by Elie Wiesel
As for your father—you won’t believe this—in the very beginning, he seemed happy, yes, happy to find himself there, facing the magistrate, poised on the threshold of pain and death. Poets are a queer lot. Could it be that they wish to endure and know all there is to endure and know?
As I said, in the beginning, he amused me. He was still in good health. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, yes, he was a little pale, but that was all. He stood erect and answered routine questions in a calm voice: name, first name, father’s name, profession. He amused me because … Listen. The magistrate asks him whether he knows why he has been arrested. Your father responds that yes, he knows. “Why?” asks the magistrate. “Because I have written a poem.” The judge almost chokes with laughter. Your father, you understand, was about to be accused of sabotage, of conspiracy, of treason. They were getting ready to attempt to have him implicate the most illustrious names in Jewish literature and he comes out with his poem. “And this poem,” says the judge, “where is it? May one read it?” “No,” says your father, “you cannot read it.” “Why not?” “Because it’s in my head, only in my head.…”
He often referred to it, to this poem he had written in his head.
Oh yes, that father of yours was quite a character, he was somebody all right.
I remember the first question he asked the judge: “Where am I?” Did you notice, my boy? Not “Why am I here?” which is what all the prisoners ask when they arrive, but “Where am I?” Later he explained. “Some people define themselves in relation to what they do—not me. I define myself in relation to the place where I happen to be.”
I had been struck by this because he could not know, none of the prisoners knew where he was. In what prison, in what section. They didn’t even know the name of the city. They were blindfolded and disoriented, like beaten blind men.
In fact, your father was languishing in an old fortress of our charming city of Krasnograd; but that was kept from him. He was variously led to believe he was in Leningrad, in Kharkov or even in Tashkent. One day they stuffed him into one of those vans popularly referred to as “black marias.” He was driven around and around for hours, with many stops. Taken back to his cell, your father did not recognize it. Sometimes the examining magistrate was replaced by a colleague who pretended to be him. All these games, designed to shake and unsettle the prisoner’s mind, to disgust him with himself, I duly recorded, at first for them, later for your father. The hunger pangs, the agonies of thirst, the wounds of memory: I have recorded them all. Which was the worst? Silence. There, your father recorded it all. Wait, let me find it. Here it is, do you see?
I wonder who invented the test of silence, the torture of silence. A madman? A poet of madness, of vengeance?
As a child in Barassy, as an adolescent in Liyanov I yearned for silence. I dreamed of it. I begged God to find me a mute master who would impart his truth—and his words—to me, wordlessly. I spent hours with a disciple of the Hasidic school of Worke, whose rebbe had turned silence into a method: the faithful converged on Worke so as to link their silences to the Master’s. Later, with Rebbe Mendel-the-Taciturn, we tried to transcend language. At midnight, our eyes closed, our faces turned toward Jerusalem and its fiery sanctuary, we listened to the song of its silence—a celestial and yet tangible silence in which both voices and moments attain immortality.
No master had ever warned me that silence could be nefarious, evil, that it could drive man to lies, to treason; that it could break man rather than make him whole. No master had ever told me that silence could become a prison.
You taught me more than my masters, Citizen Magistrate. In this “isolator”—the word is well chosen: in it one becomes isolated not only from mankind but from oneself as well—I have attained a level of knowledge I had despaired of reaching.
In the beginning I was comfortable there; I rather liked it. After the screaming, the blows and the constraint of having to remain standing, the silence was a welcome haven, a soothing embrace.
Upstairs, on the second floor, I would faint in order to avoid the questions, the sneers, the insults, the spitting abuse. Sentences became amplified until they weighed on my skull and inside my brain and the pressure became intolerable. The slightest noise—the blinking of an eyelid—reverberated inside me as in a metallic drum. I floundered, I sank into nothingness. I had the feeling that every object in this universe was moving, dancing, creating a roaring hubbub as of a carnival: the lamps were hissing, the pens were squeaking, the curtains were bellowing, the chairs were rocking back and forth like vessels in distress.
They carried me, like a wreck, from corridor to corridor, they dragged me down the stairs and threw me into this cell. “From now on, not another word, understood?” The last human voice, the last echo. Beyond that, nothing. Time itself came to a halt. The earth no longer turned, dogs no longer barked. The stars, far away, went out. Man’s universe was transfixed forever. And up above, on His motionless throne, God silently judged His hushed creation.
When I came to, I thought for a moment that an unspeakable curse had struck all of mankind; man had lost his faculty of speech. Guards in their special slippers were gliding from door to door. Through the peephole or from the doorway, they conveyed their orders with signs only: get up, lie down, swallow. The outside world had ceased to breathe. I no longer heard my neighbors, the old and the new, the weak and the brave, as they scratched the walls, as they muffled their moans. Nothing, anywhere, had a voice. And then, anxiety took hold. I understood that silence was a more sophisticated, more brutal torture than any interrogation session.
Silence acts on both the senses and the nerves; it unsettles them. It acts on the imagination and sets it on fire. It acts on the soul and fills it with night and death. The philosophers are wrong: it is not words that kill, it is silence. It kills impulse and passion, it kills desire and the memory of desire. It invades, dominates and reduces man to slavery. And once a slave of silence, you are no longer a man.
Once—was it morning? night?—when I could go on no longer, I began to talk to myself. The next instant the door opened and the guard signaled me to stop. I whispered, “I didn’t know it was forbidden.” In truth, I did know, but I wanted to hear myself pronounce those words; I was overwhelmed by an irresistible need to hear a human voice—mine or that of the jailer, it hardly mattered. But he was not duped. He punished me by tying me to the cot with heavy rope, and his threatening index finger made it clear: “Don’t try it again, or else …” During one day and one night, and another day, that was how I remained, nailed down, choked by the cries that filled my chest. And yet, I did it again. Not out of heroism but because I was exhausted, crushed by the silence. I began to hum, very quietly but not quietly enough: the door opened without a sound, as in a dream, and the guard shook his head with displeasure and sealed my lips with tape. If this continues, I thought, Paltiel Kossover will turn into a mummy. Fine. I imagined myself dead.
Only, in my imagination, the dead are not mute; they speak, they cry out. The massacred Jews of Barassy and Liyanov, the fighters struck down in Spain, the men and women of so many forgotten or burned cemeteries, they pray, they sing, they lament: how is one to silence them? How is one to explain to them that because of them I was risking more punishment?
Once the guard surprised me as I was staring at the wall nodding: new reprisals. He made it clear to me that it was forbidden to speak to the wall—even in my head. I had to force myself to keep silence within as well; mind and body became one: no more dialogues, no more discourses, no more challenges, no more memories. I saw myself moan, I watched myself agonize, howl or sob; the images ceased to be transformed into words.
The Rebbe of Worke is wrong. He says that the loudest scream is the one that is stifled. No. It is the one that is not heard; the one that is seen.
As time passed—but did it really pass? And as it passes does it not emit a sound?—the intensity of the pain increased. I didn’t know that it was possible to die of
silence, as one dies of pain, of sorrow, of hunger, of fatigue, of illness or of love. And I understood why God created heaven and earth, why He fashioned man in His image by conferring on him the right and the ability to speak his joy, to express his anguish.
God too, God Himself was afraid of silence.
And yet, Grisha, your father overcame this test.
And, thanks to the brilliant idea of one magistrate—the one who had the honor of being my superior—Paltiel Kossover did find a kind of happiness. It’s silly, I know: Can one be happy in prison? Yet ask those who are confined there; some will retort: Can one be happy anywhere else?
Such is the ultimate test a prisoner faces: happiness. The examining magistrate knew how to use it and, my boy, your father fell into the trap. Will that diminish your esteem for him? That would be wrong. There are no tough guys. Our system, erected by the companions and disciples of the great Vladimir Ilyitch in person, tested during more than three revolutionary decades by the philosophers and scholars of torture, always prevails over its opponents.
Our experts are masters in the art of breaking the former minister, the fallen dignitary, the commissar in disgrace; they know how to overcome the mistrust of the politicians and the faith of the believers and bring them to the point of spilling the beans. Oh, yes, I’ve seen them all. Yesterday they were famous and powerful; today they’re on their knees, whining and repeating the speeches prepared for them, and they don’t even remember that these discourses are not their own.
But not your father, I told you that. After three days and three nights without sleep, following three months of anguish, the examining magistrate would throw him a name, any name, as bait, to engage the conversation. And your father would respond: “Who is this you’re speaking of, Citizen Magistrate? Someone living or someone dead? As for me, I only know the dead.”
And the judge, my sadistic superior, had to restrain himself in order not to strike him down on the spot. Stubborn as a mule, your father; impossible to make him yield! So as not to risk sliding down the path of confession by reacting to the names of innocent men, he resisted from the start. The interrogation dragged on and on. Did he think that was the way to save his skin? He was too intelligent and too clear-sighted not to know that, with or without confessions, his fate was sealed: his appointment with the “gentleman of the fourth cellar” was set. And yet, he put up resistance. His is a unique case in our annals: though totally alone he placed our entire apparatus in jeopardy, and he knew it.
To appease the judge trembling with rage—he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, my poor chief—your father one day asked, “Why do you get yourself into such a state, Citizen Magistrate? Because I dare oppose my will to yours? I cannot possibly be the only one to do so. You have won so many victories; consider me the exception to the rule and turn the page.”
“I cannot.”
“Think of all those you have subdued and my case will no longer matter.”
“I cannot. Because of you, it is the other cases that no longer matter.”
At which point your father, from under his dirty and sticky beard, attempted a smile. “This reminds me of the Book of Esther.”
“Esther? Who’s that?” exclaimed the magistrate, pleased to have extracted a name from my father at last. “She has written a book? Where does she live?”
“You’re way off, Citizen Magistrate. The Book of Esther, that’s ancient history.…” And he began to tell us about the old king and his adviser Haman and about the beautiful Jewess. Why did Haman hate Mordechai so passionately? Listen to your father the poet’s explanation:
“Because this solitary Jew was the only one who refused to greet him. Haman states it clearly: ‘When I see him, erect and dignified, so different, the rest no longer matters; as I face his determination, the honors bequeathed on me by others lose all value.’ ”
Your father interrupted his Biblical lesson to wet his lips.
“But you, Citizen Magistrate,” he continued, “you live in the present, not in ancient history, thus draw your own conclusions from Haman’s mishap. Think of how he ended … but, above all, think of his victories and let me have mine.…”
This gives you an idea, my boy, of just how much he irritated us. We were preparing a trial and he was pestering us with Haman!
And yet, my chief did get his way. If I told you how, you’ll think I’m exaggerating, inventing … embroidering—but I’m not making up anything. I am conditioned by my profession: I arrange facts as in a police report. Nothing but the facts. The judge trapped him by appealing to him as a writer. Your father derived his strength from his talent, from his writings; and the judge succeeded in transforming his talent into a weakness. Had he been a plain laborer or municipal employee, your father would not have given in; but then, of course, he would never have been thrown in prison in the first place. Still, the examining magistrate did catch him in the end, and how. He outsmarted your father. One night, after a particularly long and exhausting interrogation, the judge said with feigned lassitude:
“I give up. You are strong, stronger than I expected. None of our methods has proved effective. And so, I shall make you a proposition: you are a writer, write. Anything, in any way you choose. Any time. I promise not to badger you any more. You will not speak of the living? Very well. You will write poems? Better yet. What I need is something to fill my dossier. I must be able to tell my superiors: See, he has made his confession.”
His smile was friendly and your father was too worn out to understand its meaning.
“If I were you, I would write the story of my life. After all, why not? What a project for a writer. What do you say? I offer you the time and the means. What author worth his mettle would refuse such an offer?”
Well played, Magistrate. Bravo, Chief. Paltiel Kossover had a vulnerable spot and the judge had found it. Your father, completely snared, allowed himself to be manipulated. My idol became a puppet. The writer in him succumbed to the temptations of writing, to the mysterious spell of the word. The poet relented even as the man yearned to remain whole, unshaken.
The judge ordered pencils and notebooks brought to him. Yes, that’s how it was: home delivery. Your father, wary nevertheless, fearing a new ruse, did not touch them for a week. But the words were consuming him, asking to be born. He began to write. First an innocent poem, then another. A meditation on solitude. Another on friendship. Then a letter to his wife. And a letter to his son. And finally, an intimate journal he entitled The Testament—the very one we are reading at this moment, my boy. Don’t worry: I filched it, and one day I shall tell you how, and why—but that’s another story.
And so your father wrote and his work met with huge success: the examining magistrate no longer read anything else. Every evening the prisoner’s pages were taken to him. He studied them as though they represented the confession of the century. He took notes, compared names and dates, transmitted excerpts here and there to interested parties and entrusted me with them for addition to the dossier resting in our inviolable and inviolate vaults.
Let me give you an example. The passages relating to Wolfe-Petya-Paul circulated through various services. Since they contained references to Stalin, the dossier was immediately brought to the attention of Abakumov, who personally broached the subject to Beria. Beria in turn demanded an additional inquiry and, as a starter, the arrest of Ehrmanski—who had represented the NKVD in Paris during the thirties—for lack of vigilance. You cannot imagine, my boy, the uproar created here by this nasty business. Our “services” were hard put to lay their hands on that bastard Ehrmanski. He was on the wanted list in every Socialist republic, he was hunted by our men everywhere. But day after day, we had to concede to an enraged Abakumov that Ehrmanski continued to elude us. Weeks and weeks later we understood why; he had been liquidated in Paris before he could inform on anybody, by his lieutenant, who was our man. Oh, yes, we had informers spying on our informers. Such was the rule: our executioners ended like their victims—a bull
et in the neck. Even executioners are mortal.
At times your father gave birth to a poem I read with pleasure—it distracted me. Not that I always understood your father’s poems, but I loved them anyway. As for the examining magistrate, he hated them; they contained no useful information.
If you must know the truth, my boy, I once was very upset. Your father had just finished a philosophical poem of which I didn’t understand one wretched word. Neither did the judge, but as was his wont, he congratulated your father, who abruptly turned his head, as though to hide.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, Citizen Magistrate.”
“Don’t you feel well?”
“I do. Only … it hurts. I realize my son … my son will never read me.”
And I, who have no son, felt unspeakably sad. And I, who have never cried or laughed all my life, felt tears springing to my eyes. Is that when I decided to make off with a few pages here and there and stuff them into my drawer where the devil himself couldn’t find a thing? You never know … is what I was thinking.
The judge, clever as always, tried to placate your father. A writer, said he, must never think of his reader as he writes; all that should matter is his truth. So write the truth, Paltiel Gershonovich, that is your duty.
Thus your father had at least two devoted readers. I liked the stories, whereas the judge focused on the names. Before I put away the notebooks I transcribed the names onto an alphabetical index I had to keep up to date. Inge, Paul, Traub, Pinsker … then the writers and poets, both the acclaimed and the unknown writers and poets of the Soviet Union—many in prison like himself.
In this index, there was one name which, literally, made us fly into a rage; we came close to howling every time your poet of a father chose to mention, with glee, this incredible, impossible character whose hobby it seemed to be to appear unexpectedly, in the weirdest, most outlandish places, be it the market in Odessa or a brothel in Paris. You know who I mean: that David Aboulesia, if perchance that was his real name.