All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [237]
The Czechoslovak insurgents and fighters suffered a more tragic fate: Their spring was extinguished. The Soviet tanks smothered the fervor of Alexander Dubček’s supporters, and the world did not take action. Yes, I know, tender souls cried out, speeches were made. But Moscow didn’t care. Its tanks crushed Prague. And Lenin did not awake to tell his disciples they had all gone mad.
In the United States the Democratic Party fell victim to the student rioting. Hubert Humphrey lost the election, fulfilling Richard Nixon’s dream of living in the White House. A star appeared in the international political firmament: Henry Kissinger, a refugee from Germany and a respected political scientist from Harvard. I shall write more about this soon.
On April 2, 1969, in the Old City of Jerusalem, an ancient synagogue, the Ramban, that had been destroyed by Jordan in 1948, was opened for a wedding. Officiating was Saul Lieberman, who insisted that a local rabbi also be present. (After all, rabbis have to make a living too.) Time was of the essence, for it was the eve of Passover, and guests would have to hurry home to prepare for the holiday.
Bea and Hilda were there with their families. There were a few cousins, many friends. The groom’s mind wandered, seeking others who were absent. For this was a day he had in some ways dreaded, and now he feared being unable to contain his emotions. He should have been happy at the thought that his parents would have approved of his getting married. But he wasn’t happy.
As Lieberman recited the seven customary prayers blessing the couple, the groom, overwhelmed by sadness, saw neither his two older sisters, nor his nephews, nor his cousins, nor even his wife-to-be. He saw himself, as a child and then as an adolescent, at home, far away. He saw his father, his head slightly bent, and his mother, biting her lip. The night before, he thought that he must go and invite them to the wedding. Custom dictates that before his wedding an orphan go to meditate at the grave of his parents, respectfully requesting the honor of their presence. But this groom’s parents, like millions of others, had no grave of their own. All Creation was their cemetery.
The people shouted mazel tov, wishing the newlyweds joy, happiness, and peace, showering them with all the good wishes in the lexicon of the living. People shook hands and kissed. Cousin Eli Hollander wanted to sing a wedding song, but the groom dissuaded him. Jubilation might offend those who weren’t there.
Back in New York the Shabbat before—known as Shabbat Hagadol, or the Great Shabbat—an aufruf had been improvised in his honor at the small Hasidic shtibel he attended with his friend Heschel. In the congregation there were many survivors of the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz, and of Treblinka.
Heschel had organized it all with Reb Leibel Cywiak. When the groom was called to the Torah to recite the appropriate blessings, almonds, raisins, and candy began raining down upon him.
After the service there was a Kiddush where wine, liqueurs, and cakes were served. Seated at the table, Reb Leibel and Heschel followed tradition by praising the groom. Joyous tunes were sung. There was dancing, frenetic Hasidic dancing of great fervor.
And the groom could no longer hold back his tears. He who since his liberation had always managed to control himself let go. The more his friends urged him to sing, to dance, the more he sobbed. The Hasidim pretended not to notice.
On the wedding day, in accordance with rabbinical law, two witnesses accompanied the newlyweds to the door of their room, on the sixth floor of the King David Hotel. The window overlooking the Old City was open.
Of what does a man dream when he is forty years old and has made the decision, consecrated by the Law of Moses, to make a home with the woman he loves?
He sees himself as a child, clinging to his mother. She murmurs something. Was it something about the Messiah? He feels like telling her, “You died,