All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [85]
One of the OSE volunteers—Joseph Milner, from the famous village of Chelm (all of whose inhabitants, legend has it, were innocents), a physician and a Yiddish writer in his free time—became interested in my writing. He gave me a letter of recommendation to the editor in chief of a Yiddish daily. Armed with that letter, I visited their headquarters and was shown into an office in which disorder was not king but emperor. Someone was hard at work behind a mountain of files, newspapers, and books. Only his head was visible. When I said hello, he didn’t answer. I cleared my throat, but he didn’t look up. It was as if I weren’t there, as if he himself weren’t there. Was this his way of initiating a beginner into the delicate craft of journalism? I coughed loudly, simply to see if he was alive. After one last attempt to attract his attention—a loud and clear “Bonjour, monsieur”—I tiptoed out, unaware of how lucky I had been. The newspaper in question, Neie Presse, was the organ of the French Jewish Communists. We were hardly made for each other. I would not be a Communist journalist.
That year the OSE organized a summer camp in Montintin, in the Limousin region. Bo Cohen suggested I go along as a counselor, a proposal Israel Adler urged me to accept. For one thing, I could use the money; for another, it would be a valuable experience. Adler planned on going too, for the same reasons. Ted Comet, the young volunteer from New York, would be part of the leadership team. At first I couldn’t make up my mind. I waited for a sign, and finally it came: Hanna was going too. Was that why I said yes? Anyway, I never regretted it. Early every morning I worked (in Hebrew) on “my book” on asceticism, and after breakfast I gave Bible and Midrash classes. I organized discussions on the situation in Palestine. I liked to listen as much as to speak. At night I was the last to leave the campfire site. Life seemed fruitful and promising. I discovered the true joy of teaching, that of confidence and sharing.
Hanna, of course, remained true to her nature, treating me with special unpleasantness. I did my best to avoid her. Fortunately, the other girls were not without charm. I indulged in some serious flirting, by which I mean that I talked to them of things too serious to achieve the desired result.
When summer ended, Bo advised me to leave the comfort of Versailles. Except for Shabbat, which I would regularly celebrate at Our Place, I would now live in a small room near his home at the Porte de Saint-Cloud. Nicolas, Shimon, and Félix were given the same advice and identical rooms in the same building. Bo was right. I was nineteen years old. It was time to strike out on my own. But to do what? I forget whose brilliant idea it was to urge me to go into science. It was hard to see how someone incapable of solving a simple algebra problem could become an engineer. I refused. There was a future in engineering, but not for me. Then someone got me to sign up for a course in chemistry, and one fine morning I found myself in a laboratory surrounded by colored test tubes. An anarchist would have felt as much at home among dervishes or Trappist monks. I loved my white smock, but that was about all. I dropped out two weeks later, embarrassed but relieved.
I continued my courses with Shushani and François. My room was a gloomy little box without running water. Visitors had to sit on the bed. Fortunately, there were Shabbat, Versailles, and the choir. The choir and Hanna, so cold and beautiful.
Naturally, I followed Jewish current events closely, participating in various Zionist meetings and demonstrations at the Salle Pleyel and other, less distinguished