All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [132]
“That’s it?”
“No, she also says you shouldn’t tell anyone but me.”
He uttered a strange, almost silent laugh. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a poor liar?” he said. “But all right, let’s go.” I felt like dancing for joy. “Okay,” he said once we were out in the street, “since it’s the wish of a beautiful woman, and an actress to boot, I’ll tell you a thing or two.” We looked for a quiet café. As we walked, he talked about life in Prague. He had known the Czech Communist leaders Rudolf Slansky and Artur London. In fact, he was on intimate terms with both of them. Before anyone else he had known that they would be arrested, indicted, and tried. “Since they were Jewish, I thought it would be a good idea to tell Moshe.” Moshe who? “Moshe Sharett, of course,” he said. “The minister of foreign affairs.” Did he know him too? “We’ve done a few things together,” he confided. “Next you’ll tell me you know David Ben-Gurion,” I needled him. “He’s the first person I see whenever I come to Israel. He made me promise that, and I’ve always kept my word.”
We sat over black coffee and I showered him with questions, which he answered in the self-assured voice of a man who knows whereof he speaks. I felt like a child in a toy store, but I wasn’t sure what to believe. “Malenkov sent a military aircraft for you? Why?” Was Givon an adviser to the Kremlin, an interlocutor of Marshal Zhukov? Why was Mao Zedong so insistent on seeing him? Was he really Slansky’s intimate confidant? When had he seen him last? My head was spinning, but Givon remained serene, and cautious. Before answering a question, he would look from side to side as if to make sure no one else was listening. You could never be too careful. Certain “services” would pay dearly for his whispered confidences, but I was receiving them free of charge. Every one of his revelations was worth a thousand times the value of my newspaper, and he was offering them to me gratis. No doubt there is a God who watches over poor and timid journalists.
Everything he told me had the ring of truth, yet I knew I might be dealing with a fabulist, a compulsive liar. Was I supposed to believe that Malenkov, Ho Chi Minh, Stalin, and Ben-Gurion were intimates of this gentleman who looked more like a vagabond striving vainly for elegance? He must have noticed my skepticism, for at one point he casually reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a pack of photographs. All at once my incredulity vanished. Here were Givon and Stalin, Givon and Mao, Givon surrounded by Soviet generals. Wait a minute, I said to myself. Don’t fall for it. How could he have negotiated the fate of humanity with the great men of this world without anyone ever knowing it? The photographs were probably fakes, however astonishingly well done. When I examined them carefully I had to admit (amateur though I was) that they seemed genuine. But I still thought the man might be manipulating me. Did he really know Rudolf Slansky? Had he really had words with his accusers and judges, really met Oren before and after his arrest? Yes. Indeed, he could describe the prison, and he told me behind-the-scenes stories about this case which the whole world had been talking about for months. I decided Givon was an invaluable source, a gold mine. I wondered whether I should make him an offer of some kind. I could wire Dov for money, but would he believe me? I was afraid to look ridiculous. Suddenly Givon stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said casually, “but I must go now. I have an urgent appointment with Sartre.”
The philosopher? “Yeah. An old friend of mine.”
He seemed not to notice my surprise. Actually, why shouldn’t a man who knows heads of state be friends with a famous writer? I asked when I would see him again. “Tomorrow. I’ll call you.” In the meantime could I use what he had told me for a cable to Yedioth Ahronoth? “Oh no,” he cried. “Anything but that! That would expose me to risks you couldn’t possibly imagine.” But he promised that tomorrow he would bring me information for a sensational