by Elie Wiesel
I stop speaking. I fear saying things best kept unsaid.
Afterward, we go to a nearby movie theater. A political film: a denunciation of war and the ruling classes. And especially authority.
Usually, when we come back after a movie, we like to sit at the kitchen table and discuss it while savoring our herbal tea, which is supposed to help us fall asleep. Then we recall cousins and friends whom we see only rarely: a neurosurgeon who lives in California; a professor of contemporary history who teaches in Arizona. Not tonight. Doriel alone preoccupies us. It is he who has made me sullen, instilled in me the seeds of self-doubt, made me unsure of my judgments and inferences.
“What happened today? A new incident? Something unusual?” Martin asks.
“No, nothing unusual. That's just it; everything is going the way it usually does. I ask questions in order to prod his memory; he goes along, responds, but never follows through. I invariably feel he stops at the threshold, as in front of a wall, as though he feared flying up to heaven or crashing into an abyss. So he makes me want to scream.”
“But isn't that the daily bread of psychotherapists? You're all looking for the key that will open the fortress where the enemy—the pain or illness of the soul—is hiding? And haven't you told me over and over again that this key is located in a box that is double-locked? That one must constantly find a key in order to lay hands on the next one?”
“What can I do? I'm racking my brain to find an answer, even a temporary one.”
“Have you thought of handing your recalcitrant patient over to a colleague?”
“I don't know … Have I told you that he talked about the successor of Besht, the founder of the Hasidic movement? The great Magid of Mezritch used to say that when you've lost the key and are standing lost and powerless in front of a locked door, there's only one solution: to break down the door.”
“Marvelous advice!”
“Heavens, you're not going to suggest … I use force! Is that what you've learned in the books amassed in your library? That violence is an option even for mental diseases?”
“It's you who mentioned the Hasidic master …”
“I don't mean violence. When a soul is involved, one should be able to break into it gently. With the proper word. A gesture, a sign, a look. A handshake. A silent pause, why not?”
Martin lets me think for a long time.
“If only,” I say to him, smiling, “I could make him admit that love is part of life and that one can demand it without being ashamed.”
“Isn't he too old?”
“Of course he's growing old. Like everyone.”
“Like us?” asks Martin.
“What are you driving at? Honestly. We're younger than Doriel. Okay! Granted! He's old. A bit.”
“Don't tell me you're afraid of growing old.”
“I'm not saying I am. But what about you, always so calm in the midst of your books, so sure of your powers—could you be afraid?”
“Yes,” says Martin. “I'm afraid sometimes. Afraid of living a diminished existence, like a useless object. To feel my body go on its own, without my soul. And conversely: afraid of finding myself abandoned, deserted, betrayed by my reason. In short, afraid of dying before dying.”
“That's perfectly natural. For someone with your intelligence, no longer being able to control your thoughts and desires would be the most atrocious ordeal. But …”
“But what?”
“Don't forget our pact. We swore to watch over each other, you over me and me over you, to make sure we're spared that humiliation. But if I'm no longer here, who will take care of Doriel?”
“There's really no one in his life?”
“No one. Except maybe one of those women who, until proof to the contrary, belongs to the world of his pipe dreams. He lives with her. He talks about her as though she still exists. And the more he talks about her, the more I'm convinced she has never existed. If you go by what he says, she has the smile of a frightened child.”
“Well, then, it's simple: let's find his lady love for him; she will teach him to smile. A small personal ad in the papers would do the trick.”
“Don't make fun of him,” I say.
“I'm not making fun of anyone.”
“Then don't make fun of her.”
“Sometimes, dearest, you don't catch on at all: maybe she's making fun of him. And of us too.”
“Doctor, before describing my experience in Israel, perhaps I should talk to you about abandonment. This feeling has accompanied me and oppressed me, even in the heart of Jerusalem, where I lived most intensely with my memories. Actually, it has weighed on me since childhood, since I was separated from my parents. Separated seems too weak a word. Torn away, rather. I never should have left them. I should have clung to my mother's hand, to my father's arm. I shouldn't have let them die without me. I know I'm wrong, that it wasn't my fault. I was too small and they were too determined. I know that the Angel of Death always triumphs over the living, past and future. But that's where you're mistaken, Doctor: knowledge doesn't help man find the vital answer, or genuine peace. There is a level where love of God and self-knowledge serve no purpose.”
14
In Israel, where I finally went years later, I visited more than one yeshiva, questioned more than one rabbi, and took more than one ritual bath, hoping for a miracle. In pious Bene Beraq, near secular Tel Aviv, and in the suburbs of Jerusalem, I attended classes that were invariably dazzling, given by erudite teachers. I quickly realized that the knowledge I had acquired during my studies in Brooklyn was very meager. I had much to learn. But that wasn't my aim. Was it the need for a change of scene more than a craving for the new? Plagued by a vague feeling resembling guilt, I searched for a school or a man who could teach me repentance. Was guilt already part and parcel of my condition? A puritan to the fingertips, I was still obsessed by Ruth. I hadn't touched her and now I wondered if it had been because of timidity, fear of scandal, or uneasiness about transgressing the laws. And with every woman I passed, be it in a park or on a bus, I saw Ruth looking me up and down. It's foolish and senseless, I admit, but once I even recognized her in the face of a man. I didn't know where to run to: Where can you hide from your own self?
In Safed, the city of the Kabbalists, I went to pray at Rabbi Itzhak Luria's grave. I sought his advice. In Jerusalem's Old City, I communed in front of the Wall and into its countless cracks I slipped many pieces of paper with my request; I implored King David, as one who had known the taste of sin, to show me the path to remorse, forgiveness, or at least oblivion. One night I noticed a man alone next to the Wall. He was silently gazing at the starry sky, which seemed within close range and protecting the sleeping city by enveloping it in peacefulness. Suddenly the man burst out laughing. I moved closer to him, wondering what could amuse him while he prayed in front of the remaining vestige of the Second Temple. And I realized that he was an old man; he was sobbing and laughing at the same time. Then, while I stared at him fixedly and wondered if he was laughing and crying for the same reasons, I burst out laughing as well, loudly and merrily. I thought: the world he lives in is not mine; his prayers are unknown to me, but my tears and his will stream—who knows?—until the Lord's black-gold chalice overflows, the chalice He holds in His right hand for as long as His people are still in exile. I laughed because his face, though contorted, was Ruth's eternally youthful face.
Now he sensed my presence. His eyes still gazing up at the sky, he asked me: “Where are you from?”
“From far away.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I am seeking.”
“What are you seeking?”
“I am seeking a way of overcoming my baser instinct.”
He meditated for a long time; then, still without looking at me, he asked, “Are you married?”
“No. I'm a bachelor.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“We must find you a wife. Do you want me to
take care of it?”
“Why not. On one condition.”
“Which?”
“I don't ever want her to question me about my sources of income or, generally speaking, about my past.”
“Or else?”
“Or else I won't marry her.”
He looked at me and said, “You're in great danger, young man. May the Lord protect you.” Then he burst out laughing, pressed his face against the Wall, and turned his laughter into a prayer where there was no place for Ruth.
And no place for me either.
A month after my arrival at the Lydda airport, I lived in the dorms of various Talmudic schools, where I also ate two meals a day. My needs were more than modest, and thanks to Samek, Romek's brother, my pockets were always full. I could have stayed in the best hotel in the country, but I would have been ashamed. I knew that my uncle Avrohom would not have approved; he would have been afraid that the food wouldn't really be kosher. And then he was in the habit of saying that it was a mistake, not just a sin, to show one's wealth. What was the point of arousing envy and pride?
I had no trouble enrolling in a Jerusalem yeshiva where one of the tutors, originally from Szatmár-Németi in Transylvania, was my uncle Avrohom's childhood friend, even more fanatical than he. He belonged to a sect close to Neturei Karta; virulently anti-Zionist, it still hasn't recognized the legitimacy or existence of the state of Israel. Its official, everyday language was Yiddish. You felt like you were in one of those vanished towns in a remote part of central Europe. I understood this from the very first Sabbath; at the morning service, the cantor didn't recite the prayer for the protection of Israel and the victory of its defenders. They lived in a prewar time. Seeing my astonishment, Haïm-Dovid, the rabbi's son, gave me the usual ritual argument: for us, Jews believing in God, the existence of a new Jewish state is contrary to tradition and rabbinical law, hence, as we see it, a sacrilege, both immoral and illegal.
I strolled with him one Saturday afternoon in the narrow, dark little streets of the Old City, where the stones themselves tell the story of the only people of antiquity to have outlived antiquity. I asked him if his group was close to the Arabs. Yes, absolutely. Better one Palestinian state than two states living side by side. And all of this in the name of the Torah and in its honor! I couldn't believe my ears: Didn't he know that whoever uses the holy scrolls to kill becomes an assassin? I remembered the arguments between Avrohom and the Zionists in Marseilles. But in those days, a sovereign Jewish state didn't exist yet; now it did, and its existence was in constant danger. And did Haïm-Dovid trust an Arab state more than a Jewish state? Yes, absolutely. This was a ready-made answer, spoken in his drawling accent and as simple as daylight.
Dressed in his threadbare caftan, almost in tatters as though he had always worn it, Haïm-Dovid couldn't talk without caressing his chin, though it was beardless, and punctuating his words with a peremptory “absolutely.” Will it rain tomorrow? “Yes, absolutely.” Is your ailing father feeling better? “Thank God, yes, absolutely.” For Haïm-Dovid, the most trivial facts fell within the province of the absolute. Should I join him and stay in this yeshiva? “God willing, absolutely.” I asked him why; I needed to be persuaded. He didn't avoid the question.
“Elsewhere, you're in danger of losing your footing completely. You can't imagine Satan's power. He wears many masks. Here, it's the heresy of the Zionists. They will surely try to lure you away from the straight and narrow path.”
“Are you crazy? Satan, here? In the Holy Land? In the city of David and his prophets?”
“Where do you expect him to be? Satan doesn't care about cabarets; there people don't need his help. Absolutely. It's in a yeshiva, a setting of prayer and study, that he prowls to catch his prey. Do you want to know how he goes about it? I'll tell you: he uses easy patriotism, politics, and even the obsession with security to achieve his ends. What are the politics of this country if not Satan's modern tool?”
Obviously, the arguments between Avrohom and the Zionist leaders in France were perpetuated in Jerusalem. And here I thought that Israel's opponents could carry on their fight only outside Israel. I told this to Haïm-Dovid, who did everything to enlighten me on this point. “You were wrong, and it's time you realized it. If you want to save your soul, stay here, with us. Otherwise …”
“Otherwise?”
He hesitated before adding: “Otherwise you'll end up like my brother. Absolutely.”
This was how I learned that Haïm-Dovid had an older brother whom he preferred not to talk about. He told me only that he had changed his name. This aroused my curiosity, and I wanted to know what had become of this absent brother. Haïm-Dovid shook his head: no, he wouldn't tell me anything else. And he changed the subject.
Before coming to a final decision, which would put an end to weeks of hesitation, I thought it might be a good idea to consult the school head, the rosh yeshiva. Without making an appointment with a secretary, I showed up and knocked at his door. As no one answered, I opened the door and entered. The rabbi was sitting at a table piled with scholarly books, some leather-bound and others in shreds, and seemed so engrossed in study that he didn't notice that he was no longer alone in the room. This was the first time I was seeing him from so close. I was surprised not by his spiritual radiance but by his physical strength. By some odd optical illusion, when seen from afar he seemed thinner and of medium height. But in his office I could see, even though he was seated, that he was tall and robust. He had broad shoulders, and his heavy head was buried in his powerful hands. I felt vaguely disappointed. I had expected an elderly ascetic for whom the body is an enemy to be starved or at least an obstacle to be mastered through fasting and insomnia. But the rabbi seemed to be in good health, in too good health. Well fed, well rested. If he had worries, they left no trace on his brow.
Suddenly, he looked up and asked, “Who are you?”
I told him.
“What are you doing here with us?”
“I came to study.”
“What, in your uncle Avrohom's circle there's no more studying? There are no more yeshivas in Brooklyn? You had to cross the ocean and come all the way here to study the teachings of Hillel and Shammai and Abbaye and Rava?”
“Inside these walls, I thought, the Torah is taught differently …”
“Well, young man, you're not wrong to think that. In general, except for a few protected places, study is different in this blessed country corrupted by nonbelievers. What I mean is this: it's the sitra ahra, the impure side, that hovers over students and their teachers by deluding them, deceiving them, and leading them astray from the Torah of truth that is ours …”
He went on in this vein, in a monotonous voice, condemning everything that is called happiness, life, and the obligation to live in Israel: secular society, the intellectuals, cultural and artistic events, morals, political figures, the world of finance, the military, the cult of nudity and pleasure. These were nothing but sins and sinners, and ungodly beyond redemption. But what about the faithful who attended synagogue every day? They were also guilty of a thousand transgressions. And what about the young students crowding the schools? Lost in the eyes of the Lord. And the little children? Punished and unfortunate through their parents’ fault. He stopped to blow his nose, and I took advantage of the opportunity to ask him timidly, “But, Rabbi, for you, the fact that there's a Jewish state welcoming hunted Jews counts for nothing?”
“This Jewish state should never have been born. Its creation is an offense against God. Our wise men prohibited it; that's in the Talmud. To be worthy of it, we were supposed to wait for the messianic times desired by the Lord, blessed be His name. All haste is unhealthy and doomed to failure. Here nothing was learned from the Bar Kokhba episode in Roman times; his rebellion cost thousands and thousands of human lives. But our political leaders, the Zionists, were impatient. They were yearning to play the statesmen. They wanted their own state so they could violate the holiness of the Sabbath, turn innocent
children into pagans, and ridicule the lessons of life given us by our teacher Moses. That was their true goal. To prevent the final redemption, and estrange the people of Israel from the God of Israel.” Anger distorted his face, and the violence of his words left him winded.
I asked him, “Would the rabbi have preferred the Jewish community to live here under Arab domination?”
“Yes. In the past, Islam was more hospitable toward us than the Christians.”
Was that true? Embarrassed for not having studied medieval Jewish history sufficiently, I quickly returned to the present. “The rabbi seems to forget the millions of Jews who want to live in safety on the soil of their ancestors right now.”
“They should have stayed where they were from in the Diaspora. Not only is the ‘return to Zion’ an error, it is also a tragedy.”
“Isn't the rabbi aware that there are countries where Jews are still in danger? If they remain where they are, they risk suffering and violent death.”
“I don't wish that upon them,” the rabbi replied with a long, sorrowful sigh. “I pray for them every day.”
“But then, Rabbi, what should they do? Wait?”
“They should pray. They should remain Jewish. I prefer a Jew who dies a Jew than a Jew who lives like a renegade. Your uncle Avrohom, who is as close to me as a brother, doesn't he have the same view as I?”
“I hope not, Rabbi.”
“But you're not sure.”
“True enough, Rabbi. I'm not sure.”
His expression became solemn, and he gave me a long, hostile look, possibly, too, in order to gauge the extent of my ignorance. Slowly, a strange sadness came over him. “Don't stay with us,” he said. “You don't belong here. You won't find anything here. Avrohom was wrong to send you to me. My son shouldn't study with you. One day I'll be told that you've followed in the path of Haïm-Dovid's brother. To the edge of the abyss. And I won't be surprised.”
He bent over the large book he had been consulting before my arrival. A sign that I was dismissed. A pity. I would have liked to continue our conversation. To tell him that while in his presence listening to his arguments, I felt oddly guilty for not feeling guilty enough. I wanted to question him about my classmate's brother. It was too late now. Too bad. The next time?
