by Elie Wiesel
He hadn’t thought of children. He was well aware of what everyone thinks: Thanks to children, life becomes the finest, loveliest tale. Now, in jail, Shaltiel thought that his position had been most wise. Why give life to children when the destiny of men is in the hands of executioners?
“Read this, you stupid moron!” says Ahmed. “Your guilt here is plain. A filthy article in English: It’s your own confession. You believe in the coming of the Jewish Messiah, you say as much all the time—in other words, you deny the teachings of our Prophet.”
Now the Italian whispers something to his accomplice, and they walk out without a word. I start reflecting on everything that’s happened to me. I know I was abducted because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I won’t “confess,” so why do they keep humiliating me? My throat is dry and sore. I’m thirsty. I have an upset stomach. I’m dirty. A faint light comes through the basement window, up there; I feel it on my face. What does the window give out on? A courtyard? An avenue? There are ambulance sirens, tires screeching on the pavement. People are heading home, or going to work, to the office or to school. I’m in my own special time frame, time outside time.
Ahmed finally shows me the “proof,” as he calls it, and smacks me for the fun of it. It’s a short story entitled, ironically, “A Confession,” which I published in a small journal of Ohio University. The hero, a Jew, dreams that he sees the Messiah bringing all the Jews back to Jerusalem.
“And you want me to believe this isn’t anti-Muslim propaganda?” Ahmed says, shouting himself hoarse. “That you Jews aren’t our fiercest enemies, merciless with regard to our holy Islam, and hated, repudiated by the Prophet and all those who believe in him?”
I tell him that the stories I tell are invented. He could easily check by looking at my other silly publications. And then he’d understand that the pages he’s waving in front of my eyes are just the fruit of my imagination. I add that when the Messiah comes, he’ll save the entire world from damnation, including the Muslims. Ahmed doesn’t believe a word of what I say.
They blindfold me again. I don’t know why, since I’ve already seen what they look like. And as I’m going to die … So it begins anew—waiting for torture, which can be almost as bad as the torture itself. In order not to think about it, I conjure up all my loved ones again. I see myself with them on the night of Yom Kippur. I bless each of them in turn. What are they doing? What was their reaction to my disappearance? They must have phoned all the hospitals and all the police stations. The media must be talking about it. Even though I’m not a famous writer, I doubt my disappearance went unnoticed.
My captors are here again and give me back my sight. Once again, Ahmed asks me to sign a letter demanding the release of the prisoners, condemning Israel. It’s my one and only hope. I’m told more: My liberation depends on the liberation of his three comrades-in-arms. I say I won’t sign anything. He wants to know if I’m aware of the consequences of my refusal. I say yes, I am.
Later, in Ahmed’s absence, Luigi no longer wants to talk about revolutionary politics, which, he notes, should not be confused with political revolution. He no longer mentions social injustice. Now he wants to talk about friendship.
“Friendship,” he says, “is what motivated me to join the Revolution.” He explains that he comes from a large family—brothers, sisters, a horde of cousins—and there was no room for friends. Joining an underground group required a form of friendship.
“You may be confusing friendship and camaraderie,” says Shaltiel.
“You see a difference?”
“Camaraderie can lead to friendship; friendship is never just camaraderie.”
Luigi, more and more playing the good cop to Ahmed’s villain, says, “Tell me about your friends.”
One name, one face looms up in Shaltiel’s mind: Jonathan. He feels overwhelmed by a warm wave of nostalgia. Friend, where are you at this very moment? What will you feel about our friendship if I die?
Jonathan is tall, slender, delicate, timid, fearful, generous, withdrawn. Women pursued him, but he remained faithful to his wife, Lina. They lived together, went to the theater, maintained many relationships, kissed each other tenderly, made love—without ever exchanging a sentence.
It was through Lina—a beautiful, radiant woman, not lacking in charm but stubborn and wedded to her convictions—that Shaltiel had met Jonathan. Lina had come to hear him tell stories about the experiences of imaginary beings. The gathering in the park was meant for children. She was the only adult in the audience.
“I have a husband and no children,” she said. “But we like weird stories like yours. May I invite you to our house for a drink? We’ll pay your fee.”
He accepted. They lived in a small, nicely furnished apartment in midtown Manhattan.
“What kinds of stories would you like me to entertain you with?” Shaltiel asked.
“Any kind,” said Lina. “Love stories, if possible. They always entertain me.”
“And you?” he asked Jonathan.
“A story about friendship.”
So he improvised two short stories. When he left, at about 11 p.m., he found an envelope in his coat pocket. Jonathan insisted on accompanying him out.
In the street, he remarked, “You must find us very strange.”
Shaltiel said nothing.
“Do you often have the opportunity to talk to mutes?”
“But you’re not mute, nor is your wife.”
“Oh yes we are. Mute with each other.”
“Since when?”
“Oh, for a long time.’
“How did it happen?”
“One night, we came home after dining at the house of some friends. Lina seemed irritated; even today, I don’t know why. We had just gone to bed when she said, ‘I’ve decided that in order to protect our love and keep it intact, we’ll stop talking to each other. Why? Because one word can ruin everything. And our love means too much to me. I don’t want to run the risk.’ So that was that. She doesn’t talk to me so she can love me more, and I don’t talk to her so I won’t lose her. She says a lot of things to a lot of people, but to me, nothing. And the same is true of me. So now you see what I mean; we’re mute with each other. But our love gains in strength and genuineness.”
“And would Lina give me the same explanation?”
“I think so. Ask her the next time.”
Shaltiel and Jonathan were about to part at the subway station. As they were shaking hands Jonathan said, “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s an offer.”
“I’m listening.”
“Let’s be friends.”
“Why?” Shaltiel stammered.
“It would make Lina happy. It’s her idea. Otherwise she wouldn’t have organized this evening. She knows how important friendship is to me. Don’t you think man could live without love but not without friendship?”
The following day, Shaltiel was surprised to see Lina again in his audience. She listened to his stories and waited to see him after all the children had left.
“You told them beautiful things about friendship.”
“I just told them children’s stories. And I never used the word ‘friendship.’ ”
“True enough, but I could still hear it. And so could the children. Because there are words that come through, even when they’re unspoken.”
She asked him what he made of the previous evening.
“You make a peculiar couple,” he said.
“Peculiar in what way?”
“You believe in love but you seem to have given up on speech—you repudiate it, and I ask myself, What for?”
“You don’t understand us. Suppose I tell you that the sole reason we keep silent is so as to prove that love can do without spoken words?”
“You’re talking to someone who uses spoken words in his profession.”
“But I’m talking about us, not you.”
Shaltiel started to feel
annoyed. “What do you expect from me?”
“That you come back to see us. Our silence improves in your presence.”
“Your husband offered me his friendship.”
“I know.”
“He told you?”
“No. How could he? But I look at him and I hear it all. I know that you replied that you were going to think it over.”
“That’s true. His offer is far from frivolous. I have to give it thought.”
This eventually led to long walks with Jonathan, to deep exchanges, to the reading of manuscripts. Blanca understood that this new friendship in her husband’s life would enrich and enhance their love.
Sometimes the four of them spent evenings together—dining, attending concerts and talking about the music. They were comfortable with one another. Blanca and Shaltiel were careful not to disturb the strange, unnatural harmony that enveloped Lina and Jonathan.
“So,” said Luigi, “are you going to tell me about your friends, political or otherwise?”
“I have a friend named Jonathan,” says Shaltiel. “In Hebrew, ‘Jonathan’ means ‘gift from God.’ Jonathan was the best friend of the future King David in his youth.”
“Friendship is a beautiful bond,” said Luigi. “I admit it’s a gift from God to men.”
Pinhas’s surprising adventures were hardly talked about in his family. When he was little, Shaltiel couldn’t understand why the mere mention of his name disrupted the serenity of the household. Later on, he would learn more about how his brother had broken with tradition and was living in Russia, where he held an influential position. Many years later, in Jerusalem, he learned more, from Pinhas’s own mouth.
Shaltiel was very eager to see him, because he had been told that his elder brother, who had been an exemplary Communist in his youth, had become deeply religious. He wanted to understand why. What had led him to abandon the God of his ancestors for Stalin, a god of war with a mustache, obsessed with absolute power, for whom human beings were not an ideal but a political product? And what had prompted his brother’s falling out with this new master and allowed him to find his way back to the God of Abraham and Moses?
They met one summer evening in the Old City, in a small common room of a social center where impecunious yeshiva students gathered now and then to discuss politics, loans or marriage. With his bushy beard and earlocks, caftan and black felt hat, Rabbi Pinhas looked like a rabbi descended from generations of erudite rabbis.
“Hello, Pavel,” said Shaltiel. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Don’t call me Pavel anymore,” his brother said. “My name is Pinhas.”
Shaltiel wanted to ask him to explain his name change, but first he asked how someone who used to be secular could now feel fulfilled by returning to his original faith and no longer show the slightest interest in his youthful political activities.
His head lowered as if he were shielding his gaze, Pinhas explained that his coming to Israel had nothing to do with politics but with deeper needs. Shaltiel asked him to elaborate.
“I’m sure you know that for years I ministered to a temporal secular cause that was actually deceitful. At one point I understood that it was time to turn my back on it and find the way to truth again. I couldn’t bear the lies, the ruses and the violence anymore. I owed it to myself to start my life over again.”
Shaltiel remained silent.
“I imagine you’d like to know everything about the Communist period in my youth. They must have talked about it at home, right? How I became a Stalinist? The event, the discovery, the meeting that led to the change in my behavior and my commitment? Our father played an important part at the beginning of this adventure. You’re surprised by that? Listen.
“As you know, he was always devout, very devout. And poor. He prayed morning and evening, studied the Talmud and helped the needy. If anyone deserved health, peace, happiness and the means to accomplish good deeds, it was he. Upright, honest, loyal to the Law of Moses and the prophets, he lived for us, his family, and for others just as much.
“I was still young, I worked in the sawmill and was preparing my bar mitzvah. One day, I saw him weeping in his bedroom. That day, a neighbor had come to ask him for help. Her husband was penniless; their only daughter was gravely ill; they were going to be evicted from their house. Our father could do nothing to help them. He could only offer them tears. Some time later, my friend Zelig gave me a Communist pamphlet in Yiddish. When I read it, it opened my eyes to what I believed was enlightenment. He gave me other publications. Little by little, I understood that the path chosen by our father wasn’t the only path and that perhaps it wasn’t even the best way of improving man’s condition and fulfilling the Messianic expectation of Jews. Communism seemed to me as good if not better. It was new, original. And it offered us a way we could help improve the world, to discover the roots of evil and defeat it. Can you understand that? The slogans were more than words; the promises more than sentences. Remake humanity; build a world where children don’t die of hunger, where their parents are no longer ashamed. Bearers of a pure flame, we were determined to set fire to everything that led to the misfortune of men.
“I decided to change my life. In order to take responsibility for my new life, it was incumbent on me to leave everything behind. So I left for the Soviet Union.”
Pinhas glanced at his watch and realized that it was time to recite the Maariv prayer.
He asked his brother to excuse him and to wait for him to return.
• • •
On a dark, moonless night, under a sky heavy with portent, Zelig and Pavel crossed the frontier. Pishta Bàcsi, a smuggler by profession, knew every path, every tree in the mountains. He also knew which unit of the border police took which route and when. After a three-hour walk, he signaled for them to stop.
“Count twenty-three oaks on the right and you’ll be on the other side,” he whispered to them.
Pavel and Zelig held their breath and cautiously crawled through the humid grass for about ten minutes.
“Halt!” someone shouted in Russian.
The two friends believed they had reached their promised land.
The order was repeated, more menacingly. “Halt!”
Relieved to have left Romania, they were about to stand up when the same voice told them to freeze.
A flashlight shined on them. Zelig, who spoke some Russian, tried to explain to the Russian soldier.
“On your knees!’
The soldier called for help. His comrade searched the intruders. He then ordered them to the nearby guardroom.
“Why are you here? Who sent you? You’ve just trespassed on Soviet territory illegally.”
Zelig replied with conviction that he and his friend had their red membership cards in their pockets, proving they belonged to the party of the great Stalin. The officer found the cards but was unimpressed. Documents like these could be printed by anyone, he said. He confiscated them, as well as everything the suspects had in their possession, including their money.
Handcuffed, they were led to a military truck that was standing by. Zelig tried to reassure his friend.
“Don’t worry. These soldiers aren’t qualified to handle our case. As soon as we’re introduced to a high-ranking officer, the misunderstanding will be cleared up. I’m confident.”
They spent endless hours in a jail cell. Zelig tried to convince Pavel that what was happening to them was normal, understandable. After all, they were in a military zone. In a few days, everything would be cleared up. The party would send someone to ease their path. Pavel remained doubtful. How could they prove their innocence to the Soviets?
“I trust the party,” said Zelig.
Finally they were escorted, separately, to appear before a military security officer. They were asked the same questions: Why had they entered the USSR illegally? What was their objective? Who were their contacts? The two said they were members of the underground Communist party; they had decided to come to Soviet
Russia quite simply to help the party triumph over its enemies.
Then the officer brought them in together.
“Did the Soviet government invite you to come to this country?”
“No. But the party’s secret service …”
“We have no proof of this.”
“But our superiors, in our town …”
“We don’t know them. And you, do you know anyone here?”
No, no one, they said.
“Consider yourselves under arrest. If you were real Communists, you would have known that discipline prevails over everything else. It’s our party, responsible for our national security, that decides which of its members are to come and help us, how and when. If you are Communists, why didn’t you wait until you were summoned?”
Zelig turned to Pavel and asked, “Didn’t you once tell me you had a relative in the USSR?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“A cousin … an uncle …”
The officer sniggered. “What makes you think I would just happen to know this cousin or uncle or whomever?”
“I’m not sure you would know him, comrade officer,” said Zelig, “but …”
“Watch your language! Until your identity as a party member has been verified, I forbid you to call me comrade!”
Zelig and Pavel were escorted back to their cell. The next day, they were transported north. Each night they stayed in another prison. They were hungry, exhausted, thirsty, scared, nostalgic, full of regret. Zelig clung to his ideals; Pavel was less sure.
Zelig: “Don’t judge the party on the basis of what’s happening to us. We’re the victims of bureaucracy. Some papers must have gone astray. Don’t forget that they see us as Hungarian or Romanian, in other words, as enemies of the Soviet Union.”
Pavel: “But you’re forgetting the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. We’re supposed to be allies.”
Zelig: “The party knows what it’s doing.”
Pavel: “Still, don’t you wonder about the alliance between Nazis and Communists?”
Zelig: “The party has its reasons!”
Pavel: “You talk about the party the way my father used to talk about God.”