by Elie Wiesel
Don’t stop. Not yet. The next page shows you children with bloated heads like old men, and old men with childlike emaciated bodies. Another displays pregnant women hanging from trees, motionless; causing neither leaves nor wind to tremble, unleashing no storm.
And still the eye wants to see, the finger to turn the pages. The scenes follow and resemble one another, and suddenly their similarity strikes you like a whip: you are looking at the same Jew murdered six million times by one killer, always the same.
Spellbound, dazed, your eyes keep looking. You have shattered the mirror, you are on the other side. Go on, turn the pages, drink in the night they reveal, open yourself to the fixed smiles endlessly dying, the countless arms stretched toward you, capture those wandering gazes that belong to the dead. And then, who cares if, seized with rage and remorse, you spit on this world which was theirs and still is yours.
So, go on. There is more, much more. The pictures spin, become a kaleidoscope and send you back into infinity. Come on, don’t give up. You haven’t seen it all; you haven’t seen anything. Wait: after this ghetto, you’ll visit another, bigger, smaller, closer to hell. Then you will see the forests where the mass executions were held. The graves, the stakes. The fathers and sons who spoke or remained silent before tumbling into the trench. The departures and arrivals. The railway stations, the arbitrary selections. The musicians, the fires. The hunger, the fear, the plague, the shame, the end. Names file past you, pay no attention. Hungarian towns, Polish ghettos, Lithuanian cemeteries, it’s everywhere the same. The fear is everywhere and the hunger and the shame and the end. Go on.
Who is this old man and how dare he defy his torturers? They are cutting off his beard, they are hurting him deliberately. All of them want to take part. Yet he does not complain. Does not moan. Silent and proud, his head held high, he looks straight into their eyes. You’re impressed by his dignity, aren’t you? Why, he is provoking them! He is mad, they will kill him! Doesn’t he know? He seems to be mocking them. I study him more closely. His features seem familiar. A hunch. Followed by a complicated, tortuous investigation. No, my memory has not deceived me. Yes, it is my grandfather.
Another image forever etched into my mind. A small Jewish boy, his hands above his head like a soldier giving himself up to the enemy after a fierce battle. Fear has just overtaken him. His cap, too big for his head, hides his forehead and ears but not the two black braziers that are his eyes. Does he see the soldiers encircling him? The snipers lying in wait? How many are they? Ten, a hundred, a hundred thousand? Armed with revolvers, rifles, submachine guns. All the German warriors, from all fronts, far and near, have converged here for the sole purpose of slaughtering this one little Jewish boy with knowing eyes, out of breath, and clearly lacking both strength and desire to resist.
A ghetto scene: a fighter jumps from a window, a living torch, pursued by flame-throwers. In the street below, Germans and Poles, military and civilians, find the spectacle interesting.
And from Treblinka—or is it Birkenau, Ponar, Majdanek?—this image which one day will burst inside me like a sharp call to madness: Jewish mothers, naked, leading their children, also naked, to the sacrifice. You stare at them so hard that in the end you see them advancing through an immense flowering field toward an altar red with blood, then you see them suspended halfway between heaven and earth, startled angels condemned to silence. Look at the women, some still young and beautiful, their frightened children well-behaved. Others, older and without illusions, are weary, so weary. And here they are, modestly trying to hide their femininity. The children respectfully avert their gaze. And you, what are you doing? Go ahead, go on, snatch a flower, offer it to the mothers in exchange for their children—what are you waiting for? Hurry up, quickly, grab a child and run, run as fast as your legs will carry you, faster than the wind, run while there’s still time, before you are blinded by the smoke …
… But motionless and mute, there you remain, like myself, in front of these images that men like you and me took pleasure in consigning to film, to be shown later, back home, to boring guests and admiring cousins.
The fingers turn page after page and your eyes meet again the eyes that burn them. On the far bank of the river, the sun, having warmed the earth, sinks into a deep red twilight flecked with gold. And what if the holocaust were nothing but a nightmare, a parenthesis?
The world has remained world. Men have not changed nor have they learned anything: perhaps there was nothing to learn. Love, vanity of vanities, jealousies: life goes on. Vacations, automobiles, demonstrations: one follows the trends. Yesterday’s myths give way to today’s prefabricated heroes and idols. Scientists succeed artists. On all continents, nations, large and small, get ready to kill one another. Business tycoons make deals, and politicians speeches. Profiteers worry about their reputations, and artists about their art. As for me, I too like to attend a good concert or smile back at a pretty girl. I bless bread and sanctify the wine, and no one is happier than I when, under my pen, words fall into place, fit into a design and create the illusion that they are leading somewhere.
In truth, I know where they lead. To where there are no words. To the mysterious forests where fathers and sons, Jews already marked by the executioner, always the same, tell each other a story, always the same. To where women with dark dilated pupils, violated and drunk with pain, escort their children to the altar and beyond.
Then there arises from the very depths of my being an irresistible desire to let everything go. To throw away the pen, burn all bridges and start to run and curse and leave the present far behind. To seek the moment that gave birth to these images, and never again to hear the laughter, and the moaning of the wind whipped by the shadows, always the same shadows.
DIALOGUES II
Are you angry with me?
Sometimes. A little.
Because I didn’t suffer like you?
Because you were here and did nothing.
What could we have done?
Cry. Scream. Break the conspiracy of silence.
We didn’t know.
Not true. Everybody knew. Nobody bothers to deny that any more.
All right, we knew. But we didn’t believe.
In spite of all the proof, the diagrams, the confidential reports?
Because of them. Don’t you see? They were so horrible, we couldn’t believe them.
You should have.
And you, would you have believed them? What’s more, you who lived through this experience, do you really believe, today, that it took place?
No. But …
Yes?
… with me, it’s different. Sometimes I wonder if I still have the right to say “I.”
*
Here he is! That’s him! Quick, grab him!
What are you talking about?
That’s him, I tell you! He is dangerous, he must be put away!
But what do you want from him? What has he done?
Nothing, but …
He’s done nothing? And you want to lock him up, punish him?
Just lock him up. He is capable of anything; he knows too much about man and his planet. He must be protected; we must be protected. If he starts talking, we’re done for. We must do everything to keep him quiet!
But he hasn’t said anything yet, has he?
All the more reason to lock him up right away while there’s still time! Lock him up with the madmen without memory, without future! As long as he is free, I feel threatened.
Did you ever speak to him?
Never. But he spoke to me.
What did he tell you?
He asked my forgiveness.
That’s all?
You don’t think that’s enough? He was joking, I know. I’m the one who should ask his forgiveness. I don’t dare; I’m afraid of his voice, of his eyes. In his presence, I feel cold. I become his secret, the very one he means to carry into his grave. He frightens me; I don’t dare move or breathe. Or even look. My head hits the wall, and
the wall is he, is you—and I, where am I? Who am I? He alone knows and that is his vengeance. I am telling you: he is dangerous! Help!
*
You don’t look well, you really don’t.
Oh, I’ll be all right.
Are you sad?
Could be. Nothing serious.
You should see yourself.
I believe you.
You can’t go on like this.
What do you want me to do?
How should I know? Look around you. The trees in bloom. The shop windows. The pretty girls. What the hell, let yourself go. I promise you that after …
After? Did you say: after? Meaning what?
*
Tell me something.
Anything in particular?
That you like me.
I like you.
That you missed me.
I missed you.
That you love me.
I love you.
That you want to live with me.
I want to live with you.
Does that frighten you?
Yes.
I am frightened only when you’re away.
So am I.
Then stay with me.
I’ll try.
And you’ll speak to me?
I’ll try.
You don’t trust words?
Worse. I’ve lost all connection with words.
But I am afraid of your silences.
So am I.
As soon as you stop speaking, you stop seeing.
No, only then do I begin to see.
*
Do you remember me?
No.
We were neighbors.
Possibly.
We were friends.
When?
Before.
Oh yes, I remember.
We went to the same school, dreamed the same dreams, admired the same teachers.
Oh, yes, I do remember. We thought of becoming rabbis.
What are you doing now? I am a sculptor. And you?
I write.
The way you say that …
What do you expect? Millions of human beings had to die so that you might become a sculptor and I, a storyteller.
*
I’d like to ask you a question, only it might embarrass you.
Go ahead. Ask.
How did you manage to sleep?
Where? There?
Yes, there.
My dear lady, it was easy: I counted corpses. There were lots of them. They all looked alike in the dark—including myself. I would get mixed up. Then I would have to start over and over again: there was always one too many. Sleep was the only way to rid myself of the last intruder. But why do you want to know?
Oh, I am just curious.
Too bad. I thought you had trouble sleeping.
*
You look sad, or sick.
I’m not.
You feel all right? You have enough to eat? There’s nothing wrong with you?
I have no complaints.
You are not troubled by other people’s happiness? Or by the innocence of children?
I like happiness and I love children.
Then why do you tell them sad stories?
My stories are not sad. The children will tell you that.
But they make one cry, don’t they?
No, they do not make one cry.
Don’t tell me they make one laugh!
I won’t. I’ll only say they make one dream.
*
Play with me, will you?
All right.
I am the messenger.
Hello, messenger.
I am powerful and generous.
Bravo, messenger.
I wish you well.
Hail to the messenger!
What is your dearest, your most secret wish? Tell me and it will come true.
You’re a nice messenger.
So? What is your wish?
Oh yes, here it is: grant me that I may meet someone like you.
*
Are you there?
I am here, son.
It’s so dark. I’m trembling. I have a fever. I’m afraid.
I’m here.
Are we alone, you and I?
I think so.
Would you do something for me?
Naturally, son.
Sing for me.
At this hour?
You refuse?
But we might wake the whole house, the whole street …
Never mind. I want you to sing. For me. For yourself as well. You promised me. When you sing, we are not alone. It is still dark and I’m still afraid, but it doesn’t matter, you understand, the fear no longer comes from outside but from your song, from your words, it comes from myself … are you there?
Yes, son. We are all here.
THE WATCH
For my bar mitzvah, I remember, I had received a magnificent gold watch. It was the customary gift for the occasion, and was meant to remind each boy that henceforth he would be held responsible for his acts before the Torah and its timeless laws.
But I could not keep my gift. I had to part with it the very day my native town became the pride of the Hungarian nation by chasing from its confines every single one of its Jews. The glorious masters of our municipality were jubilant: they were rid of us, there would be no more kaftans on the streets. The local newspaper was brief and to the point: from now on, it would be possible to state one’s place of residence without feeling shame.
The time was late April, 1944.
In the early morning hours of that particular day, after a sleepless night, the ghetto was changed into a cemetery and its residents into gravediggers. We were digging feverishly in the courtyard, the garden, the cellar, consigning to the earth, temporarily we thought, whatever remained of the belongings accumulated by several generations, the sorrow and reward of long years of toil.
My father took charge of the jewelry and valuable papers. His head bowed, he was silently digging near the barn. Not far away, my mother, crouched on the damp ground, was burying the silver candelabra she used only on Shabbat eve; she was moaning softly, and I avoided her eyes. My sisters burrowed near the cellar. The youngest, Tziporah, had chosen the garden, like myself. Solemnly shoveling, she declined my help. What did she have to hide? Her toys? Her school notebooks? As for me, my only possession was my watch. It meant a lot to me. And so I decided to bury it in a dark, deep hole, three paces away from the fence, under a poplar tree whose thick, strong foliage seemed to provide a reasonably secure shelter.
All of us expected to recover our treasures. On our return, the earth would give them back to us. Until then, until the end of the storm, they would be safe.
Yes, we were naïve. We could not foresee that the very same evening, before the last train had time to leave the station, an excited mob of well-informed friendly neighbors would be rushing through the ghetto’s wide-open houses and courtyards, leaving not a stone or beam unturned, throwing themselves upon the loot.
Twenty years later, standing in our garden, in the middle of the night, I remember the first gift, also the last, I ever received from my parents. I am seized by an irrational, irresistible desire to see it, to see if it is still there in the same spot, and if defying all laws of probability, it has survived—like me—by accident, not knowing how or why. My curiosity becomes obsession. I think neither of my father’s money nor of my mother’s candlesticks.
All that matters in this town is my gold watch and the sound of its ticking.
Despite the darkness, I easily find my way in the garden. Once more I am the bar mitzvah child; here is the barn, the fence, the tree. Nothing has changed. To my left, the path leading to the Slotvino Rebbe’s house. The Rebbe, though, had changed: the burning bush burned itself out and there is nothing left, not even smoke. What could he possibly have hidden the day we went away? His phylacteries? His prayer shawl? The holy scrolls inherited from his famous ancestor Rebbe Meirl of Premishlan?
No, probably not even that kind of treasure. He had taken everything along, convinced that he was thus protecting not only himself but his disciples as well. He was proved wrong, the wonder rabbi.
But I mustn’t think of him, not now. The watch, I must think of the watch. Maybe it was spared. Let’s see, three steps to the right. Stop. Two forward. I recognize the place. Instinctively, I get ready to re-enact the scene my memory recalls. I fall on my knees. What can I use to dig? There is a shovel in the barn; its door is never locked. But by groping around in the dark I risk stumbling and waking the people sleeping in the house. They would take me for a marauder, a thief, and hand me over to the police. They might even kill me. Never mind, I’ll have to manage without a shovel. Or any other tool. I’ll use my hands, my nails. But it is difficult; the soil is hard, frozen, it resists as if determined to keep its secret. Too bad, I’ll punish it by being the stronger.
Feverishly, furiously, my hands claw the earth, impervious to cold, fatigue and pain. One scratch, then another. No matter. Continue. My nails inch ahead, my fingers dig in, I bear down, my every fiber participates in the task. Little by little the hole deepens. I must hurry. My forehead touches the ground. Almost. I break out in a cold sweat, I am drenched, delirious. Faster, faster. I shall rip the earth from end to end, but I must know. Nothing can stop or frighten me. I’ll go to the bottom of my fear, to the bottom of night, but I will know.
What time is it? How long have I been here? Five minutes, five hours? Twenty years. This night was defying time. I was laboring to exhume not an object but time itself, the soul and memory of that time. Nothing could be more urgent, more vital.
Suddenly a shiver goes through me. A sharp sensation, like a bite. My fingers touch something hard, metallic, rectangular. So I have not been digging in vain. The garden is spinning around me, over me. I stand up to catch my breath. A moment later, I’m on my knees again. Cautiously, gently I take the box from its tomb. Here it is, in the palm of my hand: the last relic, the only remaining symbol of everything I had loved, of everything I had been. A voice inside me warns: Don’t open it, it contains nothing but emptiness, throw it away and run. I cannot heed the warning; it is too late to turn back. I need to know, either way. A slight pressure of my thumb and the box opens. I stifle the cry rising in my throat: the watch is there. Quick, a match. And another. Fleetingly, I catch a glimpse of it. The pain is blinding: could this thing, this object, be my gift, my pride? My past? Covered with dirt and rust, crawling with worms, it is unrecognizable, revolting. Unable to move, wondering what to do, I remain staring at it with the disgust one feels for love betrayed or a body debased. I am angry with myself for having yielded to curiosity. But disappointment gives way to profound pity: the watch too lived through war and holocaust, the kind reserved for watches perhaps. In its way, it too is a survivor, a ghost infested with humiliating sores and obsolete memories. Suddenly I feel the urge to carry it to my lips, dirty as it is, to kiss and console it with my tears, as one might console a living being, a sick friend returning from far away and requiring much kindness and rest, especially rest.
