by Elie Wiesel
Every morning Raissa left Grisha at the school gate and rushed to the factory where she worked as a bookkeeper. As he watched her being swallowed day after day by the morning crowd or carried off in a jammed streetcar, Grisha feared he would lose her forever. To hide his anxiety he had to conceal his happiness at finding her again in the afternoon at the same spot. He did not let her out of his sight for the rest of the day, and followed her into the communal kitchen, the grocery store, even the bathroom. He left her only to get into his bed in the room they shared.
It was not much fun for a boy to grow up in an atmosphere of anxiety and rootlessness. He devoted his energy to comforting his mother—who spent her time comforting him. How did they bear it? They themselves did not know. There was no other way.
Then one day everything seemed to change for the better. Khrushchev, launching a policy of liberalization, opened the camps, the prisons, the universe of slow death. Files were reviewed, sentences reversed. And so Raissa Kossover received a visit from three solemn-looking officials.
“We have a communication of the gravest importance for you.”
“Please sit down.” She seemed agitated and anxious: “There aren’t enough chairs, I’ll run and borrow one from my neighbors.…”
“Don’t bother, the bed will be fine.”
Grisha was trying to follow the adults’ conversation, trying to understand: “What is it, Mommy? What do they want?”
They informed Raissa of the purpose of their visit—an official communication of rehabilitation—and she explained to her son, “It’s good news, Grisha.”
“But who are they?”
“They’re sent by … by the Central Committee,” said Raissa.
“Why?” said Grisha impatiently. At eight, he already mistrusted strangers.
One of the men, the spokesman, heavy-lidded, with a face that exuded kindness, drew Grisha close and gently explained their presence:
“We’ve come to talk about your father.”
Grisha became frightened. He cast a glance toward the bookshelf to see whether his father was still there, in his place, and breathed easier: the visitors had not discovered him. Suddenly, to his great surprise, his mother climbed up on a chair, took hold of the forbidden work and presented it triumphantly to the spokesman.
Grisha protested: “You mustn’t, Mommy! You mustn’t show them my father, you mustn’t take him out of his hiding place!”
The man smiled at him: “Why not, Grishinka?”
“It’s dangerous, you know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, no, my little Grisha Paltielovich, it’s not dangerous any more—times have changed.…”
He examined the book, passed it to his aide, who studied it seriously, conscientiously, before giving it to his colleague. All three shook their heads sadly, compassionately, and let out whistles of admiration and long sighs:
“Yes, yes, no doubt at all, a great work …”
“He was a real poet, that’s what we heard from high places, you know.”
“A martyr. What a tragedy, what a tragedy …”
“And what an outrage!”
Grisha was lost. Why these outbursts? His mother was drinking them in. Grisha had never seen her so joyful, so exuberant. The visitors took their leave, promising to return to discuss practical arrangements: pension, compensation.… Raissa showed them to the door. She came back, excited, almost in a trance:
“You see, Grisha, you see, they came! They spoke about your father, that means that from now on you too will be able to talk about him; it also means we can keep his book right here, in the open.”
For Grisha things also changed at school. His teachers and classmates no longer treated him as a nuisance. Still, whenever he mentioned his father, he was left alone again.
During that period of his childhood he made two important acquaintances: first Dr. Mozliak, and then the night watchman for the group of buildings they lived in, a strange fellow called Viktor Zupanev, who was to become his protector, his guide, his ally, his best friend.
Dr. Mozliak was a physician of sorts. Grisha was convinced he spent hours at a time in front of the mirror admiring himself, perhaps even talking to himself. Surely he thought himself irresistible, with his mustache, his hard, cold, piercing eyes, the eyes of a man who thought he knew everything and was entitled to everything.
Grisha couldn’t understand his mother: how could she become attached to someone like that? Of course, she was alone, she needed a man in her life, while he, Grisha, made her feel even more alone.
Grisha detested Mozliak and made no secret of it. Because of him Raissa would slip out in the evening and go up to the floor above. To make her feel better Grisha would pretend to be asleep. Besides, she would have left anyway. Often, eyes aching, sick with anxiety, he would wait for her return: when would he finally hear the door creaking? His anguish endured until the door opened. Then he would close his eyes and pretend to be fast asleep. On one occasion, he didn’t succeed. It was impossible to close his eyes: he tried and tried—in vain. Raissa turned on the bed light and saw her son’s twisted face.
“What’s the matter, Grisha?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“Weren’t you sleeping?”
“Yes, I was. I just woke up, I had a bad dream.”
“I’m here now. Go to sleep.”
She put out the light. “You should spend more time with your classmates, make some friends,” she said in the dark. “Now it’s all right, it’s possible.”
“I know that,” he said spitefully.
She was startled. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
She was silent a moment before going on: “Are you angry with me?”
“No.”
“Dr. Mozliak is a fine person, you know, you’d like him too, if …”
“If what?”
“If you’d meet him. In fact, he’d like nothing better.”
Grisha thought it over: “What do you do in his place when you’re together?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “We talk, that’s all. We drink tea and chat. He’s a good talker, Volodya, I mean Dr. Mozliak.”
“And my father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was my father a good talker?”
The hostile silence created an abyss between them.
“Your father didn’t talk much, Grisha. He was a poet. And poets, in order to sing, need silence. Your father was often silent.”
Grisha promised himself that one day he would be silent too. And that he would learn to understand words before they were born and after they had disappeared.
I have never laughed, said Viktor Zupanev, the night watchman. I have never laughed in my life.
My parents tried to make me laugh; my neighbors tried to make me laugh; my adversaries tried to make me laugh. Life and death, intertwined like drunkards, did everything to make me laugh.
My parents took me to doctors, who made me vomit; then to gypsies, who made me drink; then to fortune-tellers, showmen, monks, scoundrels, witches, acrobats, clowns, fakirs—I always left with a frown on my face.
At boarding school, my teachers swore on their honor to make me laugh; they beat me and deprived me of food, water and sleep; they laughed, not I.
My schoolmates persecuted me. Girls tickled me, their mothers caressed me and bubbled with laughter. Nothing worked—I didn’t laugh.
I had no real friends, no real enemies, no mistresses, no illegitimate children—I had no one, I was no one. And all because I didn’t know how to laugh.
At the office, I watched everything that went on, I observed, listened and took notes—but there, too, I had no desire to laugh.
THE TESTAMENT OF PALTIEL KOSSOVER II
Soon afterward World War I broke out, but I had nothing to do with it, I swear. No doubt this will shock you, Citizen Magistrate, since you are convinced that everything evil that happens in the world is arranged, directed and wi
lled by the Jews. Not this time. Sarajevo—not my fault.
To tell the truth, I was a little bewildered by it all. Those names, those titles, those thrones: too much for the head of a Jewish child. The adults were worried and so was I. It was dismal, distressing. Those church bells, ringing for hours across fields and mountains, were announcing to men and women that it was their turn to meet death, some as messengers, others as victims. The bells rang out, they chimed; would they never stop?
“What does that mean—war?” I asked my father.
He tried to explain: politics, strategy, territorial ambitions, national pride, economic factors. All I understood was that the Austrians loved their king, the English theirs, the Russians theirs, but that all this royalty envied and hated one another.
“But then,” I asked in astonishment, “why don’t they do the fighting? Why do kings send their people to kill and be killed in their place? It would be so much simpler.…”
My father agreed. “Unfortunately, kings don’t think the way we do.”
Another time he gave me a better explanation: “War is a sort of pogrom, but on a larger scale.”
“Against the Jews?”
“Not necessarily. You see, in war, all people become Jews without realizing it.”
Barassy was being emptied of its arms-bearing citizens and filling up with strangers. Sons and husbands, called to the colors, were leaving for the train station singing, while recruits mobilized elsewhere were arriving in our midst. At first the war was one long journey, an endless displacement, a national uprooting.
My father having been discharged for medical reasons, there were no changes in our family life. On the other hand, my maternal and paternal uncles had all donned uniforms and were already fighting for the glory and honor of the Tsar of All the Russias.
I can still remember. Most evenings, neighbors and friends would gather in our home, in the dining room during the winter and under the poplar in the summer, to discuss the situation at the front. The three students, our companions in misfortune during the pogrom, paid us frequent visits. Two of them came for the meals, the third for my sister.
The conversations also touched on the future: What was better for the Jews—a victory for the Tsar or a triumph for the Kaiser? As it happened, both of them, one after the other, lost that war, and neither’s loss benefited the other—or the Jews.
At the time there was much talk in our families about a highly placed monk, his evil power and great influence at the Imperial Court; about the misery of the country, its weakness, the soldiers who were fighting badly or not at all, about the rich and the dignitaries who spent their nights drinking and making merry; about the discontent taking hold of the people.…
I learned some new words—Bolshevism, Menshevism, Socialism, Anarchism. I questioned my father: “ ‘Ism’—what’s that exactly?”
“It’s like a fickle woman ready to marry … the first word that comes along.”
There was talk of leaders—courageous or rash depending on one’s point of view—who clandestinely or from abroad claimed to be able and willing to depose the Tsar.
“That’s a joke,” someone said. “Depose the Tsar—no more, no less. They can’t be serious.”
Then the talk turned to revolution, counterrevolution, the Brest-Litovsk armistice, peace, the White and Red armies.
Why did my father one fine day decide to leave Barassy and move us all to Romania? He was probably as afraid of civil war as of Communism.
The move was painful and filled with incidents; we had to abandon a good part of our belongings on the way. My mother was a poor traveler but never complained. Masha was upset at having to leave her future husband; but Goldie, a year younger, was helpful and good-natured. As for myself, I found the adventure strangely exciting—towns and villages devastated, men and women in flight seeking shelter, and above all, the stories they told between handshakes—never before had I heard such stories. I experienced this time of upheaval with every fiber of my being. In my child’s mind I sometimes fancied this war had been declared just for my education.
Welcomed in Liyanov, a small town on the Romanian border, by Sholem, a cousin of my mother’s, a devout Hasid, we adjusted quickly. What do you expect, Citizen Magistrate? Jews remain Jews wherever they are: united, charitable, hospitable. Every Jew knows the roles can easily be reversed; the person who welcomes a homeless stranger to his home can so easily be in his place next time.
You condemn Jewish nationalism for its internationalist character, and in a way you’re right: between a Jewish businessman from Morocco and a Jewish chemist from Chicago, a Jewish rag picker from Lodz and a Jewish industrialist from Lyons, a Jewish mystic from Safed and a Jewish intellectual from Minsk, there is a deeper and more substantive kinship, because it is far older, than between two gentile citizens of the same country, the same city and the same profession. A Jew may be alone but never solitary, for he remains integrated within a timeless community, however invisible or without geographic or political reality. The Jew does not define himself within geographical categories, Citizen Magistrate; he expresses and identifies himself in historic terms. Jews help one another in order to prolong their common history, to explore and enrich their common destiny, to enlarge the domain of their collective memory.
I know: what I say now constitutes additional evidence of my guilt; I’ve just acknowledged that I’m a bad Communist, a traitor to the working class and an implacable enemy of your system. So be it. But my father’s opinion means more to me than yours. In fact, it is his alone that counts.
At the hour of my death, it is his image that will rise before me. It is to him that I must justify my life. And in his presence I have a feeling close to shame. I wasted too many years seeking something that could never be part of me.
To please him, all I would have had to do was to follow the divine path, obey the Law of Moses, accept God’s grace. I must have been a disappointment to him in this area. As in many others.
At Liyanov I was old enough to study seriously. Accordingly, my father enrolled me in the best schools. He introduced me to famous religious masters, and let me taste the joy and magic of a good Talmudic argument. I wonder today whether his efforts were not in vain.
I loved Liyanov, and Barassy seemed far away. I loved Liyanov because Barassy seemed far away. I was an expatriate, a refugee, a Romanian subject. Memories of the pogrom vanished into the past. War, flight—I no longer thought of them. My studies were supposed to absorb me, and that is precisely what they did. In short, life returned to normal.
My father resumed his trade as a piece-goods merchant. Goldie helped him in the shop. A radiant Masha was counting the days until she would once again see her student from the Barassy yeshiva—and marry him.
I remember that wedding. I remember because it brought me face to face with misery and despair. It was 1922, the year of my Bar Mitzvah.
The marriage was celebrated with joy and pomp. Uncles, aunts, cousins—I never knew I had so many—all attended together with friends, companions, acquaintances. Fortunately, my father could afford it; the festivities might well have ruined another man.
In accordance with custom, a special meal had been prepared for the poor. Masha danced for them and with them. Did she really see them? Yes, she did—and she wept, though she may have been moved by love, not pity. I looked on, holding back my tears. The seeds of my future Communist sympathies were planted at that wedding.
The table for the poor was set up in a long spacious room. It was stifling in there. Pitiful, grotesque men and women scurried about trying to snatch a piece of fish, a little white bread. Here and there quarrels broke out. People spat, yelled, exchanged insults, came to blows. It was to be expected—they were hungry, these children of poverty. Dressed in rags, a mad glint in their eyes, their features distorted by greed and hate, they appeared to be living in a bewitched, accursed world. But in the next room, where the distinguished guests were, there was such feasting and merrymaking, su
ch enthusiasm, that nothing else seemed to matter. It was as though evil and distress had already vanished from earth.
It was painful to go from one room to the next. I no longer paid attention to the songs, happy or sad, of the entertainers. The rabbis said the blessings and made the usual speeches but I didn’t even listen. Everyone seemed happy except me. I felt torn; my place was among the beggars.
At my Bar Mitzvah, which took place a few months later, I devoted my discourse to the scandal of social injustice in the context of Jewish tradition. I quoted the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, Maimonides and Nahmanides, Menahem Harecanati and the Maharal of Prague, the poets of the Golden Age and the Vilna Gaon. I was indignant, I protested: “Long ago, it was thought that if a Jew was poor it was because of society; if he suffered it was because of Exile; people forgot that it is also our fault, mine and yours.” And I concluded: “If it is given to man to commit injustices, it is also up to him to repair them; if the creation of the world bears the seal of God, its order bears the seal of man.”
My speech created something of a stir. One purist reproached me with having twisted a quotation; another claimed he had heard some blasphemous “insinuations.” As for my father, he came directly to the point.
“Remember this, Paltiel: with God everything is possible; without Him nothing has value.”
That same week Reb Mendel-the-Tactiturn accosted me in the House of Study and announced he had chosen me as a disciple. That was a consecration; Reb Mendel did not accept just anyone into his intimate circle. Often he would reject candidates without the slightest explanation. Incredibly, he deigned to tell me why I had found favor in his eyes:
