All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [159]
Sam was not my only New York relative. There was another, on my mother’s side. My sister Bea in Montreal had reestablished contact with him and urged me to pay him a visit. Meanwhile, he had learned of my presence in the city from an item in a Yiddish paper and immediately called Bea, who then insisted that not to see him meant offending a family member. I promised I would drop in on “Uncle” Morris, as she called him. I have a stinging memory of this “reunion.”
To begin with, my “uncle” was rich, very rich, and to put it in the nicest possible way you could say he didn’t hide it. His personality was defined by what he possessed. Now, I have nothing against wealth, unless it is flaunted so as to humiliate those less fortunate. My “Uncle” Morris lived in a luxurious apartment in a luxurious building in a luxurious neighborhood. The two doormen, in uniforms that made them look like Swiss guards out of a Russian novel, greeted me and escorted me down the hallway. The elevator boy, also in uniform, his silver epaulets gleaming, was excruciatingly polite. He asked if I was well, whether I did not find the New York winter too arduous. Wishing me a pleasant evening, he pointed to my uncle’s door. I was admitted by a maid, who put a finger to her lips to indicate I was not to speak loudly. Was someone sick? Was a performance under way? In any case, no noise was allowed.
Uncle Morris was visible in the living room, but was not to be disturbed. He was playing cards. There were a dozen or so guests. I whispered hello to him, and he replied without looking up from the table: “Do you play poker?” Disappointed to hear that I didn’t know how, he shrugged and said, “So what’s the point of writing in newspapers?” I failed to see the connection, but his guests, more sophisticated than I, laughed heartily. Dear Uncle Morris evidently possessed an admirable sense of humor in addition to his considerable fortune. Well, let them laugh if that’s their pleasure, but I didn’t appreciate the joke. Having decided to sulk, I sat down in a corner. The maid, more polite than her employers, offered me a drink. Whiskey? No thanks, soda would be fine. Cigarette? I had my own. Half an hour passed. Preoccupied with the game, the guests exhibited not the slightest interest in me. An hour went by, and I began to find the situation less than funny. But it was not my style to make a scene, and I didn’t want to cause Bea any embarrassment, so I sat patiently. I didn’t think they would let me wait on that elegant sofa until dawn. Sooner or later they would get tired or hungry. Finally, I went over to the table and respectfully whispered to Uncle Morris that, to my great regret, I had to go. Professional obligations required my presence at the United Nations (a lie, but it sounded good). “One more minute,” said Uncle Morris, fidgeting in his chair. “I’m winning big here, and the UN isn’t going anywhere, is it?” Twenty minutes later he cried victory, pocketed his winnings, and got up from the table. The others followed. My “uncle” then solemnly asked me to come closer and at once launched into a speech. “Look at him,” he said proudly. “You know who he is? He writes in the newspapers. Thousands of Jews read him in Israel. In France too. Even in South Africa. Anyway, that’s what they tell me, and listen, I believe it. He’s my nephew, or cousin, or something like that, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here. He’s here to tell you who he owes his career to. Go ahead, tell them. Tell them who helped you, who sent you money, who paid for your studies. Come on, what are you waiting for?”
I felt myself blushing with shame and anger. All at once I remembered that in Ambloy I had indeed