Open Heart Read online

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Translation copyright © 2012 by Marion Wiesel

  Afterword copyright © 2012 by Elirion Associates, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by

  Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Originally published in France as Cœur ouvert by

  Flammarion, Paris, in 2011.

  Copyright © 2011 by Elirion Associates, Inc.

  Copyright © 2011 by Flammarion, Paris.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wiesel, Elie, [date]

  [Cœur ouvert. English]

  Open heart / Elie Wiesel; translated by Marion Wiesel.

  p. cm.

  “This is a Borzoi book.”

  eISBN: 978-0-307-96185-3

  1. Wiesel, Elie, [date]. 2. Authors, French—20th century—Biography. 3. Authors, French—21st century—Biography.

  4. Jewish authors—Biography. I. Title.

  PQ2683.I32Z4612 2012

  848′.91403—dc23

  [B] 2012038244

  Jacket photograph by Albert Watson

  Jacket design by Chip Kidd

  v3.1

  For Marion and our son, Elisha:

  their presence, their love,

  helped me overcome the greatest pain

  and darkest anguish.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Postscript

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  1

  JUNE 16, 2011.

  “It’s your heart,” says the gastroenterologist after performing an endoscopy on me.

  I am surprised: “Not my stomach?”

  For some time now, acid reflux has been one of my nightmares. My longtime general practitioner also feels it has contributed to the various health problems that have afflicted me for the past several years.

  My wife, Marion, and I have just returned from Jerusalem, where, every year, we spend the holiday of Shavuot with close friends. In keeping with the tradition to which I have remained faithful, friends and I spent the night in a yeshiva in the Old City studying biblical and Talmudic laws and commentaries dating from the Middle Ages.

  This time, in Jerusalem, it had all gone well. No terrorist attacks. No border incidents. Even my cursed migraines seemed to respect the sanctity of this night, of this city unlike any other. But now, back in New York, suddenly my body revolts. The new piercing pain in my shoulders rises all the way to my jaw. I swallow a double dose of Nexium, the medicine I take for acid reflux. This time without success.

  “No, neither the stomach nor the esophagus,” replies the doctor after a moment of silence. “It’s certainly the heart.” Ominous words, inducing fear and the promise of more pain. Or worse.

  2

  AS SOON as he receives his colleague’s message, my primary care doctor, a cardiologist, reaches me at home. On the phone, he appears to be out of breath; he speaks in a tense, emphatic voice, louder than usual. I have the feeling that he is trying to contain or even hide his nervousness, his concern. Clearly, he is unhappy to have to give me this bad news that will change so many things for me …

  “I expected a different result,” he explains. “But now the situation requires some further tests immediately.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please come to Lenox Hill Hospital right away. I am already there.”

  I protest: “Why? Because it’s the heart? Is it really that urgent? I have never had a problem with my heart. With my head, yes; my stomach too. And sometimes with my eyes. But the heart has left me in peace.”

  At that, he explodes: “This conversation makes no sense. I am your cardiologist, for heaven’s sake! Please don’t argue with me! You must take a number of tests that can only be administered at the hospital. Come as quickly as you can! And go to the emergency entrance!”

  On occasion, I can be incredibly stupid and stubborn. And so I nevertheless steal two hours to go to my office. I have things to attend to. Appointments to cancel. Letters to sign. People to see—among others, a delegation of Iranian dissidents.

  Strange, all this time I am not really worried, though by nature I am rather anxious and pessimistic. My heart does not beat faster. My breathing is normal. No pain. No premonitions. No warning. After all, hadn’t I just three days ago gone through a complete checkup with all kinds of tests, including a cardiogram, administered by my physician, the same one who is now ordering me to the hospital? There had been no indication of a coronary problem: no chest pain or feeling of oppression. What has changed so abruptly in my body to destabilize it to this extent?

  All right, I’ll go to the hospital, since both doctors insist. I don’t take anything along. No books, no spare shirt, no toothbrush. Marion says she wants to accompany me. I try to discourage her. In vain.

  3

  A TEAM of specialists is waiting for me in the emergency room. The very first blood test instantly reveals the gravity of my condition. There is a definite risk of heart attack. The doctors exchange incomprehensible comments in their own jargon. Their conclusion is quick, unambiguous and unanimous: An immediate procedure is required. There can be no delay.

  Marion whispers in my ear that we are fortunate; she has just learned that the surgeon who will perform the angiogram is the one who operated on her two years earlier. I remember him, a handsome, strikingly intelligent man. I had been struck by his kindness as much as by his competence.

  “I hope,” he tells me, “that we will be able to do for you what we succeeded in doing for your wife: to restore a normal flow of blood in the arteries by inserting a stent.” But then he adds, looking grave, “I must warn you that we may have to intervene in a more radical way. We will know very soon.”

  I am drowsy and fight against sleep by trying to follow the brief professional exchanges in the operating room. Actually, I don’t understand a word. About an hour later, I hear the surgeon saying, “I am so sorry, I don’t have good news for you: Your condition is such that the insertion of a stent won’t suffice. You have five blocked arteries. You require open-heart surgery.”

  I am shaken. Sure, I know that these days open-heart surgery is regularly performed the world over. Dr. Christiaan Barnard’s face appears before me; I had met the famous surgeon at a conference in Haifa and we had engaged in a long dialogue on medical ethics, comparing Judaic and Christian points of view. I had looked at his hands, wondering how many human beings owed them their survival.

  But now the words “open-heart surgery” are meant for me. And they fill me with dread.

  “You’re lucky. A colleague of mine, an expert in this type of surgery, is at the hospital right now. I have spoken to him. He is ready to operate on
you.”

  “Doctor,” I ask, “have you told my wife?”

  “No, but I will do it right now.”

  In a moment he is back: “I’ve seen Marion. As well as your son, Elisha.”

  The fact that my beloved son is already at the hospital does not surprise me. Since his earliest childhood, he has always made me proud, always been there for me.

  “What do they think?”

  “They agree; we have no choice. But the decision is yours alone.”

  “May I see them?”

  Marion and Elisha are not good at hiding their anxiety. Their smiles seem forced. And how am I to hug them without falling apart? Marion, holding back her tears, tries to reassure me: “The doctors are optimistic. The surgeon they propose is world-renowned.”

  “It will go well,” says Elisha. “I know it, Dad. I am convinced of it.”

  I remain silent.

  “Shall we go?” urges the attending physician.

  The nurses are ready to push the gurney toward the OR. I steal another glance at the woman with whom I have shared my life for more than forty-two years. So many events, so many discoveries and projects, unite us. All we have done in life we have accomplished together. And now, one more experience.

  As the door opens, I look one last time at our son, the fine young man who has justified—and continues to justify—my life and who endows it with meaning and a hereafter.

  Through the tears that darken the future, a thought awakens a deeper concern, a deeper sorrow: Shall I see them again?

  4

  MARION IS here.*

  My eyes are closed, but I feel her presence.

  I can almost see her.

  I think of the extraordinary qualities of this woman. Her strength of character. Her sensitivity. Her intelligence.

  I open my eyes.

  Marion and Elisha stand next to the gurney, waiting to accompany me to the door of the operating room. Marion looks sad and forlorn. For once there’s nothing she can do.

  This is the first time I have seen her like this.

  She usually knows how to resolve difficult situations. But now she is vainly trying to find words to alleviate my fears. There probably are none.

  Any moment now, the door of the OR will close behind me. Marion is still here, and in a flash I relive our life together, the exceptional moments that have marked it.

  I recall our first meeting, at the home of French friends. Love at first sight. Perhaps. Surely on my part. I thought her not only beautiful but superbly intelligent. Hearing her discuss with great passion some Broadway play, I became convinced that I could listen to her for years and years—all my life—without ever interrupting her. I invited her to lunch at an Italian restaurant across from the United Nations. Neither of us touched the food.

  Her background? Vienna, then fleeing from place to place; being imprisoned in various camps, including the infamous Camp de Gurs; eventually finding freedom in neutral Switzerland. Finally New York. Everywhere, miracles of adaptation, survival and extraordinary encounters. For years now I have been advising her—begging her, in fact—to write her memoirs. In vain.

  We were married in Jerusalem by the late Saul Lieberman, in the Old City (then recently liberated), in the heart of an ancient synagogue, the Ramban, for the most part destroyed by the Jordanian army.

  Since then, I cannot imagine my life, my lives, without her.

  I owe to her the best translations of my work. Our Foundation for Humanity is fully her responsibility. Since its creation she has given it her energy, talent and imagination.

  One day some twenty years ago, Marion called me from Tel Aviv to tell me that she had just visited an “absorption center” for newly arrived Jewish Ethiopian immigrants. She said she would like our foundation to help their children.

  Since then, we have opened two large enrichment centers for these children. Marion named the centers Beit Tzipora (House of Tzipora), after my eight-year-old sister who did not return from Auschwitz. When I learned about the name, I remember remaining silent, unable to control my tears.

  There are now close to one thousand young people in these centers, and thanks to the help they receive from dedicated teachers, they pass the exams required for entrance to university, essential for a career in Israel.

  • • •

  All that I have undertaken in my life has been with her. Journeys, projects, dreams of yet more projects—we do it all together. But this time, that is not possible.

  Marion attempts a smile. I know that she shares my doubts and fears. The door closes, and I am alone.

  * This chapter was translated by the author.

  5

  “IN A few moments, we’ll be ready,” announces a voice.

  Eyes closed, I listen to my heart beating. How much longer? Has the rhythm of the beats slowed down? What about the palpitations?

  My thoughts jump wildly; I am disoriented. Where am I? Ideas and images follow one another and collide in my burning head in a frenzied dance. In front of me, the cemetery; behind me, the garden of my childhood. The future is shrinking; the past is dying. And it all unfolds in a dark void. So, I tell myself, I was always told that the void is truly empty, with nothing inside: no flames, no ashes, no wind, no river, no breath and no pain. All nonsense.

  I had not even hoped for it—but suddenly I sense the presence of the dead. Have they come to take me with them? Or just to accompany me? Or, why not, to protect me?

  And yet, long ago, I did not protect them. I relive the last moments of our shared existence on the train. And then on the infamous ramp built expressly for the new Hungarian transports. I see my little sister, Tsipuka, so beautiful, so innocent. I see her from afar, clutching my mother’s hand. I was not with them, at the end.

  I see my father at the camp. We were inseparable there. Never had we been so close, so united. Can one die more than once? One could, there. During the death march, the night of the evacuation from Buna. And then during the nocturnal journey in the snow. There again we were together. I protected him and he protected me. Our only disagreement? He wanted me to accept a portion of his miserable bread ration, pretending that he was not hungry. I used the same ploy. Each of us wishing to offer the other one more moment of survival.

  And now I shall meet him again; I shall finally die. Absurd, is it not? Long ago, over there, death lay in wait for us at every moment, but it is now, eternities later, that it shall have its way. I feel it.

  6

  A VOICE penetrates my consciousness: “We are ready.”

  So am I.

  “Would you please count to ten?”

  I panic: They are going to put me to sleep—and I shall never wake up again.

  “Not yet. Give me another minute. Please. Just a minute.”

  The silence around us is unreal.

  “Why?”

  They must be surprised. I don’t answer. Shall I explain to them that a practicing Jew, before giving up his soul, if he lacks the time to properly prepare himself, must at least recite a short prayer—a kind of act of faith—a prayer he has known since childhood? Too complicated. To tell them that countless dying victims, martyrs, repeated this prayer before closing their eyes forever: I cannot tell them that.

  But I recite it to myself.

  Shema Yisrael, hear o Israel, Adoshem Elokeinu, God is our God, Adoshem e’had, God is one and unique.

  “Now I am yours,” I say weakly.

  “Count. To ten.”

  I think I stopped before I reached ten.

  7

  IN THE operating room, I am floating in semidarkness. Hasty movements, muffled sounds, low voices: all sorts of whispered admonitions as well as encouragement.

  All of a sudden, I am afraid. A name has come to my mind, a face: Aviva, a friend of Marion’s and the wife of our friend Émil Najar, former Israeli ambassador to Rome and Tokyo. She too had suffered heart problems, and she too underwent surgery. But she did not get up from the table.

  To chase th
is onset of anxiety, I let my thoughts take me back to a distant past. I am eight or nine, and a doctor, my cousin Oscar, is removing my tonsils. During the operation I take refuge in heaven, where angels are running back and forth, paying me no heed. Clearly, they do not think me worthy of their attention. I recall this dream because when I awoke, I told it to Oscar.

  A more serious operation: I am ten or eleven years old, and I am on a train with my parents. It is Shabbat, a day on which, in principle, a practicing Jew may not travel. However, our close neighbor, the Rabbi of Borshe, a brother of the famed Rabbi Israël of Wizsnitz, had granted my parents permission to violate the sanctity of the Seventh Day to take me to Satmar. My appendix has to be removed, and the only Jewish hospital is located there. The surgery takes place the next day. They try to put me to sleep with ether, but I refuse to inhale. Amazingly, what I remember most vividly after all this time—decades—is the young and beautiful nurse with long dark hair and a warm smile. She reassures me: “Let me put you to sleep.” I let her. She takes care of me the entire following week. If at that time I could have expressed myself better, and had not been afraid of words, I would have admitted to myself that I had fallen in love with her. For a long time, I was ashamed when I met her again and again in my adolescent dreams.

  Suddenly, I realize that I am in the hands of the surgeon and must face the truth: When I fall asleep, it may well be forever. Am I afraid to die? In the past, whenever I thought of death, I was not frightened. Hadn’t I lived with death, even in death? Why should I be afraid now?

  8

  YET, THIS is not how I imagined my end. And in no way did I feel ready.

  So many things still to be achieved. So many projects to be completed. So many challenges yet to face. So many prayers yet to compose, so many words yet to discover, so many courses yet to give, so many lessons yet to receive.

  This is when I learned much about myself and my surroundings. In particular, I learned that, sadly, when the body becomes a prisoner of its pain, a pill or an injection is more helpful than the most brilliant philosophical idea.