All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [170]
It is hard to put into words how much I owe that kindly Immigration official, especially when I recall my annual visits to the Préfecture de Police in Paris, with its long lines and humiliating interrogations. When my turn came, the stateless person I was had to try to win over an ill-humored female employee who never even condescended to look straight at me. It was pathetic, even ridiculous, but it was endemic to my condition as a refugee. The refugee’s time is measured in visas, his biography in stamps on his documents. Though he has done nothing illegal, he is sure he is being followed. He begs everyone’s pardon: Sorry for disturbing you, for bothering you, for breathing. How well I understood Socrates, who preferred death to exile. In the twentieth century there is nothing romantic about the life of the exile, be he a stateless person or a political refugee. I know whereof I speak. I was stateless, and therefore defenseless.
When, five years later, I applied for American citizenship, there were no problems, just simple, rapid formalities. A few days before the ceremony the concierge at my hotel had a message for me: I was to call the FBI; there was a telephone number. The refugee in me was scared. What could I have done to attract the attention of J. Edgar Hoover’s omnipotent, omniscient FBI? I called the number. A man answered and told me the agent in charge had just left the office and would not be back until the next day. I prepared for a sleepless night.
That evening the agent called me. “I didn’t want you to worry, so I’m calling from home. I must ask you a question. You’re going to be an American citizen. Have you thought about registering with your draft board?” I broke into a cold sweat. “No,” I stammered. The agent asked why not. “I’m too old,” I said. “Besides which, there are medical reasons. I’ve had a serious accident.” The agent was silent. In my mind I saw myself rejected, punished, repudiated—end of naturalization, the American passport forever out of reach. “Well,” he said at last, “you’ll have to register, as a matter of form. But that should be the end of it.”
And it was. A few days later I was handed a brand-new, beautiful American passport.
In 1981, after François Mitterrand was elected president of France, a high official asked whether I would like to acquire French nationality. Though I thanked him—and not without some emotion—I declined the offer. When I had needed a passport, it was America that had given me one.
As promised, Dov and Leah disembarked in New York in 1957. We went to concerts, restaurants. By now I was walking with a cane, which I thought made me look distinguished. But I tired easily. They rented a car and invited me to join them on a six-week cross-country trip, from New York to Los Angeles. Since Dov was my boss I didn’t have to worry about work, so I went.
We discovered an America unknown to us, totally different from New York or Washington, which were the only places I knew. Interminable highways disappeared into a blue horizon ringing tall mountains embedded in skies of shifting colors. There were cascading rivers and peaceful brooks, green valleys and yellow hills, violent storms and dramatic sunsets. Never before had I been so close to nature. From the hills of San Francisco we gazed upon small towns floating in the fog as in a dream. In the Rocky Mountains the clouds seemed to wear a crown of snow; to touch it you would have to climb to God’s throne. Enchanting mirages, they are so disconcerting you cannot tell which is close and which is far, which is real and which is not. You have a sense of being present at a re-creation of the world.
They say that when Arturo Toscanini visited the Grand Canyon, a companion watched respectfully as the great conductor stood motionless, contemplating the miracle of the Colorado River gorge. Suddenly, after a long and silent meditation,