Read And the Sea Is Never Full Online
Authors: Elie Wiesel
And the Sea Is Never Full (6 page)
My generation needed to hear their answers and to follow their example.
Thanks to my Hasidic tales, I am able to speak publicly with less apprehension. I emphasize their wisdom and humor. To shed the image people have of me—the messenger returned from over there—I try to elicit a smile or even laughter. As much as I resist speaking about the Tragedy, I delight in opening the gates to the Hasidic garden. To my surprise, there is an audience for this kind of pilgrimage. Unquestionably, people prefer stories and anecdotes to scholarly analyses. And so I try to combine the two by encouraging the public to reflect.
I care about people learning to savor the meaning of the Hasidic message in particular, of the messianic wait in general. I feel good when I evoke the fervor and wealth of a tale by Rebbe Nahman or a parable of Rebbe Mendel of Kotzk. There I feel no need to censor myself. I am less fearful of revealing what ought not to be revealed. There is no danger of blasphemy. I know what words need to be said; I only have to repeat those I heard from my grandfather’s lips.
—Sing, Grandfather. I beg of you. I need to hear you sing.
—I cannot
.
—Make an effort. Try, Grandfather. You always said one had the right to fail, but not without trying.
—I cannot. Not anymore. I cannot even try.
—I shall help you.
—You cannot help me any more.
—Are you forbidding me to try?
—I am not forbidding you anything, my little one. I am only telling you that I can no longer sing
.
—Not even for me?
—For nobody
.
—For God? For God, whom you have loved?
—Not even for Him
.
—Why, Grandfather?
—That’s how it is. We cannot help it. Neither you nor I
.
—Is that your punishment?
—No. It has nothing to do with punishment
.
—Then what does it have to do with, Grandfather?
—I am dead, my little one. The dead no longer sing
.
—What about me, Grandfather …?
—What about you?
—May I then sing for the dead?
The Jewish tradition tells us that it is through study that we may—no, that we must—honor the memory of the dead. We study a Mishna, and in so doing affirm our attachment to those who have preceded us in this quest.
Is that why my passion for study continues unabated? Indeed, it grows. King Lear is mistaken: One is never too old to learn. To rediscover ancient texts is to celebrate them; to celebrate them in their diversity, their timeless beauty. Prophetic, talmudic, philosophical, poetic, ethical celebrations. One must approach Jewish tradition through its fervor and present it with the help of its illustrious and inspired thinkers.
That is what I strive to do in my
Messengers of God
. The book is based on lectures delivered at the 92nd Street “Y” in New York, at Boston University, and at the Centre Rachi in Paris. Adam or the mystery of the Beginning, Cain and Abel or the First Murder, the near-sacrifice of Isaac, the return of Joseph, the metamorphosis of Moses, the ordeal and triumph of Job—every chapter requires months of research. There again, Saul Lieberman is indispensable. I submit to him every essay and solicit his critical comments, which I carefully take into account. I say nothing, publish nothing, without his
Haskama
, his consent.
In my notebook I write:
As a child, I read the biblical tales with a mixture of wonder and anguish. I imagined Isaac on the altar, and I wept. I saw Joseph prince of Egypt, and I laughed…. Jewish history unfolds in the present. Unlike mythology it affects our life and our role in society. Jupiter is a symbol, but Isaiah is a voice, a conscience. Zeus is dead without having lived, but
Moses remains alive. His exhortations, delivered long ago to a people about to be freed, resonate to this day; his Law commits us. Without a Jew’s memory, his determined collective memory, he would not be a Jew or would not be.
If Judaism, more than any other tradition, demonstrates such loyalty to its past, it is because it fulfills a need. Thanks to Abraham, whose temerity guides us, thanks to Jacob, whose dream intrigues us, our survival, prodigious in many ways, has maintained its mystery and significance. If we have the strength and the will to speak out, it is because our ancestors express themselves through every one of us. If the eyes of the world so often seem fixed on us, it is because we evoke a bygone era and a destiny that transcends it.
Panim
in Hebrew is used in the plural: Man has more than one face. His own and that of Adam. The Jew is haunted by the beginning more than by the end. His messianic dream is linked to David’s kingdom. He feels closer to the prophet Elijah than to his next-door neighbor. What is a Jew? Sum, synthesis, vessel. Every ordeal endured by his ancestors affects him. He is crushed by their sorrows and invigorated by their triumphs. For they were living creatures, not icons. The most pure, the most righteous among them was subject to moments of ecstasy and despair, and we are told about them. Their holiness defined itself in human terms. That is why the Jew remembers them, because he sees them at the crossroads of their existence. Anxious, exalted, singled out, they are humans, not gods. Their quest informs his own and influences his choices. Jacob’s ladder disrupts his nights. Israel’s anguish increases his solitude. He knows that to speak of Moses means to follow him into Egypt and out of Egypt. Whosoever refuses to tell his story stays behind.
This is true for all our ancestors and their journeys. If the near-sacrifice of Isaac concerned only Abraham and his son, their ordeal would be limited to their own suffering. But it concerns us…. Somewhere a father and his son head for a burning altar; somewhere a boy knows his father will die before God’s veiled gaze; somewhere a storyteller remembers and is overwhelmed by an ancient and nameless sadness; he wants to weep. He has seen Abraham and he has seen Isaac go toward death, and the angel, intent on
singing the praises of the Lord, did not come to rescue them from the quiet, black night.
Quatre maîtres hassidiques (Four Hasidic Masters)
and
Cinq portraits bibliques (Five Biblical Portraits)
, which are part of the
Célébrations
, are entrusted in America to Jim Langford, editor in chief of Notre Dame Press, for I am close to the Catholic university of Notre Dame, and to its president, the liberal Theodore Hesburgh. Our dialogues both private and public are ecumenical and fraternal. Both of us are devoted to the same principles of tolerance. I respect his faith as he respects mine, and the fight against religious and political fanaticism has never failed to unite us. We have always confronted the merchants of hate together. Our signatures can be found at the bottom of many a petition in support of human rights. Eventually I welcome him to the President’s Commission on the Holocaust, created by President Carter. Ted is a believer of the kind I favor. No one could hope to have a better interlocutor or a more faithful ally.
For the moment, since I belong to no organization or movement, I feel free. When I take a stand, I commit to no one but myself. Sometimes I am right; often I am not. So what? I learn from my mistakes. To enhance discipline and intellectual rigor—that is the goal. To be more demanding of myself. And of others? The problem is that I don’t like to polemicize for fear of offending. When it does happen, I am ill at ease; but never mind, I start again. When the subject is one that is essential to me, I have difficulty controlling my anger even though I may instantly regret it. But I don’t always understand my hosts. Why do they invite me? Why do they want to hear me say things that will surely displease them? Who knows …?
Once, speaking to an important women’s organization, I barely contain my disappointment. The organizers had asked me to divide my address into two parts: the Holocaust and Soviet Jewry. On the day of the lecture, they express concern: “Please don’t take too long; we are planning to devote a few hours to receptions for our regional delegates.” Strange: The angrier I get, the more I show my displeasure, the more people applaud. I say things that shock and hurt, things that should prevent the audience from swallowing their meal. Instead they applaud and congratulate me … after the meal.
It’s all inexplicable to me.
I don’t understand, and yet I find myself unable to refuse the various
invitations that reach me through my agent, Lily Edelman. My friends mock me: “Just because another Jew asks for you, you don’t have to accept.” They are not altogether wrong. It’s true that I always carry around the feeling of owing something to my people.
That is how it happens that I accept the invitation to address the Council of Jewish Federations. Its annual assembly, an important event that brings together donors and organizers of many kinds, is held in a different city every year. This year, 1971, it takes place in a big hotel in Kansas City, Missouri. My address is scheduled for Saturday night.
Since I must spend Shabbat there, I decide to use the time to gauge the mood, study the topics under review, meet the different committees. In short, to find out what preoccupies the leaders of North American Jewry. I shall then adapt my words to their concerns.
Why not confess? I was immediately overcome with a feeling of estrangement, as though I found myself attending a huge gathering of union leaders. The discussions center exclusively on budgets and fund-raising, old and new methods, statistics and forecasts. Everyone is a specialist in some field. How does one approach the millionaire who remains aloof? Who should be delegated to see him, and when—in the office in the morning or at home at night? So much for the spiritual atmosphere I was expecting.
Friday evening, the immense dining room is divided in two. In a corner a few tables have been reserved for those who observe the Jewish dietary laws.
The next day, in a small drawing room, I witness the strangest, most exotic Shabbat service of my life: In addition to prayers and the Torah reading, we are treated to a ballet in which beautiful young girls perform dances that, no doubt, have a religious basis. As I am accustomed to a different style of prayer, I feel somewhat excluded.
All afternoon I am solicited by delegates who are lobbying for one thing or another. Each asks me to include in my presentation the particular project he or she has come to defend, “in the name of what is dear to us”: Russian Jewry, support for Israel, child care, Jewish education in high schools, retirement homes, cultural associations…. They are funny, all these emissaries, militants, or bureaucrats, working for just causes and for odd ones. To them I appear as intercessor, mediator, defense attorney—in other words, a man of influence. I am not so sure, but how am I to explain this to them? Oh well; they will come to realize it eventually.
The evening begins with the pious chanting of the Havdalah, the prayer celebrating the separation in time of the profane and the sacred, and the end of Shabbat. Then comes the hour when dinner is served. There is the din of three thousand people crowded into the hall. People say hello, call to each other, leave their seats to greet acquaintances; the waiters do their work with difficulty. All the former federation presidents are seated at the dais. I sit to the right of the current president, Max Fisher, a superwealthy industrialist from Detroit who is close to both Presidents Nixon and Ford.
Suddenly I hear feverish whispering behind my back. Polite, I try not to listen. Delegates approach Fisher, evidently trying to persuade him of something. I have no idea what it’s about, but I begin to get worried. I sense a crisis looming. Intrigued, I question my neighbor to the right. Oh, it’s nothing, he answers. Whereupon a group of young people come over to our table. “We are students,” they tell me. “We come to ask you not to be annoyed with us: We are leaving the hall to protest, not against you, but against the leaders of this organization. We are observant and after the meal we wanted to recite together the
Birkat Hamazon
[the customary grace after dinner]. They wouldn’t let us.”
I turn to Fisher: “Is this true?”
“Yes,” he says, unperturbed.
“But why?”
“Because the prayer is not listed in the program.”
For a moment I am speechless. Then I try to explain to him that he should be pleased rather than annoyed: After all, what were these young people asking for? The power to control the council’s budget? No. They were requesting permission to sing a prayer that would last no more than three to five minutes. The gentleman remains unmoved: “I’ve made a decision; I’ve announced it to my colleagues; I cannot retract it without losing face.”
I persist. I point out to him that if this becomes public, as it inevitably will, he might look ridiculous to the entire Jewish community. However, I do understand his predicament. So here is what I propose: Let him announce that the guest of honor wishes to recite the traditional prayer; it would be discourteous to refuse. Max acquiesces. The incident is closed. The crisis is averted.
After dinner he invites me to have a drink with him, alone. “I owe you something,” he says. “What would you like?” This is my chance to act as intercessor. I repeat the delegates’ requests: more spirituality for
this kind of gathering; more deference for the observant; priority for Jewish education, for Jewish memory; an initial budget of $100,000 to found a council for Soviet Jewry…. Max takes notes. All my requests are granted. Years later we will confront each other during the Bitburg affair. Still, in Kansas City, it is thanks to a simple prayer rescued in extremis that the most important Jewish organization in America became more Jewish.
We spend the winter of 1972 in Miami. Marion is pregnant and travels less. I don’t have a choice. Long-standing commitments force me to shuttle between Florida, New York, and other places.
It is during this time that I become embroiled in a political incident as pointless as it is absurd, and one I still regret today. It created a furor in Israel. I find myself, quite unintentionally, in an adversarial situation with Abba Eban, minister of foreign affairs in Golda Meir’s government.
