WHEN PRESIDENT CARTER appoints me to head the newly created Holocaust Memorial Council, I foresee the difficulties awaiting us. By now I am no longer a novice. My most urgent task is to establish a list—once more. It seems as though one does nothing else in Washington. I ask Arthur Goldberg to stay on with me. He declines; he does not believe in the museum: “You’ll see, it will be created at the expense of Jewish remembrance.” He feels that it would be better not to embark on a project that he thinks can only end in compromise. “I am your friend,” he tells me. “I know Washington. This is not for us.” I beg him to change his mind, to trust me, without success. I am deeply sorry.
Still, there is no shortage of candidates. As during the establishment of the President’s Holocaust Commission, we must take into account the religious and geographical considerations that influence all decisions on the federal level. But even that is not enough, and the White House calls us to account. It seems we have forgotten a factor that politically weighs more heavily than the others—the ethnic factor. After all, we are on the eve of an electoral campaign.
We have the first alerts, the first disagreements. The Council membership list evidently displeases the White House; “too many Jews,” the President is rumored to have said. His adviser Stu Eizenstat exerts pressure on us along those lines. The new Council director, the eminent law professor and civil rights activist Monroe Freedman, acts as our liaison to the administration. A distinguished-looking man who has returned to traditional Judaism thanks to his wife, Audrey, a convert, Freedman impresses people with his graciousness and precision of thought. Unlike many others, he is not in awe of Washington or power, and his integrity prevents him from getting involved in political maneuvers. He expresses a pessimism that events eventually confirm. Example: We are asked politely but insistently to accept a Pole, that is, a non-Jewish American of Polish origin. His connection to the Tragedy? None. He is to represent the Polish nation, which, undeniably, has suffered as well.
So my friend Arthur had been right. I call an urgent meeting with my close collaborators and ask for their advice: Should we resist the pressures? For Frank Lautenberg, industrialist and future senator from New Jersey, compromise is unavoidable; he thinks that a rejection would signify the end of the project, the end of the memorial. “Sometimes,” he says, “if it is for a just cause, one may sell one’s soul to the devil.” Siggi Wilzig, a Jew from Berlin and a survivor of Auschwitz, flies into a rage and—fortunately—puts him in his place. In Miles Lerman’s view, if it were a Ukrainian he would say no, but a Pole, that’s something else, less serious. How is it less serious? The discussion leads nowhere. As for me, had the White House asked us to nominate a Pole who had been a deportee or had fought in the resistance, I would have said yes without hesitation; but I am opposed to the political argument that imposes on us the representative of one ethnic group or another. If we went along, tomorrow we could be pressured to accept a representative of any minority, be it Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Hungarian, or even German. More discussions follow, all just as sterile. Pressures from my fellow survivors weigh on my judgment. Finally, a majority favoring compromise takes shape. We shall have to trust the White House; after all, a council with minor political motivation is better than no council. And of course we can always resign later. I report the situation to Arthur. Predictably, he says: “I knew it; this is only the beginning. You can’t win with these people.” His predictions came true: After the Pole, a Ukrainian was recommended—I mean imposed on us—then a Hungarian, then a Lithuanian … all perfectly honorable men, worthy of our trust, but we have become part of the machine.
My displeasure is no secret. Neither is the administration’s. As a result, our relations with the White House deteriorate. As everywhere in a bureaucracy, there is no end to the intrigues. Cliques form and there is an attempt to pit me against some official or other; I no longer recall whom. Eizenstat is annoyed, and I am disappointed. It becomes more and more difficult to make decisions, even important ones. To be sure, Congress offers us unconditional support, but since Congress is dependent on the executive branch, for all practical purposes it is impossible to function.
The first internal crisis breaks out: Monroe Freedman feels compelled to dismiss his deputy. The latter, taking advantage of the fact that I was out of the country, allegedly engineered the hiring of a candidate with a questionable past. Monroe derailed the maneuver immediately. But because the deputy falsely informed the White House that I had approved the candidate, the administration concluded that I had gone back on my word—and was furious.
As a consequence of our tense relations with the White House, it becomes impossible to get the president to attend the second annual Day of Remembrance, and so it does not take place. Monroe and I exchange bitter letters with Eizenstat. We feel that he is politicizing the Council, and that our not having a ceremony that year is his fault.
The second conflict: One of our Council members is an American of Armenian origin; Set Momjian is among my closest collaborators. He is helping us commemorate the tragedy endured by his people during World War I. This, of course, angers the Turkish government, which threatens to revise its policy toward the United States and NATO. So here I am, to my great chagrin, mixed up in international politics. What a joke: If NATO falls apart, will it be our fault? But that’s Washington; there is no way to escape politics or comedy. Personally, I am pleased that an Armenian has a seat on the Council. I would be even more pleased if a Gypsy were there too.
But the business of nominations is not finished. Just as for the presidential commission, people are soliciting appointments from senators and congressmen who, in turn, exert pressure on us. Notables of both parties intervene. To be a Democrat is an advantage, to be a millionaire a trump card. Political connections are more important than personal merit. My proposals are rarely accepted. My points of view and those of the administration are too divergent. In the end, the Council will have sixty-five members, ten congressmen among them.
Eizenstat attends the inaugural session, which is less moving, less “historic,” than that of the Commission a year earlier. Our friend in Congress, John Brademas from Michigan, the Democratic whip of the House, administers the oath. My speech does not deal gently with the administration. I aim at members of Eizenstat’s staff without naming them; I make it clear that I find their manipulations deplorable. Colleagues try to calm me: They tell me that once the mechanism is in place, everything will be all right. I am not convinced.
So far, little is settled. For the moment, the White House has other worries, what with the hostage crisis in Teheran and the failure of the military action to free them. In Madrid for a conference, I am with Henry Kissinger as we witness the live broadcast of Jimmy Carter’s melancholy speech. He is clearly devastated, which is understandable: All those helicopters unable to take off, all those helpless military men. And those Iranian “students” tormenting their American prisoners, all the while mocking America. How can the Democrats hope to win the presidential elections after months and months of waiting and wallowing in indecision?
Was it true that at the start of the crisis an Israeli emissary had been dispatched to Washington to offer the president the good services of the Israeli army and the Mossad? Was it true that Israel, strategically well placed, had been ready to undertake a rescue operation in Teheran? And that Carter had refused? A thousand rumors are circulating in “well-informed” quarters. All, of course, quite unconfirmable.
If Carter had said yes he might well have been reelected. And so many things might have taken a different course.
The arrival of President Ronald Reagan brings about a change in our relations with the White House. During a visit to Los Angeles, I meet with Ted Cummings, adviser to the new president on Jewish affairs and future ambassador to Austria, who tells me in no uncertain terms that the composition of the Council will have to be altered. He suggests a collective resignation in order to reconstitute the Council on a new political foundation. “You must admit,” he says, “that not one member of the present Council is Republican!” He is right. And I am the only independent. “It is only fair,” Cummings continues, “for the Republican party to be represented.” Eventually he proposes a compromise—a partial resignation of the Council. I oppose it: “You can have my resignation right now. As for the others, you must handle that yourself.”
Legally, the administration cannot divest us of our functions before our term expires. In practice, though, it is inconceivable that anyone would stay on against the president’s wishes. That is the tradition: Every president must have the privilege of naming his collaborators and representatives on every level of the administration down to the most insignificant, such as ours. But I am stubborn: If the Council is touched, I’ll leave. It will not be touched, but in the upper echelons of the White House a resentment of me will linger for some time. From that moment on, Monroe Freedman’s counterpart will no longer be a high official but a subordinate.
Many of us feel that we are progressing too slowly. At the session of December 10, 1980, I express my position:
… The Event we are dealing with is unique, and our attitude toward it must be too. Not being a governmental agency like the others, we cannot follow their example. We lack experience. What seems clear and effective for the existing official commissions is not so for us. We are dealing with the most burning subject of our lives, and in our work we are establishing a precedent for History. Future generations will wish to learn what we, the witnesses and survivors, have done with our memories…. Our words and our acts will await the judgment of our children and of theirs…. That is why the rhythm of our efforts will be feverish but not foolhardy, passionate but prudent. Let us adopt the adage of the great French poet Boileau: “Let us make haste slowly.”
The Council must also deal with problems not directly connected with the creation of a museum. We meet to condemn the resurgence of anti-Semitism or to denounce the attacks on Jews in Europe. In fact, it is our “committee of conscience” that, according to our charter, should be in charge, but it is not working well. The committee may not be to blame; the Senate distrusts it because it fears we might make declarations and take initiatives that might be embarrassing to the executive branch.
Meanwhile, surprisingly, on a personal level, I develop a friendly relationship with the new president.
Our second annual Day of Remembrance, the first during President Reagan’s initial term, takes place not in the Rotunda but at the White House, for Ronald Reagan has just left the hospital. It is his first public appearance since the assassination attempt against him. The East Room is packed. The entire Washington who’s who is there. Six survivors light the six traditional candles. Cantor Isaac Goodfriend of Atlanta intones the customary prayers in memory of the victims. When my turn comes, I begin by giving thanks to God for sparing the president’s life. Then I read, in Yiddish (it is, I believe, the first time Yiddish has been heard in the White House), a poem that evokes the massacred Jewish children. I also speak of Israel, that people with a long history, which is also a modern people that should not be judged on isolated incidents. I conclude by addressing the president directly: “In our tradition, when a human being dies, we designate him our messenger on high to intercede in our favor. Is it possible, Mr. President, that the six million Jewish victims have become our messengers?”
The president is visibly moved. It seems that tears prevent his reading the speech that has been prepared for him. I watch him as, behind the lectern, he rearranges pages and goes on to improvise a magnificent speech against racism, anti-Semitism, and all forms of discrimination.
That same evening television commentators report: “Political circles in Washington were astonished today to hear President Reagan deliver a speech on human rights. But if one is to believe his closest advisers, he did not mean it. It was but an emotional reaction that …”
Marion and I look at each other, stunned. How dare these advisers disparage the president in this way? In politics, say my friends in the capital, anything goes.
Two weeks later, the telephone rings in my office. A well-modulated voice says: “Please wait a moment; the president of the United States would like to speak with you.” I am convinced it is a prank, until I hear the familiar warm voice. He says hello, and I am so taken aback that I can’t think of anything more intelligent to say than: “Mr. President, how did you find my phone number?” He bursts out laughing and keeps me on the line a good quarter of an hour. He begins by saying some nice things about my work. At the end he chuckles: “By the way, just so you know, I meant every single word in my speech.” Rumors about this conversation make the rounds of Washington dinner parties. After all, who but me would think of asking the president of the United States how he obtained a simple telephone number. This funny incident is followed by another, which has to do with France of the eighties.
A month later I attend the investiture of François Mitterrand as president of France. During the luncheon at the Élysée Palace, he voices a concern to me: He doesn’t know the Americans well, and they don’t know him either; they are bound to mistrust him and his political philosophy. On the flight home I ponder this. I wonder how, in some small way, I could be of assistance to the new president. A wild idea goes through my mind: Why not write a note to President Reagan? Through the Council office I send him a brief personal message in which I tell him that I consider it my duty as an American citizen to offer him a psychological sketch of his French counterpart. And I add this suggestion: “If you could ring him directly, simply to say hello and congratulate him, as you did with me, I am sure that will facilitate your future relations.” Did he receive my letter? The fact is I received no answer. Oh well, I thought, surely it vanished into one of the proverbial White House wastebaskets. From the Élysée too, silence. Never mind. So what if I made myself look ridiculous. Luckily no one knows.
Years later, a high official tells me that a secretary had indeed transmitted my letter to the president. And he had liked my suggestion. Call President Mitterrand? Why not. Only I had failed to mention that Mitterrand did not speak English. And Reagan has only a little French. An interpreter should have been called in. No matter: The two presidents succeeded in understanding each other. And during the meeting of the seven major economic powers that followed, their easy relationship surprised quite a few people.
When it comes to the affairs of my own Council, I am less lucky. My requests to meet with the president run into insurmountable obstacles, despite the fact that after every one of our conversations he expresses his wish to see me again: Strangely, Reagan’s aides have much power. But why would the prospect of my speaking with their boss bother them? Why would it worry them? I have no idea, but the door to the Oval Office remains firmly closed to me. It opens only four long years later, during the Bitburg affair.
End of October 1981: The international Liberators’ Conference—the need for which had become evident to me two years earlier in Moscow—takes place in the State Department with the participation of the secretary of state, General Alexander Haig, and the assistant secretary for human rights, Elliott Abrams. The opening session is both solemn and original: When American soldiers bring out German flags taken from the enemy and throw them at our feet, on the stage, even the toughest among the participants shiver. Present are representatives of some twenty countries, from both sides of the Iron Curtain, and this is the statement I make to them:
… Some thirty-six years ago, we lived together a moment marked by destiny, a moment without parallel, never to be measured or repeated; a moment that stood on the other side of time, on the other side of existence.
When we first met, on the threshold of a universe struck by a curse, we spoke different languages, we were strangers to one another, we might as well have descended from different planets. And yet a link was created between us, a bond was established. We became not only comrades, not only brothers; we became each other’s witnesses.
I remember, I shall always remember, the day I was liberated: April 11, 1945. Buchenwald. The terrifying silence broken by abrupt yelling. The first American soldiers. Their ashen faces. Their eyes—I shall never forget their eyes, your eyes. You looked and looked, you could not move your gaze away from us; it was as though you sought to alter reality with your eyes. They reflected astonishment, bewilderment, endless pain, and anger—yes, anger above all. Rarely have I seen such anger, such rage—contained, mute, yet ready to burst with frustration, humiliation, and utter helplessness. Then you broke down. You wept. You wept and wept uncontrollably, unashamedly; you were our children then, for we, the twelve-year-old, the sixteen-year-old boys in Buchenwald and Theresienstadt and Mauthausen, knew so much more than you about life and death. You wept; we could not. We had no more tears left; we had nothing left. In a way we were dead, and we knew it. What did we feel? Only sadness.
And also gratitude. And ultimately it was gratitude that brought us back to normalcy and to society. Do you remember, my friends? In Lublin and Dachau, Struthof and Nordhausen, Ravensbrück and Majdanek, Belsen and Auschwitz, you were surrounded by sick and wounded and hungry wretches, barely alive, pathetic in their futile attempts to touch you, to smile at you, to reassure you, to console you, and most of all, to carry you in triumph on their frail shoulders; you were our heroes, our idols. Tell me, friends: In your whole lives have you ever felt such love, such admiration?
One thing we did not do: We did not try to explain; explanations were neither needed nor possible. Liberators and survivors looked at one another—and what each of us experienced then, we shall try to recapture together, now, at this reunion, which, for me, represents a miracle in itself.
After describing the goals and the functioning of the Council, I go on:
… What we all have in common is an obsession: not to betray the dead we left behind or who left us behind. They were killed once; they must not be killed again…. You were the first free men to discover the abyss, just as we were its last inhabitants. What we symbolized to one another then was so special that it remained part of our very being….
… It would have been so easy for us to slide into melancholy and resignation. We made a different choice. We chose to become spokesmen for man’s quest for generosity and his need and capacity to turn his or her suffering into something productive, something creative.
We had hoped then that out of so much torment and grief and mourning, a new message would be handed down to future generations—a warning against the dangers inherent in discrimination in all its forms, fanaticism, poverty, deprivation, ignorance, oppression, humiliation, injustice, and war—the ultimate injustice, the ultimate humiliation. Yes, friends; we were naive. And perhaps we still are….
… If we do not raise our voice against war—who will? We speak with the authority of men and women who have seen war; we know what it is. We have seen the burnt villages, the devastated cities, the deserted homes; we still see the demented mothers whose children are being massacred before their eyes, we still follow the endless nocturnal processions to the flames rising up to the seventh heaven—if not higher….
We are gathered here to testify—together. Our tale is a tale of solitude and fear and anonymous death—but also of compassion, generosity, bravery, and solidarity. Together, you the liberators and we the survivors, represent a commitment to memory whose intensity will remain. In its name we shall continue to voice our concerns and our hopes, not for our own sake, but for the sake of humankind. Its very survival may depend on its ability and willingness to listen.
And to remember.
I have reproduced certain excerpts from this speech because I feel strongly about the circumstances that motivated it. I shall never forget the tears of the American soldier who, in what was called “the little camp,” discovered the result of absolute evil. My gratitude to him and all the other liberators of the camps remains deep and eternal. When I draw up the balance sheet of my life, the memory that binds me to them is paramount.
Yet even they pose a problem. There is one question, always the same, I ask American or Soviet officers: Did they ever modify a plan, or decide to launch an attack a day or an hour earlier, in order to liberate a concentration camp? The answer is always the same: no. Military operations were decided by headquarters; no one else could change orders.
How can one forget the liberators’ kindness, their warmth, the bewilderment, the horror reflected in their eyes, their sadness? Since our Washington conference, their acts of kindness have been commemorated in many communities—they have been congratulated; they have been urged to testify, to speak, to write; they have been the subjects of newspaper accounts, films. They have been honored and involved in the survivors’ effort to safeguard memory. I am proud to have been the one to initiate the process.
There is another international conference I like to recall: “The Courage to Care.” The idea had been Dr. Carol Rittner’s. This nun, who belongs to the order of the Sisters of Mercy, is one of the most dynamic women I have met. After Monroe Freedman’s departure, for political reasons—he was not from the “right” party—I proposed that she take over the direction of the Memorial Council. She agreed, but the White House refused. Because she was not a Republican? Nonetheless, we collaborated for many years, and she became the first director of the foundation I created with Marion after I received the Nobel Prize.
Her obsession is the Holocaust. It is the major topic of the courses she teaches in the university run by her order. Harsh in her judgment of the Catholic Church’s attitude during the war, she has great admiration and affection for those Yad Vashem calls “the righteous among the nations,” the non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. “Why not have the Council organize an important colloquium in their honor?” she asked one day. I liked the proposal, for not enough has been said about these men and women whose spirit of sacrifice saved mankind’s honor.
Seventy-five guests, Jews and Christians, from diverse backgrounds arrive to take part in this gathering. Like the Liberators’ Conference, it takes place at the State Department. This time it is Secretary George Shultz who participates in the opening ceremony. We witness the reunions of several “saviors” and those they saved. People are embracing, and there is much weeping in the corridors.
Gaby Cohen—we called her Niny long ago, in the Ambloy children’s home—has come to speak to us of the Jewish children hidden in France, and those who were helped to cross clandestinely into Switzerland. Madame Trocmé retells the glorious saga of her French village, Le Chambon, whose inhabitants risked their lives to save Jews. The widow of Pastor Martin Niemöller recalls the courageous deeds of her husband. His words about the dangers of indifference are famous:
When they came to look for the Catholics, I said nothing, since I am not a Catholic. Then they came to look for the trade-unionists; I said nothing since I am not a trade-unionist; then they came for the Jews, and not being a Jew, I said nothing. In the end, when they came to take me away, there was no one left to raise his voice.
Poles, Dutchmen, Belgians, Danes, Frenchmen, men and women of great courage, how could one not be moved in their presence?
And how could I forget the person who, on the eve of the first transport, had tapped on the window of our house, no doubt to warn us? I never succeeded in learning his identity: I would have so wished to invite him or her to this conference.
In my town, and throughout occupied Europe, such brave people were a tiny minority. Why were they so few, these just men and women who took the side of the victim?
I question them in every language I know. For me they are a unique species. They dared resist the oppressor, interfere with his misdeeds. They proved that it was possible to wrest the frightened prey from the killer, to encroach into the Kingdom of Death. Two questions are on my lips: What made you choose danger and heroism over resignation and waiting? And why were you so few? It is impossible to elicit any reasonable answers from them. Heroes, they? Why are we pestering them with these questions about heroism when they have done nothing extraordinary, nothing any other human being would not have done?
This reminds me of the marvelous story of a woman from Berlin whom Yad Vashem had honored for having risked her own life to save Jews. Turning to the journalists who were nagging her with questions about her motives, she said simply: “You want to know why I did it? Well, I’ll tell you: out of self-respect.”
Had I been there, I would have kissed her.
I confess: Of all the activities of the Memorial Council, except for the annual Days of Remembrance, the part I relish most is these personal meetings, discussions, conferences, the exchanges of ideas and recollections. The role of “soul matchmaker” suits me. I find it exciting to watch men and women of every background gathered around a table exchanging ideas, learning from one another just what it is that makes each of us unique. And sharing one goal: to make people understand why and how they must live together on this bedeviled planet. Dialogue: philosophical debates, religious discussions—if the Council had served only that purpose, dayyenu—it would have been enough.
On the other hand, some projects I’ve been involved in turned out badly. Among them, the 1982 colloquium on genocide and the journey to Bosnia. As for the American-German Commission, regretfully, it was short-lived. The Council had put together a sort of study committee that brought together American and German intellectuals. I had been assured that all of the Germans had impeccable pasts. Two annual meetings had been scheduled, one in New York and one in Berlin. The first took on a confessional tone; we had former deportees on one side and five German academicians and politicians on the other. True and painful words were spoken by Klaus Schutz, ex-mayor of Berlin and German ambassador to Israel, and Peter Petersen, a member of the Bonn parliament who admitted that he was once a member of the Hitler Youth. A philosopher spoke of his concern for truth. The atmosphere was one of confidence, sympathy.
As I arrive in Berlin with my delegation for the second session, I am keenly aware of the date: January 20. I mention this to our official hosts. They seem not to understand: “Oh that’s fine …,” they say. I repeat: “Today is January 20th, isn’t that symbolic?” Again, they nod: That’s fine. Does the date mean nothing to them? What about the Wannsee Conference? Don’t they know about the conference that took place not far from here on January 20, 1942? Oh yes, finally the Germans understand, make the connection. Can we see the site that holds such a notorious place in contemporary history? Impossible, they reply. Too complicated. The program is too full. Too many people to see, too many official meetings. And there is so little time.
Never mind; we go anyway. Is there a plaque at the entrance? I seem to remember that it makes no reference to the past. Long ago, before it was confiscated by the Gestapo, the villa had belonged to a Jewish family. It was here that, chaired by Reinhard Heydrich himself, and with the active collaboration of Adolf Eichmann, the infamous meeting of the high officials representing all the ministries of the Reich took place. Its purpose? To set down the principle and devise the strategy for the “Final Solution.”
I walk around the villa. I interrogate the walls, the ceilings: Let them testify, since the people remain mute. I mention our visit to Wannsee in my public speeches. The embarrassed officials promise to transform the villa into a museum of remembrance. I am told that they have kept their word.
Meanwhile, back in Washington, things are progressing slowly, much too slowly. There is no end to the intrigues and quarrels: overt and covert conflicts and clashes between personalities and ambitions, thirst for the pitiful power that supposedly is ours to give. Early on, to make everyone happy, I had authorized—on a provisional basis—the creation of some twenty committees. They are now a mess. While the plenary sessions continue to provoke worthwhile debates and analyses, petty skirmishes abound in the corridors. Nothing is forgiven. More and more often I find myself in the role of mediator, and I spend hours on the phone soothing angry factions. I am beginning to feel I am wasting my time.
And the problem of specificity versus universality in the Council is getting worse. It surfaces at every session. The theologian Robert McAfee Brown and other Christian philosophers understand the sensitivity of the issue. Others do not. And, of course, one must not expect unanimity from the Jews. To demonstrate to the Council his predilection for universality, a Warsaw survivor tells us one day that while he does not observe his mother’s yahrzeit, he does light a candle on the anniversary of the death of the Christian woman who hid him during the Occupation.
Every day the problem of finances becomes more acute. Session after session is devoted to it. Should we accept German contributions if Bonn offers them? The majority is against. Should we hire professional fund-raisers? Marion warns me against it. But the majority decides: yes. Everyone has a different opinion. This is not my area of competence. Let others handle that—Miles Lerman, for instance. He has been helping Israel Bonds for years. And of course there is Sigmund Strochlitz, who has successfully raised funds for Haifa University. As it happens, the two are friends. Together they call on wealthy and less wealthy potential donors. I accompany them when they go to see Henry Ford III and to a dinner with the governor of Texas. Optimistic expectations and rude disappointments follow one another. But what about the Jewish survivors? They should be among the first to contribute. Many, including some in New Jersey, could easily help. We organize a working lunch for them. Fifteen people attend. As a group they pledge $600,000, spread over several years. But we need tens of millions of dollars for architects, builders, engineers, librarians, all kinds of specialists. They all cost money that we don’t have.
Council Vice Chairman Mark Talisman and Hyman Bookbinder have succeeded in persuading Congress to assign to us a building that is close to the Mall, not far from the Lincoln Memorial, a most prestigious site. The site has a redbrick building, which seems appropriate because of its simplicity and the way it fits perfectly into the surrounding area. The interior will have to be redone, and it will require other repairs. Never mind; we’ll surely manage to raise the needed funds.
One night Miles and Sigmund wake me up at three in the morning; they are jubilant. They have good news that couldn’t wait. Miles has found the rara avis—a generous multimillionaire who is ready to finance everything. Everything? Absolutely. He knows what to do. All he wants is for us to trust him. In exchange he will deliver a building worthy of our hopes. Now that I am awake, Miles and Sigmund tell me I can sleep peacefully. But … it’s important that I meet him.
The next day I do meet him, as I have met other would-be saviors of the museum. They all love to talk, to listen to their own voices. The alleged savior has a wish: to make a speech in the course of a planned Evening of Remembrance at the Kennedy Center. And if not? Better not to upset him, say Miles and Sigmund. Well, all right, since the fate of the museum depends on it, let him say a few words. In the end, while he delivered a long-winded speech, our expectations that he might be our savior came to naught.
It doesn’t take long before Miles and Sigmund proudly announce their discovery of a new patron to replace the doctor/tycoon: Sonny Abramson, a well-known Washington entrepreneur. He is the image of success—silvery hair, eyes of steel. He wishes to help us. According to Miles and Sigmund, I “must” lunch with him. If things go well, our worries are over.
Sonny makes rather a good impression. His common sense is evident. Even though he is not a member of the Council, he offers us his total support. He speaks like the other, only his voice is deeper. Like the other one, he says that he wants nothing, he simply has faith in us and in our mission. If we just tell him what to do, he’ll take care of everything having to do with the renovation. We are told that he has connections in high places and can put them to work. His best friend is an influential member of Congress.
An alliance is forged, and at first it’s a honeymoon. God is great and the work goes forward. Everybody is happy. Miles, Sigmund, Sonny—the perfect trio. Miles attends to fundraising, Sigmund watches over programming, Sonny deals with the technical research and preparatory work for the building. Finally, we have peace. Rather than six, I spend only two hours a day on the telephone, settling problems that are really outside my sphere of competence.
One day, in the usual manner—Sonny tells Miles, who alerts Sigmund, who rings me—I receive a shattering piece of news: The building is worthless; it is so rotten inside that it is in danger of collapse. Repairs would cost a fortune; better to demolish it and start thinking in terms of a new building.
I see it as a tragedy. I liked this simple brick building. In fact, we all liked it. It is interesting to read what my colleagues on the Council said about it in plenary session. Some thought it reminded them of the blocks at Auschwitz. Others praised its simplicity: What could be more ordinary than red brick? They thought it efficient. Harmonious. A group of specialists devise a detailed plan, a “Red Book” for the museum. The plan is impressive in its precision, its details, and its creative imagination. Everything is ready; construction could begin. But now, if Sonny is right, we’ll have to start from scratch. We discuss the matter with him and his congressman friend. We talk with numerous building contractors and architects. I feel sad about abandoning the building. If we could have used it, the museum could have been ready soon, in two years at the most. And it would have been financially manageable. But Sonny is stubborn; he insists on the need to demolish it. After all, he is the expert. Finally the ritual resumes: Sonny puts pressure on Miles, who persuades Sigmund, who succeeds in convincing me. The building will be demolished. The page is turned.
From that moment on, Sonny’s position becomes ever more important. He seems irreplaceable when it comes to the construction of a new building. He introduces us to one of his friends, Harvey “Bud” Meyerhoff, a wealthy businessman from Baltimore. The two form a pair just as Miles and Sigmund do, though the chemistry between them is not always good. We run into problems of authority: Who has the power to decide? Theoretically it is Sigmund, since he is chair of the development committee. Sonny objects, arguing that he lives in Washington, Sigmund does not, and there are decisions to be made every day, decisions that cannot wait, certainly not for the next meeting. We swim in discussions, debates, countless crises. I establish new infrastructures, new committees and subcommittees. Our emissaries travel around the country in search of donors, museum specialists, educators, and archivists. We go from meeting to meeting, from ceremony to ceremony. They all begin to seem alike. And time passes.
To my friends I confide my ever more serious doubts. Should I resign? Had I made a mistake when I opposed President Carter, who wanted only a monument?
Sonny is charged with finding the best possible architect to prepare a design. He falls back on architects working for him. For my part, I invite an Israeli architect, Zalman Einav, to submit plans.
It is now 1985. The year of the Bitburg affair.