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By Root 2200 0

at the end of the ramp: An Intourist stewardess on the right took my boarding card, an officer on the left examined my passport. The young woman motioned to me to board, but at the same instant the officer shouted something. Suddenly things moved quickly. Before I realized what was happening, the two Israelis were at my side. One of them took my ticket while the other snatched my passport out of the officer’s hand. I felt myself being lifted like a package. They ran, and so did I, amid whistles and shouted orders. I don’t know how we managed to jostle our way through all the gates and barriers, but we jumped into the embassy car and took off. Why the police didn’t stop us, I don’t know. I was too stunned to try to understand, too dazed to think about it. The Israeli behind the wheel drove as if he were back home in Tel Aviv. I would worry about that later. In a moment we were on embassy grounds. “Do you believe me now?” David said as he opened the car door for me. Walking up to his office, I suddenly remembered my suitcase, which must have left for Paris. How was I going to get it back? David shook his head in disbelief: “Is that what you’re worried about? Don’t you understand what trouble you’re in?” Then he reassured me: I would be all right here. He emphasized the “here.” By then I was in a cold sweat. How long did he think they would keep me, I asked, remembering Cardinal Mind-szenty, who lived in the American embassy in Budapest for years.

David went into an adjoining room and returned some fifteen minutes later. He had contacted his “sources,” and things looked bad. “They” were determined to arrest me. I already saw myself in a cell in the Lyubianka Prison, but David seemed calm. “As long as you don’t fall into their hands, my boy, there’s hope.” He advised me to be patient and let him handle the situation. I was happy enough to let him handle it, but being patient was a different story. I couldn’t sit still. I became obsessed with the idea that I would be stuck here for a week, a month, or—who knows?—all my life.

To make things worse, there was a pompous young diplomat named Yoram staying at the embassy who was determined to give us the “benefit” of his “ideas” and advice. I had to get back to Paris, if only to be rid of him. I sent frantic appeals to Meir and Ephraim. Mauriac was informed. I was later told that he had interceded with General de Gaulle. David mobilized his American and European colleagues and called in IOUs with some of his contacts within the Communist bureaucracy. But the hours dragged on, the clock refusing to budge.

I spent three days and nights at the embassy before getting the signal to leave. David never told me how he managed it, and I made no real effort to find out, though the journalist in me would have loved to know. The important thing was to get out of Moscow, to find freedom again.

Accompanied by my two Israeli bodyguards, I returned to the airport. Everything went smoothly. The Intourist and Aeroflot employees greeted me amiably. I was told my suitcase was waiting for me in Paris. There was no problem at passport control. The other passengers were already on board. I shook hands with my guardian angels. The young Intourist hostess invited me to go aboard, the officer wished me a pleasant flight.

The plane was half empty. I had the whole first-class section to myself. Suddenly I noticed the Communist engineer returning from North Korea. He had been close to boarding—why hadn’t he left three days ago? When I said hello, he looked at me with hostility and snapped, “Go away! Go away or I’ll call the captain!” Perplexed and offended, I went back to my seat, wondering what I had done to make him so angry. He gave me the answer at our stopover in Copenhagen. He came up to me in the waiting room, his face a deep red, and said: “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care to know, but on account of you I spent three most unpleasant days and nights in the police station being interrogated. Even my party card didn’t help. They wanted to know where and when I first met you, whether I was your