All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [137]
Yehudit Moretzka, a Yiddish singer and friend of the Lenemans, came aboard with Mark Turkov, a Jewish book publisher. Having by then become a sort of spokesman for the exiles, I shared my concern with them: Someone would have to let them disembark somewhere; they couldn’t possibly go on like this. They were sick and exhausted. As we talked, Turkov noticed my manuscript, from which I was never separated. He wanted to know what it was and whether he could look at it. I showed it to him, explaining that it was unfinished. “That’s all right,” he said. “Let me take it anyway.” It was my only copy, but Turkov assured me that it would be safe with him. I still hesitated, but he promised not only to read it but “If it’s good, I’ll publish it.” Yehudit Moretzka encouraged me by telling me she would make sure the manuscript was returned to me in Paris—with or without a rejection slip. I was convinced Turkov wouldn’t publish it. I couldn’t see why any editor would be interested in the sad memoirs of a stranger he happened to meet on a ship, surrounded by refugees nobody wanted. “Don’t worry so much,” Yehudit Moretzka told me as she left. But I felt lost without my manuscript.
The South American Jewish communities proved equal to the task. The refugees were finally allowed to come ashore in Sao Paulo. But the priest who greeted them could not contain his anger when he learned they would be taken in charge by a Jewish charity. Baruch embraced me and asked me to come and visit him once he was settled. He would present me with a pair of handmade shoes. Haim’ke, too, embraced me and promised to make me a fine suit. A third passenger told me of a beautiful cousin who wanted to get married, suggesting that—who knows?—I might make a good husband. They were all relieved and happy, and so was I.
In the meantime, Hanna’s letters, which had piled up at the American Express office in São Paulo, betrayed mounting unease. Because of my change in itinerary, I had not written to her. She wondered about my prolonged silence and whether I had changed my mind. Nearly six weeks had passed, and now I had to postpone my return. I wrote to her explaining why, but by a quirk of fate my letter was delivered after a serious delay. I had been away for two months when Dov recalled me to Paris to cover Pierre Mendès-France’s accession to power. I flew back, anxious to see Hanna. I would explain the exceptional circumstances, find a way to make her forgive me. She would understand, for I had missed her. I would tell her that I had been faithful to her, even in my thoughts.
As soon as I arrived, I hurried to Leneman’s office and asked whether there were any messages for me. He handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names. Nothing from Hanna. Then he gave me my mail. The first letter I opened was from her: “You didn’t write and didn’t come back when you said you would. I realize what that means; I’m not angry with you.” I rushed to her apartment, where the concierge told me she was sorry but Hanna had left. Where had she gone? “To Palestine, I think.” When? “Ten days ago.” I was both sad and relieved.
Fifteen years later I saw her in Jerusalem. She was still proud and beautiful, though a little subdued. She was married and had children. I wondered whether I should tell her that my delay and my silence had not been my fault, that I had come back to Paris ready to marry her. I decided to say nothing. There were two possibilities: Either she was happy, in which case there was no point in reopening old wounds, or she wasn’t, in which case there was no point in kindling regrets.
I never saw her again.
The last thing there is to say about my Brazilian expedition is that it ended on a comical note. Ever since my arrival, colleagues and acquaintances had been telling me about a man called Assis Chateaubriant: “If you’re writing about this country, you must meet him.” The name meant nothing to me, so they explained