One Generation After

by Elie Wiesel

  What did you say?

  It’s more horrible, more odious than I thought.

  What?

  So it was pure chance, pure chance, pure chance.

  *

  If it means so much to you, you could come with me now, you know. It’s never too late.

  It’s not the same any more.

  Did I change so much?

  You didn’t.

  But you did?

  No. I didn’t either.

  Then what has changed?

  The relationship between us. Before, it was you and I. Now, we are no longer alone. If I follow you, others will be affected.

  Don’t tell me you’re happy!

  That’s not it.

  You think you’re useful, indispensable?

  That’s not it either.

  Then what is it?

  Before, I was you. In the eyes of the man standing behind me in the breadline and in the eyes of the old man whose chances for survival crumbled away hour after hour: my youth, my resistance were what condemned him. They saw you in me. That is over. I am weaker, infinitely weaker than you, but I am no longer you.

  Are you serious?

  More than ever.

  Then I pity you.

  You know that word?

  Yes, I know that word, I know all words! I pity you because you are getting weak. You accept only what suits you. Know this: whether you follow me or not, for certain people I shall remain you. It is of little importance whether you believe me or not; they do. And that’s enough for me. As far as they’re concerned, it is beyond the realm of chance.

  You should not have spared me over there, you shouldn’t have.

  *

  Come closer. Whom do you wish to see?

  You know.

  Look carefully, you will see them. Will you recognize them?

  I think so.

  Can you see them yet?

  Not yet.

  Come a little closer.

  I can see them now.

  All of them?

  Not all.

  Who is missing?

  A child.

  He must be there. Look again.

  I don’t see him.

  That’s probably your fault, not his. But the others, can you see them?

  Clearly. They’ve hardly changed. Only they seem to be suffering from the cold. To warm themselves, they press against each other. They’re trembling.

  Are they afraid?

  They’re beyond fear.

  Why are they trembling?

  I don’t know.

  Ask them.

  I don’t dare.

  You’re not going to speak to them?

  I am speaking to them. They don’t seem to hear. And yet, they’re looking at me; they see me but they won’t speak.

  That too is probably your fault, not theirs.

  Probably, yes.

  Say, now you’re the one that’s trembling!

  I wasn’t aware of it. I thought that I too was beyond fear.

  Then it must be anger.

  I hope so.

  Now, just a minute! You better watch yourself! Control your nerves! And above all, do me a favor: don’t touch the mirror; it might break. And I cannot do without it; I need it, do you hear me, I need it!

  More than I?

  More than all of you. For you, it’s a chance to dream, for me it’s an incitement to action.

  Don’t worry. I won’t be the one to break your mirror: the child will. And you are powerless against him. Eyes have no hold over him. And he’s not trembling. He is dead. You permitted him to escape your grasp.

  It’s incredible: you refuse to understand. I wasn’t the one who killed him. It was you.

  WAITING

  I would like to tell you the story of the woman named Barbara, only I don’t know it. She refused to tell it to me. Less afraid to be judged than to be remembered, she attempted by every possible means to exorcise the story from people’s memories, to the point of almost losing her own. She would say: “Men, those fools, think they’re buying my body: what I’m selling is my memory.”

  Her past, like everyone else’s, was made of words, and her future of images. Like everyone else, she had a story she did not like, a story shared with countless strangers whose sullen faces and vulgar peculiarities followed one another endlessly, as in a play of mirrors where the same eerie silhouette reflects itself into infinity. She took pleasure in mutilating and disguising it; she dragged it through the mud only to adorn it later with pretty lies: her tale was false from beginning to end. But wasn’t this distortion her only chance to alter it beyond recognition even to herself?

  No matter. Now that she has discarded her memory, she will somehow acquire a story that will be hers and hers alone, an unblemished story beginning and ending with herself, a story lived by no one else and still unknown even to God. A story that men, those fools, will never understand.

  I was still very young. So young that I would instinctively quicken my step when in my wanderings I happened to pass through those dimly lit, airless side streets, where restless nocturnal creatures hugged the walls, seeming forever to expect a friend or enemy, never the same, their bodies poised against the inevitable stab in the back.

  I stepped out of their way, I avoided them. They filled me with an obscure fear. Each time one of them accosted me, whispering and gazing lewdly into my eyes, I lowered my head and blushed. I stammered: “No, thank you,” conscious of the sin I was committing, for it was “Yes, thank you” that I should have said.

  In the Bible, kedosha means “holy,” while kedesha means “prostitute.” That the two words should have one root was to me a disturbing mystery. But I usually lacked both the courage and the money to resolve it. I resisted temptation but it did not make me proud.

  That summer night, however, things were different. Unable to fall asleep, I had gone out for a walk along the Seine. I was gloomy. For weeks I had been feeling anxious and aloof, sinking into paralyzing sadness. Books bored and irritated me and so did my friends. Since I had nothing to do, I spent my days idly prowling through the city, in the grip of a solitude whose origin escaped me. Something had crept between life and myself; I saw it slipping away and did not lift a finger to hold it back: let it go. I felt untouched even in the deepest abyss. Absurdity prevailed.

  After a long walk I emerged on a small square, Rue Saint-Denis, near Les Halles, the central market. It must have been past midnight. A hot wind was blowing through the trees. Four women were at their separate posts. From time to time they came together to exchange jokes or advice, then dispersed again, alert and on the lookout. To attract customers, they used a highly efficient strategy: they operated like a night patrol at the front seeking to establish contact with the enemy.

  A man appeared, walked up to one of them and after a brief discussion, shook his head and turned away. Seconds later he had disappeared around the corner, the last customer. Night was deepening, the city was asleep. “What a life!” sighed one of the four.

  It took them more than an hour to notice the young student’s presence. Moving in from four directions at once, they quickly formed a circle around him.

  “How about it, honey?” a redhead asked.

  I stared at her a long time before hearing myself reply: “No, not tonight.”

  “Why not?” her short, plump companion wanted to know.

  “I wish to remain here.”

  “Oh, I see, the rascal prefers looking,” said the third.

  They burst out laughing; I didn’t react. Their laughter was obscene. Their gaping mouths were like those cracks that appear and surreptitiously widen in the dilapidated walls abounding in that section of Paris. Run away? Not now. Their teasing meant nothing: I wasn’t really here, I was nowhere.

  “You’re expecting somebody, maybe?” snickered the redhead.

  “Yes. Somebody.”

  “She’s letting you wait and that’s not very nice.”

  “He is not nice,” I said. “An
d he likes to keep people waiting. Besides, I enjoy waiting for him.”

  “We could keep you company,” suggested the redhead, speaking for the group. “That’s our job. We’ll make you a special deal.”

  “No, thanks. I wait better when I’m alone.”

  “He might be pleased to find us here with you, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “Say, are you speaking for yourself or for him?”

  “For both of us. I know he likes solitude. And silence.”

  “Then tell us his name. Perhaps we know him; you’d be surprised how many people we know. Isn’t that right, girls? Tell us what he looks like, if he is rich, if he’s fun, and something about his vices and habits. He might turn out to be an interesting customer.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood to play this senseless game.

  “My God,” the redhead continued, “he certainly is rude! Here we are worrying about his well-being and he doesn’t even answer! You could at least tell us who you’re waiting for? We promise not to bite.”

  “Somebody,” I said, barely opening my mouth.

  They were sneering. I stared back defiantly. Any other time I would have sought a place to hide, to cleanse and chastise myself. Not now. I felt calm, indifferent: it was not me they were trying to provoke.

  Suddenly the fourth girl, the one who had not spoken yet, leaned toward me. “And if I were to tell you that I am the one you’re waiting for?” she whispered so softly the others could not hear.

  Her hair hung down her partly bared back. She was eying me coldly, thoughtfully. I could smell her breath, heavy with alcohol. Now it was my turn to burst out laughing. The one I had been seeking for so many years: a woman! A shameless woman who chose to sell rather than give herself, a woman for whom to be and to have were one, a woman intimate with men she despised. And to think that in my childhood I had imagined meeting this being on the crests of mountains and in the depths of contemplation. The women were staring at me in amazement. I was laughing, but neither my laughter nor my voice were my own.

  “Well?” murmured the girl with the long hair.

  “Come, Barbara, forget it,” the others said, pulling her by the arm. For them, the show was over.

  “Leave me alone,” Barbara snapped.

  “You must be crazy! Don’t you see the poor child is broke?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink! That’s it!”

  They moved away, their comments lost in the night.

  “Your friends are right,” I said after a pause. “I am penniless.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” she answered, her voice icy. “I like you.”

  She stroked my cheek and added in a tone intended to be gentle and affectionate: “I like you and that’s what counts. Let’s forget everything else. Come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “My place. I live close by. We’ll be more comfortable. Come.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you afraid? Shy? Would you rather we go to your place?”

  “I’m not afraid and I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  She looked at me hard, wrinkling her brow. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, not at all surprised. “How did you guess?”

  “Your accent, your voice, the way you say no.”

  “I’m Jewish, and that means I’m not afraid. Fear no longer is my concern.”

  She sat down beside me without taking her eyes off mine. In the dark, her grossly painted face was terrifying, revealing all the humiliations of her body and soul.

  “Do you enjoy making love?” she asked coolly.

  “That depends.”

  “What about me? Would you like to make love to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you try it to find out?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why not?”

  I remained silent: it was not me she was questioning, so it was not up to me to answer. She took my hand; I pulled it back.

  “Do I disgust you? Is that it?”

  “No, not at all. I’m just too warm.”

  “So am I. And sometimes I disgust myself.”

  I wanted to say something to soothe her, but my mind was blank. “Let’s talk,” I said.

  “What about?”

  “You.”

  She asked me to use the familiar tu. “All men do,” she explained. It was the first time anyone had categorized me as man.

  “All right,” I agreed. “But let’s talk about you.”

  “What do you want me to say?” There was a hint of anger in her voice. “I don’t like to talk about myself. While taking off their clothes, men always want to know who I am. It’s important for them to know on whom they have the honor and pleasure of spitting. I don’t answer. Anyway, not truthfully. As it is, my truth is soiled enough. And so I invent, I embroider. I have lots of imagination. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  I really didn’t, I just didn’t want to hurt her. I wasn’t even listening. It was too hot. I took out my handkerchief and mopped my face. She did the same.

  “Am I boring you?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “If I am, say so.”

  “Not at all. It’s the heat.”

  “Where was I?”

  “You were telling me about truth.”

  “Oh, yes, what was I saying? Men want to know everything, absolutely everything. So I humor them; I make up stories; each one made to order: they would break your heart. Those imbeciles adore stories and confessions. In every man there is a priest who sees in every woman an unhappy whore, a soul to save and console and bring back to the fold. Which offers him the luxury of behaving magnanimously, like a self-appointed or God-appointed protector of widows and orphans. That is what they all come for: not to make love—that too, of course—but to bring us their cheap pity and affection. ‘Ah, my little one, you suffered so much as a child, here is another hundred francs. It’s a present. You see: I am generous. But in exchange, pretty child, you’ll be nice with me, promise?’ So I pocket my tip and say thanks very much, mister, thanks very much, Father, you’re so good, and kind, and have a heart of gold, the soul of a saint, come here, stretch out on me, I give myself to you, I’ll let you do as you please, draw as much pleasure out of me as you wish, as you can, I’m a pleasure machine, don’t worry, there’ll be enough for everybody, for all the priests and saints still to come. That’s what I tell them—joking, crying or beating them, depending on their taste: some like my tears, others are excited only by my fury. See? I’m not worth more than a hundred francs.”

  She interrupted herself, moistened her lips and said: “And you? What do you want?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “Do you want me to speak of truth? Like the others?”

  “If you wish. But I must warn you again, I haven’t a cent.”

  Once again she seized my hand violently, and this time I let her. At her touch and for the first time that night, I could not keep from trembling. I had just rediscovered my body.

  “I like you,” she continued, releasing my hand. “I like you because you’re young and poor; because you’re Jewish and unafraid. And also because I don’t understand you.”

  She drew back slightly as if to see me better. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m drunk.”

  “Wrong. I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Don’t interrupt. Please. You’re not thinking of anything but you think I’m drunk. One does not exclude the other. Well, it’s true. I did drink. Not much. Just a little: with three well-paying customers. I suggested they invite my friends to share the fun; but they didn’t go for the idea. You’ll manage by yourself, like a big girl, they said. We drank. We did other things. They were pleased and told me so. They left.
I kept one bottle. I didn’t touch it, I swear, that is, not really. I don’t enjoy drinking, not alone, not like that. My head spins when I drink alone. It’s spinning now. Feel it: it’s spinning, can you tell?”

  She began turning her head with such frenzy that I became dizzy. I said: “Yes, indeed, it is spinning.”

  “You see? I know what I’m saying. I may seem incoherent, but I know what I want to say. If you don’t understand, it’s because you’re Jewish: you’re a good listener, but you don’t understand.”

  Her hand moved to her mouth as if to apologize for her blunder. “Did I offend you? No? Good. Still, I do apologize. You must forgive me. You do understand, I know that. I take it all back: you’re a Jew, therefore you understand. It’s I who don’t understand you. See, when I saw you, sitting on your bench, sitting on the night—yes, don’t look at me like that, on the night: I say, one can sit on it and lie down on it, one can even dwell in it—when I noticed you there, I immediately knew that you were someone who understands, someone I cannot understand. You like hearing me say that, don’t you? You’re young and the young love to be told that. Well, I’m going to make you happy and solemnly declare: I do not understand you. There now, are you glad? Besides, it makes me glad too. I would so like never to understand. It rarely happens. Most of the time I understand only too well and too fast. What do you expect? That’s what I’m paid for. Men, I know them, I can see through their schemes and pretenses. Immediately. I think to myself: ‘Go ahead, old boy, do your little act, I know before you and better than you what you’re after.’ Ha, they think they possess me when they take my body and fill me with their disgust; in fact, I’m infallible; I see through them and I spit on them.”

  Barbara was telling me her life, and I thought of mine, and of all human existence, which one single gesture, one single event can distort, uplift or debase forever. One word said or said poorly, or not said at all, a train missed, a hand taken or rejected, and life is no longer what it might have been. Freedom? A farce. The future is but the product of the past, which remains beyond our reach; we may no longer touch it, for it becomes a divinity created by us and against us. What is done is done, we cannot retrace our steps, we cannot choose ourselves again. Thus a yes or a no, every yes and every no, commits man beyond the present. That is the misunderstanding, the fundamental injustice of human condition: we accept and refuse situations which will emerge only later, when it is already too late.