All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [75]
“Yes,” I said.
“Who with?”
I was about to say, “You,” but instead I stupidly replied: “With God.”
She must have been shocked. And exactly what I had feared happened. I no longer felt her warmth, the pressure of her knee was gone. Distraught, I ventured a timid initiative. “Stop,” she said in a hiss of pique. “I’m not God.” I had tried and failed.
Back at Our Place I tried and failed with Arlette and Rachel, Elisabeth and Rita, Denise and Fanny, though of course they didn’t know it. When one of them looked at me, I would avert my eyes. Hanna, however, may have been aware of it. Was that why she was always so completely disagreeable, why she detested me so openly? Proud and cowardly, I refused to ask her, telling myself that if she hated me, it was her problem, not mine. But I lost sleep over her. I worried about my newly recovered religious fervor. It was an agonizing contradiction. I lived in two worlds, continuing to say my prayers, eat kosher, and study with Shushani, but in my dreams I beckoned to a finally consenting Hanna.
Nevertheless, sometimes we worked well together in choir. I suffered in secret but was too proud to say anything to anyone, and certainly not to her.
Flash-forward to 1954. One spring day I ran into Hanna in downtown Paris. I decided to take advantage of the chance encounter. We shook hands, exchanged customary pleasantries. It was six years since I had left Our Place. The “children” were scattered throughout the city and the world, flown off like birds or adolescent dreams. The choir had been dissolved. Having become a journalist, I traveled a lot, and had lost contact with the OSE people. But Hanna had kept in touch, probably through her parents. She knew everything. Remember Régine, the girl who was in love with Kalman? Well, she’s married. No, silly, not to Kalman. Kalman left for America. Binem? He’s in Israel. Rita? Australia. Suzanne got her medical degree. Nicolas was still living in his dreams. And how was she? Very well, thank you. What was she doing? Studying physical therapy. We talked amicably as we walked toward the Place de la République, the neighborhood I lived in. I was so surprised by her lack of hostility that I invited her for coffee. She agreed. I was in seventh heaven and ready to ascend to the eighth.
All at once I forgot her notorious nastiness, forgot all the women I had vainly tried to attract. I fell in love with her again, with her alone. Careful not to show it, I played the great reporter, slightly jaded, a tad cynical, a man surprised and moved by nothing. Striking a falsely humble tone, I told her about my work, my scoops—ah yes, it was important for her to know about them. No self-respecting journalist can refrain from a bit of boasting on that score. I had rarely been so loquacious. Hanna listened, or pretended to, for which I was grateful. I asked her what she was doing that evening, and she answered, “Frankly, nothing.” She had always been frank. “Would you like to go to a concert?” She hesitated for an instant, then said yes. Had I heard right? Hanna, the haughty girl who had used all the weapons of femininity to reject me, suddenly friendly? We agreed to meet at the Salle Pleyel at eight-thirty that evening. She was on time, and so was I. She was soberly dressed in a dark gray skirt and white blouse, her hair twisted into a bun held in place by a simple pin. I found it hard to conceal my excitement; she maintained her serene composure.
I used my press card to get two choice seats, gratis. Hanna made gentle fun of me. “So, you’re a VIP now.” I protested with the requisite false humility. Hanna, unimpressed, changed the subject. We talked about Beethoven and Schubert, symphonic and choral works. I liked the program but found it hard to concentrate. Hanna listened attentively. I felt like taking her hand, but stopped myself for fear of looking ridiculous. During the intermission I tried to charm her with some unoriginal commentary on the various pieces we had just heard. She agreed with this, disagreed