One Generation After

by Elie Wiesel

  I touch it, I caress it. What I feel, besides compassion, is a strange kind of gratitude. You see, the men I had believed to be immortal had vanished into fiery clouds. My teachers, my friends, my guides had all deserted me. While this thing, this nameless, lifeless thing had survived for the sole purpose of welcoming me on my return and providing an epilogue to my childhood. And there awakens in me a desire to confide in it, to tell it my adventures, and in exchange, listen to its own. What had happened in my absence: who had first taken possession of my house, my bed? Or rather, no; our confidences could wait for another time, another place: Paris, New York, Jerusalem. But first I would entrust it to the best jeweler in the world, so that the watch might recover its luster, its memory of the past.

  It is growing late. The horizon is turning a deep red. I must go. The tenants will soon be waking, they will come down to the well for water. No time to lose. I stuff the watch into my pocket and cross the garden. I enter the courtyard. From under the porch a dog barks. And stops at once: he knows I am not a thief, anything but a thief. I open the gate. Halfway down the street I am overcome by violent remorse: I have just committed my first theft.

  I turn around, retrace my steps through courtyard and garden. Again I find myself kneeling, as at Yom Kippur services, beneath the poplar. Holding my breath, my eyes refusing to cry, I place the watch back into its box, close the cover, and my first gift once more takes refuge deep inside the hole. Using both hands, I smoothly fill in the earth to remove all traces.

  Breathless and with pounding heart, I reach the still deserted street. I stop and question the meaning of what I have just done. And find it inexplicable.

  In retrospect, I tell myself that probably I simply wanted to leave behind me, underneath the silent soil, a reflection of my presence. Or that somehow I wanted to transform my watch into an instrument of delayed vengeance: one day, a child would play in the garden, dig near the tree and stumble upon a metal box. He would thus learn that his parents were usurpers, and that among the inhabitants of his town, once upon a time, there had been Jews and Jewish children, children robbed of their future.

  The sun was rising and I was still walking through the empty streets and alleys. For a moment I thought I heard the chanting of schoolboys studying Talmud; I also thought I heard the invocations of Hasidim reciting morning prayers in thirty-three places at once. Yet above all these incantations, I heard distinctly, but as though coming from far away, the tick-tock of the watch I had just buried in accordance with Jewish custom. It was, after all, the very first gift that a Jewish child had once been given for his very first celebration.

  Since that day, the town of my childhood has ceased being just another town. It has become the face of a watch.

  STORIES

  A disciple came to see Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz.

  “Help me, Master,” he said. “My distress is great; make it disappear. The world is filled with anguish and sadness. Men are not men. I have no faith in them, or in myself. I have faith in nothing. What shall I do, Rebbe, what shall I do?”

  “Go and study. It’s the only remedy I know.”

  “Woe unto me, I cannot even study,” said the disciple. “So strong are my doubts, so all-pervasive, that they prevent me from studying. I open the Talmud and contemplate it. For weeks, months on end, I remain riveted to the same page. I cannot go further, not even by a step, not even by a line. What can I do, Rebbe, what can I do?”

  When a Jew can provide no answer, he at least has a story to tell. And so Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz replied: “Know that what is happening to you also happened to me. When I was your age I stumbled over the same difficulties. I too was filled with questions and doubts. About the Creator and His creation. I too could not advance. I tried study, prayer, meditation. In vain. Fasting, penitence, silence. In vain. My doubts remained doubts, my questions remained open. Impossible to proceed. Then, one day, I learned that Rebbe Israel Baal Shem-Tov would be coming to our town. Curiosity led me to the house where he was praying. When I entered he was finishing the Amida. He turned around and the intensity in his eyes overwhelmed me. I knew he was not looking at me alone, yet I knew that I was less alone. Suddenly, without a word, I was able to go home, open the Talmud and plunge into my studies once more.

  “You see,” said Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz to his disciple, “the questions remained questions, my doubts were still as heavy with anguish, but I was able to continue.”

  *

  Like all Jewish children of my town, I had to prepare a speech for my bar mitzvah, the ceremony which at thirteen would mark my acceptance by the community as a full member.

  A few days before the event, I went to see my Rebbe and pleaded with him not to attend: “Try to understand, I will not dare open my mouth in your presence. Whatever new insights I may have, I have from you. Whatever I could say, you already know. And better than I. To speak with you present would be like playing teacher in front of my teacher.”

  He was a gentle man, fond of solitude. That is why it surprised me when he refused my request: “You want to exclude me from your celebration? I am sorry, but I shall be there.” But seeing my agitation, he quickly added: “Later you will teach, you will communicate what you are now acquiring from me and others like me. I shall no longer be here to listen. But remember: I don’t ask the storyteller to play the role of master; all I ask is that he fulfill his duty as messenger and witness.”

  To the astonishment of my parents and friends, I went through the ceremony without a speech.

  *

  This is the story of a ghetto that stopped living, and of a beadle who lost his mind.

  It was the beadle’s custom to rush to the synagogue each morning, to ascend the bimah and shout first with pride, and then with anger: “I have come to inform you, Master of the Universe, that we are here.”

  Then came the first massacre, followed by many others. The beadle somehow always emerged unscathed. As soon as he could, he would run to the synagogue, and pounding his fist on the lectern, would shout at the top of his voice: “You see, Lord, we are still here.”

  After the last massacre, he found himself all alone in the deserted synagogue. The last living Jew, he climbed the bimah one last time, stared at the Ark and whispered with infinite gentleness: “You see? I am still here.”

  He stopped briefly before continuing in his sad, almost toneless voice: “But You, where are You?”

  *

  They called him the madman, the ghetto madman. The starving gave him a crust of bread, a few potato peels. He amused and distracted them. As for the killers, they seemed to spare him. The convoys came and went, but he was left behind. People asked:

  “How do you manage to escape the roundups?”

  “A very important person is protecting me.”

  “And who is he?”

  “The Council Chairman himself. I went to see him and told him that no community could survive without its madman. ‘If you kill me, or allow me to be killed, you will take my place; you will be me.’ ”

  Then the argument became pointless: there was no more community.

  *

  In a macabre display of humor, the killers informed the ghetto dwellers that ten hostages were to be hanged in reprisal for the execution of Haman and his sons, two thousand years earlier, in the Kingdom of Ahasuerus, as related in the Book of Esther.

  Among the hostages, all bearing the name of Mordecai, after Esther’s uncle, there was one poor man, a water-carrier by trade. He was the only one to go to the scaffold laughing. He was roaring with laughter.

  “Have you gone crazy?”

  “What an idea! Of course not!” he replied, shrieking with laughter.

  “You are not afraid to die?”

  “Afraid? Scared out of my wits!”

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other.” And he explained to the executioners: “Today I am Mordecai, the water-carrier. But tomorrow! Tomorrow I’ll be Mordecai the
Martyr, Mordecai the Saint; and him you’ll never hang, never.”

  And he laughed. And there were no tears in his eyes.

  *

  Having concluded that human suffering was beyond endurance, a certain Rebbe went up to heaven and knocked at the Messiah’s gate.

  “Why are you taking so long?” he asked him. “Don’t you know mankind is expecting you?”

  “It’s not me they are expecting,” answered the Messiah. “Some are waiting for good health and riches. Others for serenity and knowledge. Or peace in the home and happiness. No, it’s not me they are awaiting.”

  At this point, they say, the Rebbe lost patience and cried: “So be it! If you have but one face, may it remain in shadow! If you cannot help men, all men, resolve their problems, all their problems, even the most insignificant, then stay where you are, as you are. If you still have not guessed that you are bread for the hungry, a voice for the old man without heirs, sleep for those who dread night, if you have not understood all this and more: that every wait is a wait for you, then you are telling the truth: indeed, it is not you that mankind is waiting for.”

  The Rebbe came back to earth, gathered his disciples and forbade them to despair:

  “And now the true waiting begins.”

  *

  Yesterday a beautiful young girl of exemplary behavior saw twilight approaching through the window as if to take possession of her. Her heart began to pound. She turned to her father, who was quietly reading his paper.

  “I love you very much, Father,” she said. “You know I do, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he answered, absorbed in his reading. “You’re adorable. I am proud of you.”

  She turned to look at her mother, who was setting the table. “You, too, Mother, I love you very much. I haven’t said this very often; it wasn’t necessary. But know that it is true.”

  Her mother looked at her, astonished. “I should hope so! A daughter should love her parents. We, too, we love you; you’re all we have.” And, looking pleased with herself, she went on arranging the plates and forks and knives, not to mention the napkins.

  The young girl thought of the boy she was to marry and she was overcome by sorrow. “You, we. We will conquer evil, re-create the world, have children, and I will love them, I will love them with all my strength, as I will also love the children we shall never have.”

  In the street below, cloaked in darkness, a stranger crossed the street, stared up at a house with tightly drawn curtains, and slowly walked away.

  “You, too, stranger,” the young girl whispered. “I make you a gift of my love. May your steps lead you toward a desired destination and not toward exile. May your hope free you from the fear which gave it birth. May the love inside you not kill the joy, may the joy inside you become haven and not prison.”

  She spoke to him until he turned the corner. Then, in a voice tinged with neither reproach nor regret, she cried: “What am I to do, dear God, what am I to do? I love everybody, it’s only myself I cannot love.”

  And the young girl, both virtuous and beautiful, threw herself out of the window.

  *

  One of the Just Men came to Sodom, determined to save its inhabitants from sin and punishment. Night and day he walked the streets and markets preaching against greed and theft, falsehood and indifference. In the beginning, people listened and smiled ironically. Then they stopped listening: he no longer even amused them. The killers went on killing, the wise kept silent, as if there were no Just Man in their midst.

  One day a child, moved by compassion for the unfortunate preacher, approached him with these words: “Poor stranger. You shout, you expend yourself body and soul; don’t you see that it is hopeless?”

  “Yes, I see,” answered the Just Man.

  “Then why do you go on?”

  “I’ll tell you why. In the beginning, I thought I could change man. Today, I know I cannot. If I still shout today, if I still scream, it is to prevent man from ultimately changing me.”

  THE VIOLIN

  Like most Jewish parents of the shtetl, mine wanted their son to study the violin. Not as a profession, God forbid, nor as a hobby. Simply as part of my education. Like the Talmud. Or Latin. It made a good impression. And it certainly couldn’t hurt.

  Without being overly enthusiastic, I was willing to try. I thought: What was good enough for King David will be good enough for me. Still there was the problem of finding a suitable instructor among the several in our town. Some were even ready to come to our house, except that we had no room. And then the neighbors might have raised understandable objections. To study with Miss Tudos was not a good idea either. Not only did she live too far, she was a woman. What would people say?

  Finally, after many inquiries, my father found the ideal instructor in the person of a police captain quartered at the station nearby. I only had to cross the street.

  Out of friendship for my father, he agreed to teach me without fee. Three lessons a week to begin with. Then a lesson a day, so that in a few years I could give my first concert—this was mentioned right away—on a Saturday evening at the Borsher Rebbe’s during the traditional ceremony of escorting the Shabbat on its weekly journey into exile.

  So I was given a second-hand violin, and the captain told my father he was expecting me.

  It was a Sunday afternoon. The guard let me in, saluting as though I were an officer. I did not return his salute. I had my hands full: one was holding the violin, the other a bottle of cuika—a gift from my father. But even with my hands free I would not have known what to do: no one had ever taught me how a bashful little Jewish boy was to respond when saluted by a gigantic police sergeant.

  The captain, seated at his desk, his knees crossed, welcomed me with a laugh. “Come closer. Don’t be scared. Let me look at you. So you’re our new Paganini.”

  “No, sir,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about.

  “How stupid of me,” he continued. “How can you be Paganini when you’re a Jew? No, you will be our Heifetz.”

  I knew as little about the second gentleman as about the first, but I guessed he was Jewish and was reassured. But only briefly. For now he made me turn around to better examine me.

  “First lesson,” he said. “We must do something about your payoth.”

  “No,” I shouted with growing fear.

  Nothing on earth could have made me give up the two side-curls which made my face look more Jewish.

  “We must,” he repeated. “With those curls in your eyes, you won’t be able to play.”

  “I don’t want to play,” I shouted. “Not if you have to cut my payoth …”

  In my childish imagination I had visions of being forced to choose between my musical future and my Jewish faith, and I could hear myself accepting martyrdom.

  “Don’t be silly,” the captain said. “Nobody will cut them off. Who needs them? You want your earlocks, keep them. However, before coming here, you’ll have to push them behind your ears. You can put them back in place when you go home. What do you say? Do you agree?”

  “No,” I replied, trembling. “I am a Jew. A Jew has no right to wear disguises. A Jew who hides his payoth is a liar and a fake and should be ashamed of himself.”

  He stared at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re stubborn, my little Jewish friend. Just like the rest of your people. Still, I think I’m going to like you anyway. I think you and I will get along.”

  He was short and heavy-set. His strong features, low forehead and somber, heavy-lidded eyes were impressive. I was afraid to meet his gaze.

  “Well,” he said. “Hand me that, let me show you what playing means.”

  He seized the violin and began to play what turned out to be his favorite doina. Eyes closed as in a trance, he seemed to plunge back into his childhood, far away, among the gypsies. I was afraid to breathe, but I followed him and watched him make his memories dance. The experience left me wide-eyed and enchanted as never before.

 
; “See?” he said, surprised at finding me still there. “That’s the way you’ll have to play.”

  Then he showed me how to stand, how to hold the instrument in my left hand and the bow in my right, how to keep time and make of the violin an extension of my arm, an expression of my soul.

  While I was practicing, he uncorked the bottle, lifted it to his lips and took several swallows. I shall never know whether he was as satisfied with his pupil as he evidently was with his cuika.

  Two days later I came back, carrying the same violin and another bottle. From then on, it became a ritual. While he drank, I familiarized myself with the instrument and its sounds. Had he been as good a teacher as he was a drinker, I would perhaps be more than the amateur violinist I am today.

  I can see him still: daydreaming, his elbows on the table, the bottle in front of him. He drank without opening his eyes. Sometimes a mysterious anger seized him and he would snatch the violin out of my hands and feverishly perform one of his savage tunes. Appeased, he would order me to play the piece again while he took another swallow from the bottle. As long as there was any cuika left, I could practice. The moment the bottle was empty, I had to leave; the lesson was over. Fortunately, his influence on me was limited to music.