All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [198]
Increasingly absorbed in my own writing, I gradually reduced my commitments to Yedioth. But I continued to write about political and Jewish current events for the Forverts. Sometimes I replaced the permanent UN correspondent, Shlomo Ben Israel, the author of remarkable detective novels. In time Rogoff and Fogelman allowed me to do more book reviews. I wrote about the work of Albert Camus and Nikos Kazantzakis, Ernest Hemingway and André Schwarz-Bart, Shmuel-Yosef Agnon and Nelly Sachs. I also wrote reviews of works by minor authors I regrettably believed it judicious to pan. I should have been more disciplined, more circumspect. But I was young, and enjoyed flaunting my “power” over talented but unfortunate (or vice versa) writers who thought they had “made it” in the Yiddish world. Indeed, every nasty review earned me winks and compliments from my colleagues, whereas praise brought pleasure only to the recipients. Even the angels in heaven are afflicted by jealousy, the Midrash tells us.
The star of the show was Bashevis Singer, several of whose stories had been translated into English, notably by Saul Bellow (who to this day likes to chat with me in Yiddish). Singer was not liked by his colleagues. They complained of his greed, egocentricity, and vanity. As might be expected, he was envied, and as a result people made fun of him behind his back. His introduction of sensuality and eroticism into the Jewish experience shocked puritans but was well received by most. One critic in particular wrote an essay about him that, though it was never published, was widely circulated. In it he argued that Singer’s Jewish characters reflected classic anti-Semitic stereotypes: men and women obsessed with money and sex. His conclusion, purely rhetorical of course, was that if Polish Jews had been as Bashevis Singer portrayed them, did not their enemies have every reason to hate and persecute them?
My relations with Bashevis were for a time correct, even cordial. Sometimes we took the subway uptown together. Occasionally we were invited to the Webers’ at the same time. Bashevis considered me a slightly misguided, inoffensive beginner, of little interest to him since I didn’t write my novels in Yiddish. In fact, it is unlikely that he ever read them. I did read his, however, but also never referred to them in our conversations. A crisis erupted when Rogoff asked me to review one of Singers works. The article not only earned me unpleasant remarks from his enemies, who thought it too favorable; he, too, manifested his discontent. He had been expecting a rave, and subsequently took his revenge by writing a lukewarm review of my book The Jews of Silence. My reply was a satirical sketch of “the second son of the Haggadah,” in which I was careful not to name him. The second son is the wicked son, the rasha, who arrogantly questions the meaning of the Pesach festival. The text is hostile to him. In our tradition no one likes the rasha because he doesn’t like anyone.
When I read my article to Weber over the phone, he burst out laughing. “That’s him, exactly,” he said. “Give this article to Fogelman, let’s see what he says.” I was sure he would recognize Bashevis, but Weber felt it was worth a try. With a show of innocence, I handed my text to Fogelman, as though it were an ordinary news article. I don’t know if he read it, but it was published the following week. Singer’s enemies were jubilant. I expected to be scolded by Fogelman, but I had underestimated him—he congratulated me. For once, Singer must have read my article, because from that moment on contact between us became increasingly rare and finally stopped. No more polite smiles in the elevator. When I praised his foremost rival, Chaim Grade, in The New York Times, calling him (sincerely and with conviction) “the greatest contemporary Yiddish writer,” the rift was sealed.
The day my satirical article appeared, I was the most popular man in Yiddish circles. I noted with a mixture of amusement and sadness how unappreciated