The Testament

by Elie Wiesel

  One day Granek, my only friend, caught me reading; I had tears in my eyes. He put his hand on mine. “You must arm yourself with patience, little brother,” he said. “Think of our prophets, our sages. Is night coming? Day will come, darkness carries the promise of light.”

  “They’re lying, Granek my friend, they’re lying. We’re all lying. Here and there.”

  Did he know the Jewish Communist editors of the non-Communist world? Yes, of course he had met them long before, as had Markish, Bergelson, Der Nister. Isn’t Jewish Communist literature a closed circle? Willy-nilly, everyone knows everyone.

  Der Nister and his novel, The Mashber Family … I would have liked to become better acquainted with that austere, reserved, almost ascetic man who radiated the knowledge and fervor of Rabbi Nahman. Where is he today, Citizen Magistrate? In the next cell, perhaps? No doubt you kept him in Moscow. How I miss him! I recall his slow gait, his frail look.

  Among the Jewish writers one alone infuriated me: a young poet, redheaded, arrogant, opportunistic, who signed his poems Arke Gelis. Warmly and expensively dressed for winter, he took part, uninvited, in conversations. He was not trusted: voices dropped the moment he appeared. Granek suspected him of working for the “services.” I am convinced of it. During the war he wore the same uniform as you, Citizen Magistrate. He was a major, and among your people one does not become a major for nothing.

  This Gelis looked happy and expansive, even on gloomy days. The more distressed we were, the more he harangued us, accusing us of timidity, passivity, hence skepticism, hence …

  “Our policy is just and beneficial,” he bellowed, his chest swelling. “Furthermore, it’s moral, it defends the interests of the working class all over the world. Furthermore, it rejects the specter of war. You’d have to be an idiot or a reactionary not to see that!”

  “And Hitler?” I asked him one evening, doing my best to contain my anger and disgust. “What do you make of his hatred for our people? And the cruelties suffered by Communists in his concentration camps?”

  Gelis turned scarlet. “How dare you?” he cried. “You come from the decadent West to give us lessons? Hunted, dispossessed, you knock on our door, we receive you like a brother, and you thank us by sabotaging our peace policy! Is it war you want? The death of our youth? Will nothing else satisfy you?”

  Embarrassed, everyone looked away. An unwholesome silence hung over our group. I was lost, they must have thought; I had just signed my own death warrant. Granek seemed about to faint. There was a glint of reproach in his eyes: “I warned you, little brother.” I was seized by remorse and terror; by exposing myself I had put him in danger. I was about to retract, to correct myself, but Mendelevich, the great classic comedian, spared me that humiliation by coming to my defense.

  “Comrade Gelis,” he said in his majestic bass, “allow me. Did you know Paltiel Kossover has seen the Hitlerites at work? Did you know he helped their victims? Did you know he fought the Fascists in Germany, in France, in Spain? Did you know he has put his pen, his soul, his life—I say advisedly—his life in the service of our people, the Jewish people?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” Gelis muttered.

  He shrank away. Intimidated by the authority Mendelevich exercised on all the Jewish writers and intellectuals, the informer tried to beat a retreat. After all, Mendelevich had important admirers—people from the Kremlin came to see his performances.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it?” Mendelevich continued in a higher voice. “And you claim to be a Communist? And a Jewish poet into the bargain? We Jewish Communists have learned to take an interest in the fate of all who suffer, to respect everybody who joins our struggle. A Jew who is indifferent to Jewish suffering is like a Communist who’s indifferent to the suffering of the proletariat. Just get that through your head, young man!”

  Whereupon he approached me and put his powerful hands on my shoulders, as if physically taking me under his protection. “Come, Kossover. Let’s have a drink, and you’ll tell me what certain people do not deserve to hear.”

  We left the Jewish Writers’ Club and went outside. It was a fine day. A June sun—clear, silvery—was sweeping away winter’s chills and fogs. Lighthearted, lightfooted, I danced along, celebrating Gelis’s defeat. I didn’t know how to thank my protector. I would have done anything to please him. He took me to his place on October Street, sat me down in his study lined with books, drawings, costume sketches, and questioned me about my life, my work, my writing. I responded without fear or hesitation. I had rarely felt so grateful to anyone.

  Later Granek was to confide how frightened he had been. He had been convinced that despite Mendelevich’s intervention, I would be made to pay for my audacity. Gelis had certainly reported the incident to his superiors. And since he had remained helpless in the actor’s presence, he must have accused me of every political misdeed that could bring about my arrest and condemnation, if only by way of example. Frankly, I was expecting that too; I had learned the ways of the country. At night I was prepared to hear a knock at my door, and I consoled myself in advance by thinking it was still June. At least I would not freeze in prison.

  But a miracle took place. Excuse me, I retract that term. War broke out, and, if it did save me from prison, it cost the lives of twenty million men, women, children, and—as we know now—it permitted the annihilation of six million of my own people. No, it was no miracle.

  Still, I welcomed the outbreak of hostilities with open relief. Nor was I the only one. Listening to Molotov’s speech, I felt a wild desire to shout for joy: Hurrah, at last we are going to give battle to Hitler and the Hitlerites! Hurrah, we are going to vent our wrath!

  I ran to the club. Panting, overexcited, I joined my fellow writers, who were gathered around Mendelevich. At that moment I wanted to be among my own people, congratulating them, embracing them, weeping with them, laughing with them, emptying glass after glass, and aware all the while that this spontaneous celebration was the first and also the last that would unite us, the last for a long, long time. Would there even be another? Will I see them again one day? Who would live, who would die?

  In the midst of the festivities, I froze. I thought of my parents, my sisters and their children. From now on there stretched between us a bloody, murderous front; between us from now on there would be death with its countless arms and eyes—death who never loses, who never retreats, who is never sated.

  Gripped by nausea, I put down my glass and shut my eyes.

  You have accused me of cowardice, Citizen Magistrate. Jews, you have told me, are cowards: they always manage to let others fight in their stead. Well, that is both true and false. It is false about Jews in general; it is true about me in particular.

  During the war, Citizen Magistrate, during our great patriotic war, I knew courageous, bold, intrepid Jews. I knew men such as Dr. Lebedev, who, under enemy fire, crawled on his knees to take care of the wounded, sometimes going deep into enemy territory to retrieve dying soldiers screaming for help. Or such as Lieutenant Grossman, who singlehandedly set fire to eleven Panzers. I knew a man—a man? no, an adolescent, almost a child—who slipped through the barbed wire, threw grenades under the tracks of tanks and waited there to watch them explode. They all fought valiantly, heroically, for Russian honor and Jewish honor, believe me. I say this not to praise myself, but, on the contrary, to demean myself. I was no hero. I did not fight this war as they did. I myself fought the war with the wounded.

  And the dead.

  War, war, what filth. What butchery. And, above all, what chaos.

  In a single night, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole country is in turmoil. Total confusion. Nothing is where it should be. The entire machinery is out of gear. Words are replaced by shouts and orders. Yesterday’s allies are today’s enemies: implacable, savage, thirsting for blood. Yesterday’s enemies—the capitalists-imperialists-colonialists—have become today’s faithful comrades, exemplary friends. Instead of extending our
frontiers, we draw them back; instead of advancing, the invincible Red Army retreats. Man? Fit only to kill, fit only to die.

  At the risk of disappointing you, I shall not tell you the usual war tales animated by noble sentiments of sacrifice and valor. I claim no exploits—I won no battle, achieved no victory, saved not a single unit. Like everyone else, I answered the call for general mobilization and reported to the recruitment center; like everyone else, but no more, I wanted to enter the fray.

  After the first shock, the entire country, deceived, manipulated, rushed to the defense of the invaded fatherland. With his grave, solemn “brotherly” speech, Stalin galvanized the nation. And the Jewish minority sevenfold more.

  No war in history was ever greeted with so much enthusiasm. We Jews were ready to offer all, to do all, to vanquish the worst enemies of our people and of mankind. Finally we had the feeling of belonging to this country. We shared a common destiny: what was happening to others touched us viscerally. No longer the subjects or objects of some comrade or secretary-general, we were his compatriots, his brothers. Legally, politically, morally and practically, we were on the same side. We nurtured the same hatred for the soldiers of hatred. Like everyone else, we longed to sacrifice everything for victory. As for myself, I had nothing to sacrifice; I had nothing.

  I can still see the scene. Kasdan, a cigarette holder between his fingers, already imagines himself at the front, leading a regiment to attack. He is trembling with excitement. Someone says, “But you’ve never been a soldier. You’ve never carried a weapon.”

  “So what?” he cries, infuriated at being denied a command because of such details. “Courage and patriotism, don’t they count any more?”

  The most astonishing thing is that at that moment we were all thinking like Kasdan. To hell with dialectics, long live faith!

  Feldring, disheveled, paraphrases some Biblical passages: Hitler, like Pharaoh, will drown in blood. Feldring already sees himself making a speech on militarism in Jewish poetry and vice versa.

  Morawski remains clearheaded. “Of course, we’ll win, but …”

  “But what?” someone snaps.

  “I’m thinking of what it’s going to cost,” says Morawski.

  At fifty, he’s afraid of being declared unfit for service. Never mind, he’ll cheat: a Jewish poet owes it to himself to lie about his age; he’s always younger or older than his actual years.

  The following day I learn that Kasdan and Feldring have been sent off to the air force and Morawski to the infantry. As for myself, even after a rather superficial medical examination, I have been bluntly rejected.

  I lose my temper: “But I’m not sick, I’ve never been sick in my life!”

  “No?” The doctor was astounded. “And when was your last checkup?”

  “Oh—I don’t remember.”

  “Well, comrade, I’ve just examined you myself and it’s not so good. I might as well tell it to you straight.”

  “But what’s wrong with me?”

  “Heart.”

  Still, I managed. I “lost” my medical records, and in the monstrous mess that was evident in all the services and ministries, I soon managed to change my worn suit of clothes for the no less worn uniform of the Red Army.

  At last I was happy in the Soviet Union. Thus, everything can happen and did happen in a poet’s life. I thought with compassion of my Paris friends under the German occupation: they did not have my good fortune.

  But when all is said and done, Citizen Magistrate, do not imagine that Gershon Kossover’s son, and what is more, Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn’s disciple, had been abruptly transformed into a wild, brave Russian warrior or a Cossack on horseback. Despite my military garb and papers, I was no threat to the motorized enemy legions. Despite my experience in the International Brigade, I came up against insurmountable obstacles. I was full of good will, I sincerely tried, but I found it impossible to bend to the rigors of army life. The exercises—not so bad, they wouldn’t kill me. The sudden reveilles, the forced marches in double time—all right too. I coughed, spit blood, suffered constant headaches and palpitations, but I never complained. Private Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover underwent combat training to the satisfaction of his superior officers.

  What I couldn’t bear—you’ll be amused—was army speech. Too rough, too coarse, too primitive; I would blush with embarrassment, like a yeshiva student who has happened upon drunkards during a day at the fair.

  In Spain it had been different. There, too, the soldiers surely were no saints; they were especially fond of women and of the curses they invented as though—God forbid—they didn’t know enough of them. But in Spain I had been lucky enough not to understand them; to savor them I would have had to acquire the basics of thirty ancient and modern languages. Here I understood. And without my knowledge or desire, I began expressing myself like my barrack mates, like a true soldier of the Red Army.

  We were part of the 96th Infantry Division, where all the peoples of the Soviet Union were mixed together. Kalmuks, Uzbeks, Tartars, Georgians, Ukrainians: their eyes had seen the snows of Siberia, the sunshine of the Ukraine, the dark tides of the Volga and the Dnieper. The High Command was holding us in reserve for the Moscow offensive, scheduled for the winter. The invader was advancing, advancing, apparently invincible, irresistible, inexorable—like the God of the Apocalypse. Our cities were in ruins, our villages in flames. Why shouldn’t the enemy push on to the very gates of the Kremlin? Napoleon had done it, after all. But we had thrashed that Corsican, and we would do as much or more to the lunatic from Berlin. Let him get a little closer and we’d cut off his head and drag it through the mud and snow of Moscow. We were supposed to be in training to prepare ourselves for that day. Were we? Not really. We were short of everything, even rifles. But as far as manpower was concerned, our reserves were inexhaustible.

  Only, I was exhausted.

  At the beginning of September I created a rather embarrassing incident during General Kolbakov’s inspection. In expectation of that event there had been many rehearsals and scenes of collective madness without which no self-respecting army could function. Lieutenants were shouting, sergeants were yelling, and the poor soldiers were running, crawling, standing up, saluting, staring at an invisible point right, left, straight ahead; they presented arms, making them crackle like whiplashes, they shouldered them—another whiplash—and hop! we began all over again. So great was our fear of the general that we forgot about the front and the enemy.

  When the great day arrived, the 96th Infantry Division, standing at attention, flags in the breeze, responded as one man to the commands from the colonel in charge of the base. Erect, tense, motionless, like a slab of cement, I was looking straight ahead. The general passed us in review, and, lo and behold, he decided to plant himself in front of me. He examined me from head to toe as if I were some unexpected tree dropped from the heavens and grotesquely disguised as a soldier. Petrified, I looked past the general so as not to betray my agitation. To hide it better I made use of a good old method: I let my thoughts carry me elsewhere, to Berlin with Inge, to Paris with Sheina, to Barassy with my father and mother. And my father questions me sadly: “Is that you, my son? Is that really you?” “Look and see, Father—it’s me, your son.” “Are you really still my son? You don’t look it. You speak, you eat, you dress like an Ivan or an Alexey. Not like a Jew.” “I’ve got my tephilin in my bag; would you like me to put them on?” He nods. Then I take out my bag, open it feverishly, rummage through strange objects, but cannot find them. I am drenched in hot and cold sweat: The phylacteries, where have I put my phylacteries? I am so afraid, so ashamed that I can scarcely keep my balance; I cling to my father and lie down at the general’s feet, completely rigid, my arm extended according to regulations.…

  I woke up in the hospital. An officer with a huge mustache was cursing: “A thing like you wants to hunt Germans! Stupid idiot!” He spat with disgust. “And where are your records? You’ve hidden them, you son of a bitch! Yo
u turn everything in the goddamned barracks upside down and you don’t give a damn! You waste our time and you don’t care! Do you know what we call that? Sabotage! Do you know the penalty for that? A bullet through the head.”

  He wanted to send me to a civilian hospital behind the front, before sending me “back home,” as he said. I kept arguing, threatening to commit suicide.

  “I have no home,” I told him. “I don’t know where to go, I’m a poet.”

  Absurd, stupid, ridiculous as it may seem, it was this last argument that finally persuaded Dr. Lebedev—a Jew from Vitebsk—not to exile me. He kept me with him, but not without an explanation.

  “You know the story of the fellow in love with a girl to whom he kept writing every day? She ended up marrying—the postman.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  He was about to get angry. “You don’t see the connection? Well, let me tell you … Damn! I told you the wrong anecdote.”

  He burst out laughing. “I know your type. You’d find a way to come back and poison us all. We might as well take advantage of your being here already.”

  That was how I became a stretcher-bearer.

  “You’ll carry the others until the time comes when the others carry you,” said Lebedev. “That’s the whole story of soldiers at war.”

  He was gentle, a so-called diamond in the rough. Whenever he talked about Vitebsk, a tuft of black hair fell across his wrinkled forehead and his lips twitched nervously. We got along wonderfully even though we had little in common. He drank like a fish, while I only pretended to drink. I would get angry while he would pretend to. He refused to let me smoke cigarettes, but I liked his tobacco as much as he did.

  “The devil take you,” he would rebuke me in a fatherly tone. “If you weren’t sick, I’d make you sick; if I weren’t sure of seeing you croak soon, I’d strangle you with my own hands.”