And the Sea Is Never Full (58 page)

And I say to myself that even taking into account my stories and novels, my essays and studies, analyses and reminiscences, I know that it is not enough.

Help me, Father
.

Long ago,
over there
, far from the living, we told ourselves over and over that if we were to come out alive, we would devote every moment of our lives to denouncing by word and deed the cynicism and silence of mankind toward victims past and future. Convinced that the free world knew nothing of the cursed and evil kingdom where death reigned, we encouraged one another. The one among us who would survive would testify for all of us. He would speak and demand justice on our behalf; as our spokesman he would make certain that our memory would penetrate that of humanity. He would do nothing else. His days and nights would be devoted to telling the story. He would turn his entire life into a weapon for our collective memory; thanks to him it would not be lost.

I was no exception. There were times after the liberation when I saw myself as a messenger carrying only one message: to say no to forgetting, to forgetting the life and death of the communities swallowed by night and spit back into the sky in flames. My only goal and obsession was to save them from a second death. I didn’t know that I was like Kierkegaard’s jester who shouted “Fire!” and people thought he was joking.

I saw myself crisscrossing the Earth, going from town to town, from country to country, like the madman in Rebbe Nahman’s tales, reminding humans of the good and evil they are capable of, making them see the armies of ghosts hovering around and within us.

Then I stopped running, or let’s say that I slowed my pace. I study, I teach, I guide my students toward their careers. I observe the passersby to guess their secrets. I am happy, I am sad. I continue to teach, to write. More books, more novels. In short, I try not to die
before I die. Marion and I have founded a home, we have watched our son grow. He fills us with pride and happiness. Together we have tried to do useful things.

Marion, my wife, my ally, my confidante, it is she who often prevents me from making mistakes. It is to her that I owe the wisdom that enables me to follow a certain path. And she has remained young, which I am no longer.

Hilda’s son and grandchildren in Israel are doing well. Oren and Orly have completed their military service. Bea’s daughter, Sarah, is the mother of six children. Steve and Itzhaka are the parents of two. I was present at their wedding, and escorted Steve to the
Chuppah
. So as not to slide back into memories, I danced with the young bridegroom to the point of exhaustion.

I was both happy and sad. But more happy than sad. The lineage of Sarah and Shlomo Wiesel is not extinct.

In 1970 I spoke of my intention to end my testimony:

A pessimistic assessment? I believed it then. I had decided not to speak of “it” anymore.

And today? Those born at the time that text was written are now almost thirty years old. They have their whole lives before them. Must we speak to them? Of whom? Of what? Of our past? To make sure that it will not become their future? To silence those who deny our past, those who wish to silence us?

And here I had dreamed of singing of memory and friendship in a world that sadly needs both.

“Remember,” the Book commands us. In my tradition, memory
does not set people apart. On the contrary, it binds them one to the other and all to the origins of our common history. It is because I remember where I come from that I feel close to those I meet on the way. It is because man is capable of transforming his burdens into promises that he lives them fully. That is why to live without a past is worse than to live without a future. What would our civilization be if it were stripped of its memory? Memory is more than the sum of images and words, cries and deeds; it is even more than an individual or collective identity; it is the bond that ties us to the mystery of the beginning, this nebulous place where man’s memory is reflected in God’s.

That is why we stubbornly continue to bear witness.

And yet. Generations later, I confess to doubts. Have I failed my commitment? I have written books, but, with a few exceptions, they deal with other things. As said earlier, I have written on diverse subjects mostly in order not to evoke the one that, for me, has the greatest meaning.

I have been trying for a long time to understand why.

Let us start with the superficial reasons. I worried that I might speak of it poorly or, worse, for the wrong reasons. I feared that I might use the theme rather than be its servant. I was afraid of temptations, disappointments. And so I was content to say that one could say nothing.

Like most survivors, I tried to invent reasons to live, and a new concept of man in this insane world, and a new language. It is a primary language whose only purpose is to describe all that eludes writing, to cry without opening our mouths, to speak to the dead since they can no longer speak to us.

In July 1995, I return to our town. For a few hours I speak to two young visitors who bear your name, Father. I show them their grandparents’ room. I stroll with them in the courtyard, in the little garden where Tsipouka liked to play. I can still see the sun’s rays making her hair glisten like gold. I see her and, as always when I think of her, my eyes fill with tears. I must hide my face, hide inside my face.

We halt in front of my Grandmother Nissel’s house. The window where long ago she waited for a small schoolboy on Fridays, to offer him a special roll, is closed. Seeing Tsipouka, she would smile. And my little sister would smile back. Right now I would so like to be able to speak of my grandmother with her black scarf on her head. And of
the little girl with golden hair … but I cannot. My heart is pounding. Could I have returned to Sighet to die?

Here is the cemetery. Let us enter. Let us light a candle at the grave of Yetev Lev, one of the first Chief Rabbis of Sighet. May he intercede on your behalf.

How peaceful it is here. I plan to come back here one more time, with Hilda, Sidney, and his children.

And look, over there was the
heder
. My Masters. My friends. We must light candles for them as well. They have no graves.

And over there, across from us, the Borsher Rebbe’s Beit Hamidrash. It is a few minutes’ walk to the ritual baths; I went there every morning. The yeshiva was a little farther down, next to the Chief Rabbi’s house.

I want to say something to my two young companions, but I cannot, for the tears are choking me. They know and discreetly stay behind.

We pray together in the poor, dilapidated synagogue, the only one left. Seated on a bench facing the empty Holy Ark, we open a dusty book we found lying on a lectern and study the pages dealing with the laws of mourning. Will we be the last Jews in this place to immerse ourselves in the study of holy texts?

At the railroad station we remain silent for a long moment. It is here that Jewish life in Sighet came to an end, carried off by the train’s smoke.

Birkenau. How can I say to Elisha and Steve, Bea’s son, what nobody could say to me. Their silence becomes one with mine. There is nothing left to say. The ramp, the cries, the screams, the night, the last glimpse of Tsipouka—is she crying? What is she saying to her mother? And what is your grandmother’s answer? No doubt she is trying to reassure her. Don’t be afraid, little girl. No need to be afraid anymore.

Did I say it out loud to my two companions whom I love with all my soul? Ours is the tree of an old Jewish family whose roots touch those of Rashi and King David. And look: Its branches refuse to wither.

We are having trouble finding Auschwitz III, also known as Buna. The last trace of the camp has disappeared. All that is left is a small plaque. A priest points toward a group of houses and buildings: “There.” So close? Yes, the camp was that close. How does he know? He lives in the street that was next to it. From his window he could see everything.
Everything? Yes, everything. The “roll calls”? Yes. The “exercises,” the punishments, and the hangings as well? And it didn’t prevent him from eating in the morning, sleeping at night? The priest shrugs his shoulders. I want to say something to my son and my nephew about what their grandfather endured a few steps away from here, but I say nothing.

It is the same in Buchenwald. The “big camp” has remained almost intact, like a museum. I ask our guide: Where is the “little camp”? He takes us to a forest: “Here.” There are many trees, underbrush. Yes, that is all that remains of the hell where the Jews evacuated from Auschwitz suffered and died. There is not even a plaque to guide the lost visitor.

I lean against a tree. I close my eyes and look for my father.

Images are surfacing, blurring my sight. The arrival at night. The screams. The freezing water. The huge, stifling barrack. My father. My sick father, humiliated before my eyes. His delirium. His pain. My father, dying. My father, dead.

Nature here is at peace, indifferent to the rain and snow. It is beautiful in the spring, gray in the autumn. The Angel of Death has gone without leaving a trace.

How does one fight against the will to erase it all? And why did God create obscurity? To hide from His creatures? Is that why Giordano Bruno said that light is God’s obscurity?

From all sides I am told to turn away from the past, to wager on the future. I am advised not to look back, to come out of
there
, to change key, to deal with other themes. Enough, I am told. You have done enough. Let others take over. Let them be the ones to be insulted. You have been hurt by the cowardly, vile insinuations, admit it. You are entitled to rest.

Should I listen to them, Father? Tell me.

As I write these words, I contemplate the photograph of my home; it is always before me, heavy and sealed under the weight of darkness. And yet I want to go back to Sighet one last time. To write the last pages.

I am not afraid of losing my way. Like Elhanan in
The Forgotten
, I am afraid of forgetting. I read, I reread what I have written, what others have written. And God in all that? I stumble on three poignant words in the Book of Lamentations—the prophet says to the Lord,
“Haragta lo khamalta,”
You killed, You had no pity. Earlier the prophet said to the Lord, “In Your anger, You hid and persecuted us.” Why, God? Why? I am afraid to know the answer. I am afraid not to. But above all, I tremble at the idea that my memory could become empty, that I could forget the reasons that have allowed me to set one word after the other.

I am afraid to know the end before I begin.

When shall I begin, Father?

I feel like singing, singing of happiness and serenity. I want to love, to laugh, to accompany the lonely on their road to nowhere. I want to pursue the work God started in the heart of man.