All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [130]
While in Canada and the United States, I wrote a series of articles on the life of the yordim, a pejorative term for Israeli emigrants, people who had decided to leave the country—in other words, “to descend.” In 1953 and 1954 you could meet them everywhere, particularly in Paris, Montreal, and New York. They had abandoned their recovered homeland mainly for economic reasons. The “American dream” had its devotees in Israel, as elsewhere: Get ahead, make money, show “them” what you can do. Nobody, especially not a non-Israeli, had a right to judge or even to criticize them.
The time has come to tell you about Joseph Givon. I am sure you don’t recognize the name. He was the man who supposedly gave Stalin strategic planetary advice, who was both the confidant of Mao Zedong and the mediator between Ho Chi Minh and Pierre Mendès-France and between General de Gaulle and the Algerians.
The story begins in Israel in 1953. I had planned on staying a month. I would finish my articles on India and get better acquainted with the Yedioth editorial team and the country itself. I stayed at a hotel, since chaos reigned in the Old Man’s apartment, where the family was preparing for my friends Dov and Leah’s wedding. The Savoy is near the beach. I would rise at dawn and take long walks along the seashore. I loved those moments of peace.
And so, for ten busy days, I would spend mornings in the editorial office and evenings with the Old Man’s son Noah, Dov, or Dr. Rosenblum. I met dozens of writers, journalists, and artists. Dr. Shimshon Yunitchman, a veteran of the Revisionist movement whom I had met in Paris, told me that my articles on India had been well received at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It was my first compliment from an important personality, and it felt good. I was invited to the theater, concerts, and receptions and introduced to members of the Knesset. The Old Man insisted I accompany him on his travels through the country. In Jerusalem he introduced me to a Lubavitch Hasid who was a doctor and who taught me “the” melody of the movement’s founder, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady. I was also introduced to the Old Man’s younger daughter. He was scheming … but Rachel was even more bashful than I. Besides, how do you flirt with a pious girl?
On the morning of the eleventh day I got an urgent phone call from Dov. Prague, he said, was about to release an Israeli citizen, a man called Furmand, who had been with Mordechai Oren, an important Israeli left-wing leader, in the Pancracz prison. Maariv was sending its best reporter to Paris to interview Furmand, and Dov wanted me to catch the first plane out. It would be a scoop.
The magic word—most journalists would give their right arm, or at least their left, for a good scoop. It was the way to get noticed and earn a bonus, or, if you worked for Yedioth, get warm congratulations. O God of Moses—first reporter and editorialist of our turbulent history—give us this day our daily scoop, or at least a weekly one should you be too busy.
I washed, dressed, gulped down some coffee, jumped into the car the paper had sent for me, and headed for the airport without even stopping to say goodbye to the Old Man. Our Lod correspondent was waiting to shepherd me through the passport and customs controls. Within five minutes I was in the air, seated—where else?—beside my rival from Maariv. Innocently, I asked him why he was going to Paris. “Personal reasons,” he replied. “Visiting a sick aunt.”
“And you?” he asked after a brief silence. I looked at him. “My uncle the doctor,” I explained, “is taking care of your aunt.” We burst out laughing.
As it turned out, our respective employers were equally satisfied, for we both interviewed the former prisoner that very afternoon. (In the interests of historical accuracy, I must admit that my colleague