The Oath

by Elie Wiesel

  Now I know that he was. We were caught in a race against the clock; time progressed and chose to be on the enemy’s side, on the side of death. What were we to do? What were we to do right here, in the town? If the Prefect was right, there was nothing to be done, nothing to be attempted. If the Prefect was right on one count, he was probably right on all others. Therefore we had to accept his conclusion. Not dumb, the Prefect. Not stupid, his solution. Radical, direct, though outlandish, unthinkable, unlikely—and above all, impossible. A culprit, fine, good idea, excellent idea. But where in the world were we to find him?

  In the heat of the deliberations, none of the participants had noticed an intruder, dressed in rags, who had arrived an hour earlier. Only I was aware of him crouching in his corner, motionless and tense, listening intently. It was only when he began to speak that all heads turned toward him in amazement.

  “I believe I can help,” he said. And after a moment’s silence: “I have the solution. And also the man we need.”

  And the dumbfounded members of the Council discovered their savior in the person of my mad friend, Moshe.

  Moshe: forty or so. Haggard. Unkempt, bushy beard. Somber, haunted eyes. Intimidating and intimidated, harmless. Subject to depressions and alternate fits of rage and enthusiasm. At such times only Leah his wife could calm him.

  Moshe, my mad friend, my dead friend. I see him now. I recall his outbursts, his silences. I know now what I did not know in those days: that the relationship between Master and disciple is as mysterious as that between father and son.

  At our first meeting, after a Hasidic evening, he had asked me who I was.

  “Azriel. My father is in charge of the community Pinkas.”

  “His name is Shmuel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, proud that my father was well known in all circles.

  “You go to school?”

  “Of course.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  “Torah,” I said, growing uneasy.

  “Torah is life, and life must be lived; it cannot be learned from books, between four walls.”

  “I thought,” I said, “that Torah is more than life, since God Himself submits to its commandments …”

  “God too must be lived, my boy. You must live Him, not study Him in books, between four walls!”

  My composure was deserting me. I was lost in a labyrinth of sentences and sensations. This beggar both frightened and attracted me. Who was he? What did he want of me? I was at a loss.

  He must have noticed, for he put his hand on my shoulder to reassure me. “If you promise to see only what I show you and to reveal it to no one, no one, I shall make you discover things, sublime and secret things. I’ll turn you into a Jacob’s ladder, such as angels in search of a mission dream of. I’ll fashion you into a link with the celestial spheres, where language is made of white fire and thoughts of red fire. Do you promise?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Do you promise?”

  I wanted to repeat my question. Instead I heard myself say: “I promise.”

  “You will not even tell of your promise. If you do, you will forget, you will forget me. And your language will beget oblivion, your thoughts will beget remorse.”

  “I promise. With all my heart I promise.”

  “Perfect. I need a disciple. Not even Moses could do without one. Why did I choose you? Because you have just turned thirteen, because you are innocent and have just entered the community. And then, because you are the son of Shmuel, the man responsible for the Book. I like your father. He and I are trying to attain the same goal. Only our methods differ. He takes care of the past, my domain is the future. He trusts memory, I prefer imagination. I rather like the idea of having his son as my disciple.”

  Strange eyes, dark and red—oddly staring, unfathomable. Eyes that went straight to the core of things, seeing nothing but their essence, tracing reflections back to their source, back to primary wonder, back to the first agreement and disagreement between the self and its conscience. I remember his eyes, I can see them still. Whoever gazed into them belonged to them, whereas they belonged only to him, and even that was not certain. Therefore, one had to take care not to expose oneself to their light; one risked being left speechless. Those were the rumors and I believed them. With Moshe, everything was possible.

  “When things go badly for you,” he said, “close your eyes and think of mine; when things go well, also. As for me, when I close my eyes, I see the great Mordecai of Rubashov, who saw his Master, the Tzaddik of Karlin, who remembered the Maggid of Mezeritch … so, there you are, linked to the Besht, the Holy Lion of Safed, the sages and prophets … Your eyes gazing into mine contain the first gaze of the first man, that is to say, the light that Adam received from God, blessed be He.”

  Only later did I follow his advice. At the moment his words simply intrigued me. I mumbled: “May I ask you … ask you a question, Moshe?”

  “Of course. I like questions.”

  “Listening to you … If I am to believe you, our people’s history would be filled with men whose eyes are closed …”

  “Never mind, you will understand one day. This world is not beautiful to behold. You will come to prefer the one you carry inside you.”

  Though I continued to attend school, from that moment on, my mind never left Moshe. My hours of leisure were spent at his side. Rivka, as usual, did not hide her displeasure: “You will get into trouble, you will become mad like him.” But my father knew how to appease her: “Moshe is a madman unlike any other.”

  Mad like Moshe? Why not. I accepted the risk, the challenge. I went so far as to desire it. I liked to join my gaze to his and rest it on faraway heights, on limpid or ominous clouds, to order it to illuminate that which is closed to light, to search the darkness and bring back its last flickering spark. I liked to do whatever he did. I liked being silent with him as his eyes scanned the craggy mountainside. Thanks to him, like him, I fell under the spell of the inaccessible. Thanks to him, like him, I yearned to climb high, higher than any peak, higher than the clouds. I aspired to trace new paths. I hoped to influence destiny, as Moshe was influencing me. Was he—Moshe—my destiny?

  I remember a whispered conversation between Moshe and a wandering beggar, no doubt an anonymous Just Man. It was late at night. The two men had met in the attic of the House of Study, where torn prayer books and discarded scholarly volumes were collected before being buried—for written works are like people: they deserve the respect due the dead. We children avoided the place. There were rumors that knowledge-thirsty ghosts congregated there to consult the yellowed, ragged pages. I myself would never have gone near it had I not heard voices and recognized Moshe’s. But who was in there with him? A thought chilled my blood: he was conversing with the dead! I went up the stairs. The door was ajar, enough for me to see—no, Moshe’s companion was not a ghost but a Na-venadnik with staff and bundle. He bore a certain resemblance to my Master; their voices too were similar, almost identical.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Who am I?”

  “The one who seeks.”

  “And whom would I be seeking?”

  “The one who seeks.”

  They fell silent, and I opened my eyes wider to see who would move his lips first; it was Moshe.

  “There was a time when I was a wanderer like you. In a way I still am. You roam without respite, so do I. The difference between us? You are seeking because you have not yet found; I have found and yet I continue to seek.”

  Later, in the prison cell where I went to visit him, I asked: “Are you still seeking, Moshe?”

  He lowered his head and grumbled: “As long as the heart bleeds, it seeks. And yet …”

  “And yet?”

  “The heart disappoints me; it should know.”

  “Know what, Moshe?”

  “Man’s heart is the heart of the world. Man’s death refle
cts that of creation. That is why the Messiah will not die. He is our link to eternity.”

  Though I was used to his elliptical style, I did not fully understand this concept. I told him so, but he paid no attention.

  “The Messiah,” he went on, “the Messiah. We seek him, we pursue him. We think he is in heaven; we don’t know that he likes to come down disguised as a child. And yet, every man’s childhood is messianic in essence. Except that today it has become a game to kill childhood. Thus it is hopeless. Even I give up.”

  “Why, Moshe? Why prison? Why death? Why so much resignation? Why the martyrs?”

  “Why, why,” he flared up. “And if I knew, would I tell you? If I die, will you die? And if the Messiah were at our gates, would man let him enter? Men, these wretches, consider that his mission is to save them from death. Wrong. He would save them from boredom, from mediocrity, the commonplaces of routine! If he calls, will you follow him? Even into prison? If he does not call, will you call him? Yes? For what? For whom? To offer him what haven, what consolation? And what if I decided not to call him? Not to be his herald?”

  Moshe my mad friend, my Master with the tormented face. I have but to lower my eyes and out of deepest night he suddenly appears to claim me.

  He was the town’s most famous, most respected madman. The most mysterious too. There was not one home where he was not discussed, not one traveler who did not wish to meet him. Forgive the interruption, but he is the principal character of this tale. His story, not mine, deserves to be told.

  An only child, he was five years old when his parents were carried away by an epidemic. He was adopted by Pessach the Tailor, and soon thereafter gave evidence of a strikingly precocious intelligence. He learned Bible and Talmud simultaneously, entered a Yeshiva, but did not stay there long: he outshone his instructors. Consorting with the great of the Hasidic movement, he befriended a few of the initiated, crossed Central Europe, stopping only wherever he found a Master worthy of himself. People predicted a career for him that would make the most illustrious envious. On his return to Kolvillàg, he was received with respect and warmth. People flattered him, showered him with honors and even gifts. Davidov, as president of the community, arranged to have a set of phylacteries sent to him from Jerusalem. Leizerovitch had cut logs delivered to his house, enough for the whole winter. People worried about his health, brought him milk, butter and freshly baked bread. Nothing was allowed to hamper the rise of his star, for his glory reflected on a grateful community. His name was pronounced as though it were a benediction.

  Things went wrong when he plunged into Kabbala. Little by little his behavior changed. He became taciturn. Almost never did he visit the House of Study. When he did, he behaved strangely. He rose when everybody was seated, sat down when everybody stood. He laughed at odd times, moved his mouth without saying a word. People respected him too much to question him. Geniuses are eccentric, that is common knowledge. They let him do as he pleased. One beautiful morning he left the town and settled in the woods, to live there as a recluse. Despite the wolves and demons abounding there, he spent hours in a place known as the Bandits’ Cave, which nobody else dared enter. From time to time, especially for the High Holy Days, he would wander into the town but no longer seemed to recognize its inhabitants. He confused names, barely responded to greetings.

  His adoptive father was alarmed. He took him aside. “When you are absent, my son, I wonder where you are. Even when you are present, I am not sure.”

  Moshe looked at him, looked at him and did not answer.

  “You’re not saying anything, my son. Why don’t you say something? Have you taken a vow of silence?”

  Moshe looked at him, looked at him and shook his head: No, that was not it.

  “If I were your real father, I should order you to speak, to explain your behavior. But I am not. And yet, Moshe, even if in your eyes I am not your father, in mine you are my son.”

  And so, in order not to grieve him, Moshe explained: “I have chosen solitude and silence. Because I had your interest at heart. It is for your good, believe me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You are doing well, aren’t you?”

  “Very well. I have never had so many customers, so many orders. But I don’t see the connection. On the contrary …”

  “On the contrary?”

  “Yes … Lately, people look at you askance, exchange glances … They don’t know what to think. Neither do I.”

  “All right, then,” said Moshe. “If I live far from society, it is in order to protect it. And it is for the same reason that I remain silent. If I began to speak, people would not be pleased. I have acquired certain powers: I know how to see through masks, I see the lie hidden in every truth, I uncover what people conceal from me.”

  Pessach the Tailor was incredulous. He did not voice it, but he wanted some proof—powers, powers, words that are easily said …

  “All right,” said Moshe. “I’ll give you proof.”

  “But … how did you know …”

  The tailor already regretted having spoken, having suspected. He scratched his head, pulled at his beard, wiped his lips. I wanted proof, I have it. Let’s not discuss it further. And yet, this is not really proof. Moshe is not stupid, far from it, he must have guessed, anybody would have guessed …

  “I will tell you what you thought about this morning during prayer.” And he told him. “You wondered why Zanvel the Milkman has not yet paid you for the caftan he ordered for his youngest daughter’s wedding.”

  At that, the tailor felt faint.

  “And if that is not enough for you, I will remind you of the dream you had last night.” And he did. “You were traveling in a luxurious coach drawn by four horses. You crossed an unfamiliar village. It was empty and you were frightened.”

  “Yes, yes,” stammered the tailor. “I had forgotten …”

  “And if you are still not convinced, I shall reveal to you all that you have seen and done since the day you were born …”

  “No, no,” sighed Pessach, “say no more!”

  Unfortunately, Moshe forgot to caution him against divulging his secret. Before the evening service had come to a close, the whole town had been informed. The news traveled from gathering to gathering, from circle to circle, from court to court; people commented, evaluated, embellished. Moshe had been a respected scholar, now he was a saint. He was not yet performing miracles, but that would come. He was already a seer; he saw the invisible, foraged the depths of the soul, delved into the very roots of consciousness, guessed and unveiled unformulated thoughts and intentions: a true Tzaddik!

  There were those who suggested crowning him Rebbe. But the Hasidim protested. Rightly so. For that would have meant a break with their own Masters. Luckily for all, the idea was quickly abandoned, for Moshe would certainly have ridiculed it.

  He was already the object of too many tokens of respect and affection. He was the pride of the community. People rose when he approached, interpreted every one of his gestures, anticipated his every wish. Even the Elders treated him as their superior. On Rosh Hashanah, he was assigned the choice benediction: Maftir. On Simhat Torah eve, he was given the best place in the procession, next to the Rebbe and the president. And why not? Kolvillàg did not have many celebrities. From the surrounding villages, people came to admire him; some simply stared at him in wonder as though he had three eyes and two mouths. With him as a center of attraction, perhaps Kolvillàg would at long last know prosperity.

  The fact is that his influence was salutary. Evidently awed by his gifts, people became better, or at least made an effort. The professional preachers castigated themselves before they judged others. The merchants lied less, the grocers adjusted their scales. The butchers, the millers no longer cheated—or at least, cheated less. The beggars’ lot improved; no sooner did they extend their palms than copper or silver coins were dropped in them. People decided it was better to be careful than risk public humiliation. The synagogues
had never been so well attended, the officiating rabbis and cantors so respected. Satan must have been bursting with jealousy and spite: a whole town rejecting discord and sin. Never before had there been such a thing. Of course, such an accumulation of virtues is often marred by a flaw, always the same, that undermines and cancels them. When people are virtuous day after day, they tend to slide into self-righteousness and pride.

  There were those in Kolvillàg who wallowed in vanity, expecting compliments and congratulations. In public, of course. Why not? Since Moshe had uncovered evil, he should recognize good as well. And just as people feared his reprimands, they now anticipated praise.

  But Moshe did nothing of the kind. He refused to play the game. He exhibited the same indifference as before, remained unaffected by the change in morals. In vain did people wait for him to notice them, to smile at them. He continued not to see them.

  And so the vexed townspeople vented their frustrations on the tailor.

  “What a joker, your son. He made a fool of you, and you of us!”

  And: “A breach of trust! We cover you with gold and you deceive us! Both of you are ingrates! Hypocrites!”

  And also: “Like father, like son! Shameless liars both!”

  The poor bewildered tailor was shattered. He realized his blunder, but how could he erase it from people’s memory? He literally fell ill. At first he equivocated, hoping that things might work out. When this hope failed to materialize, he poured out his heart to Moshe. “I have become the laughingstock of the town. I don’t dare go to services or even out on the street. People point at me, spit in my face. I don’t know what hole to crawl into, where to hide my shame. I don’t sleep any more, I don’t eat any more. I wish I could die …”