by Elie Wiesel
I personally find Bontchek’s tales fascinating. But my father rises to his feet and holds out his hand to his former comrade. “I am interrupting you, please forgive me. I am expecting someone. Will you come to see us again? I do hope so.” Stunned, Bontchek stands up and allows himself to be led, almost pushed to the door. He is gone before I can say good-bye to him. I am troubled: my father, discourteous? Rude to a companion from his youth? To a refugee? I don’t understand. I ask him to explain: “Why couldn’t he stay? Simha would have been pleased to see him again, I’m sure of it!” My father’s face is closed: “The subject Simha and I have been studying for years is not one I consider appropriate for an outsider.” His tone, as he says these words, is surprisingly harsh. Could there be an unresolved conflict between him and Bontchek? A latent animosity?
That evening after Simha’s arrival, my father takes from his pocket an article he has clipped from an Israeli daily; an eyewitness account of a confrontation between an Israeli intelligence officer and a captured Palestinian. Strangely, I remember it as though I had seen it on the stage.
In a narrow office, somewhere not far from Tel Aviv, three men are staring at each other: for them the moment of truth, as they say, has come; they must either cross the threshold or back away. In either case the risk is serious, irreversible. What means must they use to make the prisoner next door talk?
That is the nightmare of every honest policeman, as of every person of integrity: where lies the permissible limit of force? How far may one push violence before becoming dehumanized oneself?
The prisoner is Tallal, a twenty-two-year-old native of Jaffa, who was captured in Galilee. Outnumbered by the Israeli soldiers, he had surrendered immediately. He had no chance to escape and knew it. Arms above his head, he waited for his captors to come closer. He watched silently as they relieved him of his Kalashnikov, his grenades and his cartridges.
Brought to Military Intelligence headquarters, he is subjected to a routine interrogation: Where does he come from? Which camp? By what route, looking for what trail? Who are his accomplices? His local contacts? What exactly is his mission? The questions rain on him and he remains mute. A sergeant threatens him—to no effect. Another jostles him somewhat roughly. Tallal shrugs his shoulders and says nothing. Finally it is Ilan, wearing a uniform which does not reveal his high rank, who takes over:
“Listen to me, Tallal. My name is Ilan. I am an officer. It is my duty to fight you and to render you harmless. You and your comrades. Until now, none of them has resisted very long; do you intend to be the first? Is that it?”
Tallal is seated. His is an ascetic face covered with a several-day-old beard. He leans forward as if to see the officer better. They are alone. An ordinary desk separates them. Outside, night is withdrawing toward the sea.
“Come on, Tallal,” says Ilan. “What are you trying to do? Make an impression on me and my friends? Or on yours? Do you think you’re stronger and smarter than all of us? Why don’t you speak?
“You do know that if we want to, we can make you talk, don’t you? Sure you know. Every nation has its methods, we have ours. Believe me: you won’t hold out forty-eight hours.”
Ilan is playing with a pipe he has just pulled from an inside pocket; he stuffs it, stuffs it, he will never finish stuffing it, but he will not light it; he uses it to distract Tallal. There is something on the Palestinian’s mind. This is no ordinary terrorist. The secrets he carries probably have nothing to do with routine sabotage or intelligence operations; he seems too sure of himself, too confident of being able to resist torture.
“Make no mistake, Tallal. You won’t hold out forty-eight hours. Not even twenty-four. By the way, neither would I. I am human, vulnerable just like you. There is a suffering beyond endurance. Tallal: all of us would do anything to avoid it. And so it comes down to this: if we don’t want to die we talk. And since you will not die—we’ll see to that, I assure you—you will talk. That’s right, Tallal, you’ll talk, you’ll give in and you’ll sell us your comrades-in-arms, your friends, your brothers, and you will be right: I too would rather face death than torture. But …”
Ilan pauses to check whether his pipe is properly stuffed, and obliquely examines his prisoner. Tense, watchful, Ilan can almost hear the blood pulsating in the young Arab’s temples. He is surprised: he expected to discover relief, even hope on his face because of the “but.” Oddly, Tallal’s face shows only disappointment. Because he fears psychological torture more than physical pain? Because he suspects a trap? What is he hiding? In any event, Ilan sees a breach, one that needs to be widened.
“Don’t worry, Tallal, you shall not be tortured. Though I’ve found torture effective, I also find it repugnant. I don’t believe in it. It is my conviction that your weakness protects you. I can’t see myself torturing a defenseless man. Anyway, why should I? Whatever you know, I know too or will learn soon from other sources. I don’t care to dirty my hands, to lower myself in my own eyes. And so …”
He strikes a match and blows it out at once:
“Let me tell you what I plan to do with you: you’ll stay in prison, you’ll be brought to trial and—because you were armed—the military tribunal will condemn you to life imprisonment. Not so terrible. Tomorrow there will be peace between our countries. You will end up going home.”
Now Ilan is convinced: the thought, the prospect of not suffering worries the terrorist. Yet he does not appear stupid. Ilan doesn’t understand, but he hides his irritation. Then, he sees a shudder quick as lightning go through the prisoner. It lasts only a fraction of a second but Ilan notices. What is he so afraid of if it is not suffering? And suddenly, the answer is obvious: he wants to suffer. He has prepared himself for suffering, for torture, probably for death. The reason? Perhaps to set an example. To lengthen the list of Palestinian martyrs. To feed anti-Israeli propaganda. And also to force the Jewish adversary to practice torture, therefore, to betray himself, therefore, to choose inhumanity. For Ilan, it is a dilemma.…
My father is excited. As he puts down the article he keeps repeating: “For Ilan, it is a dilemma.” Why is his voice trembling as he asks his friend’s opinion? His elbows propped on the table, Simha mumbles his answer:
“I don’t see the dilemma. If Ilan thinks what he says, then Tallal’s silence represents no threat and he should not submit him to torture.”
“But how is one to know? How can one be sure? What if Tallal is more cunning than Ilan and it is all a ruse; what if he has an accomplice in prison, a plan, a strategy: in that case, would Ilan not be better off to use every means to make him confess?”
“Then … you are for torture?”
“No,” my father says firmly. “I am against. I am opposed to it in theory and in practice. Torture dehumanizes both torturer and victim.”
“But … you are not against capital punishment?”
“Yes I am. And so are you, Simha. What is the point of all our studies here if not to restate and confirm our opposition to the ultimate humiliation: death inflicted on man by his fellowman?”
“His fellowman? That’s going a bit far.”
“In the eyes of Death that is what all men are,” says my father. “The problem is the moment, frozen in time, that precedes Death and which represents man in his totality.”
Whereupon my father launches into a disquisition on morality and phenomenology, alternately quoting Parmenides and Heidegger, Hegel and Hüsserl: time and perception, language and names and their infinite connections illuminated by consciousness.… In the end Simha must interrupt him to bring him back to the subject:
“Nevertheless, Ilan is facing a dilemma: Tallal alive represents a definite danger; dead, a possible danger. Surely the state must assume its responsibilities: to disarm Tallal without killing him, to render him harmless without striking him. So far, there is nothing that cannot be resolved. But let me go on, let us imagine, if you will, since imagination is a component of torture, let us imagine that Tallal knows that a bomb will
explode the next day and cause the death of many human beings; let us imagine that Ilan knows that Tallal knows. A Tallal of superior intelligence determined to turn Ilan into a torturer could definitely force him into that position. What would Ilan do? If Tallal is permitted to remain silent, it spells disaster. How can one make him talk?”
“By setting traps for him,” says my father. “If Ilan is good, he will trick him into speaking; if he’s not, he should be replaced.”
“And what if tricks don’t work? What if there is not enough time? Intelligence, psychology, ruse require time, it could take hours, days. There is only one shortcut in this domain: torture.”
“I’m against it,” my father insists.
“What do you propose instead?”
“Ilan is the one who must propose something, not we.”
“You tell him to act, then you judge him, that’s too easy.”
My father almost chokes with indignation.
“That’s not true and you know it, Simha. I let him act and I judge myself.”
The discussion—stormy, absurd—continues until late into the night. Dazed with fatigue I force myself to keep my eyes open. Curiosity keeps me awake: what would I have done in Ilan’s place? In the morning, at breakfast, I ask my father how the evening ended.
“Nothing justifies torture,” he says.
A disturbing thought crosses my mind: what would I have done in Ilan’s place?
“What about death?”
“Nothing justifies death,” says my father.
I find myself in perfect agreement with him but I still cannot understand why Bontchek was not allowed to take part in the discussion.
ON THE EVE of the Jewish New Year I take the bus to Pokiato, a sleepy little town in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains. I have so much on my mind that I do not read the newspaper I bought at Grand Central Station. I have never taken this trip without anxiety. At the other end lies naked and unconscious pain.
My mother.
She lives in Pokiato. Anyway, she resides there. The clinic is well maintained. Clean. Superb comfort and medical care. Delicious food. Television and games under the supervision of an unusually competent and caring staff. End of commercial.
My mother.
Each time a little smaller, a little more peaceful. Inside her darkness whom is she calling? Her eyes, a faded blue, see without seeing, glide over me without lingering, without letting me in.
People help her to get dressed, to lie down, to walk, to eat. They call her and encourage her, they scold her gently, they lecture her, they urge her to behave.
I send the nurses away. I want to be alone with her. To speak with her. Perhaps, with a little luck, to make her speak. To pierce the veil, crack the wall, make her feel my presence, my need to learn her secret.
I stroke her hands, they are still as slender and delicate and smooth as those of a child; I run my hand through her hair tied into a chignon; I touch her forehead, her sunken cheeks, her eyelids. And I speak to her and speak to her.
A ray of sunlight enters stealthily and is reflected in her eyes. I jump: is it a sign? I fall back disappointed. Still, I tell her, we must not give in. We must not lose hope. Tomorrow evening is the beginning of the New Year celebration. I shall pray for her. I shall pray for all of us. For the living and for the dead. Pray that the dead, appeased at last, cease tormenting the living.
All these words, did I really say them? My mother did not hear them. Since the age of six I have been speaking to her and she does not hear me.
When I place myself in front of her, as I do now before leaving her, when I lean over her, she looks at me but she does not see me. When she finally does see me, whom does she see?
On the way home Simha sits beside me, more somber than ever. I didn’t know it, but he too comes every year to visit my mother before or during the High Holy Days. When we met at the bus station, we both smiled, embarrassed. I don’t feel like small talk. Neither does he. That’s good. The bus is moving at breakneck speed. The highway: relentlessly straight, bordered by billboards. A cloudless sky. I let my thoughts wander and enter the ghetto where Simha’s presence is more real to me than on this bus. The forbidden and condemned quarter has become my home; I know its early morning sounds and its nocturnal rustling of wings. The moaning of the dying, the mournful chanting of the gravediggers, the dead orphans’ litanies: I hear them all.
Suddenly, in a low and stifled voice, Simha begins to tell me a story of that time, the story of an event that was to be decisive in my father’s life and his own and which illuminated facets of their personalities that were new to me.
“Your father and I are bound by a kinship that has withstood the years and their upheavals. We have always been on the same side. Even when Rabbi Aharon-Asher pronounced himself against a particular action your father supported, I stood by him. Do you know what I mean? No? Still, you should be able to make a good guess: you are often at our monthly reunions. We are forever seeking arguments to justify … an act, a grave and terrible act that we committed together, long ago.…”
AUTUMN 1942. With the New Year, the ghetto of Davarowsk sinks into misery and despair. The sick die, the elderly fade away and disappear. The ghetto laments: “Hear, O Lord, receive our requests, inscribe us in the Book of Life.” The military governor Richard Lander, usurping the Lord’s role, decides who shall live and who shall die and in what way. On the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the year, he organizes a manhunt: “Thus, the Jews shall have proof that their God has chosen to remain deaf to their prayers.”
In the early morning hours, two hundred men and women have already been herded into the ghetto’s only square. It is a beautiful day. The sun is generous with its favors. A grayish smoke seeps from a chimney somewhere inside the Christian town. A silence born out of the hollow depths of time envelops the condemned and isolates them from the living. “It is today that the decree is signed up above: the fate of men and nations has been determined: who shall win and who shall lose, who shall eat and who shall go hungry, who shall die of plague, and who of suffocation …” Surrounding the two hundred, the Jews of the ghetto of Davarowsk recite the solemn prayers. Here and there you can hear people sobbing.
For the moment nothing happens. The Angel inspects the ranks, directing a friendly word to an old grandmother, another to a crippled war veteran. He stops in front of Fischel-the-Furrier and questions him:
“You don’t look well. Are you sick? Oh, how stupid of me! You are fasting, isn’t that it? Or am I wrong?”
“No, sir, you’re not wrong. Today is a day on which we are forbidden to eat, drink, wash …”
“… and make love,” continues the Angel. “You see? I know your laws by heart.”
The standing, the fasting, the thirst, the uncertainty, the fear: here and there a man collapses. Exhausted, a woman cries out, is quickly silenced, and begins to weep softly, her husband whispers into her ear just as the Angel begins to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The crowd leans forward as one. The Angel clears his throat.
“I thank you for your attention. I have a favor to ask of you. I like Jewish prayers. It would please me to hear you recite them. And even more, to hear you sing them.”
The people can’t believe their ears. They think he is mad. To pray. To sing. Here? Now?
“You seem surprised; that troubles me, I must tell you. Aren’t you Jews? Isn’t today Yom Kippur? What would you do if you were in synagogue? Imagine that you are at services. And then …”
He pauses a moment, inhales before continuing:
“… also imagine that I am the Lord your God.”
All around him, hundreds and hundreds of men and women, and children too, watch, not daring to breathe.
“I have time,” says the SS officer. “One of God’s attributes: He knows how to wait. Like Him, I have infinite patience.”
He withdraws to the shade and sits down on a stool. He lights a cigarette, leafs throug
h the newspaper, chats with his subordinates as if the Jews no longer existed.
In the sky a silvery cloud stretches gracefully, its vapor fading as it enfolds a flock of birds. A man faints while following them with his eyes.
“Well?” asks the Angel. “What about those prayers? Carried away by the birds?”
Nobody moves. The officer goes back to reading his newspaper. An hour goes by. Normally, at services, the morning prayer would be over by now and the Mussaf would have begun.
Suddenly a woman comes forward:
“Mr. Officer,” she begins.
He stands up and faces her:
“Who are you?”
“Hanna. My name is Hanna Zeligson. I am Simha Zeligson’s wife.”
“I’m listening. You want me to hear your supplications? You want to recite your prayers to me? Go ahead, let’s hear you.”
She straightens up, stands there erect and dignified, dusting an imaginary speck off her dress.
“I can’t,” she says at last.
Her voice is clear though a little weak.
“You can’t sing? Nor pray? Then why …?”
“I can sing. And I know how to pray, sir. The women here are educated. We attend services and know how to read Scripture. But … I cannot do it. Not here.”
The officer appraises her:
“Why not? I just told you: imagine that I am your Lord, your God!”
“That’s just it, sir: you’re not.”
“I don’t understand your scruples,” says the Angel after a brief silence. “I thought that Jews like to pray; you spend your life praying; in fact, you have traversed History praying all the while.…”
“Indeed, sir,” says Hanna Zeligson still calm, head held high. “For a Jew to pray is an affirmation of faith only when it is freely made. It is up to us to choose the object—or subject—of our faith. Faith in God, yes; faith in our ancestors, yes again. Faith in Death, never.”
