by Elie Wiesel
This is really bad, thought Davidov. This is when I should be saying something true, definitive, convincing. But his head was empty. He dared not open his mouth again. He bowed imperceptibly and waited for what was yet to come.
“That’s all for now,” said the Prefect. “I thank you for coming.” He showed his visitor to the door, and without moving his lips, whispered: “See you tonight, at your house. Lower the shades.” And aloud: “Justice before everything, Mr. Davidov. It is in the Jews’ interest to help justice and those who implement it.”
Out on the street, Davidov inhaled the fresh air and wondered how high a ransom it would be this time.
In the next hour Davidov visited the most prominent members of the Jewish community. All were of the opinion that there was no reason to panic. The Prefect would have his money and all would be forgotten. What was the use of sounding an alert? After all, “ritual murders” were a thing of the Middle Ages. In Kolvillàg, Jews and Christians were living in harmony. People helped one another, even sent one another presents on holidays. One would have to go back four generations to find traces of any major incident dividing the two communities. Why should the situation change now?
Also, the Jews relied on another powerful ally: the Count who ruled over the town and the surrounding villages. He was an enlightened and charitable squire. His Jewish overseer, Leizerovitch, had obtained various favors from him, including the one to build, on the estate, his very own synagogue. The Count’s father, of blessed memory, would have let himself be carved up for his Jews, and here is why.
One day, the story goes, he had himself announced at the Rebbe of Vozhidan’s house. “Saintly man,” he told him, “I have come to confide in you. It is not the devout Christian who is imploring you to intercede, it is the father, the unfortunate father of an even more unfortunate son. He is five years old, my son, my oldest, my heir. He is wasting away. Death is lying in wait, asserting its claim on him. The physicians say it is hopeless. Pray for him, I shall reward you. Pray for him, you shall not regret it.”
“Why do you come to me?” the Rebbe asked gently. “You should address yourself to the priest of your own faith.”
“I have, saintly man, I have. I have seen monks, ascetics, inspired healers; I have obtained blessings from the most illustrious names. I have supported many charitable works, I have lit twelve times twelve candles for our saints, I have promised to build a chapel. All in vain. You are my last resort. People admire you, they say you can work miracles,” concluded the Count, embarrassed.
“They are wrong,” the Rebbe said, smiling. “Only God brings about miracles. Our task is to announce them and, above all, to deserve them.”
The Count insisted: “Don’t send me away, holy man. Pray for my son. Even if I don’t deserve it, he does. He is so young, so sick. At his age religion does not count, should not count. A five-year-old child is neither Jewish nor Christian; he is only a child who is sick. Make him live. I shall never forget it.” He fell to his knees, shaken by sobs.
The Rebbe of Vozhidan made him rise. “You must not, you must not … God Himself doesn’t want to see man on his knees, humiliated. Our tradition demands that we stand when we address Him.” Then he pulled on his overcoat and reached for his cane. “You want me to pray for your ailing son. I shall do better. I shall go with you to his bedside. On one condition: that your bishop accompany us there. Together we shall pray for your child to be cured and grow strong.”
When the child recovered, the bishop’s gratitude was matched only by the Count’s. And during their lifetime the Jews enjoyed their double protection. At the Count’s death, the son inherited his title and fortune—and his father’s debt. If the Jews should need his help, he would be ready. So why worry over the rantings of a few fanatics sick with hate.
For greater security, certain preventive measures were decided upon. Leizerovitch would mention the matter to the Count. The youngest of the Katzman brothers would take care of the priest; a favorable sermon the following Sunday could do no harm. Joelson would have a chat with his gentile associate, Petrescu, a well-informed, influential personality.
As for Davidov, he awaited the Prefect’s visit with impatience. The latter arrived late, a heavy cloak concealing his uniform covered with decorations and gold embroidery.
“One can never be too careful,” he said, removing the cloak.
That too is new, mused Davidov, nodding his agreement. “Indeed, there is no lack of gossips around here.”
The visitor sat down at the table, emptied two glasses of cuika. “You are not angry about this morning? I had no choice. I played it well, didn’t I?”
“Marvelously well,” said Davidov.
“What could I do? I had to take the first step. Ready my rear guard. Act the clown. My enemies already accuse me of loving you Jews too much. Tomorrow they will call me a traitor. That would be my undoing and would hardly do you any good. I know that you agree.”
The Prefect loved long introductions. Davidov let him soliloquize. “Of course,” he said as a matter of form.
The Prefect picked up the bottle, studied it attentively, uttering small appreciative cries. “Quality brand! Confound you, Davidov! You are a connoisseur! A true native! And yet your ancestors had other preoccupations than drink … You know how to adapt yourself, congratulations! Well done, Davidov!”
He emptied another glass. “Congratulations, Davidov! This stuff makes the blood boil; it would revive a corpse. Speaking of corpses, if only I could put my hands on Yancsi’s, I’d make it fit for the military in no time … Yes, but …”
“But what?”
“I don’t … have my hands on him!”
“But you have the bottle, which isn’t so bad. Do you like it? Take it. And the eleven that go with it. I was just about to offer them to you.”
Cat-and-mouse play that went on until well after midnight. Determined to win, Davidov tried hard to appear relaxed, almost carefree. I’ll stay up till morning if need be, he thought. The Prefect wants something—well, let him say so. I have time. My wife is in bed, and so are the children. And as for myself, I can do without sleep.
“Your cloak suits you beautifully,” he said. “And with winter around the corner …”
“Oh yes, it will be an awfully cold one, this winter.”
“We’ll have snow soon.”
“Yes, we will this year. Winter is at the door.”
And so they talked about everything and nothing. As though this were a friendly visit with no purpose other than toasting each other’s health.
The Prefect was the one to capitulate. “So … What do your people think … about the affair?”
“What affair?”
The Prefect flashed a bewildered glance at Davidov, then slapped his thighs. “You are funny, Davidov. You are clever. Not all the Jews are funny, but they are all clever. A little too much.”
“What good does that do us?”
Suddenly serious, the Prefect examined his glass at length, played with it, making the pleasure last. “You are clever but blind. You feign indifference. You have made believe for so long, you don’t sense danger any more. Yet it exists, believe me, Davidov. It does exist. Blood will flow and you do nothing. The sword has been unsheathed and you refuse to see it. You, for instance, have nothing else on your mind except those silly victories you are winning over me—your friend. How can a people such as yours, so educated, so mature, adopt so childish a behavior when its own fate is at stake? That is beyond me, I confess.”
At last he emptied the glass in one gulp. “Could you be unconscious, friend Davidov? Could all of you have been struck blind? Don’t all of you see? Don’t you, Davidov, see what is hatching? Those evil, subterranean forces, can’t you feel them? The vise is being tightened around you, tighter and tighter with every hour. And you claim to know nothing? The rabble is in an uproar, thirsting for vengeance, rediscovering passionate and long-dormant hates. It clamors for your blood, your death—and you go about y
our daily lives as though nothing were amiss? Have you no eyes to see, no ears to hear? And your celebrated sixth sense, where is it? The ground is shaking under your feet and you don’t feel it? How does the most tested, most alert people on earth manage not to discern the writing on the wall? I should like to understand, Davidov. Explain it to me.”
Shattered, the president of the community tried to remain casual. “Oh, you know, we are used to it. This has been going on for centuries, eternities. Our enemies are numerous, so numerous that we prefer not to count them. So as not to lose hope. Or our sanity. We choose to bow and avert our heads.”
“That is an understatement. When it comes to averting your heads, you certainly do avert them. I’d even venture to say that on that score, you are unbeatable. This time, though, you risk losing them.”
Careful not to show any emotion, Davidov smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, we have seen worse.”
“You don’t believe me?” The Prefect was losing his temper. “You are making a mistake, Davidov. You will regret it, you will hate yourself for having doubted me and my warnings. You may think I am exaggerating, lying on purpose, expecting to squeeze a larger sum out of you. You are making a mistake, one that may well be your worst. Irreparable, that one. For you see, Davidov, you will be offering me more money than I have ever asked of you. Let us hope it will serve some purpose. Let us hope it will not be for naught.”
Abruptly he got to his feet, slipped into his cloak and headed for the door.
“Listen, Davidov, I like you. Believe me, I am not your enemy. You have helped me for years. I owe you what one friend owes another—his presence in times of need. That is why I came tonight. Not to discuss money; I don’t need any, not now. I have come to put you on guard. The people here are going mad. Yes, Davidov, you were right this morning—it is insane. I have never seen them like this. The signs do not lie; the troublemakers are preparing something. And that something has a name: pogrom. Their hatred is deadly. And all-pervasive. The storm is rumbling, Davidov, it is rumbling. Sooner or later, in a week or a month, who knows, it will break over all of you, and then may God keep you and protect you—for my help, to my great shame, will not suffice.”
And without waiting for an answer, he rushed outside, into the quiet night.
That same evening the chronicler noted in his Book:
Hoodlums have broken the windows of our main synagogue even while Minhah service was under way. Zelig the Brushmaker and Haskel the Porter went out into the street, sure of finding it deserted. It would not have been the first time. Urchins sometimes come to throw their pebbles and disappear. Not today. There were a dozen of them; not one took flight. There must be a connection with the Yancsi affair. A sad, dismal story. It will be discussed tomorrow by the Council. Our leaders seem serene. As for me, Shmuel son of Azriel, I admit to not sharing their optimism. Rivka’s influence? I have begun to have premonitions. May I be mistaken, amen.
For the first time I attended a night session. Father had taken me along over Rivka’s objections. She was constantly worrying about my frail health.
“Sleep is something one can always catch up on,” my father said, cutting short the discussion.
“And if he gets sick? Who will take care of him?”
“You, of course.”
“And who will take care of the house? Do you think I have four arms?”
We reassured her. We would come home early. She need not worry. Let her prepare some tea. In an hour or two we would be back.
Once outside, my father gave me instructions: “You will look, you will listen. You will remember. Try not to be noticed.”
I promised to do my best. I was excited at the thought of watching my father at work. And also at being present at an unscheduled, extraordinary session of the Community Council.
All the participants were punctual. They took their seats around a rectangular table. As for me, I found myself a spot in a corner, tried not to breathe and did my best to remain invisible. As far as this assembly was concerned, I was. Nobody paid attention to me, so preoccupied were they by the impending threat which with every passing minute grew more ominous. The tension in the room became palpable. Now they believed. Not like the night before.
Each emissary made his report. Failure down the line. Neither help nor consolation. Nothing. Total isolation. One could count on nobody.
“We must expect the worst,” said Leizerovitch, the Count’s overseer and confidant. “Mark my words, I said the worst.”
Leizerovitch, elegant, a pedant, had studied engineering at the University of Vienna and liked to recall it at every opportunity: “I, who have traveled all over the world …” It cost him visibly to admit failure.
“I who know the Count intimately, I who enjoy his complete confidence, I tell you that his refusal to grant me a personal interview—I stress personal, not business—means that a disaster is imminent. Otherwise he would not have rejected my request. This is no whim on his part. No, it is more serious than that. I must confess I am alarmed.”
The youngest of the Katzman brothers, having been admitted to see the priest, was told: “I am ready to pray for the salvation of every Jewish soul, that of the murderer included.” Nothing more? Nothing more.
“If the priest offers us nothing but his prayers, it is bad,” said Joelson. “His prayers—let him keep those for his flock.”
Joelson: pointed goatee, twinkling blue eyes, his voice thin and high, like an adolescent’s.
“And Petrescu?” he was asked.
“He and I had a rather painful, not to say nauseating, talk. He advised me, in the interest of our partnership, to avoid any subject not directly related to the operation of our business.”
“I don’t understand anything any more,” moaned Hersh the Greengrocer.
Hersh: lined face, the head of an old man. He was clasping and unclasping his fingers, unable to control his anxiety. He trembled like a hunted animal.
Then came Davidov’s turn to do the summing up. “We are exposed and alone. That is clear. Our neighbors are turning away from us. Our few allies are hiding. Nothing like this has ever happened to us—I feel that no help will be forthcoming.”
There was a hush. Everyone present was undoubtedly thinking about his business and social ties with the Christian community: men they had met with day after day. Of their meetings, of the words they had exchanged, nothing remained.
“And your friend the Prefect?” asked Leizerovitch.
“I saw him again an hour ago, before coming to the meeting,” said Davidov. “He claims that he cannot trust his own militia. Those men would not obey him even to halt a massacre. They would probably be pleased to participate.”
“I don’t understand anything any more,” moaned Hersh the Greengrocer, trembling. “Did the Prefect use the word … massacre?”
“That’s not all,” said Davidov.
At this point my thoughts wandered and came up with the image of Job. Whenever a witness ends the narration of an event by saying “That’s not all,” one is reminded of Job. Job: tragedies in succession, disasters begotten one by the other. Job: solitary grief in the face of God and man.
“The Prefect is of the opinion,” continued Davidov tersely, “that any steps we might undertake in the capital would prove unproductive, useless. The die is cast. Help will come too late.”
Too late, too late. Now it is the character of Isaac that I see before me. A Midrash claims that divine intervention on Mount Moriah took place too late. The appearance of the angel and the ram solved nothing. Abraham rejoined his servants, alone. Too late, too late: the leitmotif of Jewish history.
“I tried to reason with him,” continued Davidov. “I was convinced that he was taking too bleak a view. When I told him so, he flew into a rage. He swore, insulted me, blasphemed. He shouted that we would all be strangled and that it would serve us right. They would drown us in our own blood, and it would serve us right. To my question as to what remained for us to do, h
e answered with one short sentence, cutting like the lash of a whip: ‘See to it that you find me a culprit.’ Without giving me time to protest, he added: ‘And preferably a Jewish culprit. Nothing else would appease the beasts now.’ I protested as best I could. Sheer waste. I have never seen him in such a state. ‘The King himself would be unable to help you,’ he shouted. ‘Not even God Himself could save you any more. Nothing but the murderer, real or fake, could make a difference. I need him, do you hear? I need this murderer, and soon, otherwise I guarantee nothing, or rather, yes, I guarantee one of those pogroms, one of those massacres that will dwarf all the others in your history, that’s what I guarantee!’ ”
As Davidov came to the end of his report, there was heavy, questioning silence. All eyes were glued to the lamp suspended from the ceiling; it seemed to flicker, ready to fall. Murderer, pogrom, massacre: harsh, definitive words. How were we to drive them away, disarm them? Their stifling presence was everywhere. Sadness had taken possession of this room, this town. One could hear the wind dancing over the roofs and through the bare trees under a sky gleaming with black, evil stars.
Finally a voice was heard whispering: “He is generous, our Prefect … Always ready to help us, except when we need him.”
“And to think that we made him rich,” another added.
“I don’t understand anything any more,” groaned Hersh the Greengrocer.
“A culprit! He needs a culprit! And where are we to find this murdering Jew, hmm? To please our enemies, should I begin to kill …”
“That’s enough!” Davidov said with authority. “The Prefect is a friend! I offered him money, he refused! He sincerely wishes to help us. But he is the only one. He is our only ally.”
He was right and they all had to admit it.
“Woe to us,” said Leizerovitch. “Woe to us if our salvation hinges on one man alone, be he the most honest and most just of men.”
The discussion ceased. Davidov suggested dispatching an emissary to the capital. Agreed? Agreed. Tomorrow, by the first train. Other suggestions: To telegraph the Chief Rabbi, the Governor, the King. Agreed. To issue an appeal to public opinion, stir the conscience of the nation. Agreed. Until then, who knows, they might lay their hands on Yancsi or the real assassin. To gain time had to be objective number one. Agreed? Agreed. Above the voices I could hear a pen scratching the paper: Shmuel the Chronicler, silently writing, omitting nothing of what was being said around the table. Each fulfilled his role and my father his. I was sad for all of us and proud of him … The clock ticked off the hours and I wondered whether he was recording them in his Book.