by Elie Wiesel
I break off. I'm sure she'll ask me if I still fear God today, and if the fear of God is essential in the Jewish religion, to the point of neglecting love of God. At least I'll have a ready answer to the last question. In Jerusalem, a novelist who was a devotee of Hasidic tales and sayings said to me one day: “Do you know why God demands that each of us love Him? He doesn't need our love, but we need it.” I saw this novelist only once, and this was the only thing he said to me, but it remains etched in my wounded memory. Should I tell my interlocutor about it? She's the one who questions me.
“What became of your sister, Dina, and your little brother, Jacob?”
“I didn't see them often. But I could have gone with them where they went.”
“On the other hand, a moment ago you described your childhood. You spent it with your parents. Do you see them when you talk about your childhood?”
“I see them even when I'm not talking about it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I can't.”
“Tell me why not,” she says.
“I see them and I become a child again. Excuse me: I see my mother mostly. I see her again, exhausted in the morning after a sleepless night, and I'm in pain. I see my father looking worried, and I feel the familiar ache. But sometimes I see my mother looking radiant at the Pesach seder and I smile at her. And I listen to my father describing the exodus of our people, and I feel like singing. I catch glances exchanged between them, and though I haven't prayed in ages, I feel a prayer spring from my heart, suddenly eager to reach the celestial throne, but it expires in flight.
“I see them in the last years of their lives, and my life becomes heavy with nostalgia.
“My father had located a safe spot in a small village, too small for the German army to come to and flaunt its tanks and policemen. We were the only Jews in the region. Since you want to know everything, I'll tell you that I grew up in a lumberjack's barn—Vladek's. He and his wife, a decent, skinny, and toothless peasant woman, knew who we were; the rest of the population didn't know. I remember their son, Edek, a hoodlum whom we had to be wary of; he poked his nose into everything near his house. A member of a clandestine Zionist movement, my sister signed up in one of their Warsaw sections; she had been promised a certificate for Palestine. Jacob, or Yankele, a year younger than I, had learned not to cry too loudly. My mother wasn't with us. She had been contacted by the Jewish Resistance and become a liaison officer. Blond and protected by a fake Aryan identity card, a flawless Polish-speaker, she traveled around the country visiting the scattered members of her network and organized contacts with their families so anonymous emissaries could bring them money and news.
“The days were all alike, and the nights even more so. Twice a neighbor informed on us, lured by the reward of a kilo of sugar per arrested Jew; we were forced to desert our refuge and take shelter in a hut in the middle of the forest. We slept on straw. Once or twice a week Vladek brought us bread and vegetables. We drank water from the spring. Yankele got sick several times; Father nursed him with the medications my mother obtained for us. Father entertained him by telling him stories about his own childhood and youth. For example, the story of his bar mitzvah; it had taken place during Shavuot, the holiday celebrating the revelation on Mount Sinai. People drank sweet wine, danced and sang, and my father thought he was being fêted. Later he understood he hadn't been entirely wrong. ‘Every time a Jewish child proclaims his desire to belong to the continuity of his people , we all have reason to applaud him joyfully, your grandfather explained to me.’ And he added: ‘Being Jewish, especially during dark periods, is a grave matter, but it is also thrilling. Being Jewish means fulfilling oneself in more than one dimension; it's like living a forty-eight-hour day intensely and to the full. There. That's what I'll tell you too, my dear little Yankele, when you turn thirteen. And as a gift, I'll give you the benediction I received from my father and that he received from his: to be alive the day when you'll welcome the Messiah.’ To avoid having some inquisitive, malicious vagabond hear him, he spoke in a very low voice and with great gentleness. And my little brother's eyes, already ageless, absorbed his melancholic voice and image, and they accompanied us throughout all our peregrinations. And in my own voice I sometimes still hear our father's voice.”
“When did you see your parents for the last time?”
“You don't understand a thing. I still see them.”
“Yes, I understand. But I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Doctor. My parents, yes, the last time I saw my parents in the flesh, in other words, alive, was after the war.”
“And Dina?”
“I told you. Dead.”
“And Jacob?”
“Dead.”
“And—”
“Stop, Doctor. Don't ask me any more questions about my uncles, my aunts, my cousins. I would have loved to see them again and make them talk the way you make me talk. But for each one, I'll give you the same answer.
“Dead, dead, dead: this dreadful word, as bitter as the bitter herb of the Haggadah. After the war, it was on everyone's lips and in everyone's ears. But Dina's death was so absurd. Even today, I don't understand: Did God or destiny want to mock her and us by sparing her for over four years of occupation and danger and then taking her away from us a week before the arrival of our liberators? That morning, the sun had decided to force its way through the clouds. And Dina couldn't resist; she left our barn to bask in its warmth. An informer spotted her and cried out to her not to move. To get him away from our refuge, she started running toward the forest. A minute later, she was lying on the wet ground, shot down by a bullet. Ten days later, the informer was executed. But his punishment didn't alleviate our grief.”
“And your little brother?”
“My parents left him in the care of a Christian family.”
“He died of an illness?”
“No. A neighbor informed on him, and the family that had taken him in preferred to give him back to us. Then my mother and Dina took him to Warsaw. To the ghetto. The famous teacher Janusz Korczak admitted him to his house. I can imagine the hour of separation. I'd give a lot to know what my little brother thought and said at that moment. I'll never know.”
“And your parents?”
“Why are you hounding me? You'd like to hear me pronounce that same word again—the same word always? I won't.”
“Why not?”
“Because we're talking about my parents. They deserve another word. A special one. A word belonging to them alone. Try to understand, Doctor: I wasn't with them. I didn't see them die. I became an orphan without knowing it: I was too far away, on the other side of the mountain. And ever since, I know it.”
Thérèse keeps silent for a long while. Then, after hesitating slightly, she speaks, her voice a monotone again. “For you, these memories are dreadful. I can understand perfectly well that you don't want to dwell on them. But we must delve into things more deeply. So let me ask you this: Could you be refusing to use that word because you feel guilty about them? Guilty because you weren't with them to the end?”
“You're very insistent, Doctor. But be careful; don't go too far.”
“What effect does it have on you?”
“It hurts me.” In order to check my anger, I draw a deep breath. “You forget that I was a bewildered, lost little boy. What I did or didn't do wasn't for pleasure or on an impulse. Could I foresee the accident?”
“If you had known, if you could have—”
“Leave me alone, Doctor. I don't know what I would have done. Would I have been so foolish as to run to catch up with them in death?”
She waits for me to calm down.
“When you think about your father, about your mother, what comes to mind?”
I don't reply right away. Calmly I take several deep breaths and reflect; that's what I need. I should tell her I think about the life I had and shared with my parents. That, yes, I shouldn't feel so unhappy, since they didn't die in a c
amp but in a free country. That, at night, I try to walk them to the car, and imagine the rest. I see them alone. And sometimes, in a hallucinatory state, I see myself with them over there and I suffocate.
“Doctor, listen to me closely. Get one thing straight: there are some things you'll never understand. You didn't live their life, but I carry it around within me like a trace of blood. And their death like a burn.”
EXCERPT FROM DR. THéRèSE GOLDSCHMIDT'S NOTES
In the evening, at the dinner table, I have trouble eating. My mind is elsewhere. Sad, troubled. Where do my thoughts lead me, and to what end? My husband, discreet and considerate, talks about his work at the library: there's a greater demand for books on war than for novels. He comments on the news. The election campaign in America. Bloody incidents in the Middle East, famine in Africa, political convulsions just about everywhere. Civil, religious, cultural, economic wars: it never stops. Oh, may the century come to an end; it is high time.
“Did you know,” he said, “that the Hundred Years’ War actually lasted a hundred and fifteen years? Nowadays wars are shorter, or is it the same war going on and on, with occasional periods of peace?”
I listen to him absentmindedly and try to dodge the question: “That's a subject for historians; let them sort it out.”
“But war also interests psychiatrists. Didn't you tell me that all wars originate in the souls of those who wage them?”
“But is it reason that ends them? I think so, don't you?”
“To be sure, anyone can start a fire, but few people know how to put one out. Didn't Plato say that it is only for the dead that war has an end?”
Lost in my thoughts, I don't fully grasp the meaning of the remark and merely say, “War is always a disease.”
Martin sets down his fork and knife and scrutinizes my face. “And your special, not to say privileged, patient isn't its only victim. If you're not careful, we'll become its victims too.”
I pull myself together. “What do you mean?”
“You're absent again. I know where you are and with whom. You've changed since you've been treating him.”
So I tell him about my last session with Doriel.
“It's going badly. I don't feel I'm getting anywhere; I'm at a virtual standstill. Oh, on the surface, there's progress. He talks, he talks without losing his temper too much. An occasional outburst. But on rereading my notes, I realize that we're going nowhere. Today he told me that I'd never understand him or, more specifically, that I'd never understand, period. And I think he's right on that point. I wonder if I shouldn't admit defeat and call it quits.”
“Good idea!” Martin exclaims, nodding. “You've been irritable lately. With me, but also with yourself. You're not pleased with what you're doing, and you're very hard on yourself. You're edgy, withdrawn, and you seem to be struggling so as not to drown.”
I don't contradict him. Honesty forbids it. A perspicacious and lucid observer, Martin is quite right. Confronting another person's madness entails a risk; I'm perfectly aware of that. I don't know where I'm heading anymore. Do I know where I am? Am I still bound to my husband by an intelligent, generous love? Is it still the fertile and happy love of the past? I make an effort to hide my inner turmoil.
“What you're saying, Martin, is probably true. I suddenly feel inadequate. But just as I like to fight standing up, I'm trying to dream with my eyes wide open. To give up now would be a betrayal and a self-betrayal. You're responsible for the works of writers, whereas I'm responsible for human beings. I feel responsible for their right to think, act, and live intelligently, without harming others or themselves. That's why I believe that if we sometimes have to respond to laughter with laughter, we should certainly not respond to the absurd with the absurd, or to the incomprehensible by giving up.”
“First of all, you're underestimating my work. I'm responsible for human beings too: the authors and their readers. Second, I still feel responsible for you. What about you, do you still feel responsible for me?”
Automatically, I stroke my forehead, as I always do when I feel disconcerted. How can I answer without hurting him?
“It's not the same thing, Martin. All of this is becoming more and more complicated. All I know is, if I call it quits, if I give up this case, I'll have to give everything up. For good.”
Martin nibbles his lip, something he rarely does. Confused and perplexed, he asks: “Give everything up?” He sounds as though he is putting his entire life and all his anxiety into that word.
And suddenly harmony is restored between us. Silent, I find myself thinking that for each human being, the other person is not just a pathway but also a crossroads.
8
“For months and months now we're trying to get to know each other better, Doctor. Where are we at this point? I don't know what I told you anymore, but I do know what I concealed from you. Did I say anything original to you about man's destiny? About love? Am I capable of it? Did I describe the love of a real live woman, hidden away between the spring and the diviner? And life—what is life? I have no idea. But how are we to live? That's the real question. Is it worse to live in isolation, bumping into every corner, against every passerby, against every wall, or to live in a downy, misty space lacking consistency, where everything is blurry and translucent? As for life, Doctor, I think I've drunk it down to the sediments. Did I tell you often enough that I'm not happy? Did I tell you why I remained a bachelor? Did I talk to you enough about faith? I see it as a test without end, a confrontation. I fight, and I no longer remember why. I often think I'm just an interlacing of cracks opening up on fear. Is that why I didn't want to become a father? There's a passage in the Talmudic texts that forbids man to have children in disastrous times. And it explains: If God decides to destroy the world, who are we to oppose our will to His?
“However, would you like me to tell you about the experience I had, a short time before my bar mitzvah, in the house of my first teacher? His name was Reb Yohanan. He was nicknamed ‘the Miracle Maker.’ It happened on the day of his wife's funeral.
“I remember her: timid and very self-effacing in her own home. Rivka was mute and expressed herself with head and hand gestures. She never complained and refused to be pitied; she thanked God for her fate, laughed when anyone told a funny story drawn from biblical or Hasidic sources, and was sad when the occasion required it. Was she really mute, or was she afraid of adding her voice to the voices of men?
“The couple had two children, a rebellious boy, Noah, who became my friend, and a sickly daughter. Noah didn't go unnoticed: high-strung, dissatisfied, he seemed to sense that there was something unfinished about him. His ailing sister, Beyle, could stay in bed for days on end. From time to time, but rarely, she would half open the door to the study room, glance at the young students with a panicked look, and immediately shut the door again. Did her father see me as a potential son-in-law? In that modest household, I was treated with consideration, I would even say with tenderness.
“The calamity struck on a day when Rivka, alone at home with Beyle, had a heart attack. On returning from the morning service, Reb Yohanan and I found her inert, lying on the floor in the kitchen. The ambulance came quickly, and we took her to the hospital. But it was too late. The physician told us quite clearly that it had been a matter of minutes; she could have been saved. ‘It's my fault,’ Reb Yohanan replied. ‘I shouldn't have left her.’
“The family gathered at his house during the week of mourning, eating hard-boiled eggs, symbolizing the ever-turning wheel of life, and hearing the customary phrases, ‘May the Lord console you among the bereaved of Zion and Jerusalem,’ and not hiding their grief. The house was full of people from morning to night. Some came to take part in the prayers, others to bring food, since work is forbidden during periods of mourning.
“Bearded, slow in his gestures, his eyes doleful, Reb Yohanan seemed to be coming out of an unspeakable hell, and kept blurting out the same few words: ‘It's my fault.’ These words resonat
ed inside me many years later in completely different circumstances, as though they had been specially made for me: Yes, it's my fault. And though I could keep telling myself that who will live and who will die, and how, is decided by God alone, up there, during the High Holy Days, I nonetheless clung to the idea that in some inexplicable way I was to blame.
“The visitors talked mostly about Rivka. Had she been unwell? Had she complained of any aches? Being reserved and silent, how could she have explained to the doctors any pain or discomfort she might have felt? As I wasn't a close family member, I didn't have to obey the shiva laws, laws of incomparable sensitivity and compassion, centering on the bereaved person, who must at all costs be protected from fatigue and indiscretion. I drew up a chair for one caller and gave a glass of water to another. I became a kind of spokesman for the family and tried to answer the visitors’ questions as best I could. You see, Doctor, talking about Rivka provided consolation; I was participating in the events and the rituals, and integrating them into a time frame and a frame of reference.
“Some callers came for Reb Yohanan; others had been close to Rivka. There were several people who had spent time with the couple when they lived in Rovidok, before the war.
“Thanks to them I discovered this small town lost in the Carpathian Mountains, and I became very fond of it. Christians called it ‘the White Church’ and Jews ‘the Black Church.’ A traditional town; you can probably picture the familiar landscape from your readings. So could I. I listened with curiosity to the old people's descriptions of life in the past and managed to reconstitute an entire community that I didn't know. Its wealthy and its poor, its schools and shops, its anxieties and joys. I would have given anything to take part in a marriage over there, a rabbinical wedding. I would have given anything to be present when the newly written Torah was brought to its place of honor in the sacred ark, ushered in by a jubilant crowd. A Sabbath with the famous Magid of Tolipin, a stormy public debate about a man suspected of belonging to the Shabbathalan or Frankist sect: a mix of memories and comments—wasn't it sheer madness?—I listened to them with envy. Life there conformed to the rhythm of the Jewish and Christian holidays. Yom Kippur was just as important as Christmas.
