All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [100]
The ship, the Negba, was packed. There was no room to stand on the deck and no place to be alone. All of us were housed in the hold. From time to time we were allowed onto the deck for air, and I would search for Inge, my new obsession, in the unwieldy crowd. But there were too many people, many young children. Someone told me that a few women had moved into cabins. Had they suddenly gotten rich, or perhaps accommodated someone? Maybe if I showed my press card to a crew member, he would let me take a look at the other decks. But I was too shy. As always. To make such a request would mean drawing attention to myself. Ever since the camp it had been my watchword to lie low. I promised myself I would be more daring in Israel, where everyone is daring.
It was an uneventful crossing. I prayed, read, wrote in my journal, took notes for my articles, observed others and myself, counting the hours and keeping busy so as not to get seasick. The night before we arrived I didn’t sleep. I wanted to be awake, eyes and ears wide open, all my senses honed, to catch my first glimpse of Mount Carmel. With a little luck I might even glimpse the Prophet Elijah.
I hoped to be the only one with this idea, but of course I wasn’t. Dozens of couples came out onto the deck. Some had brought blankets. “Wake us as soon as the mountain appears on the horizon,” they asked. But we didn’t have to wake them. They couldn’t sleep either.
I leaned against the railing and scoured the starry sky, rocked by the waves. A sadness as deep as the ocean enveloped me, so oppressive that I found it hard to breathe, so powerful that I had a sudden urge to end my life, to throw myself overboard and be swallowed up and carried off by the waves. I had never felt the lure of death so strongly, not even in my wretched room near the Porte de Saint-Cloud. Just then a man unknown to me, his face shrouded in shadow, spoke to me, and thus unwittingly saved me. I didn’t understand what he said, but I knew he was talking to me, or perhaps to himself through me. History, religion, poetry—he talked and talked, and when, in the end, I turned to him, Lord be praised, I caught sight of Inge next to him, staring off at the same waves, perhaps summoning death just as I had. I prayed that the man between us would go away, that he would speak to one of the many other passengers on the deck. And God heard my prayer. I should have stopped the man to thank him for saving my life, but Inge was right there, so very near, and I was afraid to lose her. Gently I moved closer to her, absorbing the silence that reigned over sky and sea, a silence broken only by whispers of love and prayer. I was sure, absolutely sure, that to take her hand would be to embark on an unforgettable love story. We would begin a new life together, have beautiful, mischievous children, and be together always, never separated, not even by death. I needed just one gesture, just one. But unsurprisingly, I remained paralyzed, imprisoned by my inhibitions. The blessed moment passed. It had lasted an hour, perhaps even two, but it passed, and all at once a powerful cry of triumph sprang from a thousand throats: “There it is!” I peered out at the horizon that would soon be tinged with the flames of dawn, and then I saw it: Mount Carmel, looming high, menacing the enemy but beckoning to us, the faithful, to approach. My cheeks were suddenly and not surprisingly damp.
Was it our imminent arrival that had moved me so deeply, or bitterness at once again having let my chance slip away? I looked to see whether Inge had been as moved, but when I turned she was gone.
I felt alone in the crowd that thronged the deck, stupidly and irrevocably alone. As always.
I still have my notebook from those days. The handwriting is choppy and illegible, for I was elated as never before. In a few moments I would tread the soil of Israel and breathe the