Elie Wiesel (3 page)

“Are you hungry?” Lidia asked.

“Not particularly. You?”

“Me neither.”

All their conversations ended the same way: Are you sleepy? No? Me neither. Are you thirsty? Yes? Me too. In the center of town two or three cafés or inns were still open.

“Shall we?”

“We shall,” Malkiel said. “But when we get there you’re going to tell me who you are. Promise?”

“When I was a little girl, I promised my mother never to make promises.”

When she was little, when I was little … What sort of boy was I? What was it like to be young? A gust of nostalgia drew him deeper into his shell. By turns timid and brash as a child, he had sought happiness where it was not to be found. So he invented it for himself. To play with it, destroy it and reinvent it.

Yet his childhood in New York was almost average. His father, careful not to lean on him, tried—sometimes without success—to stay in the background. Malkiel could ask his friends to the house for dinner. Loretta never complained at having to feed five unexpected guests. Elhanan respected his son’s independence, even if it meant standing by while he committed foolishness. One day he said to the
boy, “You should know, my son, that no one can suffer in another’s place. All I can promise is that when you suffer, I’ll be present.” What an irony, Malkiel mused. Our roles are reversed. He’s suffering and I can’t suffer for him. I can remember for him, that’s all.

“I’ll tell you about me if you’ll tell me about you,” Lidia said.

“And then?”

“Then I’ll know.”

“What will you know?”

“Whatever you want me to know.”

“Exactly. I don’t want you to know.”

She stopped, shot him a scornful glance and chuckled. “How complicated you are!”

Malkiel and Lidia came out onto a badly lit, still crowded square. The strollers seemed lugubrious, dragging their feet; they seemed to be slipping on the cobblestones. One moment they clung together, and the next moment, as if to flee an enemy, they dispersed. Malkiel looked inside an inn where singing drunkards were being scolded by waitresses. “Here?” Malkiel asked.

“No. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“You don’t like the innkeeper?”

“He makes passes at me.”

“Are you afraid he’ll see us together?”

“He’s too drunk to see anything but his bottle. And I’d prefer a quieter place.”

“Do you know one?”

“Yes.”

“Where the boss won’t bother you?”

“No, he won’t. I promise.” And after a moment’s reflection, “See? I’m betraying my principles: I just made you a promise. Shall we go, then?”

She led him toward a tree-lined alley. Once within, she began to hurry. A disconcerting interpreter, Malkiel thought. She intrigued him. Nothing unusual there. All women intrigued him. Because he never knew his mother, and sought her in each of them? Here in a Communist country he might do well to be wary, especially of women like this one. He’d read enough articles about it. Innocent tourists traveling alone, letting themselves be trapped by secret police who shoved a gorgeous creature into their beds. Then the crash of a door broken down, and flashbulbs, and an outraged husband lunging forward crying scandal, demanding an arrest: all burlesque. Reporter friends warned Malkiel as they said good-bye: “If it happens to you, enjoy it. You’re not married and you’re not risking a thing. They can’t blackmail you.”

“Seriously, where are we going?” Malkiel asked.

“To a serious place.”

“Really.”

“Trust me.”

“When I was a little boy …”

“I wonder if you were ever a little boy.”

Finally they stopped before a modest two-story house.

“Don’t tell me there’s a tavern in there.”

She took both his hands. “You’re a fool, Mr. Rosenbaum.”

How many times in his life had he heard those words? You’re a fool to stay in the house on a beautiful day like this, you’re a fool not to go out with us tonight, not to go to the beach, you’re a fool to spend so many hours with your old father, you’re a fool to love too much or not enough.… You should, you could be happy, take advantage of life, sunbathe, give in to temptation.… You’re a fool, such a fool, to seek and search when you don’t have to, not to seek and search when you should.…

Lidia raised her head. “This is my house. I live here.”

“I see. You live in a tavern.”

“I can offer you a cup of bad coffee, but still better than the hotel’s.”

Yes, no? Malkiel wanted to say, Yes indeed, I like you, let’s go to your place. But the image of his sick father rose within him. Drive it away? Of course not. Make love in its presence?

“Not tonight, Lidia. Don’t hold it against me. Another time—I promise.”

After a moment she smiled again. “I see you did not promise your mother not to—”

“No; I promised her nothing.”

All right. Where now? The hotel? The café just off the main square? His father’s house? Malkiel held his breath. He knew that house from doorway to roofline, although he’d never seen it. Every room and every piece of furniture: he knew the layout. Above the stove, in the dining room, the ceiling seemed low and blackened; two windows looked out on Barracks Road, and you could see the theater and the cinema, and the crowd rushing up to the ticket windows. To the left you could see the entrance to a garden where young people gathered on Saturday afternoons to wink at each other and gossip a little, just to get acquainted. Malkiel was gripped by a sudden desire to run over there, knock on the door, wake up the people asleep inside and live his dream to the end: invite his dead mother and his sick father to come and join him. Come on, I’ve fixed it all, restored everything; I’ve thrown out the intruders, the house is waiting for you, the nightmare is over; as if there had never been a war, as if there had never been deportations. The living are still alive, Death does not conquer all. Look, Father, you’re home. I? For you, I am nothing but a suppressed desire, a muted voice.

“I’d better go home,” Lidia said. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes, Lidia. Tonight …”

“I understand.”

A quick handshake. Lidia left him without looking back. In his mind Malkiel already saw himself running to his father’s house. Faster, faster. No more waiting. Give up this game and shout the truth to the whole world: “The
real
reason for my journey here? I lied to you; what I’m looking for is not engraved on headstones, but …” His train of thought halted. What am I saying? Where will I find what I’m looking for? And what am I looking for in the first place?

And yet the authorities had believed his story; it made sense. Editor of the
Times
obituary page, he was fascinated by ancient epitaphs. At the ministry an official had nodded and mumbled, “But of course, Domnul Rosenbaum, we understand; you were right to come visit our cemeteries. You’ll stay awhile, won’t you? At least we hope so.”

And indeed he might linger. For long? How could he know? Only God knew all, always. Only God pierced the mystery of the future. Yesterday, tomorrow, never. These words don’t have the same meaning in New York and Bombay. The beggar and the prince move toward death at different paces. What separates an individual from his fellowman? What keeps the past from biting into the future? All men need rain, prayer and silence; all forget, all will be forgotten. Me too? Me too. And my father, too? And God? He, too?

Oh, to recover faith! And the innocence of before. To live in the moment, to hold desire and fulfillment in one’s grasp, to fuse with someone else, with oneself; to become infinity. For his father, unfortunately, infinity was merging with oblivion. The past like the future was only a vast black hole. Nothing more? Nothing more.

Malkiel felt a touch of nausea. He had eaten nothing all
day. His body was taking revenge for being neglected, disdained and punished for no reason. What if he were to stop at the tavern for a bite, a slice of their bad cheese? Better still, he could retrace his steps, ring Lidia’s doorbell and confess his uneasiness, his weakness: I’m stupid, Lidia; I’m hungry and I was ashamed to say so, I want you and I didn’t dare admit it.… Well, Malkiel? Yes?

Seated on a bench in the main square, Malkiel attracted the attention of a few passersby, who watched him from the corners of their eyes. A sturdy fellow reeking of alcohol brushed past him. A woman whispered something he did not understand. Malkiel rose and walked back toward the river, which opened to the sky as if to rock it with melancholy. A bizarre urge seized him: to plunge in, float, let himself be swept as far as the sea and beyond, to be drawn up to the heavens and higher; to go away, to see nothing, to hear nothing, to feel nothing, to possess nothing, to sacrifice nothing. A death wish? A desire to forget death? To join his father in a common oblivion?

A loud, raspy voice saved him. “Come buy me a drink. It’ll do you good.”

It was Hershel the gravedigger. Where did he come from?

“How about it?” Hershel laughed. “God will pay you back.”

“I thought gravediggers knew all about death, not God.”

“But, my dear stranger, they work together, don’t you know that? I have a lot to teach you! Come on, buy me a drink. We’ll drink to God, Who created men in a drunken moment.”

Malkiel did not reply. So between a beautiful woman and a gravedigger, I’ll have chosen the gravedigger. What a life, he thought.

“My dear sir, you look depressed to me. What is it, now? Are the stars against you? Is the earth spinning backward under your feet? Will you feel better if I tell you about the Great Reunion?”

“Let’s go have a drink,” Malkiel said.

As they walked along, the gravedigger went on with his chatter. “People don’t appreciate us, I swear. But what would they do without us? We’re the only ones who know what death is all about. And the earth itself. Just let somebody try to muscle in on our work, and the earth will swallow him up like that, believe me. The earth is kind to us gravediggers. It doesn’t complain, it lets itself be worked over. It accepts what we give it. It endures the assassin’s arrogance and the victim’s tears. It’s open to everybody at any moment; the great conqueror is the earth, for it is the earth that tames the dead and feeds the living.”

Was this gravedigger already drunk? Who taught him to speak with such eloquence? “Is the tavern far?”

“Nothing is far, for us,” said the gravedigger, laughing.

That voice, Malkiel wondered, what gives it such force? Death? Is it the voice of doom and damnation?

“
Will you listen to me?
”

“
Of course I’ll listen to you, Father.
”

“
You won’t lose patience?
”

“
I’ll listen carefully.
”

“
And you’ll try to remember everything?
”

“
I’ll try.
”

“
And take everything down?
”

“
I’ll take everything down.
”

“
Even the most insignificant details?
”

“
Details are rarely insignificant.
”

“
You won’t hold it against me if I sometimes tell you unpleasant things, sad things?
’

“
I won’t hold it against you, Father.
”

“
You won’t be disappointed, later, when I express myself badly?
”

“
You’ve never disappointed me.
”

“
But I have so many things to tell you, so many things!
”

“
I know.
”

“
I worry and worry: will I have time to tell you everything?
”

“
Let’s hope so.
”

“
That’s just it, my son. I feel hope deserting me, flowing out of me.
”

“
You’ll fight to hang on to it.
”

“
Will you help me?
”

“
Naturally, I’ll help you. Always.
”

“
There’s not much time.
”

“
No, Father, there’s not much time. You talk. I’ll listen.
”

“
All right. I’ll tell you. The beginning, and what follows, everything, I’ll tell you everything if God lets me. Are you listening? Try to remember what I tell you, because soon I won’t be able to tell you anything.
”

Elhanan had to recall the village of his childhood for his own child. Malkiel must bear it within him as his father bore it, a landmark and a source of wonder.

Picturesque and colorful, it blended cultures and ethnic groups, diverse traditions and customs. Russians, Turks, Mongols, Germans, Hungarians and Romanians had left their imprint upon it. A modern Babel; its citizens spoke many languages. You might have said that men and women had thronged to this enchanted spot from all corners of history to build their temples, all too visible and not very reassuring.

You would find peddlers and merchants, acrobats and
bandits, witches and healers. Just men who aspired to reach heaven, and primitive villagers coupling in the courtyard in broad daylight. Men who lived only for others and evildoers who lived only off others. Hard-hearted police informers and troubadours with smiling faces. Wise old men dreaming of God and upstarts who took themselves for gods.

“My grandfather lived far, far away,” Elhanan told his son. “If you can, go and see the little hamlet where he had a farm just beyond a river, really a stream.… In summer I used to visit him.”

With his mother Elhanan went there either by train, some twenty minutes’ ride, or in a carriage, two hours or more. Elhanan preferred the carriage. When the coachman was in a good mood he let the boy hold the reins; and then, enjoying a new freedom and authority, the boy felt in tune with life.

The road wound its way through a forest. Elhanan gazed at the trees, which looked immense, all black with twisted roots, cracked and tangled branches: in them he saw the pleas of distorted and accursed creatures doomed to repentance. He closed his eyes, but still he saw them.

“I believed my grandfather stronger than a lion,” said Elhanan to his son, “and wiser than a Wise Man. He spoke to me, and I listened; I spoke to him, and he listened. I listened even when he was meditating in silence; I meditated with him. It was he who taught me to love fields and valleys.”