by Elie Wiesel
Incidentally, I must admit he was a good instructor; I realize it now. In turn severe and forgiving, attentive and absent-minded, patient and intolerant; his mood changed according to the need. In initiating me into the secrets of his art, he communicated its rhythm and fire. And with the years the projected concert at the Borsher Rebbe’s became a possibility.
Naturally it never came to pass. My little town was annexed by Hungary, and my Rumanian police captain was transferred before I was quite ready to perform in public.
Father tried hard to find someone to replace him. Five or six potential successors were approached; none appealed to me. In the meantime I had become involved in other studies and other passions. Mute in its case, the violin was relegated to the rank of object, to the sharp displeasure of my parents. Father was to remind me reproachfully of this not long thereafter.
We had just arrived at the camp. Both of us were immediately assigned to the orchestra commando. Being a novice, my father naïvely believed that professional musicians had a better chance for survival. And so he told me: “See? If you had listened to me, if you had not given up the violin, you would not only be in the commando, you would now be a full-fledged member of the orchestra.”
It was as if he were scolding me for having missed an important career elsewhere, on the other side, among the rich and powerful.
In truth, I was glad then not to possess the mastery required for admission to the orchestra. I could not have played, not there. Or: I could have played, which would have been worse.
Besides, my father was wrong: the musicians in our commando, so envied by us, did not survive.
FIRST ROYALTIES
If someone had told me when I was a child that one day I would become a novelist, I would have turned away, convinced he was confusing me with someone else.
For the pattern of my future had then seemed clear. I would pursue my studies in the same surroundings with the same zeal, probing the sacred texts and opening the gates to the secret knowledge that permits fulfillment by transcending self.
Novels I thought childish, reading them a waste of time. You had to be a fool to love the fictitious universe made of words when there was the other, immense and boundless, made of truth and presence. I preferred God to His creation, silence to revelation.
As for France—whose language I chose for my tales—its name evoked visions of a mythical country, real only because mentioned in Rashi and other commentaries on the Bible and Talmud.
It took a war—and what a war—to make me change my road, if not my destiny.
The story of that change might not have been mine. And I might not have written it.
My first royalties were two bowls of soup, awarded me for a creative work never set to paper. The taste of that soup still lingers in my mouth.
… It happened a long time ago, in a place where all persons wore the same mask beneath the same face, and all faces had the same blank stare.
I was young, barely out of yeshiva, too young to have become accustomed to the tephillin’s leather straps. My left arm still bore their imprint. In my imagination, I was still running after my teachers; I was their disciple, though not their heir. While carrying on my shoulders stones heavier than my body, I saw myself surrounded by flickering candles, pondering questions formulated centuries earlier in other places, on the other side of the world and perhaps even of history.
In the beginning, I had enough strength left to resist. Also it was my luck—yes, luck—to work next to a former Rosh-Yeshiva from Galicia. I don’t remember his name; perhaps I never knew it. As for his face, I never really looked at it. Only his voice has stayed with me, unforgotten and unforgettable, deep and sepulchral, the voice of a friend, a sick friend.
“You are new here? Instead of welcoming you, let me tell you your first duty: you must hold on. Do you hear? Hold on at any cost. You must not allow yourself to be tainted by evil, yours or anyone else’s.”
Bent over, without looking at me, he continued in a voice weaker but gentler than before: “Think of your soul and you’ll resist better. The soul is important and the enemy knows it; that’s why he tries to corrupt it before destroying us. Do not let him. The soul counts for more than the body. If your soul maintains its strength, your body too will withstand the test. I tell you this because you have just arrived; you are still capable of listening. In a month it will be too late. In a month you will no longer know what having a soul could possibly mean.”
“Isn’t the soul supposed to be immortal?” I asked innocently.
We were digging. He stopped, lowered his voice, as if unwilling to hear his own words, and replied: “You will soon learn that this is neither the place nor the time to speak of immortality.”
Afraid lest I had offended him, I was about to apologize, but he was quick to resume: “To hold on, little brother, take my advice: protect your soul and it will protect you. You have the means. It’s simple: all you have to do is study.”
“Study what?”
“Torah, naturally. What else is there to study? It is the only road leading anywhere. Take it and follow it. As before, better than before, with even greater zeal than when you were at home.”
“That’s insane,” I said in disbelief. “How do you expect me to study here? Without teachers or books?”
“You’ll soon learn to get along without them. You’ll leap two thousand years back into the past. Here too the Talmud will serve as refuge. You’ll study it the way it was taught long ago in Sura and Pumbedita: from memory. In this place, little brother, we have no choice. Whether we want it or not, each one of us owes it to himself to be, all at once, Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, Rabbi Akiba, Rabbi Yehuda …”
The sudden appearance of a kapo made him stop. The danger past, he continued with renewed vigor: “… and this means that all the rabbis, all the sages, all the saints, from the very beginning of our history, have been preparing for this place. This is our new yeshiva, the new dwelling of Torah and the Shekhinah.”
He became my teacher.
“Where were you in your studies—before?” he wanted to know.
I told him: the tractate on Shabbat, third chapter.
“What page?”
I told him.
“Good. Let’s continue. We have no time to lose.”
He knew the entire tractate by heart. Better yet: the whole Talmud. The one from Jerusalem and the Babylonian. And all the Commentaries. He had undoubtedly been an ilui in his hometown, respected and admired for his erudition and wisdom. Here, like all of us, he was ravaged by hunger, lost in anonymity. But to him, this was unimportant. What mattered was to be able, thanks to a single disciple, to become Rosh-Yeshiva again, even here, in the camp. Since I was ready to receive, he knew he could give. And as long as he went on giving, he was as strong as life, even stronger perhaps. To me, he became the personification of the Jew’s characteristic need to transmit his legacy; and he knew that he was timeless and indestructible.
In the weeks that followed, we studied together many hours, sometimes without interruption, losing our awareness of what surrounded us.
Our system? First he would quote a passage, then I would repeat it. Later we discussed its every aspect. In this way I learned more with him than I had learned in all my years of study at home.
Came the day of separation. Unexpected and irrevocable, like everything else at camp. The Rosh-Yeshiva did not have time to give me his blessing; he was transferred to another camp and I never heard from him again.
His departure forced me to interrupt my studies for the second time. Besides, even if my teacher had stayed, I could not have continued. My strength was deserting me. In the end, resolution gave way and followed the body: weakened one like the other, one by the other.
A miserable crust of moldy bread came to contain more truth, more eternity than all the pages of all the books put together. Reduced to the level of matter, spirit became matter. Just as our bodies came to look alike, so our hearts harbored one single
wish: bread and soup, thicker, if possible, than yesterday’s. We were hungry for nothing else.
One evening our block leader, a Czech Jew more humane than his colleagues, announced his decision to offer two bowls of soup as a reward for the best story. The unscheduled literary contest was open to all and attracted a large number of contestants; the inmates all wanted to be heard. The block leader presided, pointing to one man after another: each storyteller stepped forward and had three minutes to demonstrate his talent. One told of past glory, another of present anguish. Some spoke with humor, others with emotion. Some used grandiloquent phrases, others pleaded in soft whispers: all hoped for our pity.
My turn came almost at the end. In fact, not having offered to participate, I was taken by surprise. The block leader’s attention had probably been caught by my youth; no doubt he wanted to show his compassion by giving me a chance.
“And you, young man, what do you have to tell us?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“How come? Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, sir,” I answered without hesitation.
“Liar!”
I was watching him, and myself, from a distance. I didn’t reply.
He raised his voice: “Imbecile! I’m offering you a chance and you refuse? Aren’t you interested in staying alive?”
“You don’t understand, sir. I have nothing to tell … and everything I need; thank you anyway.”
“You are crazy!”
“No, sir. I am sane. And I have what I want. Thank you very much.”
Taken aback, irritated, he began questioning me. Who was I, where was I from, how long had I been here, and why could I not invent a story capable of filling my stomach.
“Because my stomach is already full,” I answered with conviction. “It’s true, sir. I don’t want anything. Neither your soup nor your pity. If you really must know, I have just eaten. As much as I cared to. Believe me. I have eaten more and better than you.”
“More and better … than I?” he said, looking annoyed. “You? Today? Here? You are positively mad, you must be. Mad. Done for. You’ll die. And I thought I could help you …”
He studied me with such painful disbelief that I decided to take him into my confidence. And I began describing, in detail, the sumptuous meal which, in my imagination, I had just savored. The dishes, the wines, the fruits, the dessert.
By inviting him to the feast, I reminded him that it was Friday night. The Shabbat meal. White tablecloth, silver candlesticks. The serenity, the joy. My mother, her hands shielding her face, blesses the candles. My little sister is setting the table. Take care, little sister, we have guests. She rearranges the settings. The door opens and there is my grandfather, preceded by the ritual song inviting the angels of Shabbat to honor us with their presence. Father blesses the wine, breaks the bread. The maid serves the fish. Grandfather eats with appetite and sings with enthusiasm. When his son-in-law tries to start a discussion on politics, he interrupts: No, no, not tonight, no politics during the Shabbat meal. Because, you see, it is Shabbat in our home and in God’s: peace and joy of Shabbat to all who need it, everywhere.
I used simple words: it was the child in me speaking, sharing his dream. Surrounding me, in a large circle, the inmates listened, shaking their heads. For each of them I became the child he once had been. The block leader himself seemed far away.
“It takes a long time, the Friday night meal,” I said. “Because of the zemiroth, the songs. There are so many. We love them all. For the fervor, the nostalgia they contain, man is privileged to express them. So, why hurry? We have time, plenty of time. The worker will not go to work tomorrow, the traveler will not travel, the vagabond, resting at last, will not dread the hour of waking. It is Shabbat, and the soul needs but another soul to sanction and perfect creation. The body needs nothing. Not this evening, not after such a Shabbat meal …”
There was silence in the barracks long after I had finished my tale. The block leader was the first to shatter the mood by shouting: “Bravo, young man! Bravo! Well done!” And turning toward the men: “I nominate him as the winner. Any objections?”
The question was rhetorical, of course. He did not need their approval; nor would anyone have dared to disagree.
So, with great ceremony, he handed me the two bowls of thick soup. Followed by envious eyes, I took my prizes and carried them to my bunk. There I hid one bowl and plunged my spoon into the other. Then I stirred and stirred a long, long time before allowing myself a taste.
And nausea welled up inside me, uncontrollable, overwhelming. I had the oppressive feeling that it was my story itself I was swallowing—a story impoverished and diminished for having been told; its source a memory grown dim and less and less my own.
DIALOGUES III
Is it me you’re watching with such hostility?
Yes. You.
Do you know me?
I used to know you.
Have we met before?
Often. Too often.
Where?
Over there.
Really? I don’t remember seeing you.
But I remember you.
What did I look like?
Black.
What???
You were black, all over. The truncheon, the smoke, the killers’ evil eyes, the victims’ lifeless eyes: black, all black. The barbed wire, the watchtowers, the stones, the bloodless lips: everything that was black—was you …
It’s my favorite color.
… I could see nothing but you. From morning till night and until the next dawn. You, you, only you and always you. The stranger whose hot, gasping breath I felt behind me during roll call, the sick man full of envy for the crust of bread I meant to save for later: you. The friend clinging to me and the dying man clinging to my friend, the brute hoarding in his tin dish a soup thicker than mine, the father stumbling and the son too terrified to help him, the kapo meting out punishment and the prisoners submitting in silence or with screams: it was you, you, always you.
Strange: I don’t remember your face.
You were busy, overworked. We were many.
Still … I have a good memory … I don’t usually forget … Are you sure …
Sure, I’m sure. I was there! Your prey, your object! Covered by your black shadow! I was your thing … your power was unmatched, unmatchable. You were the absolute. You suggested infinity. We ran from you toward you. To escape was impossible: we were inside you.
Why are you so excited? You yell and yell. Are you angry with me? Now?
I was angry with you.
But why? Since I let you get away.
… You shouldn’t have.
That’s what you call gratitude. If I’d known …
Go on: If you’d known?
Nothing.
If you’d known, you would not have spared me. Is that it?
Perhaps.
Why did you spare me?
Because I didn’t know—I just finished telling you.
You’re trying to avoid the issue—why?
All right. Let’s say you were too young.
There were others younger than I. You took them.
Let’s say you were more deserving.
Deserving? I? You’re lying. I was no better than my comrades and certainly no better than the last friends I had.
Perhaps someone interceded in your behalf.
And who might that have been?
Your ancestors. Or your teachers. How should I know?
Then it was not just pure chance? You knew what you were doing? You were more than an intermediary? More than an instrument?
Much more.
And your decisions were deliberate and not arbitrary? You knew why—and to what purpose—you sent some straight into the abyss and others on a tortuous road obscured by illusions? You had a well-defined plan, a program, a goal?
Would you like me to say yes?
Of course. But I want the truth.
Too bad. Because the answer is no
. I followed no guidelines, proceeded according to no principle. Nobody told me the nature of my task. Nobody instructed me not to cross certain limits, not to touch certain lives. My deeds were part of no pattern and bore no significance. I did my work in an almost absentminded way, without getting involved. And yet, ordinarily, I am meticulous. I never make mistakes. I study the terrain—so to speak—before making an appearance. It’s underhanded, I know, but my job demands it. To me, every being is an individual case. To be gauged and probed. So as to avoid errors and confusion. What happens to a man bearing my seal can happen only to him. But over there it was different. One could take the place of another.
The dead could have not died?
Of course.
And the others could have not survived?
Naturally.
You’re not saying this to deceive me or hurt me? You really were not carrying out anyone’s will? Not implementing any law in accordance with definite criteria? You were not acting a part? Not playing a game?
I was indifferent. Absent-minded. Better still: I was free.
What about your name? After all, it does show your subservient status! You’re expected to carry out missions assigned by your master—our master! He’s the one who tells you where to go and whom to seize—isn’t he?
As a rule, yes. Only there, I was in charge: I was sovereign. I did what I pleased. He never interfered, never intervened. Like him, I had no name, or too many. All names were mine. He was amused, but I was bored.
Then it was … pure chance?
Pure chance.
I could just as easily have gone the other way?
Exactly.
That’s horrible.