One Generation After

by Elie Wiesel

  Barbara kept quiet a long time. I should have said something.

  She misinterpreted my silence: “You’re not exactly talkative. Did you at least listen?”

  “Jews are good listeners,” I reminded her.

  “I also like to listen.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Nothing? No reaction? No comment? I have just told you the idiotic story I call my life, and you have nothing to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right. As you wish. But I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “What sort of favor?”

  “Forget what I told you. Immediately. I too want to forget. Promise?”

  “Of course. I promise.”

  She tried to kiss me; I gently pushed her away. “It’s frightfully hot,” I said.

  She took her handkerchief and wiped my face. “Why don’t you talk to me? Are you afraid I won’t understand? Is that it? But that is precisely what I wish! Tell me anything, so long as I don’t understand! Just once in this rotten life I would like not to understand!”

  A dense sadness was oppressing me. Barbara brought her face close to mine and I did not pull back. Her lips were on my cheek. I let her. She still smelled of whiskey. I thought: The first woman with whom I speak of love is a streetwalker, a drunken streetwalker who likes Jews because she doesn’t understand them. I didn’t understand myself.

  “You’re sad. I know when a man is sad. Come, make love. It’s still the best remedy against feeling lonely, believe me, I know. Do you have any idea why sadness was given to man? So that women like me wouldn’t die of hunger.”

  I saw myself with the eyes of my childhood and thought: You will not get away, not this time.

  “Well? Are you coming? You won’t have to speak or listen. You’ll be free.”

  I got up abruptly. “No, thank you, I don’t feel like it.”

  It was false and true at the same time. I wanted her and was afraid that she might be aware of it.

  “You really don’t want to? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  A grayish light was slowly tearing the sky. The city was fighting its last battle against a flight of ravens—or were they vultures?—pushing it beyond the horizon. Soon it would be day.

  I looked at the woman and held out my hand. “I must leave,” I said, hiding my agitation. “Take care.”

  She hesitated but took my hand and held it tightly. “Goodbye, my little Jew. Where are you going now? Back to your woman, your girl friend?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Perhaps.”

  A few seconds went by. I added: “They’re dead.”

  A smile flickered across her face. “Well, I certainly don’t understand you. Thank you for that.”

  We each went our separate ways; my head was lowered, she held hers high. I had walked only a few steps when I heard her call a last message: “I forgot something important: I can never have a child! Can you hear me? Never! Never! That is as important as the rest of my story!”

  “Your story? What story?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way through the morning mist. A drunken whore, that’s what she was, Barbara. Barbara? Was that even her name? Probably not. Marie, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Blanche, Emma, Marcelle. But not Barbara. She took that name so she could tell herself: “It’s not me walking the streets; it’s Barbara.” Who then had I spoken to?

  In the following months I was careful to avoid that neighborhood. Then, one night, I felt a desire to see Barbara again. From a bench in the small square near Les Halles, I watched the street, waiting for her to appear. She was gone; night, or perhaps her own never-to-be-told story, had recaptured her.

  Another girl had taken her place. She came over to me and asked: “You are looking for somebody?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Somebody.”

  “But who?”

  I waited before repeating: “Somebody.” I added: “A prophet.”

  “My poor, poor boy. You just go right on looking; but I bet he’s up there. And he’s busy. Busy making love!”

  THE END OF A REVOLUTIONARY

  Somewhere, far away: noisy streets, crowded with people strolling and laughing, with window-shoppers and policemen. And much ado. About nothing. Aimless shouting and calling. And quarreling. Just for the fun of it.

  And I was going to get some rest here, the stranger thought, more amused than bitter.

  He was sitting on the terrace of a sidewalk café, shielded from the sun, idly watching the passing cars and the pedestrians dodging them: Even so, I was right to come, nothing here concerns me.

  Three days earlier he was still at home. In his house, with a woman both gentle and melancholy. And colleagues, some friendly, some envious. Smiles, flatteries and half-truths. Always the same questions, the same answers. The same burdens and the same alibis. Suddenly he felt like leaving it all. Without a word. Leave. For a few days. Or a few years. And breathe. And remain silent; remain silent at last. He jumped into a taxi. To the airport. The first plane out. Anywhere. Don’t look at me that way. Please. Yes, I’ll pay. Cash. Anywhere, I said. Hurry.

  I was right to come, he thought. Here too I am a stranger. But it’s not the same.

  2

  The hours flew by. He wasn’t aware of time. Before, it had filled him with anguish. Time-conscious? More than that: time-obsessed. Not any more. He was living outside time. No clock, no obligations. No need to pretend being busy, entertained, interested, moved. He would get up and go to sleep whenever he chose. No one would ask: Where were you? Or: Whom did you see? Or: Why are you late? No one would try to make him forget or remember. He would be alone at dusk and still alone at dawn. Not like a prisoner in his cell; like a fugitive in the forest.

  His home? He would forget it. His work? To hell with his work. And the woman? So as not to think about her, he began studying the faces around him. A pair of young lovers, isolated from the outside world. What seemed like a gang of thieves plotting. A baffled-looking man sporting a mustache. A woman. Why is she so worried? Let’s stop, and look again. Still young, in her twenties, perhaps older. Black hair, fiery eyes, sensual, obstinate lips. Probably waiting for someone, her husband, her lover perhaps. She seems impatient, preoccupied: yes, worried. She has consulted her wristwatch at least ten times. She starts to get up, only to sit down again. The stranger tries to catch her eye. In vain. He smiles at her; she does not respond. He leans toward her and asks her the time; she pretends not to hear.

  I don’t feel rebuffed. It’s her privilege after all. She owes me nothing. Anyway, she distracts me from my thoughts. Isn’t that enough?

  3

  Now she was staring at him. Openly. Without false modesty. She smiled, and now she spoke: “You are not from around here, are you?”

  “No. But you are.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Are you expecting someone? Someone special?”

  “Of course. You.”

  “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  She laughed in a strange way: her face was not smiling, neither were her eyes. Only her voice was gay.

  “Please forgive my lack of manners,” he said. “I didn’t introduce myself properly.”

  “Don’t bother. I detest names.”

  “Any reason?”

  “Names are irrelevant, irrational and deceptively personal. And harmful at that. Don’t they trouble you?”

  “Sorry.” He smiled, blushing. “It’s too hot for philosophical discussions. Later perhaps? Over dinner?”

  There was amusement in her eyes. “Philosophy and food don’t go together in this town. Thanks, anyway. And now I must leave. I have an appointment. Not with you.”

  “But with some other nameless person like me?”

  “Possibly. No, he’s not like you. You have a face; he has only a mask.”

  They both got up.

  “May I go with you?”

  “I think it would be best if you didn�
��t.”

  “He is jealous, is that it?”

  She hesitated a moment, then went on: “After all, why not? Do come.”

  She handed him a small suitcase he found rather heavy.

  4

  They walked awhile without speaking. They had left the main streets and were following a deserted side street. At the end of it loomed a dark, dismal building.

  “What’s that down there?” asked the stranger.

  “Government offices. Stay away from them.” And after a pause: “Our own people avoid them when possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Those inside are executioners or victims: police investigators or political prisoners. Would you want to be either?”

  They took three more steps.

  The young woman stopped. “We must part now. Where are you staying?”

  “Hotel Excelsior.”

  “Room?”

  “483.”

  “I’ll remember it … just in case.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He was about to insist.

  She cut him short. “Go home,” she said, a note of impatience in her voice.

  “All right. I’ll be expecting you—just in case.”

  He gave her back her suitcase.

  5

  He returned to his hotel, went down for a sandwich, circled the main square a few times and went to bed.

  A deafening explosion awakened him shortly after midnight. He ran to the window but could see nothing. A moment later there was a burst of gunfire. A machine gun crackled briefly and stopped. Then silence again, heavier than before.

  Well, thought the stranger, I’ll go back to sleep. Let them shoot each other. It’s no concern of mine. Tomorrow I’ll find out what happened. There’s no hurry. This country is not mine, this incident has nothing to do with me. I know neither those doing the shooting nor those being shot at. I just happen to be here. I might easily have been elsewhere.

  With the woman I left back home, for instance. Who would invariably be asking the same senseless questions: “What are you thinking about? Where are you? Why do you shut me out?”

  To which he would be answering: “I’m not thinking about anything, really.”

  And it would have gone on:

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s the trouble with us: even when you believed in me, you didn’t believe me.”

  “It’s your fault. You no longer talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Why you no longer talk to me.”

  He fell asleep, moaning.

  6

  The bellboy brought his breakfast. “Did you hear the explosion?” he asked, all excited.

  “I did. What was it?”

  “A bomb.”

  “Where?”

  “Not far from here. At secret police headquarters. Two floors demolished. The colonel killed, his aide too: shot like mad dogs. Nine wounded. It’s the revolution, sir! You understand? Dictatorship, corruption, fear, torture: finished, the old regime. Finished! For good! The revolution has won!”

  “Good for you.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m a foreigner here. I don’t even know who is in power or who would like to be. You want to know something else? I don’t even care.”

  “How can you say these things? How can you be so callous? Last night some men were killed, others became heroes—and it doesn’t touch you? Doesn’t even interest you?”

  “I repeat, young man: what happens in this country is not my business. I don’t take sides. You want to play games? Fine, but play without me. Leave me out.”

  “I can’t believe you, sir … you can’t possibly be as insensitive as you wish to appear … No one is …”

  “Listen, young man. If your revolutions prevent my having breakfast in peace, I’ll have to reconsider …” The stranger tasted the coffee and made a face. “It’s lukewarm! Horrible! I like my coffee scalding hot! Whose fault is that, young man? The old regime’s or the revolution’s?”

  Disgusted, the bellboy rushed out, decided not to apologize.

  7

  There was repeated knocking at his door, but it took the stranger a while to hear it. He was shaving and his electric razor was noisy. As soon as he unplugged it, he heard the noise. Opening the door, he found himself facing two angry men.

  “Are you deaf?” they shouted.

  “Excuse me, but …”

  “Later. You’ll make your excuses later. Let’s go.”

  “You must be crazy.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Police.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Please follow us.”

  “But what have I done?”

  “Later. You’ll get all the answers later. We have our orders. Get dressed. Please.”

  The stranger was rapidly losing his composure. “But I haven’t done anything! I’ve just arrived! Surely this is a case of mistaken identity! I’m a foreigner! I demand to see my consul! I know my rights!”

  The two policemen didn’t even take the trouble to confer. “Don’t get excited and don’t make a fuss; it won’t do you any good. These stalling tactics can only hurt your case.”

  What was the use of arguing? Trying to look detached, he picked up his jacket, his billfold and a handkerchief, and declared himself ready to go. His things? He didn’t care; he could do without them. It was just like him to divest himself of his possessions. On his travels, he invariably distributed them among strangers, arriving home empty-handed.

  Followed by the two policemen, he left the hotel and was pushed into a black unmarked car parked a few steps away, near the corner.

  It’s a good thing I brought my handkerchief, he thought as he wiped his face. It was going to be a hot day.

  8

  Yet he was not afraid. He found the adventure disconcerting, incomprehensible—nothing more. What did it all mean? They were going to put him in prison, condemn or perhaps even execute him. By mistake. Everything was possible in these countries. Who do they think I am? he wondered. Well, he’d soon find out.

  No, he was not frightened. Simply amused. At last something will happen to me, he thought. Too late? No, it wasn’t too late. The last day, the last hour count more than all the others.

  Life had recently become tiresome, marginal, not unlike a robot’s. He was untouched by surprise or disappointment, joy or sorrow, poverty or love. Resigned to apathy, he let himself drift. His days were all alike, his nights grew longer. His dreams became burdens. Everything had been said and experienced; he had drained the cup. Never again would he know the rapture of creation or the despair of failure. Never again would he delight in the joys of new encounters. Death itself would not be new; let it come. Here or elsewhere, now or later: he didn’t care. For years now he had been dead without knowing it. Now his death would become fact, a part of reality. And absurdity. He should actually welcome it. To die for nothing, out of sheer negligence, in someone else’s stead, should actually please him. A death, an end he neither sought nor fled, should suit him. Since his existence had become meaningless, why then should his death have a meaning?

  Such were the thoughts running through his mind while he was being driven toward the young woman he had met the afternoon before.

  9

  The office in which she received him had belonged to the former governor of the city. Three armed guards stood at attention.

  “Glad to see you again,” said the young woman with a tired smile.

  He tried to conceal his astonishment. “So am I. Tell me: did you send the police?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well, well,” he said admiringly. “When you feel like seeing someone again, you know just what to do. My compliments.”

  “If the policemen were rude, I apologize.”

  “No apologies necessary. Po
lice are the same everywhere. But you know, if you wanted to see me that badly, you could have chosen some simpler way than starting a revolution, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Revolutions are not started by individuals for individuals, but for the people. Ours is no exception. I am sorry I forgot to tell the police chief that you did your part.”

  “My part in what?”

  “In last night’s revolution. You are not a prisoner, you are our honored guest. Better still, our hero.”

  “I wish you were speaking for yourself—not for your countrymen. Your hero? I’d be delighted. Any time. Theirs? Never.”

  “Your modesty is to your credit. However, the facts remain: your courage is known. That case you helped me carry yesterday, do you know what it contained? A bomb, a powerful bomb. Meant to destroy the secret police headquarters. With your help I managed to cross several check points. Thanks to your assistance, the operation was a success. That is why …”

  She stopped and motioned to one of her assistants, who handed her a small rectangular box. Opening it, she went on: “… on behalf of the Revolutionary Movement for National Liberation, I hereby bestow upon you the first medal for revolutionary heroism.”

  As in a dream he watched himself extend his hand and, a bewildered grin on his face, accept the box. “You’re mad,” he said. “I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine.”

  Her comment was brief: “If that’s all that bothers you, I can reassure you. When you leave here, buy a newspaper. You will see that by now the entire country knows both of us.”

  Then she expressed regret that due to other pressing matters she could not stay with him longer. She saw him to the door and whispered: “Don’t be angry. We need a foreign hero. To show our enemies that we have friends abroad.”

  “Thanks for having thought of me.”

  “You are angry; I am sorry.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “Forget it,” he said. “I am not angry, not really. Besides, what difference does it make?”

  Nothing made any difference.