by Elie Wiesel
Also by Elie Wiesel
with illustrations by Mark Podwal
The Golem
A Passover Haggadah
The Six Days of Destruction
King Solomon and His Magic Ring
Text copyright © 1978 by Elirion Associates, Inc.
Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Mark Podwal
Introduction copyright © 2020 by Elisha Wiesel
Glossary copyright © 2020 by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
Schocken Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
The text of this work originally appeared, in slightly different form, as a chapter in Perspectives on Jews and Judaism: Essays in Honor of Wolfe Kelman, edited by Arthur A. Chiel (New York: Rabbinical Assembly, 1978).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wiesel, Elie, 1928–2016, author. Podwal, Mark H., [date] illustrator. Wiesel, Elisha, [date] writer of introduction.
Title: The tale of a niggun / Elie Wiesel ; illustrations by Mark Podwal ; introduction by Elisha Wiesel.
Description: First edition. New York : Schocken Books, 2020
Identifiers: LCCN 2020002648 (print). | LCCN 2020002649 (ebook). ISBN 9780805243635 (hardcover). | ISBN 9780805243642 (ebook).
Subjects: LCSH: Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945)—Poetry. LCGFT: Poetry.
Classification: LCC PQ2683.I32 T35 2020 (print) | LCC PQ2683.I32 (ebook) | DDC 841/.914—dc23
LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020002648
LC ebook record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020002649
Ebook ISBN 9780805243642
www.schocken.com
Cover illustration by Mark Podwal
Cover design by Kelly Blair
ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Elie Wiesel with Illustrations by Mark Podwal
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Publisher’s Note
The Tale of a Niggun
Glossary
A Note About the Author
A Note About the Illustrator
Introduction
Elisha Wiesel
“Why do you pray, Mr. Wiesel?”
I began to answer, but the questioner cut me off after just a sentence or two.
I realized he was right to do so. I had been giving him only a superficial reply, comparing the transcendent, otherworldly God of traditional Jewish belief with the false gods worshipped by our modern, materialistic society. It was a predictable response that invited challenge.
I needed to go deeper into the question.
And then I happened to find a tale to take me there.
The Tale of a Niggun, a narrative poem written by my father in the late 1970s, was a work of which I had been completely unaware. Set during World War II and on the eve of the Purim holiday, the poem tells the haunting, heartbreaking story of a rabbi who wrestled with a decision about the fate of a ghetto’s Jews that no human being should ever have to confront. I did some research and discovered that my father had loosely based his story on actual, horrific events that had occurred during the war in European ghettos—most notably in two towns in central Poland, Zduńska Wola and Piotrków.
Some weeks later, I read the story aloud to the holy congregation of New York’s Carlebach Shul on the eve of Purim, as Ta’anit Esther drew to a close. As I described how my father’s beloved, tortured rabbi communed with the sages from our past for guidance and solace, questions arose within me.
“Where is the IDF in this story, furious with a holy fire that they were not there to prevent the tragic outcome and swearing that this will never again happen to our people?” I could hear my cousin Steve asking.
“Where is Mordechai Anielewicz in this story, determined to take some of the enemy with him and show the world that Jewish blood is not cheap?” I could hear my friend Shmuley asking.
The answer to these questions is one that I would not have considered as a younger man. While there is something about the deaths of powerless Jews that seems to demand a coda filled with the heroics of the Israeli Army or the resistance fighters in the ghettos, my father’s point was that this is not the only way for Jews to be heroes.
My father never carried a weapon, but he was a hero just the same. He fought with words, by telling his story and the stories of so many others, all of them heroes, too. He fought by infusing his stories with hope.
And that, to my surprise, gives me the answer to my challenger.
Why do I pray?
I pray because my father fought for memory, and so do I. He brought Jewish texts with him to Moscow for Simkhat Torah in the fall of 1965 and helped launch a movement to free our persecuted and imprisoned brothers and sisters by reporting what he saw and thought. He used his words to promote Jewish values, whether the victims were Jews or non-Jews.
Why do I pray?
Because I cannot separate my father from the Judaism he believed in, practiced, and wrote about. He was insistent that such a separation was impossible, even after what he saw and what he lived through. My father prayed every day, and I was blessed to see what living Judaism looked like in the way he treated people, the way he treated me, the way he treated knowledge, and the deep respect he paid to the past, present, and future. With him, as with the rabbi in this tale, the messenger became the message.
Why do I pray?
Because of the way my father’s face lit up at the sounds of a niggun or a midrashic discussion. Because nobody sang or danced more fervently than he did on Simkhat Torah. Because we deserve the joy of connection across millennia that our ancestors felt. Because our children deserve to see us experiencing this joy.
And if you want to understand how my father prayed and not just why: Let us let go of words and join him, and the rabbi in this story, and Jewish people throughout the world in their synagogues this coming Friday night, as Shabbat begins and we are swept up into the niggunim being sung as daylight fades into holiness.
Publisher’s Note
The text of The Tale of a Niggun was brought to our attention by Mechael Pomeranz, the proprietor of the iconic Jerusalem bookstore that bears his family name. One of Professor Wiesel’s students for more than three decades, he is also the son of a survivor who is dedicated to ensuring that the Holocaust is remembered authentically. Mr. Pomeranz unearthed this treasure in an out-of-print collection of essays that had been published in 1978 in honor of the renowned Rabbi Wolfe Kelman, who had been a good friend of Professor Wiesel.
A ghetto,
somewhere in the East,
during the reign of night,
under skies of copper
and fire.
The leaders of the community,
good people all,
courageous all,
fearing God and loving His Law,
came to see
the rabbi
who has cried and cried,
and has searched
darkness
for an answer
with such passion
that he no longer
can see.
It’s urgent,
they tell him,
it’s more than
urgent;
it’s a matter
of life or death
for some Jews
and perhaps
all Jews.
Speak,
says the rabbi,
tell me all:
I wish not to be spared.
This is what the enemy demands,
says the oldest
of the old Jews
to the rabbi,
who listens
breathlessly.
The enemy demands
ten Jews,
chosen by us
and handed over to him
before tomorrow evening.
Tomorrow is Purim,
and the enemy,
planning to avenge
Haman’s ten sons,
will hang ten of our own,
says the oldest
of the old Jews.
And he asks:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.
And his colleagues,
brave people
though frightened,
repeat after him:
What are we to do, rabbi?
Tell us what to do.
We are afraid,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
afraid to make a decision—
afraid to make the wrong decision:
Help us, rabbi,
decide for us—and
in our place.
And the rabbi,
their guide,
feels his knees weakening,
the blood rushing to his face,
his chest is ready to burst,
and the room is turning,
turning,
turning around him,
and so is the earth,
and so are the skies,
and soon,
he feels,
he will fall
as falls the blind man,
a victim of night
and its prowlers.
He demands an answer,
says the oldest
of the old Jews,
the enemy demands an answer;
tell us what it must be,
our duty is to guide
just as ours is to follow.
What should we do
or say?
ask the leaders
of the ghetto
somewhere in the East
under forbidden
and cursed skies;
what can we do
so as not to be doomed?
But the rabbi is silent;
he dreams that he is dreaming,
that he has heard nothing,
lived nothing.
He dreams, the rabbi,
that he is someone else,
living somewhere else,
far away,
outside walls,
confronting other problems,
related to God
and not to death.
But the unhappy leaders
of the unhappy community
look at him,
and look at him
with such force,
such faith,
that he feels he must return
and speak.
Leave me,
he says with a weak but gentle voice,
I wish to be left alone.
I must think,
meditate,
I must go to the source,
explore the depth
and question
the past;
come back later,
I shall be waiting for you,
I promise,
yes,
I promise not to stay behind,
not to be spared.
Left to himself,
the rabbi,
breathing heavily,
rises from his chair
and goes to his bookshelves
to consult the Rambam,
who has foreseen
all situations
of all societies;
his decisions are clear
and precise,
simple and human,
humanly simple.
And the Rambam,
without hesitation,
recites for him
the immutable law
of tradition,
so harsh and so generous,
and so compassionate, too:
No community,
even when besieged,
may sacrifice
one of its members;
rather perish together
than hand over
to the enemy,
were he most implacable,
one of its children.
The rabbi of the ghetto understands
but refuses to accept:
The Law is beautiful,
he says,
the Law is luminous,
but
here we deal
not with ideas
nor with beauty
but with the destiny
of a community,
of a living community in Israel.
And the Rambam
answers with sadness:
I understand,
you are allowed to question
and even refute
my judgment,
though it is based
on justice
and law;
you are allowed to expect
another answer,
a more humane solution.
But,
brother in Israel,
brother in Torah,
understand me, too:
I have not foreseen,
I could not foresee,
your predicament,
your tragedy.
No, unfortunate rabbi,
no, poor brother of mine,
I,
Moshe son of Maimon,
can be of no help to you
or yours.
So, obstinate and tenacious,
the rabbi in the ghetto
turns toward other teachers,
some older
and some younger
than Rabeinu Moshe—
who knew much about Jewish suffering
but not enough about the cruelty
of the enemy.
He turns toward the
sages of Babylon
and Yavneh, the
legislators of Bnei Brak
and Fez, the
codifiers of France
and Spain,
and all, sadly,
shake their heads:
Rabbi, poor rabbi,
poor brother and colleague,
if he,
our teacher and guide,
Moshe ben Maimon,
if he cannot help you—
how could we?
And yet—
rejecting resignation,
the rabbi in the ghetto
goes from one to another,
asking again and again
his burning question:
You have taught me much
but not enough;
you have not told me
whether
so as to save a thousand.
Whether
I am to condemn them all
and let them be massacred
so as to save Jewish honor,
so as to save
the Jewish soul,
which cannot die
and which dies nevertheless.
Where is truth, Rashi?
Where is justice, Rabbeinu Tam?
Which is the way,
Saadia Gaon,
which is the way
leading to Torah
and salvation
at the same time?
And all the sages,
all the commentators,
give him the same answer:
Forgive us,
young brother,
forgive us,
young colleague,
we cannot help you—
for our knowledge
cannot replace your own.
And so—
from book to book,
from century to century,
from guide to guide,
the rabbi comes to the Besht,
the most magnificent,
the most human,
the most brotherly
of sages and teachers.
And he breaks into sobs:
Israel, he says,
Israel son of Sarah,
you who consoled so many communities
in distress,
console us, too.
You who accomplished
so many miracles
for so many people,
intercede on our behalf.
I do not ask of you
to defeat the enemy,
nor even to revoke the decree;
all I ask of you
is to help me
find a solution.
If you know the solution,
share it with me,
for I do not know it:
all I know is
that there is night
around me
and in me;
and I am sinking,
drawn by its silence,
which is God’s, too.
And the Besht,
faithful to his legend,
puts his arm around the rabbi’s shoulder
and smiles at him,
and rather than talk,
begins to sing to him
