Read Online And the Sea Is Never Full by Elie Wiesel - Free Book Online
Authors: Elie Wiesel
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French. As analyst and spokesman of Israel’s policy, he has had no equal.
Meyer Weisgal was another man who had no equal in his realm—a colorful character charged with energy and bubbling over with imagination. It was impossible not to like him. His white mane reminded one of Ben-Gurion; in fact he was close to Chaim Weizmann, the legendary British scientist who became head of the World Zionist movement and eventually president of Israel. Weisgal was Weizmann’s right hand, and the prestigious Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot was built through his efforts. His clever and witty repartee helped him obtain unheard-of sums from the rich, sums no one else could extract from them.
Meyer considered Weizmann his god, his “secular Rebbe,” his guru, and his savior. Possessive in the extreme, he disliked anyone who did not fully appreciate “the boss.” As for those who claimed to revere Weizmann, Meyer was infallible in his ability to detect insincerity.
It was said that he was less admiring of Chaim’s wife, Vera. He found her too mannered, too aristocratic. He said she was a snob who deigned to speak only to God, and even to Him only when she felt like talking to someone. Referring to a woman who had recently lost her famous husband, he said: “As a wife, she was not so terrific, but as a widow, she is unsurpassed….”
His autobiography is a small masterpiece. I praised it in the
New York Times
. Later, when he was desperately ill, Meyer recovered his will to live when I persuaded him to write a second volume of memoirs. “Will you help me?” he asked. Of course I was ready to help him. Twice a week I went to see him with a little tape recorder. He spoke; I asked questions; he answered, rummaging in his memory for anecdotes, stories of his youth and the years spent at Weizmann’s side.Unfortunately, much of what he had to say he had already published. Even so I became enthusiastic as we recorded certain unpublished details. I don’t regret those weeks, those months I devoted to him. On the contrary, I remember them with a sense of fulfillment.
I am working on
The Oath
, a novel about a Jew and his community accused of ritual murder at the beginning of the twentieth century. The days and months rush by. And the dreams and the memories. Does memory become richer, or does it shrink as man leaves his early experiences farther and farther behind? What makes it surge back? How does one follow its upheavals? And how does one assimilate the traces it leaves behind?
I am fascinated by everything that touches on memory, its mystical force. Memory desires to encompass everything, but it merely illuminates fragments. Why this recollection rather than another? And what happens to all that I have already forgotten? And then: What is the relationship between individual memory and collective memory? Which enriches the other, and at what cost?
Memory is a key element in my work and my quest, but in truth I am painfully aware of how little I know of its nature. It is to me what poetry was to Aristotle: More than history, it contains Truth. To me it is indispensable. To write. To teach and share. Without it what would I be? Without it life has no meaning.
June 6, 1972: Elisha’s birth. A dawn unlike any other. It will mark my existence forever. This little fellow in the arms of his mother will illuminate our life. I look at him and look at him. And as I look at him I feel the presence of others also seeking to protect him.
Eight days later: the Brith Milah. “Let’s sing, I order you to sing!” shouts the old Hassid of Ger. It’s not every day that one attends a circumcision. The ceremony takes place under the sign of Abraham and, as such, is meaningful enough for the prophet Elijah himself to attend as guest of honor. It is on “his” chair that the eight-day-old infant is circumcised.
The men and women present come from different worlds. The former secretary of the Warsaw community, Dr. Hillel Seidman; the
Meyer Weisgal was another man who had no equal in his realm—a colorful character charged with energy and bubbling over with imagination. It was impossible not to like him. His white mane reminded one of Ben-Gurion; in fact he was close to Chaim Weizmann, the legendary British scientist who became head of the World Zionist movement and eventually president of Israel. Weisgal was Weizmann’s right hand, and the prestigious Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot was built through his efforts. His clever and witty repartee helped him obtain unheard-of sums from the rich, sums no one else could extract from them.
Meyer considered Weizmann his god, his “secular Rebbe,” his guru, and his savior. Possessive in the extreme, he disliked anyone who did not fully appreciate “the boss.” As for those who claimed to revere Weizmann, Meyer was infallible in his ability to detect insincerity.
It was said that he was less admiring of Chaim’s wife, Vera. He found her too mannered, too aristocratic. He said she was a snob who deigned to speak only to God, and even to Him only when she felt like talking to someone. Referring to a woman who had recently lost her famous husband, he said: “As a wife, she was not so terrific, but as a widow, she is unsurpassed….”
His autobiography is a small masterpiece. I praised it in the
New York Times
. Later, when he was desperately ill, Meyer recovered his will to live when I persuaded him to write a second volume of memoirs. “Will you help me?” he asked. Of course I was ready to help him. Twice a week I went to see him with a little tape recorder. He spoke; I asked questions; he answered, rummaging in his memory for anecdotes, stories of his youth and the years spent at Weizmann’s side.Unfortunately, much of what he had to say he had already published. Even so I became enthusiastic as we recorded certain unpublished details. I don’t regret those weeks, those months I devoted to him. On the contrary, I remember them with a sense of fulfillment.
I am working on
The Oath
, a novel about a Jew and his community accused of ritual murder at the beginning of the twentieth century. The days and months rush by. And the dreams and the memories. Does memory become richer, or does it shrink as man leaves his early experiences farther and farther behind? What makes it surge back? How does one follow its upheavals? And how does one assimilate the traces it leaves behind?
I am fascinated by everything that touches on memory, its mystical force. Memory desires to encompass everything, but it merely illuminates fragments. Why this recollection rather than another? And what happens to all that I have already forgotten? And then: What is the relationship between individual memory and collective memory? Which enriches the other, and at what cost?
Memory is a key element in my work and my quest, but in truth I am painfully aware of how little I know of its nature. It is to me what poetry was to Aristotle: More than history, it contains Truth. To me it is indispensable. To write. To teach and share. Without it what would I be? Without it life has no meaning.
June 6, 1972: Elisha’s birth. A dawn unlike any other. It will mark my existence forever. This little fellow in the arms of his mother will illuminate our life. I look at him and look at him. And as I look at him I feel the presence of others also seeking to protect him.
Eight days later: the Brith Milah. “Let’s sing, I order you to sing!” shouts the old Hassid of Ger. It’s not every day that one attends a circumcision. The ceremony takes place under the sign of Abraham and, as such, is meaningful enough for the prophet Elijah himself to attend as guest of honor. It is on “his” chair that the eight-day-old infant is circumcised.
The men and women present come from different worlds. The former secretary of the Warsaw community, Dr. Hillel Seidman; the
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