by Elie Wiesel
“You were wrong to walk around armed.”
Laurent didn't answer. He knew that Dumas was right. Clandestine operations required ironclad discipline. Any transgression was severely punished. Acting on your own endangered the network. Would he be expelled from the movement? For him, this would be a humiliation worse than death. “I'm sorry,” said Laurent. “I really had no choice.”
“I believe you, but I'm not the one who'll decide your fate.”
“Then who will?” He was immediately sorry he had asked the question. He knew very well that no answer would be forthcoming.
“Does anyone know where you're staying?”
“My little brother, Maurice.”
“He belongs to the movement?”
“Yes.”
“He'd better go live elsewhere. You too. In a few hours the red posters will be up. They're probably ready by now. There will surely be reprisals. The Germans won't lose any time launching a manhunt; you can be sure of it. We'll probably pay dearly for this operation. Remain invisible, impossible to find. And wait for a signal from me.”
He put a few francs down on the counter, nodded a vague good-bye, and left without shaking Laurent's hand. Out of caution, Laurent waited a quarter of an hour before leaving, his head filled with guilt and anxiety.
The red-and-black poster. Violent and unambiguous words. Blind fate will strike innocent people. If the Rheims killer isn't delivered to the German authorities in the next forty-eight hours, ten hostages will be executed.
Confined to his room, Laurent didn't see the poster, but he knew its content from the radio. He tried as hard as he could to stifle his tormenting feeling of guilt—all the more so since his conversation with Dumas had left a bitter taste in his mouth: he hadn't expected such strong criticism. But now he had to ask himself, What right did he have to put the lives of ten Frenchmen on the line for the life of one German? His new landlord tried to calm him: “Stop agonizing over this, and accusing yourself. It's war, my friend. If anyone should be blamed, it's the Germans.” Laurent listened to him but didn't reply.
The day went by slowly and painfully. The names of the hostages hadn't been revealed yet. Laurent wondered if he knew any of them. A schoolmate? A friend of Maurice's? Suddenly, he felt a stab in his heart: What if Maurice was one of them? He had had no news from him since yesterday. Atrocious images came to his mind, and his head felt like it would burst. His brother drenched in blood, lying on the pavement, dumb with pain. And what about his parents? He jumped up and rushed to the phone. Five, six, seven long rings. Finally someone picked up—the shoemaker's wife, who set his mind at rest.
The next day the hostages were listed on the red-and-black poster. Ten names, ten faces. Condemned to death as criminals, saboteurs, and terrorists. They were to pay for the killing of the German noncommissioned officer. They were to die because Laurent thought he could spill the blood of a German without risking his own, could take the life of one of Hitler's soldiers without sacrificing the lives of innocent people. In other words, with impunity, eating and sleeping quietly. Who was the executioner of the ten prisoners? He was, Laurent—that's what the red-and-black poster clearly implied.
He went out to see for himself. He read each name slowly, stopping to think before going to the next. A Lithuanian tailor. A foreign Jew. A Polish medical student. A Jewish immigrant. A young worker of Romanian descent. An undocumented Jew. A political journalist of Hungarian descent. A foreign Jew. The names were probably fake. But not the faces. Laurent knew the journalist, Yancsi, who was also a poet. They were both Communists. They had both haunted the same circles close to the party. His accent made people laugh. He liked to sing and applaud himself. The Romanian, Yonel, had a captivating smile. Women couldn't deny him anything.
Yonel would never smile again. Yancsi would never sing again. All because of that noncommissioned bastard, Laurent said to himself. Why had he come to France? Why hadn't he stayed in Munich or Frankfurt, with his family or his beer-drinking scar-faced comrades? It was his fault, not mine. And the execution of the hostages will be his crime, not mine. Laurent kept saying this to himself, but without conviction and with no sense of relief. When death strikes, no argument can soothe a broken heart.
And where was compassion in all this? Love for one's fellow man? Fidelity? Betrayed hope? And truth? What roles did they play? And where did they belong in this world of terror?
He couldn't get his mind off the hostages, as though he sought to accompany them in their solitude. But were they alone? Admittedly, every human being meets death alone. But in the minute before, they would be together. Standing in front of the firing squad, wouldn't they all keel over at the same time? Offering their last gaze at an indifferent world, like a testament, proud of their solidarity, proud of not going alone?
Laurent couldn't sort out his thoughts. Would he have preferred to be with the hostages rather than free? It would have been more logical, more just. In truth, wasn't he really responsible for their agony and death? The Germans? They would be punished. They would lose the war; there was no doubt about that. They would be defeated, crushed, humiliated. The joy and freedom of the world would be their punishment.
And what about me in all this? Laurent asked himself. Will I be alive on that day?
That evening, a telephone call summoned him to meet with Dumas immediately. He expected a harsh reprimand. Was he going to be judged irresponsible, unworthy of his mission, and end up expelled from the movement, left with no reason for living, erased from the memories of his colleagues? Would his deed, which he had thought heroic because necessary, make him his own victim?
Dumas was waiting for him at the appointed meeting place, near a hotel used by prostitutes. The thick, oppressive, gray twilight clouded the brain. Did it help the occupying forces or those fighting against them? A lookout was posted at each end of the small street. At the first warning, Dumas would disappear into a building across the street, whereas Laurent would be met by a professional beauty.
Dumas lost no time. First, he set Laurent's mind at rest: no one had witnessed the killing. He wouldn't be listed on any Wanted poster. But the Kommandantur felt humiliated; infuriated, it was following the Gestapo's investigation with informers of all types, double agents, and tipsters who, for ideological or opportunistic reasons, mixed in circles close to the Resistance. They were told to move heaven and earth and come back with a name, a photo, a scrap of information, a lead. The Germans said they were prepared to free the hostages if the perpetrator of the Rheims killing gave himself up. In a calm voice, Dumas said, “They're not stupid, the bastards. They know perfectly well that you won't fall into their trap. But they hope to rally the population to their propagandists, who will call us heartless criminals for sacrificing ten human lives in order to spare yours. You'll see what the collaborators will write in their rags.”
Laurent listened to him without flinching. Yet an inner voice prodded him: Why don't you sacrifice yourself? It would simplify matters. No more anguish, no more guilt. In any case, if you don't, if your only thought is to save your own skin, what kind of life will you have? How could he silence this voice? Advice from someone who knew him and loved him—that's what he needed. His parents? Maurice? No. Why add to their suffering? There was Dumas. Why not? But the latter was a step ahead of him.
“I know what you're thinking,” said Dumas. “There's no sense in your playing the hero or martyr. If you give yourself up, the Germans will put you through the third degree, and do you think you'll be able to resist their methods? In the end, they'll kill you—you and the hostages. That's what they'll do. And you'll have handed them your future for nothing.”
Tense to the point of pain, Laurent knew that Dumas was right. But not entirely. He was right about the torture, but Laurent would avoid it by simply killing himself before talking.
Once again, his superior seemed to guess his thoughts. He went on: “Besides, Laurent, it's not up to you. It's up to the network and the party. You've alr
eady made a serious mistake by killing that German; we forbid you to make another one.”
Dumas gave him instructions for the days to come. He was to remain where he was. Phone no one. In case of an emergency, his landlord would serve as a contact. He knew whom to call and what procedure to use.
So I haven't been punished, Laurent said to himself. In the eyes of the party, I'm innocent. Tomorrow they might even praise my courage. But who am I in the eyes of the hostages? Who am I for them, their families and friends?
Laurent turned to me and looked me in the eyes with an intensity that made me ill at ease.
“What about you, Doriel? Tell me: Do you see me as a cruel man?”
“I have no right to judge you,” I answered. “I didn't live through the occupation as you did. I didn't have to kill.”
I was going to continue, ask him if the hostages had been executed, whether they had died together or not, whether his younger brother, Maurice, was still alive, and where his parents were. I would have liked to know if his experiences in the Resistance had played a part in making him decide to go to Israel and take a job in the intelligence services. But I had a sense I had talked too much.
Laurent must have felt the same way. He said nothing more and just smiled. And his smile seemed to me a lesson in optimism.
“Laurent is no longer a stranger to you, is he?” the doctor remarks in her impassive voice. “You said he wasn't a friend; perhaps he is more than a friend. Another aspect of yourself, maybe?”
I could slap her. Anger got the better of me. “You're not going to start again, Doctor? You're the one who needs a psychiatrist, not I. Laurent was Laurent and I am I. You're forgetting the age difference between us.”
“All the same, you would have liked to be Laurent.” “I also would have liked to be Moses, Socrates, or Cicero.” “There are times we would like to be someone else and change personalities. It's quite commonplace. Several of my patients would tell you so. For varied and often obscure reasons, they hate themselves. Some even go so far as to kill themselves. Others choose a less radical method, though it's just as serious: they turn their back on reality and live in the imagination. What would be your reasons for acting like that?”
I sit up. “Honestly, you're crazy,” I say. “I'll end up agreeing with Karl Kraus, his hatred of Jews and psychoanalysis, ‘that disease that thinks of itself as its remedy’ … I'm wasting my time with you. I think you enjoy making me angry. Plus you get paid. Say, if I was poor, would you still keep me on?”
She is offended and doesn't answer. Immersed in her notes, she doesn't even look at me. Is she ashamed of showing me her face? Have I touched a sensitive chord? And has she understood that she has gone too far? She makes me sick.
Before dismissing me, she assaults me with a final series of questions: “And what about the hostages? Were they executed together? And what about Laurent? What became of him? Did he really find the strength to work, hope, and love? And did he find peace and happiness in the Israeli army?”
I could answer that I already told her he was married and the father of two children. But she irks me, irritates me, infuriates me. I am near the door. Shall I turn back and give her a lesson in respect and courtesy? She still hasn't moved a muscle; her eyes are glued to her notebook. She raises her head, and unexpectedly, as happens each time I'm in front of a woman I don't know, I find her attractive, desirable, mysterious, and I am moved by both her inaccessibility and her femininity.
The following week, I resume the story of Laurent as I remember it.
Six of the ten hostages had been spared, but not Yonel and Yancsi. Dumas told Laurent about their last hours and their behavior in facing their executioners. As Catholics, the two comrades were entitled to the visit of a priest. Just to be provocative, for they were both atheists, Yancsi suggested to Yonel that they demand to see a rabbi. Yonel refused; the Germans were capable of finding one, arresting him, and sending him away in the next transport. In front of the firing squad, under a thick gray sky, they all shouted the same sentence before falling to their death: “Tomorrow it will be your turn, all of you.”
Maurice was transferred to the south, but Laurent remained in Paris temporarily. Harsh, necessary, the two brothers separated without tears. They pledged to meet after the liberation. With their parents, of course. They couldn't know then that they wouldn't keep their promise. Laurent was the only one in his family to survive.
Laurent didn't stay in Paris long, and deep down, this was a relief. His great fear was that fate would make him meet the families of the hostages. He tried to reason by telling himself that, aside from Dumas, no one knew the killer's identity. But what if it became known? What could he possibly say to the son or daughter of a hostage, or to Yancsi's fiancée? That wars always make more victims than those who die in them? And yet, several years later, the thing Laurent feared most happened. Dumas and he were dining with their families in a neighborhood restaurant. It was a fragrant spring evening. The conversation was about politics, the theater, education. The two friends had broken with the party at the same time, when the Budapest uprising had been brutally repressed by the Soviets. Why had they waited so long? The question troubled them. But how could they have known about Stalinism's cruel, inhuman face? In spite of everything, they agreed about one thing: they had no regrets about having belonged to a Communist network when they had fought in the Resistance.
Suddenly, a woman sitting at a neighboring table stood up and came to talk to them.
“Excuse me for disturbing you in the middle of your meal. But I couldn't help overhearing a bit of your conversation. You were Communists and in the Resistance. I had a young brother who did the same thing. Perhaps you knew him.”
Was it her Hungarian accent? Laurent had the intuition that it was Yancsi's sister who was standing before him. He wished he could leave the table and run away, but he didn't have time. The woman continued. “He was caught by the Germans. They tortured him. But he didn't talk. So they executed him. He died a hero's death.”
“Yancsi,” Laurent stammered with a lump in his throat.
“You knew him?”
“We knew him,” said Dumas. “He was quite a man, believe me. We were proud to be his comrades.”
“Proud,” Laurent repeated. “But …” And he burst into tears.
“When I think about him,” Dumas added, “I feel like crying too. But tears are pointless. We could drown our hearts in them.”
Dumas lowered his head. Everyone else was stunned; they stared at one another, unsure how to react. Yancsi's sister stammered: “Please forgive me, I'm sorry …”
Laurent's daughter, a beautiful little girl whose name was Cécile, was the first to pull herself together and come to her father's rescue. She climbed onto his knees, kissed him many times on his forehead, hair, and cheeks, and whispered: “Don't cry, Papa, we love you.”
And then Laurent said to me, “After the war, I had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized. When I recovered, I lived a more or less normal life, though I had frequent, unpredictable relapses. In Israel, I felt better. I worked with Tamir. Our missions were interesting and often dangerous. In practical terms, they reminded me of the time of the Resistance, only the police I was running away from weren't the Gestapo. Tamir claims that I performed heroic deeds. It's a joke, he's exaggerating. But it's good to hear it.”
As I listened to him, I wondered why he was telling me all this, and why Tamir had wanted me to hear it. Was he appealing to my Jewish feelings and my own memories of the Tragedy in the hope that in the end I would accept his proposal of recruitment?
“Do you want to hear something weird?” Laurent added in concluding his story. “For a long time I was unable to cry. Until that meeting with Yancsi's sister. It's those tears that healed me.” “And what about me, Doctor? What will heal me?
“In his own way, Doctor, Tamir-Béinish wanted to help me, that's certain. He probably thought there was a remedy for every kind of suffering. But which
one would be for me? Throwing myself into the action, contributing to the development of the young state of Israel, might help me. Making myself useful, in short.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I asked if I could think about it. I returned to America.”
“And then?”
“Then I said no.”
“Why? Was it because this new role didn't appeal to you? You couldn't see yourself as an adventurer, or simply a patriot?”
“That's not why, Doctor. I turned it down for an entirely different reason.”
“What was that?”
“Tamir didn't trust me enough. In spite of my curiosity, he never really explained why he had left his wife, poor Reisele. I didn't like that.
“I never saw him again. I know he resented me. He thought I would have made an excellent secret agent. He would have trained me and sent me to an Arab country. After I turned him down, he assigned that mission to another spy. I don't know who it was. But I know he was arrested. Tortured. Hanged.
“Instead of me.”
17
And yet. Yes: and yet. These words have become a kind of contemporary mantra. Remorse? Thérèse Goldschmidt is right: I must continue, I must. Continue to dig into my memory. Giving up would be worse. The incident she is trying to unearth must exist somewhere. A forgotten gesture, a lost word, a wound. Deep under layers of memories, the meaning of what crushes and ruins her patient lies waiting for him since … since when? I turn the pages, year by year, reliving one episode and clinging to the next: an event from my childhood, an image from my adolescence. And of course, bravo, Uncle Sigmund, as in the ancient illuminated annals of the early days of psychoanalysis, salvation finally comes. It has been hiding in a word, a simple word: convulsions.
Suddenly, my familiar, more or less stable world capsizes once again. I wonder, stunned: What about me, what am I doing in the midst of this? Indeed, I don't know how the upheaval happened. But can it be called an upheaval? Upheaval means sudden change, a whim of fate, an unexpected nod from the gods in search of entertainment. No. It is more the consequence, admittedly imperceptible until now, of all the events that have shaped my life, from childhood to maturity: the war followed by exile, the restless years of my education and apprenticeship in America and in the Holy Land, the distractions of love, religious fervor, and the pacifying dazzle of friendship.
