The Tale of a Niggun Read online

  Also by Elie Wiesel

  with illustrations by Mark Podwal

  The Golem

  A Passover Haggadah

  The Six Days of Destruction

  King Solomon and His Magic Ring

  Text copyright © 1978 by Elirion Associates, Inc.

  Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Mark Podwal

  Introduction copyright © 2020 by Elisha Wiesel

  Glossary copyright © 2020 by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schocken Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Schocken Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  The text of this work originally appeared, in slightly different form, as a chapter in Perspectives on Jews and Judaism: Essays in Honor of Wolfe Kelman, edited by Arthur A. Chiel (New York: Rabbinical Assembly, 1978).

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wiesel, Elie, 1928–2016, author. Podwal, Mark H., [date] illustrator. Wiesel, Elisha, [date] writer of introduction.

  Title: The tale of a niggun / Elie Wiesel ; illustrations by Mark Podwal ; introduction by Elisha Wiesel.

  Description: First edition. New York : Schocken Books, 2020

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020002648 (print). | LCCN 2020002649 (ebook). ISBN 9780805243635 (hardcover). | ISBN 9780805243642 (ebook).

  Subjects: LCSH: Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945)—Poetry. LCGFT: Poetry.

  Classification: LCC PQ2683.I32 T35 2020 (print) | LCC PQ2683.I32 (ebook) | DDC 841/.914—dc23

  LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2020002648

  LC ebook record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2020002649

  Ebook ISBN 9780805243642

  www.schocken.com

  Cover illustration by Mark Podwal

  Cover design by Kelly Blair

  ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Elie Wiesel with Illustrations by Mark Podwal

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Publisher’s Note

  The Tale of a Niggun

  Glossary

  A Note About the Author

  A Note About the Illustrator

  Introduction

  Elisha Wiesel

  “Why do you pray, Mr. Wiesel?”

  I began to answer, but the questioner cut me off after just a sentence or two.

  I realized he was right to do so. I had been giving him only a superficial reply, comparing the transcendent, otherworldly God of traditional Jewish belief with the false gods worshipped by our modern, materialistic society. It was a predictable response that invited challenge.

  I needed to go deeper into the question.

  And then I happened to find a tale to take me there.

  The Tale of a Niggun, a narrative poem written by my father in the late 1970s, was a work of which I had been completely unaware. Set during World War II and on the eve of the Purim holiday, the poem tells the haunting, heartbreaking story of a rabbi who wrestled with a decision about the fate of a ghetto’s Jews that no human being should ever have to confront. I did some research and discovered that my father had loosely based his story on actual, horrific events that had occurred during the war in European ghettos—most notably in two towns in central Poland, Zduńska Wola and Piotrków.

  Some weeks later, I read the story aloud to the holy congregation of New York’s Carlebach Shul on the eve of Purim, as Ta’anit Esther drew to a close. As I described how my father’s beloved, tortured rabbi communed with the sages from our past for guidance and solace, questions arose within me.

  “Where is the IDF in this story, furious with a holy fire that they were not there to prevent the tragic outcome and swearing that this will never again happen to our people?” I could hear my cousin Steve asking.

  “Where is Mordechai Anielewicz in this story, determined to take some of the enemy with him and show the world that Jewish blood is not cheap?” I could hear my friend Shmuley asking.

  The answer to these questions is one that I would not have considered as a younger man. While there is something about the deaths of powerless Jews that seems to demand a coda filled with the heroics of the Israeli Army or the resistance fighters in the ghettos, my father’s point was that this is not the only way for Jews to be heroes.

  My father never carried a weapon, but he was a hero just the same. He fought with words, by telling his story and the stories of so many others, all of them heroes, too. He fought by infusing his stories with hope.

  And that, to my surprise, gives me the answer to my challenger.

  Why do I pray?

  I pray because my father fought for memory, and so do I. He brought Jewish texts with him to Moscow for Simkhat Torah in the fall of 1965 and helped launch a movement to free our persecuted and imprisoned brothers and sisters by reporting what he saw and thought. He used his words to promote Jewish values, whether the victims were Jews or non-Jews.

  Why do I pray?

  Because I cannot separate my father from the Judaism he believed in, practiced, and wrote about. He was insistent that such a separation was impossible, even after what he saw and what he lived through. My father prayed every day, and I was blessed to see what living Judaism looked like in the way he treated people, the way he treated me, the way he treated knowledge, and the deep respect he paid to the past, present, and future. With him, as with the rabbi in this tale, the messenger became the message.

  Why do I pray?

  Because of the way my father’s face lit up at the sounds of a niggun or a midrashic discussion. Because nobody sang or danced more fervently than he did on Simkhat Torah. Because we deserve the joy of connection across millennia that our ancestors felt. Because our children deserve to see us experiencing this joy.

  And if you want to understand how my father prayed and not just why: Let us let go of words and join him, and the rabbi in this story, and Jewish people throughout the world in their synagogues this coming Friday night, as Shabbat begins and we are swept up into the niggunim being sung as daylight fades into holiness.

  Publisher’s Note

  The text of The Tale of a Niggun was brought to our attention by Mechael Pomeranz, the proprietor of the iconic Jerusalem bookstore that bears his family name. One of Professor Wiesel’s students for more than three decades, he is also the son of a survivor who is dedicated to ensuring that the Holocaust is remembered authentically. Mr. Pomeranz unearthed this treasure in an out-of-print collection of essays that had been published in 1978 in honor of the renowned Rabbi Wolfe Kelman, who had been a good friend of Professor Wiesel.

  A ghetto,

  somewhere in the East,

  during the reign of night,

  under skies of copper

  and fire.

  The leaders of the community,

  good people all,

  courageous all,

  fearing God and loving His Law,

  came to see

  the rabbi

  who has cried and cried,

  and has searched

  darkness

  for an answer

  with such passion

  that he no longer

  can see.

  It’s urgent,

  they tell him,

  it’s more than
urgent;

  it’s a matter

  of life or death

  for some Jews

  and perhaps

  all Jews.

  Speak,

  says the rabbi,

  tell me all:

  I wish not to be spared.

  This is what the enemy demands,

  says the oldest

  of the old Jews

  to the rabbi,

  who listens

  breathlessly.

  The enemy demands

  ten Jews,

  chosen by us

  and handed over to him

  before tomorrow evening.

  Tomorrow is Purim,

  and the enemy,

  planning to avenge

  Haman’s ten sons,

  will hang ten of our own,

  says the oldest

  of the old Jews.

  And he asks:

  What are we to do, rabbi?

  Tell us what to do.

  And his colleagues,

  brave people

  though frightened,

  repeat after him:

  What are we to do, rabbi?

  Tell us what to do.

  We are afraid,

  says the oldest

  of the old Jews,

  afraid to make a decision—

  afraid to make the wrong decision:

  Help us, rabbi,

  decide for us—and

  in our place.

  And the rabbi,

  their guide,

  feels his knees weakening,

  the blood rushing to his face,

  his chest is ready to burst,

  and the room is turning,

  turning,

  turning around him,

  and so is the earth,

  and so are the skies,

  and soon,

  he feels,

  he will fall

  as falls the blind man,

  a victim of night

  and its prowlers.

  He demands an answer,

  says the oldest

  of the old Jews,

  the enemy demands an answer;

  tell us what it must be,

  our duty is to guide

  just as ours is to follow.

  What should we do

  or say?

  ask the leaders

  of the ghetto

  somewhere in the East

  under forbidden

  and cursed skies;

  what can we do

  so as not to be doomed?

  But the rabbi is silent;

  he dreams that he is dreaming,

  that he has heard nothing,

  lived nothing.

  He dreams, the rabbi,

  that he is someone else,

  living somewhere else,

  far away,

  outside walls,

  confronting other problems,

  related to God

  and not to death.

  But the unhappy leaders

  of the unhappy community

  look at him,

  and look at him

  with such force,

  such faith,

  that he feels he must return

  and speak.

  Leave me,

  he says with a weak but gentle voice,

  I wish to be left alone.

  I must think,

  meditate,

  I must go to the source,

  explore the depth

  and question

  the past;

  come back later,

  I shall be waiting for you,

  I promise,

  yes,

  I promise not to stay behind,

  not to be spared.

  Left to himself,

  the rabbi,

  breathing heavily,

  rises from his chair

  and goes to his bookshelves

  to consult the Rambam,

  who has foreseen

  all situations

  of all societies;

  his decisions are clear

  and precise,

  simple and human,

  humanly simple.

  And the Rambam,

  without hesitation,

  recites for him

  the immutable law

  of tradition,

  so harsh and so generous,

  and so compassionate, too:

  No community,

  even when besieged,

  may sacrifice

  one of its members;

  rather perish together

  than hand over

  to the enemy,

  were he most implacable,

  one of its children.

  The rabbi of the ghetto understands

  but refuses to accept:

  The Law is beautiful,

  he says,

  the Law is luminous,

  but

  here we deal

  not with ideas

  nor with beauty

  but with the destiny

  of a community,

  of a living community in Israel.

  And the Rambam

  answers with sadness:

  I understand,

  you are allowed to question

  and even refute

  my judgment,

  though it is based

  on justice

  and law;

  you are allowed to expect

  another answer,

  a more humane solution.

  But,

  brother in Israel,

  brother in Torah,

  understand me, too:

  I have not foreseen,

  I could not foresee,

  your predicament,

  your tragedy.

  No, unfortunate rabbi,

  no, poor brother of mine,

  I,

  Moshe son of Maimon,

  can be of no help to you

  or yours.

  So, obstinate and tenacious,

  the rabbi in the ghetto

  turns toward other teachers,

  some older

  and some younger

  than Rabeinu Moshe—

  who knew much about Jewish suffering

  but not enough about the cruelty

  of the enemy.

  He turns toward the

  sages of Babylon

  and Yavneh, the

  legislators of Bnei Brak

  and Fez, the

  codifiers of France

  and Spain,

  and all, sadly,

  shake their heads:

  Rabbi, poor rabbi,

  poor brother and colleague,

  if he,

  our teacher and guide,

  Moshe ben Maimon,

  if he cannot help you—

  how could we?

  And yet—

  rejecting resignation,

  the rabbi in the ghetto

  goes from one to another,

  asking again and again

  his burning question:

  You have taught me much

  but not enough;

  you have not told me

  whether
/>   I am to send ten Jews to the gallows

  so as to save a thousand.

  Whether

  I am to condemn them all

  and let them be massacred

  so as to save Jewish honor,

  so as to save

  the Jewish soul,

  which cannot die

  and which dies nevertheless.

  Where is truth, Rashi?

  Where is justice, Rabbeinu Tam?

  Which is the way,

  Saadia Gaon,

  which is the way

  leading to Torah

  and salvation

  at the same time?

  And all the sages,

  all the commentators,

  give him the same answer:

  Forgive us,

  young brother,

  forgive us,

  young colleague,

  we cannot help you—

  for our knowledge

  cannot replace your own.

  And so—

  from book to book,

  from century to century,

  from guide to guide,

  the rabbi comes to the Besht,

  the most magnificent,

  the most human,

  the most brotherly

  of sages and teachers.

  And he breaks into sobs:

  Israel, he says,

  Israel son of Sarah,

  you who consoled so many communities

  in distress,

  console us, too.

  You who accomplished

  so many miracles

  for so many people,

  intercede on our behalf.

  I do not ask of you

  to defeat the enemy,

  nor even to revoke the decree;

  all I ask of you

  is to help me

  find a solution.

  If you know the solution,

  share it with me,

  for I do not know it:

  all I know is

  that there is night

  around me

  and in me;

  and I am sinking,

  drawn by its silence,

  which is God’s, too.

  And the Besht,

  faithful to his legend,

  puts his arm around the rabbi’s shoulder

  and smiles at him,

  and rather than talk,

  begins to sing to him