All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [113]
On Saturday afternoon I attended the meetings of Zionist clubs, for songs, lectures, prayers. It was like being back in Versailles or Orsay. I taught them a few songs, and my friend from the Jewish Agency, declaring that he was pleased with my “influence” on the youth, handed me an envelope containing a modest sum that seemed princely to me: no more money worries for two or three weeks. Even better, there was a member of the choir who reminded me of Hanna, though they did not really look alike. This one, small and very dark, was a soprano, whereas Hanna was an alto. She was calm and sweet, not volcanic like Hanna. I was not surprised to find myself spinning dreams and talking to her—you guessed it—about Nietzsche and about nostalgia in the works of Yehuda Halevy. She seemed friendly and interested. One night we were alone in the street. Shyly, I took her hand. She expressed a desire to ride in a carriage. In love as never before, I gazed at the stars, witnesses to my happiness, imploring them to glitter in the dreams of this beautiful young woman. But when I escorted her home I didn’t dare kiss her good night.
The next day the faithful Ifergan confessed that he had followed us, and he chided me: You are courting danger. I thought he was mad. What danger? “You held that girl’s hand.” So? “Here that means you intend to marry her.” Marry her! “What are you going to tell her father or her brother if they show up at your hotel tomorrow?” Thanks to good old Ifergan, I may have escaped fleeting happiness and lasting misfortune.
A conscientious guide, he was constantly underfoot, awkward but accommodating. Little by little I was initiated into the real life of Casablanca, learning to distrust appearances and ready assertions. My reports became more balanced, more subtle and objective. I now understood better why so many of these Jews were ready to uproot themselves.
Back in France I received a telegram from Ifergan: “Your articles aroused considerable anger. I am now in the hospital, with a few broken ribs.”
I felt responsible and wanted to do something for him, but I didn’t know his address. I sent two or three letters “in care of the Jewish community,” but they were returned marked “addressee unknown.”
Twenty years later, in an article on repentance for the Rosh Hashana issue of Yedioth Ahronoth, I mentioned the unwitting wrong I had done to Ifergan so long ago. It was a sincere but humorous apology. Ifergan responded immediately: “Don’t blame yourself. I was only doing my job when I followed you. I was working for the Mossad at the time, and they told me to keep an eye on you. The chance of having my ribs broken was part of the deal.”
As for the young girl who liked carriage rides, I happened to run into her in New York, years later. Her husband and children were with her.
“How is your father?” I asked.
“My father?” she replied, surprised. “He’s no longer alive.”
“When did he die?”
“Oh, a long time ago. When I was five.”
“And your brother?”
Her eyes widened. “Brother? I’m an only child.”
LAST NIGHT, after midnight, I saw my mother in a dream. She held me by the hand, and that seemed strange to me. I’ve grown up, I told myself, I’m a man, but for her I’m still a child.
We were walking slowly down a street, and I asked her where we were going. She seemed not to hear. Or perhaps she did, and preferred not to answer. Suddenly I realized we were alone. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “It’s as though a storm has swept them away.” My mother shook her head, though whether in approval or denial I didn’t know. We continued our trek across the city. I recognized the houses, hut something bothered me: Though plunged in darkness, the windows lit our way, as though a mysterious hand were lighting a candle in each one. “But they’re Yahrzeit candles,” I said to my mother. She nodded, as though telling me I was right, or that she had heard me.