by Elie Wiesel
And yet. Generations later, I confess to doubts. Have I failed my commitment? I have written books, but, with a few exceptions, they deal with other things. As said earlier, I have written on diverse subjects mostly in order not to evoke the one that, for me, has the greatest meaning.
I have been trying for a long time to understand why.
Let us start with the superficial reasons. I worried that I might speak of it poorly or, worse, for the wrong reasons. I feared that I might use the theme rather than be its servant. I was afraid of temptations, disappointments. And so I was content to say that one could say nothing.
Like most survivors, I tried to invent reasons to live, and a new concept of man in this insane world, and a new language. It is a primary language whose only purpose is to describe all that eludes writing, to cry without opening our mouths, to speak to the dead since they can no longer speak to us.
In July 1995, I return to our town. For a few hours I speak to two young visitors who bear your name, Father. I show them their grandparents’ room. I stroll with them in the courtyard, in the little garden where Tsipouka liked to play. I can still see the sun’s rays making her hair glisten like gold. I see her and, as always when I think of her, my eyes fill with tears. I must hide my face, hide inside my face.
We halt in front of my Grandmother Nissel’s house. The window where long ago she waited for a small schoolboy on Fridays, to offer him a special roll, is closed. Seeing Tsipouka, she would smile. And my little sister would smile back. Right now I would so like to be able to speak of my grandmother with her black scarf on her head. And of the little girl with golden hair … but I cannot. My heart is pounding. Could I have returned to Sighet to die?
Here is the cemetery. Let us enter. Let us light a candle at the grave of Yetev Lev, one of the first Chief Rabbis of Sighet. May he intercede on your behalf.
How peaceful it is here. I plan to come back here one more time, with Hilda, Sidney, and his children.
And look, over there was the heder. My Masters. My friends. We must light candles for them as well. They have no graves.
And over there, across from us, the Borsher Rebbe’s Beit Hamidrash. It is a few minutes’ walk to the ritual baths; I went there every morning. The yeshiva was a little farther down, next to the Chief Rabbi’s house.
I want to say something to my two young companions, but I cannot, for the tears are choking me. They know and discreetly stay behind.
We pray together in the poor, dilapidated synagogue, the only one left. Seated on a bench facing the empty Holy Ark, we open a dusty book we found lying on a lectern and study the pages dealing with the laws of mourning. Will we be the last Jews in this place to immerse ourselves in the study of holy texts?
At the railroad station we remain silent for a long moment. It is here that Jewish life in Sighet came to an end, carried off by the train’s smoke.
Birkenau. How can I say to Elisha and Steve, Bea’s son, what nobody could say to me. Their silence becomes one with mine. There is nothing left to say. The ramp, the cries, the screams, the night, the last glimpse of Tsipouka—is she crying? What is she saying to her mother? And what is your grandmother’s answer? No doubt she is trying to reassure her. Don’t be afraid, little girl. No need to be afraid anymore.
Did I say it out loud to my two companions whom I love with all my soul? Ours is the tree of an old Jewish family whose roots touch those of Rashi and King David. And look: Its branches refuse to wither.
We are having trouble finding Auschwitz III, also known as Buna. The last trace of the camp has disappeared. All that is left is a small plaque. A priest points toward a group of houses and buildings: “There.” So close? Yes, the camp was that close. How does he know? He lives in the street that was next to it. From his window he could see everything. Everything? Yes, everything. The “roll calls”? Yes. The “exercises,” the punishments, and the hangings as well? And it didn’t prevent him from eating in the morning, sleeping at night? The priest shrugs his shoulders. I want to say something to my son and my nephew about what their grandfather endured a few steps away from here, but I say nothing.
It is the same in Buchenwald. The “big camp” has remained almost intact, like a museum. I ask our guide: Where is the “little camp”? He takes us to a forest: “Here.” There are many trees, underbrush. Yes, that is all that remains of the hell where the Jews evacuated from Auschwitz suffered and died. There is not even a plaque to guide the lost visitor.
I lean against a tree. I close my eyes and look for my father.
Images are surfacing, blurring my sight. The arrival at night. The screams. The freezing water. The huge, stifling barrack. My father. My sick father, humiliated before my eyes. His delirium. His pain. My father, dying. My father, dead.
Nature here is at peace, indifferent to the rain and snow. It is beautiful in the spring, gray in the autumn. The Angel of Death has gone without leaving a trace.
How does one fight against the will to erase it all? And why did God create obscurity? To hide from His creatures? Is that why Giordano Bruno said that light is God’s obscurity?
From all sides I am told to turn away from the past, to wager on the future. I am advised not to look back, to come out of there, to change key, to deal with other themes. Enough, I am told. You have done enough. Let others take over. Let them be the ones to be insulted. You have been hurt by the cowardly, vile insinuations, admit it. You are entitled to rest.
Should I listen to them, Father? Tell me.
IT IS YOU I WANT TO LISTEN TO since they refuse to hear you. Let them snicker; I shall speak nevertheless. As long as I can breathe, I shall say the words that belong only to you. “Open a door for us,” says a prayer in the Neilah service, before the end of Yom Kippur, “open a door for us at the hour when all the doors are closing, for twilight is upon us.” Twilight is approaching, and I know that soon it will clasp me into its mysterious folds. You will be there, and you will lead me to the others, all those I have known and loved. Grandfather Dodye and Grandmother Nissel. And mother. And Tsipouka. And Bea. And all the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the friends. I know that when I shall join your ranks, I will hear your voice at last.
As I write these words, I contemplate the photograph of my home; it is always before me, heavy and sealed under the weight of darkness. And yet I want to go back to Sighet one last time. To write the last pages.
I am not afraid of losing my way. Like Elhanan in The Forgotten, I am afraid of forgetting. I read, I reread what I have written, what others have written. And God in all that? I stumble on three poignant words in the Book of Lamentations—the prophet says to the Lord, “Haragta lo khamalta,” You killed, You had no pity. Earlier the prophet said to the Lord, “In Your anger, You hid and persecuted us.” Why, God? Why? I am afraid to know the answer. I am afraid not to. But above all, I tremble at the idea that my memory could become empty, that I could forget the reasons that have allowed me to set one word after the other.
I am afraid to know the end before I begin.
When shall I begin, Father?
I feel like singing, singing of happiness and serenity. I want to love, to laugh, to accompany the lonely on their road to nowhere. I want to pursue the work God started in the heart of man.
How am I to sing, Mother, how am I to sing the songs that your father, Grandfather Dodye, taught us on Rosh Hashana eve?
How can one still love in this life, when you, Tsipouka, my gentle sister whose future was stolen by the enemy, when you entered death so small, so frail, so innocent?
I still have so many questions to ask you, Father. So many doors to open, so many secrets to discover. Will I have the time?
From the other room, or is it the other side of night, a sweet voice breaks into my daydream: “Did you call me, Father?”
I answer: “Yes, my son. I called you.”
* One Generation After (New York: Random House), 1970.
Glossary
Aggadah Traditional Jewish l
iterature; commentaries, aphorisms, legends of the Talmud.
ahavat Israel Love for, devotion to, the Jewish people.
aliyah 1) “Ascent” toward Jerusalem, hence immigration to Israel; 2) the honor of being called up to read a section of the weekly portion of the Torah.
Amidah The principal daily prayer, recited standing and silently.
Aufruf The tradition in which a bridegroom is called to the Torah on the Shabbat preceding his wedding.
bar mitzvah The ceremony marking the assumption of adult religious responsibilities, at age thirteen.
Beit (Ha)midrash A house of study and prayer; a synagogue.
Besht Initials of Baal Shem Tov, the “Master of the Good Name,” founder of the Hasidic movement.
Bimah The raised platform used for the reading of the Torah.
B’nai B’rith A Jewish social and philanthropic organization.
chuppah At a wedding, the canopy under which the marriage ceremony is performed.
genizah A hiding place for sacred books and objects.
Haganah The well-known Jewish paramilitary self-defense organization in Palestine.
Halakhah The body of rabbinical law.
Halakhic Relating to Halakhah.
Hasid (Hasidim) Literally, “pious man.” A disciple of the movement founded by the Baal Shem Tov.
Havdalah The ceremony at the conclusion of Shabbat marking its separation from the rest of the week.
heder A religious elementary school; Hebrew school.
Irgun A Jewish nationalist underground organization which fought against the British occupation in Palestine.
Kaddish The prayer for the dead.
kipa A skullcap, or yarmulka, worn by Jewish males.
Kol Nidre The prayer opening the Yom Kippur evening service.
kosher Ritually pure, in accordance with dietary laws.
Marranos Spanish Jews who, though forced to convert to Catholicism, continued to practice Judaism clandestinely.
mezuzah A parchment containing passages from the Pentateuch that is rolled into a case and affixed to the doorpost as an expression of faith.
midrash A parable; a story that embodies and expresses moral teaching or a tenet of faith; also, a volume of midrashim.
Minha The afternoon service.
minyan A quorum of ten men required for a communal religious service.
Mishna The codification of the Oral Law based upon the laws and commandments of the Torah, and the basis in turn for the Gemara, or Talmud.
mitzvah A divine commandment.
Musaf The additional service following the main morning service on the Shabbat and holidays.
Neilah The concluding service of Yom Kippur.
Palmah An elite Haganah strike force whose members were recruited from kibbutzim.
Pesach Passover, the Jewish holiday celebrating the Exodus from Egypt.
Purim The holiday (marked by games, exchanges of gifts, and skits) commemorating the victory of the Jews of Persia over their enemy Haman.
Rosh Hashana The Jewish New Year.
rosh yeshiva The head of a rabbinical academy.
Seder The ritual meal on Passover, during which the story of the Exodus from Egypt is told.
Sefer Torah Sacred parchment scroll containing the books of the Pentateuch.
Shaharit The morning service.
Shavuot Pentecost; chiefly commemorates the Giving of the Law on Mount Sinai.
shivah The first period of mourning, which lasts seven days.
shofar The ram’s horn used in Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur services.
shtetl A Jewish village in Eastern Europe.
shtibel A Hasidic place of prayer.
shtreimel The wide-brimmed fur hat traditionally worn by Hasidim.
siddur A prayer book.
Simhat Torah The holiday celebrating the completion of the year-long reading of the Torah, and the renewal of the cycle of readings, beginning with Genesis.
Sukkot The Feast of Tabernacles.
tallit A ritual prayer shawl.
Talmud The vast collection of rabbinical teachings, laws, and commentaries based upon the Mishna (q.v.); also called the Gemara.
tefillin Phylacteries—two small leather boxes containing four passages from the Pentateuch; one is strapped to the left forearm and one to the forehead during weekday morning prayers.
Tisha b’Av The Ninth of Av, a day of fasting in memory of the destruction of the Temple, which according to tradition occurred on this date.
Torah The five Books of Moses, or Pentateuch; in the broader sense, the sum total of Jewish lore and learning, of which the Pentateuch is the foundation.
Tsahal The Israeli army.
Vidui A confession of sins.
Yad Vashem The Holocaust museum in Jerusalem.
yahrzeit The anniversary of the death of a parent.
yeshiva A talmudic academy.
(pl. yeshivot)
Yizkor A service in memory of the dead, recited on the three festivals of Sukkot, Pesach, and Shavuot, and on Yom Kippur.
Yom Kippur The Day of Atonement, the culmination of the Ten Days of Penitence which begin with Rosh Hashana, and the most sacred day in the Jewish year.
BOOKS BY ELIE WIESEL
Available from Schocken
And the Sea Is Never Full 0-8052-1029-6
All Rivers Run to the Sea 0-8052-1028-8
A Beggar in Jerusalem 0-8052-1052-0
The Fifth Son 0-8052-1083-0
The Forgotten 0-8052-1019-9
From the Kingdom of Memory 0-8052-1020-2
The Gates of the Forest 0-8052-1044-X
The Testament 0-8052-1115-2
The Town Beyond the Wall 0-8052-1045-8
The Trial of God 0-8052-1053-9
Twilight 0-8052-1058-X
Available from Vintage
A Jew Today 0-394-74057-2
With son Elisha and President Jimmy Carter at the first Day of Remembrance ceremony, April 24, 1979.
At a commemoration of Holocaust victims in the East Room of the White House with President Reagan, April 30, 1981.
Receiving François Mitterrand at the Wiesel home in New York, March 24, 1984. At left, Leonard Bernstein.
With Mikhail Gorbachev.
With wife Marion and Lech Walesa in Auschwitz, January 17, 1988.
With Marion and the Russian Jewish singer Nehama Lifschitz after her arrival in the West in 1970.
With Egil Aarvik, chairman of the Nobel committee. In background, Marion and Elisha. Oslo, December 10, 1986.
With a friend, Dr. Leo (Sjua) Eitinger, Oslo, 1987.
With the Dalai Lama (far left), 1991.
With President George Bush in the Oval Office, March 1991.
With Gordana Dukovic (Bosnia and Herzegovina) and Ronald Fox (U.S.A.) at the “Tomorrow’s Leaders Conference” in Venice, May 1995.
Discussing Bosnia with President Bill Clinton in the Oval Office, December 1995.
In class at Boston University, 1982.
With Yitzhak Rabin.
With a friend, Sigmund Strochlitz, April 1984.
With a friend, Joseph (Yossi) Ciechanover (far left), and Professor Saul Lieberman.
With Elisha (left) and nephew Steve in Paris, 1995.
Sister Hilda and her son Sidney, in the south of France.
Copyright © 1999 by Alfred A. Knopf
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Schocken Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in France as … et la mer n’est pas remplie by Editions du Seuil, Paris, in 1996. Copyright © 1996 by Editions du Seuil. Copyright © 1996 by Elirion Associates, Inc. This English translation was first published in the United States in hardcover by Alfred A.
Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1999
.
Schocken and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wiesel, Elie, 1928–
[Et la mer n’est pas remplie. English]
And the sea is never full : memoirs, 1969– / Elie Wiesel ; translated from the French by
Marion Wiesel.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76409-6
1. Wiesel, Elie, 1928– 2. Authors, French—20th century—Biography. 3. Jewish authors—Biography. 4. Jews—Politics and government—1948– 5. Holocaust survivors—Biography. 6. Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945)—Public opinion.
I. Wiesel, Marion. II. Title.
PQ2683.I32Z52313 2000 813′.54—dc21 [B] 00-030129
www.schocken.com
Credits for photo section: White House Press Office; Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity; Boston University. All other photos are from the personal collection of Elie and Marion Wiesel.
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