And the Sea Is Never Full: Memoirs 1969

by Elie Wiesel

  True, the archbishop is not the first to have converted to Christianity, but those who preceded him never claimed to be good Jews, “fulfilled” Jews. But he insists that having been born a Jew, he will die a Jew. I try to explain to him why this stand seems untenable to us; I cite laws and customs. Then I use a concrete argument: His example may well encourage those who call themselves “Jews for Jesus” and whose proselytizing takes advantage of many young people who, in the absence of any spiritual bonds, have lost their way.

  Abraham had already understood that Judaism means separation and choice. One cannot belong to two religions. True, it is the same God who governs our lives, but the paths that lead to Him are different.

  “And yet I feel Jewish,” the archbishop responds. “I refuse to renounce my roots, my Jewishness. How could I betray my mother’s memory? It would be cowardly. And humiliating.” He goes on to make the point that his Jewishness annoys anti-Semites and that this does not displease him. Why should he make them happy by turning his back on the people they execrate?

  There is something about him that moves me. Is it his yearning for purity? Or his need to unite his Jewish past with his Christian future? I plead with him: “At least, cease defining yourself as a ‘fulfilled Jew.’”

  We resolve to remain in touch, to continue our discussions. And in fact we meet often, and the friendship that binds us has become deeper. He no longer uses the formula “fulfilled Jew” but is determined to remain a son of the Jewish people. He acts accordingly; anyone who requests his assistance in defending a Jewish cause can count on his support. In fact he participates in all the battles for human rights. He is an ally of all those who militate against fanaticism and injustice wherever they are found. No matter what the risk, he raises his voice in defense of the weak, the dispossessed, the victims. With his elevation to the rank of prince of the church, his influence continues to grow.

  We sometimes smile as we evoke this extraordinary trajectory. “Admit,” I say to him, “that Jewish history has a rare power of imagination.” He admits it. But does he, as I do, have a sense of the surreal when we come face to face—he, the son of Polish immigrant Jews revered by millions of Catholics, and I, the talmudic student, the Jewish chronicler? One day he may be called to assume yet greater responsibilities. He is certain that he will not. I am not so sure.

  How do his peers feel about him? I know many who greatly admire him and are devoted to him. But I am told that at the annual gatherings of French bishops he appears to be something of a loner. Though he is close to the Pope, he is sometimes at odds with one or another stance of the Curia. During the scandalous affair of the Carmelite convent at Auschwitz, for example, his interventions must have raised a few eyebrows in Rome. As must his sympathy for the State of Israel, of which he is the most devoted defender inside the Catholic Church. He is a courageous, loyal man, profoundly bound to his faith but respectful of that of his father.

  Our friendship will endure.

  Upon publication of a book by the archbishop, I am asked to review it for Le Monde. I accept on condition that the archbishop agrees. Concerned about his reaction, I show him my article in advance. I am not prepared to modify it, but I am willing to withdraw it, if that is what he wishes. Although the article is not uncritical, he voices no objection. In the piece I speak of my great affection for him, but also of my sadness at his conversion, which has deprived the Jewish people of a great spiritual figure. I reaffirm my conviction that a Jew can only fulfill himself from within his Jewishness. Some Catholic readers found my attitude disrespectful and did not hesitate to insult and curse me in their letters, both private and public.

  In the article I said:

  Cardinal Lustiger disturbs. That is no secret for anyone. He disturbs the Christian extremists because he still considers himself Jewish, and he disturbs the Jews because he became a Christian. He also worries and perturbs the secularists by preaching humanism through the faith and tolerance that are part of him. Whoever heard of a priest who is both a humanist and a liberal?

  And I concluded:

  … And so, Cardinal Jean-Marie Lustiger and I continue to be friends and allies. He has chosen, or “God has chosen” for him, a path different from my own, but both deserve to be illuminated by the same light, for they lead to the same truth, whatever that truth may be.

  What matters is that like myself, Cardinal Lustiger proclaims that God alone is alone and that God alone is God and that He is everywhere, in what unites men but also in what keeps them apart. And also that even after the coming of the Messiah, son of David, mankind will not become Jewish, but simply more human, more generous, more tolerant with one another.

  In an old volume of midrashic commentaries and tales, I discovered a strange story that is said to have taken place in the Middle Ages. It is the tale of a Jewish child from Mainz, the son of Rabbi Shmuel, a wise man whose star had shone in faraway places. The boy was a prodigy, and when he was very young a priest took him from his parents and baptized him so that the church might benefit from his extraordinary intelligence. The child grew up in an atmosphere of piety and prayer and chose to become a priest and devote his life to God. Before long he was appointed bishop and was summoned to Rome, where he became secretary to the Pope and eventually succeeded him.

  That is when he received a touching letter from the old priest in Mainz, requesting, at the end of a long life of devotion, to be appointed bishop. He argued that, after all, it was he, the humble country priest, who was ultimately responsible for his having risen to wear the papal tiara. He also told him the truth about his origins.

  The Pope answered immediately: Yes, he would name him bishop. But first he was requested to inform the Jewish community that beginning immediately, all circumcisions and observances of Shabbat would be prohibited except if a delegation of scholars were to come to Rome to convince him, the Pope, that his decrees were unjust. And he insisted that Rabbi Shmuel be part of that delegation.

  Rabbi Shmuel and his colleagues remained at the Vatican three days. They explained certain biblical laws to the Pope, who declared himself satisfied and immediately voided his decrees. When the time came for the delegates to take their leave, the Pope asked Rabbi Shmuel to postpone his departure by a few days so that they might discuss a topic related to the Kabbalah. Once they were alone, the Pope revealed his true identity to the visitor. Father and son embraced, never to leave each other.

  I tell the Jewish cardinal this legend. He listens intently, without comment. I add that there are several versions circulating regarding the end of this strange Pope. Some say that he returned to Mainz, where he lived out his life as a good Jew. Others say that, fearing reprisal from the Christians, he had to go underground. Yet another story has it that he was assassinated.

  One day on the telephone, my friend the cardinal addresses me with the familiar tu. I wonder if I’ve heard right. And I don’t know how to respond. That a prince of the church should address me in this manner strikes me as strange; but for a Jew like me to answer him in kind seems even more so. Using caution, I speak indirectly in a sequence of awkward circumlocutions. In the end I confess my embarrassment; he insists this is how he wants it. And so, during a television program moderated by Frédéric Mitterrand (the president’s nephew), we both eschew the formal vous, something that is not customary on television. “It would not be natural,” is the cardinal’s answer to my expressions of doubt. Repeated several times, the program reaches a sizable audience. The most beautiful compliment on it came from the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, first by way of the journalist Shlomo Malka, then in person: “It was kiddush hashem—you sanctified the Lord’s name.” In friendship, too, all is mystery for those who believe.

  Our friendship endures. When fanatics in Israel insult him, I call to tell him how much it pains me. We often consult each other when confronted with problems related to Judeo-Christian relations.

  One morning in 1987, I receive an invitation from the Vatican to meet the Pope. It
comes at a time when the Jewish world is in an uproar over the Waldheim affair. It is my position that the leader of the Catholic Church should not have received the Austrian president, a former Nazi—in any case, not with such warmth.

  Still, the cardinal encourages me to accept: “The Holy Father knows your work.” John Cardinal O’Connor of New York shares his view: A conversation between the Pope and me could be useful. The Vatican’s influential Cardinal Casaroli, whom I meet “somewhere” in Manhattan to avoid media attention, also agrees. I tell him that I am ready to go to the Vatican, but for a conversation, not an audience. Also, I would like it to be totally private and without strict time limits. My most important condition is that there be no publicity. Cardinal Casaroli tells me that he must consult Rome.

  Eventually, I receive an affirmative response. I begin to prepare, which for me means reviewing as much as I can of all that is known of Judeo-Christian dialogue since the birth of Christianity and the first debates between talmudic sages and members of the new sect. I study the arguments of Flavius Josephus against Apion and those, in the twelfth century, of Rabbi Joseph Kamhi of Narbonne, the disputations between Nahmanides and a supposedly erudite convert in the cathedral of Barcelona. The sources are rich and varied. I uncover corroborations as I compare ancient and modern texts. Finally, in August, I am ready.

  That is when the New York Times announces my upcoming meeting with the head of the Catholic Church. Who is responsible for the leak? I am told that someone at the Vatican wanted to sabotage the encounter. True or not, the meeting that was intended to be private loses all meaning as it risks turning into a media spectacle. Journalists start calling, asking for interviews. Many of them insist on accompanying me to Rome. I begin to have serious doubts; better to give up the project or at least postpone it.

  And all during this time, a number of rabbis are calling me frantically. It seems they have obtained an “audience” with the Pope, to take place one week after my “conversation;” the nuance is significant, and they worry that for the press my visit will overshadow theirs. When I inform them of my decision not to go to the Vatican, they are overjoyed.

  In truth, the Pope has troubled me for a long time. I reproached him for his first speech at Auschwitz, in which he never once used the word “Jew.” He then went on to celebrate a mass for the victims, all victims. Why did he not invite a rabbi and nine more Jews to recite Kaddish for the murdered Jews? Did he really believe that a Christian mass was the appropriate prayer to honor their memory?

  Soon thereafter he came to the U.N. Once again he disappointed me. Israel was not mentioned in his address.

  And yet.

  As I record these memories I must admit that recently I have been pleasantly surprised by the Pope. Has he changed, or have I? I see him as more open, more tolerant. His visit to the synagogue in Rome, the concert in the Vatican commemorating the Holocaust, his warnings against anti-Semitism and, most important, his decision, however belated, to open diplomatic relations with Israel. It may well be that Jewish history will remember him as a benevolent and merciful Pope.

  Sometimes it seems astonishing, not to say miraculous, when non-Jews understand the nature and intensity of Jewish anguish of the past and Jewish hope for the future. Some would like to understand. Some actually do.

  The question is: Can one erase two thousand years of suspicion and persecution endured under the shadow of the cross? The answer is no, one cannot; nor should one. Only if we forget nothing shall we succeed in abolishing what divides us. Cardinal Lustiger knows this.

  And I am his friend.

  A Museum in Washington

  WASHINGTON, D.C., January 1979. On this icy winter day the White House looks whiter than ever, a calm, sleepy citadel. One of its stately drawing rooms is filled with excitement. Elated Holocaust survivors greet each other, shake each other’s hands, embrace. It’s the first time they have met in this historic place. A woman with numbers tattooed on her arm is whispering: “It’s like a dream…. I’m afraid to wake up.” And another: “Never could I have imagined this.”

  Nor could I.

  “We have gathered here in this hall which echoes with history—the Declaration of Independence has been hanging on these walls for generations—to try to find appropriate ways to remember what it meant to live and die in the age of darkness.” With these words I open the inaugural session of the President’s Commission on the Holocaust, created by Jimmy Carter a few months earlier.

  House Speaker “Tip” O’Neill has come to swear us in. Members of Congress, Jewish leaders, rabbis, priests, scholars, and journalists are in the audience. Discreetly, Marion reviews the text of a talk I am about to give. She knows it well for having edited it. Sigmund Strochlitz smiles, visibly moved. Benjamin Meed, a Warsaw survivor, doesn’t bother to hide his tears. “This is the crowning moment of my life,” he tells me, “the most joyous.” This is his favorite expression. He will repeat it at every stage of this undertaking. I try to conceal my feelings. As always, I fear disappointment.

  Today we are soaring. At last the American government, on the highest level, is showing interest in our past. At last our past is free to emerge from the depths to which it has been consigned. But I am ill at ease; though an agenda has been prepared for me, this is the first time I am chairing a session of this magnitude. And not surprisingly, at this moment, as always, I see myself back in Sighet. How far away it seems, this little town where a Jewish boy begged God to teach him to pray better, study better.

  My friend Justice Arthur Goldberg had given me some good advice on how to preside. To me, my opening remarks to the members of the commission are like the preface to a book. Some excerpts:

  It is with a deep sense of duty, privilege, and humility that I agreed to serve as chairman of this uniquely distinguished group of civic, religious, and political leaders.

  Some of you, I know, are worthier than I, and most of you are surely more experienced in this kind of endeavor. With your help and cooperation, I hope we shall fulfill our task.

  The problems facing us may seem insurmountable. We are supposed to remember, and to move others to remember. But how does one remember, individually and collectively, an event that was intended to erase memory?

  By its scope and immeasurable magnitude, its sheer weight of numbers, by its mystery and silence, the Holocaust defies anything the human being can conceive of or aspire to.

  All the documents, all the testimony, all the eyewitness accounts, all the history books notwithstanding, we know that we have not yet begun to tell the tale.

  How does one reconcile—this is another question that we shall have to face—the purely Jewish aspects of the tragedy with its inevitable universal connotations? True, all Jews were victims; but not all victims were Jewish.

  How are they to be remembered? Specifically? Collectively? Individually? Personally? Through monuments? Education? Special liturgy? Ceremonies of remembrance?

  We lack a reference point. We don’t know what to do because of the uniqueness of the event. We cannot even go back into history and learn that this is what people used to do to commemorate such events, because there was no such event.

  Also, whatever our purposes will be—and I hope they will be lofty and daring—we must remember at least this: that we must think boldly. Let the scope and magnitude of our endeavor not frighten us.

  Whatever we do, let it strike the imagination of people everywhere, of all faiths, of all creeds, of all nationalities, of all nations, and perhaps of all centuries.

  Let people know that our generation—probably the last that still has something to remember—does indeed remember.

  … We around this table represent a noble quest for memory and justice. We are all committed to truth. And though we come from different horizons, we shall respect one another’s beliefs.

  The Holocaust was possible because the enemy—the enemy of the Jewish people and of mankind, and it is always the same enemy—succeeded in dividing, in separating,
in splitting the human society: nation against nation, Christian against Jew, young against old.

  … Forgive me for introducing into this session a note of melancholy. While we are grateful to President Carter and his advisers for being so deeply concerned with the Holocaust now, I cannot but wonder what would have happened had the president of the United States then, and his advisers then, demonstrated the same concern.

  If a presidential commission had been appointed in 1942 or 1943 to prevent the Holocaust, how many victims—Jews and non-Jews—would have been saved?

  Well, they were forgotten while they were alive. They are dead now. Let us at least remember them and include their memory in our own….

  It all began one summer day in 1978, at the Sharon Hotel in Herzliyya. The head of the Israeli opposition, Shimon Peres, is in my room telling me about his new book, when the phone rings. It is Stu Eizenstat, President Carter’s youthful adviser for internal affairs. He wants to know why I have not returned his calls. I laugh: For several days the concierge has been handing me messages asking me to call the White House. I honestly thought it was a prank. “Is that you, Professor?” He goes on to tell me that the president wants me to chair the “commission charged with proposing the manner in which to erect a monument to the memory of Holocaust victims.” I remember my journalist’s reaction, immediate but unvoiced: “The name is too long.” What I did say was: “Please thank the president for the honor he wishes to bestow on me, but …” The White House official cannot imagine that there could be a “but.”

  I tell him that I don’t think this position is for me; I’m not a political person; I have no desire to become one; all I want is time to write and study. Eizenstat’s last words: “Please reconsider.” He calls back the next day. When I tell him I haven’t changed my mind, he informs me that the president wishes to see me. This I cannot refuse. The appointment is set for the following week.