All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [21]
Six months went by, and we suffered our first defeat: Yiddele, the oldest of the three of us, fell ill, losing the power of speech and his will to live. Stretched out on his bed from dawn to night, he stared vacantly, unreachable and lethargic. Rebbes were called in, psalms recited; prayers were said at the graves of the just, and special prayers during Shabbat services. Doctors were consulted in our small town and in the great cities of the region. My friend remained mute, his condition unchanged. Strings were pulled, and a renowned psychiatrist arrived from Budapest to spend an entire day at the young patient’s bedside. The next day he visited schools and synagogues and questioned parents, neighbors, and friends, myself among them. Sworn to secrecy as I was, I said nothing that might damage our project. No, I had seen nothing suspicious, nothing bizarre, in my friend. He was not subject to fits of madness. He suffered no turmoil. The psychiatrist questioned my other friend, the second of our trio, but received no further enlightenment. Perplexed, he decided to call in a Swedish colleague, the famous Dr. Olivecrona. So it was, that one fine day our little Transylvanian backwater was honored by a visit from the great Swede. He strolled through town with a contemplative air, looking straight ahead but scrutinizing everyone who crossed his path before finally being escorted to the patient. Olivecrona examined him, tested his reflexes, questioned his parents, summoned his friends—and departed disappointed.
The following Shabbat my father spoke to me again. “1 hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“What lesson is that, Father?”
“Stop this senseless business.”
“I can’t, Father.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re deepening a teaching that is part of our heritage. Where is the sin in that?”
My father’s face darkened. “I understand,” he said. “But be reasonable. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a narrow escape. My friend Sruli and I resumed our work, still guided by our master. Ascetic exercises, feverish incantatory litanies, descent into the torments of the abyss in the hope of reascending toward dizzying heights. By night, beyond the howling of dogs, we heard the now faint, now heavy tread of the approaching Messiah. A little more effort and salvation would be at hand. One last burst of spiritual energy, of daring imagination, and the enemy of our people, the enemy of all peoples, would be brought to his knees.
But once again an alert Satan foiled our plan. My second friend fell ill, with symptoms similar to the first. Today I know the technical terms: aphasia and ataxia. Once again the city was abuzz. Funds were collected to bring in doctors from neighboring cities, psychiatrists from Kolozsvár, neurologists from Budapest. Olivecrona put in another appearance. This time he stayed for a week, asking questions, analyzing, rummaging in the mysteries of my friends’ unbalanced brains. Once again he left without answers.
Forty years later I was dining with my wife, Marion, and several psychiatrists who introduced us to a Swedish woman who turned out to be Olivecrona’s daughter. I asked her whether the name Sighet meant anything to her. “Sighet,” she murmured. “Yes, wait a minute. My father made a trip there during the war, I forget why.” I reminded her of our childish adventure and she smiled. “Yes, I remember now. My father was completely baffled. You could have spared him quite a few sleepless nights.”
After Olivecrona’s departure my father made no secret of his mounting concern. “You have to bow to the evidence now. Your friends have been struck by an illness that looks very much like a curse. Stop before it’s too late.” I tried to argue.