All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [134]
“I asked the authorities in Prague,” Givon calmly replied. “At first they were somewhat reluctant, but I managed to convince them it was necessary. You understand, the prosecutor’s secretary likes me. In fact, I think she has a crush on me.” He paused. “Come with me next week.” I had to force myself not to shout. “How am I supposed to get to Prague?” I asked.
“By plane,” he replied evenly. “I’ll pay the fare.” And the visa? “I’ll take care of it.” With what passport? As a stateless person, I couldn’t just up and go where I wanted, especially not behind the Iron Curtain. No government would come to my aid if I was arrested. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of that too. By the way, would you prefer a Swiss or a Belgian passport?” I thought it was a tasteless joke. How dare he offer me a false passport? “Oh no,” he said. “It wouldn’t be false. It’d have your photo, name, signature.” In other words, it would be a real false passport, or a false real one. But wasn’t that illegal? “No, it isn’t. Sometimes they let us do this kind of thing. Legally. Rarely, but it happens.” Again the plural. Who were “us”? I told him I would think about it. He seemed offended. Didn’t I trust him? I tried to mollify him. Yes, of course I trusted him implicitly, but he had to understand my situation: I couldn’t make any decision without informing the paper. He was amenable: “I’ll give you five days. If you come with me, you’ll have the scoop of the year—no, of the decade. You’ll be the first—the only—Western journalist to penetrate Pancracz and to interview Mordechai Oren.”
I didn’t know where to turn for advice. Dov was too far away. It wouldn’t have been smart to talk about this over the phone. I had an idea. Colonel Yehoshafat Harkabi, chief of Israeli military intelligence, happened to be in Paris at the time. Why not explain the situation to him? After all, he would know what was going on, since Givon was working for him, or for a service related to his. A friend from the embassy arranged a meeting for me. The colonel listened attentively and then confessed, “The name Givon sounds familiar, but I’m having trouble placing it. Let me look into it. Call me in forty-eight hours.” When I did, his response was brief: “In my view, you should say no.” That’s all? “Yes, that’s all.” But why? Who is Joseph Givon? Where does he get his power? Is he a double agent? And what about his friendship with Yitzhak Sadeh, Sharett, and Ben-Gurion? What about the photos, his trips to Prague, his relations with world figures? The colonel would not satisfy my curiosity. Was it possible that Givon was an agent so secret even the chief of military intelligence was unaware of his identity? If he wasn’t working for Israel, whom was he working for? What obscure organization employed him? Was he involved in some illegal, reprehensible activity? Was that why I was advised not to go with him?
“So, are you coming?” Givon asked when we next got together at a café on the Champs-Élysées. I invented a thousand excuses: A stateless person can’t be too careful, I could be imprisoned or deported if I were caught with a false passport. “You’re afraid, is that it?” I admitted that yes, I was a coward. I didn’t want to risk my freedom and my future for a scoop, no matter how sensational. Givon seemed disappointed. I was too.
He left by himself, or at least without me. He called me from Prague several times, usually to tell me overtly or in code that he would call again. But the missed opportunity left me bitter and troubled. Dov tried to make me feel better. “These things happen.” Still, I felt like a fool.
I was to see Givon again, there were to be more “adventures” with him. But the Oren chapter was closed.