All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [174]
The following year Kennedy was assassinated. It was a Friday, and I had just left the Forverts editorial office. As I got into the car, I turned on the radio. “We interrupt this broadcast …” By the time I arrived at my apartment, the nation was in mourning, paralyzed by the shock. A new president had been sworn in.
“The gods were jealous.…” So began a long article I wrote for the following Sunday’s Yedioth Ahronoth. I wrote and wrote, feeling as though I were present at history’s destruction. Like everyone else, I felt personally affected by the tragedy. Like everyone else, I will not forget John-John at his mother’s side saluting his father’s coffin. Like everyone else, I got no sleep until after the funeral. That day strong men and women wept.
My last dispatch on the Dallas assassination reported a conversation with Golda Meir, who, with so many other chiefs of state, came to pay homage to the dead president, offering the condolences of the Israeli nation to his young widow. Golda was greatly moved by Jackie Kennedy’s dignity and courage, and described to me her impressions of the ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery, the atmosphere in the White House, and the new president, Lyndon Johnson. An excellent observer, she enabled me to report the events as if I had been there myself.
“During the funeral,” Golda told me, “I remembered my visit with Kennedy in Palm Beach.…” He had been vacationing there. As she told me this story, she was chain-smoking and dropping her cigarette butts into strategically positioned ashtrays. She was visibly agitated, unable to sit still. “I have to tell you about it,” she said, flushed with emotion. “Kennedy received me in great secrecy. And something happened. Something I still don’t understand.…”
It was 1961. America was under the spell of its youthful, eloquent president. Surrounded by liberal intellectuals, he believed in the power of ideas and ideals and was convinced that humanity, fundamentally generous, could devote itself to the quest for “new frontiers.” With the lessening of international tensions, disarmament, peace, and goodwill, anything was possible. In his optimism, he couldn’t understand why Israel was so insistent on its security needs. At one point he exploded: “All the Jews who plead your cause talk of nothing but weaponry. And you yourself, Mrs. Meir, instead of evoking the timeless message of Biblical morality, the prophets, spiritual or cultural problems, or whatever, the whole time you’ve been here all you want to talk about is missiles. Isn’t there anything else to discuss?” “You’re right, Mr. President,” Golda replied, “we are obsessed with security. We are an ancient people and twice in our history we have lost our Temple and our sovereignty. Yes, we did survive; we are dispersed but we survived because all Jews, the scholar in Vilna, the merchant in Lodz, the industrialist in Chicago, and the shopkeeper in Salonica were motivated by the same powerful dream: that one day our Temple would be rebuilt. Well, Mr. President, the Temple is not yet rebuilt. We have only just begun. And if this beginning itself is destroyed, we will not even be able to dream anymore.” Kennedy stared at her for a long moment and then, without a word, pushed a button and ordered one of his aides to set in motion the administrative process that enabled the Pentagon to supply Israel with its first Hawk missiles.
“What do you think of that?” Golda asked, beaming. “See?” I replied. “A good story can get you anything. Even missiles.”
Our relationship grew steadily closer. In Israel I used to visit her at her office in Jerusalem or at her home near Tel Aviv. Since she was often ill (she told everyone she suffered from migraines, but those closest to her knew she had cancer), I also went to see her in the hospital.
In 1965 Golda’s party, now led by Prime Minister Levi Eshkol,