All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [228]
An hour went by. Once again he accompanied me to the hallway, we embraced, and I got into the elevator, but my friend and master took me by the arm and said, “We still have time, Reb Eliezer, don’t we still have time?” We went back to his desk, took our places, and opened the Talmud for another hour. It was by then one o’clock in the afternoon. This time no delay was possible. I left with a heavy heart, for during the lesson I had noticed that his desk, always strewn with books, magazines, and papers, was entirely clear. This unprecedented fact brought another image to my mind.
One morning, years before, Heschel had phoned me. He needed me urgently. I jumped in a cab and rushed to the Seminary. Heschel opened his door and, without saying a word, leaned his head on my shoulder and began to sob like a child. Rarely have I seen an adult cry like that. Still standing in the doorway, I noticed that his ordinarily messy table was neatly arranged. We parted without exchanging a word. Heschel died the next day. Now Lieberman’s table was clear too.
The Talmud tells us that the Righteous are warned of their impending death, to allow them to put their affairs in order. Heschel and Lieberman, each in his own way, surely were among the Righteous.
I miss Lieberman. I miss my master. And I have come to fully understand the Talmudic law that says a man must mourn his master as he mourns his parents. When a master departs, his disciples are orphans.
Curiously, Lieberman and I never discussed faith. He never lectured me on the subject, never demanded a stricter observance of the Halachah, the Law. He understood my problems in this domain. It was with Menahem-Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, that I discussed them.
I speak of this in The Gates of the Forest, as I describe a Hasidic celebration in Brooklyn. It was his celebration. The songs, vows, and fervor of the faithful were such that I felt as if I were with my own rebbe, back in my hometown.
The spiritual power emanating from the person of Rebbe Menahem Mendel Schneersohn of Lubavitch was impressive. He was like a sovereign who made it possible for his subjects to live and work in peace. When he spoke, the crowd held its breath; when he sang, all their souls sang with him. Whatever he asked for, he obtained. Few contemporary Hasidic masters have had such authority. His disciples can be found on all five continents. Sometimes he would summon a young rabbinical student and tell him he was about to be sent here or there to help a Jewish community. And without the slightest discussion or consideration of any practical matter, the student would take his family and go.
The Rebbe’s faithful constantly paid tribute to his erudition. They gloried in his holiness, in his powers, and in his organizational and educational talents. It was said that he had studied science at the Sorbonne and philosophy at Heidelberg, and that he spoke six languages fluently. Some followers even believed he possessed supernatural gifts.
My first visit to his court lasted almost an entire night. I had informed him at the outset that I was a Hasid of Wizhnitz, not Lubavitch, and that I had no intention of switching allegiance. “The important thing is to be a Hasid,” he replied. “It matters little whose.” We then changed the subject. The Rebbe had read some of my works in French and asked me to explain why I was angry at God. “Because I loved Him too much,” I replied. “And now?” he asked. “Now too. And because I love Him, I am angry at Him.” The Rebbe disagreed: “To love God is to accept that you do not understand Him.” I asked whether one could love God without having faith. He told me faith had to precede all the rest. “Rebbe,” I asked, “how can you believe in God after Auschwitz?” He looked at me in silence for a long moment, his hands resting on the table. Then he replied,