few minutes later we are put into police cars and
taken to headquarters. The inspectors confiscate the journalists' film. The
Chief of Police, Foreign Section, a little man some forty years old, begins a
long interrogation. He is looking for, hoping for, a conspiracy. He would have
wished the tracts to have been printed in Morocco. I tell him how I got them
into the country. Examining my passport where Moroccan, Israeli, even Syrian
visas are juxtaposed, he cannot conceal his anger at the laxity of the airport
police. "Are you alone?" "Yes." By the end of a half hour his courtesy is
giving way to rage. He has received reports from the checkpoints between Casa
and Rabat. "You lied to me. You are not alone. Who is this Marc P ? He's
your lover, your accomplice ... " and I hear him telephone an order for Marc's
arrest. I hope Marc gets away! The interrogation goes on, but I've been through
this before. I always tell the truth. I have nothing to hide. They take me to
the criminal police; line-up photographs, fingerprints, new interrogation. Back
to the Foreign Section police. Hours go by. |
As for Marc, as soon as he
saw I was being arrested, he ran to the post office, got Serge on the
telephone, and, dejected and in his blue jeans jumped into a bus and got away.
He spends the night in a flophouse in Tangiers and in the morning, unnoticed by
the border police, enters Spanish Morocco in the midst of a crowd of natives.
Then by ferry to Spain, by train to Madrid, by plane to Paris.
Paris, Serge and our friends immediately telephone the Moroccan ministries for
information about "the Klarsfeld affair"; they introduce themselves as West
European journalists. The incident has been broadcast on the radio. At 8 P.M.
my policeman informs me: "They are worrying a lot about you in Europe." Those
words are a comfort to me. A few minutes later he says: "You are going to be
expelled. There is a plane at 2 A.M." Thank God! A car comes for me with three
police officers. How often have I already taken a ride with three policemen!
Berlin, Cologne, Munich, Warsaw, Prague, La Paz; sometimes on my way to jail,
sometimes going to the border and freedom. At Casablanca there is no 2 A.M.
plane. I stretch out on a bench between two policemen who watch over my
At 9:30 A.M. I get on the plane, the very one on which I had
a reservation, and arrive at Orly at noon. There is no one to meet me, as the
Moroccans chose not to reveal they were expelling me before I was back in
Paris. You can imagine the joy of my family