One Generation After Read online

  People wanted to know everything, resolve all questions, leave nothing in the dark. What frightened them was the mystery.

  The survivors were reticent, their answers vague. The subject: taboo. They remained silent. At first out of reserve; there are wounds and sorrows one prefers to conceal. And out of fear as well. Fear above all. Fear of arousing disbelief, of being told: Your imagination is sick, what you describe could not possibly have happened. Or: You are counting on our pity, you are exploiting your suffering. Worse: they feared being inadequate to the task, betraying a unique experience by burying it in worn-out phrases and images. They were afraid of saying what must not be said, of attempting to communicate with language what eludes language, of falling into the trap of easy half-truths.

  Sooner or later, every one of them was tempted to seal his lips and maintain absolute silence. So as to transmit a vision of the holocaust, in the manner of certain mystics, by withdrawing from words. Had all of them remained mute, their accumulated silences would have become unbearable: the impact would have deafened the world.

  When they agreed to lift the veil, many obstacles and inhibitions had to be overcome. They reassured themselves: This is but a difficult first step. In any event, we are only messengers. With some luck, other men will benefit from our experience. And learn what the individual is capable of doing under a totalitarian regime, when the line between humanity and inhumanity becomes blurred. And what wars are made of and where they lead. They will discover the link between words and the ashes they cover.

  How guileless they were, those surviving tellers of tales. They sought to confer a retroactive meaning upon a trial which had none. They thought: Who knows, if we can make ourselves heard, man will change. His very vision of himself will be altered. Thanks to illustrations provided by us, he will henceforth be able to distinguish between what he may or may not do, what goals to pursue or forgo. He could then forge for himself a reality made of desire rather than necessity, a freedom commensurate with his creative impulse rather than with his destructive instinct.

  Twenty-five years later, after the reckoning, one feels discouragement and shame. The balance sheet is disheartening. There are even farcical aspects to the situation. In Germany, where Nazism is on the rise again, one finds former killers hiding beneath the respectability of judges, attorneys, businessmen, patrons of the arts, and even clergy. A French politician—and member of Parliament—publicly accuses the Jews of peddling their suffering. Robbed of their property and rights, the Jews in Arab countries live in constant fear. They are slandered in the Soviet Union, persecuted in Poland. And, fact without precedent, anti-Semitism has finally reached China.

  Which raises the question for the survivors: Was it not a mistake to testify, and by that very act, affirm their faith in man and word?

  I know of at least one who often feels like answering yes.

  If society has changed so little, if so many strategists are preparing the explosion of the planet and so many people willingly submit, if so many men still live under oppression and so many others in indifference, only one conclusion is possible: namely, that the failure of the black years has begotten yet another failure. Nothing has been learned; Auschwitz has not even served as warning. For more detailed information, consult your daily newspaper.

  If the witness happens to be a storyteller, he will be left with a sense of impotence and guilt. He was wrong to have forced himself upon others, to have badgered a world wishing to take no notice. He was wrong to have thrown open the doors of the sanctuary in flames; people did not look. Worse: many looked and did not see.

  Thus, writing itself is called into question. To set oneself the task of bringing back to life the hallucinatory reality of a single human being, in a single camp, borders on sacrilege. The truer the tale, the more factitious it appears. The secret must remain inviolate. Once revealed, it becomes myth, and can only be tarnished, diminished. In the end, words lose their innocence, their power to cast a spell. The truth will never be written. Like the Talmud, it will be transmitted from mouth to ear, from eye to eye. By its uniqueness, the holocaust defies literature. We think we are describing an event, we transmit only its reflection. No one has the right to speak for the dead, no one has the power to make them speak. No image is sufficiently demented, no cry sufficiently blasphemous to illuminate the plight of a single victim, resigned or rebellious, walking silently toward death, beyond anger, beyond regret. With pity perhaps.

  Therein lies the dilemma of the storyteller who sees himself essentially as a witness, the drama of the messenger unable to deliver his message: how is one to speak of it, how is one not to speak of it? Certainly there can be no other theme for him: all situations, all conflicts, all obsessions will, by comparison, seem pallid and futile. And yet, how is one to approach this universe of darkness without turning into a peddler of night and agony? Without becoming other?

  About Yonathan ben Uziel, the Talmud tells us that he studied Torah with such fervor that flames encircled him—the flames of Sinai—blinding and scorching the birds who flew too close, wanting to see or be warmed. This is true also for the writer grappling with the theme of the holocaust; he will inevitably burn his fingers, and sometimes more.

  Still, the story had to be told. In spite of all risks, all possible misunderstandings. It needed to be told for the sake of our children. So they will know where they come from, and what their heritage is. The past carried away by clouds needed to be brought back, and so did the clouds. We needed to face the dead, again and again, in order to appease them, perhaps even to seek among them, beyond all contradiction and absurdity, a symbol, a beginning of promise.

  But from here on, there will be a change. Like it or not, a quarter of a century marks a turning point, a line of demarcation. From now on, one will speak differently about the holocaust. Or not at all. At least not for a long time. Other exploits, other explorations even now compete for our attention. The era of the moon opens at the very moment that, reluctantly, the age of Auschwitz comes to a close.

  Still, though we already know the dark secret face of our satellite, we will never fully know the other face of Auschwitz. The concentration-camp man will try to seal his memory, the witness promises never again to call him to the stand. The inventory is closed. The ghosts will have to accept the inevitable. Soon there will be no one left to speak of them, no one left to listen.

  JOURNEY’S BEGINNING

  A man’s last vision of what was his beginning is like no other, for like that beginning, it becomes part of him, irrevocably and unalterably. God Himself cannot change man’s past, though man can alter his vision of God. Both are bound by one beginning.

  Will I ever forget mine? I look at it and know that it is for the last time. I shall never recapture that look in my eyes. And I shall carry it away like a tune never to be sung again, a secret never to be shared. For the last time I remember.

  Twenty-five years separate the witness from the object of his testimony: his native town. Twenty-five years of wandering in a disjointed, often hostile, always irreducible world—searching, questioning, disturbing others and being disturbed himself. And all that time I was looking for something without knowing what it was. Now I know. A small Jewish town, surrounded by mountains. A little town I wanted to enter one last time and leave there all I possess: my memory.

  That town. I see it still, I see it everywhere. I see it with such clarity that I often mock and admonish myself: continue and you’ll go mad; the town no longer exists, it never did. But I can’t help it, I see nothing else. Its tzaddikim and troubadours, its sages and their noisy children, its poverty-striken visionaries and almost equally poor merchants: I see them on the main square, drenched in sweat, rushing to the market, to school, to religious services, to the ritual baths, to the cemetery. I even see the cemetery, though I set foot there only once.

  Neighbors, acquaintances, friends: at times their presence becomes so real that I want to stop one of them, anyone, and entrust him with
a message: Go and tell all those people, your companions and mine, tell them they’re taking the wrong road, they’re turning away from their future; tell them that danger lies in wait, that mankind is at their heels, hungry for their blood and their death.

  But I keep quiet. I am afraid lest that person reply: I don’t believe you, I don’t know you. Lest he shrug his shoulders and continue on the road straight to his tomb up there, his tomb veiled in incandescent clouds. I want to shout, to scream, only I am afraid of waking him. It is dangerous to wake the dead, especially if their memory is better than yours; it is dangerous to be seen by them, especially if they have robbed you of your town and childhood, the beginning you are remembering for the last time.

  Sighet. A Rumanian, Hungarian, Austrian province. Occupied by the Turks, the Russians, the Germans, coveted by all the tribes in that part of the world. Despite the diversity of tongues spoken, despite the variety of regimes succeeding one another, it was a typically Jewish town, such as could be found by the hundreds between the Dnieper and the Carpathians. Thanks to its dominantly Jewish population, it cleansed itself for Yom Kippur, fasted and lamented the destruction of the Temple on Tishah b’Av, and celebrated Simchat Torah by getting drunk.

  You went out into the street on Saturday and felt Shabbat in the air. Stores were closed, business centers at a standstill, municipal offices deserted. For the Jews as well as their Christian neighbors, it was a day of total rest. The old men gathered in synagogues and houses of study to listen to itinerant preachers, the young went strolling in the park, through the woods, along the riverbank. Your concerns, anxieties and troubles could wait: Shabbat was your refuge.

  The day before, on Friday afternoon, you could already sense the approaching Shabbat. To welcome it, the men plunged into the ritual baths. The women cleaned house, scrubbed floors, bustled about in the kitchen and prepared their prettiest dresses. Coming home from school, the boys recited the Song of Songs. Then, at the very same moment, the same chant went up in every house: Shalom aleikhem malakhei hashalom—Be blessed, O messengers full of blessings, enter and depart in peace, O angels of peace …

  Everyone, rabbi or illiterate, prosperous storekeeper or porter, employer or employee, everyone addressed the angels of Shabbat with the same words, expressing the same gratitude.

  “The angels, who are they?” I once asked my grandfather, whose Wizsnitzer melodies overwhelmed me, so violent and tender was the joy they expressed.

  By way of response, he leaned toward me and whispered into my ear a secret which has remained with me to this day: “The angels, my child, the angels are all of us sitting around this table—and other tables like it—covered with a white cloth and transformed into an altar. You, I, all our guests. Therein lies the force and grandeur of Shabbat: it makes it possible for man to fulfill himself by renewing his bonds with his beginning.”

  And then I heard heavenly wings fluttering above my head—yes, I did hear them, I swear. But since I left you, Grandfather, since I stopped singing your melodies, I have not seen the angels any more, that too I swear. In truth, Grandfather, I think they stayed behind, in our forgotten little town buried in the mountains, invisible like you and me, like all of us.

  My grandfather lived in a small village: Bichkev, or Bocsko in Hungarian. There Dodye Feig led the peaceful existence of a farmer. I loved his stories, his songs. And his silences too.

  An indefatigable worker, he did everything himself. He fed his cows, tilled his land, and climbed the trees to pick plums, apples and apricots. Every day he waited in the twilight for darkness to fall before lighting the oil lamp. Sitting on his porch, he allowed night and stillness to envelop him.

  In the beginning I showed my surprise: “But, Grandfather, I can’t see a thing!”

  His answers came in a whisper: “You are still young. Later you’ll speak otherwise. For the moment, look and be quiet.”

  I used to visit him during vacations. He himself came to Sighet only for the High Holidays. To attend services across the street from our house, where the Borsher Rebbe attracted hundreds of followers from neighboring villages. I still remember the hours I remained standing behind the Rebbe. I did my best to hitch my prayers to his and thus to pierce the walls of the celestial sanctuary.

  One day I saw the Rebbe beat his breast and implore God’s forgiveness for his sins. Troubled, I questioned my grandfather: “How is that possible? A Rebbe transgressing the laws of Torah?”

  On that occasion my grandfather revealed yet another secret to me: “A person can be innocent and still believe himself guilty.”

  The following year I wept like the Rebbe, even more than he. Like him I confessed multitudes of sins and crimes, I beat my breast with even greater anguish than he, and finally attracted my grandfather’s attention and displeasure.

  He ordered me to moderate my fervor: “Who do you think you are? You must not copy the Rebbe’s gestures, you are not to imitate him again. You can follow and obey him, but that’s all. Don’t try to assume his role; one does not reach for the royal scepter with impunity. Even if the king appears to be absent.”

  Our town boasted other spiritual leaders of great and not so great fame and erudition. Each had his sanctuary, his disciples, his counselors, his benefactors, his happy or unhappy followers—all pleading with God to come to the rescue of men already marked and singled out by destiny. Yet God refused to lend His ear. Consequently Grandfather, I should feel less guilty. But no, on the contrary, my list of avowed sins keeps growing longer and longer, and I am waiting for someone to tell me why.

  However, to avoid any possible misunderstanding, let it be stated at once that the Jews of Sighet were not all saints. Many did not spend their time studying sacred texts or reciting psalms. The merchants had their share of faults and weaknesses; they were neither more honest nor more conniving than elsewhere. The rich displayed their wealth while the poor tried to hide their misery. The tailors and shoemakers, the woodcutters and coachmen, confronted daily with despair, did not pretend to be poets in disguise: fraught with malediction, their poverty lacked poetry. Though God’s associates and victims, many were not kind or gentle and could not rise above their frustrations and bitterness. They quarreled, they insulted one another and gossiped. Yes, like everywhere else, we had our envious and our liars, misers and thieves, even some perjurers and renegades. Only now, as I look back, do I realize how harmless their vices were. They asked so little of life and society: a bed to sleep on, a book to dream over, a melamed to instruct their children, and a sign of consolation, any sign—an assurance that no suffering is in vain. And in return, they were always ready to contribute to the schools, the sick, the poor, the orphans, the unmarried girls, the aged and homeless, the failures and the wanderers. Concerned and generous, they could always be counted on. Whenever any community’s honor or survival was threatened, they rose in solidarity to save it.

  I remember: a red-faced fellow, deeply offended because he had been refused the privilege of helping a certain cause. He was the town informer, and no one spoke to him. In vain did he protest that his was a trade like any other, that he was not all that dangerous, since everyone knew him; he remained on the fringes of the community. He attended services but was never called to the Torah. In time, he was forced to change towns and eventually trades.

  We had our non-believers, naturally, and they too are unforgettable. The most famous was a man over a hundred years old who hated his neighbors, the Hasidim, because their frequent and noisy celebrations disturbed him. He would say: “Since they cannot make themselves heard except by shouting, their heaven must be far away, and that’s a pity, especially for me, who live so near.”

  In his younger days he never went out without his dog. One day, on the street, he met the rabbi accompanied by his servant.

  “You’re not a rabbi like me, but like me you need a companion to serve you,” the rabbi laughingly called out.

  “True,” replied the non-believer, petting his dog, “except tha
t in my case I am the servant.”

  This story did not end there. Instead of getting angry, the rabbi put his hand on the non-believer’s shoulder and said: “You don’t like me, but you love your dog, which means that you do have feelings; in the end that’s what counts.”

  Years later the same man slapped his son for having the impertinence to criticize the rabbi. I never knew the rabbi but I remember his defender.

  I remember, I remember.

  A madman named Moshe. He was mad only during the summer months, regaining his sanity before the High Holidays. Then he conducted services in a barn with a leaky roof, in a forsaken village which could afford neither rabbi nor cantor. After the holidays he taught the aleph-bet to small children whose parents could not pay a regular tutor.

  I shall never forget him. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set, and always starving, he had a red bushy beard, and frequently bleeding swollen lips. I can still feel the bite of his fierce, frightened eyes, which, unseen but seeing, lurked behind the two narrow slits carved in his untidy face.

  The schoolchildren, cruel and lazy, often persecuted Moshe. He let them. Sometimes he sought refuge in our house. To forget his pain, he would drink and sing. As I listened to him, I felt myself turning into someone else. He frightened and fascinated me; I knew that he moved in a universe all his own. Occasionally I tried to make him speak and describe what he was seeing, what was tormenting him. He preferred to sing.