Kano had a very broad vision, of which judo was only a part. He was much more than just a judoka: he taught philosophy, law, economics… He was a scholar and was very active in numerous fields. He created the Kodokan in Tokyo with the idea that it would be a place where people could come to learn judo, its form, and the concept behind his judo. He believed that judo could foster universal dialogue. His ambition was to spread it across the world. He had established contacts in various places for this purpose. In Europe and the United States, he gave lectures on judo and his entire doctrine: the improvement of the individual, the brotherhood of men. He sought to unite people. It was a grand ambition. Unfortunately, Kano passed away too soon. On his return from Europe in 1938, he was on a ship where he caught bronchitis, a cold, and died of pneumonia. He needed another ten years to fulfil his vision.

What could he have accomplished in those ten years?

He probably had the idea of sending disciples outside Japan, but it never materialised. He wanted to share this with everyone, but he was never able to do so because, in fact, he was alone. The people who were with him were neither sufficiently committed, advanced, nor willing to continue his work. After him, judo was led in a different direction. His son succeeded him, and even now, his grandson is at the head of the Kodokan, but it’s no longer the same. Kano’s vision was lost upon his death. Neither in his descendants nor among his students was there anyone capable of continuing his entire project.

I thought Jigoro Kano had sent judoka all over the world to spread judo?

Kano didn’t send anyone. The Japanese who established judo abroad did so on their own initiative, motivated by personal reasons. This was viewed very poorly in their country: they had difficulty obtaining visas to leave Japan. At the time, one needed to justify their departure with significant reasons, whether commercial or political. Those who left despite the difficulties were considered adventurers by their compatriots. In a way, this was true. Some of the Japanese who came to France were thugs in Japan who only thought about fighting. I remember that Tadashi Abe was missing two fingers on one hand. Sano, too, who came to give lessons with me in Belgium, had missing fingers. He was a fighter, having received knife wounds and other such injuries. They weren’t the only ones; there were quite a few thugs in judo. People who were very effective but were only in it for the fight.

One of the first to arrive in France, the one who introduced judo here, was Mikinosuke Kawaishi. Did you know him as well? Was he one of these adventurers?

Yes, Kawaishi was an adventurer. He was a 4th dan when he left Japan to travel the world. He spent some time in the Americas: in California, New York, and South America. He did many things in the United States: he issued challenges, met boxers, including world champion Jack Dempsey… He took great risks with his challenges, and he always found a way to win. He always managed to come out on top. From what I’ve heard, he left America in a hurry because he feared for his life. He arrived in England, where he joined another expatriate, Mr Koizumi.

Was Koizumi establishing judo in England?

Yes, either just before or around the same time as Mr Yukio Tani. I met Koizumi later when I went to England.

Kawaishi didn’t stay long in England?

No, he stayed for three years, had another adventure, and had to leave. He went to France. Upon his arrival in Paris, Kawaishi gathered information. There was a club on Rue du Renard called the Club des Juifs, which Moshe Feldenkrais managed. It was almost the only club that existed in 1935.

Was it really called the Club des Juifs?

That’s what it was called, at least. It wasn’t strictly a judo club. Judo and jujutsu weren’t very distinct at the time.

Did you know Feldenkrais?

No, I only saw him a few times. But my uncle knew him well and spoke to me about him. My uncle was the deputy director of the École des Travaux Publics, where Feldenkrais worked: he was a scientist, a physicist. This was in the early 1930s, before I started practising judo. Feldenkrais was passionate about physical education; he wrote numerous technical works on the subject. He was mainly knowledgeable in jujutsu. He started teaching jujutsu with a bit of judo at the École des Travaux Publics on Rue Thénard. It was basic judo, somewhat like children’s judo today, but it was still judo. His students included other scientists, the couple Joliot-Curie, and Paul Bonét-Maury, who later became the first president of the first Fédération Française de Judo…

Moshe Feldenkrais seemed distinctly different from the Japanese adventurers. Was he closer, in his teaching approach, to Jigoro Kano’s vision?

Yes, Feldenkrais had many ideas; he was truly remarkable. When Mr Kano came to France in 1936, Feldenkrais sought to meet him. Kano only stayed a few days to give a judo demonstration. Feldenkrais had some difficulty but managed to speak with him. Later, he told me about their conversation. Feldenkrais said to Kano: “I practise judo and don’t know it too well, but I know some things, and I think they have value.” So Kano asked him to demonstrate what he knew. Feldenkrais demonstrated a few moves. Kano acknowledged that it was good and awarded him a black belt, even a second dan. Based on his knowledge, he judged that Feldenkrais had earned this recognition. Until then, Feldenkrais had no rank in judo. That’s how Kano made him the representative of judo in France.

What changed with Kawaishi’s arrival?

Kawaishi began teaching in his club, benefiting from everything Feldenkrais had set up. Since Feldenkrais was a modest man, he let Kawaishi take the lead, and it was Kawaishi who became known. The Judo Club de France on Rue de Sommerard became his own club. Judo began to be structured at that time. He developed a teaching method, trained students, and awarded the first black belts. All those who taught afterwards were Kawaishi’s students: de Herdt, Levannier, Pelletier, Beaujean, Andrivet, London, Malaisé. Mr Kawaishi was an excellent judoka; he had enormous talent. His judo was very effective and well-executed.

You weren’t a judoka yet at that time. What led you to judo?

The idea of judo came to me after watching American films featuring a Japanese character, Mr Moto. Mister Moto wasn’t really Japanese; he was an American named Peter Lorre. He starred in adventure and detective films where he would dispose of his opponents using judo. I found it particularly impressive. I had already seen wrestling and boxing, but I had never seen judo. Watching it was something spectacular that seemed almost supernatural to me. This was before the war, in the late 1930s. I sought to learn judo, but I was a student and had little money…

You weren’t particularly wealthy?

I had a lot of difficulties at the time. And there were still very few judo clubs in Paris. Maybe three or four; it wasn’t known at all, and there was no advertising. You really had to search. At the law school where I studied, I had a friend who shared this passion. He would come to my place, and together we tried to practise something. It was a mix of wrestling, boxing, and judo… Then the war came in 1939. I was mobilised, and our plan to practise judo was put on hold. In 1942, when I was demobilised from military service and the war, I returned to Paris. I was rather destitute. My mother had a restaurant at the time, where I now live on Quai d’Anjou, and I helped her at the restaurant. With the German Occupation, I had to be cautious because there was a high risk of being taken to Germany.

For the S.T.O.?

Yes, the S.T.O. I had to hide because the Germans, or rather the French police, came to my home to take me away. So I was looking for work on the sly, while also seeking the opportunity to do judo. I joined the Resistance on Île Saint-Louis and lived in hiding.

What was this clandestine life like?

I had to be careful when entering my home because it was possible there were police outside. I lived in a room on the fourth floor; sometimes I would enter through the neighbouring courtyard and pass into my home via the roofs. I would look around, and when there was no one, I would jump across the small courtyard and climb up. To leave, it was the same; I would climb onto the small roof at the corner of my building, go down into the neighbouring courtyard, and exit that way.

Then one day, I received a phone call from my friend. He told me he had found a judo club and gave me the address. It was far from my home, near Avenue Victor Hugo. I took my bicycle and went there.

You discovered a dojo for the first time?

I arrived there, a bit anxious because I had no idea what I would find. I went up to the first floor, where there was a large door. I heard noise behind it. I knocked. No response. I waited a minute, two minutes. I knocked harder: “Come in!” So I slowly opened the door, entered, and saw people on a tatami, in kimonos, of course. I entered, closed the door, stayed there, and watched. The instructor, Mr Andrivet, had a somewhat distant and haughty attitude that instructors of the time adopted to command respect. Perhaps half an hour later, he came to see me: “Sir, do you want something?” I told him I would like some information about practising judo. He made me wait again, and at the end of the lesson, he said: “If you want to do judo, you can come twice a week for one hour each time. You choose your hours and days and stick to them. If you don’t come, you can’t make up for it on another day; you must be on the mat at the set time and leave at the set time; if you’re late, you don’t participate in the class.” He told me the price, which was quite high. I agreed and started going there. I began learning judo. I wasn’t disappointed. But I was a bit surprised because it was quite different from what I had imagined from watching films. It was very interesting.

How old were you at that time?

I remember the date well; it was in June 1943. I was 24 years old.

And during the war, was this judo hall officially open? It wasn’t clandestine?

It was a completely normal club. During the Occupation, we were mostly undisturbed. I went to training with a friend. He would stay at my place, and we would go to judo by bicycle, in Paris. It was the only means we had.

Did you ever see Germans at the judo club?

No, except for one day. A soldier came; he was a Georgian in the German army. He was an enormous man, a colossus. He asked Mr Andrivet if he could participate. Mr Andrivet lent him a kimono and invited him onto the mat. He threw him around a bit, then continued on the ground. There, he showed him immobilisations, strangles, and then put him in an arm lock, with his arm extended. The Georgian started laughing as he bent his arm. So Andrivet redid the arm lock, turning the hand slightly to find the pressure point. The Georgian kept laughing and continued to resist. Suddenly, we heard a sound like a whip crack: the ligament had snapped. The German wasn’t laughing anymore. We never saw him again.

Did the context of the war, the need to fight, to resist, provide an additional reason to learn judo?

That had nothing to do with judo! I was already a Resistance fighter before I started judo; there was no connection. I never mixed judo with that. Judo was something separate. I never drew a parallel between combat and judo.

Do you remember the first lessons you took, the first difficulties you encountered when you started learning judo?

I don’t remember any difficulties. I liked what I was told to do, and I did it. I didn’t do it well, not perfectly, but it wasn’t difficult. I didn’t really have any difficulties like I see today with my students, as I’ve always seen afterwards. I didn’t question it.

Did the difficulties come later?

No, because I didn’t see them as obstacles or difficulties. It’s simply that it didn’t work. It didn’t work, and it didn’t bother me. It took me a long time before I managed to score an ippon. The first time I was a green belt. At the end of each month, we had a line competition in the club: the first would face the second, if he won, he would face the third, and so on until he was beaten. I had been doing this competition since I was a white belt, like everyone else. I didn’t do much: I would step onto the mat, bow, and then fall. And one day, I scored an ippon. I didn’t know why or how, but I performed a technique perfectly. I didn’t understand what had happened. Mr Andrivet told me it was hiza-guruma. And from that success onwards, I scored ippons more and more easily. I also started to see the importance of the ippon. Before, I just did the exercise; it worked or it didn’t, but there wasn’t the importance of succeeding.

It’s curious because, initially, what motivated you when you watched Mister Moto was a certain effectiveness, a certain success?

But that had been forgotten in the meantime. That’s what motivated me to seek out judo; I would think about it occasionally. But what motivated me wasn’t that anymore; it was the practice itself.

What was motivating about it?

It was a simple, rational, and effective practice.

What form did the lessons take?

The instructors of that time only taught for an hour. They followed Mr Kawaishi’s method. It was very strict. There was first a learning of throwing techniques. Then the instructor would say: “Repetition of all the leg movements!” We would repeat all the leg movements. Before we had finished, he would say: “Now you do all the hip movements!… now this movement!… Followed by repetitions.” Similarly, there was a brief learning of ground techniques. Then falls. Then a bit of jujutsu. All this in one hour, it was short. We were always left wanting more. So much so that at the end of the lesson, we were eager to come back for the next session to start again. We hadn’t had time to understand or accomplish what we had been told. And it went on like that for a long time.

But then the progress was very slow?

Yes and no. We didn’t notice because we were always eager. Under those conditions, you don’t even realise whether you’re succeeding or not. What was very enjoyable was the randori, two or three minutes of free practice.

How much did you know about the theory of judo? Did the instructors refer to the writings or words of Jigoro Kano? Were his principles taught?

Yes, later on. That is, it came gradually. When you arrived in a dojo, it was austere. There was nothing in the dojo, no sign or anything. But there was always a photo of Kano. After a while, you would ask: “Who is this gentleman?” Then the instructor would explain a bit. In fact, it wasn’t talked about much; there had to be an opportunity for it. It was more often discussed from the black belt onwards. Occasionally, what was called a “mondo” was organised: the students would sit around the tatami and ask the instructor questions about judo. This didn’t happen often because it took time away from the lesson, and we had very little time.

Where did you get your information about Kano and judo?

Henri Plée’s publishing house was the main source. It was an office located on the second floor of a building on Avenue de Clichy. I would go there often to try and find documents, books. Many came from England. I would browse them, read them on-site. There was a very well-made magazine called the Revue du judo Kodokan, which somehow managed to publish translations of Japanese articles.

Did your instructor, Mr Andrivet, also hold mondos?

Yes, he did hold mondos. They were interesting moments, but very rare. They happened once by chance when someone expressed a desire to know certain things. At that point, Mr Andrivet would organise a mondo.

Did you continue this practice later on?

No. I never really organised mondos in my club. It often happened that someone wanted to know more about a particular subject. So, at the end of the lesson after randori, sometimes in the changing room, we would start talking.