All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [160]
Before Morris could finish his speech, his guests were overcome with admiration: how generous he was, what a good heart he had, dear Morris. A saint, that’s what he was. Yes, I had a saint for an uncle.
That was too much. I interrupted the saint and his guests: “Excuse me, but it’s getting late and I must go.” I invoked the UN, an emergency session, international crisis. Morris was adamant: “At least say a few words. Just to show you can do it. Words are your trade, aren’t they? What’ll it cost you to make a little speech? If only to show my friends I was right to invest all that money in your career. Come on, you owe me at least that much, don’t you?” “I’m truly sorry,” I replied, “maybe some other time. The Security Council, the Trojan war, world peace—you know what I mean.” There were mutterings: What a lack of gratitude; he can’t even say thank you.
All I wanted was to get out of there. I couldn’t take much more of this. “Come with me,” my uncle ordered. I asked where. “To my room,” he said. I broke out in a cold sweat. I was sure he was going to offer me money, which I damn well needed but could not allow myself to accept. I thought about my sister as I followed him uneasily into his bedroom. He went to his closet, opened it, and began rummaging through his shirts and suits. He must think he’s back in Sighet, I said to myself, keeps his money stuffed under his shirts. “Where is it, where is it?” Morris mumbled. “Ah, here it is!” he finally announced, triumphantly pulling out a pair of khaki pants. “Take them,” he said. “Look, they’re almost new; they’ll fit perfectly.” At that point the door opened and a woman rushed in, breathless, her face stamped by fear that her husband was about to be too generous. When she noticed the “gift,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “A superb pair of pants. Don’t be a fool, take them!” For a moment I was torn between laughter and disgust. Then I burst out laughing.
Going down in the elevator, I composed the opening of an article: “Everybody has an uncle in America. And so, alas, do I.” The other passengers must have thought I was drunk, I was laughing so hard.
On the other hand, I liked Sam, who was anything but rich. I respected his modest, austere way of life and savored his sharp sarcasm. He adored challenging and even denigrating what he loved. On Friday evenings I would share a Shabbat meal with him, and he often took the opportunity to go over an article of mine, evidently with the sole purpose of demolishing it.
He didn’t seem to appreciate my choice of subjects or my style. “Where’d you get that from?” he would ask. I could never figure out why he was so critical. Maybe it was his way of warding off bad luck, or perhaps he was afraid I might take myself too seriously. In any event, I was glad he wasn’t my editor, otherwise I would have been looking for work. Nevertheless, I felt genuine affection for him, possibly because he remembered my parents, my house, my town. After he died, years later, I met friends of his from his synagogue. They all told me how proud he was of me.
After feverishly scouring the classifieds for a week and conducting full-fledged searches (accompanied by Israeli colleagues who served as real-estate advisers), I found a room on the ground floor of a five-story building on Seventy-sixth Street between West End Avenue and Riverside Drive. It was a quiet street, a quiet building. I signed a one-year lease without reading it. But if my eyes were closed, my ears were open, and I was awakened the next morning by a feminine voice coming from the floor above. As much as I love music, the relentless scales finally began to annoy me. I responded