All Rivers Run to the Sea_ Memoirs - Elie Wiesel [99]
Our first stopover was a lodging house near Bandol. There was an atmosphere of permanent excitement. Families were reunited; couples formed, fell in love, and promised each other eternal bliss. I took notes. People gathered in groups according to political affinity and spun countless projects and plans. I scribbled. That’s what I was there for. Some went into town to shop or have fun. To complete my image as a great reporter I bought myself a leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses.
Feverish discussions were held in the shadow of every barracks. Would we all be housed together when we got there? How were we going to make a living? Was military service tough? “Sure it’s tough,” said a stocky man with lively features, “but consider this: Once I was a partisan, an underground fighter hiding in the woods like a hunted animal, not daring to come out except after dark, and now I’ll proudly wear the uniform of the Israeli army.” His companion, a stooped man with pinched lips, disagreed: “Yes, a very pretty picture, but I’ve had enough fighting for one lifetime, spent enough nights standing guard, faced death too often. I wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet.” Voices were raised in agreement and disagreement. Some feared the armistice would drag on, others that it would be broken, but everyone was concerned about it.
At night I sat on my cot, listened to conversations, and jotted down notes. It must be a way to relieve tension—when men gather among themselves, invariably someone tells a locker-room story. Everyone laughs, and then someone tries to top him, going for bigger laughs. But I didn’t feel like laughing. I thought about all the girls in Versailles and all the unknown women in trains who didn’t know how much I loved them, and about all the sins I lacked the courage to commit.
Eventually, the conversation died down, the final murmurs eliciting no more than weary sighs. The barracks dozed off. It was late, but I couldn’t sleep. I can’t imagine why, but it seemed like a good time to draw a kind of balance sheet. I pictured myself back home, listening to my father wonder aloud whether we should leave everything behind and set out for Eretz Israel. I heard him whisper, “Do I have the strength to start all over again at my age?” How many fathers in how many towns felt that same fear? And then there was our lack of imagination. We had entrusted our future to God, never suspecting that the enemy had already taken possession of it. How could my father and all the Jews of Europe have been so naïve and blind? Nothing could have prevented them from emigrating to Palestine fifty years or even thirty years before. Back then you didn’t need visas or travel permits. What bound us to lands so consistently thirsting for Jewish blood? I thought about all the people of my town and of my life who could not be with me on my journey.
There were sunny days and fragrant evenings, an atmosphere of dreams and expectations. Strangers formed friendships more readily on the threshold of great adventure. But not I. My shyness isolated me. I yearned to strike up a conversation with Inge, a young Jewish girl of German origin whose melancholy beauty disturbed me—no surprise there. She had neither friends nor family. Clearly she was destined for me. Suddenly I forgot all past temptations. It was over with Hanna; Inge alone occupied my thoughts. She was surely sweeter than Hanna. Oh, how I could love her! Sometimes I found myself standing behind her in line. If only I could manage to speak a word, just one word. But I was paralyzed. I knew I should reach out and touch her arm, offer her my warmest smile, explain a difficult passage of the Bhagavad Gita or of Schopenhauer to her. I should whisper to her, convince her. I didn’t want to leave Europe