by Elie Wiesel
“Because something in us is stronger than the enemy and tries to be stronger than Death itself.”
“I hope so.”
But I was far from sure.
MY PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS, simple, honest farmers, lived in Kamenetz-Bokrotay, a village near Davarowsk. They were proud of their son and yet his success frightened them: would it not turn his head and empty his heart? Already his visits were becoming fewer; could he be ashamed of their poverty? The problem was time, he said, there was not enough of it. The curse of success, the price of triumph: no chance to enjoy it. In truth, he seemed depressed, troubled by unspoken worries. What good was praying for him to win his battles if they made him unhappy? They went on praying anyway, my grandparents; they prayed for the continued ascent of their son’s star, and never mind the envious.
My father had come to announce his decision to get married, but he had not brought his fiancée. “Her name is Rachel.” First lie; her name was Regina. “Are you sure she is for you? That she was meant for you? We so would have liked to choose a wife worthy of you.” In their world it was indeed a choice traditionally made by the parents. That was only the first blow. Others followed: my father did not consult them either about the date or the place of the wedding. And he did nothing to bring the future in-laws together. “But who are they?” “Important people.” “Are they good people?” “Yes.” “Observant Jews?” “They are Jews.” Never mind, thought my paternal grandparents, as long as their son was happy.… “Are you happy, Reuven?” He was, or at least he said he was. If only he could serve as bridge between two worlds, between two families so far removed one from the other. He imagined an impossible, improbable conversation between his father and his mother-in-law. No, better not to think about it. “We shall overcome the obstacles, won’t we, Regina?” “What obstacles?” “I told my parents that your name is Rachel.” “Why did you lie?” “I didn’t want to hurt them.” “What fault could they find with Regina?”
They had met at the university. Both knew discrimination as members of a minority; they spoke, they went out, they loved. Regina’s parents opposed the marriage: they would have preferred a wealthier boy but, most of all, one who was less Jewish, meaning one whose family was less embarrassing. Regina was stubborn and pleaded her cause. Reuven was brilliant and he did the rest.
On the appointed day, shortly before the ceremony, my grandfather took his son aside:
“May I speak to you a few minutes?”
“Today? Now?”
“Now.”
“Is it so urgent?”
“It may be my only, my last chance.”
My father shrugged in resignation as if to say: all right, if you must.
“Listen, my son. You are entering a world which is not mine, one that makes me feel like an intruder. I say to myself: it doesn’t matter, he will be happy, he will be happy without me. But I do have a request, my son: don’t seek your happiness too far away from us; your mother and I could not bear it. Look: where are your aunts, your uncles, your cousins? Look at us: we are having a celebration—and our closest kin are absent! That signifies something, son, tell me what? I am not educated enough to understand it all: explain it to me.”
As he talked, my grandfather had touched his son’s shoulder, then his hand rose to his face to stroke it one last time.
“Explain.… You cannot? You’ll tell me: there are things that cannot be explained? Like love? And happiness? Maybe. You probably know better than I. Still, there is something else: not a question just a prayer: try to remain Jewish. I’m not asking you to grow a beard or to obey the 613 commandments of the Holy Law; I only ask you to remain within that Law. Remember that, Reuven. Remember that, remember us most of all when you’re far away from us.”
My father never forgot.
As a child and even as an adolescent, I accompanied my father to his place of work in Manhattan: a neighborhood public library, part of the municipal network whose main branch is not far from Times Square. There I would leaf through various illustrated volumes of geography or science fiction, moving from century to century and from personality to personality. I loved those books. To show my gratitude I helped my father by dusting them.
One day I witnessed an extraordinary scene: a burly, purposeful-looking man walked up to my father and shouted:
“Reuven!”
“Shshsh!”
“Reuven! For God’s sake, this is not a cemetery! I’ve just found you again, I’m happy and you say shshsh?”
“If you don’t lower your voice, they’ll fire me.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll work for me.”
My father closed the file he was studying and motioned me over.
“I’m going out for a few minutes; wait for me.”
“Is that your son?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you?”
I couldn’t understand why this casual exchange troubled me. I looked the visitor over. Everything about him was oversized: the shoulders, the chin, the mouth and even his gestures.
“I don’t want to stay alone,” I said.
“But you won’t be alone.”
“Yes. Without you, I’m alone.”
“Let him come along,” said the visitor.
He gave me his hand; it felt powerful and warm.
“My name is Bontchek. Your father and I are old friends. We haven’t seen each other in years and years, isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
They exuded such a feeling of intimacy that it made me feel superfluous; I followed them, staying a few steps behind. And yet how I would have loved to hear what they were saying. Here and there I overheard a few words: “Do you remember the meeting when …” “And the day that idiot of a …” How could I ever piece it all together? Bontchek did it for me. I saw him often. He came to visit us. He knew Simha-the-Dark. But for reasons I didn’t understand yet, he did not attend the monthly reunions. He always appeared unannounced, taking me to the Yiddish Theater in which he invested heavily, or to concerts of liturgical music. He gave me candy and books and spoke to me of many things: of prewar Davarowsk, the vanished Jewish province, of summer gardens and winter mountains. With his descriptions he brought to life for me an entire society with its heroes and villains, its giants and its dwarfs. It was he who described to me, in detail, my parents’ wedding.
And what followed.
The war: the separation. That’s what war is above all else: separation. Couples that come apart, vows that are undone. You shall love me till death do us part? Of course, I shall love you till death do us part. You’ll be careful? Of course, I’ll be careful. The train leaves the station and all at once you are swept up in a new rhythm. Nothing is as before: you must please the corporal, learn the art of orienting yourself in the dark, it is all a question of survival.
Reuven Tamiroff is drafted and leaves to join the army. There he volunteers for the front lines, determined to be a hero. Rarely tired, never at rest. At first, his fellow officers make fun of him: “Really, this son of rabbis is trying to give us lessons in patriotism!” Then their mockery turns into grudging acceptance: “Never mind his motives, fact is: he’s not a coward, not like the rest of them.” In the end, one or two of them offer him their friendship.
The Polish army is waging a valiant battle, sacrificing the elite of its troops and cavalry, but it is behind by a war or two: the invader crushes it with its weight of steel. Cities and fortresses are falling one after the other; everywhere there is retreat; everywhere there is defeat, sorrow, sadness, humiliation.
One month of captivity. Anxiety. Escape. Reuven Tamiroff, two military medals in his backpack, returns to Davarowsk, races home, finds the apartment empty. Regina, where is Regina? He races on toward the villa: his in-laws seem unprepared for his miraculous return; they congratulate him on his bravery on the battlefield but do not invite him to sit down. As a matter of fact, he would do better to head straight for Bokrotay,
to his parents: that is where Regina is.
Head for Bokrotay? Not easy. The occupying forces have confiscated every automobile and every horse. Finally, Reuven does find a bicycle: one hour later, exhausted, he pushes open the door of the house where he was born. His mother is crying, his father is reciting a prayer. Regina, stunned at first, grabs him by the arm and drags him outside, into the garden: there they embrace with a passion that surprises them both.
“Why didn’t you stay at home?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of whom? For whom?”
“I was afraid.”
“You should have moved in with your parents.”
“I chose to come and live with yours.”
Regina explains. She is ashamed to explain but she cannot avoid it:
“It’s not nice, but I can’t help it; before the Germans arrived I suggested to my parents to invite yours, to offer them shelter. God knows the villa is large enough for all of us to be comfortable in it. My father looked at me as if I’d gone mad, as if I’d demanded he distribute his wealth to the poor, or decided to invite the butcher to lunch. ‘You’re losing your mind,’ he answered with his usual arrogance: ‘Can you see us associate with those people?’ ‘But they’re my family! They’re in danger!’ ‘You need rest,’ said my father. ‘Go and lie down; tomorrow you’ll feel better.’ And so I got angry. I left the villa slamming the doors. And here we are. A little walk never hurt anybody.”
My father is flustered, unable to express his feelings in words. He loves his wife more than ever; he loves her with a love that is physical but much more: thinking of her is as exciting as touching her.
“Be proud of your Rachel,” my grandfather tells him. “We are.”
And after a pause:
“In our tradition it is the woman who represents continuity; it is she who carries and projects the future of our people. And that is how it should be. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes. I agree.”
A memory: wrapped in a heavy shawl, my father is working, I look at him, I observe him as he scribbles notations in the margins of his favorite book and I am moved. Suddenly, inexplicably, I feel like teasing him:
“You rediscovered him, you retranslated him, fine. But you no longer teach ancient literature! You’re no longer in Davarowsk! Admit that it’s funny: you live in Brooklyn, the Hasidic center of the universe, and you continue to regard Paritus as a guide, a Master!”
My remarks were not malicious. But my father looks troubled.
“All ideas reflect the same Idea, the same Idea of the Idea; every life testifies to the same Creator. You are free to synthesize them; more than that: you are free to live that synthesis. ‘Every point is a point of departure,’ said Paritus.”
“Why choose between two roads if they lead to the same destination?”
“You misunderstand my thought. I don’t like to leave, I don’t like to return. Yet I am returning.”
And, shyly, he adds:
“Just as your mother did.”
YOUR FATHER has changed,” Bontchek was telling me. “All of us have changed. First of all, we were younger. But there is something else: we lived a great and awesome adventure. Eternal salvation and damnation lived side by side in every one of us and particularly in your father. He was our leader, you didn’t know that, did you? Admit it: you didn’t know. And yet, son, it’s the truth. Your father, an expert in ancient texts, woke up one morning with a mandate from history to lead his people and spare it a death that modern science had perfected to a degree never before attained.
“I remember the first time I saw him in that role: we had been summoned by the military governor of Davarowsk, Richard Lander, whom we called the Angel, who wished to communicate to us his plans regarding the future—or lack of future—of the community. We were there, some twelve men, facing a high SS officer and we wondered whether we would see our families again. We knew that in a neighboring village they had recently assembled twenty-four Jewish notables for a so-called ‘work session’; their corpses had been returned to the community the following day against payment of one hundred thousand marks. On what basis had we been chosen? Nobody knew. I myself represented a youth movement. But there was also the director of the Jewish hospital. And the president of the community. And the representative of the American Joint Distribution Committee. And Rabbi Aharon-Asher. And, of course, your father. Did I say: of course? I meant to say the opposite. He was not active in the community, I don’t even know whether he was a member, I mean: a registered member. But he was known. A personality. Notwithstanding his age he had already achieved celebrity thanks to his work on an obscure Latin philosopher whose name escapes me now.
“Well, the officer delivered a speech that made us shiver: on behalf of the German occupation authorities, he was transmitting orders we were to carry out without discussion: any failure to do so would be punishable by our collective death. For, from that moment on, we had become a Jewish Council, a sort of autonomous governing body for the Jewish inhabitants of Davarowsk. One of us dared submit his resignation: it was, I think, the Joint Committee emissary. The governor, polite but cold, asked to be told his reason. ‘Because, sir, it is required by my official position. I do, after all, represent a foreign organization.’ ‘I see,’ said the officer calmly, ‘I see.’
“He did not pick up his revolver, he contented himself with glancing at it as though soliciting its advice: ‘Here,’ he said so quietly that we had to make an effort to hear him, ‘nobody resigns without my authorization. You do nothing without my authorization. In this place I decide whether you live or die. It is my prerogative to evaluate your logic, your reasoning, your hopes, your behavior, your desires, your jealousies, your anxieties, it is I and only I who will determine their intensity and their duration. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?’ The Joint emissary, relying on his affiliation with powerful America, was about to answer. I yanked his sleeve and may have saved his life. ‘Very well,’ said the governor. ‘Now we need a president.’ And since nobody moved, he continued: ‘No council can function without a president. So, who wishes to volunteer?’ Naturally, nobody raised a hand: we would have each preferred to die. We knew instinctively: a president who presides at the pleasure of the enemy, eventually tries to please the enemy. And none of us wished to sink that low.
“ ‘In that case,’ said the governor, ‘I shall make the decision: you,’ he said, pointing his finger in the direction of Rabbi Aharon-Asher. ‘You are a rabbi, you will know how to make yourself respected.’ A heavy silence fell on us. The SS officer was looking at the Rabbi but we were looking at the black revolver on the table, within his reach. The Rabbi would refuse, that was predictable. And his refusal would cost him, would cost us, dearly, our lives perhaps. If only I were not able to foresee the future, I thought angrily. If only I could muzzle my imagination. In my mind’s eye I visualized the scene about to unfold: the Rabbi would say ‘No,’ and the officer without losing his terrifying calm, would kill him on the spot, like that, standing up. Indeed, the Rabbi said ‘No,’ that is to say, he shook his head which was beautiful, radiating kindness and strength. ‘How dare you?’ said the officer. ‘I named you president and you have the audacity to decline this honor? Do you realize that through my person and my position you have just insulted the army of the Third Reich and its beloved Führer?’
“He still had not raised his voice. For me, that was a sign that he surely was a professional who would kill in cold blood, with efficiency and precision, without hate, I would even say: without passion. Didn’t the Rabbi understand that? Why didn’t he accept the order, even if it meant shedding the stupid presidency later? ‘I’d like to explain my refusal,’ he said, ‘but I do not speak German.’ The director of the Jewish hospital volunteered to translate from the Yiddish; the officer gave his silent consent. ‘The honorable governor says that I would know how to make myself respected. That is correct. But I have absolutely no need of another title to be respected. The one
I bear will do. I promise you to put it to good use. Having said that, I would like, with your permission, sir, to draw your attention to the following fact: in my capacity as Rabbi, I have authority over the religious Jews but not over the others. Therefore you need—forgive me; we need—somebody no segment of the community can object to.’ Strange, but the officer swallowed the argument. And that is how your father, the famous interpreter of the Latin philosopher with the name nobody could ever remember, was designated chief of his community.
“As he left the Town Hall transformed into Kommandantur, your father challenged the Rabbi rather rudely, but I understood him: ‘What you have done is not right, Rabbi,’ he said; ‘you extricated yourself knowing that in so doing, you were naming somebody else to your post. You did not have the courage to fulfill your duties, Rabbi, and that troubles me. I took you for an honest man, a man of integrity. I was wrong about you; you are seeking nothing but ease and comfort. You like others to do the dirty work for you so that you may devote yourself to God. I only hope that God will reject you, that He will not want a hypocrite of your kind!’ Oh, yes, he really let him have it, your father; we all stood there aghast. Pale but composed, the Rabbi did not turn his back on him nor did he interrupt; on the contrary, he listened till the end with a growing and painful intensity. Then he answered him: ‘I understand your disappointment, my young friend. You judge me and you are severe. Would you permit me to explain? I promise to be brief. To spare the community I would gladly have accepted the post. Believe me, I refused only because my being a rabbi would limit me in the exercise of those functions: I would be obliged to consult the books of Halakha from morning till night, for every small detail and, I know it already, we are about to live through singular times; we shall have to confront situations never conceived of in our books. Any one among us is better equipped than I am to fulfill the task, because he is not a rabbi, as you are not. But I shall help you, I promise solemnly: I shall remain at your side. To the end.’ He paused a moment as if to measure the words he had just pronounced.
