All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [31]
But we, in our little town, did not.
The next day my father was visited by a Polish Jewish refugee for whom he had obtained a residency permit two or three years earlier. The refugee was a so-called assimilated intellectual who lived on the fringes of the community. He had been an engineer in Cracow or a lawyer in Warsaw. He was not without resources and had rented a “luxurious” apartment overlooking Sighet’s main square. He had a very blond wife whose jaded air, it must be admitted, was quite becoming. She spoke only Polish, occasionally condescending to throw in a few words of “refined” German. Their only son was my age. At my mother’s request I kept him company from time to time. He knew no one with whom he could share his reading and his games. I remember him well: a puffy yet sensual face, an evasive glance. How was I to communicate with him? He spoke Polish using a lot of body language in a vain effort to make himself understood. Fortunately, he liked chess, so twice a week I did my good deed by playing with him in his room, winning and losing in silence. In time, to his mother’s open displeasure, I taught him a few phrases of Yiddish. Was that why I had to stop visiting?
His parents lived strangely apart from the community. They didn’t go to synagogue, even on the High Holidays. Were they accepted in non-Jewish circles? I didn’t think so. Actually, I had stopped thinking about them entirely. I had problems of my own.
And suddenly the man was at our house. What could he possibly want? My father explained it to us later: he had come to confide his anguish. If—if?—the Germans arrived, he and his family would surely be among the first to be arrested. What to do? Where could they find shelter? Budapest was out: the Germans were already there. Maybe they should convert. After all, he wasn’t a believer anyway.
He was the only one to ask these questions. In general, our Jews preferred to wait and see.
Rumors reached us from big cities and small villages: The Nyilas were taking advantage of the German presence to unleash their fury against the Jews, their favorite prey—beards torn out, students thrown from moving trains, women humiliated, children persecuted. Nothing was too low for these bastards. Never mind, my father said, it will pass. Everything passes, even the thirst for Jewish blood. If the local fascists decided to flaunt their “patriotism” by targeting the Jews, so be it. That too would pass. Eventually they would tire of it. Besides, we knew these Nyilas. They were our neighbors, our customers. Their bark was worse than their bite. But what about the shattered windows, the holy books profaned, the old men whipped in the streets? All right, we would have to redouble our vigilance, pray in softer voices, stay inside more. Anyway, we soon had little choice. The government in Budapest issued decrees designed to limit the visibility and activities of the Jews. Stores were closed, and we were forbidden to go out except at certain hours. Jewish state employees were fired. Jews no longer had the right to walk in municipal parks or go to the movies or take the bus, tram, or train. However (thank God), they could still breathe the mountain air and warm themselves in the spring sun. The important thing was that even this abnormal life be normal. The important thing was that there be no pogroms.
The synagogues were still open. People