by Elie Wiesel
A recollection: Christmas Eve. Sent home in the early afternoon, before prayers, I ask my mother why. This night, and until the following morning, she explains, it is forbidden to study our holy texts. Why? She does not know. Taking my courage in both hands, I ask my father, who knows everything:
“This is the night,” he answers, “when a curse passes over us; it’s better not to expose our secret treasures.”
Later I learned that on Christmas Eve, throughout Christendom, the enemies of the Jews would chase them in the streets to punish them in the name of their Lord, in the name of His love; it was more prudent not to go to school or to the Houses of Study and prayer; prudence obliged Jews to stay at home.
I was growing up, maturing, understanding better: being a Jew in a Christian world meant to know and become accustomed to fear. Fear of heaven as well as fear of man. Fear of death and fear of life—fear of everything that breathed outside, of everything being plotted on the other side. An obscure threat hung over each and every one of us. Now it was becoming more precise, taking shape. I was going to witness my first pogrom, I was going to live through it, survive it. My age? I don’t recall, I remember only that it was before the First World War.
I especially remember the day, shortly before Passover, when my father, looking distraught, appeared unexpectedly in my class and took the teacher aside. It was clear he was giving him bad news, because the teacher decided once more to close the heder for the day. He sighed: “Oh God, Oh God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have pity on their children and on yours, have pity.”
Bewildered, we gazed at him. All those hours of freedom, what a gift! We had already begun rejoicing when my father brought us back to reality.
“Go home,” he said, “run fast; God willing, you’ll come back tomorrow.”
I took his hand and followed him quickly. I had never seen him walk so fast. My mother was in the courtyard, holding a broom; she was beginning to make preparations for Passover. She saw us, and with her free hand covered her mouth to suppress a cry: she had understood everything.
“Where are the girls?” my father asked.
“Inside.”
“Let them stay there. We shut down the school,” he added.
“And the shop?”
“Also shut. Everything must be shut.”
My mother did not look surprised; for her it was not the first time.
It was around noon. A splendid April day. Trees in bloom; a feast of fragrance and color. Blue sky flecked with white; a golden sun, full of promise. Far off, the parks in all their freshness. And the river, serene and luminous. And in the midst of it all, a small, brutal and barbarous word—pogrom—ringing out like the scream of a mangled woman heralding visions of disemboweled bodies and smashed skulls. Yes, Citizen Magistrate, it must have been noon on one of those spring days when man feels in harmony with Creation. And Barassy was beautiful. Never shall I forget the beauty of Barassy, the serenity of Krasnograd on that day.
Nothing about that day shall I ever forget.
My father called my older sister, Masha: “Would you run an errand for me?”
“Of course, Father.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“No, Father. Anyway, it’s less dangerous for a woman. Where would you like me to go?”
“Hurry over to the House of Study; tell the out-of-town students, those who have no place to go, to come here.”
Masha left and brought back three young men, one of whom—a whim of fate—was to become her husband.
Standing in the bedroom—where, I remember, an old painting of the Western Wall hung above the two beds separated by a night table—my father revealed his plan:
“We have five or six hours—let’s put them to good use. The main thing is to remain cool. God willing, we shall get through the ordeal safe and sound.”
“What will you do, Reb Gershon?” asked Masha’s future husband. “Put up barricades? Do you really think, Reb Gershon, that bolted doors will stop the murderers?”
“Let’s prepare to die like good Jews,” cried his friend Senderl, a thin, intense-looking adolescent. “Let’s be worthy of our ancestors!”
“Have you a plan?” asked the third student. “A plan to stop the murderers?”
My father listened patiently, stroking his beard, which he wore trimmed short, and thought for a long moment before answering:
“My friends, God alone can and will stop the murderers. Or disarm them. Or strike them with blindness and deafness. As in Egypt long ago. Who are we to give Him advice? He knows what to do. As for us, listen. With God’s help, here’s what we’re going to do.…”
We opened all the drawers, all the closets; we scattered dishes, silver and clothing all over the floor in order to give the impression that we had taken to our heels in the grip of panic. Having thus set the stage, we went out into the courtyard surreptitiously and one by one filed into the barn. My father lifted a floorboard and made us descend a narrow ladder. After joining us, he carefully put the board back in place. In the semi-darkness I saw spiderwebbed beams and old furniture. Perspiring, my father pushed everything together to block the opening; we helped as best we could. He wiped his face.
“God willing, the enemy won’t find us; we must have faith.”
The enemy, the enemy. I tried to visualize him. Egyptians in the time of Pharaoh. Looters in the time of Haman. Crusaders in the shadow of icons, their faces twisted by hate. The enemy never changes. Nor does the Jew. Nor does God Himself, thank God.
A few sunbeams made their way into our shelter. Instinctively we drew away: if the sun could get to us, so too might the enemy. If only we could make ourselves invisible …
God willing, everything is possible—God willing. Those were the only words my father had on his lips. He had faith; he was convinced that the Divine Will would prevail. But how determine what God wants or doesn’t want? If the enemy were to discover us, would that mean God wanted him to? Endless questions swarmed in my childish head, but I had no right to ask them. I had to keep quiet, breathe without a sound, enveloped by silence, my senses on the alert. At that time I still didn’t know, Citizen Magistrate, that silence too could turn into torture. I thought of that in this very place a few weeks, or a few months, or a few eternities ago, when you deemed it useful and profitable to lock me up in the “isolator.” Silence as a source and harborer of hostility and danger: the density of silence, its pressure, its violence—all seemed familiar to me. Except that in that dusty hideaway in Barassy, now Krasnograd, I was not alone, and that the enemy back there was an enemy of long standing.
I remember the silence towering like a wall, separating the two sides. I remember the silence going beyond its own limits and becoming omnipresent, becoming God.
Desolate streets. Closed shutters. Drawn curtains. Night in full daylight. Here and there a cat walked lazily about, followed by a thousand invisible eyes. A horse whinnied, and a thousand ears listened. A board creaked, and a thousand throats went dry. As did mine.
The hours went by, slowly, heavily, unnerving. Waiting for danger, anticipating disaster—do you know what that is like, Citizen Magistrate? Do you know what it is to wait for the massacre, you who never wait?
My mother distributed some small rolls she had managed to prepare, I don’t know when. The three students ate heartily. My father didn’t. Nor did I or my sisters.
Later, when the sun disappeared, my father whispered, “Time for minha.”
The men recited the prayer in voices so low I could hear nothing. The darkness became total and I touched my mother’s arm to make sure she had not abandoned me.
“Paltiel! Say the Shema Yisrael!” my father commanded under his breath. “You’re not to leave God just because the enemy is close.”
I obeyed. I knew that prayer by heart—I still do—having recited it every morning and evening. Reb Gamliel claimed it chased demons away—we would see, soon enough.
Strange sounds, begotten and expelled by silence,
were approaching the Jewish quarter. Suddenly we all froze. My heart—or was it my father’s?—was beating so loud it threatened to wake the whole city. The unknown was going to be revealed to us, the unknown was going to take hold of my imagination and never let it go. I was going to learn what men are capable of. Their madness was going to burst into our universe: black and hateful, a savage madness thirsting for blood and murder. It was approaching slowly, cunningly, with measured steps, like a pack of wild beasts encircling a victim already overcome by terror.
And then, madness broke loose. A primeval shriek slashed the silence and the shadows: Death to the Jews! and it was taken up by countless throats, until it echoed through the city and beyond the forests to the farthest reaches of the earth. It penetrated trees and stones, rivers and rocks, hell and paradise; groaning or sneering angels and beasts transmitted it, offering it up to the celestial throne in remembrance of an adventure that had come to an end, of a failure on the scale of Creation … Death to the Jews! Suddenly these four words, among all the words used by men, meant something, something real, immediate, true. As I listened to them, endured them, felt them ravage my brain, my ears rang, my eyes burned, I ached all over. I could not control my trembling. I clung to my mother, who held me close. She too began shivering. I would have liked to feel my father’s hand on my head, but he was too far away. Just as well: I would have been ashamed to admit my weakness to him. Anyway, what good would it have done? Much better to hide. To be paralyzed, or dead. My teeth chattered and I was sure they made more noise than the pogrom outside.
It had already reached our street: the harrowing shrieks, the cries of terror and the death rattles. And the roaring of the pillagers, the murderers, the strippers of corpses. Their hatred, their joy were unfurling over our homes. Who was still living, who had ceased to live? I kept thinking of the prayers for the Day of Atonement: someone—was it God?—was reviewing his records, checking off one name here, erasing another there.
The turmoil was coming nearer and nearer; here it was in our courtyard, inside our house. Chaos—smashed windows, broken dishes, wardrobes hacked to bits with hatchets: Death to the Jews, Death to the Jews! The voice of an enraged drunkard: “Hey, Yids, where are you hiding? Come out, let’s look at your ugly faces. They’ve run away! Ah, the cowards! The rats!” Another voice: “They’re worse than—worse than wild animals. There must be more silver!” First voice: “That’s what they’re like, those Yids. That’s all they’re interested in—money and silver!” Another voice: “To do that to us!” Another voice: “Or maybe—” Another voice: “Maybe what?” “Maybe Ivan’s boys were here ahead of us?”
They ransacked the house and then went out bellowing like savages. They were about to leave the courtyard and take care of the next house when one of them caught sight of the barn and yelled to his followers, “Hey, boys, let’s take a look in there.” They entered, torches in hand, they peered into the dark corners, turned the wheelless cart upside down, tore apart a sack of potatoes, then a sack of dried nuts. Stubbornly, the leader climbed as far as the loft and came down again, disappointed. He flung himself down on the floor, listened, and then yelled: “Hey, you Yids, come out! Show yourselves! Don’t be cowards, show your dirty faces.…”
We could almost smell his breath. My teeth would not stop chattering, my eyes bulged, the blood throbbed in my head, and an iron fist kept pounding, pounding in my chest, preventing me from breathing, from living. I wanted to scream in terror, in pain, in anguish.… But my father stretched his arm out toward me and put a finger on my lips with a pressure as gentle and soothing as my mother’s lullabies: You must not, you must not give in, you must not moan, you must not even blink; you must merge into the night, melt away into the silence, into oblivion. And for one interminable moment, the enemy, nose to the ground, alert to the slightest sound, seeking out the smallest crack in the floor, the enemy was the sole inhabitant of heaven and earth.
Then the pack retreated. We waited before opening our mouths. My mother, in a murmur: “Is everyone all right?”
Everyone was all right. Masha’s future husband exclaimed, “It’s a miracle! A real miracle, Reb Gershon. They were there, right there, and God made them deaf and blind.…”
… “And us He made mute,” said another student.
“… Like Egypt, long ago,” my future brother-in-law went on. “Thank you, Reb Gershon, for having brought about this miracle!”
“It’s too early to rejoice,” said my father. “They may still come back.”
I fell asleep and awoke only after the pogrom was over. The sun, in all its glory, was shining on a spectacle of horror. The street was piled high with mutilated bodies. In their ripped-open homes men, women and children lay massacred, disemboweled, shriveled. Reb Gamliel: a cross of blood cut into his forehead. Asher the gravedigger: crucified. Manya, his wife: her throat slashed. Their eight sons and daughters: beaten to death.
Where to begin? What to do first? Whom to help?
The three Houses of Study that had graced our street had been desecrated and sacked. The holy scrolls, soiled and torn, littered the ground. Shimon, the beadle, lay in a pool of blood.
With my father, my sisters and the three students, I went from house to house, from family to family. I looked, I listened, I wept with rage and bitterness. I wept at being a child, at not being able to help the victims, at not being able to strike back at the killers. An immense love welled up inside me for the Jews of my town. I wanted to bring them back to life, to console them and make them happy; I longed to have them share the miracle God had granted us.
The funerals of the victims made a deep impression on me: a long procession of coffins covered with black cloth, carried by rabbis and scholars in mourning. The ceremony took place in the courtyard of the main synagogue in the presence of dignitaries who had come from as far away as Kharkov, Odessa and St. Petersburg. Under a gray sky, a dense throng listened to the funeral orations, then moved toward the cemetery. Three beadles, like living scarecrows, led the procession, shaking money boxes and crying out, “Tzedaka tatzil mimavet, charity will save you from death, charity is stronger than death.…” Everyone approached timidly to deposit a coin. My father had given me five or ten kopecks, but I couldn’t bring myself to come close. I know it’s stupid but those three tall thin men, walking ahead of the dead, of death itself, paralyzed me. I feel the terror to this day.
As for the murderers, the looters, I hated them, I wanted to see them on their knees, whipped, chained—yes, Citizen Magistrate, I felt a profound hatred, monstrous and without pity, for the population of Barassy, and thus for Krasnograd and its people, and for the Russian people and the whole of Russia.
Yes, Citizen Magistrate, I loved my people and I hated yours. Therefore, I, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover, resident of Krasnograd at 28 October Street, I, a Jewish poet charged with subversion, deviation and treason, plead guilty: from the age of five—or was it four?—my love has been centered on one people, my own, who obey only God, and that God is not yours. In other words: even at four or five I was already guilty of nationalist Jewish plots and agitations against your law, for your law is the enemy of mine.
Krasnograd after the Second World War—how can it be described? Those born there swear their city is a real metropolis. But in fact, Krasnograd is a provincial town, neither better nor worse, neither uglier nor more stimulating than any other.
Perhaps more picturesque. At night you can hear the distant roar of a waterfall. In the summer, young couples venture into the woods. The bolder ones climb the mountain, a mountain whose summit seems a challenge, especially to children. If you don’t care for either the mountain or the river, you can stroll through one of the five parks that are the pride of our municipality. Gorky Square is the finest spot. But it is often deserted. For good reason: the Security offices are nearby. People prefer the small romantically unkempt park that lies in the shadow of the Hill of the Seven Repentant Bandits, named in memory of seven eighteenth-century
bandits who saw the light and changed professions.
Krasnograd numbers one hundred to one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants of very diverse origins. This is hardly surprising in this region, since Krasnograd is the third point of a triangle between Zhironev and Tosahin. Five languages are used here, plus two just for bickering.
Like all Soviet urban centers, Krasnograd boasts tramways, factories, daily newspapers and houses of culture, theaters, movie houses and all kinds of schools. The city has its share of heroes and villains, drunkards and whores. There are two churches and a synagogue: the aged must be kept busy, after all. The young people prefer the “special” clubs, most of them under the aegis of the Pioneers and the Komsomol, notwithstanding the spate of lectures they must endure. They go there to play chess, to meet friends, or simply to hear the local news. It’s pleasant enough; the rooms are spacious, the canteen offerings passable.
As happens elsewhere, people live among their kind: old with old, young with young, and the same is true for engineers, war veterans, the sick, the retired, the bureaucrats and the Party members. Teachers socialize only with other teachers, members of the Secret Police associate only with other members of the Police, Jews see only Jews.
Not many Jews are left in Krasnograd. Large numbers were massacred at the beginning of the German invasion; others joined the partisans in the forest. The young people fought, the old took care of supplies. They had to defend themselves against both the invaders and the local inhabitants. The Jews had no friends at all at that time. Their isolation continued after the occupation. That Jewish aloneness tinges Grisha’s earliest memories; it comes back to haunt him whenever he thinks about the past.
He was very young when, on his own, he discovered the walls and limits of his world. His solitude was magnified by his mother’s. She seldom spoke to him, and encouraged his conversation even less. Mother and son lived as outcasts, pariahs of the community; people pointed at them and whispered as they passed. The father’s absence was enough to create a void around them: after all, you don’t rub shoulders with the family of a saboteur, a spy, an enemy of the people; you don’t smile at a schoolboy whose father has been involved in a political plot; you don’t shake hands with a woman whose husband has vanished.
