And the Sea Is Never Full (37 page)

Was it Oscar Wilde who was wise enough to say that he who lives more than one life ends up dying more than one death?

I have lived a few lives. How does one relate to the other? I look for the life of the boy from Sighet in that of the orphan abandoned in Buchenwald.

“How do you manage not to be disoriented, to stay your course?” asks a journalist wiser than the others. “Think of the itinerary that has
taken you from your forsaken little town to Auschwitz and from Auschwitz to Oslo…. Doesn’t that drive you mad?”

Yes, it does. I think of it often and always with a feeling of embarrassment and disbelief. Who indeed has traced this strange path for the young Jewish boy who, lost more than once among the dead, found himself, one chilly December day, receiving the greatest honor mankind can bestow on one of its own? Sometimes a wicked thought crosses my mind: Could the Nobel be meant to make up for all the rest? I reject the idea at once. There can be no such thing as making up for the rest, neither individually nor collectively. Not even Israel can be a compensation. The only compensation I might accept, just possibly, would be the arrival of the Messiah.

In truth, many survivors feel this same astonishment in recalling the past. Can this be me walking around freely, with my wife or a friend, along the Champs-Élysées? Can this be me wearing these fine clothes as I look up at the skyscrapers of Fifth Avenue? And can this be me eating all I can eat? Is it really me sending back a dish because it’s too cold or not cooked enough? Can it be me laughing or making others laugh? But here I am, feeling at a loss, as I get closer to happiness.

In truth we have not left the Kingdom of Night. Or rather: It refuses to let us go. It is inside us. The dead are inside us. They observe us, guide us. They wait for us. They help us by forcing us to appreciate things and sensations at their just value. They are judging us.

One cannot cheat the dead. They are not to be appeased with lies nor with triumphs. Their truth is not that of the living. But the truth of the living, where is it to be found? In the happiness of others, perhaps.

Not in my own?

Yom Kippur, 1986. I have been at the synagogue since early morning. I like the solemn litanies of this Day of Atonement, in which one reminds God of His promise to remember us. The fasting has been easy, as always. Only I have a frightful headache. As usual, it tears at my brain as though meaning to shred it. Around 4 p.m., after the
Musaf
service, I go home to rest. It’s only a ten-minute walk. “A gentleman is waiting for you,” the doorman tells me. I wonder who it could be. Who would disturb me on a day that is devoted to meditation and prayer? A smiling man introduces himself: He is the New York correspondent of the Norwegian daily
Dagbladet
. He has something urgent
to tell me. I interrupt him: “Please sir, not now, not today; come back some other day, tomorrow perhaps.” But not only is this fellow stubborn, he doesn’t want anything from me; all he wants is for me to listen to him; what he has to tell me can’t wait. I ask patiently: “Don’t you know today is Yom Kippur?” He knows, he knows, but there is something he
must
tell me, something
very
important. He asks to come up to the apartment with me. It will just take one minute, no more. He swears: just one minute. Riding up in the elevator, I rack my brain: What could be important enough for him to track me down on Yom Kippur? I don’t know, it must be this damned headache of mine that prevents me from seeing clearly, from guessing, from catching on.

Marion is surprised to see my companion. To her unspoken question I respond by introducing him, adding: “He’ll explain it all to us.” At that point the journalist hands Marion a bouquet of flowers. I hadn’t noticed them before. Where had he hidden them? “You should know,” he says, “that tomorrow my newspaper’s headline will be about you.” I begin to understand. I don’t know why, but I’m frightened. I stammer: “You’re mad … this is impossible.” But he shakes his head, sure of himself. I beg him to phone his editor, to change the headline. Tomorrow we’ll all look ridiculous, and I most of all. It must be stopped…. “Too late,” the journalist answers, unmoved. I beg him to try, at least to try. Nothing doing. And all the time he doesn’t stop smiling. “I’m not asking you for anything just now,” he says before leaving. “But tomorrow you will give me an exclusive interview, won’t you?” I promise him; I would promise anything as long as he leaves me in peace. I must hurry back to synagogue, where
Neilah
, the majestic, sorrowful service of the closing of the celestial gates, is about to begin.

On the way I think it useful to warn Elisha that something interesting may happen tomorrow. As usual he is “cool.” “Is it the Nobel?” How did he guess? At fourteen he already knows many things, my son. How is he reacting to the possibility of this distinction? He shrugs his shoulders as if to say: We’ll see.

At the synagogue the congregants are just finishing the
Minha
prayer. One can almost feel them waiting for
Neilah
. They seem to be meditating, turning inward.
Neilah
is the last chance before the closing of the gates of heaven, the gates of prayer. For another forty minutes they remain ajar. Quickly now, the words that can revoke the verdict; quickly, the entreaties, the pleas before it is sealed. And suddenly one forgets hunger, thirst, fatigue; even my headache is gone. With the
rest of the congregation I pray for a year of good health and prosperity, a year of peace, particularly for the people of Israel, and for all the peoples on Earth. Still, I admit, from time to time I cannot help but think of the Norwegian journalist. I improvise a silent prayer: Lord, let me not be humiliated tomorrow morning. I don’t say “disappointed;” I say “humiliated.” But almost instantly I reprimand myself: What would my grandfather say if he knew the object of my concern during the sacred service of
Neilah?
I see him, I see myself with my grandfather visiting the Rebbe of Borshe. The shiver that runs down my spine links me again to a happy and less ambitious world.

As is our custom, we break the fast with friends. There is the usual table talk. I take part absentmindedly. My mind is in Oslo. Tomorrow’s
Dagbladet
is already printed. Will everyone be laughing at me tomorrow? Or worse: Will they feel sorry for me?

Back home, we decide to call two or three close friends. Sigmund and Yossi cut short their dinners and hurry over. Per Ahlmark, who is in New York, meets them in the elevator. Unabashedly optimistic, they are preparing for tomorrow: What to say to whom. Should we call my sister Hilda in Nice? Wake her up? But to tell her what? That maybe … First of all, I’ll have to forewarn John Silber. I need to locate a place for a possible press conference. Yossi, the eternal pragmatist, insists on a general rehearsal: What am I to say if I’m asked “delicate” questions about Israel and the Palestinians?

Yossi thinks of everything. That’s his nature. It’s no accident that David Ben-Gurion, Moshe Dayan, Menachem Begin, and Yitzhak Shamir all asked him to join their teams. His judgment is uncanny.

I try to calm his excitement and my own. I try to reason with the others, with myself. We all know about rumors; all this may end up as a punishment for giving credence to other people’s certainties and wishful thinking. So superstitious am I that I fear that at the last moment the Nobel committee will change its mind, if only to punish
Dagbladet
for its indiscretion. My friends, stubbornly optimistic, deride my eternal skepticism. Marion is thoughtful, silent. Per suggests we call Rabbi Michael Melchior in Oslo. There it is now three in the morning; we can’t wake him up after a day of fasting. But it is he who calls us. He’s even more confident than Sigmund, Per, and Yossi. “It’s you who should go to bed,” says the Chief Rabbi of Norway. “They’re going to wake you early tomorrow morning.” In fact, the traditional press conference of the Nobel committee has been called for
late morning in Oslo, 5 a.m. New York time. From then on it will be chaos, he says. I whisper: What if nothing happens? Sigmund admonishes: “Bite your tongue before you say anything else.”

I’m afraid of falling asleep, of dreaming, of waking up. At four o’clock Marion suggests that we might as well get up, just in case. Orange juice, hot coffee. The night porter announces that Sigmund, then Yossi, then Per are coming up. His voice betrays his astonishment: Four-thirty in the morning is a strange time for social calls.

“So?” I shrug; still no news. I am praying silently: Please don’t let them have gone to all this trouble for nothing. Nobody is speaking. Suddenly, the telephone rings in the living room. I force myself not to rush; it could be another reporter, a neighbor, anyone at all. But it’s not. It’s Jakub Sverdrup, the director of the Nobel committee and the Nobel Institute: “Excuse us for calling you so early … and so late,” he says, using his words carefully, the Norwegian way: “But we didn’t have your telephone number; it took us an incredible time to get it.” Around me everyone looks tense. Sverdrup is in no hurry: “So as you understand, to find the number—your private number—was far from easy, as you are unlisted. And when we finally found it, your number, we thought it was still too early in New York, surely you were still sleeping, so we hesitated, you understand.” At last Sverdrup comes to the point: “I have the honor, on behalf of Chairman Egil Aarvik, to inform you that … The vote was unanimous. Congratulations. Technical details are on their way.”

Why are my eyes blurring? I am overcome by emotion.
We
are overcome by emotion. Marion clutches my hand. Yossi and Sigmund for once seem at a loss for words. Per is smiling. All have tears in their eyes. And then we hold out our arms to each other and embrace. How long did we remain like that, motionless? The telephone breaks the silence. One of the first calls comes from my childhood friend Haim-Hersh, from Sighet, who now lives in Oslo. He is in tears, saying: “I’m looking at television. Nobel Chairman Aarvik is reading a statement…. Can you hear, do you understand?” Aarvik is speaking in Norwegian, Haim-Hersh is translating into Yiddish. From the lobby, the doorman, beside himself, is shouting into the intercom. There is a commotion, he says, reporters, photographers, television cameras. The poor fellow is trying to keep calm. Overwhelmed, he doesn’t understand what is happening. If only he had known, he keeps saying,
he would have requested an assistant, a security guard. And then he tells us that there is a Norwegian journalist waiting. He came before the crowd. He’s been waiting for three hours. He is the first to come upstairs, with another bouquet of roses for Marion. He happily reminds me that I promised him an exclusive interview. Then Norwegian television arrives: Jan Otto Johansen from Washington and special correspondent Erik Bö. We are connected live to Norway. The Oslo journalists tell me that in Norway the announcement of the prize is being magnificently received. I call Hilda. She is so excited she can’t speak. Around six o’clock the doorman calls again: “What shall I do with NBC?” Then: “And ABC? And CBS?” The
New York Times
, Agence France-Presse, TF1, and Antenne 2 from France. The apartment now looks like a battlefield. Around me are technicians, sound engineers, lighting people, reporters, and producers who seem to be walking over each other. The telephone doesn’t stop ringing. From Tel Aviv, Dov and Eliyahu tell me that they expect statements from Chaim Herzog, Yitzhak Shamir, and Shimon Peres. For once there’s strange unanimity in the Holy Land. Jacques Attali calls to tell me that President Mitterrand is going to call me at any moment. In Paris, too, the unanimity is striking: Prime Minister Jacques Chirac, whom at that time I had not yet met, sends a message that moves me by its warmth and eloquence. Henry Kissinger: “I was not proud of my Nobel, but I am of yours.” The Lubavitcher Rebbe: “You have consistently devoted your life to our people’s welfare; from now on you’ll do so even better.” From all over, my publishers send congratulations and flowers. At eleven o’clock there are still reporters waiting in the hallway. Suddenly I remember: I haven’t yet said my morning prayers. I shut myself in an empty room and put on my tefillin.

Elisha takes advantage of the tumult to skip school. I ask him what he feels about all this commotion. Deadpan, he says: “Oh, not much. But …” But what? “Well, wouldn’t this be a good time for … you to increase my allowance? What do you think?”

An urgent, very urgent call from Jerusalem: Dan Shilon, director of broadcasting, insists on interviewing me immediately. We’ve known each other from the time he was correspondent of Kol Israël—the Voice of Israel—in the United States. I tell him that I first must go to a press conference. He gets upset—I understand his feeling that surely Israel should have priority. I mumble some answers while people pull at me from all sides—we’re late. I feel awful that Dan is angry. But today I am not the master of my time.

The press conference, conducted by John Silber, takes place in the Kaufmann Concert Hall of the 92nd Street “Y,” where since 1967 I have been giving four annual lectures. Preempting some of the questions the press may be getting ready to toss at me, I point out that the Nobel Prize does not magically transform laureates into experts on politics, the economy, or sociology. I don’t expect that I know more today than I did yesterday.

That evening we plan dinner in a French restaurant. To my amazement, on the way to dinner as we pass people standing in line at the entrance to a movie house, they suddenly burst into applause—just like that, in the street, in the heart of Manhattan. At the restaurant, the maître d’ comes over to tell me that the corner table is offering us a bottle of wine. Then it’s another table … and another.

When we get home, we find journalists and photographers waiting: “one last interview” for the 11 o’clock newscasts and “one more shot” for the first morning edition. As I answer the questions I hear the door open: It’s the Norwegian consul general and his wife, who give Marion, on behalf of Jo Benkow, president of the Norwegian Parliament, the most magnificent bouquet of roses we’ve ever seen. The doorman comes up with a package of telegrams, most of them addressed simply to ELIE WIESEL—NEW YORK.