by Elie Wiesel
This “romance” goes on for months. Day after day I receive interminable letters. She tells me what she does with her free time, her dreams, and even her infidelities with famous actors, infamous billionaires, mafiosi….
You never know with crazies of her kind. And you don’t play with the Mafia. So I return to the police station, and there is the same police officer. I confess my fears and ask his advice. A psychologist in his spare time, he shrugs his shoulders: “Good grief,” says he “why don’t you ‘divorce’ her?” Fortunately the waitress has a father who is aware of her illness and makes sure she returns to her psychiatrist.
And then there is the doctor who calls me from Canada: He must come to speak to me at once; it is urgent. Very urgent. A matter of life and death. Who and what is this about? It’s about the whole world. Could he be more specific? I try to make him talk. In vain. “Not on the telephone,” he says, “it’s too risky.” The slightest leak could make the project fail. “You understand, don’t you? All this is confidential. Top secret.” Suspicious, I lower my voice: “Are you sure it’s me that …?” He gets angry: “I know what I’m doing.” I ask him to call me back that afternoon: time enough to cancel a few appointments. And, of course, to call Canadian friends, have them check if this fellow really is a doctor. Yes, he is. His name is in the directory. All right, let him come.
That particular Sunday it snows. The airports are paralyzed, the train stations deserted, the streets empty. I’m optimistic: He won’t come. But here he is. The doorman calls to announce him. Curious, I welcome him. He hands me his calling card. Impressive titles. I invite him to sit down; I offer him coffee; he refuses. “Time is short; you must accompany me,” he says resolutely. Where to? Canada? “To Nepal,” he replies unblinking. I ask him to please say that again. “Yes, to Nepal. I have prepared everything; it is all arranged. Look.” He hands me an airline ticket for that very evening and a sum of money. I stammer like an idiot: “But today is Sunday. What am I going to do in Nepal on a Sunday?” He does not flinch: “We’ll arrive tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday.” I continue my inane interrogation: “And what would you have me do in Nepal on a Monday?” His answer is instantaneous: “Meditate.” I don’t understand: He must be mad, but he doesn’t look it. I ask him: “Meditate? On what?” He replies: “The world is in danger. To save it we must go to Nepal. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but once we are there we’ll know.” I insist: “Why there? Why not here?” He says: “It’s not the same. There we will be heard.” “By whom?” I ask. “I don’t know. There we will know.”
I observe him carefully. He looks normal, sincere, and gentle. How can I send him away without offending him? “I have no visa,” I say, trying to look sorry. Never mind, he says, a visa is waiting for us at our destination. He has answers to everything, this Canadian savior. I come back to the weather: There is no car to take us to the airport, and, anyway, no planes are taking off. I show him, through the window, the empty and icy avenue. He is stubborn: If the weather is bad, then it’s because of me, because of my skepticism. As soon as I accept his invitation, the sun will shine over New York. The weather will be perfect and we will leave. How does he know? He knows because in Nepal the weather is very beautiful. Where does he get this knowledge of world weather? “Easy,” he says. “I close my eyes and I see.” “See what?” I ask. “Nepal.” Now I’ve got him. “But then, since you can see Nepal by closing your eyes, why must we go there?” His answer is simple: “I can, but you can’t.”
In the end, I show him my calendar: “I have important engagements this week. I cannot possibly cancel them.” At that he goes into a cold fury: “The world is lost, or almost, and all you can think of is your cursed calendar.” To calm him I suggest that he leave for Nepal before me to prepare everything; I shall come later.
He flew off the next day. Evidently he managed without me. The proof: He did not come back. And the world is still around.
As I evoke the mystical madmen, or the common variety madmen, how could I omit the visionary perturber from Colorado? Right in the middle of a lecture I am delivering at a university in Denver, someone begins to howl like a wounded beast. The security guards scrutinize the rows unsuccessfully. Vaguely anxious, I pick up the thread of my talk. And it happens again: a long sharp cry. But who is it? And what can he possibly want? I make a new effort to concentrate. I shorten my talk. As soon as it is over, ignoring the students waiting for me, the security guards surround me and push me into their car, which has been waiting at a side door, and we take off for the airport, where I am to take the midnight flight to New York. On the way they explain that they have been caught unprepared; nothing like this has ever happened to them. Better to be careful. “What about the students? They’ll be disappointed.” Never mind, answer my guardian angels. Better they be angry with you alive than that they mourn your death. Their logic is irrefutable. I have no further comment. Times being what they are, it is unwise to disobey fellows who are so sure of themselves. I receive enough threatening letters to be aware of that; anti-Semites, pro-Palestinians, deniers: Surely they don’t wish me well. And so the word “security” deserves respect and silence.
At the ticket counter all is quiet. There are few passengers. I shall have a good seat. I’ll be able to nap on the plane. I thank my escorts, so concerned with my well-being, and enter the long twisting corridor leading to the boarding gate. I sigh; at last I am alone. But suddenly a young man emerges from the shadows and whispers under his breath: “Forgive me for screaming. You understand? When God orders me to scream, I have no right to remain silent.” I glimpse a telephone booth; in a panic I jump into it. My heart beats wildly. I feign to be dialing a number, to have a conversation, to be interested in what my imaginary interlocutor has to say. The young man waits patiently for me to finish. I leave the booth only when other passengers appear. Then I follow them, with the young messenger from the Lord in hot pursuit. Thank God he does not have a ticket. “Take this,” he says as he hands me a small notebook. “You’ll read it on the plane. You’ll understand many things.” In his message he claims to be the Savior, the real one, the last, the only one; he is but waiting for the prophet Elijah to announce his coming. If he yells, it is to be heard by the prophet, so that he may know that the Savior has come and is waiting for him. Feeling sorry for the prophet, I fall asleep.
Many months later, I stumble upon humanity’s Savior; he is waiting for me at the entrance to my office at Boston University. What else does he want from me? He has no problem letting me know: “Be my associate. My messenger. Together we shall save the planet and its inhabitants.” I explain to him that while waiting for the Messiah I must teach Kafka and the Epic of Gilgamesh to my students. The following week, there he is again. Skinny, head buried between his shoulders, he dares not look at me but shyly drops this question: “Would you have some time for me today?” I tell him: “I have my class. You know that.” “Whom are you going to speak about this morning?” “The prophet Jeremiah.” Looking disappointed, he says: “What a pity. I am waiting for the prophet Elijah.”
For weeks on end he comes to my office. How does he live in Boston? Where does he sleep? Nobody knows. Cindy Margulies, a student who works in my office, has a good idea: She advises him to go to Israel. Since he wishes to bring deliverance to the world, he should be in Jerusalem: “If the Messenger is waiting for you somewhere, surely that’s where he is.”
I never saw him again, and I wonder where he is, this young mad visionary from Colorado who lived so intensely in the expectation of a stranger.
And the others, where are they? Each had a solution to insoluble problems, a key to unfathomable mysteries, a message from a heavenly angel. It was my practice to answer every letter; I was curious to meet people. It became a problem when they answered my answer and subsequently demanded appointments or, at the least, answers to their answers. The problem was time—there never is enough time. I often think of Nikos Kazantzakis, who wished to stand outside churches to ask
the faithful: “In lieu of alms, give me the time you are not using.”
And then there are the madmen of Hollywood: They wish, at all costs, to “discover” me; not as a star, thank God, but as a screenwriter. In the face of my bewilderment, they admonish me: Do I realize that William Faulkner practiced that very craft? Did I know that the world’s greatest novelists work for the movie moguls? I know, I don’t know, what does it matter? At more or less regular intervals ever since the sixties, a person connected to Hollywood appears, seeking to seduce me. But then as soon as I am almost ready to succumb, he disappears.
Someone wants to make a film of Night. I refuse: There are topics around which one may not create spectacles. I receive a proposal from the great Orson Welles. I answer that I am flattered but … He finally takes an option, which he renews again and again. Eric Rohmer likes The Accident. Samy Halfon fancies The Gates of the Forest. Several directors wish to acquire the rights to A Beggar in Jerusalem. Eventually, film adaptations of Dawn and The Testament are made. I feel sorry for the directors; neither was received favorably by the public.
My idiom remains the word, not the image.
Cardinal Lustiger, My Friend
IN 1980 THE FRENCH PRESS publishes and discusses at great length a sensational news item. No doubt to underline his philosophy, rather than his theology, of openness, Pope John Paul II has appointed a converted Jew of Polish origin as archbishop of Paris. Jean-Marie Lustiger rapidly becomes one of the most mediatized and popular personalities of France. Charming but sincere, endowed with a rare gift of communication, he has a knack for finding the right tone, not just from the heights of his cathedral pulpit but also on television, in the newspapers, and in addressing varied communities.
Interviews, declarations, commentaries—his stands on issues are well received in all kinds of circles. Academics and ministers praise his erudition; his words are quoted; the depth of his convictions is recognized and his tolerance appreciated. His trajectory is transparent, his speeches without a false note. The new prelate does not conceal his Jewish roots: On the contrary, he never fails to claim them. He repeats that his Jewish name is Aaron, that he is of the Jewish people. A proud Christian, he assumes his Jewishness, and does so without the slightest complex. In fact, he describes himself as a “fulfilled Jew,” which arouses in me—understandably—a certain uneasiness. If he, a Jew-turned-Christian, is “fulfilled,” does that mean that he is a better Jew than those who have remained Jews?
I think of the tensions and conflicts that over centuries have marked the relations between our two religions: the hateful writings of the church fathers, the massacres during the Crusades, the Inquisition, the pogroms, the public humiliations. I think of the silences of Pius XII; his intercessions with Third Reich authorities were restricted to converted Jews. Only they mattered to him. I cannot forget this deplorable aspect of Holocaust history.
I try to imagine a conversation with the archbishop. What could I tell him? What can I say to a converted Jew? And how would he respond? Sure, I know some Catholic priests. But none claims to be a Jew. I also recall my Master, Saul Lieberman, telling me about his resolve never to shake the hand of a meshumad, a renegade. On the other hand, the Talmud states that “Israel af al pi shekhata, Israel hu.” A Jew, even a sinner, remains a Jew. How is one to classify Aaron Lustiger?
“Try to meet him,” is Marion’s advice. “Then perhaps you will know.” I decide, for this special occasion, to revert to my former profession. I ask my French publisher’s press person to inform the archbishop’s secretariat that I wish to write a piece about him, perhaps for the New York Times. His reply reaches me within the hour: He will receive me, but only “off the record,” meaning not for an article. Just to meet; two Jews who wish to make acquaintance, what could be more natural? A date in March 1981 is set, since I plan to be in Paris to participate in a colloquium organized by Jack Lang for François Mitterrand, the Socialist candidate in the presidential elections.
I owe it to my Christian friends to say how I really feel. It is complex and not likely to arouse religious hope. In the past, both distant and recent, their ancestors inflicted suffering on ours because of our faith. That is a fact. But there is more. The master killers of the twentieth century, were they not all, or almost all, born in and baptized by the church? True, there were Christians who sacrificed themselves to save Jewish lives, in Italy as well as in France, Poland, and Holland. But they were so few. Then, of course, there was John XXIII, but doesn’t his humanism represent a moment of exception rather than a prevailing tendency in the Vatican’s recent history?
My own relationship to the Catholic Church? As a child, I feared it. As an adolescent, I had no reason to give it my attention. Still, I could not disregard it, for it was a time when between the Christian world and my own there existed only ties of violence and exclusion. For me, a Christian was the hostile stranger, the false avenger. “You killed Christ” was one of the insults hurled at me by my schoolmates. I didn’t understand: I hadn’t killed anyone; throughout history, Jews have been victims and not assassins. The Christians that surrounded me were wrong in believing in anti-Jewish stereotypes, and I was wrong in oversimplifying.
After the war, I discovered the complicity of the Catholic and Protestant churches, both German and Austrian, with Hitler’s regime. The documents I read about Pius XII only reinforced my distrust. François Mauriac was the first to denounce his silence. Historians were providing mostly devastating evidence. I still can’t understand why Adolf Hitler was not excommunicated. And why the Vatican or one of its agents helped Adolf Eichmann, Stangel, and Mengele escape from justice. I cannot forget that 22 percent of the SS were Catholics and that some of them regularly went to confession.
It is only when I reached adulthood that I understood the importance of dialogue between people of different religions. I understood the danger of living in a world made of stereotypes. During the war there were devout Christians who helped. I overcame my inhibitions and suspicions. Diversity—the word of the moment is pluralism—is part of the Creator’s design. If all human beings spoke the same language, dreamed of the same happiness, belonged to the same tribe practicing the same religion, the history of mankind would have been short-lived. Adam was neither Jew nor Christian, and yet he is the father of us all.
Today’s Christian is not responsible for what his ancestors did long ago. I believe that a synergy of religions is both possible and necessary, but only in total honesty. My Master, Saul Lieberman, often warned me against the adverse impact of comfort, spiritual as well as material: “Remember,” he would say, “that our people has lost many more souls through seduction than through persecution.” Our sages quote Scripture: When Esau embraced his brother Jacob, the latter began to weep. Why did he weep? Because, they answer, Jacob understood that Esau’s embrace was a trap more dangerous than his hate.
In accordance with my tradition, I wish to convert no one, just as I don’t wish anyone to convert me. A Jew’s aim is not to convert another to his faith, but to help him become more fully who he is.
Those were my thoughts on the way to the archbishop’s residence. The debate I hoped to open was at once simple and painful: Can one be Jewish and Christian at the same time? Can one continue to belong to the Jewish people while opting for another religion?
The archbishop is waiting for me. His welcome is warm but tense. What am I to him, a reminder, a reproach? And he to me? A lost, estranged brother?
He speaks kindly of my work. The encounter makes me think of the disputations of medieval times, when Jews and Christians debated the merits of their religions. Except that our meeting takes place with no audience or constraints. In medieval times the rabbi fasted on the day he went to meet the prelate, and the entire community fasted as well, as a token of solidarity.
We are alone in the drawing room, alone in the house. I dispense with preambles and go straight to the heart of the matter: “Who are you? Are you our emissary to the Christians, or the
irs to us?” It is not in my nature to wound or provoke, but the tone is set. It seems to me that the archbishop has blushed. He does not respond. He speaks to me of his childhood, his secular parents, his meeting in the Latin Quarter with a student chaplain at a moment when he was yearning for spirituality, religiosity. Had he met instead with a rabbi, I might have found myself today face to face with a rabbi. I ask him searching questions on his relationship with his new faith. His evident sincerity makes him seem vulnerable and profoundly disarming. I question him about his attitude toward his people, which judges severely those who abandon their religion. I ask about his father’s reaction in March (his mother died in Auschwitz), when he attended his investiture in the crowded, illuminated cathedral. That last question elicits a smile: “He was happy … he who was not a believer was proud that his son had succeeded in his chosen religion.” I persist: “But what about your great-grandfather, who surely would have chosen death rather than kiss the cross, what would he have thought as he saw you wearing the silver cross on your chest?” Again it appears to me that he has blushed. He lowers his voice: “To me, what matters is grace; it is the only thing that matters.”
Around 1 p.m. he stands and says: “Let’s have lunch, shall we?” In truth, neither one of us feels like eating. We continue the conversation, talking about current events as well as the past. Owing to its nature, much of our exchange shall remain confidential. Again and again we come back to his ambiguous, not to say ambivalent, attitude toward Judaism. Who are the “real Jews”? Could they really be those for whom faithfulness to Moses, Isaiah, and Rabbi Yehuda Ha-Nasi is obsolete and the laws of Torah are abolished?