The Oath

by Elie Wiesel

  Moshe listened, surprised. “What can they want of you? What do they have against you?”

  The tailor, forced to confess, began to sob. “It’s my fault, I know … I talked too much. I shouldn’t have. Forgive me …”

  Moshe forgave him everything. But that was not the end of it. The tailor was convinced that his adopted son could reverse the trend. It was so simple: all he had to do was to repeat in public the performance given in private. A demonstration for strangers. Once, just once. A few words. And the people would know that the tailor and his son were not liars.

  Pessach lamented so much and so long that once again Moshe gave in to pity. He promised to save his father from derision. Yes, he would demonstrate his powers. The following Saturday. Before the reading of the Torah. Now was he satisfied? Yes, Pessach the Tailor was satisfied.

  He rushed to the marketplace, from there to the ritual baths, on to the Yeshiva, announcing everywhere that the hour of truth was at hand: he would be vindicated. The news created a sensation. The town was excited. He would speak at the synagogue. He would perform in public. What would he say? Would he keep his word? Would he rise to the occasion? The rest of that week he was the topic of conversation in every family. Opinions varied, but few were favorable. The consensus: it would be a disaster.

  Moshe, my friend, I shall always remember your speech. I have read and reread it. I often do. My farsighted father recorded it in the Book. Let us open it, shall we?

  This is what took place on that particular Saturday in Kolvillàg, and what Moshe the Seer said to its assembled citizenry.

  “You are forcing me to speak, very well. But I find your motives repugnant. Because I have eyes to see, you fear me. Because I see through your veils, you feel threatened and draw closer to one another. Yet God sees better and further and more clearly than I—and Him you do not fear? May He in His kindness have mercy on you. You do not deserve His love, only His compassion!”

  The congregants bowed their heads as one. The Rebbe nodded his approval; he always agreed with visiting preachers. Up in the balcony, the women uttered sigh after sigh. Some cried as a matter of habit, not knowing why, nor caring.

  “I leave and I come back,” Moshe continued in the same sharp tone. “I sleep and I awaken, I plunge into darkness and re-emerge, leaving behind some part of me. I pray and take stock of my failings, I pray and I count my sins. And you are afraid of me. Of me? And God, where does He fit in? Are you afraid of Him? As much as of me? Do you tremble with fear lest He unmask you? No, of course not. You do not fear heaven’s judgment, and I shall tell you why. Because you believe in His love. An appeasing, reassuring concept: God is our judge but He loves us. You cling to that comforting thought, and that too is natural. But are you sure of it? Yes? What makes you so certain? What makes you think that God indeed loves you? And what if I told you that the Creator of past and future worlds is to be found in fear and not in mercy? In anguish and not in grace?”

  Moshe seemed transformed by passion. With his eyes, his voice, he turned the universe upside down, modified the relationships between words and their meanings, between beings and the Being. All of us present held our breath.

  “And why should you fear me?” Moshe continued, aggressive, merciless. “Because I see through your disguises? Because I know when you go astray? As a matter of fact, I am aware of your little schemes, your wiles and petty machinations. You don’t believe me? You only half believe me? Never mind, I shall prove it to you. The merchant who squandered his father-in-law’s fortune unbeknownst to the latter—does he want me to name him? The broker who for three months has been cheating his partner—would he care to have me go into details? Oh yes, I know your guilty secrets. I could expose them here and now, and shame you, all of you without exception. I choose not to, not to strip away all sham.

  “Why such indulgence? To spare you? To keep alive this community which without your convenient pretenses would fall apart? Perhaps. But there is something else: I use my powers not to observe you and even less to judge you, but to observe and judge myself. I use them to reach the core of my quest, to perfect my tools. For you must know that every adventure is an inner adventure. Let one being rise above himself, free himself and attain fulfillment, and history will change its course. By working on himself, the individual influences the universe that opposes him. When I seek myself, it is for you I am seeking, for you that I walk the tightrope between splendor and oblivion, between ecstasy and damnation. Let me attain my goal and it means deliverance for us all. Let me fail and it means night and its abyss for me and me alone. My success or my failure will influence more than my own future. The powers I plan to challenge do not forgive; nobody flouts them with impunity. And so I make but one request of you, and I beseech you, for your own sake, not to reject it—let me build my work; do not encumber me with your worship or your curiosity. Do not come close to me, do not greet me. Since I assume all the risks, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. My solitude is as essential for you as it is for me. Whoever breaks it destroys me, and all of us.”

  As he returned to his seat in the first row near the Ark, the entranced congregation stared into space as though in touch with a higher power that should not be disturbed. The Rebbe cleared his throat, signaling the cantor to resume the service. There was a long silence before the faithful dared look at one another.

  This is how my father concluded his entry in the Book.

  Strange, but everyone heeded Moshe’s request. It was as though he had ceased to exist. People pretended disinterest, and if, perchance, someone forgot and mentioned his name, people reacted by lifting a finger to their mouth. Why? Did they really believe in his adventure and its chances of success? By acceding to his wishes, were they offering him a chance or simply a ransom in exchange for his knowing silence? Did they refrain from speaking so that he too would not speak? The fact was that both sides scrupulously respected the tacit pact.

  But it was only a temporary truce, eventually broken by the community, for whom Moshe had become embarrassing, cumbersome. His presence created doubts and suspicions, made people feel ill-at-ease, their freedom diminished, threatened. They no longer dared drink, sing, laugh or let themselves go. They felt watched, imprisoned. Clearly this could not go on indefinitely. They had to act, take strong measures. No community could live in a constant state of alert and continue to function.

  Nocturnal meetings were held in a neighboring village, on the other side of the mountain, in the hope of eluding the dangerous person’s clairvoyance. Several dignitaries participated. These secret conferences had but one purpose, though a most arduous one to achieve: to solve the case of Moshe. The slightest false move could provoke the opposite effect. Mystics are so unpredictable. Let Moshe find out about the conspiracy and its aim, and he was capable of shouting whatever he knew from the rooftops. And since he knew everything, what was required now was patience, tact, know-how, caution—above all, caution. Ideally, one ought to have deprived this madman of his powers surreptitiously. Anyway, his messianic hallucinations had never been taken seriously, at least not as seriously as his soothsaying. What difference did it make whether redemption came a little sooner or a little later—well, of course they were in a hurry, but they knew how to wait, they were used to it. On condition, however, not to have to live side by side with a raging madman who disturbed everybody by being different. How was he to be disarmed?

  They talked and talked, and at last they thought they had found a way. Since Moshe felt such a need to isolate himself, well, he should be prevented from doing so. By imposing a presence on him, he would be forced to live with constraint, if not deception. It was as simple as the blessing for bread and wine. Since he displayed such a yearning for solitude, all they had to do was take it away. In other words, he had to settle down, take a wife, start a family. Then he would learn the problems of being husband and father, and everybody would sigh with relief.

  A stroke of genius, undoubtedly. Everyone agreed. One de
tail remained. To convince the principal involved. Clearly not an easy task. It was a well-known fact that for years the most prominent families of the region, and even of the country, had been eager to welcome him as a son-in-law. He had refused to listen to all such talk. He was offered a sky of gold, a bride as beautiful and pure as Sarah the Matriarch—to no avail. One father offered to found a special Yeshiva for him to direct—to no avail. Impossible to tempt him, to entice him. Someone invoked the first commandment of the Torah, the one that orders man to perpetuate the species. Others are taking care of it, had been his reply, I have time. Was there any way to make him relent? Perhaps by exercising pressure on Pessach the Tailor, as in the past? No, the tailor, wary and unhappy, would not cooperate, not any more. And what about a delegation of rabbis? Wasted effort. Moshe was not impressed by delegations. In the end it was Reuven, the cynic of the group, the bon vivant with the fleshy, puckered lips, who volunteered: “I have an idea: pity. I’ll get him with pity. Let me handle it.”

  Next day Reuven appeared at Moshe’s. “It’s wrong of me to disturb you, I know. Your time is precious, your attention sacred. It’s inexcusable, but this is an urgent matter. A matter of life and death. Almost. Anyway, there is this poor girl Leah who cannot find herself a husband.”

  “And that is why you have pushed your way into my house?” Moshe shouted angrily. “What do you want? Money? I don’t have any.”

  “I know, I know. Saints don’t need money. But this spinster Leah, she needs it badly.”

  “But I don’t have any! Must I repeat myself? What do you want of me?”

  “A miracle.”

  “What?”

  “A miracle, Moshe. Only a miracle can save the poor orphan.”

  “I do not perform miracles, and I will not! I don’t believe in miracles, I don’t want them! Do you hear me? Mankind is not ready nor are the times! We no longer live in the days of Moses or Elisha! Miracles and spells are meant for fools, said Mendel of Kotzk! Go away!”

  Reuven feigned consternation, despair. “Then it’s terrible … terrible … I don’t dare think of it. A tragedy, she’ll certainly do something terrible.”

  “What is the matter with her, this Leah, that prevents her from marrying according to the law of Moses and Israel?”

  “That’s just the point, Moshe. Leah, stricken by God, has nothing. And nobody.”

  “Never mind, I’ll find a family that will adopt her, a rich Jew who will provide a dowry—and you, off with you! Out of my sight! You are disturbing me!”

  Reuven did not protest, instead he put on a worried, resigned face. “Very well, Moshe, I’m leaving. I shouldn’t have come, forgive me. I thought I was doing the right thing. Too bad for Leah. She should have known enough to be born into a wealthy, respectable family. She should have known enough to be born more beautiful, more graceful. Let her take it up with God. We had nothing to do with it. Why was the Creator so cruel? The fact is she is ugly, poor girl, terribly ugly … She repels even the matchmakers.”

  “Nonsense! Physical beauty? Nothing but illusion. Nothing but dust.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Moshe. You probably are. Unfortunately, bachelors, widowers and divorced men all like illusion. Three have fled even while the canopy was being erected, even while the rabbi was ready to intone the first hymn!”

  “What! They have done that?” Moshe jumped with indignation. “They insulted, humiliated a poor defenseless orphan? They dared break her heart in public? But who are they? I shall curse them, I shall damn their souls, I …”

  “You have to understand them,” Reuven said sanctimoniously. “If you saw her, you would understand, you would be less harsh …”

  “Never! To humiliate a poor, abandoned orphan is worse than sin, worse than crime—it is murder! Pure and simple murder! What sort of a community am I living in? Does nobody fear God? Is there nobody to decry this scandal? And take pity on this victim of heaven and earth? And that calls itself charitable and pretends to be a good Jew. That talks of generosity, compassion, and of obeying the laws of the Torah—ah, if you only knew how they despise us up there!”

  And Moshe, who ordinarily could read other people’s thoughts, allowed himself to fall into the trap. Blinded by compassion, he failed to see the stratagem. The seer became dupe, instrument, prey: he ended up marrying Leah.

  This is what my father wrote in his Book:

  It was the most astonishing, most impressive wedding in the centuries-old history of Kolvillàg. Thirty-two rabbis from nearby villages participated. The ailing Tzaddik of Dolonik arranged to be carried there so as to personally honor the bridegroom. Naturally, it was he who recited the first of the seven blessings; the others were distributed between the Rav of Kotchima, the Dayan of Ramrog, the Maggid of Poritol, our own Rebbe and Pessach the Tailor, who, under the stress of his emotion, drenched in sweat, stammered so incoherently that he had to repeat the blessing. For the customary seven-day festivities they brought musicians and minstrels from Cracow. Rebbe Zusia of Kolomey made the long journey just to partake of one meal. He danced with Leah, sang for Moshe; he sang and danced one full night. I myself saw him jump into the air and had the impression that invisible arms were holding him aloft. He radiated happiness. At one point, as he rested his gaze on Moshe, his expression changed. Tears rolled down into his beard. I feared a scene, but the groom whispered a few words into his ear and the illustrious visitor recovered his gaiety.

  After the wedding the young couple settled in their own house, in the street behind the cemetery. To everyone’s surprise, Moshe proved to be a considerate, devoted husband. He was no longer the same. He who had refused himself to the world, gave himself to Leah without reservation. He who had been so conscious of every wasted minute, spent hours in her company. Never had any woman been shown such tenderness. Determined to make her happy, serene, he covered her with honors and praise. He called her my queen, my Shabbat. And poor Leah, transfigured, came back to life. She began to think of her body without contempt or bitterness. She felt beautiful because Moshe saw her that way. Never had there been so grateful or so anxious a woman. She needed her husband, she needed to know that he was close, very close—so as not to slip back into humiliation.

  And so Moshe tried to go away less often. There were times when he would pause at the threshold, glance back at his wife—and defer his departure. At other times he would put down the book he was studying, the despair in Leah’s eyes having brought him back to reality. He could gamble with his own suffering, but not with that of someone for whom suffering was not a game. He knew that nothing justifies the pain man causes another. Any messiah in whose name men are tortured can only be a false messiah. It is by diminishing evil, present and real evil, experienced evil, that one builds the city of the sun. It is by helping the person who looks at you with tears in his eyes, needing help, needing you or at least your presence, that you may attain perfection. Was his kindness the result of a deliberate decision? No one will ever know. He felt no need to explain his actions. And nobody dared ask him. People were satisfied that Reuven’s maneuver had succeeded so well. Better to thank heaven and turn the page.

  Except that Moshe had not turned it, not quite. Though he settled down, he avoided mediocrity. He entered madness the way one enters religion. His madness helped him to hold fast. As soon as he felt the flame go down, or its intensity diminish, he plunged back into the past. For hours on end he made speech after speech as he stood at his door or at the nearby cemetery’s gates. He made the beggars at the asylum laugh and sing. He transported the urchins into the eerie kingdom of his legends. In summer he would run through the streets, shouting: “I know who it is, I know who it is.” People would ask: “Who are you talking about?”—“About you, about me,” he would answer and burst into laughter. Other times his lamentations were enough to break one’s heart: “I know who it is, I know who it is, but he refuses, he refuses to know.”—“Who refuses, Moshe?”—“He, not I, not you, but he …” This would go on a f
ew hours or a few weeks, particularly during the August heat waves, and then, abruptly, he became himself again, the tender husband of poor Leah into whose eyes he brought the song of sunshine in the middle of the night.

  What did they live on? Leah took in laundry, washed floors in other people’s houses. Moshe tutored the boys of poor families. Rich parents preferred not to entrust their children to him: what if madness were contagious?

  True, Davidov had offered him a regular subsidy. He had refused, saying: “You wanted me to be a Jew like the others, and so I shall earn my bread like the others, by the sweat of my brow. But I shall give of my time to the children; it seems that they need me.” Unfortunately, he turned out to be an inadequate instructor. He was too gentle, he lacked authority. The children did with him whatever they wanted. Never did he punish, never did he scold. All his pupils, even the most ignorant and noisiest, received their share of praise. Their teacher, he? Surely not. Rather, their holiday.

  And then the parents decided this was leading nowhere; their children played too much and learned nothing. They took up a collection to hire a genuine tutor from an adjoining village. Out of work, with nothing to lose, Moshe took charge of one single pupil, whom he elevated to the rank of disciple.

  A moment that will remain graven in my memory forever: I saw my Master smile for the first time.

  He did not see me, his thoughts were drifting elsewhere, into the uninhabited spheres of the mind; he barely breathed. That I was used to. For the last year I had trudged ahead, clinging to him, hour after hour, step by step, page after page. Frequently he became impatient with my slow pace and would abandon me on the way to dash forward, overturning obstacles, brushing aside dangers. All I could do was follow him with my eyes.