Authors: Elie Wiesel
“What does that mean—war?” I asked my father.
He tried to explain: politics, strategy, territorial ambitions, national pride, economic factors. All I understood was that the Austrians loved their king, the English theirs, the Russians theirs, but that all this royalty envied and hated one another.
“But then,” I asked in astonishment, “why don’t
they
do the fighting? Why do kings send their people to kill and be killed in their place? It would be so much simpler.…”
My father agreed. “Unfortunately, kings don’t think the way we do.”
Another time he gave me a better explanation: “War is a sort of pogrom, but on a larger scale.”
“Against the Jews?”
“Not necessarily. You see, in war, all people become Jews without realizing it.”
Barassy was being emptied of its arms-bearing citizens and filling up with strangers. Sons and husbands, called to the colors, were leaving for the train station singing, while recruits mobilized elsewhere were arriving in our midst. At first the war was one long journey, an endless displacement, a national uprooting.
My father having been discharged for medical reasons, there were no changes in our family life. On the other hand, my maternal and paternal uncles had all donned uniforms and were already fighting for the glory and honor of the Tsar of All the Russias.
I can still remember. Most evenings, neighbors and friends would gather in our home, in the dining room during the winter and under the poplar in the summer, to discuss the situation at the front. The three students, our companions in misfortune during the pogrom, paid us frequent visits. Two of them came for the meals, the third for my sister.
The conversations also touched on the future: What was better for the Jews—a victory for the Tsar or a triumph for the Kaiser? As it happened, both of them, one after the other, lost that war, and neither’s loss benefited the other—or the Jews.
At the time there was much talk in our families about a highly placed monk, his evil power and great influence at the Imperial Court; about the misery of the country, its weakness, the soldiers who were fighting badly or not at all, about the rich and the dignitaries who spent their
nights drinking and making merry; about the discontent taking hold of the people.…
I learned some new words—Bolshevism, Menshevism, Socialism, Anarchism. I questioned my father: “ ‘Ism’—what’s that exactly?”
“It’s like a fickle woman ready to marry … the first word that comes along.”
There was talk of leaders—courageous or rash depending on one’s point of view—who clandestinely or from abroad claimed to be able and willing to depose the Tsar.
“That’s a joke,” someone said. “Depose the Tsar—no more, no less. They can’t be serious.”
Then the talk turned to revolution, counterrevolution, the Brest-Litovsk armistice, peace, the White and Red armies.
Why did my father one fine day decide to leave Barassy and move us all to Romania? He was probably as afraid of civil war as of Communism.
The move was painful and filled with incidents; we had to abandon a good part of our belongings on the way. My mother was a poor traveler but never complained. Masha was upset at having to leave her future husband; but Goldie, a year younger, was helpful and good-natured. As for myself, I found the adventure strangely exciting—towns and villages devastated, men and women in flight seeking shelter, and above all, the stories they told between handshakes—never before had I heard such stories. I experienced this time of upheaval with every fiber of my being. In my child’s mind I sometimes fancied this war had been declared just for my education.
Welcomed in Liyanov, a small town on the Romanian border, by Sholem, a cousin of my mother’s, a devout Hasid, we adjusted quickly. What do you expect, Citizen Magistrate? Jews remain Jews wherever they are: united, charitable, hospitable. Every Jew knows the roles can
easily be reversed; the person who welcomes a homeless stranger to his home can so easily be in his place next time.
You condemn Jewish nationalism for its internationalist character, and in a way you’re right: between a Jewish businessman from Morocco and a Jewish chemist from Chicago, a Jewish rag picker from Lodz and a Jewish industrialist from Lyons, a Jewish mystic from Safed and a Jewish intellectual from Minsk, there is a deeper and more substantive kinship, because it is far older, than between two gentile citizens of the same country, the same city and the same profession. A Jew may be alone but never solitary, for he remains integrated within a timeless community, however invisible or without geographic or political reality. The Jew does not define himself within geographical categories, Citizen Magistrate; he expresses and identifies himself in historic terms. Jews help one another in order to prolong their common history, to explore and enrich their common destiny, to enlarge the domain of their collective memory.
I know: what I say now constitutes additional evidence of my guilt; I’ve just acknowledged that I’m a bad Communist, a traitor to the working class and an implacable enemy of your system. So be it. But my father’s opinion means more to me than yours. In fact, it is his alone that counts.
At the hour of my death, it is his image that will rise before me. It is to him that I must justify my life. And in his presence I have a feeling close to shame. I wasted too many years seeking something that could never be part of me.
To please him, all I would have had to do was to follow the divine path, obey the Law of Moses, accept God’s grace. I must have been a disappointment to him in this area. As in many others.
At Liyanov I was old enough to study seriously. Accordingly,
my father enrolled me in the best schools. He introduced me to famous religious masters, and let me taste the joy and magic of a good Talmudic argument. I wonder today whether his efforts were not in vain.
I loved Liyanov, and Barassy seemed far away. I loved Liyanov because Barassy seemed far away. I was an expatriate, a refugee, a Romanian subject. Memories of the pogrom vanished into the past. War, flight—I no longer thought of them. My studies were supposed to absorb me, and that is precisely what they did. In short, life returned to normal.
My father resumed his trade as a piece-goods merchant. Goldie helped him in the shop. A radiant Masha was counting the days until she would once again see her student from the Barassy yeshiva—and marry him.
I remember that wedding. I remember because it brought me face to face with misery and despair. It was 1922, the year of my Bar Mitzvah.
The marriage was celebrated with joy and pomp. Uncles, aunts, cousins—I never knew I had so many—all attended together with friends, companions, acquaintances. Fortunately, my father could afford it; the festivities might well have ruined another man.
In accordance with custom, a special meal had been prepared for the poor. Masha danced for them and with them. Did she really see them? Yes, she did—and she wept, though she may have been moved by love, not pity. I looked on, holding back my tears. The seeds of my future Communist sympathies were planted at that wedding.
The table for the poor was set up in a long spacious room. It was stifling in there. Pitiful, grotesque men and women scurried about trying to snatch a piece of fish, a little white bread. Here and there quarrels broke out. People spat, yelled, exchanged insults, came to blows. It was to be expected—they were hungry, these children of
poverty. Dressed in rags, a mad glint in their eyes, their features distorted by greed and hate, they appeared to be living in a bewitched, accursed world. But in the next room, where the distinguished guests were, there was such feasting and merrymaking, such enthusiasm, that nothing else seemed to matter. It was as though evil and distress had already vanished from earth.
It was painful to go from one room to the next. I no longer paid attention to the songs, happy or sad, of the entertainers. The rabbis said the blessings and made the usual speeches but I didn’t even listen. Everyone seemed happy except me. I felt torn; my place was among the beggars.
At my Bar Mitzvah, which took place a few months later, I devoted my discourse to the scandal of social injustice in the context of Jewish tradition. I quoted the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud, Maimonides and Nahmanides, Menahem Harecanati and the Maharal of Prague, the poets of the Golden Age and the Vilna Gaon. I was indignant, I protested: “Long ago, it was thought that if a Jew was poor it was because of society; if he suffered it was because of Exile; people forgot that it is also our fault, mine and yours.” And I concluded: “If it is given to man to commit injustices, it is also up to him to repair them; if the creation of the world bears the seal of God, its order bears the seal of man.”
My speech created something of a stir. One purist reproached me with having twisted a quotation; another claimed he had heard some blasphemous “insinuations.” As for my father, he came directly to the point.
“Remember this, Paltiel: with God everything is possible; without Him nothing has value.”
That same week Reb Mendel-the-Tactiturn accosted me in the House of Study and announced he had chosen me as a disciple. That was a consecration; Reb Mendel did
not accept just anyone into his intimate circle. Often he would reject candidates without the slightest explanation. Incredibly, he deigned to tell me why I had found favor in his eyes:
“I’m taking you with me to keep you from choosing the wrong path,” he said in his hoarse voice. “You are looking for the bark, not for the tree; you seek understanding, not knowledge; you aspire to justice, not to truth. But poor soul—what would you do if you learned that truth itself is unjust? You may tell me that’s impossible, but who’s to say? No—we must do everything in our power to
make
it impossible. And that is what I shall teach you.”
I entered the most fervent, the richest, most exalting phase of my life; I discovered the boundless humility and yearning of mystical experience. I pursued silence in words and words in silence. I was determined to take my self apart if that was required to attain self-realization. I stooped so as to see the summit. I mortified myself so as to feel a purer joy. To believe in salvation, I danced on the brink of the abyss.
Guided, challenged and shielded by Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn, I explored the pathways of messianism. I strained to unveil them, to comprehend them.
I passed my days and nights in the House of Study. When I wasn’t praying, I was studying; when I wasn’t studying, I was praying. If I allowed myself to succumb to fatigue and sleep, it was only to dream of Elijah the Prophet, who, according to tradition, holds the answers to all questions.
My questions revolved endlessly around the Messiah. I was aching to hasten his arrival, knowing that he would surely abolish the distance between rich and poor, sad and happy, beggar and landlord; put an end to pogroms and wars; unite justice and compassion, making certain that both were true.
You smile, Citizen Magistrate. I pity you. I pity you for not having experienced this kind of dream. But no, Paltiel Gershonovich Kossover, you are not being fair to the good Citizen Magistrate who is reading you: he too has experienced this dream but his masters called it by another name—his Messiah was Marx.… Yes, Citizen Magistrate, but ours has no name. That is the majesty of our tradition: it teaches us that among the ten things that preceded Creation was the name of the Messiah—the name no one knows and no one will know before he appears.
And indeed, Citizen Magistrate, I was actually a Communist without knowing it. I too wanted to help the poor, the hungry, the damned of the earth. Except that I believed I could do so by appealing to the Messiah: he and he alone would heal the scandal of human injustice, alleviate the pain of human existence.
But this Messiah, how could we hasten his arrival? Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn knew how: We needed to study our holy texts closely, immerse ourselves in our esoteric tradition, learn the names of certain angels and free certain forces. Such is the disquieting beauty of the messianic adventure: only man, for whose sake the Messiah is expected, is capable and worthy of making his advent possible. What man? Any man. Whosoever desires may seize the keys that open the gates of the celestial palace and thus bring power to the prisoner. The Messiah, you see, is a mystery between man and himself.
One evening the door of the study opened, and a figure appeared. I held my breath as a man dressed in a huge kaftan cast furtive glances around the room. Not seeing me, he grew bolder and stepped forward. Elijah the Prophet, without a doubt, I thought as I got up to welcome him and solicit his help. I could hardly control my happiness. At last, I thought, my wishes are coming true; the prophet is here and he will lead me to where all is
light. Rejoice, O Israel! The hour of thy deliverance is at hand! But prophet though he was, the night visitor was not expecting to see me at that hour in that place; he made a gesture of alarm, almost panic. It was then I became aware of my error.
“Ephraim,” I exclaimed, a trifle disappointed. “What are you doing here so late?”
“The same as you,” he said, irritably.
“Are you studying Kabbala?”
“Yes, I am.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t have the right to reveal that to you.”
“Are you also looking for the ultimate secret?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re trying to get an
Aliyat-neshama
, to let your soul ascend into heaven?”
“What else?”
His answers excited me. So I was not the only one who wanted to upset the plans of Creation. And Reb Mendel-the-Taciturn was not the only master in this domain. I scrutinized Ephraim more closely. He was known to be erudite and pious, and a glorious career was predicted for him; he would probably succeed his father as rabbinic judge. I was gratified by his visit. We could be friends, study the same works and together overcome the same dangers. But why was he behaving so strangely? His kaftan was hiding something bulky.
“What’s that?” I asked out of simple curiosity.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Faker, I thought, he must have come across some rare treatise.