• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I had an idea. Why not become a “foreign correspondent” in France? I made the rounds of all the dailies: Haaretz, Haboker, Maariv. All had representatives in Paris, all except Yedioth Ahronoth, the smallest and poorest of Israel’s daily papers. I set out in search of a recommendation and found someone who knew someone who knew the editor in chief. I telephoned, and was granted an interview.

Dr. Herzl Rosenblum, a signatory of Israel’s Declaration of Independence, was a man of great political erudition. A funny man, eyes glinting with irony and intelligence, he treated me to a detailed history of this once rich and influential paper that had lost its fortune and its prestige in a stunning putsch.

One morning in 1948 the then editor in chief, Dr. Azriel Carlebach, left his post and launched his own evening paper, Yedioth Maariv (he changed only one word in the title), taking with him the whole editorial and administrative staffs. Most readers went with Carlebach. This left Yedioth Ahronoth in dire straits, but its owner, Yehuda Mozes, was determined to keep it alive at whatever cost. In a matter of hours, he created a whole new editorial team. Yedioth Ahronoth appeared the next day, a bare two hours late. Unfortunately, Rosenblum explained, the paper lacked the resources to employ a correspondent in Paris. “If you went to Moscow it would be different,” he said slyly. I couldn’t imagine what he meant, since he could pay no more rubles in Moscow than francs in Paris. But this Lithuanian Jewish intellectual had a nostalgia for old Russia. Indeed, in his memoirs he misses no opportunity to evoke the glorious era of Kerensky, whose talents as an orator he admired. (“If only he had been a little more decisive in 1917, the world would be very different.”) I listened with great interest, since I love stories and history. The bottom line was that he would be pleased to have me as a correspondent, but as for a salary … that was another matter. I would have to work as a freelance. So be it. As long as I had a press card, I would manage to get by.

I sailed back to Paris on the Kedma, older sister of the Negba, and this time I was violently seasick. I cursed the day I first dreamed of the sea, swore I would never again set foot on a boat. By the third day I felt better. I forgot my vows and stood on the deck, loving the soft and soothing song of the waves, letting my thoughts ride them to the end of the world and beyond.

I was not alone on deck. Once again—no surprise—there was a beautiful young girl who intrigued me. Neither Inge nor Hanna, she could easily have taken their place. I spoke to her of destiny, and of Dante for good measure. She told me not to be a fool. Nothing had changed. There was no point in even trying. Also on deck was another girl, probably Moroccan or Tunisian, surely Sephardic, with long dark hair, treating a crew member to a voluptuous kiss. Maybe I should join the Navy. Behind me a young woman, very blond, sobbed desperately, refusing to part from a boy she had probably just met. Other couples were engaged in similar exercises. I could hear their whispered promises. The next day I noticed with some glee that the blonde had acquired a new suitor. And what about me? For them I didn’t exist. I didn’t exist for anyone. I was the only passenger on board not to have had even the slightest flirtation. The less said about my self-esteem the better. I promised myself I would be more enterprising in Paris. I would be a new man. I owed it to myself.

• • •

I arrived in Paris on an overcast day in January 1950 and moved back into the Hôtel de France on the Rue de Rivoli. I paid a visit to my editor to give a lame explanation as to why I hadn’t sent the series of articles on immigrants in Israel, and then hurried to see Hilda, Israel Adler, and Friedrich, all of whom congratulated me on my new status. When I showed Niny my press card, I was moved to see how proud she was. I caught a train to Versailles and, once again, returned