The Testament

by Elie Wiesel

  If you knew, my boy, how many agents were set on his trail. For weeks and months they searched, never uncovering the slightest clue. Abakumov himself had signed the warrant to detain him, abduct him and bring him back at any cost. He was convinced, Abakumov, that your father’s friend directed an international network on a huge scale; that he had placed his accomplices even inside the Kremlin walls, perhaps even among the insiders of … Our services mobilized our finest sleuths. Result: zero. David Aboulesia mocked the world, and, in particular, all of us.

  Do you know that he even managed to follow your father into Spain—in the middle of the civil war?

  THE TESTAMENT OF PALTIEL KOSSOVER VIII

  I know this place, I know this sky, I know these walls, these courtyards, these trees. Searing, spellbinding, that was the thought that never left me, that obsessed me.

  I was walking through the streets of Barcelona after training in Albacete, and the landscapes seemed eerily familiar. The hills overlooking the city. When had I experienced this blurred nostalgia—as I arrived or as I left? I ambled through the streets ready to halt before a window to converse with a woman who had smiled at me centuries earlier; I cut through cemeteries, my favorite haunts, and deciphered barely visible Hebrew inscriptions. These names, these numbers recording births and deaths, I remembered them as though they were linked to my past, to my life as a man.

  I was sorry that I could not write my parents the truth; it was forbidden to me to inform them of my enlistment in the Brigades. I entrusted my letters to an emissary who carried them to France and posted them in Paris. My address: care of Sheina Rosenblum. Pity. I could not tell Spain to my father.

  As a child I had studied the history of the Jews in Spain—the poets, the philosophers, the scholars, the ministers in their period of splendor, then at the time of their distress—and I had loved it. I rediscovered Abulefia of Saragossa and his messianic divagations, Yehuda Halevy and his poetic visions, Shmuel Hanagid and his prayers, Don Itzhak Abravanel and his acts of faith. I saw myself among my brothers as they were being coerced into choosing between exile and disavowal; I took my place among those who left and those who remained. I understood them all: the ones who chose disavowal made me sad, the others made me proud, and both added to my sense of richness. I felt as much at home as back in Liyanov.

  And this war—atrocious, horrible but imperative—in which I was involved was mine more than I realized.

  Granted that every war is madness—civil war, fratricide, is the worst of all: it reaches deeper into ugliness, cruelty and absurdity. It is like a man lacerating his own flesh out of self-hate; he kills himself so as to kill the enemy within.

  Oh, yes, I wished I could have told my father about it. Told him that the Jew within me was possessed of a memory more ancient than the Communist’s. The Communist conceded to the Talmudist. During the nights of waiting at the front lines, during the long watches, from Toledo to Córdoba, from Madrid to Teruel, I dreamed of the Jewish poets of the Golden Age more than of Marxist ideology. My first poem composed under the tormented skies of Spain addressed itself to Abraham Abulefia, that unfortunate false messiah who, unable to gain recognition from his brethren, traveled to Rome to try his luck with the Pope, whom he planned to convert to the Jewish faith, no less:

  The Pope?

  Why the Pope,

  poor Abraham,

  innocent dreamer?

  Say, brother, tell me,

  supposing you succeeded,

  supposing the Pope had

  bravely

  taken Joshua’s side

  against Christ,

  would you have won the battle?

  There would have been

  in the world

  one more Jew,

  that’s all,

  one Jew

  another Pope

  would have sent to the stake.

  (Translated from Yiddish)

  One morning, among the ruins of a cemetery, much gray on a background of dirty yellow, I came upon a tombstone whose inscription made me shiver: Paltiel son of Gershon, born the 15th day of the month of Kislev 5118* and returned to his ancestors the 7th day of the month of Nissan 5178.† …

  To us Jews, all cemeteries seem familiar.

  Contrary to my fears, Sheina did not make a big fuss when I announced my decision to enlist. She neither burst into sobs nor did she threaten to commit suicide. She did not pull me into her arms to dissuade me from leaving. Quite the opposite: she declared herself delighted and proud.

  “You shall write poems,” said she, all excited. “You shall read them to me and we shall make love.”

  “And if I don’t come back?”

  “There’ll always be someone to read your poems—and to make love,” she answered laughing and inviting me to come closer to admire her lips.

  She bought me a knapsack, underwear and shirts, handkerchiefs and—one of her whims—a pipe.

  “But, Sheina, I don’t smoke a pipe!”

  “You’re a poet, yes or no? Poets who go to war smoke a pipe, don’t you see?”

  We elaborated a detailed plan to enable her to forward my parents’ letters and money orders. Will I see her again? Some day, Sheina, some day. After the war, after the victory. We exchanged promises and appropriate wishes, and one rainy evening I took myself to Austerlitz station.

  As I boarded the “Volunteer Train” I recalled my departure from Berlin. There, too, no one had been on the platform to wish me bon voyage. The compartment was jammed, but I slept through the night.

  Arrival in Perpignan. The hotel is pitiful. Again! Clearly it is written that I shall never see the inside of a palace.

  It is forbidden to leave the room to mingle with the regular clients, to be noticed, to attract attention.

  Amusing: my ancestors left Spain and I am returning.…

  I wrote a letter to my father, informing him that I was doing well—as fabulously well as “God in France” as Jews were fond of saying in Odessa, or as “God in Odessa” as they said in France.

  The “guide” called at the hotel shortly before midnight. There were some twenty of us who were to follow him, including two nurses, an American—he had seen my photograph in a Communist newspaper in New York—a few Germans, Austrians, a British journalist.… There were among us former soldiers, engineers, experts in explosives. But only one poet.

  The “guide” knew his way in the Pyrenees as I knew mine in my father’s orchard in Liyanov. He was familiar with every path, every brook, every rock. He knew precisely at what moment the border guards would appear and where; he seemed able to predict what subject they would be discussing and in which direction they would turn to relieve themselves. In five minutes we had crossed the border. Another “guide” took charge of us and escorted us to the camp at Albacete, where a first selection, according to skills and inclinations, took place. I had to start from scratch. Skills I didn’t have, and my value as a fighter was surely negligible. And so I was dispatched to the “Leningrad” camp near Barcelona, where I was taught the use of light weaponry, how to throw a grenade without damage to myself, and the Communist method of moving forward under fire without ever pulling back. I carried on as best I could in order not to embarrass Sanchez—my alias of the moment—but my instructors, soon discouraged, had to give in to reality: I was too clumsy, too inept in battle, I simply wasn’t made for the noble profession of soldier. I was assigned to the service of “Propaganda and Culture.”

  Of the camp and all those who gave me shelter during my stay in Republican Spain, I have retained an abundance of memories, good and bad, depressing and exhilarating. I shall always be proud to have known these men and women who had forsaken homes and families to defend this land of freedom; one can never say enough about their spirit, their comradery and courage. Physicians and taxi drivers, academicians and cesspool cleaners, disillusioned intellectuals and idealistic laborers, romantic young girls and serious and devoted activists, they came from countries near and far, peac
eful and tormented, to prevent Franco from trampling on this generous people in love with sun and sacrifice. Communists and libertarians addressed one another with the familiar tu, we helped each other, we shared everything. In the evenings we would sing around the campfires or inside the barracks, we would sing alone or in groups, Flamenco and Russian, French, Yiddish and English melodies; we would get drunk with words, anecdotes and hope. We felt mobilized by history in its war against the barbarians; we yearned to be strong and pure like saints anxious to sanctify the cause that ordered them to kill and die: oh, yes, Citizen Magistrate, you are too young, you cannot know.… In those days, there was still room for hope and friendship.

  But … there was also sadness and horror—even more than in earlier conflicts. This war fed upon itself. The battle was suicidal—the struggle of a people challenging its own existence. Naturally, there were fundamental differences in principles, faith, ideals. Our side was fighting on behalf of human dignity, the opposite side on behalf of spiritual slavery. Yet the cruelty on both sides was identical.

  Near Córdoba, in a village reconquered by our men, I saw what the Fascists had done with their prisoners: I saw the obscenely mutilated corpses, piled up in the casa del pueblo, and I went on seeing them in my sleep for a long time, and, for a long time, when I was with a woman, all desire dissipated at the memory of that scene. Castrated men, disemboweled women. Three Reds drowned in the same well, heads down, their feet on the ledge. Never have I felt so sick. Never have I hated so much.

  I saw a group of men buried up to their eyes. Three prisoners were hanging from the branches of the same plane tree. And there were those who had been driven insane by thirst or by pain. The Fascists played with their victims before finishing them off—debasing, sadistic games they prolonged even beyond death.

  Being a good propagandist, I visited the centurias, the Brigades, and my hatred was contagious. Our cause is just, I proclaimed, for the savagery of our enemies makes man ashamed of his humanity.

  To be fair, the Loyalists did not distinguish themselves by excessive charity. Churches in ruins, crucified priests, dismembered nuns: I have seen them. And I shall not forget.

  A church of the Paloma, somewhere in the region of Teruel. I remember: the statue of the Virgin on the ground; next to it, a young woman, dead, her skirts in tatters, her thighs spread apart. Next to her, another statue. And another young woman, raped. And so on, from the portal to the altar.

  The International Brigades, on the other hand, behaved honorably. Because there were such a large number of Jews among them? And because Jews seem less likely to commit certain ignominies, even when vengeance is involved? A Stern, a Gross, a Frenkel, a Stein, who had come from various dispersed communities of Eastern Europe, all were humane with the other side. Not that they would ever have attributed their aversion to cruelty to their Jewish origins; rather they would have related it to their Marxist ideology. But I am certain of what I say. I know it to be true. Ideology had no effect upon people. With all due respect, Citizen Magistrate, some Red militiamen, Communists though they were, indulged in the same kind of butcheries as the adversary. Court martials, summary executions, torture … I was appalled.

  Yes sir, Citizen Magistrate. Both sides took part in a horrible and debasing cult in which the sacrificial offerings were men and women. The war chants were different but the results were similar: Arriba España, No pasarán, words charged with hatred, blood and death.

  In battle, though, my comrades were admirable. Their behavior under fire was heroic. One against ten, rifles against machine guns, machine guns against cannons, they undertook large-scale operations and displayed incredible bravery. No situation was desperate; no position was relinquished without a fight: a hill would change hands six times in a single night and our men would give ground only when they ran out of ammunition. That is what I saw; that is what I saw above all.

  I admired their gallantry, their regal contempt for danger, but recoiled from their cruelty. I didn’t understand: Could man be great and ferocious at the same time? Be as inspired by evil as by good? As seduced by vengeance as by solidarity? I didn’t understand then; I still don’t understand. Though I saw both, I acknowledged Fascist terror, but rejected the concept of Red cruelty. The Russian comrades I met in Barcelona reassured me: “Back home, it happened differently. The Whites—Kolchak and Wrangel’s mercenaries—did not succeed in imposing their methods on us; the honor of the Red Army remained unsullied.” But then, why was it so different here in Spain? Was our mission here less lofty?

  In those days I couldn’t understand. But now, in the cell where you have me locked up, I have brooded over many things. It seems idiotic, Citizen Magistrate, but it is only now that I understand the cruelty in Spain. It is linked to Jewish history. You may laugh if you wish, but I believe that the Spanish civil war is linked to Jewish history. If the Spaniards massacred one another, if they set their country on fire and bled it, it is because, in 1492, they burned or drove away their Jews. It seems idiotic, but I believe it: the cruelty they exhibited toward us backfired. You begin by hating and persecuting others and you wind up hating and annihilating your own. The stakes of the Inquisition led to the destruction of Spain during the time of Franco’s Fascists.

  Of course, there must be a more rational explanation: every war releases demented forces. Once released, they are impossible to restrain. The Talmud says it: If allowed to have his way, the Angel of Death will rage indiscriminately; he will cut down the wicked and the just. In time of war, mankind goes insane.

  I thought of that in Spain, and later in Soviet Russia, during the attacks and counterattacks. Human beings collapsed, moaning, gasping, cursing the enemy or heaven, or both. Some died praying, crying for their mothers, their wives, their lovers—and I said to myself: This is madness, this is madness.

  Am I a romantic or just a fool? Or both? Death, in times of war, always brings me back to madness, a metaphysical madness. Children grow up; they learn to walk, to run, to talk, to laugh, to praise life, to denounce evil. At the cost of tears and effort, men and women come closer to happiness, a very small happiness. For themselves and their children they build a home with their hands and imagine a future filled with light—surely not without clouds, not without obstacles and surprises—and then, suddenly, a chosen one—their chosen one?—issues a command and the very rhythm of time is altered: the gesture of one single being cancels years, centuries of work and hopes. Immortality rushes toward death, and I feel like shouting, But this is madness, this is madness.

  I accompany Carlos, my German-French-Hungarian friend whose name here is Carlos, as Stern is called Juan and Feldman is gunner Gonzales, as Paltiel Kossover now answers to the name of Sanchez. Sheer madness, all these first names borrowed from operettas, ludicrous masks we donned to run to the battlefield or possibly to death? Whom do we deceive? The Angel of Death is not fooled; he couldn’t care less about our games; he too must whisper that this is madness.

  And so I accompany Carlos to Madrid. The capital is besieged, wounded, but it vibrates with enthusiasm. The proud city seems exhilarated. No pasarán, the Fascists will not pass, howls Madrid, knowing that sooner or later the words will give way to the guns, that sooner or later this white and red and purple city will be turned upside down, invaded, punished, despoiled and brought to her knees. Why does she cry No pasarán? To bolster her own courage? Why do a hundred other towns, on every continent, echo her: No pasarán? To earn themselves a good conscience?

  I ask my friend Carlos this question and he answers: “Because. After all, they must shout something. If you want people to fight, tell them to shout.”

  “This is madness, Carlos, this is madness.”

  “I prefer the madman who shouts to the one who keeps silent.”

  “Not I, Carlos.”

  “That’s because you have not yet learned to shout, nor to make war.”

  Notwithstanding my visits to the front, my knowledge of things military had hardly improved. P
rone to palpitations, to violent migraines, I made a wretched soldier. A rifle in my hands would have endangered my life more than the enemy’s. I did in fact carry a revolver in a leather holster clipped to my belt, but that was meant primarily to impress the militiamen and convince them that Comrade Sanchez was somebody.

  The street battles are raging. The bastards fiercely defy death. Fiercely, the Reds show their mettle. It is Stalingrad before Stalingrad. Every house is a fortress, every citizen a hero. Salud, a captain of twenty or so calls out to us, as he wipes his mouth. Salud, cries a young woman bending over to avoid the bullets. The university complex nearby resembles a cemetery where the dead perform macabre dances.

  “I am looking for Commanding Officer Longo,” says Carlos. “He must be in this sector.”

  The young girl knows nothing, the young captain has heard nothing. We meet wounded fighters and others carrying the wounded, we ask them whether they know this Commanding Officer Longo, whose real name is no doubt less exotic: Langer? Leibish? Yes, some do know him but they have no idea where he might be, others do not know him but say that he is commanding officer and, moreover, in charge of this sector. He may, in fact, be there, in the shelter, near the entrance to the park: Salud, greetings and good luck. Fine, let’s get across to the park, Carlos. The gunfire is intense. Hunched over, crawling along the open road, we advance, greeted by our boys: Salud, salud. We answer: Salud and No pasarán. Finally, in a shelter beneath a three-story building in ruins overlooking the park, a Brigade soldier escorts us to Commanding Officer Longo. He is squatting, studying maps. Sweat is running down his neck. Unkempt, exhausted, red-eyed, he looks like a wild man.

  “What do you want?” he barks in a guttural voice without raising his head.

  “I have orders to deliver to you,” says Carlos.

  “Then, what are you waiting for? Let’s have them.”