And the Sea Is Never Full (54 page)

As for the artistic aspect of the event, Marion heads the special team that has taken on the intricate and subtle preparations of the concert that, traditionally, becomes the highlight of our conferences. Audrey Hepburn, delicate and supremely gracious, and Gregory Peck, grave and regal, act as masters of ceremonies. The orchestra is conducted by Lukas Foss. On the program, some of the most outstanding performers of our time: the flutist James Galway, the soprano Frederica von Stade, the bass Simon Estes.

All sessions are plenary. Gidske Anderson (who will eventually succeed Egil Aarvik as chair of the Nobel Committee) and I chair the meetings. More authoritarian and less sentimental than I, she intervenes whenever I am too timid: She will interrupt a speaker who ignores the flashing red-light signal to stop and exceeds his allotted time. Almost all the speakers obey the light signal, including Jimmy Carter and François Mitterrand. One who does not is Elena Bonner. The stubborn, courageous wife of Andrei Sakharov considers herself free as always—free to speak as she wishes, when she wishes, and as long as she feels like it. Our rules not only displease her, they annoy her. I feel bad, but I am happy Gidske is enforcing the regulations.

A moving scene: Jacques Morillon of the International Red Cross is discussing the Middle East situation. He tells us that he fears for the soul of Israel. Ephraim Urbach, the venerable Talmudist, answers him: “Every time I hear that someone wants to save Israel’s soul I am seized with apprehension….” And with a great display of erudition, he firmly cites examples from the present and the past. The next day Morillon offers public apologies.

In another scene, no less moving, Leon Wessels, deputy foreign minister of South Africa, addresses Nelson Mandela: “Nelson, I was born with apartheid; what I wish for now is to attend its funeral.” The two men begin a dialogue that surely contributed to the process of democratization in their country.

And François Mitterrand charms everyone with his simplicity. He sits surrounded by intellectuals, some well known, some not so well known, but none who has his rank or power.

And Václav Havel, who tells of how he never felt hate, not even for his jailers.

And the Czech children’s choir he has brought in his plane to sing—magnificently—at the concert.

And Nadine Gordimer, not yet a Nobel Prize laureate, who denounces racism with conviction.

And John Galbraith, who demonstrates that humor, too, helps resolve human conflict.

The conference ends with the drafting of an Oslo Declaration, which we wish to be solemn. Here it is:

Some of the participants sign this appeal without reading it; others consider it too philosophical or not enough so; still others call it unsatisfactory for failing to include any reference to feminist aspirations.

Like many documents of this nature, this one may or may not find its place in the archives. But that is not what matters. What matters is that once again links have been forged to fight hate, which is so terrifyingly adept at fanning unholy passions throughout the world.

I am sometimes asked: What is the use of bringing together under one roof great figures of the social and human sciences, philosophy and literature? What benefits can mankind gain from seeing always more or less the same experts around different tables, telling one another more or less the same thing? None, suggest the skeptics.
Many, respond the naive. The point is to combine skepticism and naïveté. And above all, not to give in to cynicism. What is the point? is a worthwhile question on condition that it is not answered even before it is asked. As for all social initiatives, everything depends on what one’s expectations are. If you expect too much from such a gathering, you will be disappointed. As for myself, I am not. I am satisfied with little. A handshake that brings two adversaries, two strangers, together is enough for me. A sincere remark, an authentic idea that makes one think, that encourages the mind to open up, whether to accept or to reject, is enough for me.

Yes, there are gratuitous and sterile efforts, I agree, but they are rarely totally without merit. They frequently end in failure—that is incontestable—yet a failure is preferable to not having tried.

An example is the Moscow conference our foundation organized in December 1991 together with
Ogonyok
weekly magazine. Like the Nobel laureate conference in Paris, it produced no concrete results. Neither Gorbachev nor Helmut Schmidt, the former German chancellor, for instance, was in a position to move his country toward more humane, more equitable, more generous policies. Schmidt had long since left government, and Gorbachev was soon to leave power. And yet.

To listen to Adam Michnik of Poland’s Solidarity movement, pleading the cause of Nagorno-Karabakh, or to Abe Rosenthal denouncing the police totalitarianism of the KGB, to hear François Léotard’s exposé of politics and hate, is to take part in an endeavor initiated by a yearning for brotherhood, an endeavor that does honor to all the participants, intellectuals and political figures alike.

For the opening session, Schmidt and Alexander Yakovlev, Gorbachev’s right hand, had been invited to compare their recollections of World War II. They had been selected because Schmidt had been a lieutenant in the tank corps that advanced as far as the suburbs of Moscow, and Yakovlev fought, also as a lieutenant, in the Red Army, defending his country against the invader. “How was it for you?” and “Did hate play a role in your motivations?” we ask each of them. I think they were meeting for the first time. Schmidt speaks of his adolescence, his youth. He did not join the Nazi party; it seems one of his grandparents was a Jew. Everyone is too polite to ask him whether he had not wanted to become a Nazi or hadn’t been able to. Like Yakovlev, he prefers to discuss ideology, political doctrine, and the future in general.

The appearance of General Oleg Kalugin produces a moment of high tension. He presents the methods and aims of the KGB system in all their brutality. His delivery is that of an expert, his tone cold, almost scientific. The audience pays rapt attention to every word, every inflection of his voice. Questions are fired at him from all sides: Is it true that the KGB was fomenting anti-Semitism abroad? (Yes.) That the KGB once had a hold, and still did, on Gorbachev? And if so, what was it? (Answer vague.) What does he know about Raoul Wallenberg? (No more than we do.) How did the KGB function in the United States? There follows an explosion provoked by Abe Rosenthal: “When a general of the KGB appears before a group of intellectuals, it is incumbent upon him to be clear and frank.” What exactly had he done under Communist dictatorship in the exercise of his functions? Of course Abe is trying to find out whether the general had committed crimes, and, if so, which. Kalugin tries to dodge the questions and finally gets angry: “I’m not here before a tribunal!” And Abe retorts: “When a general of the KGB appears before a group like ours, we
are
his judges.”

Aside from this incident, which deeply upsets Abe but brings him honor, the sessions take place in an atmosphere of total respect for one another. There are no interruptions, no challenges, not even an offensive comment. Just as in the previous conferences, links are formed.

I don’t know whether as a result of our debates hate diminished throughout the world, but I know that in those days in Moscow, friendship won some victories, not over hate but over indifference.

It was on this occasion that I saw Gorbachev again.

In the capital one could sense the coming crisis. The relations between Gorbachev and Yeltsin were worsening by the hour. There was a rumor that Yeltsin, defying protocol, had by a simple telephone call dismissed Edward Shevardnadze from his post of minister of foreign affairs. When Shevardnadze arrived at the airport to welcome James Baker, the U.S. secretary of state, he was denied access to the VIP lounge. Yeltsin’s police actually ordered him to turn around. Moscow was buzzing with rumors. There was talk of a new coup, this time initiated by Yeltsin.

Would Gorbachev attend the conference? He had promised us that he would come, but until the very last session we are not sure. Finally we are told he is keeping his word by inviting us to the Kremlin.
All of us? No. He was inviting ten “delegates.” But there were forty of us. We were told the room was not large enough. Arthur Gelb and Abe Rosenthal, Vitaly Korotich, editor in chief of
Ogonyok
, and other participants advise me to accept: better a meeting with ten than no meeting. I finally agree but make it clear that, in that case, I myself would remain in the hotel. The Soviet officials alternately cajole and threaten me to make me change my mind, but, not being a diplomat, I dig in my heels—either we shall all go or I shall stay among the uninvited. In the end, all of us go.

Gorbachev greets us affably. In his welcoming remarks he speaks mostly of his political successes, and literary, therefore commercial, ones. His book on perestroika has sold extraordinarily well: five million copies worldwide. In one year it has brought him $800,000, which means that in spite of everything his message is getting through. In my response I try to lighten the tension in the room by asking him three questions:

First, why is it that each time we meet it is always in an atmosphere of drama? (He smiles.)

Second, you are a writer, so am I. You are a Nobel laureate, so am I. Why are your books best-sellers and mine are not? (At last, he laughs.)

Third: First you became president, then you received the Nobel Prize. Would a reverse pattern be conceivable for me? (Here he laughs loudly and says: “I don’t advise it.”)

I go over the subjects that preoccupy us: ethnic hatred, religious fanaticism, the nuclear menace, the future of the regime, relations with Israel, anti-Semitism. I don’t conceal that I have met with Jews from Leningrad, Kiev, and other places who all live in anguish. He tries to reassure us. His answers are frank, unvarnished. Israel? He is happy to have renewed diplomatic relations with the Jewish state.
Pamyat
and anti-Semitism? In the past two years the situation has improved.

We were the last foreign visitors he received in the Kremlin as president of the USSR.

I was to see him a third time, six months later, in Haifa, where he had come to receive a humanitarian prize from the Technion Institute. The Soviet ambassador is to make a speech but excuses himself on Boris Yeltsin’s orders, or so we are given to understand.

Gorbachev is now an ordinary citizen without rank or title and no longer represents anything, except perhaps his vision of a liberated
world.
Sic transit gloria mundi
. He reminds me of Winston Churchill after his defeat at the polls in 1945. But Churchill was a great orator, and you couldn’t say that about Gorbachev. Also, Churchill had saved the world from Fascism. Had Gorbachev saved it from Communism? History will judge. In rereading these notes in 1996, I find myself thinking of the resurgence of the Communist party in Russia and other countries of Central Europe. Still, as we watch the successor of Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev, surrounded by Israeli flags flapping in the twilight, standing at attention as
Hatikva
is sung, all of us in the crowd cannot help but feel the winds of history. Surprised at first but then visibly pleased to see me again, he falls into my arms and kisses me on both cheeks. To his wife, Raissa, who doesn’t understand, he explains: “My last visitor in the Kremlin, do you remember? He’s the one.”