All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [179]
A year after our first meeting we solemnly presented Oscar with a dummy issue. Theoretically, we could now open offices, hire secretaries, and develop an advertising policy. All we needed was a bank account. “Indeed,” Oscar said, approving our analysis, “it’s feasible.” He sank into thought for a moment and then declared: “A million dollars, right?” Right. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it to you in four installments. Is that all right?” That was all right. “But …” Suddenly I was on guard. Buts make me nervous. “… you must come to London. I’ll be there next week. At the Dorchester. I’ll give you the first check then.” It was somewhat inconvenient, but we took out our appointment books and agreed on a date. I already envisioned us running a vast press empire. Michel, Shuka, and I returned to Manhattan to celebrate. Shuka’s wife, Levitta, gently mocked our excessive optimism, but we mocked her no less excessive pessimism.
Michel flew back to Paris. Shuka and I, more broke than ever, decided to economize by sending Michel to London alone. There was no reason all three of us had to be present just to pick up a check. On the designated day Michel flew to London, took a cab to the Dorchester, and asked the receptionist to tell Oscar he was there. The clerk informed Michel that the gentleman was not at the hotel. When Michel asked when he would be back, the clerk replied that he had never checked in. Michel hurried to a phone to tell us. Shuka and I were at a loss. Perhaps Oscar was ill. Shuka called Westchester and got no answer. In the meantime, Michel phoned other luxury hotels, in vain. Our patron was not registered or expected at any of them. I then suggested that Shuka drive the Oldsmobile up to Westchester. Maybe Oscar had had a heart attack. But Shuka found him not only in good health but calm and serene. “You were supposed to be in London,” Shuka protested. Oscar didn’t even apologize. On the contrary, he chided Shuka for being so naïve. “You really thought I was going to give you a million dollars?” Why had he engaged in this terribly cruel hoax? Well, all alone in his big Westchester estate, he had been bored. And he had found us amusing.
He had robbed us of our time, our energy, and our enthusiasm just for the fun of it. It seems I had learned nothing from my misadventures with Givon.
It took us a long time to pay off our debts. And to sell the Oldsmobile.
WRITING
In 1957, during my convalescence, I received good news from François Mauriac: Jérôme Lindon of Éditions de Minuit was going to publish La Nuit (Night). The letter of confirmation opened a new chapter in the book of commentaries that is my life.
Lindon didn’t like the original title: “And the World Remained Silent.” He preferred a biblical phrase, perhaps something from the Book of Jeremiah. But after discussing various suggestions, we settled on La Nuit. Lindon also wanted me to tighten the text, given to him by Mauriac, though I had already pruned and abridged it considerably. He proposed new cuts throughout, leading to significant differences in length among the successive versions. I had cut down the original manuscript from to the 245 of the published Yiddish edition. Lindon edited La Nuit down to 178.
Lindon was unhappy with my probably too abstract manner of introducing the subject. Nor was he enamored of two pages which sought to describe the premises and early phases of the tragedy. Testimony from survivors tends to begin with these sorts of descriptions, evoking loved ones as well as one’s hometown before the annihilation, as if breathing life into them one last time. Lindon also preferred to open the story with the portrait of Moishele, the beadle of our synagogue.
The book ended this way (I only quote