by Elie Wiesel
“But what?”
“There are two possibilities: Either it’s our professor or it’s Nietzsche that you’re not very interested in.”
He stammers. “Both fascinate me.”
“Yet I have the impression you’re not listening.”
“I’m listening while looking.”
Her name is Blanca. She has not been in love yet with anyone—at least, that’s what he thinks. They have coffee together. As Shaltiel dreads personal exchanges, he dwells on the subject that absorbs them in their course: Nietzsche. His romantic fate that can only leave people perplexed. His despair, his rebellions. And above all, his long solitary career, far from society and the academies. Did he have a disturbance of the mind? Did he lack inspiration? Had he simply lost his bearings?
Blanca doesn’t want to study pure philosophy but philosophy of art. For her, Michelangelo and Goya, Brueghel and Soutine, are not just great painters, but also genuine thinkers. They put ideas into their works as well as form. The genius of the great medieval artists who dealt with religious subject matter was that though they painted at the request of patrons, as they worked on their canvases they perceived the true meaning of life and Creation. In his sketches of the Sacrifice of Isaac, doesn’t the message that Rembrandt introduces reflect his longing to understand the eternal question of the relationship between the Creator and His creations, hence between Father and Son? The ancients were right: The philosopher’s quest prevails over the quest of all the sciences.
Perhaps because of the biblical reference, Shaltiel wonders if she is Jewish. How can he ask her without offending her, without looking ridiculous? But he needs to know. He cannot forget where he comes from.
He need only conjure the image of his elderly, stooped father, with his haunted gaze, to remember. He wouldn’t want to hurt him for anything in the world. To add sorrow to his pain. It would be unthinkable, unpardonable. It is why Shaltiel has never dated a young girl.
But what should he do now? He chooses to wait. Next time, he will find a way of bringing up the subject in the course of the conversation. It turns out she is Jewish and an only daughter. Her parents had left Germany for the United States in 1933. They were observant but only moderately so; faithful to tradition, but actively anti-fundamentalist. The father is a renowned lawyer; the mother, a respected art critic. Both are influential, card-carrying Democrats.
Like Shaltiel, but for different reasons, Blanca wants to understand evil. It’s their first feeling of deep mutual understanding. There is their first kiss, overwhelming warmth, the awakening of desire. They make discoveries together.
At first, they see each other only twice a week at the university. Afterward, they also meet in Central Park. They go to the theater and the movies. But Shaltiel still blushes each time she takes his hand or charms him with her captivating smile. One May evening, sitting on a bench in the verdant park, they exchange stories of their families, so different from one another. What do the memories of Weimar Germany have in common with those of Eastern Europe in its darkest days?
“At home,” Blanca says, “my parents sometimes speak in German so I won’t understand them.”
“Mine speak Yiddish, probably out of habit. Except that I adore the language, for its warmth and flavor. There are some Yiddish words that remain untranslatable: ‘Rakhmoness’ is different than ‘pity.’ ‘Hak mir nisht a chénik,’ ‘cut me a teapot,’ doesn’t have the same meaning as ‘leave me alone.’ ”
“In German,” says Blanca, “which is close to Yiddish, sentences are often long, heavy, solemn. Everything seems so serious, not to say menacing at times. Perhaps because to us it is linked to such atrocities.”
They talk about the secrets, the silences of their families. Shaltiel’s parents hardly talk about their experiences—they are too painful—whereas Blanca’s parents recall theirs with nostalgia and all too often. What do they know of the secrets that their children carry within them?
Suddenly, Shaltiel’s jailers stopped resorting to torture, and even to violence, except verbally. They removed his blindfold and untied his stiffened arms. He had to force his eyelids open.
His first reaction on recovering his sight was a jolt of panic: What was happening was so unexpected that it must have a dire explanation. Now he could clearly see his two jailers. They were no longer wearing masks. This could only mean that the end was approaching. His captors were talking in the corner of the room. As always, at moments like this that he called “crossroads in time,” to avoid thinking about the inevitable, he conjured up the wrinkled face of old One-Eyed Paritus.
Tell me, dear Paritus, he said to himself, were you ever tortured because you were innocent? Were you ever so close to your impending death? Were you ever imprisoned? You used to tell me that sometimes man is his own prisoner. But for the free man could prison be a mere transition? And his liberation, even partial, a transformation? What will I do with the stories, mine and yours, that are buzzing in my head, in a thunderous, dark chaos streaked with lightning?
He tried to take a good look at the two men who were facing him. One tall, the other short; the visionary and the brute. The Arab was talking animatedly; Luigi was listening intently. Rubbing his hands to get his blood circulating, Shaltiel waited.
“You filthy Yid, you lied to us,” yelled the Arab, gesticulating as the two men approached him. “By saying the truth, you got us thinking you were lying. For you, truth and lies are intertwined. If our Prophet were alive, he would strangle you with his own holy hands. Now we know you’re not an important person; you don’t matter to anyone, except to your family, and no one is interested in them. You write and no one reads you; you talk and no one listens. Your life, just like your faith, doesn’t carry weight with anyone. We’re the only people to take you seriously, that’s the truth. From now on, we’re all three interconnected.”
Shaltiel remained silent. He had no answer. The Arab went on.
“Now we know that your confession, even if sincere, doesn’t count for much. It’s worthless to your people, and to us too.”
Shaltiel understood nothing in this verbal avalanche with its perverse logic. What was his torturer talking about?
“If I understand you correctly, you’ve tortured me for nothing. You’ve deprived me of sleep, food, rest and even hope—for nothing,” said Shaltiel. “You made me go through a hellish agony for nothing. You humiliated me for nothing. And what about my family? Have you thought about my relatives who must be suffering from anxiety and pain? By what right do you torture them? My elderly parents and my wife? You hurt people, you make them suffer, and you don’t even know what purpose it serves? Didn’t you just admit that it was all for nothing?”
“For nothing, you say, you lousy Jewish bastard? We’re not done with you yet—with you or your kin. And it might turn to out to be worse than death.”
Forgetting the sharp, throbbing pain in his body, Shaltiel cried out, “What are you going to do to me?”
“Just shut up!”
The Arab whispered a few words to his accomplice and left the basement with a look of disgust.
Left alone with Luigi, who had been silent throughout, Shaltiel focused his gaze on the man who was scrutinizing him intently, hands clasped, with curiosity but no hatred. What is his function in this situation, which is as absurd as it is atrocious?
“A German journal that is close to our cause reprinted your entertaining article on the dreams of a madman. Your piece is a fantasy and not a confession. I’m not surprised that it had no success with the public. And for me, a revolutionary, this flight into the unreal makes no sense. Believe me, I’m sincerely sorry about the ordeal we’ve put you through. But for the revolution to triumph, it must never fear mistakes, slipups … We know how to turn the page quickly, very quickly.”
He continued to hold forth while Shaltiel gradually discovered the area that surrounded him.
“In the beginning, of course, we chose you by chance,” Luigi explained. “But ever
ything that happened afterward was because of your damn article. We took it seriously. What can I say? We thought your text had political weight for your readers and that we could take advantage of it. It’s the general rule for those of us who like revolutions. We take everything seriously, the innocuous as well as the essential. Life and death. As a tool, death still has no equal.”
This man is insane, Shaltiel said to himself. The other one is insane with hatred and this one is insanely ambitious.
“In principle, you were supposed to be our prisoner of war. That was our idea initially. Now we realize we made a mistake. But it makes no difference as far as you’re concerned. You’re our prisoner; your life or your death can help the revolution.”
“And you’re considering my execution as a possibility,” said Shaltiel, trying to control his fear and despair. “The two of you are probably going to murder me in the name of a ludicrous ideology, right?”
“Yes,” replied the Italian in a sober voice. “We might have to eliminate you. You have to understand, Mr. Feigenberg: The revolution requires a state of permanent warfare. Whoever is not with us is against us. Whoever rises up against our Palestinian allies is our enemy.”
“And this enemy, irrespective of who he is, you’re just going to kill him? Is that the rule of the game?”
“The revolution isn’t a game. It has its own justice, its own conception of justice, its own conception of life and death, and especially of history, yes, history, its impulses, its rough sketches, its challenges. In a world in which the enemy has quasi-unlimited powers, we have to be more violent, more radical, definitive in wielding ours. As every revolutionary is prepared to sacrifice his own life for an ideal, why should he refrain from sacrificing the life of his enemy?”
Shaltiel was too exhausted to think of a pertinent response. His interlocutor was in his forties, taciturn, wearing a gray suit, black tie and orange shirt. He had something of an outsider or a deposed aristocrat in his nonchalance. He was intelligent, cultured, even sensitive at times. Most probably he too had a family. Maybe he still had his parents. Did he think about them as much as Shaltiel thought about his relatives? How did he come to be standing in front of me? What’s his story? Coughing softly, he appealed to his jailer.
“You speak to me about power and revolution, but I don’t understand a thing about them. They’re out of my range. I have no feelings either way. I live my life on the sidelines. I want my approach to be humble; my dreams don’t stand out—they’re simple and straightforward. Apparently you’re already aware of this: I’m not important or in any way influential. I’m just a storyteller, a writer, nothing more, nothing else. My life has value only for my relatives. They must be dreadfully worried about me. So let me go back to them. And for you, the page will be turned.”
While he was speaking, Shaltiel studied the enemy standing before him. He was disquieted. His behavior revealed a vague doubt. Was he looking for a response to his own destiny in his prisoner and possible victim? He was a better listener than his accomplice. In some strange way, Shaltiel imagined for an instant that this man could one day be his savior.
“Listen to me closely, Mr. Storyteller,” said Luigi. “Life isn’t a tale. And man has better things to do with the years in his life than lull himself to sleep with twaddle. Our goal is our duty: to change the beliefs and habits of the masses, and change the attitude of their leaders so that freedom will be given to those who are deprived of it and happiness to those who wake up every morning in misfortune. Am I expressing myself clearly enough?”
“You’re referring to the Arabs?”
“In this instance, yes. For us, they’re like the proletariat in Lenin’s time. The Jews are their oppressors; that’s why we’re fighting against them.”
Shaltiel was in danger of death, and here he was discussing the meaning of truth in history with someone who had no qualms being an executioner.
“I’m not a political activist, sir,” said Shaltiel, “but I have studied history. What are the secret forces that shape it? I try to work it out. The Jewish people, in exile for two thousand years, never oppressed another people, never humiliated a person for his religion, skin color, ethnicity or social affiliation. We never demanded dignity for ourselves at the expense of others. We have been victims too long to want to become the executioners of those who dream of living happily and in peace.”
“You’re forgetting one simple thing,” said his captor. “You’ve always lived to make us feel guilty. Christians, progressives, Europeans, their allies—this is the impression you’ve always conveyed. You accuse us of not having done enough for you. It’s as if history had invented you for this sole exercise: to judge us. And you want us to love you? The enlightened, civilized world that believes in the future of humanity says this to you: It’s had enough! Enough of you and your lessons, enough of your complaints and recriminations, enough of your wanting to live and survive in a society that doesn’t want you. Your problem is that you’ve learned nothing from your own history.”
When you’re choking with anger and rage, One-Eyed Paritus had once said to Shaltiel, try not to show it. Remember, the loudest cry is the one you don’t utter. He made an effort to force his voice to be calm and answered: “In other words, if I understand you correctly, sir, you’d like to see all of us vanish from the face of the earth and then you’d show us respect, affection and gratitude. That’s the meaning of your remarks and your conclusion? Well, you should know that others before you have tried to exclude us, diminish us and wipe us out using this method. The most recent such person was Adolf Hitler.”
“That was then; this is now,” said the Italian, eliding the argument. “The man who now holds your fate in his hands is a Muslim. And I believe in the benefits of the Revolution.”
Shaltiel thought that if he came out of this alive, he would go visit the old men who lived and worked, each in his own way, for revolutionary ideals. His story might entertain them. And if he was murdered, he would have a very special story to relate to the heavenly court.
Ahmed had become melancholic. It was as if he had suffered some kind of attack. Things were not going according to plan, and it was affecting him.
“I sometimes say to myself,” he said to Luigi, “that I’ve ruined my life. I miss my family. My wife. My children. I see them when I open my eyes at dawn. They smile at me. I tell them that they’ll be proud of their father one day as I am of them. I know they’re dead, but their smile makes them come back to life. I don’t see them in my dreams. When they were alive, I used to dream about them. My dreams have changed. They are haunted by my enemies. I kill them in my dreams. They’ve replaced my loved ones. My loathing for the infidels throws a shadow over the love I had for each member of my family. Initially, as a young soldier for the Prophet, I saw myself rising to seventh heaven. During the training period in the desert, we would dance around the fire in the evening singing of our faith. Thanks to us and our sacrifices, I will no longer be uprooted, stateless, an exile everywhere in the West. Along with my comrades, we’ll build the future of our nation in a violent kingdom, purified by violence. For the first time in history, there will be a Palestinian state, free and proud. Meanwhile, here I am with you in this dungeon, facing a man who refuses to give in. If someone had told us that the strength of this storyteller would be greater than ours, would you have believed him?”
“Yes,” answered Luigi.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“That’s because you’re Italian.”
“That’s true. We like stories.”
“So do we,” said Ahmed. “But we don’t like all storytellers. Not this one, for example.”
Hearing Ahmed express his doubts, Shaltiel had the crazy thought to appeal to them man to man.
“Listen to me,” he said, surprised by the sound of his own voice. They didn’t hear him. “Listen to me,” he repeated.
This time, they heard him. Ahmed walked over a
nd stood in front of him.
“What do you want, you dirty Jew?” Ahmed cried out, ready to hit him.
“I’d like to tell you something.”
“A Jewish tale? Another one? This is what I think of your tales.”
He struck him in the face.
“Leave him alone,” Luigi said. He looked at Shaltiel. “We’re listening.”
“This is a poem that is supposed to be a prayer or a vision,” he said in a voice that he hoped was strong and deep. “It’s not by me, but by an old immortal Sage. He ascribed it to a mute Etruscan.
Here is what
the condemned man,
in his prison,
wishes to offer as a gift.
Morning wind,
midnight shadows:
carry away my calls
to joy, to life.
Black tears,
sunlit dreams:
be my witnesses
silent and immortal.
The wandering child,
the lost ascetic:
it’s me they question,
it’s me who looks for them.
I call for you, men;
I love you, women:
my soul begs for you;
and my body too.
God, where are you?
Lord: Where are we?
With you, everything is possible;
but far away.
Without you, nothing is close,
but with you, you are far.
So very far.
In your own prison.
“I like the Etruscans,” said Luigi.
“Why?” asked Ahmed.
“Because they were all massacred and yet they continue to give us poems.”
“I don’t understand them,” said Ahmed.
“I don’t either,” said Luigi, “but I like them.”
Later on, alone in the musty-smelling basement, Shaltiel wondered: Didn’t he live in the Tower of Babel? Didn’t we all? In those days, languages were all mixed together, words had no more meaning, people didn’t understand their fellow men. My listeners, what are their languages? My torturers, what is their true language? What’s the point of making words to tell the truth about life if no one listens to you or understands you?