The Testament (39 page)

Yes, my boy, that is one night I remember. Dawn, as always during the month of August, lights up the sky and glides over the roofs and treetops. On the other side, the mountain is clinging to night. I feel like pleading, Let night go, god of the mountain, send it back to us and keep the sun, keep it as a hostage and give us back the darkness,
let it cover the city with its shadows once more, let there be another day, another life. Under the reign of night the “gentleman of the fourth cellar” will not make the acquaintance of a Jewish poet who … oh, well, it’s all foolishness, it’s all useless, I know
.

The prison is quiet, silent. But awake. Already? The inmates are beings of a different kind; they know. Ivan has not as yet received his orders and the prisoners already guess what they are. This morning they rose before it was time. In honor of your father? Do they know it is your father’s turn? They have smelled death, they feel it close at hand and that is what has pulled them out of sleep. Death and not Ivan. Ivan has not arrived yet, neither has my chief. Too early. A crazy hope takes shape in my mind: They will not come, they will not come. Ever. Killed in an accident perhaps? I am impatient. I find myself cumbersome; I would like to be rid of myself. To die before witnessing death? Here I am, delirious, rambling, casting myself in the role of martyr. Not my style. Besides, the chief has arrived. He looks drawn, sullen. Troubled. Could an examining magistrate be sentimental too? Impossible. He is annoyed, that’s all. He would have liked to bring this trial to its conclusion and is being frustrated. He considered his idea of allowing a writer to express himself, of encouraging a poet to remember, a stroke of genius, and suddenly it had all gone to hell. That’s neither just nor professional, if you want his opinion. Of course, he could not guess all the ramifications of the affair; he did not know that Kossover was only one among many and that the others, elsewhere, were going to be shot too. Had he known the order was coming from that high up, he would not have dared question it, not even in his thoughts. And surely he would not have displayed ill humor. He picks up a file, leafs through it, signs some papers; the final formalities in other words! Oh, well, he
does not agree but the matter is closed. As far as he is concerned, the Jewish poet Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover has ceased to live. One day, another examining magistrate would be sitting in his place, signing the same forms relating to his predecessor. While writing, without looking up, he asks me: “Do you really want to accompany Ivan?” “Yes, Citizen Magistrate.” “Whatever for?” “Oh, I don’t know, but …” “But what?” “Nothing. Except that I have never seen the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar’ at work and I was wondering …” “You wouldn’t be something of a pervert, my dear Zupanev?” “Just curious, Citizen Magistrate …” And so my chief shrugs his shoulders and goes on with his work without speaking to me again. As for me, I cannot stay put. I must force myself to remain seated on my usual stool from which I saw your father fight a battle that was already lost. Surreptitiously I glance toward my secret drawer: my favorite poet’s writings are still in it, well protected. I promise you, my little poet. But I really should let him know this, reassure him with a wink, a gesture—but how? No, that’s a bad idea. A cruel one. What is the use of warning him that he is about to die? If I make him understand that I am taking care of his
Testament,
he will guess immediately; he is not stupid. He’ll guess that if I am prepared to take such a risk, Ivan must not be far away.… And there he is, Ivan. He has come in without knocking. He shakes the chiefs hand and throws me an absentminded good day. Elegant, dressed in a well-tailored uniform, he is a handsome man, only I find him ugly, repugnant. I pretend that I am working but I am too nervous to transcribe the routine nonsense. I watch Ivan as he pulls out his
nagan
and checks it. He is a professional, Ivan, a meticulous fellow. Having satisfied himself, he stuffs his
nagan
back into the regulation holster attached to the belt under his vest. My chief looks up, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Dutifully, Ivan
asks, “Shall we go?” “Let’s go,” says my chief. I stand up when he does. Ivan turns to me: “What do
you
want? You know the regulation.…”

“He is curious,” my chief tells him. “He has followed so many cases, he wishes to be present at the ending, to get an idea.” “To each his own,” mutters Ivan, displeased. “All right, let’s go.”

Automatically, I check the clock, which has stopped—and my watch. I like to situate important events in time. I remember looking at my watch, but what
was
the time? Strange, this lapse of memory. For I remember everything else: the morning light was blue; my chief was continually moistening his lips; and I had awful stomach cramps
.

Silently, single file, we walk behind Ivan. Here we are in the subterranean labyrinth of the “isolators.” Green bulbs on the ceilings, empty hallways. Ivan stops in front of a cell and motions to us not to make any noise. Such is the procedure; one opens the door gently, oh so gently, and surprises the condemned man in his sleep. One tells him that he must undergo another interrogation, and suddenly the problem is no longer a problem. The secret of success lies in surprise and speed. Except that your father, my boy, receives us standing as though he has been waiting for us. I am impressed by his calm. His face is scarred, his clothes are in tatters, but he looks noble to me. Foolish, don’t you think? Briefly, he dominates us, intimidates us. He is the one to speak: “I worked all night, Citizen Magistrate.” “Excellent,” says the examining magistrate. “I am sure that it is excellent. I shall read it this very day.” A silence. My chief is undecided. Ordinarily, the condemned man is led to the fourth basement where the “gentleman” shoots a bullet in his neck and leaves without any further ado. For your father, the program is different. The execution is to take place in the cell. “I have come to review with you the description of what you
call the pogrom at the printer’s shop,” my chief is saying. He spreads some papers on the cot and your father bends down to reread them. For a moment his eyes meet mine: he has just seen me for the first time! I am overcome by fear—he will mistake me for Ivan. To prevent a misunderstanding, I introduce myself: “Zupanev—I am the stenographer.” Your father is reassured: if the stenographer is here, it really does mean only an additional inquiry to elaborate on some detail. Suddenly, he sees Ivan behind me; he would like to know his name as well but he restrains his curiosity. As for Ivan he returns his gaze and says nothing. “Very well,” says your father. “Let’s see that passage.” He begins to read and my chief pretends to listen. And, God knows why, I suddenly remember my maternal grandfather. I was three years old, or four, when he took me with him to the synagogue; it was a holiday; the men, lost in meditation, seemed to be listening to a distant voice. What voice were we four listening to now? I watch in horror as Ivan pulls out his
nagan
and pulls my sleeve to take my place behind the condemned man. I feel like howling to warn your father. Paltiel Kossover is entitled to leave this stinking world like a man, facing death, spitting in its face if he so chooses. But I remain silent. Following your father’s example, I tell my mind to go away, and the whore obeys me: my thoughts fly to the desk, to the notebooks neatly lined up in the secret drawer; others will be added. And one day, one day, my dear Jewish poet not yet assassinated, one day your sparks will start a fire. And on that day I shall laugh! Do you hear me, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover? One day you and I will surprise mankind with our laughter!

And those fools of magistrates and executioners who see nothing! They think that they are finished with this Jewish poet—one more—and his work. They think they can control time as they dominate man: “To be preserved
for eternity,” reads the rubber stamp that seals their files. But eternity couldn’t care less about them—and neither could I. I’ll show them what their stamp is worth! And what I do with their secrets. I’ll show them, yes I will
.

Now Ivan is behind his victim: I watch him as he raises his arm slowly, slowly. The barrel almost touches the nape of your father’s neck. My eyes become blurred, there are knots in my throat: the Angel of Death is not a monster covered with eyes, but a well-dressed man armed with a
nagan.
Abruptly your father shatters the silence. He is speaking softly: “You must understand, the language of a people is its memory, and its memory is …” A muffled explosion tears through me. The poet collapses, slides slowly, gracefully to the ground, his head slightly to one side as though dreaming. Ivan motions to us: it’s all over. The magistrate and the executioner exchange procedural remarks: burn the corpse; also his personal effects; also his wretched ritual objects; burn it all, erase his name from history by striking it from all the records. While they talk I contemplate the poet’s face and promise to avenge him. That bastard Ivan will not have the last word; he means to obliterate your death just as my chief took away your life—but I am here. Those fools forgot me. The perfect witness, that’s me. Though invisible, I was present as they transacted their filthy business. I heard it all, understood it all and filed it all away! Imagine their faces, those fools, on the day your father’s song will come to haunt them from all corners of the globe. On that day I shall laugh, I shall laugh at last, for all the years I tried so hard to laugh and did not succeed. Thank you, poet. Thank you, brother. I leave you but you’re not leaving me
.

Back at the office, I hear the chief make his report—brief, neutral, concise: “Your order has been carried out this morning at 5:34
A.M
.” He gives the necessary instructions. He calls for tea, for buttered bread. As for me, I
experience a strange sensation: my heart is broken but I know that I shall laugh. And suddenly it happens: I am laughing, I am laughing at last. And if the Chief doesn’t notice, it’s only because he is a blockhead, like all the rest
.

It’s idiotic, even unjust, but it is the dead, the dead poets who will force men like me and all the others to laugh
.

I tell your father and I repeat it to him. Even though he is no longer living and no gravedigger will ever lower him into the ground because the ground is cursed and so is heaven. Never mind. I shall carry him, your big child of a father, I shall carry him a day, a year, ten years, for I must hear him laugh as well. That is why I implant in you his memory and mine, I must, my boy, you understand, I must. Otherwise …

Elie Wiesel received the Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo, Norway, on December 10, 1986. His Nobel citation reads: “Elie Wiesel is a messenger to mankind. His message is one of peace and atonement and human dignity. The message is in the form of a testimony, repeated and deepened through the works of a great author.” Wiesel is Andrew Mellon Professor in the Humanities and University Professor at Boston University and is the author of more than forty books. He lives in New York City with his family.

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THE TESTAMENT
On August 12, 1952, Russia’s greatest Jewish writers were secretly executed by Stalin. In this novel, poet Paltiel Kossover meets the same fate but, unlike his historical counterparts, he is permitted to leave behind a written testament. Two decades later, Paltiel’s son reads this precious record and finds that it illuminates the shadowed planes of his own life.
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