Open Heart (5 page)

I belong to a generation that has often felt abandoned by God and betrayed by mankind. And yet, I believe that we must not give up on either.

Was it yesterday—or long ago—that we learned how human beings have been able to attain perfection in cruelty? That for the killers, the torturers, it is normal, thus human, to act inhumanely? Should one therefore turn away from humanity?

The answer, of course, is up to each of us. We must choose between the violence of adults and the smiles of children, between the ugliness of hate and the will to oppose it. Between inflicting suffering and humiliation on our fellow man and offering him the solidarity and hope he deserves. Or not.

I know—I speak from experience—that even in darkness it is possible to create light and
encourage compassion. That it is possible to feel free inside a prison. That even in exile, friendship exists and can become an anchor. That one instant before dying, man is still immortal.

There it is: I still believe in man in spite of man. I believe in language even though it has been wounded, deformed and perverted by the enemies of mankind. And I continue to cling to words because it is up to us to transform them into instruments of comprehension rather than contempt. It is up to us to choose whether we wish to use them to curse or to heal, to wound or to console.

As a Jew, I believe in the coming of the Messiah. But of course this does not mean that the world will become Jewish; just that it will become more welcoming, more human. I belong, after all, to a generation that has learned that whatever the question, indifference and resignation are not the answer.

Illness may diminish me, but it will not destroy me. The body is not eternal, but the idea of the soul is. The brain will be buried, but memory will survive it.

Such is the miracle: A tale about despair becomes a tale against despair.

THIS OPEN-HEART
introspection would not be complete if I did not ask a last question: Have I changed? With what my heart has gone through, during and since the hospitalization of June 16, 2011, after the forays into the unknown and the explorations of the depths of my being, am I still the same? The pain and its memory, the nightmares real and imagined, the necessary and inevitable medications must have affected my brain and—why not?—my soul.

Is it possible to come so close to the end without something essential changing inside us? Has my perception of death, and thus of life, not changed? Are there deeds that someone who has undergone this experience would no longer commit, or, at the least, would accomplish differently?

I believe that the answer is yes.

This is true even from a practical point of view. I have learned that I must refuse certain foods, avoid certain movements, accept certain situations without getting upset.

And yet I have essentially remained the same. It might seem that I am not the man I was before June 16, 2011, but on a level close to the absolutes that are life and death, I have remained the same. What is different is that I now know that every moment is a new beginning, every handshake a promise.

I know that every quest implicates the
other
, just as every word can become prayer. If life is not a celebration, why remember it? If life—mine or that of my fellow man—is not an offering to the
other
, what are we doing on this earth?

For I have learned, over the course of years, to observe man’s mystical capacities, and, in spite of the contradictions inherent to my testimonies, I persist in believing in them.

For my conscience—thus, my being—continues to carry the past into the present. If what I experienced long ago in the distant
landscape of the disappeared has not changed me, why would this new ordeal succeed?

I know that eternities ago, the day after the liberation, when some of us had to choose between anger and gratitude, my choice was the right one.

ONE YEAR
later.

I try to go back to my so-called normal life. Not easy. Physically, the doctors’ predictions seem correct: My fatigue is clinging to me, unrelenting in its pursuit of me, even into my sleep. It is as difficult to overcome as it is to get used to. Strange, I even dream slowly, and the events that dominate the news seem to move reluctantly into my thoughts.

I walk ten minutes from my apartment to my office and I am out of breath. There is even a difference in my reading: Turning the pages is no longer the same. There now is a clear before and after. Now, everything makes me tired.

But I refuse to give in. I have started to travel again in an effort to fulfill my commitments. I try not to cancel engagements, conferences, except if they entail long trips. I listen to Marion: no more impulsive promises.

However, I have had to reduce my presence at the university: The weekly courses were too exhausting, as were the frequent New York–Boston trips. And the preparation of my three public lectures in the fall takes more of my time. It now takes me hours of research to gather the material for my lectures at the 92nd Street Y in Manhattan, lectures such as “Why I Love Isaac” or “Thoughts on Good and Evil in the Jewish Tradition.” There are still so many subjects to tackle; I tell myself that, somehow, I have just begun.

I continue to revel in the search for the secret truths hidden in ancient and immortal texts. And in their interpretations, drawn from the imaginary more than from memory.

When this book was published in France, I was surprised: It appeared to be doing better than I was. It even found a spot on the bestseller list. Why this sudden success? I don’t even try to understand. Like authors, books have their own destiny.

The physical pains are less intense but have not disappeared entirely. If I forget them
for a while, they quickly remind me of their presence.

My two grandchildren continue to be a constant source of strength and joy. As I watch them grow, I desperately want to keep the promise to my son, Elisha: to be present at Elijah’s bar mitzvah and perhaps even at Shira’s bat mitzvah. I have already been the beneficiary of so many miracles, which I know I owe to my ancestors. All I have achieved has been and continues to be dedicated to their murdered dreams—and hopes.

I am infinitely grateful to them.

My life? I go on breathing from minute to minute, from prayer to prayer.

With deepest gratitude I thank my doctors:

Dr. Nirav Patel

Dr. Howard Cohen

Dr. Charles Friedlander

Dr. David Seinfeld

Dr. Stephen D. Nimer

Their devoted care pulled me from the edge.

Elie Wiesel was fifteen years old when he was deported to Auschwitz. After the war he became a journalist and writer in Paris, and since then has written more than fifty books, both fiction and nonfiction. His masterwork,
Night
, was a major best seller when it was republished recently in a new English translation. Wiesel has been awarded the United States Congressional Gold Medal, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the French Legion of Honor’s Grand Cross, an honorary knighthood of the British Empire and, in 1986, the Nobel Peace Prize. Since 1976 he has been the Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities at Boston University.

Hostage

The Sonderberg Case

A Mad Desire to Dance

The Judges

Night

Dawn

The Accident

The Town Beyond the Wall

The Gates of the Forest

The Jews of Silence

Legends of Our Time

A Beggar in Jerusalem

One Generation After

Souls on Fire

The Oath

Ani Maamin
(cantata)

Zalmen, or The Madness of God
(play)

Messengers of God

A Jew Today

Four Hasidic Masters

The Trial of God
(play)

The Testament

Five Biblical Portraits

Somewhere a Master

The Golem
(illustrated by Mark Podwal)

The Fifth Son

Against Silence
(edited by Irving Abrahamson)

Twilight

The Six Days of Destruction
(with Albert Friedlander)

A Journey of Faith
(conversations with
John Cardinal O’Connor)

From the Kingdom of Memory

Sages and Dreamers

The Forgotten

A Passover Haggadah
(illustrated by Mark Podwal)

All Rivers Run to the Sea

Memoir in Two Voices
(with François Mitterrand)

King Solomon and His Magic Ring
(illustrated by Mark Podwal)

And the Sea Is Never Full

Conversations with Elie Wiesel
(with Richard D. Heffner)