Legends of Our Time (5 page)

With a lifeless look, a painful smile on his face, while digging a hole in the ground, Pinhas moved his lips in silence. He appeared to be arguing with someone within himself and, judging from his expression, seemed close to admitting defeat.

I had never seen him so downhearted. I knew that his body would not hold out much longer. His strength was already abandoning him, his movements were becoming more heavy, more chaotic. No doubt he knew it too. But death figured only rarely in our conversations. We preferred to deny its presence, to reduce it, as in the past, to
a simple allusion, something abstract, inoffensive, a word like any other.

“What are you thinking about? What’s wrong?”

Pinhas lowered his head, as if to conceal his embarrassment, or his sadness, or both, and let a long time go by before he answered, in a voice scarcely audible: “Tomorrow is Yom Kippur.”

Then I too felt depressed. My first Yom Kippur in the camp. Perhaps my last. The day of judgment, of atonement. Tomorrow the heavenly tribunal would sit and pass sentence: “And like unto a flock, the creatures of this world shall pass before thee.” Once upon a time—last year—the approach of this day of tears, of penitence and fear, had made me tremble. Tomorrow, we would present ourselves before God, who sees everything and who knows everything, and we would say: “Father, have pity on your children.” Would I be capable of praying with fervor again? Pinhas shook himself abruptly. His glance plunged into mine.

“Tomorrow is the Day of Atonement and I have just made a decision: I am not going to fast. Do you hear? I am not going to fast.”

I asked for no explanation. I knew he was going to die and suddenly I was afraid that by way of justification he might declare: “It is simple, I have decided not to comply with the law anymore and not to fast because in the eyes of man and of God I am already dead, and the dead can disobey the commandments of the Torah.” I lowered my head and made believe I was not thinking about anything but the earth I was digging up under a sky more dark than the earth itself.

We belonged to the same Kommando. We always managed to work side by side. Our age difference did not stop him from treating me like a friend. He must have been past forty. I was fifteen. Before the war, he had been
Rosh-Yeshiva
, director of a rabbinical school somewhere in Galicia. Often, to outwit our hunger or to forget our
reasons for despair, we would study a page of the Talmud from memory. I relived my childhood by forcing myself not to think about those who were gone. If one of my arguments pleased Pinhas, if I quoted a commentary without distorting its meaning, he would smile at me and say: “I should have liked to have you among my disciples.”

And I would answer: “But I am your disciple, where we are matters little.”

That was false, the place was of capital importance. According to the law of the camp I was his equal; I used the familiar form when I addressed him. Any other form of address was inconceivable.

“Do you hear?” Pinhas shouted defiantly. “I will not fast.”

“I understand. You are right. One must not fast. Not at Auschwitz. Here we live outside time, outside sin. Yom Kippur does not apply to Auschwitz.”

Ever since Rosh Hashana, the New Year, the question had been bitterly debated all over camp. Fasting meant a quicker death. Here everybody fasted all year round. Every day was Yom Kippur. And the book of life and death was no longer in God’s hands, but in the hands of the executioner. The words
mi yichye umi yamut
, “who shall live and who shall die,” had a terrible real meaning here, an immediate bearing. And all the prayers in the world could not alter the
Gzar-din
, the inexorable movement of fate. Here, in order to live, one had to eat, not pray.

“You are right, Pinhas,” I said, forcing myself to withstand his gaze. “You
must
eat tomorrow. You’ve been here longer than I have, longer than many of us. You need your strength. You have to save your strength, watch over it, protect it. You should not go beyond your limits. Or tempt misfortune. That would be a sin.”

Me, his disciple? I gave him lessons, I gave him advice, as if I were his elder, his guide.

“That is not it,” said Pinhas, getting irritated. “I could hold out for one day without food. It would not be the first time.”

“Then what is it?”

“A decision. Until now, I’ve accepted everything. Without bitterness, without reservation. I have told myself: ‘God knows what he is doing.’ I have submitted to his will. Now I have had enough, I have reached my limit. If he knows what he is doing, then it is serious; and it is not any less serious if he does not. Therefore, I have decided to tell him: ‘It is enough.’ ”

I said nothing. How could I argue with him? I was going through the same crisis. Every day I was moving a little further away from the God of my childhood. He had become a stranger to me; sometimes, I even thought he was my enemy.

The appearance of Edek put an end to our conversation. He was our master, our king. The Kapo. This young Pole with rosy cheeks, with the movements of a wild animal, enjoyed catching his slaves by surprise and making them shout with fear. Still an adolescent, he enjoyed possessing such power over so many adults. We dreaded his changeable moods, his sudden fits of anger: without unclenching his teeth, his eyes half-closed, he would beat his victims long after they had lost consciousness and had ceased to moan.

“Well?” he said, planting himself in front of us, his arms folded. “Taking a little nap? Talking over old times? You think you are at a resort? Or in the synagogue?”

A cruel flame lit his blue eyes, but it went out just as quickly. An aborted rage. We began to shovel furiously, not thinking about anything but the ground which opened up menacingly before us. Edek insulted us a few more times and then walked off.

Pinhas did not feel like talking anymore, neither did I. For him the die had been cast. The break with God appeared complete.

Meanwhile, the pit under our legs was becoming wider and deeper. Soon our heads would hardly be visible above the ground. I had the weird sensation that I was digging a grave. For whom? For Pinhas? For myself? Perhaps for our memories.

On my return to camp, I found it plunged in feverish anticipation: they were preparing to welcome the holiest and longest day of the year. My barracks neighbors, a father and son, were talking in low voices. One was saying: “Let us hope the roll-call does not last too long.” The other added: “Let us hope that the soup is distributed before the sun sets, otherwise we will not have the right to touch it.”

Their prayers were answered. The roll-call unfolded without incident, without delay, without public hanging. The section-chief hurriedly distributed the soup; I hurriedly gulped it down. I ran to wash, to purify myself. By the time the day was drawing to a close, I was ready.

Some days before, on the eve of Rosh Hashana, all the Jews in camp—Kapos included—had congregated at the square where roll was taken, and we had implored the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to end our humiliation, to change sides, to break his pact with the enemy. In unison we had said
Kaddish
for the dead and for the living as well. Officers and soldiers, machine guns in hand, had stood by, amused spectators, on the other side of the barbed wire.

Now, we did not go back there for
Kol Nidre
. We were afraid of a selection: in preceding years, the Day of Atonement had been turned into a day of mourning. Yom Kippur had become
Tisha b’Av
, the day the Temple was destroyed.

Thus, each barracks housed its own synagogue. It was more prudent. I was sorry, because Pinhas was in another block.

A Hungarian rabbi officiated as our cantor. His voice stirred my memories and evoked that legend according to
which, on the night of Yom Kippur, the dead rise from their graves and come to pray with the living. I thought: “Then it is true; that is what really happens. The legend is confirmed at Auschwitz.”

For weeks, several learned Jews had gathered every night in our block to transcribe from memory—by hand, on toilet paper—the prayers for the High Holy Days. Each cantor received a copy. Ours read in a loud voice and we repeated each verse after him. The
Kol Nidre
, which releases us from all vows made under constraint, now seemed to me anachronistic, absurd, even though it had been composed in similar circumstances, in Spain, right near the Inquisition stakes. Once a year the converts would assemble and cry out to God: “Know this, all that we have said is unsaid, all that we have done is undone.”
Kol Nidre?
A sad joke. Here and now we no longer had any secret vows to make or to deny: everything was clear, irrevocable.

Then came the
Vidui
, the great confession. There again, everything rang false, none of it concerned us anymore.
Ashamnu
, we have sinned.
Bagadnu
, we have betrayed.
Gazalnu
, we have stolen. What? Us? We have sinned? Against whom? by doing what?
We
have betrayed? Whom? Undoubtedly this was the first time since God judged his creation that victims beat their breasts accusing themselves of the crimes of their executioners.

Why did we take responsibility for sins and offenses which not one of us could ever have had the desire or the possibility of committing? Perhaps we felt guilty despite everything. Things were simpler that way. It was better to believe our punishments had meaning, that we had deserved them; to believe in a cruel but just God was better than not to believe at all. It was in order not to provoke an open war between God and his people that we had chosen to spare him, and we cried out: “You are our God, blessed be your name. You smite us without pity, you shed our blood, we give thanks to you for it, O
Eternal One, for you are determined to show us that you are just and that your name is justice!”

I admit having joined my voice to the others and implored the heavens to grant me mercy and forgiveness. At variance with everything my lips were saying, I indicted myself only to turn everything into derision, into farce. At any moment I expected the Master of the universe to strike me dumb and to say: “That is enough—you have gone too far.” And I like to think I would have replied: “You, also, blessed be your name, you also.”

Our services were dispersed by the camp bell. The section-chiefs began to yell: “Okay, go to sleep! If God hasn’t heard you, it’s because he is incapable of hearing.”

The next day, at work, Pinhas joined another group. I thought: “He wants to eat without being embarrassed by my presence.” A day later, he returned. His face even more pale, even more gaunt than before. Death was gnawing at him. I caught myself thinking: “He will die because he did not observe Yom Kippur.”

We dug for several hours without looking at each other. From far off, the shouting of the Kapo reached us. He walked around hitting people relentlessly.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Pinhas spoke to me: “I have a confession to make.”

I shuddered, but went on digging. A strange, almost child-like smile appeared on his lips when he spoke again: “You know, I fasted.”

I remained motionless. My stupor amused him.

“Yes, I fasted. Like the others. But not for the same reasons. Not out of obedience, but out of defiance. Before the war, you see, some Jews rebelled against the divine will by going to restaurants on the Day of Atonement; here, it is by observing the fast that we can make our indignation heard. Yes, my disciple and teacher, know that I fasted. Not for love of God, but against God.”

He left me a few weeks later, victim of the first selection.

He shook my hand: “I would have liked to die some other way and elsewhere. I had always hoped to make of my death, as of my life, an act of faith. It is a pity. God prevents me from realizing my dream. He no longer likes dreams.”

Nonetheless, he asked me to say
Kaddish
for him after his death, which, according to his calculations, would take place three days after his departure from camp.

“But why?” I asked, “since you are no longer a believer?”

He took the tone he always used when he explained a passage in the Talmud to me: “You do not see the heart of the matter. Here and now, the only way to accuse him is by praising him.”

And he went, laughing, to his death.

In a bus, one summer evening, in Tel Aviv. The sultriness of the day, instead of lessening, leaves behind a heavy stagnant heat which insinuates itself into every pore, weighs on every gesture and breath, blurs every image. People doze on their feet, about to drop into the void. Breathing, even looking, requires immense effort.

We are hardly moving. As we make our way up the principal thoroughfare, Allenby Boulevard, toward the center of town, traffic moves slower and slower and soon it will come to a standstill. Used to this kind of adversity, the passengers demonstrate their wisdom. Some read the
newspaper, others chat or scan the advertisements for wines, shaving creams, cigarettes. The driver whistles the latest hit tune. Too bad, I will have to get off at the next stop. I have an appointment. I shall make it faster on foot.

But it is a long way to the next stop. We do not seem to be moving. One bottleneck after another. As if three lanes of cars had broken down. I want to get off: the doors do not open until the bus comes to a complete stop. Useless to argue: the driver’s nerves are up to anything. Not mine. Irritated, I curse myself for not having foreseen this. I made a mistake to take the bus. And to think we are in the land of the prophets!

To pass the time I play my favorite game. I pick someone at random and, without his knowing it, establish a mute exchange. Seated across from me is a middle-aged man with a lost look. I examine him thoroughly from head to toe. Easy to classify. Office worker, government clerk, foreman. The anonymous type. Avoiding extremes, responsibilities. He takes orders only to transmit them. Neat, punctual, efficient. He is not at the top of the ladder nor is he at the bottom. Neither rich nor poor, happy or unhappy. He just makes a living. He holds his own. Against everybody.