WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
 
 
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behind his wife who is pregnant and has to stay in bed for a few weeks. Our tickets read Paris-Casablanca-Paris. The airport at Rabat is closed because of the Arab summit meeting. We have telephoned a half-dozen hotels in Rabat; all are filled. We decide to spend the night in Casablanca and go by taxi tomorrow morning to Rabat. There we will get in touch with reporters and arrange a busy place for them to come and watch my distribution of the leaflets until my probable rapid arrest.

In Paris, Serge, Julien, and Elisabeth have secured three Moroccan telephone numbers: those of the Ministries of the Interior and of Information, and the Information Desk of the Hilton Hotel where the summit is being held, and which is practically out-of-bounds for journalists – they have just been brutally ejected from the opening session.

Marco and I pretend to be strangers during the flight. In Casablanca I show my French passport. The officer stamps the Moroccan entry visa right on the same page on which six Israeli visas interlace. They go through my baggage carefully. But it is obvious that they are looking for guns, not tracts. The inspector puts her hand into my bag, pulls out various objects, feels around the bottom, but doesn't take out a single tract. Ooh! That was a close one!

We each take a room at a big hotel. I am nervous and don't sleep well. At 7 A.M. we take a taxi. It would have been more cautious to have taken two taxis, but in such circumstances one feels as if one is in a whirlpool. One is drawn toward the center that is the moment of action, and one tends to be less and less cautious as the moment of truth approaches. As we leave the city, there is a police barrier. "Your passports." They take down our names but do not search us. Just in case, I had previously shoved the thick envelope of leaflets under the seat. Between Casa and Rabat we are stopped by police at six checkpoints. In the hotels the journalists are not yet up. I make an appointment to meet a few of them in front of the Ministry of Information at 12 noon exactly. There, on time, I begin handing out my leaflets. Some passers-by accept them, no doubt expecting the familiar party line. Then there is a double take. Two women turn back to me and say: "Slob, go do this in your own country."

Fortunately, two officials accept my tract and hasten into the Ministry. They come back with two guards who pull me inside the building, then come out once more to get two photographers. A
    
   
 
WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
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