by Elie Wiesel
An hour went by. The captain and the crew had ministered to our mood by providing us with information and useful instructions: altitude, speed, approximate hour of arrival, and, in a sober and serious tone of voice, instructions on how to handle the life jacket in case of … A buxom blonde offered us paradise: Did we want to drink? Eat? A blanket to help us sleep more soundly? No takers in my row. She had more luck in the next row. All of a sudden, my neighbor began to speak without looking at me.
“If I decide to talk to you, do you promise not to ask my name?”
“I don't know you; I don't have to promise you anything.”
“Are you cruel, or stupid?”
“Is that a choice? Can't one be stupidly cruel or cruelly stupid?”
She gave me a withering look and turned away.
“Actually,” I said, “I'm rather pleased with your request. Pleased not to know your name. And can I tell you why? Because, if you'll allow me, I intend to give you the gift of a name, an original name.”
“Which one?”
“I don't know yet. Let me think. But in the meantime, talk to me, since you feel like it. Hearing your voice will inspire me. As you surely know, there's a connection between names and voices.”
“Fine. But I'll stop when I want to.”
“I'm listening.”
Her voice. Deep, melodious, caressing: it was her voice that I immediately liked. The voice of someone who is searching while trying to find herself. I was overcome by a feeling of well-being and serenity. I could easily have dozed off, taking her voice with me in my sleep.
“There,” she said. “That's all.”
I hadn't understood a thing she had just told me. None of her words had stuck in my mind.
“No,” I answered, half awake. “Don't stop. That's not everything. It's only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“Of a dream. An affair. A love story. Of a promise made of taboos and sunshine deep in the night. Don't be afraid; I have no intention of courting you. Look at me: I'm old, too old for that, too old for you. Oh, if only I were younger …”
“What would you do?”
“I would hold your hand. Yes, your hand. Nothing more.”
And the miracle occurred. I felt a hand squeezing mine.
Nothing more, said the voice that seemed to resonate inside me as if to comfort someone in me.
In the darkness that had pervaded the inside of the plane, I started to think about all the human beings I had encountered in my life. Each one had a face, a body, and a name. With each I had had moments of joy that made me want to sing, or grim times that had made me want to weep; and from now on I wouldn't experience either. Yes, with age, the body senses the traps, foresees the dangers, and imposes caution; it has to accept its limits. And yet. What did I have to lose by smiling once more at destiny? In love, everything happens in a flash—with, as a necessary ingredient, surprise, astonishment, and the feeling of a miracle. All I had to do right now was play the game, nudge the story forward, but without moving.
“Don't tell me your name; neither now nor later. My name for you is Ayala.”
“May I ask why?”
“Ayala is a doe. She races.”
“Please explain what you mean.”
“In the Jewish texts, life is sometimes compared to a race, a flight. To a dream too. In the Orient, life is nothing but illusion. A doe carried away by illusion. Or an illusion carried away by a doe.”
I expected to see her smile, but she retained her serious expression. “Does this mean I have to get rid of my real name? Throw it to the four winds? Become a virgin again, empty of all memories?”
“Of course not, dear Ayala. For this one night, I take you as you are, with all your baggage.”
“And afterward?”
“Let's forget about duration; let's dismiss time.”
“And afterward?”
“For madmen, afterward does not exist.”
“I'm not mad.”
“But perhaps I am.”
She withdrew her hand. She didn't like madmen. They frightened her. Something inside me tore apart. A grace—or a curse—of a few minutes had sufficed; all paths had opened and then closed again. It was as though, here in this airplane, we had met, loved each other, married, and divorced. I blamed myself for my recklessness, my lack of maturity and seriousness. I had been foolish and ridiculous. At my age, you don't play games like these anymore. You don't babble rashly and idly. My neighbor surely thought I was an idiot, if not worse.
I don't know for how long we kept silent.
I woke up shortly before landing.
“I like my new name,” said Ayala, smiling. “I'll make her discover America. And by way of thanks, here's what I propose: if we ever have another chance encounter, I'll tell you whether I succeeded in separating from my fiancé. And then—”
“And then?”
“And then we'll see.”
In the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a tall, thin man, whose mouth is deformed by a tic, warns me that it's not easy to see the poet Yitzhok Goldfeld; he is unwell.
“I've come a long way,” I said.
“Here geography is an outdated notion. Poetry lies outside and beyond frontiers.”
“But my case is urgent.”
“Are you sick?”
“Yes … no. But he knew my uncle Avrohom.”
“He isn't the only person named after our patriarch.”
“My uncle Reb Avrohom.”
“And the rabbi knows him?”
“They knew each other.”
“Are you sure?”
“They knew each other.”
Actually, the idea for this meeting had come from my uncle. He had been worried about the waning intensity of my fidelity to God. He had felt that I was distancing myself not from my family or what was left of it but from what he regarded as greater than happiness and peace: the fear of God and the love of God.
We had had many conversations on the subject. He used to present his arguments and I my objections. I didn't question the existence of a supreme judge governing the universe of men, but I questioned his justice. One day, echoing the remarks Gittel had once made, I asserted that, if pushed, I could accept the tragically premature and absurd death of my parents. Perhaps they had sinned before the Eternal and He had punished them. But what about their progeny, their little orphan? What were his sins? Why had he been condemned to grow up and live his life without them? At that my good uncle could only shake his head and repeat: “He knows better than we do what He is doing and why.” That's when he advised me to visit his old friend, the mystical poet Yitzhok. “I don't know if he is interested in curing the ailment that is loss of faith, but it's worth a try. If nothing else, you'll discover a great poet.” And that's how, several years after Avrohom's death, I decided to follow his advice.
I had been warned that it would be complicated and difficult. This Yiddish poet is practically unapproachable. Everyone wants to spend time with him. Students want to show him what they've written about his worldview. Journalists want to question him on his interpretation of Ecclesiastes and the Psalms. Naïve visitors think he is a wealthy donor. In short, all those who seek hope and help. Like me.
This mystic is my last chance to overcome the ailment undermining me. I've tried everything. The leading medical experts in New York and Paris, Amsterdam and Los Angeles, know my case. I really need a miracle.
This poet must look me in the eyes. May his eyes see what there is to see. May he listen to me. May he talk to me. May he correct the errors of nature in me. Or those of the Lord.
“Listen,” I said to the guardian at the door, “don't send me away empty-handed; I'm a grateful person.”
“Don't try to bribe me,” he answered nastily. “I don't need your money. I'm a physician. What I need isn't something you could give me.”
“What's that?”
“Some yirat shamayim, fear of heaven. Do you have any of that to
hand me?”
I lowered my head. If he only knew … The physician disappeared. He certainly wouldn't rescue me. The minutes passed. He reappeared.
“I have good news for you. You're right, Reb Yitzhok knew your uncle. Return tomorrow morning. If he feels better, he'll receive you. Otherwise, return the day after tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“So, return.”
“This word seems to be your favorite word.”
“Maybe. For some of us, teshuva, ‘the return,’ also means the desire to repent. What about for you?”
“For me all words are the same.”
I kept talking to myself to illustrate what I'd said. Yes and no. Yesterday or tomorrow, joy or mourning. It's all the same. Even a good deed and a bad deed.
The physician scrutinized me at length, evidently wondering if he should get mad or disregard me, and ended up retiring without saying a word.
I could have gone home, but I remained in the neighborhood. I walked into a few small congregations where they were studying the Talmud and singing. I looked at the men and women who had heard one of the teachers comment on the texts and their secrets. Strange, they all understood that each person was given one hour to allow his or her soul to open a door in the celestial palace where everything is accomplished or undone.
One of the faithful recounted that, one day, while the Master of Rovidok, on a visit in Safed, was studying the mysteries of the apocalypse and redemption, a fanatic penitent with a powerful build burst into the home where he was staying and, breathing fire and fury, yelled, in front of the stunned students: “If you don't make the Messiah come right away, I'll kill you.” And since the master made no reply, the penitent threw himself on him to strangle him. The only person who wasn't frightened was the old man. He addressed his aggressor in a gentle and melancholic voice: “And if you kill me, do you think the Messiah will come?”
At which point the intruder started to sob. “My last hope has just gone up in smoke.”
“No,” said the old man. “It will return one day, and, I hope, will lead you before the Redeemer.”
Someone asked the storyteller if his tale had a sequel. What happened to the man and his violent streak? One evening he appeared in Jerusalem's Old City, distraught and wild, knocking at doors and windows, yelling loudly: “I'm speaking in the name of the invisible prophet who lives up high, in the celestial spheres. He says to you: Follow me before chasing me, fear me before hating me … Man has the choice between the inferno and the dried-out tree … I am your first hope! Your only hope!”
And I wondered where that madman had gone—he who was fighting against just one enemy: despair. And what about the ever so serene master, should he be seen as his ally or his opponent?
Another visitor took over from the first. He too had a story up his sleeve. Another madman. I listened to him too. I had time. Then, weighed down with my own stories of faith and disappointment, I asked myself while continuing my stroll: Why not contact my old friends and acquaintances from the yeshiva again, if they're still alive? What if I found Ayala? And tried to convince her to leave her fiancé? A crazy, indecent idea; I was too old for her. And then other preoccupations came to mind. I told myself that I came here, and if I was made to wait, it must be because someone wanted it, programmed it; it was up to me to discover why and with what aim, for I alone could give meaning to that aim.
The next day, the poet received me. In a narrow, badly lit room, sitting at a table covered with books, his eyes both searching and soothing, he let silence set in. My first reaction? I was disconcerted by his age. Like Reb Yohanan before him, he seemed surprisingly energetic. Did he draw his strength from his poetic vision of man in time? His gaze alone was old. My heart began to pound wildly, very wildly; blood rushed to my head. What did he see inside me? What secrets was he unearthing? Why was he remaining silent? Could it be to destabilize me, put me in a state of inferiority, if not guilt? My lips began to quiver unpleasantly.
Finally, he decided to let his voice be heard; it was hoarse, deep, stamped with an indefinable reticence. Speaking was a painful ordeal for him.
“You live alone,” he asserted, not letting me avert my gaze from his.
“Yes,” I said. “Alone.”
“Is that why you've come here?”
“No.”
“Is it because you've read some of my poems?”
“No again.”
“Is it because you want to discuss Yiddish literature with me and the fact that it is dying?”
“Not really.”
“Perhaps you have—how shall I put it?—literary ambitions?”
“Certainly not.”
“So why?”
“I don't understand …”
“Why are you here? To tell me you're alone? Why are you alone? Have you always been? Yet you had parents, friends? Did you deliberately choose to shut yourself up inside your body and its solitude?”
I felt disoriented, destabilized, shaken, and slightly disappointed. Was I wrong to want to see him? Would I admit to him, “I'm not right in the head”? His questions seemed simplistic and banal to me. Where were his writing gifts and his gift for self-expression? Should I first talk to him about my uncle, and then about my illness?
However, the poet resumed the dialogue, punctuating it with questions, at times specific, at times vague, about my childhood, my religious experience, my inner struggle between the angel of goodness and the angel of evil.
“What do you expect from me?” he finally asked.
“Actually, I don't know. A miracle perhaps.”
“What kind?”
“I don't know. All I know is that I suffer from both a deficiency and an excess. From superabundance and complete emptiness.”
“Poets experience the same pain.”
“But I'm not a poet.”
“In that case, what are you?”
“As far as I can read people's gazes, they see me as mad. And I've always felt I was. Mad about my parents first, then about God, study, truth, beauty, and impossible love.”
The poet lifted his head and stared at me at length. “For a man like you, writing can become an anchor, a refuge perhaps,” he said.
“But writing has an animus toward me. To write, though you have to love words, they also have to love you. Mine scoff at me. As soon as I choose one, ten others spring up and chase it away.”
The poet smiled and said, “The opposite happens to me. Ten words turn up before me, because of the richness of my language; but I just want one. And that one often stays hidden.”
Since I remained silent, he pursued his questioning. “What about your studies, where do you stand with them?”
“I never really interrupted them. I didn't forget anything, Reb Yitzhok. But my knowledge is of no help to me. Like everything else, I have the impression that it drives me mad. That's the way it is: the madman within me is stronger than I am.”
The ailing poet stood up. And I realized that he didn't invite me to sit down. He was tall, a head taller than me. Thin, stoop-shouldered, he bit his lips incessantly. Would he show me to the door? He sat down again in his armchair and motioned to me to take a chair.
“First of all,” he said after a sigh, “I want to warn you: I'm not a miracle maker. With God's help, I only know how to make words. God alone can change the laws of nature. And his ways remain secret. I can only help you see more clearly within yourself. Is that enough for you?”
A thought crossed my mind: I'd never met him before, yet he addressed me with the familiar “you.” But I didn't reciprocate, and this had nothing to do with age. I respected him, this man whom so many human beings admired.
“At least tell me this: Do you still think that our meeting can help you?”
“I think so,” I said in a very low voice. But how? I have no idea. Is the light inside the nightmare any more stable? The meaning of destiny any more apparent? The threat any less close? Would I succeed in better orienting myself withi
n and without, around the traps inside me and the traps encountered along the way?
The physician came in and signaled discreetly to his teacher: he felt the conversation had lasted long enough, but he withdrew immediately.
“Tell me more about your solitude,” said the ailing poet. “Why did you accept it? Didn't you know it could lead to despair, sometimes even to madness? God alone is alone. We, His creatures, must build families, a community. You have neither wife nor children. Why? Aren't you afraid of departing from this world without leaving descendants, heirs, traces? Is vanishing forever and ever what you want? Talk. I'm listening. It is in talking to me that you'll better understand yourself.”
“It's a long story,” I said. “And time—”
“Forget time. You've come from far away. You wanted to see me. You're seeing me. You thought you needed me. I'm here. Right now, I'm here only for you.”
Where should I begin? Where would I locate the first cracks? The first falls, the first defeats, the first wrenching torments, the first breakdowns? The invasion of darkness and gloom, their end-of-the-world howling that I carried within myself and that acted as my tutors?
In a halting voice, stumbling over my words, I told him about my exiled childhood, the death of my parents, the feeling of guilt that haunted the orphan I had been and still was. The attraction of the void. Admittedly, more than once, on many occasions, upon meeting a young woman with a voice I liked, I could have started a family. Each time, almost at the last minute, I retreated in fear. I said to myself: I'm not ready, not yet ready to express my trust in man and his humaneness. Not ready to say to the world: I believe in you and in those who mold you; I want to participate in your undertaking and be included in your future. Not ready to give the world my children doomed beforehand.
And then there was my illness. I gave it an inadequate name, but perhaps, with his poetic gifts, he would succeed in describing what was hidden in my innermost being. Since childhood, I'd endured an ineffable feeling of emptiness, of defeat, but how could I make him feel it? I felt guilty about my parents; I was now older than they had been. Did I have the right to judge them, particularly my mother? Did I have the right to suspect her? Should I tell him about the hallucinations that sometimes washed over me like ocean waves and drowned out the last flashes of my lucidity?
