All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [62]
At dawn the next morning I took the train to Paris. I was worried. How would I get around alone? I knew no one and didn’t speak a word of French. I was angry at the director and at the OSE. How could they have let me go alone? My sister in France? Hilda in Paris? Bea? It seemed so unlikely, improbable, impossible. I would stand on the train platform, take a quick look around, and catch the next train back to Écouis. Fortunately the director had given me a little money.
When the train pulled into the Gare Saint-Lazare, I thought I was dreaming. Hilda fell into my arms. She introduced me to Freddo, an Algerian Jew who had been deported to Dachau. They met after liberation, and it was love at first sight. When she heard I was dead, she followed Freddo to France. They were going to be married. How had she found me? Simple: she saw my picture in a newspaper, Defense de la France, soon to become France-Soir.
Hilda took me to meet her future in-laws. It was a large, warm family. I had always had a special affection for Sephardim, and that feeling would now deepen. Hilda and I spent the day and night talking about everything except the things that hurt. We felt a need to censor ourselves, for we were both afraid of being unable to control our emotions. Better to talk about Écouis, the OSE, the train trip—but not our parents or Tsipouka. I was afraid to mention Bea’s name. Since she was not with Hilda, did that mean …? No, thank God, Bea was alive. She had gone back to Sighet to find out whether by some miracle I might have survived.
Hilda was worried about my future. She took me to the Consistoire, where we met with the president, Léon Meiss, a patient, affable man. They spoke in French (which my sister knew from high school), so I don’t know what they said, but after half an hour’s discussion, Hilda told me I could enroll in the seminary and become a rabbi if I wanted. First I would have to learn the language, of course. I said I would think about it. I probably didn’t accept immediately because I dreaded being separated from my friends.
Freddo insisted I go see The Great Dictator at the Gaumont theater. Here at least my ignorance of French would not be a handicap. It was a packed house of laughing people, but I found Chaplin rather pathetic and sad. True, I had trouble concentrating, for a couple in the row in front of me was kissing. The man was an American soldier. I was wearing khaki, which in the darkness could easily have passed for a uniform. It seemed to me I ought to have the same rights and opportunities. But I had never kissed a woman, and now suddenly I wanted to. It was the first time this had ever happened to me. All at once I was no longer thinking of the film. I wasn’t thinking about anything. The past, the future, religious morality—all faded away. My body was doing my thinking for me, and it was drawn to,