Leon Uris and the Power of Words (by Larry Epstein)

It's been fifty years since the film version of Exodus was released. I first read the book when I was thirteen, and, though I didn't know history well enough to grasp the full power of the words, I was entranced by the story of Israel's struggle for re-birth.

I met Leon Uris some years later, thirteen years before his death in 2003. By then I was familiar with the Holocaust and Jewish history, and I had visited Israel. I also knew that the literary establishment had dismissed Uris as a propagandist at worst and a producer of a document rather than a novel at best. Uris had overcome a lot of writing self-doubt. He had failed English three times in high school. When I saw him, he pulled out a yellowed, folded piece of paper from his wallet. It was a composition he had written in sixth grade. The teacher had written a particularly brutal comment. Despite his international fame, Uris still carried a wound.

Later, I contacted him asking about the most inspirational story in his life for a book I was writing. He suggested a story about how Exodus had been received in the Soviet Union in the years after its initial publication in 1958. Because of anti-Semitism and Soviet support for nations opposing Israel, the Soviets had banned the book. Members of Israel's embassy staff smuggled copies of the book through diplomatic pouches and distributed the novel to Jewish underground activists. At the time, duplicating machines were illegal for Soviet citizens, so translators typed the book a page at a time (there were 626 pages in the hardcover version) making as many carbon copies as possible.

Exodus had an extraordinary effect on Soviet Jews. For many of them, the novel was their first encounter with Jewish tradition and history. They had learned that Jews were cowards, but in those pages Jews were heroes. The Soviet Jews who read the book became instant Zionists and felt deeply connected to their still budding Jewish lives. The book was a master narrative for them, a counter-history to all they had been taught about themselves. In it, they found for the first time a positive image of Jewish life, of their ancestors, of Israel, of their families, of their friends, of their own beings. Whatever a great novel is, surely Exodus qualifies in the sense that its power changed lives, re-framed identities, instilled pride, and profoundly stirred elemental human passions.

Leon Uris did go to the Soviet Union. It was that visit that he called his most inspirational moment. Many Soviet Jews were particularly enthused about the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah which celebrates the completion of the annual reading of the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. For Soviet Jews, the holdiay came to symbolize their public assertion that they were Jewish. With twenty thousand people in the streets outside the synagogue, and thousands more inside, Uris made his way to the seat set aside for him. To prevent publicity, the State-run television cameras turned off as he walked. Even the rabbi looked nervous because Uris was so prominent a Zionist. Someone rushed to the microphone and announced that Uris was in the synagogue. There was a gasp followed by loud cheering. Uris was asked to carry a Torah around the synagogue, but, overwhelmed by the reaction he had received, he declined. He was seated next to Connie and Joe Smukler, a couple from Philadelphia. Connie turned to Uris and said, "Leon, just because you didn't write it doesn't mean that you can't carry it."

Uris agreed, and, holding the Torah, he walked into the crowd. Hands reached out to touch the scrolls and Uris. The crowd began kissing both. People wept so much that Uris said he felt as though he almost drowned in a sea of tears.