by Elie Wiesel
“Say it.”
“And suppose I turned you out?”
“Are you threatening me?”
The Judge stared at him for a long while, almost lost his temper, but only grumbled: “There’s a time for everything.”
Claudia judged this an opportune moment to intervene in order to dissipate the tension. “Do it for us, young man. Not for him. I’m asking you . . . very nicely.”
The young man smiled faintly. “You shouldn’t act as a spokesperson for someone who’s trying to impose his will on you.”
Now it was George’s turn to join the argument. Dressed in a winter suit with frayed sleeves, he spoke in a drawling voice; everything about him was ponderous.
“But, you see, it’s not like that at all,” he said, trying to calm tempers. “The Judge isn’t our jailer, you know. He’s our benefactor! Isn’t he entitled to our trust, if not our gratitude?”
“Don’t you think,” said Claudia, “as a gesture . . . ?”
“And one that commits you to nothing,” said Bruce. “I’m just as stubborn as you are, but do what I’ve done. Don’t be a killjoy. Put down a few words on your goddamned paper so we can all get to drink the tea we’ve so graciously been offered.”
“No.”
“That’s absurd,” said George.
“What are you trying to prove? ” asked Claudia.
“That I’m a free man.”
Obstinately the young man maintained his refusal. But faced with the insistence of his fellow hostages, he agreed to make an oral statement.
“My name is Yoav. Born in Jerusalem. I’m a reserve officer in the army.”
“So you’re an Israeli!” exclaimed Claudia. “That explains everything, my dear Yoav.” The very mention of Israel seemed to delight her. “What a beautiful name!” she went on. “What a great people! Isn’t Israel famous for her inflexible pride?” And, turning to the Judge: “Are you satisfied with that information?”
The Judge replied that, yes, he was satisfied. He stopped striding up and down the room, gathered up the sheets of paper, looked over them, and pronounced, “Naturally, this is only a beginning: an overture, let us say. Act one will come later. But first I shall bring you some hot drinks.”
I was mistaken, thought Razziel. He’s neither an undertaker nor a professor of law. He’s just a plain old schoolteacher. A schoolteacher with no pupils.
The Judge looked at his wristwatch, murmured “It’s still early,” put the four sheets of paper into a folder, and went out.
First there was silence, then the chatter began again. Fuller introductions, comments, polite exchanges.
“He’s a real pain,” said Claudia, getting up to restore her circulation. “I wish he’d come in again soon and take us back to the plane. Perhaps we can get tea somewhere else.”
Everyone agreed.
Through the window they could see a moonless night riven by furious winds.
The weather forecast the previous day had predicted snow but not this avalanche. At Kennedy Airport the majority of the flights had left on time, or almost. Universal Air (Flight 420 New York to Tel Aviv) had taken off about ten minutes late because the cabin crew was not complete: One hostess was missing, caught in a traffic jam on the Triboro Bridge. Pnina, her replacement, kept apologizing to the passengers on behalf of her colleague. The captain, who was in good humor, laid it on thick. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, when the lady you’re waiting for doesn’t show up, the replacement is always better.”
Several feminists among the passengers grumbled a bit.
“It’s OK by me, God watches over us,” Pnina, who was Jewish, jokingly whispered to a colleague. “There are lots of Jews on this flight. Look at them. They’re praying. I wonder what for. Husbands for their middle-aged daughters? I hope they’ll leave one for me, I too could use a husband.”
“Let them pray, they’re not doing anyone any harm.”
“Do you think they have no faith in us?”
“What does it matter? With their prayers and our pilots’ skills, we’ll be just fine.”
The flight attendant was right. There were a lot of Jews on board. The plane that evening was reminiscent of a synagogue. Dotted here and there among the rows of seats, many of the passengers were reciting from the Psalms in anticipation of celebrating Hanukkah, the feast of lights, the following day. With God’s help, in less than twenty-four hours they would be in Jerusalem to light the first candle.
At about 10 P.M. the plane wrenched itself up from the earth with a violent heave. Down below, countless little lights were winking away, as if sending messages in code. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation and exuberance. A mother kissed her baby. An old man patted a little boy’s head and whispered to him something the boy did not understand. To the right of him a man of indeterminate age stifled a yawn.
The captain made the usual announcement: “We have just left Kennedy Airport. The flight will be ten hours, thirty-two minutes. We will be flying at a height of thirty thousand feet, and we expect to encounter some zones of turbulence. But you will sleep well. When you wake, you’ll see the sun shining over the Holy Land.” There was applause. The plane reached its cruising altitude, and the flight attendants began serving drinks at the front. Razziel was in seat 10 C—the tenth row, on the aisle. In three minutes’ time he would be drinking his coffee. No, he wouldn’t. The captain announced, “We’re experiencing some turbulence now, ladies and gentlemen. In view of the wind speed, please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”
Suddenly everything began to move. The beverage cart began sliding in all directions. Those who had been lucky enough to get drinks now regretted it; they were drenched. They laughed: Tomorrow it would all be forgotten.
And what was Razziel thinking about? The man who held the key to his secret past. When was it they had first met? It was back there, in prison, in the cell. Razziel had told him about all the ordeals he had endured, in that baleful laboratory where doctors played games with his memory, as if it were a film from which unwanted outtakes ended up in the trash can. Paritus, my savior. What would have become of me without you?
Now Paritus awaited him in Israel. It was in order to see him again that Razziel was making this journey. Thank you, Paritus, you kept your word, thank you, for you will help me piece together the fragments of my broken life.
The five survivors had not been sitting together on the plane. Before the turbulence began, Claudia had been asleep. Bruce had been trying to flirt with a flight attendant. George was reading a scientific journal. Yoav was vaguely listening to the chatter of his neighbors. And Razziel was letting his mind wander. The weather was stormy? Less dramatic than the storms of the human soul, and less disturbing. As for Pnina, she was checking that the pilot’s instructions were being observed.
Suddenly the plane plunged into an air pocket—then into another, deeper one. Claudia woke with a start. Breathless, Bruce thought he was going to faint. Yoav gripped his seat with both hands so hard it hurt. As often in the past few months, he thought about death: Can one die without suffering? And to think that, while in uniform, he had escaped death so often. How ironic it would be to encounter it now! Someone cried out, “The engine! The engine! Listen to the sound it’s making!” The cabin was filled with shouting; some passengers had suffered head wounds. The flight attendants strove to restore calm. A Hasid with a flowing beard, his right hand over his eyes, murmured the Shma. A woman shouted “Help!” A little boy wept; Pnina knelt down and dried his tears. Razziel’s neighbor was muttering, “I don’t believe in God, but I hope he won’t let us down.”
A voice said, “I’m a doctor.” The captain asked everyone to remain seated. A moment later the doctor was asked to lend a hand. He hurried to the rear of the aircraft where an old man was groaning, shaken by spasms. Heart attack? Cerebral hemorrhage? The plane began bucking again. The intercom was silent. People were asking the flight attendants, “What’s going on? Is anybody injured? What’s
going to happen to us?”
“Nothing. Nothing serious. Keep your seat belts fastened.” To calm the passengers, Pnina explained, “It’s just a bad patch; in another minute we’ll have left the turbulence behind.”
The captain came on the intercom. “Nothing has happened to the plane; it has sustained no damage. But since there’s a storm brewing, I think it best for us to land somewhere. It’s impossible for us to go back to Kennedy, but we’re in contact with several air traffic control towers. Most of the major airports in the area are closed. Boston still has one runway open. . . . Damn, they’ve just closed it.” The passengers held their breath. Several Hasidim were now reciting prayers in Hebrew, echoed in English by a Christian woman. The old man with the heart attack had calmed down. His terrified grandson held his hand.
George Kirsten reviewed the situation: If he were to die now he would be free at last, and so would his wife. But Pamela? She would still have her job at the National Archives and would certainly find a way to fill her evenings. But the children? What would happen to them?
Claudia was thinking about the man in her life, her life restored at last: Who would tell him what only she could reveal? At that moment David was so present to her that she had to make an effort not to burst into tears.
Yoav reflected that if something happened to the pilot he could take his place. So maybe his experience in the air force would be of some use.
Razziel was wondering if Paritus might not also be on a plane, buffeted by tempestuous winds like this one, in which case their meeting might never take place. Suddenly he saw Paritus again: his slow reassuring gestures, his learning, immense yet flexible, his promises—
The captain’s voice: “Good news. There’s a small airfield close by, in Connecticut. We’re going to land there in a few moments. Keep smiling. Things are looking up.”
There follow interminable moments of tension, meditation, and anguished hope; regret too. “I shouldn’t have come. . . . I should have waited for a better forecast.” If only man could undo what he does.
Too late for regrets. At any rate, the end of the ordeal is approaching. The pilot makes the best landing of his career. Despite poor visibility and damaged radar, the plane touches down, glides along the snow-covered runway for a few seconds, and comes to a halt just before a barbed-wire fence. The fear is gone; the passengers salute the pilot with a thunder of applause and cheering; he thanks them. “What did I tell you? These modern airplanes are strong enough to withstand the worst storms. Everything is ready for your temporary stay here. As soon as weather permits, we will reassemble to continue our flight.”
The pilot is an optimist. Does he not know the old saying, “Man proposes and God disposes”? In Yiddish they say, “Man acts and God laughs.”
The airfield is deserted. There is only one light, the flashlight belonging to the watchman. Muffled from head to toe, he helps the passengers deplane. He murmurs, “You’ve been lucky, really lucky. . . . It’s a miracle, a real miracle.” With the help of the crew he leads them to a kind of barn, empty and ice cold: the waiting room. “I’ll make a few calls to the villagers.” Half an hour later, cars equipped with snow gear arrive. A dozen men have responded to the appeal. Each will take as many passengers as possible.
“It’s just a matter of a few hours,” says the pilot. “Tomorrow morning we’ll continue the flight.” The watchman and the crew arrange the allocation of sleeping quarters. Families and friends are not split up. For the others it is a lottery; mere chance determines Razziel’s group. Their car is the seventh.
The Hunchback appeared with the tea. Short, stocky, with a hairy, disfigured face and unevenly arched shoulders— everything about him, including his rapid movements, was disturbing. He belonged to another world, another species. Claudia offered to pour the tea, but the Hunchback refused.
“You are our guests, after all,” he said, in a surprisingly melodious voice. And, with a little sarcastic laugh, “What would History say if we failed in our obligations?”
Razziel concealed his astonishment: What did History have to do with them? Wasn’t History busy elsewhere with a more important cast of characters? He attributed this remark to a bizarre form of irony on the part of the Hunchback. Perhaps he was trying to imitate his master.
“Who takes sugar?”
“I don’t suppose you have a lemon in this fine restaurant?” said Claudia, in a tone intended to be relaxed and amused.
“We apologize, but the supermarket was closed today,” the Hunchback replied, making a gesture of contrition. “It’s the snow, you know. . . . We deeply regret it and ask your indulgence.”
He went out backward, spinning the empty tray that he held in one hand and leaving his guests to sip their scalding-hot tea in peace. Did they suspect that their fortunes were soon to take a turn for the worse? In the muted light they started chatting again.
“All that ugliness concentrated in one body makes me uneasy,” Bruce remarked.
“As much as the Judge does?” asked Razziel.
The intuition he had inherited from his parents and also from his people had led him to be wary of the Judge from the very first moment. Was it his sly exaggerated courtesy? The icy glints flashing through his rigid gaze? This was a person who awakened in him memories that had long been buried.
“Yes,” replied Bruce. “As much as the Judge.”
“I don’t share your reaction,” said Razziel.
“Why not?”
“The Hunchback doesn’t lie; his outward shape reflects his inner nature. That’s not true of the Judge. I don’t know why, but I am suspect of every single thing he says. In fact, I think he holds the whole world in contempt. And he’s not a judge; he knows nothing about the law and does not preside over any court worthy of the name.”
“But in that case,” said Claudia, “how do you explain the warmth and humanity of his welcome? That was sincere. Otherwise why would he have come out of his house to take us in and offer us shelter and food?”
“I can’t explain it,” Razziel admitted, “but my experience tells me that certain things, certain events, seem inexplicable only for a time: up to the moment when the veil is torn aside.”
Claudia studied him. “I’m less of a pessimist than you. Your mistrust surprises me. What do you have against the Judge? He seems very considerate. Friendly. Happy to know we’re safe and sound. Why would he lie to us?”
“Perhaps he has his reasons,” said Razziel.
Bruce concurred with Claudia’s opinion. George and Yoav seemed detached from the discussion, as if it did not concern them.
“All the same, I’d like to be gone from here, right now,” George finally admitted, scratching the bald spot on his head.
“Me too,” said Claudia.
For diverse reasons they were all impatient to reach Israel.
“I’m afraid it won’t be for quite a while,” Razziel said. “Who knows when the storm will abate? And whether the plane will be in a state to take off.”
“We’re not there yet,” agreed Bruce.
“What a waste of time!” Claudia burst out. “With all the urgent matters waiting for me in Tel Aviv.”
At that, Bruce lost his temper. His voice shot out angrily from between his fleshy lips. “You’re not the only one!”
“If that’s your approach to seducing women, you’re not doing well.”
“Seduce you? I pity the man in your life. An affair with you wouldn’t be much fun.”
“How dare you!”
George intervened. “Calm down, please. This is not a time to squabble. If we carry on like this we’ll end up finding one another intolerable. You know as well as I do what history teaches us: It’s easy enough to start a quarrel, but it’s much harder to end it.”
“Mind your own business,” Bruce answered, raising his voice. “I’ll say what I like.”
Yoav finally felt the need to break his silence. “Please, spare your nerves! You will probably need them. All of us are und
erstandably tense—but here we are, condemned to spend these few hours in one another’s company. This calls for a little civility and restraint.”
Claudia abruptly changed color; the Israeli officer’s voice had made her think of David. Maybe they knew one another. In Israel, people said, everyone knows everyone. Isn’t it more like one big family, rather than a country?
“You’re a soldier by profession but you speak like a born diplomat,” she remarked, smiling.
“When children quarrel, an adult needs to intervene,” explained Yoav, returning her smile.
“Now that’s the last straw!” shouted Bruce.
Fortunately, just then the door opened. Razziel felt a chill and shivered. The Judge entered and seated himself at the end of the table.
“I declare this hearing open,” he said solemnly.
Claudia burst out laughing.
“I should like to know what you find so amusing,” muttered Bruce, adjusting the scarf around his neck.
She was about to say it was no concern of his, but the Judge spoke first.
“For the time being you are all free. Free to laugh or to daydream. To live or to forget you are alive. After, we shall see.”
“After what?” demanded Bruce.
“A little patience would not come amiss, Mr. Schwarz. Everything in its proper time.”
“May we smoke?” asked Claudia.
“Can’t you restrain yourself?” asked George. “Smoking in a confined space is hardly what any doctor would recommend to people who care about their health.”
“Any other views?” asked the Judge.
Bruce was in favor of smoking and Razziel against. Razziel thought about Kali and her accursed cancer. Kali had never stopped smoking.
The Judge considered the issue for a moment and delivered a verdict without appeal. “You may smoke.”
Loftily Claudia lit her cigarette, drew on it several times, and stubbed it out in the saucer in front of her.
“Thank you,” said George.
The Judge glared at him. “Now let us speak of serious matters.”
