All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [235]
“The premiere of your play, of course.”
“When is it scheduled for?”
“A week from now.”
“In other words, you held rehearsals and plan to open without a signed contract?”
He was unflappable. The contract, he said, had been duly signed; his agent had convinced Le Seuil that I had agreed. “You’re wrong to react like this,” he said. “It’s going to be a huge success.” I should come, and see for myself that I had not been betrayed. Yes, a few changes had been made, but they were minor. “What changes?” I asked, sensing catastrophe. He repeated that they were minor. Now I was getting annoyed. “Such as?” Well, Joseph Milo, the great director, had been replaced. What else? The starring role would be played not by Aharon Meskin, at that time Israel’s greatest actor, but by someone less well known. Was that it? Well, he said, the title had been changed; he preferred The Jews of Silence. Here I blew up: “That’s the title of another book!” If he had dared change the title, I feared the worst. And indeed, he had also cut a few passages here and added a few there. “As I told you, aside from these details, we’ve made no changes in your play.” I told him that I forbade him to stage the play and that if he did anyway, I would see him in court. And I hung up.
I alerted Le Seuil. The person in charge of foreign rights was dumbfounded. “What signed contract? Signed where? By whom? We never signed anything.” I was furious. “We must stop this production before the premiere,” I said. A threatening telegram was dispatched immediately, and the reaction was swift. The director was on the line again, informing me that I could not do “such things” in Israel: What would the Israelis say, what would the Soviets say, and what about the anti-Semites? Had I thought about that? My reply was brief. He had lied to me, and I don’t like dealing with liars. Now he started whining. What was he supposed to do? The premiere was scheduled for this week. Prime Minister Golda Meir had announced she would attend; diplomats, members of the academy, politicians, and journalists would be there too. It would be a scandal for the state of Israel, for the people of Israel. I refused to budge. Another call soon came in from Jerusalem: a famous writer pleading Habimah’s cause. “He shouldn’t have lied to me,” I replied. The next call was from the poet Haim Guri. I gave him the same reply. Then a Labor member of the Knesset called, followed by a colleague. You would think the state of Israel had nothing more important to worry about. Then someone called on behalf of Golda. At that point I gave up. They had worn me down, and yes, I had to concede: to file a lawsuit against the National Theater of Israel would not be pleasant.
With the exception of Dr. Haim Gamzu, the critic of the largest morning daily, Haaretz, nearly everyone panned the performance. They were right. And I was wrong to quarrel with Dov, whom I chided for publishing a review by the Yedioth critic that did not mention my disagreement with the director and the whole sad saga of the production. But, to my great surprise, the play was a commercial success, a sellout. One month later, when I decided to see the show incognito, a friend of mine had to pull strings to get me a (paid) seat in the second balcony. The performance that evening was held in the presence of the minister of foreign affairs, Abba Eban.
But what I saw on that stage went beyond my worst fears. My play had become an incoherent, sentimental mess, complete with ethnic dances, the sounding of the shofar, and a Kaddish. It was pure kitsch.
But the audience loved it. They applauded and wept. I found that intolerable. I paid a visit to Golda, who failed to understand my indignation. The play was doing well, what was I complaining about? Besides which, she thought I should be delighted to have succeeded. It was a public relations coup: Everyone was talking about Soviet Jews. “Sit back and enjoy it,” she advised me. Determined at least to explain my position, I went on television and asked, among other questions, whether