All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [133]
In my dispatch I told Dov I might soon have important—indeed, sensational—revelations about Oren. He called back at five in the morning. “What’s this all about?” I told him I couldn’t say any more on the phone. He insisted I at least give him a hint. Now it was my turn to act conspiratorially. “Not on the phone.”
At 10:32 I took up my position at the phone. It rang at exactly 10:35. I recognized the drawling voice. “It’s all set,” he said. I realized I had forgotten to breathe. “That’s great, but …”
“But what? You’re happy, aren’t you? Be downstairs at 16:48 this afternoon.” And he hung up.
My head was spinning. I must have looked pale, because Léon Leneman, at whose home I was living at the time, seemed worried. “Bad news?” he asked. I told him everything was fine, but I wasn’t so sure of that. I didn’t think my new friend was lying, but I was afraid he might be drawing me into some kind of conspiracy. Why all these complicated arrangements? I decided to wait—did I have a choice?—until 4:45—excuse me, 4:48—that afternoon.
But waiting was not easy. I paced my room as if it were a prison cell, chain-smoking. Madame Leneman offered me coffee, but I didn’t feel like it. I tried in vain to read the papers, and to write an article.
Finally, it was time, or almost. At 4:40 the phone rang. “It’s for you,” Leneman said. I asked him to take a message. I had to go downstairs, Givon would be here any minute. “He says it’s urgent.” I took the receiver and recognized the now familiar voice. “I’m at the airport,” he said. “I’ve been called back to Prague, so we’ll have to postpone our meeting. Is next Monday all right?” Crushed, I stammered a feeble yes. Of course Monday was all right. “I might call you from there,” he added just before he hung up, “so don’t stray too far from the phone.”
I went to my room and locked the door. I didn’t want to see anyone, hear any news, send any dispatches. I was going to resign from the paper, go back to India, and become an ascetic.
It was a very long week. Then, on Saturday night I got a call from Prague. “Is Monday still all right?” Absolutely. “By the way, I set it all up.” Set what up? For whom? “For you, idiot.” What could he have set up for me in Prague? “I’ll tell you Monday. Downstairs. Same time.” Madame Leneman was worried about me. “You don’t look well. Is anything wrong?” I reassured her, thanked her for her concern. “Could it be love?” I smiled awkwardly and didn’t reply. Let her think what she wanted.
Unnerved, depressed, I spent the rest of the weekend waiting for the rendezvous, convinced it would be postponed again. I was wrong. At exactly 4:48 in the afternoon a taxi pulled up in front of 8 Avenue de la République. Givon invited me to get in. He put his finger to his lips, suggesting that we needed to be careful. We stopped near the Châtelet. He allowed me to pay for the cab, then pointed to a sidewalk café. “Do you think it’s all right?” I whispered. He looked around and decided it was.
“So,” I asked after we sat down at a table, “how was Prague?”
“Like always. I did what I had to do. Saw Mordechai. Gave him a package.”
The blood pounded in my head. “You saw Oren? In prison?” Yes. “Can I publish that?” No. “Why not?”
“Because I have something better.” Who wanted something better? That scoop was just fine. I could see the front page now: “Message from Oren, Exclusive to Yedioth Ahronoth.” My colleagues would not only be green with envy but also red with embarrassment. “No,” Joseph repeated impatiently. “Besides, you want to know everything, but you don’t give me a chance to talk.” I could feel he was closing up. I had to find a way to put him at ease. “Look, Joseph,” I said, “I’m sorry for interrupting.