Elie Wiesel (22 page)

Wait for Itzik? No. He decided to go. Go where? Home. Home? He had no more home. To the synagogue? To see it vandalized and profaned? Instead he wandered without purpose, from street to street. Here and there he ran across drunken Russian soldiers who invited him to join them. He heard women weeping. How long had he walked around the town? He was shocked to see that he had returned, unintentionally, to the house where Itzik … Not knowing why, he knocked at the door; no one answered. He knocked louder. He wanted to walk in. Perhaps he was hoping to find his comrade in arms Itzik, his friend Itzik the Long, who was no longer his friend. He needed to see him. To say what? Elhanan had no idea. Anyway, Itzik was not there. An old woman with a black scarf over her uncombed hair opened the door, sobbing. “Enough, enough! Go away, my daughter has suffered enough.”

Elhanan gently pushed her aside and went to the young woman huddled in a corner. “I want to help you,” he said gently. “Tell me what I can do.” The young woman did not answer; she had not heard him. She was in another universe. Then Elhanan sat before her and took her hand; she was not even strong enough to pull it away. She seemed apathetic, listless; nothing more could terrify her, nothing more could interest her. “I won’t hurt you,” Elhanan said. “Look at me. Please look at me.” He insisted: he had to help this woman. Time and will must be restored to her. Her features must relax. It was no use. Her vision seemed focused on some other reality, forever untouchable. Her stare was fixed in some other time. She was suffering a madness and a damnation that no one would ever fathom.

Elhanan turned to the old woman. “Who are you? Who is she?” The old woman wrung her hands and answered between sobs: “She’s my daughter … no, my niece. We live
at the other end of town, in a beautiful house.… We thought there’d be less danger here, less risk.” Elhanan insisted: “Who is she? What’s her name?” In the end, the old woman told him. She was the widow of a man who … who had collaborated. Elhanan whispered, “Her husband was a Nyilas? Is that it?” Yes, that was it. He was an anti-Semite and a fascist. His name was Zoltan.… Was he dead? Yes, assassinated. Yes, by Jewish partisans. The old woman was muttering and repeating herself. Zoltan, Elhanan thought. He went back to the young widow. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. I hope you’ll believe me someday.”

Later in the evening he heard Jewish songs in a big house. There he found a group of Jewish partisans with Russian-Jewish officers and soldiers; they were drinking and telling stories and laughing. Itzik saw him come in and walked toward him, hand outstretched. “Glad to see you, old friend.”

Elhanan turned away.

“Let’s go outside,” Itzik said. “Let’s talk.” They went out into the street. “You’re judging me,” Itzik said.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Elhanan answered, and again, “you shouldn’t have done it.”

Itzik squeezed his arm hard. “Do you know who she was?”

“I know who her husband was.”

“And revenge? And justice? Are you forgetting what we swore?”

Elhanan’s arm ached, but he ignored it. “Itzik,” he said after a moment, “can you really believe that raping a helpless woman is an answer to what the enemy did to us? Can you really reduce our whole tragedy to one bestial act? And anyway, is it really a matter of justice? You wanted to take a woman and she was there, that’s all. And even if it isn’t all, what you did was … disgusting.”

Itzik’s suffering showed. “Who are you to tell me about morality?” he roared. “A bastard’s wife, a killer’s wife, doesn’t deserve pity!”

Elhanan raised his voice. “And you claim you showed pity for her husband’s victims when you raped her? You wiped out his crimes and righted injustices? The truth is, you raped her for your own pleasure, for your own animal satisfaction!”

Itzik took a step backward, as if to mark the distance that would thenceforth separate them. “You’re not serious, Elhanan? Is that how you see me?” Elhanan had no need to answer; Itzik understood. “And anyway,” he said, his voice breaking, “anyway, to lose a friend because of a lousy anti-Semite …” Exhausted, he trudged back into the house, where his comrades were still carousing. Elhanan stayed outside all night. Perhaps he was afraid to confront Itzik again. Perhaps he felt guilty for not acting quicker to keep his friend from going too far, not fighting for the raped young widow, a victim of uncontrollable Jewish rage and suffering.

He let the night take him. A pale moon reigned timidly over masses of stars. Here below, the alleys seemed darker and more menacing than during the day. And then the earth broke away and detached itself from the sky and the night. Dawn had won.

Malkiel felt a stab of panic, as if after a silent quarrel with a loved one: he realized that his quest was doomed to failure and had been all along.

Forgive me, Father. You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m going to disappoint you. There is no such thing as a memory transfusion. Yours will never become mine.

I’m a stranger in this town that you knew so well. All the places you told me about are surely still here, but I don’t recognize them.

You told me of a house set in a garden; I cannot find it. You told me that inside, past the courtyard, was the cheder where your mother took you when you were small. All right, Father, I looked, I searched, and all these houses are much alike, and so are their courtyards.

How can I use the images that appeared as you spoke? They’re fleeting, they crumble like sand, they don’t correspond to anything.

And yet I promised to remember, in your name and in your place. But I cannot. I cannot relive your life, see again the child and adolescent that you were, find traces of you in these walls that saw your birth and your childhood. I can live after you and even for you, but not as you. What you felt here when you explored the mystery of daybreak, I shall never feel. What you felt when you welcomed the Queen of Shabbat, I shall never feel.

Then why am I here? Why did you ask me to come? Why did you make me promise to remember all that you will have forgotten? Why did you show me things that only you can understand?

You told me of your own father’s generous heart, of your mother’s serenity and nobility; I remember your words, but that’s all. I’ll never be able to say them as you said them to me.

You described Stanislav to me, and I heard the pain that binds you to Stanislav. But that’s all, Father. My pain is only an echo of yours.

You told me about your adventures among the partisans; I can see your comrades in arms, and I watch them as they rush into battle against the Germans, I hear the cries of the vanquished. I see pride on your friend Itzik’s face as he fires; he shouts as he fires, he laughs as he fires; he’s a happy man, Itzik—happy to be avenging Jewish honor, happy to be showing that the enemy of the Jews is not godlike but vulnerable, mortal. I see and understand all that you did and all that you saw; and yet I know that it will be impossible
to keep my promise. Of course I’ll bear witness for you, but my deposition will pale before yours. What shall I do, Father? Your life and memory are indivisible. They cannot survive you, not really.

I know that whoever listens to a witness becomes one in turn; you told me that more than once. But we are not witnessing the same events. All I can say is, I have heard the witness.

Yes indeed, Father, I have heard you. And in this foreign city, I still hear you.

In his hospital bed Elhanan was dreaming aloud. “The Book is open, and a hand is inscribing our deeds, good as well as evil.
The Ethics of Our Fathers
tells us so. Ah, if I could only read the page that tells of my glorious return to the town of my childhood on the day of its liberation …”

Despite Loretta’s watchful eye, he had managed to slip out of the apartment three days before. He fell and broke several ribs. An ambulance took him to the emergency room.

Feverish, his gaze scanning something beyond space, was he aware now that his son was at his bedside?

“Be calm, Father,” Malkiel said. “The doctor says no excitement.”

“But the Book,” Elhanan said. “And the hand. I see it writing. I’m afraid to read it. No medicine on earth can cure me of that fear.”

He was not to move about, but he did so constantly. Ring for the nurse? Or the intern? Malkiel was about to step into the hallway, when his father’s hand stayed him. “I told you about going back, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“And you’re not angry?”

“No, I’m not angry.”

Elhanan sighed before going on. “I’m mad at myself. I’m guilty, you know. And soon I’ll be guilty without knowing why. I was there, you understand? I saw everything. I could have and should have stopped that rape. Itzik was stronger than I, but I should have kept at him until the woman could run off. Still, it broke my heart. I saw her eyes, this raped woman’s eyes. If I’m sick now it’s because of her eyes.”

Malkiel had never seen his father in such a state. Under the influence of his illness, he took refuge in silence, but never had he let himself go like this. Even for the
Yizkor
service he hid his face. And here he was crying openly.

“We’ll talk about it again sometime soon,” Malkiel said. “Not now. Rest now. Doctor’s orders. Otherwise he can’t promise a thing.”

“Who is he to promise me anything? God is the sole proprietor of the Book. It is the Book of His memory. And in that Book I’ll be punished. I know it; I’m already being punished.”

A nurse signaled Malkiel to follow her into the hallway. But Malkiel could not free his hand, which his father was clutching with astonishing strength.

“Your mother doesn’t know. I’m ashamed of what she must think of me.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Father. The doctor wants to speak to me.”

Elhanan did not hear him. “I loved your mother. I loved her the way your grandfather loved God. I loved her the way a traveler in the desert loves his jug of water, the way a dying man loves life. I promised her happiness, and we were happy. Someday I’ll tell you about our nights in Jerusalem. Our long, rambling walks at night, before curfew. Every hour counted and every word was rich with meaning. Your mother was a good listener. She made me talk. She liked
that. So I told her all about my childhood, my memories of school, my war. But not my break with Itzik, not that. I feared her judgment as I fear the judgment of heaven. Yet it was she who was punished, and not I. Do you know why your mother died? Because I was present at the rape of a human being, of her honor and integrity; I was present at a profanation of her sovereignty; I was present and did nothing. Here is the lesson I bequeath unto you, my son: Itzik blasphemed, I looked on, and it is your mother that death carried away.”

He stirred and twitched again. Again the nurse signaled Malkiel to join her in the hallway. This time he broke away.

“Your father is weak. He has to rest.”

“Forgive me, miss. He said he needed me.”

“What he needs is sleep. Run along.”

“You’ll stay close by?”

“I promise.”

Malkiel tiptoed back into the room. “Doctor’s orders. I have to leave now. I’ll be back. Tomorrow.”

“But I need you. I have so much to tell you, so much I’ll forget in the night.… Don’t leave me alone.”

“I’d like nothing better than to stay here all night. But—”

“One minute, then. Stay one more minute.”

“Okay. One minute.”

“Do you know what I’m thinking of, whom I’m thinking of, right now?”

“Tell me.”

In spite of his pain, the sick man’s face hardened, as if he were preparing to inflict pain on someone, perhaps himself. “The young widow.” Overcome, Elhanan said nothing more. He did not fall asleep.

In his mind he was wandering great distances.

T
he camp began to hum with rumors, opinions, advice, promises, agreements: Were they going to leave, yes or no? Now or later? If you leave, will you write to me? Will you let me know when you get there?

Five hundred “displaced persons”—former partisans, deportees, stowaways—applied for the convoy. They were fed up with their marginal if not futile existence. Fed up with living off charity or the black market. Fed up with feeling like undesirables. Fed up with sleeping and waking on the ground that so many victims had damned and damned again before dying. When someone asked, “But hardship along the way? The obstacles? The dangers? Aren’t you afraid?” they shrugged it off: “We’ve been through all that before, you know.” And also: “At least we know where we’re going now and why we’re going there.”

A week of preparation: learning a few key words of Hebrew, a few basic sentences of French. The truck convoy would stop at a transit camp in France before heading on to a port near Marseilles. They had to protect themselves against local informers and British spies roaming through Europe in search of Jewish “illegals.” Practical considerations: how to dress, what to take along, or buy, or sell. The
best advice? Take whatever the authorities advise and nothing more. They’ll send the rest along afterward.

On the eve of departure Elhanan paid Talia a visit. She seemed happy; not he. “Hey now,” she teased him, “you do look awful.”

Shy as ever, Elhanan lowered his gaze. One question nagged at him: “And you … why are you so happy? Because I’m leaving?”

“Frankly, yes,” she said.

“Thanks.”

She pulled him close. “If you smile nicely I’ll tell you a secret. A secret you’ll like.”

He tried, but he could only grimace.

Talia shook her head. “Try.”

He tried. Same result.

“All right, I appreciate the effort. I have news for you. You’re not leaving alone.” Elhanan hardly had time to react. “I’m going with you.”

At that Elhanan forgot to breathe. His head spun, and the earth went out from under him. What should he look at? How could he bear all this emotion?

“You see?” Talia asked. “I don’t trust you. Once you’re away from me, who knows whom you’ll fall in love with.” Her eyes sparkled. Her parted lips, full and sensual, demanded a response. More quietly she said, “You
are
stupid, really. My poor Elhanan.”