by Elie Wiesel
I thought of my father and of my son at the same time. The same thought enveloped them both, the same desire to protect them. I was overwhelmed by remorse: I had lived without being able to help them. And I was afraid: judged by either one of them, what could I say in my defense?
In prison I yielded to panic only once. Under torture? Oh, no. The beatings hurt me, but I stood up surprisingly well. My body experienced the pain, but that was not I, I was not in my body. The tears flowed from my eyes and they were not mine. I saw the olive trees and the almond trees, and not the torturers; I listened to my masters and not to yours, Citizen Magistrate. David Aboulesia was reporting the results of his messianic endeavors, Ephraim was distracting me with his underground adventures. Inge was slipping through the streets of Berlin, and I was following in order to snatch her from our enemies. Ahuva was offering me the exotic attraction of her Oriental beauty. All of them were giving me strong support; they were helping me to resist more than one temptation, and, above all, resignation.
The torturers were tearing away at my body but my imagination remained free. I screamed, but revealed nothing. The moral tortures were harder. People kept repeating that I was the enemy of everything that was pure and just, that my gods were in the service of devils, that my love of Jews masked a detestable hatred of man, that my idealism was false and hypocritical, good was bad, bad was good, and I had devoted my life to a single cause: treason. I was made to read depositions and forced to confront their authors—wretched, unhappy witnesses who denounced themselves while denouncing me, and vice versa. Oh, all those suspicions, all those allusions to my “criminal” relations with Paul Hamburger, Yasha and their friends—excuse me, their accomplices. So—I never knew anyone but traitors, informers, two-faced friends. I never would have belonged to the Party except to destroy it from within, to corrupt it in league with the agents of imperialism. I would not have gone to Berlin except to deliver Communists to the Gestapo, or to Spain except to help the Trotskyites. I was offered a chance to go free if I were to bring Bergelson and Der Nister into it.… Whenever I weakened and felt I was about to yield, my father appeared in a dream and saved me. As for my son …
I was taken home for a so-called search. Going up the stairs in handcuffs, I prepared myself for the ordeal. Breathlessly I prayed for death. Like a romantic schoolboy I asked my ailing heart to break. Before the door, I shivered with fear. I was pushed into the room, where the light, dim as it was, blinded me.
Terrified—or shattered?—Raissa, uncharacteristically, moved back to let me pass. Grisha, on the floor, looked startled: he did not recognize the bearded, stooped man who was clenching his jaw, swallowing his saliva, grinding his teeth like a senile old man. Luckily I heard a voice I alone could hear. It whispered in my ear to look up, and I did; to smile, and I did; to look carefree, and I tried that too—though I know I did not succeed. Thanks to that voice, I was able to control my muscles, my tics. “The images you take away are those you’ll leave behind,” the same voice told me. I paid attention to every movement of my eyelids and mouth. “Hey there, my poet friend,” said David Aboulesia, “be strong.” “I’m trying,” I said. Grisha was watching me, as were Raissa and my guards, and there I was chatting with David Aboulesia about our encounters all over the world!
Returned to my cell, I collapse. Finally alone, I become the child I never was, the orphan I shall cease to be. I weep for my father and I weep for my son, I weep for my life and for my death. Who will be my gravedigger? It is my destiny to end in failure. Oh, it is not death that frightens me, but the impossibility of imparting some meaning to my past. Besides, I am not going to die, not yet: when the Angel of Death approaches, I shall feel his breath, I’ll capture the black light from his countless eyes. I am forty-two years old, with so many things to discover, without and within. The weight of dust, the burden of light. Until this confession is completed I have nothing to fear; that I know. I still have to describe the interrogations and to explain my choices past and present. What time is it? It is late. I should stop writing and talking to myself, especially since I am not alone. Someone is watching me with a smile. Sitting in the opposite corner, under the skylight, his hands folded under his knees, David Aboulesia—or is it my father?—is gazing at me dreamily. How did he manage to enter? Nothing surprises me. I find his presence natural and accept it. And what if the guard opens the peephole and punishes us? I repress that fear: the guard will open the peephole and will see nothing. That too I find quite natural, as I find natural my need to talk. Usually so reticent, so withdrawn, I feel like pouring out my heart. And that seems normal to me. And what if this is really an enemy, an informer, with familiar features and disguised as a protector? I trust him, and perhaps I am wrong. I should not understand, and yet I understand everything. I understand that David Aboulesia—or my father?—has come from far away—is it far, the other world?—to keep me company. I also understand that his presence signifies something essential, unique, something that ought to alarm me; but I feel no fear. I feel only profound sadness, a fundamental but soothing sadness, that of Creation accepting its Creator.
I am not going to die, not yet, but I shall no longer live. I shall no longer see the passing clouds, I shall no longer breathe in the freshness of the wind, no longer smile at my son. And yet I feel no bitterness, no regret; I bear no grudges. I experience a strange sensation of compassion, as if I were sick, dying. I love all the persons I see in the distance, moving in joy and melancholy; I feel sorry for them. They are all mortal and behave as if they were not. I should like to comfort them, help them, save them. I should like to tell them the story of my life.
My cellmate stands up and leans against the damp, dirty wall. I remain huddled on the floor. I go on talking to him and I know it is useless; he knows in advance what I am going to say. I speak to him anyhow because later I shall not be able to speak. If I keep silent now, no one will understand what I have seen and heard, no one will know my final poems, my final prayers; no one will read what I have written at this very moment.
Strange: I am not thinking of death, but I see the Angel covered with eyes; he closes his countless eyelids and darkness invades the cell. Tomorrow I shall try to understand all this.
Tomorrow I shall go on writing the Testament of Paltiel Kossover, filling it with details, turning it into a document of the times—in which the experiences of the past will serve as signs for the future.
I shall tell Grisha what I have never yet revealed to anyone; I shall tell him that …
I remember, says Zupanev, scratching his head, I remember that night more clearly than all the others spent spying on him and transcribing his every word. Fact is I had become fond of your big child of a father. I was going to miss him. His voice, the way he had of frowning, his short staccato sighs, his pages covered with barely legible writing: how was I going to detach myself from him? He was a part of my life, that fool; he was a part of me. I had read his tales for so long that I had created a place for myself in them. I waited impatiently to read the continuation of certain chapters in order to learn of my own future. And now … Oh, well.
Your father did not know that he was living his last night. He could not have guessed. Not even the magistrate had any inkling. Like the rest of us, the magistrate was surprised by the telephone call from Moscow. With one brief sentence, Abakumov transmitted a clear and irrevocable order: The Jewish poet Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover was to be executed before dawn. In my presence, the magistrate tried to argue: “But the file is not ready, Comrade Minister; the accused is writing his confession. He has already admitted certain crimes, opened several breaches; I could widen those and incriminate other suspects. Could we not wait a week or two?” “No,” replied Abakumov drily. “But there has not even been a trial, not even on the administrative level …” “Before dawn,” repeated Abakumov and hung up.
We did not know it, but the same order had been transmitted that same night to all the magistrates who, in Moscow, Kharkov, Kiev and Le
ningrad, were in charge of extorting confessions from Bergelson, Kvitko, Markish, Feffer and all the other Jewish writers, poets and artists of the Soviet Union.
The order came from Stalin. In a fit of madness—was he afraid that he might die before them?—he had decided to have them all liquidated that very night at the same hour and in the same way.
Let me tell you about that night, Grisha. And your turn will come to tell it. You are mute? Never mind! We shall give a meaning to your silence. Since they cannot make you talk, you shall be the ideal messenger, just as I was. Nobody will suspect you, just as nobody suspected me. One does not suspect a fountain pen, a table, a lamp; one does not worry about a stenographer. The judges and the investigators have all been eliminated by their successors, but we stenographers were overlooked. Nobody thought that we had a life of our own, an independent memory, attachments, remorse, projects of our own. And nobody will see in you the trustee and the witness of a life that enriched mine, ours.
And so you will read and reread this document and try to remember it all. And later, far from this land, you will write it down and you in turn will assume your role: you will speak on behalf of your dead father.
That is a decision I made before I met you, my boy. I made it one summer night in 1952 when you were scarcely three years old; you were asleep in your mother’s room, unaware that you had become an orphan.
That night I was so disturbed that I did something I rarely do: I went out for a walk. Krasnograd at night is not so inviting. The streets are deserted, the lights are dead. Like a prison, only bigger, with invisible jailers behind the dismal facades. Every window is a peephole, every noise a moan, a cry of horror. The inmates hold their breath just as on the morning of an execution.
I stroll through the park in the direction of the river which divides the main street in two. I come to a halt. Motionless, I listen. The river is noisy tonight. I turn my head in all directions and end up making myself look suspicious. A militiaman accosts me: “This is no place for vagabonds and loafers like you. Go home! Go on, scram, or I’ll put you in jail!” He gets excited, annoyed; I do nothing to appease him. “Have you lost your tongue? Go on, you wretched drunk, get out of here!” The fellow is furious. And that is when, very quietly, without any hurry, savoring every second that increases his rage, I pull out my card and show it to him. No need to draw him a picture. The fellow has understood. He stiffens, stands at attention and starts sputtering apologies and servile formulas, enough to make you sick: “At your service, I didn’t know who, how could I have guessed that …” I leave him without bothering to interrupt him. Even as I reach the main square, near the movie theater, I can still hear him make his apologies. Ridiculous. That’s what they all are: ludicrous wretches—but I am not laughing; I cannot. That terrible awareness brings me back to your father: poor devil, nothing funny about his life! I wonder whether he ever had the opportunity to have a good time, to laugh with all his heart. Strange: I know his life yet I do not know the essential fact: Did he or did he not learn the art of laughter? I am tempted to go to him, just like that, a surprise visit, and tell him: “Listen, my dear poet, you shall be executed tomorrow morning. I am telling it to you so that you may be ready. Ivan, the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar,’ already has his instructions. Say, do you mind if I ask you a question that has been gnawing me for quite some time? It concerns you: have you ever laughed, I mean, really laughed? Body and soul? What I mean is, with your whole being? For you see, in your confessions you do not speak of it and that could mean two things: either you don’t speak of it because you have never laughed, or because you have laughed so much that it does not occur to you to mention it. And so, you see, I’d like to …”
That would be outrageous, right? I return to my solitary wanderings. Because. You understand.
The breeze rustling through the trees is mild, but I am shivering. First of all, I am sensitive to cold. And then, the idea of seeing your father again and for the last time is not one that pleases me. Does he realize that I was present at the interrogations? That I have read his Testament? That I know all about his loves, his struggles, his doubts? Does he know that I exist?
Another militiaman comes up to me; he is called to order by the first, who no doubt is following me in order to spare me unpleasant encounters. I would do better to go home and go to bed but I shall not be able to close my eyes; I know myself. I am afraid, I am afraid of, you know what I mean. I let myself fall onto a bench; I contemplate Krasnograd and I see it through your father’s eyes and then through the eyes of the Angel of Death, whom your father describes so well. A man will die, tomorrow.
Today, soon. My heart beats faster. My heart is heavy, for—did you know this, men and women of Krasnograd?—stenographers do have a heart and mine is flowing over. Your father, my boy, will cost me nights of sleeplessness, I feel it. For yes, I do love him, my boy, and because of him I love you too. I decided to change your life because he changed mine. And the incredible thing is: he was never to know it.
Yes, my boy, that is one night I remember. Dawn, as always during the month of August, lights up the sky and glides over the roofs and treetops. On the other side, the mountain is clinging to night. I feel like pleading, Let night go, god of the mountain, send it back to us and keep the sun, keep it as a hostage and give us back the darkness, let it cover the city with its shadows once more, let there be another day, another life. Under the reign of night the “gentleman of the fourth cellar” will not make the acquaintance of a Jewish poet who … oh, well, it’s all foolishness, it’s all useless, I know.
The prison is quiet, silent. But awake. Already? The inmates are beings of a different kind; they know. Ivan has not as yet received his orders and the prisoners already guess what they are. This morning they rose before it was time. In honor of your father? Do they know it is your father’s turn? They have smelled death, they feel it close at hand and that is what has pulled them out of sleep. Death and not Ivan. Ivan has not arrived yet, neither has my chief. Too early. A crazy hope takes shape in my mind: They will not come, they will not come. Ever. Killed in an accident perhaps? I am impatient. I find myself cumbersome; I would like to be rid of myself. To die before witnessing death? Here I am, delirious, rambling, casting myself in the role of martyr. Not my style. Besides, the chief has arrived. He looks drawn, sullen. Troubled. Could an examining magistrate be sentimental too? Impossible. He is annoyed, that’s all. He would have liked to bring this trial to its conclusion and is being frustrated. He considered his idea of allowing a writer to express himself, of encouraging a poet to remember, a stroke of genius, and suddenly it had all gone to hell. That’s neither just nor professional, if you want his opinion. Of course, he could not guess all the ramifications of the affair; he did not know that Kossover was only one among many and that the others, elsewhere, were going to be shot too. Had he known the order was coming from that high up, he would not have dared question it, not even in his thoughts. And surely he would not have displayed ill humor. He picks up a file, leafs through it, signs some papers; the final formalities in other words! Oh, well, he does not agree but the matter is closed. As far as he is concerned, the Jewish poet Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover has ceased to live. One day, another examining magistrate would be sitting in his place, signing the same forms relating to his predecessor. While writing, without looking up, he asks me: “Do you really want to accompany Ivan?” “Yes, Citizen Magistrate.” “Whatever for?” “Oh, I don’t know, but …” “But what?” “Nothing. Except that I have never seen the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar’ at work and I was wondering …” “You wouldn’t be something of a pervert, my dear Zupanev?” “Just curious, Citizen Magistrate …” And so my chief shrugs his shoulders and goes on with his work without speaking to me again. As for me, I cannot stay put. I must force myself to remain seated on my usual stool from which I saw your father fight a battle that was already lost. Surreptitiously I glance toward my secret drawer: my favorite poet’s writings are still
in it, well protected. I promise you, my little poet. But I really should let him know this, reassure him with a wink, a gesture—but how? No, that’s a bad idea. A cruel one. What is the use of warning him that he is about to die? If I make him understand that I am taking care of his Testament, he will guess immediately; he is not stupid. He’ll guess that if I am prepared to take such a risk, Ivan must not be far away.… And there he is, Ivan. He has come in without knocking. He shakes the chiefs hand and throws me an absentminded good day. Elegant, dressed in a well-tailored uniform, he is a handsome man, only I find him ugly, repugnant. I pretend that I am working but I am too nervous to transcribe the routine nonsense. I watch Ivan as he pulls out his nagan and checks it. He is a professional, Ivan, a meticulous fellow. Having satisfied himself, he stuffs his nagan back into the regulation holster attached to the belt under his vest. My chief looks up, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Dutifully, Ivan asks, “Shall we go?” “Let’s go,” says my chief. I stand up when he does. Ivan turns to me: “What do you want? You know the regulation.…”
“He is curious,” my chief tells him. “He has followed so many cases, he wishes to be present at the ending, to get an idea.” “To each his own,” mutters Ivan, displeased. “All right, let’s go.”
Automatically, I check the clock, which has stopped—and my watch. I like to situate important events in time. I remember looking at my watch, but what was the time? Strange, this lapse of memory. For I remember everything else: the morning light was blue; my chief was continually moistening his lips; and I had awful stomach cramps.
Silently, single file, we walk behind Ivan. Here we are in the subterranean labyrinth of the “isolators.” Green bulbs on the ceilings, empty hallways. Ivan stops in front of a cell and motions to us not to make any noise. Such is the procedure; one opens the door gently, oh so gently, and surprises the condemned man in his sleep. One tells him that he must undergo another interrogation, and suddenly the problem is no longer a problem. The secret of success lies in surprise and speed. Except that your father, my boy, receives us standing as though he has been waiting for us. I am impressed by his calm. His face is scarred, his clothes are in tatters, but he looks noble to me. Foolish, don’t you think? Briefly, he dominates us, intimidates us. He is the one to speak: “I worked all night, Citizen Magistrate.” “Excellent,” says the examining magistrate. “I am sure that it is excellent. I shall read it this very day.” A silence. My chief is undecided. Ordinarily, the condemned man is led to the fourth basement where the “gentleman” shoots a bullet in his neck and leaves without any further ado. For your father, the program is different. The execution is to take place in the cell. “I have come to review with you the description of what you call the pogrom at the printer’s shop,” my chief is saying. He spreads some papers on the cot and your father bends down to reread them. For a moment his eyes meet mine: he has just seen me for the first time! I am overcome by fear—he will mistake me for Ivan. To prevent a misunderstanding, I introduce myself: “Zupanev—I am the stenographer.” Your father is reassured: if the stenographer is here, it really does mean only an additional inquiry to elaborate on some detail. Suddenly, he sees Ivan behind me; he would like to know his name as well but he restrains his curiosity. As for Ivan he returns his gaze and says nothing. “Very well,” says your father. “Let’s see that passage.” He begins to read and my chief pretends to listen. And, God knows why, I suddenly remember my maternal grandfather. I was three years old, or four, when he took me with him to the synagogue; it was a holiday; the men, lost in meditation, seemed to be listening to a distant voice. What voice were we four listening to now? I watch in horror as Ivan pulls out his nagan and pulls my sleeve to take my place behind the condemned man. I feel like howling to warn your father. Paltiel Kossover is entitled to leave this stinking world like a man, facing death, spitting in its face if he so chooses. But I remain silent. Following your father’s example, I tell my mind to go away, and the whore obeys me: my thoughts fly to the desk, to the notebooks neatly lined up in the secret drawer; others will be added. And one day, one day, my dear Jewish poet not yet assassinated, one day your sparks will start a fire. And on that day I shall laugh! Do you hear me, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover? One day you and I will surprise mankind with our laughter!
