All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [229]
Our dialogue continued for years. After the publication of each of my books, he would write to me with his commentaries. He wanted me to write about the life and teachings of the first Rebbe of Lubavitch, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Ladi, author of the Tanya. I am still working on it.
One year, during Simchat Torah, I visited Lubavitch, as was my custom. The Rebbe, seated in his place at the head of a T-shaped table, presided over the celebration with fervor. He was surrounded by dignitaries, but as a sign of respect the chairs to his immediate left and right had been left vacant. I stood at the entrance, in my raincoat and Basque beret, plagued by a terrible migraine. Had anyone paid any attention to me, they would have thought I was an observer from the outside, possibly a spy, an intruder, unable to comprehend the nature of Hasidic joy. But, luckily, everyone was looking at the Rabbi.
Suddenly the Rebbe saw me and beckoned me to approach. I pretended not to notice. The Rebbe motioned to me again. I didn’t budge. Then he called me by name. When I still didn’t move, powerful arms grabbed me and carried me over the heads of the crowd to the central table, depositing me like a package in front of the Rebbe. I wanted to die then and there if only I could do so without disturbing the celebration. The Rebbe was smiling. Would he tease me instead of coming to my aid?
“Welcome,” he said. “It’s nice of a Hasid of Wizhnitz to come and greet us in Lubavitch. But is this how they celebrate Simchat Torah in Wizhnitz?”
“Rebbe,” I said faintly, “we are not in Wizhnitz but in Lubavitch.”
“Then do as we do in Lubavitch,” he said.
“And what do you do in Lubavitch?”
“In Lubavitch we drink and say lehayim, to life.”
“In Wizhnitz too.”
“Very well. Then say lehayim.”
He handed me a glass filled to the brim with vodka.
“Rebbe,” I said, “in Wizhnitz a Hasid does not drink alone.”
“Nor in Lubavitch,” the Rebbe replied. He emptied his glass in one gulp. I followed suit.
“Is one enough in Wizhnitz?” the Rebbe asked.
“In Wizhnitz,” I said bravely, “one is but a drop in the sea.”
“In Lubavitch as well.”
He handed me a second glass and refilled his own. He said lehayim, I replied lehayim, and we emptied our glasses. After all, I had to uphold the honor of Wizhnitz. But as I was unaccustomed to drink, I felt my head begin to spin. I was not sure where or who I was, nor why I had come to this place, why I had been drawn into this strange scene. My brain was on fire.
“In Lubavitch we do not stop midway,” the Rebbe said. “We continue. And in Wizhnitz?”
“In Wizhnitz too,” I said, “we go all the way.”
The Rebbe struck a solemn pose. He handed me a third glass and refilled his own. My hand trembled; his did not. “You deserve a blessing,” he said, his face beaming with happiness. “Name it!”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I was, in fact, in a stupor.
“Would you like me to bless you so you can begin again?”
Drunk as I was, I appreciated his wisdom. To begin again could mean many things: begin again to drink, to pray, to believe, to live. And then it was Simchat Torah, which is also my birthday.
“Yes, Rebbe,” I said. “Give me your blessing.”
He blessed me and downed his vodka. I swallowed mine—and passed out. I awoke outside, stretched out on the grass, where I had been carried, again, by the same arms, above the heads of the crowd. Several paces away a young Hasid was offering a dozen or so men an eloquent explanation of the “profound” aspect, the mystical significance, of my exchange with the Rebbe.
One day the Rebbe sent me a long letter