by Elie Wiesel
All the Jews? Moshe wondered. No, I alone. I alone in their name, in their stead. Like the Rizhiner Rebbe, I beseech the Master of the Universe: let my death be expiation. Not only for me but for the whole House of Israel.
“Well, your accomplices?”
“My name is Moshe … I, Moshe …”
He could but mumble his name. Mo-she. As long as I know who I am, while the sergeant does not, all is well, he thought. Let it be the opposite, and I am lost. The solution: to hold on. Hang on to the other Moshe; in spite of the blows landing on his head, his belly, his private parts. He is everywhere. Here he is at the court of Rebbe Zusia of Kolomey. He listens to the Hasid’s song and to the Rebbe’s exhortation to sing louder, and louder yet, and he feels like laughing—he, Moshe, could roar with laughter. Poor executioner, he doesn’t know that his efforts are in vain; he doesn’t know that his blows are no longer effective. Moshe could laugh, laugh like a rewarded child, like a robbed madman who has everything and nothing, who gives everything and takes back only his laughter, a powerful, horrible laughter, a terrible and human, terribly human laughter. Oh yes, Moshe could laugh now and tomorrow and until next year, and until death and even beyond, if only he were not afraid of offending the young Rebbe listening and the Hasid singing tonelessly in a room alternately somber and dazzling and somber again, and cold, and stifling and somber …
He awoke much later, before nightfall and after the rain had stopped, in an empty, dirty cell, shivering with cold on a floor soiled with his blood.
That same night the chronicler noted in his Book:
The Rebbe has dispatched emissaries to all the places of worship with mission to ascend the bimah in the middle of services and to proclaim a fast on behalf of the madman turned saint, or the saint gone mad.
The situation is serious and getting worse. The demons have been awakened and are on the prowl. Will they be satisfied? At this moment, as I write these lines, Moshe is undergoing martyrdom. After him, whose turn will it be?
Kovillàg leaves history and reality to enter legend. Woe unto us, for that is the sign of upheaval.
The town: unrecognizable. The atmosphere: troubled, uneasy. Jews and Christians no longer greeted one another. Strangers. Withdrawn, sullen. A town divided by an invisible wall: mistrust. Both sides reopened wounds and grudges long forgotten, people hid behind unyielding masks. Mihai the Coachman denied his services to Yekel, the corner grocer. On his way to the slaughterhouse with his aged, scrawny cow, Stan said good morning to a Jewish cattle trader, who pretended to be deaf. A not quite awake schoolboy hurried to heder. A Jewish woman sent away the Na-venadnik knocking at her door; with his lambskin vest, his felt hat and muddy boots he did not look Jewish. Yet he was. “Oh, all right,” said the woman, opening the door. “Come in, quickly. You should not be walking around by yourself.” She offered him a bowl of hot milk, bread and a word of advice: “Go away, leave as soon as you can.”—“But I only just arrived,” he groaned.—“Too bad, too bad; you would have done better to by-pass this town …”
In the synagogues the worshipers abbreviated the services and went home. A traveling salesman, barely arrived, decided to take the first train out. Leave, escape. Too many rumors were making the rounds.
A visiting preacher asked the Rebbe for permission to preach the following Saturday. He was refused, for the first time in his career.
“Don’t hold it against us,” the Rebbe told him. “We will make it up to you. Leave by the next train. Don’t wait for the end of the week. Who knows what can happen? A severe trial is beginning, how can we predict its outcome? You are here by chance, you are expected elsewhere. Go.”
The threat was gathering momentum.
Curled up, his wrists and ankles bound, Moshe fought to remain awake. He tried to remember a certain melody, a liturgical piece: I was the one who learned that song. I was the one who memorized that prayer. It was I who delved deeply into this page of Midrash and that page of Zohar. Thus I must maintain a keen consciousness and keep my inner self from dissipating. Prevent my body and my awareness of that body from merging. Stay on the alert. More than ever, for the stakes are higher than ever. Strain my will, triumph over my body. Listen and understand.
A faint noise on the other side of the door told him of a strange presence. Someone was watching him through the peephole; an intruding eye followed the tremors that were running through him. The eye of a fish? Of a prehistoric monster? Who was it? The sergeant with the riding crop? The orderly with the pail? The Angel of Death? Satan perhaps? Moshe, brightened by an outlandish thought, felt like sticking out his tongue. Only, that pasty tongue was filling his mouth. Impossible to move it. Besides, it’s too late. Long ago, in my childhood, is when I should have stuck out my tongue. But I had no childhood.
I never played with boys my age, thought Moshe. I never shared their pastimes. The activities that thrilled them left me indifferent. Excursions, vacations, competitive sports—not for me. I lived too intensely, I grew old too fast. I don’t remember having laughed one single time. Now I feel like laughing and I don’t know how.
At the cost of an effort that made him dizzy, Moshe squirmed into a sitting position. His limbs were aching. He raised his hands to his eyes to open his eyelids, puffy and dirty like those of a drunkard. And now? he wondered as the door opened. In the semi-darkness he did not recognize the figure standing before him. From afar a new, amicable voice tried to make itself heard.
“I am the Prefect. I am sorry to see you in such a state. Believe me.”
“I believe you,” Moshe managed to say.
“I could not foresee. If somebody had told me …”
“I believe you.”
“… I would have made certain arrangements. Someone from the Council should have informed me.”
Of course they should have. They didn’t think of it. Perhaps they hadn’t taken his plan seriously?
“No sense worrying about it,” said the Prefect. “Too late to correct past mistakes. As for the rest, let me first of all reassure you. They will not beat you again, I promise you.”
“You are kind,” said Moshe. “I am not afraid of blows. Or of death either.”
“What are you afraid of, Moshe?”
Moshe would have liked to answer: God, I am afraid of God—but chose not to.
“What are you afraid of, Moshe?”
“Myself, I am afraid of myself.”
The Prefect opened the skylight to let in air; the glass shattered and he swore. “I am not, Moshe. I am not afraid of you. And … I find that amusing.” He moved so as to face the prisoner, who could barely see but understood everything. “What has happened to your powers, Moshe?” he asked good-naturedly but with a trace of irritation. “It seems you had some, still do. Why don’t you use them?”
Answer, how to answer? Moshe wavered. He would have liked to see the Prefect. Then he would know. But his swollen eyelids were too heavy. In his delirium he stood up, lunged and jumped: already he is far away, under different skies, his own features different; he is free, powerful and determined. Children smile at him knowingly: You say you have no accomplices—and we, what are we if not your accomplices? Old men pester him: Hurry, Moshe, we are running out of time, we are going to die. And the dead are whispering: We are waiting for you to disarm death; do you know that we go on dying? Moshe overtakes them, falls, gets up and flies away. A messenger takes him to the man in whom all men recognize themselves. Moshe shoves him with his elbow: Hurry, brother, let our time be yours. He talks to him in Hebrew and in Yiddish, his two mother tongues.
“I don’t understand,” said the Prefect.
“You are pretending,” said Moshe. “Don’t deny it. If you don’t understand, we may as well tear our clothes and proclaim mourning. If you refuse to understand, it is our duty to announce the death of reason and the death of faith; in other words, the death of hope.”
“I still don’t understand,” said the Prefect. “I should have taken along Davidov. As inte
rpreter.”
Now it was Moshe’s turn not to understand. Davidov? In heaven? These two know one another? Since when? Davidov a Just Man! What a surprise!
“You are delirious,” said the Prefect. “This brute of a Pavel does not do things halfway. I should like to help you. What do you need?”
“Nothing, nothing any more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. No. I am not sure of anything any more … except my powers.”
He confessed: Yes, he has certain powers. Yes, he is capable of breaking all chains, of demolishing all jails, of punishing all jailers. With a single invocation he could overwhelm the sergeant. With a single formula the whip would scorch its master’s fingers. One look would be enough to send the executioner to his knees. But Moshe will do nothing. One performs miracles for others. Not for oneself.
And with those words he held up his wrists, and the Prefect untied them.
“Thank you, thank you so much. I shall be able to put on my phylacteries first thing tomorrow morning. Is it tomorrow? What time is it? How long ago did the sun rise?”
“It is dark outside, Moshe.”
“Since when?”
“A few hours.”
“I haven’t said my evening prayers. I must wash my hands.” Feverishly he bent over his hands without seeing them. Turning his head in all directions like a thirsty man searching for water, he babbled: “For the prayers … water … Not to drink … for the prayers.”
Moshe could live without drinking. But not without praying.
“I shall see to it,” said the Prefect.
“Thank you, with all my heart, thank you.”
Thank you for the freedom, thank you for the promise. Thank you for cutting the bonds, thank you for the warmth, the help, the illusions, the images. Moshe feels a profound, an immeasurable gratitude toward the visitor and toward the entire world. Thank you, mankind. Thank you, hell. Thank you, Lord, for causing me to be born in this town, in the midst of this community, in this generation. Thank you for having made my path cross that of your living instruments. At the end of every experience, including suffering, there is gratitude. What is man? A cry of gratitude.
“You will eat and you will feel better,” said the Prefect.
“Thank you, thank you.”
Eat? He? Moshe is not hungry, he has never been hungry. Moshe could live without food. No, that’s not a miracle. He could live without miracles. He could not live at all. The Talmud says that every birth is a mistake, and that it would have been better for man not to be a part of creation. But because … Yes, because. Because he does live, he sanctifies life. Because he does work, he justifies his own plan. Because he does sing, he corrects the divine outline. Yes, because. Because all this is, he says thank you. Because of it all, in spite of it all. Thank you, God. Thank you for having conferred these gifts, these faculties on me. Thus I can say: I, Moshe. Or else: You, God. You, man. You, world. You, Death. Ultimately the self increases its powers, it does not let them erode. Thus I can speak while laughing, laugh while keeping silent, keep silent while screaming, live while dying and see myself without seeing.
“Trust me,” said the Prefect. “I shall take care of everything.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
Is there a prayer for prayers? If not, it should be invented. Leah told him one day: “I am grateful to you not only for what you do and what you are, but also for what I am. I am grateful to you for that very gratitude.” And Moshe answered her: “I like what you just said but you must never say it again.” And Leah understood. At the end of the word there is silence, at the end of silence there is the gaze.
A little water, Leah. For the prayers. Not to drink. Moshe was not thirsty. His throat was dry, his chest was ravaged, but he could do without drinking, and it did not even surprise him.
In the next world, that of unique truth, the soul steeps itself in the river of the red flames before it reaches the brook of the white flames. Thence, the angel Matatron leads it to the Celestial Tribunal, where it is asked: From what spring did you drink? With whom did you share your thirst and your water? And the soul answers: I am alone, I have no accomplice, I can do without drinking.
“Moshe,” said the Prefect, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
Questions, more questions. Is it the same in heaven? Evidently yes. Thus there will never be an end! No sooner is the grave sealed than an angel comes and knocks: You there, the deceased, tell me your name and that of your mother. If he remembers, he may enter the world of the dead. Three days later the interrogation resumes: Have you been honest in the performance of your trade? Have you lived in the expectation of the Messiah? What have you done with your life, with your solitude?
“I am alone, I have no accomplice,” said Moshe, and his jaw was set. “Stop asking me questions, that’s enough!”
Up above, facing the Tribunal, a soul may decide to challenge the questioner: You have questions? So do I. And mine are as good as yours. And then the angels, led by Matatron, cry sadly: Wretched soul, you are blaspheming, you are incurring eternal damnation. As for the Judge, He recommends clemency: Let them bring me The Book, let them consult The Law. Every situation is listed. Virtues and sins, punishments and rewards; everything is spelled out. The Law encompasses every human category: the just and the miscreants, the ascetics and the fools, the liars and the patrons, the misers and the poor who ridicule avariciousness.
But the madmen? What is the fate of madmen in heaven? Look well, the Judge commands, check it closely; I want a precise and thorough examination. The embarrassed scholars and specialists throw themselves into The Book and its commentaries, then into the commentaries on the commentaries. They are shamefaced, for the result is nil. The madman’s fate has not been foreseen up above. Moses is summoned and so are the prophets and their disciples, and so are Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, Rabbi Akiba, Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Yehuda. They question Rabbi Yitzhak, the Lion of Safed: And the madmen, didn’t you think of them? Is it possible? Well, yes, so it seems. Nobody thought of the madmen. Meanwhile the mad soul, the rebellious soul awaits the long-delayed verdict. An angel—Matatron? he again?—dares to suggest a kind of solution, a compromise: all the Tribunal has to do is to solemnly proclaim that the madman is not mad. A wise solution that the court would be inclined to view as equitable were it not rejected by the soul protesting vehemently: During my earthly existence I claimed my madness as my own, I accepted it, I made it my home—what right have you to deny it now?
Two members of the Court seize the opportunity to shift the debate onto a strictly judicial plane, but the Judge interrupts them and addresses Himself to the soul at once responsible and irresponsible for the uproar: Your argument is valid; true madmen are as worthy as true saints. What counts is the weight of truth in man. Still, considering the special aspects of your situation, for which, as a result of a regrettable omission, no precedent exists, I am forced to send you back into the world of the living. Applause in the hall. Next case? No, not so fast. The soul protests once more: You may send back only that sinner who must expiate this violation or that transgression of the Law; you have nothing to reproach me for; madmen move inside a system all their own, where they alone can pass judgment. The Judge deliberates at length and reiterates the verdict: You must go back down, we have no choice, neither you nor we. But this is unfair, cries the soul, this is illegal! Indeed, says the Judge, but there is no other solution … if you insist on maintaining your status of madman. And then, the soul has an idea: Very well, it says, I am going down again, but on one condition—that I be granted permission, every time I consider it appropriate, to remind you that injustice reigns even in heaven!
“What is happening to you is unjust,” said the Prefect. “Martyrdom is always a result of injustice.”
“What difference does it make?” Moshe was becoming annoyed. “Even God is unable to solve this problem.”
An unsatisfactory reply, he knows that: God has nothing to do with it. God
is God and man is not human. The strength of the one does not necessarily apply to the other. God cannot help but be, but find, but win. Man cannot help but lose, but seek, but die, but live his death.
“Make an effort, Moshe,” said the Prefect. “Try to listen to me well. Try to answer. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
He would have liked to see too. A curtain of flames separated him from the Prefect. At times he would catch a glimpse of a figure folding and unfolding its arms.
“You are sacrificing yourself,” said the Prefect. “That is beautiful, even commendable. And foolish too. Are you certain it will serve its purpose? I confess that I am not. I respect you and admire you. And I feel sorry for you. You see, I no longer know whether this will stop the wolves from howling.”
The pain. Here it came again. It struck his temples, his chest. Only now will I suffer, thought Moshe. Yet he must not allow himself to collapse. “Don’t you remember?” he shouted. “They wanted a culprit, and now they have one!”
“Will it be enough? That is the question.”
“What more can they want?”
“More culprits.”
Only now am I really going to ache, Moshe thought. My head, my heart, only now are they going to burst. Hold fast? What for? Speak? Convince? “I am alone, I said that. I have no accomplice, I said that too. I am solely responsible, I said that. I have said nothing else. I have incriminated no one. What do you want of me—what else? Haven’t I done enough?”
“More than enough. But events are overwhelming us. The wolves are howling and the prey seems slight to them. They are voracious, these wolves from around here, they want bigger game.”
Moshe was listening, conscious of his failing strength. He did not even try to repress the sob forming in his chest. “This is unjust, terribly unjust. This was your idea, wasn’t it? You gave it to Davidov, didn’t you? Davidov informed the Council … you needed a culprit—just one—and preferably a Jewish one, didn’t you?”