All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [29]
In the camp I thought of my childhood friends and of all those who had formed part of my inner landscape. Sadly, we did not stay together. They left with the first transports and I a week later, with the last. In the camp there were no friends to remind me of my childhood. In the camp I had no more childhood. I had only my father, my best friend, my only friend.
DARKNESS
March 19, 1944. Cursed be that day, Jeremiah and Job would have said, a day of malediction, of punishment and grief. Why was it born? Who sired it? Why was it marked by a star of ashes? From that day on, the shadows, din, and flames of enemy destiny would rule the rhythm of our existence. To paraphrase the Bible: By night we yearned for dawn; at dawn we prayed that night might come. From that day on I was like a man who feels blindness overtaking him: I looked and stared, desperate to retain it all.
I remember I was at services. It was a Sunday. We had just joyfully celebrated Purim. At the House of Study we were still talking about the traditional play the children had put on at the home of the Borsher Rebbe. We paid no attention to the vagabond who stood near the door and refused to laugh. The Rebbe of Krechnev played the violin longer and in a tone more heartrending than usual. Why did tears stream down his face into his bushy beard?
Suddenly a man burst in, interrupting the service: “Have you heard the news? No? Are you deaf? Stupid? Don’t you know what’s going on? You sit here praying while …”
“While what?” we asked. He took a deep breath and shouted, “While the Angel of Death stands at the city gates!” Like Kierkegaard’s clown, he cried “Fire!” and his audience thought he was joking or raving mad. Hands were waved in disdain: let him get out and let us continue our prayers in peace. But then we heard a voice behind him. “He’s right. I heard it on the radio: The Germans have crossed the border. They’re occupying the country.”
A heavy silence fell over the congregation. People looked at one another. “What does it mean?” someone asked. Someone else replied, “Just that the front is getting closer.” “And the war will soon be over,” an optimist added. The madman, Moshe the Beadle, said nothing more. His gaze lingered on those who had spoken. Then he shrugged and walked to the door, hesitated, then left, hands in his pockets, his disgust apparent. Someone called us to order. “What about the Aleinu, the final prayer?” We had forgotten the prayer without which orphans could not say Kaddish. We recited it and absently listened to the Kaddish.
Back home I found the family gathered around the radio. I wanted to announce the news, to tell them of Moshe’s outburst, but I was told to keep still. “Ssh,” my little sister said, finger to her lips, her face uncharacteristically grave. The table was set for breakfast, but no one had eaten. “The Germans …” Bea whispered. “I know,” I said. My father frowned in concentration, as if trying to foresee the future or thwart fate. If they were afraid, they didn’t show it. I don’t know what I felt, but it wasn’t fear. Curiosity, perhaps? I sensed that this was a crucial moment, that a new chapter in history was opening. Soon we would hear its roar as it changed humanity. The distant monster would finally show his savage, howling, bloodstained snout. At last we would cease to live on the sidelines. Spectators no more, we would be actors, with no further need of emissaries to tell us what was going on.
“This does not augur well,” my father said as he turned off the radio. “Yes,” my mother replied, “but we’ve seen bad omens before. Come. Breakfast is waiting and the customers will be here soon.” The store was closed on Sunday, but our neighbors knew they could come in through the kitchen. I hurriedly downed some steaming coffee and a slice of buttered bread, then went to tell my grandmother. “The Germans are coming. Yes, the Germans.