All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [227]
After the Simchat Torah festival Lieberman asked me where I planned to celebrate Purim. I told him it was too early to make such plans. Still, he invited me to spend Purim at his home. The winter passed, and one day Heschel phoned to invite me to the Purim meal. “Sorry,” I stammered, “but that won’t be possible.…” I couldn’t tell him why. Heschel insisted, but finally said: “In that case, I’ll go to my cousin’s, the Kapitsinitser Rebbe in Brooklyn.” That suited me fine. Lieberman and Heschel lived in the same building on Riverside Drive, and if Heschel spent the evening in Brooklyn, I wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally running into him. On the night of Purim, a bottle of vodka in hand, I pushed the elevator button, and when the door opened, out came Heschel and his wife, Sylvia. “What are you doing here?” he asked in what I took to be sincere astonishment. I replied without hesitation: “I came to bring you a Purim gift.” I handed him the bottle. He asked how I knew he was home. “I didn’t,” I said. “I was going to leave it at your door.” Why not with the super? “Well, I didn’t trust him. This vodka is too good.”
“Oh,” said Heschel, “then let’s go up and have a drink.” Since I couldn’t confess that I was expected at Lieberman’s, I made something up. (On Purim you’re allowed to tell a lie.) “Sorry,” I said. “I am late for my appointment and I must go home first.” Heschel insisted that since I was already there, we might as well raise a glass in honor of the holiday. Rather than argue, I went upstairs with them. He opened the bottle, and we had a drink. I was on pins and needles, but Heschel took his time—and mine—sitting in his armchair talking about memories of Purim back in Poland and chanting half-forgotten Hasidic tunes. I kept stealing glances at my watch; I was already late. Finally, we left and Heschel offered me a ride home. I told him I preferred to walk. “Out of the question,” he said. So he drove me home. I waited three long minutes and went back out, looking for an open liquor store. I bought a second bottle of vodka, hailed a cab, and hurried back to the same building, the same elevator.
Lieberman was too polite to ask why I was late. I took my place at the table. Among the guests were the great names of the city’s Talmudic and cultural community. The conversation was brilliant and lively. I listened in silence. The meal ended at about four in the morning, which is not unusual on Purim, and when I got to the elevator I hesitated, wondering if I ought to take the stairs. But the elevator was on its way up; the door was about to open. I prayed to God to spare me fresh embarrassment, and my prayer was answered. It was empty. Another prayer was answered downstairs. There was no one in the street. God is great. Now all I had to do was hail a cab, and here was one now. It slowed, came to a stop, and a smiling Heschel got out. “See?” he said. “I knew you were waiting for a taxi.”
A week before Passover, 1983, my old friend Rabbi Wolfe Kelman phoned me. I could tell by his voice that he had bad news. I was stunned, but somehow not surprised. “Blessed be the Judge of Truth,” I murmured. “It happened on the plane to Israel,” Wolfe said. I felt lost. A moment later the historian Yosef Yerushalmi called. “I have sad—” he began, but I told him I knew. “He died in his sleep,” Yerushalmi added. “The funeral will take place in a few hours. It will be impossible for you to get there in time.”
As I said, I wasn’t surprised. Lieberman had acted strangely when I saw him last. At the end of our lesson he had stood up and embraced me. He was to leave that afternoon for Jerusalem, to celebrate Passover with his older brother. I was in a hurry. I was giving a lecture at Yale that afternoon. He walked me to the door, but suddenly exclaimed, “Would you like to come back, Reb Eliezer?” We went back and reimmersed ourselves in study. I remember the passage: It was the one about an anonymous corpse discovered in a public place. The Law demands that the community elders expiate with a sacrifice. My