The Forgotten

by Elie Wiesel

  Elhanan was not persuaded. “I’ll read about it in the Times.”

  Malkiel was surprised. His father was fascinated by Jewish history and insisted on keeping up with everything that touched on Jewish life, and therefore on Jewish death. Why was he now so recalcitrant? “I don’t understand your reluctance,” Malkiel said.

  “It’s complicated,” Elhanan answered. “Reading stories about the catastrophe is one thing; meeting one of the criminals is another. Do you want to know the truth? I’m afraid. I’m afraid to see him. Afraid he’ll see me.”

  Later Malkiel would realize that his father was afraid of something else too.…

  With Tamar’s help, Malkiel finally prevailed. Elhanan found a substitute for his classes and accompanied them to the federal courthouse. Rain mixed with snow caused gridlock that morning. Schoolboys laughed their way to school; their mothers called out, “Be careful! Button your coat!” People in the street slogged forward without looking left or right.

  The courtroom was full. Television, radio, the print media: all the stars were there. Yet the defendant’s life was not at stake, only his American citizenship. The prosecutor was trying to prove that the former SS man lied when he applied for a visa. If the defendant was worried, he didn’t show it. His immediate problem was to dodge cameras and blinding flashbulbs.

  An order rang out. The spectators rose. Judge Hoffberger warned the public to keep order and to refrain from emotional outbursts. Anyone disturbing the proceedings would be immediately ejected.

  Sitting bolt upright and motionless, Elhanan listened intently. His eyes never left the defendant, a bald, puny specimen in an oversize gray suit. A twitch twisted his lips. His gaze was furtive, his hands nervous.

  “He doesn’t look like one,” Malkiel whispered to his father.

  “One what?”

  “Murderer. Or rather monster.”

  There followed an exchange between prosecutor and defense attorney bearing on the identity of the defendant, who, upon arriving in the United States, had changed his name and falsified his age. The defense attorney claimed such alterations were common practice here. The prosecutor did not deny that, but …

  The parade of witnesses began. The defendant watched them out of the corner of his eye. His lips tight and his eyelids drooping, he listened for flaws in their testimony. Often he pulled his attorney’s sleeve and whispered into his ear.

  PROSECUTOR: Your name, address and profession?

  WITNESS: Jacob. Jacob Neimann. Butcher. Kosher butcher, course. Sixteenth Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, Brooklyn.

  PROSECUTOR: Place of birth?

  WITNESS: Romania.

  PROSECUTOR: Where in Romania?

  WITNESS: In a small town that reverted to Hungary in 1941. Feherfalu. The white village.

  PROSECUTOR: How long did you live there?

  WITNESS: Until the end.

  PROSECUTOR: Until the end of what?

  WITNESS: Until the deportation.

  PROSECUTOR: And when was that?

  WITNESS: In May 1944.

  PROSECUTOR: Do you remember the exact date?

  WITNESS: May 17.

  PROSECUTOR: And where were you on May 17?

  WITNESS: In the ghetto.

  PROSECUTOR: How long had you been in the ghetto?

  WITNESS: Since Passover. They drove us into the ghetto a week after Passover.

  PROSECUTOR: Who are they?

  WITNESS: The Germans.

  PROSECUTOR: How many Germans were there?

  WITNESS: I don’t know.… Not many. After all, they had the Hungarian police to help them.

  PROSECUTOR: But who gave the order for the deportation? The Hungarian police or the Germans?

  WITNESS: The Germans, of course. They were the masters. The Hungarians only followed their orders.

  PROSECUTOR: Look at the defendant.

  WITNESS: I’m looking at him.

  PROSECUTOR: Do you recognize him?

  WITNESS: I recognize him.

  PROSECUTOR: Who is he?

  WITNESS: Captain Hans Hochmeier of the SS.

  PROSECUTOR: Are you sure of that?

  WITNESS: Absolutely.

  PROSECUTOR: You saw him in your town?

  WITNESS: I saw him more than once.

  PROSECUTOR: Under what circumstances?

  WITNESS: The night before the first transport left, he came to inspect the ghetto.

  PROSECUTOR: Was he alone?

  WITNESS: He was accompanied by several officers, SS and Hungarian.

  PROSECUTOR: And then?

  WITNESS: After that he came back every day. He always had a riding crop in his hand. He inspected the deportees gathering in the courtyard of the synagogue. Then he went down to see them off at the station.

  PROSECUTOR: He saw them off, and never spoke?

  WITNESS: Oh yes, he spoke. He ordered the Hungarian police to be harder on us. To be crueler. They made us lighten or empty our knapsacks. Then they herded us into the freight cars and slugged us as we went.

  PROSECUTOR: Are you sure it was because of him that the police were cruel?

  WITNESS: He gave the orders.

  PROSECUTOR: Was he himself cruel? I mean, did you yourself witness an act of brutality on his part?

  WITNESS: Yes. At the station, a Jewish doctor approached him to report serious worries—there were three sick people in the boxcar; they needed room.… The captain listened and then struck him. The doctor fell to the ground. The SS captain kicked him until the doctor couldn’t stand up and had to be carried onto the boxcar. The captain beat the men who were carrying him.

  PROSECUTOR: You witnessed this yourself?

  WITNESS: I was there. I was on the last transport. I saw it all.

  Reporters were scribbling notes, the audience was holding its breath. The judge, somewhat remote, gazed upon prosecutor and witness in turn but seemed unaware of the audience. Elhanan had never felt more present, or more absent. His face hardened when the defense attorney cross-examined the witness; it betrayed pain and anger at the same time.

  DEFENSE: Mr. Neimann, you seem to have a good memory. Am I right?

  WITNESS: I believe I’ve always had a good memory.

  DEFENSE: I congratulate you. If only all witnesses were as gifted as you … In this connection, May 17 remains vivid in your memory, does it not?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  DEFENSE: You rose early that day?

  WITNESS: At dawn. To say my prayers. Dress. Get ready to leave.

  DEFENSE: Your family also? Up early?

  WITNESS: The whole ghetto—or what was left of it—rose at dawn.

  DEFENSE: What day of the week was that?

  WITNESS: A Sunday. Yes, Sunday.

  DEFENSE: You’re sure of that?

  WITNESS: Yes … I think so.

  DEFENSE: Then you’re not positive.

  WITNESS: Yes, I’m sure.… I think.

  The lawyer broke off to consult his documents and, without raising his eyes, asked a deceptively casual question of the witness.

  DEFENSE: What was the name of this SS captain in your village?

  WITNESS: I told you before. Hans Hochmeier.

  DEFENSE: You’re sure?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  DEFENSE: Absolutely?

  WITNESS: Yes … yes.

  DEFENSE: Not Rauchmeier?

  WITNESS: N-no. Hochmeier.

  DEFENSE: How do you spell that?

  WITNESS: Just like it’s pronounced.

  DEFENSE: With an i or a y?

  WITNESS: With an i, I think.

  DEFENSE: But you’re not sure?

  WITNESS: Yes … yes.

  DEFENSE: I see that you hesitate. Perhaps you remember the defendant’s rank more clearly?

  WITNESS: I told you that before, too. A captain in the SS.

  DEFENSE: But the SS was formal and exact about its rank: Scharführer? Sturmbannführer? Hauptsturmführer?

  WITNESS: I don’t know.… In the ghetto we called hi
m captain.

  DEFENSE: Ah, I see.

  Another pause.

  DEFENSE: So you saw the defendant in the courtyard of the synagogue and after at the station, is that right?

  WITNESS: Yes.

  DEFENSE: If you don’t mind, Mr. Neimann, recall for us the color of his uniform that day. Was it light gray? Dark gray?

  WITNESS: I think … dark gray.

  DEFENSE: And was his holster on his left side or his right side?

  WITNESS: The right side … I think.…

  DEFENSE: Was the belt of his jacket tight or loose?

  WITNESS: Tight. All the SS wore their belts—

  The witness interrupted himself, embarrassed. He turned to the judge, then to the prosecutor, his eyes begging them for help. Then he shrugged, exhausted, beaten. He wept.

  DEFENSE: That’s all, as far as I’m concerned. I have no further questions for this witness.

  A smirking defendant shook his head.

  During the recess, Elhanan told his son he wanted to go home. Elhanan was sweating. He headed for the exit. Malkiel went out with him. Outside, whipped by an icy wind, Elhanan raged: “Did you see that? Did you see that bastard humiliate that survivor? Did you see the defendant snigger? That poor Neimann’s memory is a graveyard, the biggest in the world, and the defense attorney wants him to remember the color of a uniform!”

  “It’s to be expected, Father.”

  “Details, details! How can we remember them all? Major events, and everyday incidents? What remains of the life of Moses and David is a few moments, a few words. And the rest? Has all the rest just disappeared?”

  Next morning Elhanan called Tamar at the newspaper. “I wanted to thank you for your piece this morning.”

  She had written it in the first person and called it “The Tears of Memory.”

  Malkiel loved his work. He threw all his talent and energy into it. Every day he felt like thanking God for his job on the Times. He liked his colleagues, the secretaries, the errand boys; the moment he stepped into the editorial offices he perked up. The irregular hum of the teletype machines, the constant shrill of telephones, the word processors lined up on desks like an army awaiting the signal to move out: Malkiel would not change places with the most exalted prince on earth.

  He had never followed any other calling. As a student at Columbia, he had applied for a job at the Times, which took him on as campus stringer. Luck smiled upon him: it was the year of the student demonstrations. Malkiel phoned in his stories three or four times a week, then every day. They won him his boss’s friendship, his fellow students’ admiration, and the anger of the administration. And what was bound to happen happened: he devoted more time to his reporting than to his literary studies. His father seemed unhappy about that, but Malkiel reassured him. “Why do we study? To prepare ourselves for a good job, right? Well, I already have one.” Just the same, he promised to complete his degree before going to work full time. “Is that better?” Yes, that was better. Not best, but better. “What’s still bothering you?” Malkiel’s father seemed worried. Malkiel was used to his father’s anxieties. He knew how to deal with them. But when he seemed sad, Malkiel felt helpless. And he was sad now, Malkiel’s father was: He was no doubt thinking about the woman he had loved: If she had lived, she would have been proud of her son.

  Malkiel lowered his voice: “Are you thinking of Mother?”

  “I’m always thinking of your mother.”

  “Is that why you’re so sad?”

  “You’re why I am sad, too.”

  “What have I done?”

  “Nothing; nothing bad. On the contrary, you’ve justified all the hopes we had for you. It’s just that … I wonder if a good journalist can in the end be a good Jew.” For Malkiel’s father, being a good Jew was at least as important as getting a good job.

  Malkiel was aware of that. “Don’t worry,” he said. “In the old days all reporters were cynics; but no more. Trust me. I won’t let you down.”

  The day came when he was awarded a diploma. Father and son sat on a bench on the banks of the Hudson. It was a beautiful evening in June. All around them students were popping corks out of champagne bottles. “Long live life!” they shouted. The students hugged and kissed. “Live it up!” “Aren’t you going to join them?” Elhanan asked. Malkiel replied that he had no desire to. Elhanan tilted his head back and stared up at the starry sky: “I’m proud of you, Malkiel.” He could not conceal his emotion.

  Next day Malkiel started work at the newspaper. The atmosphere was invigorating. A newspaper was society’s nerve center; its problems, upheavals and aspirations were refracted through it as through great theater. A play two hours long could cover thirty years of existence; so thirty pages of a newspaper contained thousands of events, which could fill a hundred volumes. And then a newspaper was a brotherhood, too. Despite intrigues and feuds, camaraderie on a newspaper was unlike anything else. Anyone’s success was a credit to all. Any victory over injustice, won by reportage or an editorial, justified pride in the whole team. A newspaper was a living organism, pulsating with affection, determined to accept only truth. Of course there was often a gap between the ideal and reality. There were compromises, deals, someone was always passing the buck; all that was normal. But your eyes—at least at the beginning—were on the heights, even if they were unattainable. Even if you had to begin the climb again every day.

  It wasn’t going so well this evening.

  Malkiel was working on a story from the Buenos Aires correspondent but couldn’t seem to concentrate. His boss had praised him often for his powers of concentration: Malkiel listened well, read quickly and understood even more quickly. When an editor was in a hurry, he called on Malkiel.

  But this evening it wasn’t the same Malkiel. He was trying to recall: what time did he see Dr. Pasternak? At eleven in the morning? Not earlier? He had known for only nine hours? Borne the weight of this curse for only nine hours?

  Dr. Pasternak was treating Elhanan. Casually dressed, with a loosely knotted tie and horn-rimmed glasses. In his sixties. A hard, clipped voice: “Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Rosenbaum.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  A routine question, but deep down Malkiel knew it was bad news about his father. He could not admit it to himself, but he was afraid the doctor would say, “Your father is sick. He has cancer.”

  “Your father is sick,” said Dr. Pasternak, his hands clasped demurely before him on the desk.

  “Is it serious?”

  “Very.”

  “Cancer?”

  “No,” said Dr. Pasternak.

  Thank God, Malkiel thought. If it isn’t cancer it can’t be too serious.

  “It’s actually worse than cancer,” the doctor went on.

  Impossible, Malkiel thought; I must have misunderstood. What could be worse than cancer? “I don’t understand,” he said in a changed voice.

  “Cancer is not always incurable. Your father’s sickness is.”

  “I don’t understand,” Malkiel repeated. His heart was pounding, bursting. A migraine had struck again. Nausea rose in his throat.

  “What we have here is an extreme case of amnesia,” said Dr. Pasternak. “Elhanan Rosenbaum has a sick memory; it is dying. Nothing can save it.”

  Malkiel was drenched in sweat. He groped vainly for a handkerchief.

  “Doctor, may I use your washroom?”

  “The door to the left, behind you.”

  He washed his face, took a few gulps of water, breathed deeply to overcome the nausea. In the mirror, a face pale and gloomy announced an approaching misfortune.

  “Forgive me, Doctor.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Rosenbaum. Perhaps I should apologize. I should have given you the news less brutally.”

  “Go on, please.”

  Dr. Pasternak explained that the nervous system was annihilating itself. Symptoms of senility, and even dementia. A loss of orientation. Of identity. An inexorable process that might
take months or years: it was impossible to predict. And even more impossible to slow down. The doctor inspected his hands, his nails. Perhaps he was embarrassed; had he not just confessed his impotence? As for Malkiel, he was living through a scene outside reality. It is not true, it cannot be true, he decided. It can happen to anyone? Yes, but my father is not just anyone. “What are we going to do? What can we do?”

  “Do?”

  “I mean, about my father. Are we going to tell him?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  Malkiel did not understand. Did his father already know? And had he said nothing? Once more he remained alone with his secret.

  “Your father is a very intelligent man,” Dr. Pasternak said. “For some weeks now he’s suspected what was happening. He came to see me, which was natural. I spoke frankly to him. I respect him too much to deceive him.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  Yesterday afternoon? Malkiel reproached himself: Why didn’t I go to see him then?

  Tamar was standing at his desk, feverish, impatient. “What’s the matter with you, Malkiel? Are you sick? Good God, you look shattered.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’ve been standing here—you haven’t even noticed me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Malkiel said. “I’m hot.” He found his handkerchief, wiped his forehead and the back of his neck. “I’m almost finished. Do you want me to read your piece?”

  “No; there’s no hurry. Come on. I need some coffee.”

  Unsteadily he followed her to the cafeteria. Their friends were swapping newspaper jokes and political gossip.

  “I’m worried about you. You look like it’s the end of the world. What’s wrong?”

  Lie to her? “It’s my father. He’s a sick man. Very sick.”

  She wanted to say “Cancer?” but asked, “His heart?”

  “Worse,” Malkiel said. He repeated his conversation with Dr. Pasternak. Tamar listened in silence, her eyes filling with dread. Malkiel tried to compose himself. “Let’s go upstairs. We have work to do,” he said.

  They rose, and Tamar took his hand. “Don’t let this change anything between us.” And after a pause, “Do you hear me? Don’t. Your father isn’t my father, but I, too, am struck by his misfortune; I, too, am pained by it. I need you more now than before. Promise me you’ll try?”