. I made him suffer so much. He came to this country for me because I wanted to come. He came to kibbutz for me because I wanted the kibbutz. He took up a way of life that did not suit him because it was the kind of life I could not do without. It was a tragedy,”
–
her mouth tightened – “a great tragedy. He was such a wonderful man. With a different sort of a woman he could have been so very happy.”

“Did you not ever make an effort to adapt yourself to him, to please him?”

Golda’s dark brown eyes were full of pain. “For him I made the biggest sacrifice of my life: I left the kibbutz. There was nothing I loved more than the kibbutz: the work, the camaraderie. In the beginning our kibbutz was nothing but swamp and sand, but soon it became a garden full of orange trees, full of fruits. Just to look at it gave me such joy that I could have spent my whole life there. But Morris couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the hard work. He couldn’t stand the hot climate. He couldn’t stand the communal way of life. He was too individualistic, too introverted, too delicate. He got sick and we had to leave for Tel Aviv.”

Restlessly, she began to stroke the arm of her chair, and between clenched teeth went on, “My feeling of anguish at leaving kibbutz still goes through me like a needle. It was really a tragedy for me. But I put up with it for his sake, thinking that in Tel Aviv our family life would be more tranquil, more harmonious, but it wasn’t. In 1938 we separated. In 1951 he died.”

“Wasn’t he proud of you, at least in the last years?” asked Fallaci compassionately.

Golda answered with a twisted smile: “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know what he thought in his last years. He was so withdrawn that it was impossible to guess. Anyway, his tragedy did not come from the fact of not understanding me. His tragedy came from the fact that he understood me only too well, but could not change me. He understood I had no choice but to do what I was doing, and he did not approve of what I was doing. It was as simple as that. And who knows”
–
this with a shrug and in almost a whimper
–
“if he wasn’t right?”

“But you never thought of getting a divorce, never thought of remarrying?”

Golda Meir answered with a vigorous shake of the head. “Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. You have to understand, I’ve always gone on thinking I’m married to Morris. Even though we were so different and incapable of living together, there was always love between us. Ours was a great love! It lasted from the day we met to the day he died. And a love like that can never be replaced, never.”

The prime minister rose to her feet, and pumping cheer back into her voice said, “So now you know, Oriana, what I’ve never told anybody else. Come back soon, but without that thing, eh?” She was pointing to the tape recorder. “Come back just for a chat, over a cup of tea!”