All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (19 page)

Representatives of the OSE, the children’s rescue society, greeted us in a splendid château in Écouis, in the department of Eure. There were smiles, plans, and promises. They gave us the same message in many languages: “Here you will recuperate. All we ask is that you let us take care of you.” We were given medical examinations. I blushed when undressing for a female doctor. They housed us, clothed us, offered us lavish meals. The weather was beautiful. It was a marvelous June, the first anniversary of the Normandy landing. I went to see the director in his office and shyly asked for a pen and paper. I began a private journal: “After the war, by the grace of God, blessed be His name, here I am in France. Far away. Alone. This morning I put on my own tefillin for the first time in a long while.” The group of young believers to which I belonged requested kosher food. Menashe Klein, son and grandson of rabbis of Ungvár, and I asked that we be given the essential books: the Bible, prayer books, a few Talmudic tractates. We were promised these and they were duly provided, as was a study room where we could say morning and evening prayers. We held our first Minha service, and we all said Kaddish together. Though we knew it well enough, that collective Kaddish reminded us that we were all orphans.

How long would we recite the prayer for the dead? The mourning period normally lasts for eleven months after a relative’s death. But what if you don’t know the date of death? Halachic scholars weren’t sure how to resolve our situation.

It was in Écouis that we began to readapt to “normal” life. It was not easy to shed certain habits, certain fears. We had not yet forgotten the camp rules. We didn’t finish everything on our plates, instead we would save something for later, hiding a crust of bread or a piece of cake, just in case. Whether the counselors understood or not, they said nothing. They trusted us, and they were right. After several weeks, few “food reserves” remained under our pillows.

The peaceful atmosphere of the home had a lot to do with that. At night we would sit on the grass under the trees. We lit campfires, told stories, recalled songs. The Zionists dreamed of going to Palestine. The Bundists—yes, there were Bundists among us—were opposed. Dedicated socialists, they called for rebuilding a Jewish cultural life in the Diaspora. A Yiddish journalist came to give us a report
on the international situation: Germany was defeated. The nightmare was over. One of the members of our team of counselors was a dark-haired young woman of Alsatian origin, thin and graceful, with a seductive smile. Her name was Niny. She understood our Yiddish and even tried to speak it. How many boys saw her in their dreams? Her upbringing brought her closer to our religious group, and we adopted her immediately. Another counselor, Rachel Mintz, a little older, had a face marked by sadness. The OSE had hired her because she was a poet. In the evening she recited verses and told us stories by Itzhak Leibush Peretz. It was she who, in the fifties, introduced me to the work of Nikos Kazantzakis and told me of the secret that bound them together.

Poor counselors, did they think they could educate us? We who had looked death in the face knew far more than they or their teachers about the mysteries of existence and Creation, about the fragility of knowledge and the end of history. The youngest among us had a fount of experiences more vast than the oldest of them. How could they understand our need to hide leftover bits of cake under our pillows? Or the mistrust we felt for strangers? “You wouldn’t understand,” was the phrase that came most often to our lips. We were polite to them, friendly. We listened to them and obeyed them, or pretended to, so as not to hurt their feelings. But imperceptibly the roles were reversed, and we became their counselors, feigning docile submission to their authority only because ours was superior. We pitied them, but they never knew it, poor things.

The days passed quietly. There were walks, sunbathing, excursions in the forest, and French lessons for those who wanted them. The first crisis was triggered by the arrival of Gustav, who, you might recall, we had last seen in Buchenwald on April 11, his pockets stuffed with grenades.

An elegant, vigorous young man in his thirties, with red hair and a self-satisfied, not to say triumphant, air, Gustav stirred murky and troubling memories in us. In his memoirs, Naftali Lau-Lavi reports that Gustav was the leader of a group of clandestine avengers who tracked down collaborators who had operated in the Polish ghettos. The group tried and executed their prey, strangling them or hanging them in latrines. Gustav was the executioner.

A member of the Stubendienst in the youth block in the “small camp” in Buchenwald, Gustav had not been universally admired. He had been quick to use his fists during the distribution of rations, and he
had hit all the harder if the prisoner was Hungarian, hence the charge that he had flagrantly favored his Polish buddies. On April 11 he had been seen parading among the liberators. Then he had disappeared.

And now here he was in Écouis, expressing his desire to stay with “his” Buchenwald children as their big brother, counselor, and spokesman. The leadership saw nothing wrong with his idea. Why not hire someone familiar to us who could maintain discipline without offending our sensibilities? Hence their surprise at the general outcry aroused by his candidacy. Gustav, who was so free with his fists? Some demanded that he be arrested on the spot and turned over to the police. Others, less numerous, defended him: Yes, he was brutal, he got angry, used his fists, but no more than necessary. If he favored the young Polish Jews, it was only natural for him to take care of his own first. How could he be called a collaborator? He was a member of the Resistance, wasn’t he? There was yelling and screaming on both sides, and our administrators were booed when they called for silence.

The counselors held an emergency meeting to discuss how to ward off what looked like an impending riot. But their psychology degrees proved useless. Rachel Mintz, probably influenced by the educational theories of Janusz Korczak, made an unusual proposal: that the “children”—that’s what they called us—decide Gustav’s fate themselves. In other words, have a trial, with witnesses for the defense and the prosecution. Then, after deliberations, we, the tribunal, would issue our verdict.

The “trial” began in the early afternoon and continued late into the night with a recess for dinner and the Minha service. Gustav, proud and arrogant, answered his accusers with shrugs of disdain, and before long the discussion turned from the facts of the case to more general ethical considerations. What was the proper role of a Jew during periods of persecution? Should he accept responsibilities from the enemy in the interests of helping his own? Where lay the boundary that no one must cross, lest he lose his soul? If severity could save lives and limit the power of the murderer’s cruelty, was it permissible to reject the use of force inherent in all authority?

All the anger was forgotten, along with the shouting. These “children” who had stared absolute evil in the face expressed themselves without malice. No thirst for revenge motivated them. Despite the defendant’s arrogance and the bitter memories he aroused, they would not seek vengeance against him.

In the end the tribunal opted for compromise. Gustav would go
free, but he had to leave Écouis. Though we declined to punish him, we did not want him in our midst. No one spoke as we watched him leave the château. Strangely, the man’s solitude moved me. I came away with a vague feeling of embarrassment.

It did me good to take up my studies again. Together with Menashe Klein, the leader of our group, and Kalman Kalikstein, a brilliant boy of Polish origin, I rededicated myself to the study of the sacred works. Spontaneously, without thinking about it, I recovered my religious fervor, perhaps as a way of closing the parentheses on my recent past. Most of all, I needed to find my way again, guided by one certainty: However much the world had changed, the Talmudic universe was still the same. No enemy could silence the disputes between Shammai and Hillel, Abbaye and Rava.

Between study sessions I played chess. Sometimes people watched us, which didn’t bother me. I was good at concentrating, at blocking out the outside world. It was fine with me if a couple of strangers wanted to take pictures as we played. One of them asked some questions in bad German; I answered in good Yiddish. Someone said they were journalists, but I had never met a journalist before; they were of no interest to me, and I didn’t see why I should interest them.

A few days later I went to the director’s office to find out whether the books my friend Menashe and I had ordered had come in. He happened to be on the phone. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I assumed he was dealing with our request, because I heard him say my name several times. I waited politely until he finished, then asked my question in a mixture of German and Yiddish. He stared at me, uncomprehending. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Who are you?” I told him, and his face suddenly brightened. “Oh, you’re Wiesel? I’m glad you’re here. That was a message from your sister.” I froze. “My sister! That’s impossible.” “No it’s not. That was her on the phone.” When he saw the color drain from my face, he finally realized why I was so upset. Grabbing the receiver, he frantically dialed a long series of numbers. When he hung up, he seemed downcast. “They say your sister called from a post office. They don’t know how to reach her.” I felt faint. My sister! Which one? “But she left a message for you. She’ll be waiting for you in Paris tomorrow.” I spent a sleepless night. I told myself it had to be a mistake. Even assuming one of my sisters had survived, what would she be doing in Paris? And even
if she was in Paris, how would she know I had survived? And even if she did, how could she possibly know I was in Écouis?

At dawn the next morning I took the train to Paris. I was worried. How would I get around alone? I knew no one and didn’t speak a word of French. I was angry at the director and at the OSE. How could they have let me go alone? My sister in France? Hilda in Paris? Bea? It seemed so unlikely, improbable, impossible. I would stand on the train platform, take a quick look around, and catch the next train back to Écouis. Fortunately the director had given me a little money.

When the train pulled into the Gare Saint-Lazare, I thought I was dreaming. Hilda fell into my arms. She introduced me to Freddo, an Algerian Jew who had been deported to Dachau. They met after liberation, and it was love at first sight. When she heard I was dead, she followed Freddo to France. They were going to be married. How had she found me? Simple: she saw my picture in a newspaper,
Defense de la France
, soon to become
France-Soir
.

Hilda took me to meet her future in-laws. It was a large, warm family. I had always had a special affection for Sephardim, and that feeling would now deepen. Hilda and I spent the day and night talking about everything except the things that hurt. We felt a need to censor ourselves, for we were both afraid of being unable to control our emotions. Better to talk about Écouis, the OSE, the train trip—but not our parents or Tsipouka. I was afraid to mention Bea’s name. Since she was not with Hilda, did that mean …? No, thank God, Bea was alive. She had gone back to Sighet to find out whether by some miracle I might have survived.

Hilda was worried about my future. She took me to the Consistoire, where we met with the president, Léon Meiss, a patient, affable man. They spoke in French (which my sister knew from high school), so I don’t know what they said, but after half an hour’s discussion, Hilda told me I could enroll in the seminary and become a rabbi if I wanted. First I would have to learn the language, of course. I said I would think about it. I probably didn’t accept immediately because I dreaded being separated from my friends.

Freddo insisted I go see
The Great Dictator
at the Gaumont theater. Here at least my ignorance of French would not be a handicap. It was a packed house of laughing people, but I found Chaplin rather pathetic and sad. True, I had trouble concentrating, for a couple in the row in front of me was kissing. The man was an American soldier. I was wearing khaki, which in the darkness could easily have passed for
a uniform. It seemed to me I ought to have the same rights and opportunities. But I had never kissed a woman, and now suddenly I wanted to. It was the first time this had ever happened to me. All at once I was no longer thinking of the film. I wasn’t thinking about anything. The past, the future, religious morality—all faded away. My body was doing my thinking for me, and it was drawn to, well, the young woman sitting on my left. I glanced at her furtively, my heart pounding. I told myself not to be a fool—accost a stranger? The very idea! She could make me pay dearly for my impudence. At the very least, I would get my face slapped. And had I forgotten the biblical commandments already? But I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just thinking, imagining, shyly sliding my hand toward hers. Our fingers barely brushed, as if by accident. When I took her hand in mine, my neighbor did not protest. But then the movie ended, as did everything else. The house lights went on, and I was annoyed at Chaplin. He might have waited five more minutes.

Many months passed before Bea found out I was alive. Someone told someone who saw her in Sighet. We made arrangements to meet in Antwerp, and so it was that I finally found myself in that city of diamond merchants. My beautiful cousin Reizi had died in the camps, but I did find Shiku, who had survived by hiding with a Christian family. It was at his home that the reunion of Sarah and Shlomo Wiesel’s three orphans took place.

Shiku could not hold back his tears. We were stronger.

Survivors are often asked, How did you manage to readjust to life, to joy, to love? The truth is, it was not that difficult—less difficult than adjusting to death. Having slept with the dead and spent a lifetime—indeed, many lifetimes—in death’s company, we had come to view it as ordinary, expected, a daily presence, the norm, not the exception. We had, after all, been brought to the camp not to live, but to die, and when we stumbled over a corpse, we walked on without so much as a second look. It was like pushing aside a dry twig.