All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [178]
Oscar lived in Westchester in a town about an hour’s drive from Manhattan. We took my old Chevrolet. It didn’t look like much, and Michel made no secret of his apprehension: Oscar wouldn’t take us seriously; we couldn’t go off to discuss a deal of global import in “that crate.” I reassured him: As soon as we got the first hundred thousand, we would buy a respectable vehicle. During the ride up, we had a long discussion about what brand, what year, and what color car we wanted, and whether it should have air-conditioning. However, before we reached these important decisions, we had arrived at Oscar’s estate, complete with pool and rose garden.
Our angel—a frail old man with a shock of silver hair and an air of distinction about him—greeted us with the courtesy and respect due future press barons. We went into the paneled library with a fireplace, a chess set on a small table. The room conveyed an aura of success and serenity.
Coffee or tea? The very English Oscar had tea. His trio of visitors preferred coffee. The cups were small, but the coffee was great.
As is God. For Oscar, heaven bless him, was His messenger—messenger of hope, herald of happiness, guardian angel. He was tempted by our project. In fact, he was downright enthusiastic. He had long dreamed of creating a Jewish magazine. Why hadn’t we come to see him twenty years ago? But it wasn’t too late. God Himself must have brought us to him. Money? That was his business; he would handle it. Our task was to prepare the magazine, to assemble a team, select columnists and critics. We had only just met, and already we soared together to the summit of supreme illusion. “You do your job, I’ll do mine,” Oscar said. “Draw up a budget, and I’ll take care of the financing.” We tried, timidly, to clarify a delicate point: what did he expect in return? Praise from the magazine? The opportunity to express himself in it? No, he said. He wanted absolutely nothing. He was doing this for pleasure, out of belief in our mission.
Having downed my fifth cup of coffee and expressed our gratitude to our host, I asked practical questions: What next? When would we meet again? We decided unanimously to get together once a month.
“We forgot the most important thing,” Michel remarked, phlegmatic as usual, once we were back in the old Chevy. The most important thing? “Yes, money” That annoyed me. “How can you say that? He asked for a budget, didn’t he? Didn’t he say he would take care of everything?” Michel smiled. “And in the meantime who’s going to pay my plane fares?” He was silent for a moment. “And what about the car? Who’s going to pay for the car we have to buy so as not to lose face before this Jewish Rockefeller who could give the real Rockefeller journalism lessons?”
Michel took out a loan to cover his trips and I borrowed money for the car, a used Oldsmobile. We had no magazine yet, but we were already in debt.
Thirty years later I cannot believe how stupid we were—I most of all. Had I forgotten Joseph Givon? How could we be sure Oscar was trustworthy? Did we really think such a project was feasible? How could three unknown, penniless journalists—an Israeli, a Frenchman, and a newly naturalized American—think they were capable of launching a weekly in English, a language none of us was fluent in? But Oscar had an answer for everything, so we dismissed all pessimistic thoughts.
A period of intense activity began. Shuka was to be responsible for the Israeli pages, Michel for the cultural columns, and I for the section on Jewish life. We would sign the editorials on a rotating basis. We proposed to Oscar that he be the fourth editorialist. He deserved that much, didn’t he? When we submitted an annual budget