The Forgotten

by Elie Wiesel

  The rabbi asked him most gently, “Is it piku’ah-nefesh? Is it a matter of life and death? If so, you may continue; if not …” The rabbi went back to his seat. After a long silence the speaker stepped backward down the steps of the bimah and went to sit at the rear of the room.

  When the Sabbath was over, Reb Haskel was called to the rabbi’s house. The two men remained sequestered until dawn. They went to the ritual bath together, and to the morning service, and took a glass of tea together and plunged into their studies until evening. Next morning the itinerant preacher left town.

  He reappeared three or four years later. He was unrecognizable, like a beggar or penitent. He no longer wished to preach in the synagogue; in fact, he no longer wished to speak at all. What had changed him? They said that in distant communities he had spent his time trying to tell all that he had seen and lived through, to people who refused to listen. He called out to them in the synagogue, in the marketplace, in their homes. “Do not turn away from me,” he cried. “Your lives and the lives of your children depend upon it.” They were all happy to hear him discourse on the Bible and the commentaries, but as soon as he touched upon the present, they turned a deaf ear. They pitied him, they avoided him, they took him for a madman. Did he choose silence, or was it imposed upon him?

  Elhanan had loved this man.

  Today he loved him even more.

  In August the labor battalion of Hungarian Jews left Stanislav for the Russian front, where Major Bartoldy’s division was committed to battle as part of the German formation.

  How many times did Elhanan try to return to his hometown? His companion Itzik the Long moved heaven and earth to dig up a smuggler somewhere to cross the border illegally, but it was no use. They were too close to the frontier, and the whole region was under tight German surveillance. To be stopped meant arrest and death.

  “Be patient,” Itzik said. “Stay with us. The battalion moves around a lot. Sooner or later we’ll wind up in your town.”

  When word of their departure for the front came through, they greeted it with a sort of skeptical confidence. “Who knows? Maybe God has heard our prayers.”

  No. The battalion did not return to Hungary. It crossed Poland as far as the Ukraine, and went on toward White Russia. Berdichev, Zhitomir, Rovno, Kiev, Minsk: rubble and ruins everywhere. Terror and hatred sown by the invader. Why did Elhanan whimper so often at night? Because he was ever farther from his parents? Or because the names of these places roused warm and melancholy yearnings? Berdichev he knew. In his memory Berdichev was the famous Rabbi Levi-Yitzhak of Berdichev, celebrated for the exalted love he bore his people. The Defender of Israel is what they called him, and the title suited him. He never hesitated to lodge a complaint with the Creator of the Universe, to force Him to come to the aid of his unfortunate children. Where are you now, Rabbi? Elhanan asked. Since you are up there in heaven, do something! Look at your city: where are the Jews hiding? Elhanan looked for them. They had disappeared. In Oman, too, he sought them. Disappeared. Swallowed up.

  “So stop praying,” said Itzik. “What good does all this lamentation do you?”

  “Oman,” Elhanan answered. “You don’t know Oman. For me Oman is Rabbi Nahman, Hasidism’s incomparable storyteller. His grave is here. I’d give anything to visit it.” His wish was granted. The battalion spent a night in Oman, and Elhanan persuaded Itzik to come to the cemetery with him. They were not alone. The whole battalion gathered there to chant psalms and Kaddish. “You, Rabbi, who love stories, hear our own, the story we are living.”

  The battalion celebrated Rosh Hashanah in Kiev. Miracle of miracles: the major allowed the Jewish laborers to observe their holidays. Yes indeed, while the Germans were systematically massacring the Russian Jews, a few hundred Jews in Hungarian uniforms were living, working and praying as Jews. During services they were surprised to see three men join them. “We live in hiding in the forest,” they said. “They told us that Jews were celebrating the holiday, so we took a chance and came to mingle our prayers with yours.” After the service, they described the death of Kiev’s Jews. Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the year before, the Germans assassinated ten thousand Jews a day in the ravine at Babi Yar. “It’s the same everywhere,” they said. “Borisov, Smolensk, Vinnitsa, Poltava, Dnepropetrovsk—the German angel of death swooped down on all these communities. And others. If it keeps up this way, there won’t be a Jew left under the sun.” Huddled and incredulous, the Jewish laborers listened, frozen in disbelief. This is only a nightmare, they told themselves. The world has not gone mad. Elhanan said to Itzik, “It’s crazy. All the Jews dead, and we’re still alive. It’s crazy.” The three visitors from Kiev left them at nightfall. “If you come back this way, we’ll see you again.” “God keep you, Jewish brothers.” “You too.”

  Few of the laborers slept that night. Lying on cots or straw pallets, they whispered their fears to one another. Should they believe this or not? No one doubted that the Germans were killing Jews. There had been massacres; that was certain. But Elhanan and Itzik could not believe that this criminal enterprise had attained such a degree of perfection. “You don’t kill hundreds of thousands of men, women and children just like that,” Itzik said, “without the earth itself trembling.”

  “But those three Jews—”

  “On one side you have three Jews. On the other side you have common sense. Which are you going to believe?”

  All the laborers joined the debate. “Itzik,” Elhanan said, “when I reach home they’ll ask me about all this. What shall I tell them?”

  Itzik thought it over for a while before answering. “Tell them we chanted psalms in Oman.”

  “And?”

  “We celebrated Rosh Hashanah in Kiev.”

  “And?”

  “Tell them that … that if we had to weep for all the dead, the world would drown in our tears.”

  Should he speak of the sadness that never left him? The anger that welled up inside him, at once clear and dark, ready to pour over a powerful and evil people which had placed itself at the service of Death? How could he find the words for it? And who would listen to him? Who would believe him?

  Behind the front lines the Jewish labor battalion was never in real danger. Elhanan and Itzik, inseparable, were attached to the Quartermaster Corps, chopping wood and repairing the officers’ uniforms and vehicles. Elhanan escaped the hardest work because he was so young. In winter he worked in the kitchens. That did not protect him from a severe case of flu. Bedridden for ten days, he had a visit from Major Bartoldy. “I’m going back to your hometown,” the major said. “I’d like to take you with me, but it’s a long way and too risky. Is there a message for your parents?”

  Despite his fever Elhanan filled a sheet of paper: he was doing well, there was no need to worry, he hoped to be home soon and would never leave again. The major returned two weeks later and delivered a package of food, some warm clothes and a letter. “We pray to God to bring you home quickly. The house is empty without you. Life goes on here.… I hope,” his father wrote, “that you are not forgetting to wear your tefillin every morning.”

  After Stalingrad the front contracted inexorably. Now the Jewish battalion was ahead of the Hungarian army. The latter, hounded by the Russians, suffered serious losses. “You see?” Itzik said. “We’re going home.” They retraced their route, passing through the same towns, the same villages. But now these places were in ruins. They found families in mourning and orphans with numb expressions. In Oman the Jewish laborers again visited Rabbi Nahman’s tomb. A peasant told them that men came there every night and had been heard praying. In Kiev they stopped for two days, hoping to find the three escaped Jews. Itzik and Elhanan combed the desolate city from end to end; not a Jewish face in sight. Not a Jewish voice in the whole area. Killed, the last Jew in Kiev. In their bivouac at night the Jewish laborers were reunited with their three local friends. “The Germans are on the run,” they said, laughing strangely. “How sweet it is to see th
em go! Their days of pride are over.” And their days of cruelty? “No, no, they’re just as vicious as before, maybe more so.” Elhanan wondered why these three survivors laughed so oddly. There was no joy in their laughter, no triumph, no satisfaction or pride. “It’s a laugh that comes from beyond happiness and sadness,” Itzik said. “From beyond faith and anger. It’s a laugh that only the dead could appreciate.” And their three visitors confirmed it: “That’s the truth, we’re not alive anymore; we saw too much and heard too much. That’s why we could take such risks. We’re partisans. We’ll have our revenge; not enough, but we’ll do our best.” The one who did the talking was called Volodia; the others laughed like him and with him but contributed only isolated words, half-sentences. Volodia was a strapping man with broad shoulders and strong hands. The second was called David, an avowed Communist and atheist; he was short and younger. Lev was the eldest of the three; he was secretive and sad. “How do you become a partisan?” Elhanan asked. “How do you become an avenger?” asked Itzik. “Come with us and we’ll show you,” Volodia said.

  The partisans left at dawn and promised to be back the next night. “We’ll take whoever wants to join us,” Volodia said.

  “What shall we do?” Elhanan asked Itzik. He could not hide his confusion, and Itzik was no less confused. In their battalion they were at least under the protection of the Hungarian army, but if they fled … The next night David appeared alone at the bivouac. “Where are your friends?” they asked him. “We had a little firefight with the Germans,” David told them. “Volodia’s dead. Lev’s badly wounded.” Elhanan was stunned and cried out, “Volodia dead? He was so strong, so … so …” He had admired Volodia, was drawn to him, and could not imagine him dead. “Don’t weep for Volodia,” David said. “He died a hero’s death. He took a bunch of those killers with him.” A heavy silence set in. What were they to do now? Move out? “It’s not that easy,” David said. “The Germans have sealed off the whole area. We’ll have to wait for our moment.” Sure of his route, knowing every corner of the region, David left the bivouac alone to rendezvous with his fellow partisans. “We’ll meet again soon,” he said to Elhanan. “And when we do,” Itzik put in, “we’ll show the Germans what we’re made of.”

  The retreat continued. Germans, Italians, Hungarians, Romanians all evacuated forest after forest, region after region, harassed by intrepid partisans and pursued by implacable Russians. Despite cold and hunger, fatigue and anguish, Elhanan rejoiced to see the lords of bloody conquest in flight. They had invaded Russia singing, and now they were howling in anger, insulting the Italians and their mandolins, calling the Hungarians cowards and despising the Romanians for their poverty. The warriors were no longer so happy to be waging war.

  One day when the battalion was resting in a Ukrainian village, a German officer came out of nowhere and ordered ten men to follow him. Itzik the Long hurried to find the Hungarian officer who in the major’s absence assumed command. “I have two vehicles stuck in the mud,” said the German. “I need ten men to pull them out.”

  “My men are exhausted,” said the Hungarian officer.

  “This is an order.”

  “We’re the same rank. I don’t take orders from you.”

  Impassively the German pulled his revolver. “If you don’t follow orders from an officer of the Wehrmacht, I’ll shoot you down.”

  They glared, full of hate, awaiting some sign to start fighting. In the end the Hungarian yielded. “They’re only Jews. Take as many as you need.”

  The German put away his revolver and shook hands, all elegance, with his comrade in arms. “Were you ready to die for a bunch of Jews? I don’t understand you.”

  “Not at all,” said the Hungarian. “I was ready to die for a principle.”

  “But you see,” said the German, smiling, “I am ready to kill for a principle.”

  Of the ten laborers, only seven returned. The German officer had shot the others in cold blood. “You surely know,” he told the survivors, “that an officer of the Third Reich follows his Fuhrer’s lead: he keeps his promises.”

  These gratuitous murders made up Itzik’s mind. “The first chance we get, you hear me? The first chance we get, we take off. They’ll see how a Jew takes revenge.”

  A few weeks later, Major Bartoldy was blown to bits by a shell. The officer who replaced him, a young Nyilas, insolent and hateful, announced to the Jewish laborers that their “loafing” was over; he would personally see to it that not one of them left these snowy fields alive.

  It was a frigid November night. Ghosts drifted through the petrified forest. Better dressed than ordinary soldiers, who had only their patched uniforms, the Jewish laborers were ordered by their new major to take off their sweaters and warm underclothes: “There’s no justice,” he shouted.

  “Brave Hungarian soldiers defending their fatherland against a Bolshevik plague are freezing to death, and you good-for-nothing kikes think you’re at the winter Olympics.”

  Zelig, Maurice, Peter and a jovial weaver—Wolfe Neuman—came down with pneumonia and died quickly.

  “All right,” said Itzik. “Understood? Let’s be ready.”

  In early December the cold clamped down even harder. You couldn’t stick your nose outside. The battalion was paralyzed. The machinery froze. The living dug in like the dead. The front stabilized, but for how long? The Polish border was close but seemed as inaccessible as the Holy Land. Where would they find partisans? If God willed it, anything was possible. God willed it.

  And it was David who served as messenger—David, the survivor of the three friends. The Communist, the atheist. In the dead of night he showed up at the bivouac. Parka, fur jacket, fur-lined boots: he looked like a wild animal, though friendly and mischievous. He pulled out a bottle of vodka, which he passed around. “Tell us everything, David!”

  “It’s been a while since—”

  “Where have you been? Tell us.”

  He was glad to tell them. The partisans had followed the battalion. Their tactics were to stay mobile and keep ahead of the front, mounting sabotage operations in the enemy’s rear so as to hold up reinforcements. “We’re not far from here, men,” he said. “So don’t be foolish. Come fight alongside us. Tomorrow will be too late. Jump aboard before the train pulls out.”

  It was four in the morning. With no warning the anti-Semitic major barged into the tent. “What the hell is this?” he roared. “A midnight meeting? A plot? An insurrection? I’ll teach you how to live. I’m going—”

  He wasn’t going anywhere; or rather he went a long way, as far as death itself. David smashed the major’s skull with one blow of the bottle. Terror spread across the Jewish faces. A mutiny meant the firing squad.

  “Good riddance,” the young partisan said. “Now there’s no turning back. Strip him. Take his boots. I’ll take his pistol.”

  Someone felt that the dead man was entitled to a moment’s pity.

  David feigned agreement: “You’re right. The poor son of a bitch may freeze to death.”

  Some fifty of them escaped. Two partisans were waiting about ten minutes outside of camp. David questioned them briefly. “No problems?”

  “None.”

  An hour or two later, they reached the partisan camp, where Elhanan discovered whole Jewish families, children too.

  “Surprised?” David laughed. “You think only grown men make partisans? Everybody’s welcome here. Even children. If you only knew how daring Jewish children can be.”

  A new life began for Elhanan Rosenbaum. Instantly adopted by the otriad, the Hungarian-Jewish laborers were quickly integrated. Still inseparable, Itzik and Elhanan were assigned to a unit that attacked German convoys. A week after they arrived, they had already liberated one machine gun and one pistol from the enemy. David offered public congratulations: “Well done, you two. Elhanan, now we know what a Talmudic scholar can do.”

  A young woman from Kharkov, her hair hidden by a fur hat, kissed him on the mouth. Her face glow
ed with beauty and warmth. To Elhanan she was the woman he had never encountered. “Listen, young man,” she said. “You look shy and brave to me. If you want, I’ll take care of you.”

  “What do you mean?” Elhanan stammered.

  “Don’t you feel lonely here?”

  “No. I have Itzik. He’s my best friend.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  Partisans started to needle him gently. “She doesn’t bite. What are you scared of?”

  “Leave him alone,” she said.

  When the others had gone off, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Vitka. My name is Vitka.” She was a widow. Her husband and two children had been killed.

  “You were married young,” Elhanan said, to show that he was not as shy as she thought.

  “Go on,” she said. “I love flattery.”

  Elhanan coughed, and hesitated, and then decided. “I would like to be with you,” he said, not looking at her. “On one condition: don’t try to separate me from my friend.”

  “I promise.”

  So they formed a team with Itzik the Avenger, as people called him from then on. He wasn’t interested in demolishing tanks with Molotov cocktails. What he liked to do was kill Germans. “If they’re so fond of Death, let them marry it.”

  Of course Elhanan was in love with Vitka. Of course he didn’t dare show it. Of course everybody knew it.

  “Go love her,” Itzik said. “She loves you, too, believe me. I know all about love. If you let her slip away, watch out, some other man won’t be so slow!”

  “Who?”

  “Me.” Itzik laughed.

  “I don’t believe you,” Elhanan said.

  After all, wasn’t friendship stronger than love?

  In a little Ukrainian hamlet the otriad was assaulted by a band of urchins. Emaciated, ravenous, they had no strength left to beg; they only stared. But such suffering shadowed their eyes that Itzik and Elhanan gave out all the bread they had. “Who are you?”