The Forgotten

by Elie Wiesel

  In Jerusalem the four underground movements maintained their independent ways. Each kept its own infrastructure, its cadres, its bases. They collaborated, often successfully, on important objectives. All four were represented in the Jewish quarter of the Old City. All four knew they had to reinforce the last combatants there, men and women who could take it no longer. “Out of ammunition … three cartridges per man … a lot of wounded … a lot of dead … it’s a matter of days—no, hours.” What could be done? The Israeli army was fighting on all fronts—to the north, to the south—and the survival of the fledging state hung on every shot fired. By what right did we sacrifice these rather than those? At all levels commanding officers were desperate: we have got to do something for the Old City, but what? Launch a counterattack? With what weapons? For the moment, the problem was to save the Jewish fighters in the Jewish quarter. Or at the very least to send in reinforcements.

  On May 23 or so I attended an emergency war council in a Lehi camp. There were about fifty of us. Our commanding officer—was it Yiftah? I can’t remember anymore—told us how grave the situation was. If no help broke through, the Jewish fighters would have to surrender. We’d need somebody who knew the Old City, the Jewish quarter. Maybe somebody who remembered a secret entrance. One voice rose above the rest: “I’m your man.” I was startled, we were all startled: it was Absalom. I felt like laughing—this was a man? He was a boy. Not even bar mitzvah yet. “I used to live in the Jewish quarter,” Absalom said. “I know every crevice. I even remember an underground tunnel; my grandfather showed it to me. He was a great cabbalist, my grandfather. He said the Messiah would use that tunnel. If you want, I can find it for you.” Yiftah—was it Yiftah?—took a good look at the boy, called him closer, patted his head and thought it over in silence. Absalom stood easy, calm, sure of himself and his skills.

  “All right,” Yiftah said, “find the tunnel. But—”

  He broke off; we held our breath; had he changed his mind? “You’re not going in alone. I want somebody to go with you.”

  Arms shot up; everybody volunteered. Everybody but me. And yet Yiftah chose me. “You have a precious ID. You’re practically part of the diplomatic corps. If anything happens to you, you’ll have a better chance of talking your way out of it.” Argue with him? It would have been unworthy. But … I thought of Talia, of her child, our child. Had I the right to run this risk? Had I the right to turn it down?

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Absalom told me. “We’ll do just fine. I promise.”

  Yiftah added, “You’ll leave tonight. Two in the morning, all right?” Absalom said it was all right, and I looked at my watch. Eight in the evening. I had time to go home, kiss Talia, hug her parents. “Is it all right?” Yiftah granted permission.

  Talia suspected nothing and asked no questions. Nor did her parents. We made polite conversation: the situation on the various fronts, news from the United Nations, the glorious behavior of certain rabbis, openly violating the Sabbath to work on the city’s fortifications. Talia was paler than usual and her father less talkative. I wanted to be alone with Talia and to tell her, “Talia, Talinka, if I die, don’t wear mourning forever. Do it for our son. He’ll want his mother to be happy.” But I didn’t say a word. Was it because I had premonitions that matters would turn out otherwise? I don’t know. Our last evening together was punctuated by endless silences. Now and then I took her hand and squeezed it tightly. Or I looked into her eyes and smiled sadly. We said good-bye at midnight. I found myself back in the street, my heart heavy; I was thinking that I’d never see her again—meaning I was going to die. I never did see her again, and yet I am still alive.

  Absalom took my hand as we moved toward the Old City. The ghetto in Stanislav came back to my mind. We slipped in and out of houses. I was totally confused by all the doors opening and closing. Were we in a cellar? An attic? We seemed to be walking across rooftops when we were actually crossing a narrow courtyard. Was fear doing this to me? I was sweating; it ran down my back. Absalom pulled me along, and I followed him meekly. Ask him to slow down? I’d have been ashamed. He might have told his grandfather, the cabbalist. “You won’t believe this, Grandpa, but the guy they gave me for a partner said he was tired.” No, Absalom, don’t say that. I am no coward.…

  How long had we been walking in the dark? I had no idea.

  Absalom stopped suddenly and whispered to me, “This is the Hurva, Rabbi Yehuda Hehassid’s synagogue.” Half demolished. He went as far as the ruins and came back: nobody there, he said. We continued on our way. Another stop. This was the prophet Elijah’s synagogue. We listened. We heard noises inside. Absalom knocked very gently. A voice asked, “Who is it?” Absalom answered. The door opened.

  We were greeted like saviors. They shook hands with us, clapped us on the shoulder, offered us brandy, promised us paradise. Suddenly I realized that we’d stumbled into the Jewish quarter’s last line of defense. “Come over here,” said a voice. It was an officer who wished to debrief us. I couldn’t see his features in the darkness, but his voice seemed familiar. I couldn’t quite place it. He asked specific and incisive questions: Where were the reinforcements? Why the delay? And the medical supplies? And the ammunition? I heard the voice, it penetrated, it nagged at my soul; that voice must own a face. But it was still dark. Dawn was on the way. It arrived. I saw the face: impossible! Itzik, my wartime comrade, my close friend, my sworn enemy. Itzik, faithful companion, ruthless rapist. A hallucination? I shook myself: no, I was awake, all right. Itzik got over his surprise in a hurry. He was an officer and would complete his mission whatever the cost. He’d hold this position to the last man, but he wanted to know, he had to know, what was happening across the lines, in the new city. “Do they realize how bad it is here? Do they know the civilians are exhausted and want us to surrender unconditionally?” I forced myself to answer: they realized everything, they knew everything, they were doing their best.… Absalom said shyly, “I’ll go back the way I came and bring reinforcements in.” Itzik was incredulous and asked, “Do you really know a secret passage?”

  I confirmed it; this little Yemenite Jew was something special. I loved him like a brother. I’d always loved Yemenites, with their hearts of gold.

  “Good,” Itzik said. “You rest, Absalom, and—”

  Absalom refused. “Every minute counts,” he said. “I’d rather leave right away.” And he asked me, “Are you coming?” I wanted to say yes, but Itzik’s presence changed everything; buried deep within me were words I had to say to him, words that had waited years.

  “You won’t leave before nightfall,” Itzik ordered Absalom. “Get some rest. That’s an order.” The little Yemenite obeyed. He stretched out on a cot and fell asleep in seconds. “You too,” Itzik told me. “Try to sleep. I have things to do.” I pulled a blanket over me but didn’t sleep a wink. Toward noon I sat in on a meeting of officers and leaders of what remained of the community. Some of, them, courageous, preached resistance to the end. Others, no less courageous but more realistic, advocated a cease-fire. “We can evacuate the children and the sick,” Itzik told them. “There’s an underground passage.…” No one believed him. “Absalom here came in that way yesterday. Elhanan, too.” He turned to me: “Tell them.”

  I told them. An old rabbi said, “It’s possible. Miracles happen. When Moses fled the pharaoh’s court, an angel struck the Egyptians deaf and dumb. The same angel can do the same thing here.” The community leaders repaired to the cellar to talk things over, while the soldiers went to battle stations. The Jordanians kept up a continuous fire; our men answered, trying not to waste ammunition. From time to time we heard a shout: “Yaakov’s wounded! Help, quick! Berakhya, watch out, get down!”

  Late in the afternoon two rabbis were authorized to request an audience with the Jordanian commanding officer.

  They sought permission to bury our dead. By both Jewish and Koranic law, the dead must not spend a night within walls. Permission granted. I heard the rabbis chanti
ng their lamentations. I thought, If I die now, they will also chant for me. Absalom was waking up; I looked at him in the half-light. Would my son be like him? I hoped so. Brave, reliable Absalom: I admired his courage as much as his wisdom, and I knew that in the Old City children were heroic. There was the story of a twelve-year-old boy who managed to set up and fire the only heavy machine gun the defenders had. Without these boys and girls, fearless messengers fleet as the wind, the Jewish quarter would long since have fallen into enemy hands. I’d heard that a boy of ten saved his commanding officer by dragging him through the rubble to a field hospital, after which he hurried back to the front.

  Even in the time of the Talmud the sages boasted about the intelligence, courage and passion of Jerusalem’s children. Today, in this war without hope, no poet could devise a language rich enough to sing their praises.

  Absalom, Absalom: only King David deserves to say how proud we were of you. Only he could give voice to the anguish that gripped me as I watched you prepare to move out.

  “Can I leave now?”

  “Not before midnight,” Itzik said.

  Absalom went back to sleep. And I felt a need to watch over him; and a need to pray to God to watch over all his friends, all those children who were defying death itself.

  “I’m going with him,” I told my onetime friend and enemy.

  “All right.”

  We seemed to have said all there was to say. Nothing to do now but wait. Some of us were dozing. Others were day-dreaming.

  Abruptly Itzik rose and came over to sit by me. At last, I thought. Time for a frank discussion. Why did he wait till now? Because death was lurking? Because this might be the last time we would speak? Itzik chatted idly. He didn’t know how to broach the subject. Finally he plunged in. “Are you still angry?”

  “Not angry. That’s not the word.”

  “What is the word?”

  “Disappointed. Disgusted.”

  “Then you can’t forget.”

  “No, I can’t forget.”

  I saw us back there, back then: him, sprawled on top of that poor woman; and me, standing by, a useless protester.

  “Why did you do it, Itzik?”

  “I told you. For revenge.”

  “But she hadn’t done anything to you!”

  “No, she hadn’t. But her husband had, and his accomplices, and all her people.”

  “And you punished her because of them?”

  “She was there, and the others weren’t. They told me her husband was a sadistic son of a bitch, and to me she stood for him and all his filthy ways.”

  Go on in this vein? What good would it do? He knew my questions, and I knew his answers. Nothing would reconcile us. I thought so then, and I think so now. We do not make one human being suffer for the sins of another. Jewish morality forbids it. Vengeance is God’s alone. King David reminds us of that in his psalms. Had Itzik repudiated King David? Had he hurled his Bible into the trash? The sons shall not be punished for the sins of their fathers, nor the wives for the sins of their husbands.

  “How could you do it?” I asked him in a whisper. “How could you betray my admiration for you? My trust? How could you shame our cause by shaming a defenseless woman? How could you blaspheme, and betray the whole meaning of our struggle? On the eve of our victory over evil, how could you commit evil and call it glory?”

  I saw him stiffen in the gloom. Itzik the Long seemed twice my size. He remained silent.

  “And the divine image we all bear within us—what did you do to it? And the letter of the Torah that every one of us embodies—where did you leave it? And the Law that demands of us justice as much as mercy—how did you get around that?”

  Itzik never moved a muscle.

  “You, the fearless partisan, how could you stoop so low? You, a proud and inflexible Jew, how could you show such cowardice?”

  The sorrow and anger of the past had come back to me. I wanted to hurt him badly, to shame him deeply. But I had to control myself: The enemy was not far. I had to speak softly. Even as I whispered I felt I was shouting, that heaven and earth heard my cries. The accused stood mute. Even after I’d finished blaming him, condemning him, he said nothing. He waited for me to continue, to go even further. And in the face of his silence I astonished myself by taking up his defense. In my mind, of course. Doesn’t the Talmud teach us not to judge our friends until we have put ourselves in their place? Only then can we perhaps understand their true motivations. Only then can we put justice on a basis of truth. It is always the other within us that we reveal in displaying scorn or pity. He who judges himself may judge; he who judges judges himself. Me, a judge? Were we in the midst of a trial? A trial without magistrates or clerks, without bailiffs or spectators? A trial in which the accused declined to defend himself? Now he was murmuring. His murmur did not break the silence but on the contrary intensified it.

  “I see, Elhanan. I see,” he said. “So you’ll never forget.”

  “I took a vow, Itzik. I vowed never to forget.”

  Who sighed? Did he? Did I?

  It would soon be midnight. Absalom was saying his prayers. The prayer of Ma’ariv? Yes, and the one he prayed to his grandfather. “Guide us now as you guided us yesterday.” We said good-bye to all, soldiers and civilians alike. Children were crying, and the wounded were moaning. We promised them all, “We’ll be back before dawn.” Itzik nodded in silence. Cautiously Absalom opened the door and slipped out. I followed him. No—I told myself I was going to follow him; I didn’t follow him: a shot had just shattered the night. Someone cried, “No! Nooo!” Who was it? Absalom? Absalom never spoke again. We dragged him into the synagogue that bore the name of the prophet Elijah. I felt like screaming—Elijah, prophet of consolation, why don’t you come now to console us? And who will console Absalom’s parents? Because Absalom was dead. The bullet struck his heart, the heart that sang in silent longing for the Messiah. Tomorrow his dust would return to dust, and I would hear the rabbis’ lamentations. And now? There was no more now. No more tomorrow either. The secret passage? There was no more passage. There was no one to bring reinforcements. No one to open the way for help. “Battle stations,” said the commanding officer. “The Legionnaires may be mounting a night attack.” I saw Itzik reaching for his weapon and heading for the doorway. Follow him? What good would that do?

  The night passed without further incident. I watched over Absalom’s body. I recited psalms. I knew many of them by heart. At dawn I fell asleep. In a dream I saw the Tempter applauding himself. I woke to the sound of heavy gunfire: bullets ricocheted off our walls. Before nightfall we buried little Absalom.

  “Watch out!” Two powerful arms wrestled me to the floor. I looked up. It was not my father, and not Zalmen my father-in-law; it was Itzik. We stood up at the same moment. “You’re too tired,” he said. Side by side, we began firing again. A bullet grazed my hair. A Jordanian marksman almost did me in; Itzik did him in. “Thank you, thank you, Itzik,” I told him. “Bravo.” As in the old days, we were comrades in arms, covering each other. Was the past forgotten? Buried. Some other time. Later. But there wouldn’t be any later. Next morning, what had to happen happened. The Old City’s defenders could hold out no more. No more ammunition. No more rations. No more energy. No more hope. Between us and the rest of the world stood a wall more solid than time and as strong as death. We were alone. Sacrificed. I saw a few old men preparing a white flag. I heard a woman tell her children not to move. I heard a fool talking to the shekhinah—the divine radiance herself—asking if she would accompany us into exile.

  A bullet in the shoulder knocked me to the floor; I didn’t even see the arms that lifted me and dragged me backward. An image of my mother rose in my flickering memory. Why was I so cold, when my body was burning? Why was my mother so present when Talia, so near, was invisible? Had I gone mad? I heard a lullaby: “Sleep, little one, sleep; the enemy sleeps not, but neither does God; He watches over Israel, the God of Israel.” Who was singing? Talia?
A mother gone crazy? Not mine. Mine had wings, and I was being sheltered beneath them. I was rising and rising, ever higher; the earth could not hold me back; I was escaping its gravity. Sleep, little one, sleep; the earth is here and the sky is there; they will be there when you wake. But the wings would not be there for my old friend. You should have taken cover sooner, Itzik. In a burst of energy I raised my head; I saw my friend flat on the floor like myself. I clung to one thought: I am going to find my mother and my father, and be with them at last.

  Someone distributed bread and water. I was not hungry. Or thirsty. I let my imagination lead me to Talia. I smiled upon her and said, Go see my parents, they’re insane with worry. We dropped two levels, and I saw Zalmen and Reuma, I saw them chatting with my parents, I heard my father ask me, Did you say your prayers this morning? Let us recite psalms together. Reuma smiled at me; my grandfather told me that as long as a Jew is reciting psalms his enemy cannot defeat him. He’s crazy, said Zalmen. Who’s crazy? my mother asked. The man who thinks psalms do more good than weapons, Zalmen said. He’s crazy, said a Jewish soldier. That’s the way it is, said Talia. That’s the way it is, said another soldier.

  The Legionnaires attacked, and we drove them back. They renewed the attack, and we drove them back again. “Stand fast,” the radio told us. “Trust us,” said our superior officers from the other world. We trusted them, we stood fast. “Another few hours and you won’t be alone,” our leaders told us. We trusted them, we stood fast. An hour, a day. Then two hours more, one day more. And we were still alone. I less than my comrades. Thanks to Absalom and his cabbalist grandfather, I knew an underground passage; in my mind I went through it and joined Talia and her loved ones. I was sure my parents loved her too. And besides, they told me, we’re proud of you. May you only be as proud of your own son. But be careful, said my father, raising his voice. “Hey, be careful,” a soldier shouted. The Legionnaires pushed my parents away and took their place. They launched another attack, intensifying the violence. To my right a soldier collapsed. Behind me a young woman cried, “I can’t see, I’m blind!” Standing at a window, behind tattered sandbags, I fired and fired. Suddenly, behind me, I heard the voices of rabbis praying for the dead.