All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [36]
“You’re forgetting the paratroopers,” Golda said. “They were ready to go, as soon as the British army gave its green light.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “The paratroopers. Their courage and heroism are laudable. But by the time they arrived in Budapest, there were almost no Jews left to save in the provinces.”
This is an observation that applies equally well to Raoul Wallenberg, to whom we will be eternally grateful. He risked life and liberty, abandoning the security of his home in Sweden for the Hungarian capital, where he saved thousands of Jews. But for the Jews of the provinces, it was too late.
For us it was too late, in every sense. Sacrificed, abandoned, and betrayed, delivered to the invader and left to face him alone, we were ignored by everyone but the enemy. He alone paid attention to us. And when he drove us to the ghetto, we went.
I see images of exodus and uprooting, reminiscent of a past buried in memory; ravaged, dazed, disoriented faces. Everything changed overnight. A few words uttered by a man in a uniform, and the order of Creation collapsed. Everything was dismantled: ties were severed, words were emptied of their meaning. Homes became unrecognizable; my house was no longer my own. Everything a family had managed to accumulate in a lifetime had to be left behind. Utensils, clothing, pots and pans, books, and furniture: it was all too heavy, too burdensome, to be carried to the small room or cellar to which the family would be assigned in the ghetto. There were wrenching scenes: an old Hasid, Reb Feivish, pushing a child’s carriage before him. He is alone, weeping. A young boy offers help. Reb Feivish tries to thank him, but his voice is choked by sobs. The chief rabbi and his family had to move. So did the Borsher Rebbe, and Reb Shloime Heller, the rabbinical judge, and the leaders of the community. It was exile within exile, incessant comings and goings, as though the city had become a whirling carousel. My head was spinning too. I wanted to be everywhere at once, to see it all, absorb it all, give everyone a hand. For we were among the lucky ones: since our house was within the designated quarter, we didn’t have to move, but only had to rearrange the rooms, keeping the largest one and giving the others to relatives. The Reichs moved in with us, and I gave their daughters Hebrew lessons. I searched in vain for my Kabalist master. I was told he was in the smaller ghetto, across town. I wanted to believe he was in hiding somewhere. Perhaps he had used his formulas and amulets to make himself invisible. Could he hear me? Why do you do nothing to disarm the enemy? Conversant as you are with celestial mysteries, why don’t you call upon their Creator? Is it not your duty to repel evil? The inhabitants of the ghetto, after all, are doing theirs.
There was generosity and mutual aid; no theft, quarrels, or recriminations, no petty jealousy. Here was Jewish solidarity in action.
My former classmates and I sporadically continued our study of the sacred texts, most often meeting in Ezra Malek’s garden. We would sit on the grass under a tree and ponder complex problems relating to fasting or holidays. Perhaps analyzing the positions of Rav and his adversary Shmuel would help us forget the ever more pressing danger.
The Germans demanded that the ghetto supply a daily battalion of Jewish workers. Lists were drawn up, and few avoided this draft—not out of fear, but out of compassion: If I don’t go, someone else will have to, and that wouldn’t be moral; it wouldn’t be Jewish.
Later I would read much outrageous critical commentary about the Judenrat and the Jewish police in the ghettos. Were they guilty of trying to survive at any price, even while striving to save as many lives as possible? Were they collaborators or martyrs? In general, I would speak in their defense. There were many people like Adam Czerniakow in Warsaw, who killed himself the day the Germans demanded a daily quota of ten